Swiss Family Grass

When Andy and I first decided to leave the United States and venture on a road trip, we had looked into living in Switzerland. After all, our purpose for leaving the states was disgust with the current political climate. We simply needed somewhere to stay for a few years, to register our feelings by walking away from the land we loved. When we decided to ship our campervan to Europe, many new doors opened. With the freedom our campervan provided, we would be able to explore more of Europe than we initially thought. So with that in mind, we took our hard earned ‘all mighty dollars’ and headed to Switzerland, the bullseye of Europe, a starting point for our adventure.

As thoughts of winter approached, we were looking for warmer weather to rest our heels, and we thought France would provide the needed respite from the road. We would have been traveling for four months by then, and the luxury of a stationary bathroom and a comfortable bed all had their pros. So, when Andy stumbled on the house-sitting gig in the South of France it seemed ideal. We had often discussed that the duration of the house-sitting job seemed a bit long. For wanderers such as us, five months seemed like a long time to stay in one place. We debated day and night until we finally decided that where we were was less important than the statement we were trying to make. We did not want to live in a ‘Bush run’ society, and by walking with our wallets we would be happy to call wherever we landed (so long as it was outside the contiguous United States) home. Don’t get me wrong, we enjoy being American, and all the privilege that our citizenship entitles us to. We think of the Great Plains with fondness, we remember with enthusiasm the coastline of Maine, with its rock laden beaches, and our mouths salivate at the thought of North Beach pizza. We often talk about the rich diversity the Bay Area offers, the culture we have come to know and appreciate. As a line in a film we recently viewed said, “America was made from the sweepings of all the other countries.” How true that is, and how lucky we are to sample the ‘best’ of all the worlds societies.

With that said, five months in the South of France should have provided the respite needed for weary travelers. An opportunity to decompress from a pre-trip life filled with all the trappings of the ‘rat race’ culture we had become accustomed to. Instead, domesticity was the order of the day. Flying blindly, we learned that heating a house doesn’t always come from simply hitting a switch. Shopping for essentials was limited to the pace of the culture we were now immersed in, meaning that you must plan in advance of a trip to town for groceries. Country life comes with the occasional mouse, and other furry multi-legged creatures, so the faint hearted need not apply for the job. And, dial-up internet is truly a throw back. I never realized how precious my high speed internet connection was until I tried to download yet another attachment from my father, the serial spammer. Finally, the language barrier proved difficult to overcome. Our reliance on translation by the British contingency here left us feeling awkward and ignorant. Yet we persevered, and in true American form used our creativity (and the aid of a travel dictionary) to get our point across. The only thing left behind in the translation was my seemingly unabashed directness. Probably not such a bad thing.

So what have we been doing for the last few months? We have had the fortune of welcoming many friends and family to our little vacation home (on loan). First to visit was my Father, and he brought with him all the positivism and ‘go getter’ personality I have come to know him for. With my Dad we explored the rich gastronomic delights, walked the medieval streets of Bergerac, roamed through a few of France’s ‘beautiful villages’ (a distinction given to a mere 100 plus villages), and tasted France’s well established wines, cognacs, and pineaus. Down time (of which there was little) was spent revisiting old memories and laughing as we watched our mouths emit a cold fog each time we took a breath in the house. We centered our late evenings in the main living room, as it was the only room in the house warmed by the wood burning stove. As we relaxed on the couches and chatted each evening away, we would retire later and later each night, fully aware of the 30 degree temperature swing once the confines of the living room were left. As we said good night, we would each run from the 70 degree living room to our forty degree bedrooms and quickly slip under the bed comforter.

The holidays brought even colder weather, and after the first of the year we saw our first snowfall. By days end, nearly six inches had fallen.

We spent Thanksgiving and our anniversary eating absolutely horrendous Chinese food. We had tried to find a turkey to roast, but goose was the order of the day. So, we thought, “How bad could it be?” Pretty bad. At Christmas we were able to secure a real bird, and had an ‘All American’ Thanksgiving dinner.

As the winter doldrums set in we occupied our time mowing the lawn at Chauffour, not an easy task as it takes nearly five hours to complete the job, and attending American and British film screenings at a local Brits’. And, on the odd sunny day we hosted impromptu photo sessions with Petey, ever the willing subject. We also had the good fortune to be welcomed into the home of the Williams and Faulkner family, British transplants to France who were a constant source of social gatherings and spirited political and cultural conversation (not to mention the unlimited assistance they provided to aid with our assimilation into local culture).

February was an exciting time for us. We were able to purchase tickets to the Olympics in Torino, Italy. We made a quick turnaround trip to Torino to see the US hockey team beat Kazakhstan.

Our seats were amazing. In an arena that seats less than 6000 people, we were dumbfounded as the row number on our tickets took us closer and closer to the ice. We stopped at row three, just over and arms length from the glass wall encircling the ice. Apparently I was seated next to a semi-celebrity, Cris Carter. Not knowing who he or his posse was, I began chatting away, and when Andy nudged me to let me know who the famous neighbors’ seat belonged to, I began to understand why so much attention had been drawn to our row. We also attended the Team Final Speed Skating event.

Between venues we were able to explore Torino’s lively streets, abuzz with sports enthusiasts from all over the world. Apart from the terrible air pollution, the city shined. All in all, it was a positive experience, and we started to entertain the idea of going to the Olympics when they are in Vancouver in 2010.

Also in February, my sister visited with two friends. Ladies tend to have a different sightseeing schedule than men. Generally, men prefer to visit historic sights, meander halls of museums, and inspect the general construction and architecture of the country they are visiting. Most women, let’s face it, like to shop. So for a few days we played tour guide to some of France’s beautiful villages, and dropped the lot off in Bordeaux for a day of high end shopping. While they explored Bordeaux, we drove to the coast at Cape Ferret, home to Europe’s largest sand dune. The beach is dotted with old World War II bunkers, in varying states of disrepair. Some rest where the waves lap the beach, and others have only begun to fall from the dunes. In another century or so all remnants of the war here will be gone, forever resting on the sea floor.

March brought a friend from work and her husband, and my Mother also came for a visit.

We were able to explore towns we had not yet seen in the Dordogne. We visited underground caves and the medieval town of Sarlat. Our friend Leigh held a special screening of the film Syriana for us, and we also did the prerequisite pineau tasting. At the end of my Mother’s visit I accompanied her to Paris for four days of sightseeing. Unlike past trips to Paris, I fell in love with the culture and café life. My Mother and I roamed the streets, soaking up Parisian lifestyle. We dined well, visited the Louvre, and spent each night resting our feet for the next day’s adventures. On our last day in Paris students staged the largest of many protests that had been taking place to demonstrate against a newly proposed labor law. Thousands of people took to the streets, and the atmosphere was all at once exciting and on the verge of chaos. As I walked to the Gare to catch the train back to Chauffour, I swelled with emotion as I watched students and union members alike shouting their disapproval of unfair labor practices through the streets of Paris.

Between visitors one of the cats, Elvis, managed to get into a pretty serious fight with a neighbor cat. After repeated attempts to get him into a crate for a visit to the vet, we finally had Dr. Bonvalet come to the house. We have become quite familiar with the local vet, as he has been treating Petey for a heart murmur and hypothyroidism. He’s a nutty professor of sorts, somewhere between Peter Sellers in the film “The Party” and Dr. Doolittle. On our last visit to the Dr. Bonvalet’s office he conducted a blood draw on Petey, and by the time the dust settled I couldn’t tell who had been pricked more, the dog or the vet.

Post treatment, Elvis the innkeeper’s cat had a nearly bare back. Hairless and lanky, we kept him in the barnhouse to try to keep him in one piece until the owner’s return from South Africa. While on lockdown, Elvis became a most affectionate cat, and I would spend long hours with him in the evening, stroking his remaining fur and watching the show ‘Medium’ on satellite television.

Cilla on the other hand, sister to Elvis, has grown so accustomed to being around Petey that she thought sharing food and water bowls with Petey would be okay. Needless to stay, Petey was not exactly gentlemanly. We watched as he began to guard his food and water bowl with vigor, and would laugh as we watched Cilla sneak to his water bowl when he was sleeping and lap up whatever water remained. For someone who never cared much for cats, I’ve grown quite fond of Elvis and Cilla, and venture to say that they remind me more of dogs than the cats I’ve come into contact with in the past.

During our final week Andy’s family came for a visit. We visited all the local haunts and each night brought a new gastronomical delight. Luckily, we covered so much territory on foot in each town visited that we earned the right to eat like kings each night. One of the highlights of the visit was a trip to a working walnut farm. The owner provided a personal tour and tasting, and the typical French hospitality was evident from start to finish. Almost every evening ended by the fire sampling Pineau’s we had purchased. It was a truly memorable five days, as Andy and I were able to spend true quality time with his side of the family.

As we prepared to leave Chauffour excitement began to build. We wondered where our adventures would take us. We knew we were destined for warmer weather and sandy beaches. We bid farewell to our five month house-sitting job and hit the road. Our first night was spent in Carcassone, a lovely walled city in southern France. At dusk we walked inside the city walls and wondered with amazement how the massive stone structures and fortress had been built. What had life been like there in the year 1000? As we walked the winding, narrow streets, we imagined townsfolk pounding the pavement we now traveled.

The following day we crossed into Spain and began to drive the toll free roads along the aquamarine coastline. We stayed one night in Badalona, a staging point for a visit to Barcelona. The campground was run down, and the beach, while only 100 yards away required crossing a major highway and local train line tracks. Not exactly welcoming. On the short drive to Barcelona we decided to stop at an auto glass shop to repair a chip in the windshield sustained during the drive from France to Spain. We left the shop three cell phones light, minus a Lingo translator and address book. We realized the loss after we parked in Barcelona and were preparing to head out for a day of sightseeing. Needless to say, our spirits and mood were dampened. I had no interest in seeing Barcelona, instead opting to drive back to Badalona (how appropriate a name) and confront the shop manager. I spent over an hour going back and forth with the manager about the theft, and while my Spanish proved much better than I ever thought it was, no resolution was to be had. With my conscience clear, having vented all of my frustration at the repair shop, Andy and I left the Catalan region quickly, opting for the swift paid highway system. We sat in silence in the car, with only the realization that we had been robbed after just two days on the road to fill our minds.

With a soured attitude we rolled into a campground in Vinaros, Spain. We have our good fortune (and a good guide book) to thank for making a bad situation better. At first glance the campground was nothing special, just another stop in a beach skirting town with a name that would be soon forgotten. Oh, how wrong that assumption turned out to be. The pitches were large and the restrooms better equipped and more lavishly decorated than some high end hotels I’ve frequented in past years. Yet, still it seemed nothing could shake the bad feelings left from our detour in Badalona. That was until we were returning from the office where we booked one night’s stay. As we turned the corner onto the gravel road leading to our campsite, a welcoming group of British snowbirds greeted us, and within five minutes we were sharing an evening of stories and sweet Spanish wine. All six people we met spent the winters here in Vinaros, and could not speak higher of the place. Tony and Pat (Tony looks like the suntanned brother of actor Dennis Franz) are a British couple in there early sixties who live to laugh and are quick to fill your wine glass and keep spirits merry. David and Linda are a couple in their late forties. David works for an auto rally team and whisks off to exotic destinations to meet the racing team, and Linda used to work in Banking in the UK. Rhina and Johann who round out the group are from the Netherlands, and are a Harley Davidson riding couple who say more in glances than some do in words. We swapped stories until the sun set on the Spanish sky and then we moved into Tony and Pat’s RV for mince pies and more conversation. By nights end we had decided to book a weeks stay and the following morning our new found friends showed us around the small fishing village of Vinaros by bicycle. We spent the afternoon sipping drinks from a beachside café and learning the tricks of the trade for sun chasing caravanners.

On Monday the campground celebrated a ten year anniversary in what can only be described as the film ‘Cocoon’ meets ‘Sexy Beast’ (see the flicks and you’ll know what I mean). Vinaros campground is loaded with 70 plus year old folks from the Netherlands, Germany, Great Britain, and Belgium. So far, the Netherlands has the largest population here, and most spend the entire winter and spring, heading back up north in late May. The anniversary party brought nearly two hundred people together. People of all shapes and sizes, and speaking too many languages to count. There was one common theme; drinking sangria and having a good time.

Our new friends welcomed us again to their flock, and we danced and sang the afternoon away. After the party we returned to the office to again lengthen our stay. At just over eleven dollars a night, with electricity, clean hot showers, and good company…it’s a bargain.

So that is where we are now; spending lazy days reading at our campsite, with the occasional visitor stopping by eager to talk about past and upcoming travels, and planning trips to the beautiful covered market to purchase fresh fruits, vegetables, and fish for our evening meal. We have the occasional invite to a neighbor’s pitch for dinner; last night was lasagna followed by a dessert of fresh pineapple soaked in a sweet Spanish dessert wine. And if there’s time left in the day, we may take a nap in the lounge chair, feeling the cool Mediterranean breeze coax our cares away. Who knows…maybe we’ll extend our stay here again.