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We gave it a good long walk this time. We like the city more each time we visit. Big on art and music. Very young. Progressive, socialist mayor. Bustling, with construction cranes everywhere. Cafes stuck in every nook and cranny. Featured here are (1) some shots of the tiny museum inside the neatest toy store I've ever seen and (2) a one-woman designer clothing store:
Next day, 2 hour hike out of St. Jean de Fos, a "pottery town" on the right bank of the Herault. Knocking us silly: the transmontane winds, off the Causse plateau. L-r: a "circulade" town, St. Jean surrounds its church, which lifts heavenward a characteristic green-tile roof of the region; this field plant nailed to the door acts as an au naturel barometer, closing up when rain threatens; local conflict over who owns what; it's hunting season (on signs); the silvery trees are olives in a high wind; signs in St. Jean de Fos; finally, under these limestone hills are some of France's most magnificent caverns, and (I assume) most remain undiscovered. Merlin Cornell-Feist will help me.
...getting soaking wet. In part because we took the wrong turn from the old priory and headed for the wrong town. And it rained, more and more heavily. Didn't matter. We walked a few hours. Exercised. Worked out a deep personal problem. L-r: where we should have turned (the seashell stencil indicates that this is a pilgrim's path, while the red/white blazes indicate it's a national walking trail, a Grand Randonee); #4: the fruit by the side of the hike that we THINK we can eat, but we await confirmation; #5: the wrong town was very cute; and #6: clearly, the place where you get far more than just a car wash.
The cat family from across our tiny, pedestrian street has chosen our window (we're honored and delighted) as their favorite refuge. Mommy cat should be spayed, though: the brindle is her previous generation, the black kitten is her latest. Maybe our neighbor's teenage daughter should be spayed first ... judging by the gang of lag-tongued, pimply boys hanging about, hoping to pounce.
Destination: the 30th IFC fundraising congress in the Netherlands. The speaking went very well. I received invitations from Norway, Belgium, Italy, and even perhaps India to come and talk about donor-centric communications. What we saw: the port of Amsterdam; the hotel elevator offers health advice; our master class gets off to a sleepy start; Mal Warwick demonstrates his new venture, the never-deflating soccer ball; Schipol, the Amsterdam airport (lovely); dawn over Schipol; our ride; my cup; weird advertising; what sweetie-poopie would look like as a canal boat captain; 1st stop coming back to France, the supermarché; 2nd stop: le bread store.
Hiked. From Maguelone to its ancient cathedral. L-r, Simone hefts the amazingly thoughtful picnic backback the Laramoops gave us (note: wine bottle on one side, baguettes on the other); flocks of flamingos everywhere; Fab finds "porno au mer"; we christen the plastic wine glasses in the backpack; I replace my kneecaps with shellcaps; how the tile roofs of the region get laid; a pebble-in-a-pond cathedral window; Simone explores her own da Vinci Code mystery; the horses of the Camargue, said to descend from an Arabian circa 8th century; the town; its pottery studio; our wine tasting on the route home.
It's now official: I join the legion of French speed demons, caught on camera by the ever-vigilant highway speed traps and mailed the ticket at our house in Valros. So efficient -- and payable online, 45 euros. Proud day! Otherwise, ordinary: another day, another strike here in France (up in arms because Sarkozy wants to cut pensions; and up on our screen, because we may need to drive rather than fly to Amsterdam conference where we're speaking); our new, flourishing shrub; laundry hung in the cold wind, with Simone's favorite jogging shirt graphically foremost.
Nothing special. Doing, seeing, stuff. In Valros (hometown) and neighboring Pézenas.