RANT #437: THIS AND THAT AND MY BEERS AND HISTORY REPEATING

Every once in a while the pressure builds and must be released or the pipes burst. In no particular order...

HEAT WAVE
For the third time this year, temps have climbed over 100F in our corner of France. And we're not the only ones effected. Much of Europe is under the gun. Yes, one expects heat in the summer in the south of France. And yes, it's been as hot as this before. But in 12 years, we don't remember so much heat, so often, starting so early. Climate change is doing a good job making itself seem real instead of the hoax that everyone knows that it is. (Sarcasm, for those unused to its use.)
 
MY BEERS 
We've never been to a movie in the multiplex in the small city of Narbonne down the road, but we do catch sight of the building often while on our way to other places. Recently, I noticed a new sign on the building's wall. MY BEERS. Odd. In French, the sign should read Mes Bières. What up? So I did some research. Turns out that MY BEERS is a franchise with several dozen locations throughout the country, describing itself as being inspired by, and I quote, Anglo-Saxon after-work culture. Apparently, we Anglos are into a dozen different beers on tap - including fruity concoctions that taste like medicine - as well as a couple of hundred different brands of bottled beers from around Europe on offer. Add what MY BEERS calls street food - burgers and fries and mozzarella sticks and wings and onion rings and the like. Play the World Cup on strategically located televisions. And play party music through the speakers. Somebody's concept of Anglo heaven, I guess.
 
Well, the burgers were serviceable, the dark beer from the tap was tasty and cold, the fries were hot and plentiful, and the wings weren't bad either. But I really went to see if they had some of that crunchy dark Belgian beer that I tasted on a recent trip to Brussels. Yes. Three different brands of Belgian dark. I bought two bottles of each for less than 4€ a bottle. This Anglo shall return. 
 
HISTORY REPEATING
I suppose there are those who blame Nixon for the demise of the Republican Party as we used to know it. Even go as far back as Goldwater if you're looking for a pull to the right. But in my view, the real culprit was Ronald Reagan. I don't just condemn him and his co-conspirator Thatcher across the Pond for popularizing the idea that government is the problem and not the solution. And it's not just about the failed notion that tax cuts to the rich act as a general stimulus to the economy. No, I blame Ronnie and Nancy for providing a platform for conspicuous wealth to infiltrate the political landscape. And their wealthy benefactors had agendas, agendas that folks like Bill Bennett and James Watt and Cap Weinberger and Ed Meese tried to put into place on Reagan’s watch

The influence of money in politics is not why I called this meeting, however. By this time, the fact that money has flooded the halls of Washington to the detriment of policies based on the public's interest should be self-evident. No, I called you here today to discuss the Tea Party. I'm not going to get into the weeds of Tea Party politics, which were often self-contradictory. Nor am I going to parse the people behind the purse strings of that supposedly grass roots movement. Rather, I want to discuss the consequences of demanding purity of thought and deed when it comes to the electoral process. I want to discuss the practice of 'primarying' incumbent elected officials.

First off, the scholarship on the subject of primarying currently suggests that the challenging of party-endorsed incumbents by outsiders is not mainly due to the radicalization of segments of the electorate but rather is a consequence of a failure of the party elites to endorse quality candidates. For instance, the ability to fund raise independently of party can be a deciding factor over the ability to articulate platform and policy when it comes to party endorsement. Other possible influences on the shift to the fringes, according to those writing books on the subject, may include the effects of gerrymandering, leading to battles within a party in otherwise safe districts, as well as the natural ebb and flow of voter sentiment over time. Movement to the fringes of political norms due to the targeting of radicalized primary voters themselves is discounted in relation to these other factors. That's current scholarship. I respectfully disagree. It's like the scholarship that sometimes insists that the Civil War was not about slavery. Scholars seem inclined to ignore the elephant in the room in their search for more esoteric fauna.

The Republican propensity for primarying those considered unpure began right around the time that the Tea Party peaked and has only grown in frequency ever since. And it's not about conservative versus RINO any more. The practice has morphed into something completely different. Some of the most doctrinaire conservative Republicans have been subject to attack, and not because of stances on issues. The party of economic conservatism is piling up debt at a staggering rate. The party that shunned foreign entanglements is now entangled in messy military affairs in two hemispheres. No, it's not about policy in a party that has shattered commitment to policy. It's about failure to adapt to a party that has become more rigid, more Christian nationalist, and more like a cult. Bend the knee, pledge loyalty to the cult, or You're Fired. Long-serving elected officials are no longer insulated from attack. Republicans have weeded out the dissent to the point that Mitch McConnell has become a poster boy for dissent within his own party. Who'da thunk it? 

Why, oh why, have Democrats decided to jump on that very bandwagon of destruction? What leads them to think that the USofA is ready for democratic socialism? Bernie Sanders got beat in 2016. No matter what anybody says, he got beat fair and square. And he specifically got beat when Democrats voted rather than caucused. His best showings were in late March and early April, before the East Coast settled things. Of nine contests, Sanders won eight. Six of the eight were caucuses. Over the following few weeks, voting primaries in New York, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Connecticut all went for Hillary. Bernie got beat. Deal with it.

Next we have Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who successfully primaryed a senior Congressional Democrat in 2018, in a primary in which 30,000 people voted. In the general election in a D+29 district, 125,000 votes were cast. She won. Currently, AOC and Rashida Tlaib are the only members of the Democratic Socialists of America in Congress. After eight years, three election cycles. Two DSAs.

And now we come to the poster boy of the DSA, NYC Mayor Zohran Mamdani. In one of the bluest cities in America, running against a discredited sexist pig named Cuomo and perpetual gadfly Curtis Sliwa in the general election for mayor, Mamdani managed less than 51% of the vote. I have difficulty understanding how that can be celebrated as a defining victory. But that's the characterization. And that characterization, flawed as it may be, has led to primarying in the next round of Congressional elections just recently by Mamdani-endorsed candidates who have taken down two incumbents. In discussing that outcome with NPR, the transcript reports that Mamdani's answer to the first three questions on the subject featured the phrase 'working people'. 

Nearly 40% of American adults are not working people. They may be disabled. They may have become discouraged and dropped out of the work force entirely, no longer looking for work. They may even have invested well and are retiring early. But the fact remains, 1,000,000 people simply up and left the workforce last year. And not just the old or infirm. Folks in their prime working years. Politicians don't hammer home a phrase without intention. What was Mamdani's intention? I fear that the answer may be because it sets up a conflict, sets up an Us Versus Them mentality. For my entire life, that's how the political parties recruited young people. Republican v Democrat meant Conservative v Liberal. Meant Business v Labor. Meant Fiscal Restraint v Safety Net Spending. Mamdani was setting up a more modern conflict. Working People v The Elite. And I have a problem with Mamdani's definition of The Elite.

Us means Mamdani. Them means the NY Democratic Party. Us means AOC. Them means Chuck Schumer. Us means the DSA. Them means Me. Me.

I live in a country that leans to democratic socialism on a continent where the happiest populations are governed by democratic socialists. I have no quarrel with the concept. My quarrel is with political strategies whose endgame appears to be to divide the American electorate into three tribes: one-third way over to the right, one-third way over to the left, and one-third wondering where the hell the center went that we thought that we inhabited. No room for Nelson Rockefeller or Dick Gephardt. No room for me.

THREE 19.90€ ($22.75) LOCAL LUNCH MENUS IN FRANCE


If you haven't figured out by now that one of the neatest perks that life in France provides is the quality of the food, you just haven't been paying attention. I'll do a deep dive into the quality and price of fruit and veggies at the grocery store in a subsequent post. Today, let's do lunch. 

At first glance, one might conclude that lunch choices in France don't differ that much from what's available in the USofA, particularly in such small cities near us as Beziers and Narbonne. Both with populations under 100,000, they host chains painfully familiar to Americans - Burger King, McDonald's and KFC. In Paris recently, I've seen Popeye's and Whataburger franchises.  And France-specific joints also dot the landscape. I've reviewed La Pataterie, a chain with franchises throughout France that serves burgers between patties of hash browns instead of buns. (But the beer is cold.) Pizza is ubiquitous, some with cracker-thin crust, some wood-fired. The best is Sicilian and we have a couple of good ones close by. Believe it or don't, pizza vending machines are a thing. I've had the urge to try one. I have resisted the urge.
 
Bar food can be interesting in the States. In my old stomping ground of Allentown, PA there's a place called Ringer's Roost that has an interesting menu of mostly fried food. And Stahley's has been around for 60 years and knows how to put together a cheese steak. I've enjoyed lunching in both joints and I have nothing against American bar food. But the lunches served in local bars here in France, one within walking distance, two more that I'll discuss a short ride away, differ substantially in quality from similarly situated American establishments. And are probably cheaper as well. Again, it's been awhile. You decide.
 
BAR LE 40
Quarante is the name of the town that we live in. Quarante is also the French word for 40. Thus, the local watering hole has taken the name Bar le 40. (The reason for a town founded by the Romans a bunch of centuries ago being named for a number is a topic for conjecture to this day.) Bar le 40 sits near the center of our little village, a couple of hundred meters from our house, and is open for a morning coffee and croissant plus full lunches and dinners from Tuesday through Saturday. Closed Sunday and Monday. Dinners feature relatively simple fare - burgers, dinner salads, steak and fries. But the lunches can be a treat. 
 
The lunch menu features daily specials that are announced at the beginning of the week. Fridays are always seafood. Choose a small salad or an assortment of charcuterie to start. (Charcuterie is French for little pieces of ham and sausages and paté or whatever to pick at, maybe accompanied by a gherkin and butter and slices of baguette.) Then the special of the day. Then the dessert of the day or ice cream. This week's specials, excluding the fish on Friday were:
Tuesday: grilled hanger steak with sauce Bordelaise and mashed potatoes,
Wednesday: grilled chicken skewers marinated in honey/mustard sauce with rice, and
Thursday: pork tenderloin with smoked paprika sauce and new potatoes. 
 
Start plus main plus dessert plus a glass of wine = $22.75 at the current exchange rate. Less than a DoorDash combo meal and not the same old, same old.
 
LA BELLE EPOQUE
In a little collection of small businesses and restaurants in a small town down the road about 20 minutes, La Belle Epoque calls itself a brasserie. I suppose that a bar with decent food can call itself a brasserie if it wants, although to me the appellation implies a bit more upscale establishment. Not the La Belle Epoque is in any way seedy. It's just a bar with decent food. And speaking of the food...
 
La Belle Epoque posts the lunch special of the day on Facebook every morning at about 9am. The special changes daily and includes a start, a main, and a dessert. One of the starts is typically a charcuterie plate like the one mentioned above. One of the mains is typically a steak with sauce - might be pepper or parsley butter or Roquefort. Tiramisu seems to be a favored dessert. If those three standard choices don't interest you, try picking from one of the recent menus:
* Rustic salad with mushrooms followed by sauteed pork with olives and panacotta for dessert,
* Gaszpacho followed by grilled pork tenderloin in garlic cream with lemon tart for dessert,
* Fresh melon with ham followed by breaded turkey in mushroom sauce and panacotta for dessert,
* Salad with goat cheese followed by stewed Basque chicken and yes, panacotta.
 
Again, $22.75. If you are worried that you won't like the day's special, you have to check in early to make your plans for the day. But then, there's always charcuterie and steak if the special doesn't suit. 

LA BONNE FRANQUETTE PIZZERIA
On a main road between Quarante and La Belle Epoque, La Bonne Franquette has recently reopened after a bit of a makeover and upped its game. Of the three I'm talking about today, this is the one that comes closest to being a full-on restaurant. Oddly, although it calls itself a pizzeria, La Bonne Franquette only serves pizza in the evening. France. But the lunch menu is varied, very French. 
 
I'm not going to translate. Check out the slate. This is the sort of thing that you will see when you visit a rural restaurant in France. You should be able to recognize gazpacho and salad. Thon is tuna. Enjoy figuring out the rest.



PART 3: 12 YEARS OF SPORTS IN FRANCE

 I grew up a roundball fan. In the USofA, that meant basketball. Watching Bill Russell, Bob Cousy, and the rest of the Boston Celtics win and win and win made me wanna be them. Well, maybe I didn't want to be Jungle Jim Loscutoff, the guy designated to come off the bench and give a hard foul. But then again, maybe I did want to be Jungle Jim. Anyway, I played full court five-on-five at the Y until I just couldn't keep up any more. But I did keep up with the latest news. Even today, I wonder why LeBron's longevity has elevated him to GOAT status when he's spent his entire career snubbing teams that invested in him and flopping his way to the foul line. (GOAT = Greatest Of All Time) And if you're French, ya gotta love Wemby. (If you don't know who Wemby is, you are neither French nor a roundball fan.) But seeing as how I do live in France now, basketball must take second place to both football (soccer) and rugby. Third place? Whatever.

France has been in the finals of the World Cup of football (soccer) three times during the past five Cups, winning once in 2018, four years after we moved here. Very big deal. We watched the finals at a local bar. After the win, a bonfire on the street melted the tar, leaving a scar in a main thoroughfare that remains to this day. The experience was a heady one, particularly since I already knew a bit about the sport. My first broken bone came as a result of a collision playing soccer (football) during a grade school match about 65 years ago. Even so, before the match in 2018 I decided that it was necessary to brush up on the sport. As a result, eight years ago I wrote the following:

I don't have a television and I don't miss it. But the World Cup has started and my European friends will be paying careful attention, particularly my Brit friends starting at noon tomorrow. So I found a site that streams all of the matches for free and I am trying to pay attention. Here's what I have learned so far.

Things get going on a very nice lawn in front of groups of drunken men in color coordinated clothing. Women can be in the stadium, but only if they don't wear shirts. Meanwhile teams of men who forgot to shave kick a ball back and forth, sometimes even kicking it with their heads. The object of the game seems to be to find creative ways to fall down and, if you are standing, finding creative ways to kick the ball past your own goal tender and into your own net.

It seems that the world champions lost convincingly to the Netherlands, apparently due to superior cannabis. At least I think that's right. I can't understand the announcers. They're speaking British.

Although Quarante seriously celebrated the France's World Cup football (soccer) championship, the truth is that this region of France is not football (soccer) country. We are, rather, a hotbed of rugby. Two of the top three pro rugby clubs with the most national championships all time in France come from our region - Toulouse and Beziers. And as an amateur club, our very own boys won the national championship for their tier a couple of years ago. As a result, I clearly had to brush up on the rules.

Like football (soccer), rugby is played on a manicured lawn about the size and shape of an American football (not soccer) field, except that the netted goals are replaced by goal posts that, you guessed it, are similar to the goal posts used in American football (not soccer). The game begins with the team in black performing scenes from Michael Caine's movie ZULU while the team in white warms up by attempting to swivel their heads back and forth, difficult to do considering that they have no necks. Eventually, a ball looking suspiciously like an American football (not soccer) is put in play. The teams throw and kick the ball back and forth until they get tired, fall in a heap, grunt and groan with their heads next to each others bums, until the ball squirts out from underneath the pile and the running and kicking begins again. When the referee gets tired, he allows one of the teams to score by trying to kick the ball through the goal posts. The other way to score is by belly-flopping, ball in hand, into the opponent's end zone. Points are awarded for style and degree of difficulty. The winning team is the team ending the game with the most intact ears.

Somehow, I don't think that my friends in Quarante, my French friends in Quarante, will appreciate the humor.


PART 2: CHANGES IN FRANCE

In Part 1, we've established that after 12 years in France, I drive more slowly, eat less cheese, and drink more wine. With this post, I'll answer a question that appears in many discussions of the move across the Pond: What do you miss most? Mostly, the answer comes down to food. Yes, for some it might be a particular cleaning product or OTC med. And yes, the aluminum foil tends to be flimsy and ziploc bags are just now approaching decent. But all of that pales to the sudden loss of favorite comfort foods.

HOT DOGS
Born and raised in New Jersey, with a father who was born in the Bronx and went to school in Manhattan, my idea of the perfect hot dog comes from Brooklyn. Specifically Coney Island. Nathan's Famous. Period. End of story. And while plastic packages of Nathan's eventually became available in grocery stores closer to home, and while those plastic-encased dogs were a more than satisfactory substitute for what else was available locally, and while Nathan's website doesn't even show them, you simply couldn't beat the real thing. The real thing? Nathan's over-the-counter by the pound, fresh, strung together, wrapped in butcher paper dogs to take home and grill. So I eschewed chewing the French equivalents of hot dogs for several years. Eventually though, spending time at our local butcher shop and seeing his saucisse Frankfort piled up in his display case every summer, and seeing squishy white bread buns on sale at the local super, I broke down. I modified my dogs in the manner that they were served in my favorite joint in eastern PA, with dill pickle spears and diced onions. And I admit that I didn't use yellow mustard. They sell a version of mayo here that is infused with the mustard of Lyon. All together, you get a thoroughly serviceable dog. But I miss my Nathan's sufficiently that I suggested to the butcher that he might consider mixing a little garlic into his frankfurters. The poor man nearly had a heart attack, as did the lady in line behind me. They carefully explained to me that it just isn't done. No garlic in French dogs. Not. Done. Oh well. I tried.
 
BAGELS
Bagels, smoked salmon and cream cheese, accompanied by deviled eggs and potato salad, comprise a proper Sunday brunch. Without bagels, it just don't work. For years, the only bagels that I could buy locally came from Picard, a chain of French stores that sell frozen food and frozen food only. Lender's Bagels. No. Just no. Then a little shop calling itself a bagel bakery opened in a nearby town. Brioche shaped like a doughnut and way too expensive. I even looked up three separate bagel shops in Paris. Not any better. Finally, in desperation, I began cruising YouTube for bagel recipes. Don't be surprised. I baked bread back home in the USofA all the time. But why would I bake bread in France when our local bakery is just steps away with warm, fresh bread available daily in a variety of tastes and forms. But not bagels. So I studied. I experimented. And voila! Bagels. Not as good as a bagels from Brooklyn, or even the Wegmans down the road after they put in an honest-to-goodness bagel oven. But, as is the case with the dogs, serviceable. Bagels with a schmear in France. Can't be beat.

MEXICAN FOOD
Surveys say that Americans who move to France miss Mexican food the most. And given that my wife grew up in Texas and is an admirable Mexican and Tex-Mex cook, you would think that's a problem for us. It's not. Cathey's sister Connie has been visiting twice a year for weeks at a time almost since the beginning. And she brings two suitcases stocked with enough tortillas and trimmings to open a bodega. More recently, friends who live in Switzerland have been bringing fresh chili peppers and tomatillos from a market there. There's even a permanently-parked Mexican food truck down the shore that serves an authentic, tasty menu. So no. I don't miss Mexican food. Eat your heart out.
 
PART 3 REQUIRED
Odds and ends left to go. I'll finish up next week. 

CHANGES AFTER TWELVE YEARS IN FRANCE: PART 1

It's been twelve years since we sold out in the USofA and made our permanent move to France. In the modern world, that's the equivalent of three jobs, two marriages, or the time it will take to get the taste of Trump out of our mouths. In our case, having retired and remained married for 54 years, it's enough time to have settled into our new home, tried some things out, and decided what works and what doesn't. If nothing changes, there's no growth. Here's our list. Yours may differ.

I DRIVE SLOWER
As the t-shirt proclaims, only bikers know why dogs stick their heads out of car windows. And I logged tens of thousands of kilometers on my last two-wheeler in the three years before we moved to France. I tend to drive cars the way I rode motorcycles, as reasonably fast as road conditions allow. Never an accident, on either two or four wheels, except for a blown rear tire at speed just before moving to France that put me on the ground, broke a toe, and ruined a pair of jeans. So after hundreds of thousands of miles on American roads, wide lanes with ample verges, I enjoyed testing my new (used) French car during my first couple of years navigating our local narrow two-lane blacktops. I have slowed down for two reasons. First, packs of cyclists, the tractors of vignerons working the vines, ambling tourists navigating their wide-bodied campers in unfamiliar territory, all make passing on the curvy, narrow and hilly back roads that I routinely travel a dodgy proposition. Not worth the frustration and tension. But more importantly, I have taken to heart something that I said in passing to Cathey early on. "If I ever fail to see the beauty that surrounds us while driving through it, stick a fork in me. I'm cooked." I've slowed down.
 
I EAT LESS CHEESE
Le Centre National Interprofessionnel de l'Economie Laitière cites over 1,200 varieties of French cheeses and there could be several hundred more if of you count every minor regional variety. Tasting as many as possible was an early goal. A cheese plate arrived for every lunch on the terrace and at the end of every dinner party. Isn't morbier interesting with its thin black line denoting the difference between evening and morning milkings? Have you ever smelled a cheese as nasty as livarot? Can you taste the barnyard in Tomme de Savoie? So much fun. So much calcium. And so, after 20 years, a second attack of kidney stones. And so, another story to tell at parties, a story about a nurse with long, black rubber gloves who looked like Rosa Klebb as I sat watching her approach with my feet in the stirrups thinking "I'm not in Kansas any more." 
 
WE BUY ONLINE MORE
We moved from the third largest metro area in Pennsylvania to a rural French village of 1,800 souls without a gas station or an ATM. Even with grocers and a small hardware store in the next town over, and even with the small cities of Narbonne and Beziers within about 25km, you can't always get what you want. (But if we try, sometimes, we find we get what we need. But only sometimes.) And then there's Amazon. Big vans navigate our narrow village streets daily. How else are we expected to find hypoallergenic kitty treats? Or inexpensive knockoff water filters for our Samsung fridge? Or a replacement cable for a portable hard drive at least twenty years old? So, we download the app and we find what we need and what we need appears in our mailbox in a day or two. Yes, when we can, we buy local. Always. In small villages with diminishing populations because the kids are drawn to the jobs and the life of the cities, patronizing local merchants becomes a survival mechanism. But I still can't believe that that obscure cable showed up in 24 hours and saved the 5,000 tunes I'd archived on my old drive.
 
WE KEEP FINDING NEW WINE
Back in the States, I drank lots of flavored waters and diet sodas. (I know. Mea culpa.) Now I'm in France. Wine is the daily beverage of choice, although it's recently been reported that young folks are turning to beer. Sacrilege. When we arrived, friends recommended two or three local wineries and they were perfectly suitable for our needs. Tasty and inexpensive. Rosé for the equivalent of 5USD or so a bottle. What's not to like? But the truth is, in our Department of Hérault, an area about the size of Delaware, there are as many as 600 wineries, from boutiques producing only a few thousand bottles to large cooperatives that measure liters by the millions. And Hérault is only one of five departments in our wine-producing region. First by word of mouth, then thanks to new friends who established a wine exporting business based in our village, our cellar expanded to include bottles from wineries far and near, Finally, we discovered vrac, bulk wine that the co-ops sell for under 2USD per liter and dispense through contraptions like gas pumps. The result? Not a single diet soda in 12 years.
 
Check out PART 2 coming soon to a theater near you. 

I HAVE QUESTIONS

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

Does that oath expire at the end of a President's term? Does the duty to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution last for no more than the four years in office? Do our past Presidents pledge their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor with a sell-by date?

I have questions. 

If Trump can incite a couple of thousand people to scare the shit out of Congress, how many people can Barack and Bill bring to Washington to choke the streets and the halls of Congress to demand an end to the destruction of our democracy? Are there other men or women who could spearhead such a movement? Newsome? AOC? Seriously?

I have questions.

Is preoccupation with the construction of a Presidential Library a sufficient excuse for Barack's relative absence? Does Barack fear the wrath of Michelle if he jumps back on the stage? Is an occasional endorsement of a candidate or a genteel answer to an interviewers questions a sufficient contribution of his sacred honor?

I have questions.

Does Bill fear publicly exposing himself at a time when his predilection for exposing himself is a hot issue? Is the best stemwinding speechifier in the Democrats' arsenal capable of one last burst of glory? Or has the wealthiest modern President after Trump already drunk the Kool-Aid?

I really only have one question.

If not now, when? 

 

 

 

GERMANY: A SURPRISING REASON TO LIVE IN FRANCE

That might sound counterintuitive, I suppose. Why would proximity to Germany be a reason for deciding to live in the south of France, just about as far from Germany in France as you can get? Recent history aside, it shouldn’t be hard for the seasoned traveler to understand my thinking. 

Imagine surveying the menu of the best restaurant that you can imagine. All sorts of interesting bits for starters. Main dishes from surf to turf and beyond. Excellent local wine. And top it all off with a sweet dessert and a cup of coffee. Now imagine the sparkling, icy Scandinavian fjords, the riotous blooming of the Dutch fields, and the dark woods of Germany. Next come the gingerbread chateaux along the Loire and the lavender landscape of Provence. Finish with a sweet, fortified Occitanie wine, almost port, as a digestif. And there still remains the Iberian Peninsula to the west and gems like Prague to the east to explore. Drive. Take the train. Fly an array of full-service and budget airlines.

Recently, Cathey and I boarded a train in Beziers in the south of France, had lunch in a cafe in Paris, and met friends for dinner in Cologne, Germany. I'm not going to attempt a full-on travelogue. I'll share some pics and tell a story or two. But my point has already been made. In one easy day, at a reasonable cost and in comfortable surroundings, you can change countries, languages, histories and cultures as easily as deciding to do it.

And by the way, on the way home, we stopped off for a couple of nights in Brussels because...we could. 

Cologne Cathedral stained glass windows were dismounted during WWII. Some say that the Allies ordered bombers not to target the cathedral. Others say that the height and weather around the tower swept bombs away. But some bombs did hit and would have blown out the windows if they hadn't been saved.

This reliquary is said to contain the remains of the Biblical Three Magi. It's apparently opened for display once a year and there are reported to be three nearly complete adult skeletons inside. Serious stuff. Below is a different display of craftsmanship whose purpose escapes me at the moment. But it's beautiful, ain't it.

Just a taste of the goodies available at a local tea room. Germany isn't all meat and potatoes.

The Lindt chocolate company operates a chocolate museum and cafe on the Rhine River. You walk out with pockets full of little chocolates in addition to serious knowledge of the industry. And the desserts...

Expansive and carefully tended botanical garden was just beginning to properly bloom in May. The greenhouses and the cafe were closed, but there was plenty to see over 10 acres of curated grounds.


The René Magritte museum in Brussels has a gathered a wealth of works and ephemera.


I like that Magritte, although he associated with folks like Jean Arp, never went so fully abstract that you needed an explanatory label to understand what he was trying to convey on a particular canvas. 

RANT #437: THIS AND THAT AND MY BEERS AND HISTORY REPEATING

Every once in a while the pressure builds and must be released or the pipes burst. In no particular order... HEAT WAVE For the third time th...