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French Country Travel Life Legacy – Part Two
My French Country Travel Life Legacy continues. It may make more sense if you read PART ONE first. But, if nonsense work for you – allez!
The first sound I heard on Bus no. 2 was a familiar voice. A singing one. The lyrics were “OO Who Who I feel my temperature risin’.” Yes, dear reader, it was Elvis. Tearing into the chorus of “Burnin’ Love.” The original version. Not the “Live in Vegas” one. Although I was to hear that, plus the Astrodome version, plus “Elvis’s greatest Hits – Vol 1 +2”.
Because in Mexico, your Bus driver is not just your chauffeur, He is also your Disc Jockey! And my DJ – Ramon – in his “The King Lives” tee-shirt was clearly not into country and western. Yes, dear reader – that’s what could have been worse.
As the “mile 95” marker appeared, the King was feebly warbling “regrets….I’ve a few..” (from the Las Vegas-I-wear-diapers-to-bed-years) Wishing Ramon a safe return to Graceland (He’d been 3 times) I descended onto the dry Mexican tundra.Behind me, desert and mountains. In front, desert and sea. No gps needed here.
Paul’s house was the first. Happily submerged in the Roy Rogers landscape.(Think catcti, cow skulls and tumbleweed) Beyond, and closer to the Ocean, a not-rag-tag-but-not-fancy collection of abodes. Of varying styles and materials. Their owners mainly Canadians, who fled their “home and native land” at the first breath of winter. (And who would not?)
Although I’d been to Hawaii, my senses weren’t prepared for the overwhelming perfume of the flora and fauna that graced Paul’s front entrance. Butterflies with Miro-esque colors cavorted happily among the cacti. Two huge palms shaded the driftwood pathway.
Several short steps after entering, I was in the circular courtyard. Under the Azur blue sky. Ringed by the rooms. A strange but welcome sensation. However, not a Paul in sight. What else for a gringo whippersnapper to do but yell : “Paul?…Paul?……which, I, in fact, did. No response. For about 10 seconds. And then: “Howdy!……”
Heard him. But couldn’t see him. “Paul” I repeated “Where are you?” “Up here!” Looking up I discovered Paul was not fibbing. He was up there. An 83 year old dynamo tinkering with his roof under 83°(+) heat. “Make yourself at home….I’ll be with you in a bit.”
Always one to follow the wishes of my host, I quickly found the kitchen,put my wine in the fridge, and made a very welcome avocado and tomato sandwich.
Suprised to find TWO fridges, a not too shabby sound system and several other electrically powered goodies,obviously I was thinking – glad I don’t have his electric bill! I was soon to learn this bill was virtually zero. Due to the solar panels ON THE ROOF. Yes, dear reader, DA BG did (finally) connect the dots. That’s what Paul was tinkering with when I arrived!
“A bit” – as in “I’ll be down in a bit” elasped into a hour before Paul finally joined me. When I asked him what he’d like for lunch, the reply was: “Oh, I’ll just have a piece of toast.” A piece of toast? After working (at least ) two hours on the roof, under the sun he only wants toast? What’s this guy made of? Some very unique stuff, as I was to discover.
Next Time – Part Three of my French Country Travel Life Legacy
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Country Travel Life Legacy – Part One
This French Country Travel Life Legacy is one of many I am fortunate enough to claim. But, more than any other, it is perhaps the most bittersweet. And isn’t that the best kind?
Paul is dead. But I have his glass. The one he toasted the Mexican sunset with on his seaside porch. It’s not your standard issue. Like Paul. Unlike the classic Whiskey tumbler only thick on the bottom, Paul’s glass is thick all over. Rounded edges. A kalidescope of colors. With air bubbles happily spiralling upward. Indented on all four sides. As if it”s creator somehow held it while molten, leaving the impressions of his thumb and fingers.
Bottom line: beauty and utility. Aristry and practicality. Perfectly reflecting the sensibilities of it’s owner. An artist. Who happened also to be an architect. And Although He was retired when I met him, Paul still drew every day. Because, as you may understand, artists can’t stop expressing themselves. Whether they get paid or not.
Paul’s last architectural project was his vacation home. A retreat as artistic and practical as his Whiskey glass. A circular plan totalling 3000 sq. ft. With an open circular courtyard. All rooms facing it, and on one side, the (often) blue Pacific. On the other, the silent desert tumbling into the mountains beyond. it was in those mountains that Paul harvested Black Palm for the house. Now illegal to protect it from total deforestation.But Paul was there at the right time. As He was for many other things in his life.
It was because of this house that I came to know Paul. My first contact was with his son-in-law, Denis (“Den-ee”,the french pronounciation) a vigneron. Whose wine found it’s way to my table regularly. And I, because of his great hospitality, found my way often to his table. And the exceptional cuisine of his wife, Michelle.
At one of those exceptional evenings, I was fortunate to meet Paul and his wife Bettina. This was,as the saying goes, a “May December” marriage. With Paul, at 83, being December. The second marriage for both. I got the impression they “got along”, but that this union was not the great love of either. But, then again,(happily!) I’m not a marriage counsellor.
One morning I got a call from Denis.Could I come over for lunch? You know the answer, dear reader, do you not? Bettina was there – but not Paul.I wasn’t puzzled by his absence, as Paul was more active at 83 than most men of 38. (I later learned He was – without being asked – digging fence post holes for a neighbour!) Bettina had a favor to ask of me. Paul would soon be going to Mexico to remodel the house prior to putting it on the market. Would I go along to “keep an eye on him?” You’re ahead of me already –
aren’t you?
Next Time – Part two of my French Country Travel Life Legacy
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Wines Rodney Dangerfield Grape
French Wines Rodney Dangerfield Grape is Grenache. Like the American comedian , Grenache “can’t get no respect.” At least not sufficient to make it a household name along with such International stars as Cabernet and Merlot.
The reason is that it’s a great blending grape. A team player. Not a star quarterback. Owing largely to it’s thin skin and good cellaring qualities.
Personally, DA BG does give Grenache respect. Especially a bottle of 100% “Big G.” YUM!
Will Grenache ever get the respect it’s other fan’s say it deserves? Like any good vintage, only time will tell.
But for now Beppi Crosariol tells the rest of the “can’t get no respect” grape’s story:
“It’s one of the world’s most widely planted grapes, but grenache tends to lurk in fame’s shadow. A major component in southern French blends, it rarely gets marquee treatment on labels. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Côtes du Rhône and the famous rosés of Tavel, among others, all tend to be sculpted around its seductively soft, succulent berry essence, a fact that no doubt would be news to some fans of those wines.
Even in Australia, where the convention of naming wines after grapes prevails, it’s rarely a solo player. You’ll find it there as in the Rhône, frequently in combination with classic sidekicks syrah and mourvèdre in so-called GSM blends.
The reason for its team-player status has as much to do with colour and cellar endurance as with flavour. Unlike syrah and mourvèdre, the grape is thin-skinned, so the wines can be deceptively transparent, a liability in a world that associates rich flavour with the colour purple.
Those skins also lack substantial tannins, astringent compounds that protect red wines from bruising like a peeled apple. If vinified without proper care, a pure grenache wine can oxidize prematurely, leading to a desiccated quality that suggests prunes rather than fresh raspberries, cherries or currants.
Most people familiar with grenache associate it with southern France, the world’s top source. But that’s not its home. Spain is. The likely birthplace was Aragon, a tiny region in the northeast best known to monarchy buffs as the home of Catherine of Aragon, King Henry VIII’s first wife, whose failure to bear a son provoked that famous annulment and England’s divorce from the Roman Catholic Church.
In that context, it might be construed as slightly ironic that Aragon’s queen of grapes, known in Spanish as garnacha, found its highest calling in a wine named after the 14th-century papal castle in southern France. Yet one can find an uncanny similarity between fine Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a much less expensive wine from Aragon released this week in Ontario. It’s called Langa Tradicion Centenaria Garnacha, a glorious red made from 80-year-old, organically grown vines. That advanced age can be especially beneficial to grenache. Old vines yield fewer but more concentrated — and tannic — grapes. When you’ve got old-vines grenache, you don’t need sidekicks; the grape can carry the show all by itself.”
Read more HERE.
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
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