The Little Words Mean the Most

En poem, au despair

Everyone's my enemy

Even me

Senior Moments, the game show

Trademarked, registered, copyrighted, my idea: a new game show. All the contestants are 60 or older. They are asked to supply missing words. Sort of like a spelling bee, except it's not about spelling, it's about how fast you can recall "the word for..." or "the name of the purple, hanging flower..." or "the name of that actor in..." And here's the exciting part: while the contestants try to bring the word or name to mind, the audience gets to scream. When you're trying to recall elusive words, peace and quiet help. So the screaming adds tension. If no contestant gets the word, they all lose points. The quicker a contestant gets the word, the more points she or he gains. Name of the show: Senior Moments.

The Final Pill

Simone and I clattered back from our day-before-we-leave walk/run through the vineyards of Valros and encountered a village man slowly ascending the narrow street outside our front door. He turned when he heard our footsteps and smiled. We chatted. Well, Simone did; I listened. I catch about a third of the drift when the conversation's in French. He mentioned BP and how money rules. We lamented the rainy weather. He remarked that he took a walk daily, no longer smoked, and drank only water from the tap. He is 86. He also noted that people are living longer, and for what? He proposed "the Final Pill," a pill you take when you've had enough, a pill that puts you to sleep and gently kills you. Excellent idea. Big Pharma is probably already working on it in secret, under some sunny code name.

Last night with Connie et Terry

L-r: 3 cheers for Simone; she ended up preparing every meal that wasn't purchased from a pizza truck or a restaurant. Terry kicked in his signature Tom Collins. People were WAY too attached to their laptops. We ended the night with dancing in the vaulted ceiling room, trading tunes on our iPods.

Roadside words

A day of salt ponds and a castle

L-r: the day concluded with a visit to remote, frontier fortification, L'Aguilar, in the Corbiéres; the day began with a long walk among the old, abandoned salt ponds of Peyriac-de-Mer, on the Med coast. You can see the gates that were once used to control the flooding of the pans where evaporation in the hard sun left behind salt for harvesting.

The sunny South of France?

The forecast (oh, well, there's always great bread from our favorite baker):

Saturday market in Pézenas

L-r: trompe l'oeil (sp?) has invaded! (that's a painted cat); plastic tablecloths are sold by the meter; the striped shirts of France; dried fruit, olive, and nut vendor; dogs get water at the puppy-considerate knife vendor; Terry acquires a hat with a solar-powered fan; Connie walks the narrow back streets of the old town. Le market was Simone's blah-blah-blah moment. A cheese vendor slid his knife blade through some superb cheese made of bow brebis (sheep) and vache (cow) milks. I was ecstatic. He said it came from the Aveyron region and asked if we knew it. Simone said, Oh, yes, we were just there. It's about 45 minutes from our house. We were hiking. "Blah blah blah," she concluded.

"Blah, blah, blah!" he indignantly challenged, in French. "Blah, blah, blah? Where are you from?"

Simone said j'suis Americain. "Well," he said, "then the Statue of Liberty ... blah blah blah!" An international incident. He kept cutting us little samples of his fine farm-made cheese with the deep rinds built by cheese mites, and we kept buying. Blah blah blah is now our motto.

The Causses

L-r: a roadside rest area at Caylar decorated with kitchen commonplaces; the carved tree in this sculptor town up on the Causses limestone plateau; a view of the typical cliffs; a view (en model and for real) of the world-amazing viaduct that spans the valley and connects Paris with the Languedoc by super-highway; Simone says what she really thinks; the Viaduct du Millau, the highest suspension bridge in the world, 45 minutes from our house; where we hiked, above the Gorge du Jontes, an area of stone arches and caves; Terry really has to go to the eye doctor -- he's fielding two different reading glasses to get through the day; ending with a rush trip to our favorite bakery, which has a bread vending machine outside for "after hours."

Nationalize BP's Gulf calamity

Bigger intellects have, of course, considered this solution. We hadn't, though. It gripped us. What if the U.S. nationalized the blown well in the Gulf of Mexico? Captured the revenue for payback to the manifold regional industries destroyed? Brought in some other company (BP's chief rival, for instance) to run the well site? Wouldn't that penalty set a fearsome precedent for other corporate eco-offenders and eco-cheats? Dear Mr. President, are you listening?