I'm getting old. I expect that the obvious will be recognized. How silly is that?
9/11. The Shoe Bomber. The Christmas Bomber. The Printer Bombs.
What's the common thread?
Airplanes.
What's that you say? We're always responding to the last threat? Well, they've been hijacking planes for 80 years, in January of 1969 eight planes were diverted to Cuba, Wikipedia lists 18 'notable' hijackings in the 1980s, the Underwear Bomb fizzled just about a year ago, and the Printer Bombs were discovered about a month ago. It would seem that the threat is continuing and the threat is still real.
I admit that I simply don't understand the argument against scans and pat downs. First of all, in carny parlance, ya pays yer money and ya take yer chances. When you buy your ticket, you know that you're going to have to go through security. You're worried about your privacy? Don't fly. Live in a shack in the woods. I understand that the Unibomber's bungalow is up for auction.
That's harsh, you say? Flying from here to there is necessary. It's 2010. Times have changed.
Exactly.
Deal with it.
NEW ORLEANS NIGHTS with ALLEN TOUSSAINT - November, 2010
In the interest of full disclosure, be it known that my wife Cathey's mother's family were natives of New Orleans, that Cathey was born in New Orleans, and that I have visited the Crescent City on multiple occasions since the early 1970s. So while I'm a Yankee through and through, I have great appreciation for the music and the culture of that fair city. That's why Cathey and I were so excited when we learned that the Zoellner Center for the Performing Arts in Bethlehem announced 'New Orleans Nights with Allen Toussaint'. We immediately bought a pair of tickets.
I am obliged to say that the show was a disappointment.
Toussaint didn't arrive on stage until after the intermission. The Joe Krown Trio began the show - from New Orleans, true, but with a Hammond B-3 as the centerpiece, never a true New Orleans jazz instrument. It's also true that Wolfman Washington is a dynamite guitar player. But the blues tunes on which he was featured were just that, blues tunes that had no particular New Orleans flavor to them.
After three or four numbers, trumpeter Nicholas Payton joined the band. The three or four tunes that he fronted were straight ahead jazz, again without particular New Orleans flavor.
Allen Toussaint's set was about half and half. The tunes that came from the heart of New Orleans were spell-binding, including a lengthy bit of solo noodling on the piano and a touchingly sentimental duet with Payton.
Don't get me wrong, to the uninitiated the show was an unmitigated success. But it was not a show that presented the music of New Orleans. As Cathey put it, "It was a show for Yankees." And while the Yankees in attendance seemed perfectly satisfied, THIS Yankee felt it necessary to point out its deficiencies.
I am obliged to say that the show was a disappointment.
Toussaint didn't arrive on stage until after the intermission. The Joe Krown Trio began the show - from New Orleans, true, but with a Hammond B-3 as the centerpiece, never a true New Orleans jazz instrument. It's also true that Wolfman Washington is a dynamite guitar player. But the blues tunes on which he was featured were just that, blues tunes that had no particular New Orleans flavor to them.
After three or four numbers, trumpeter Nicholas Payton joined the band. The three or four tunes that he fronted were straight ahead jazz, again without particular New Orleans flavor.
Allen Toussaint's set was about half and half. The tunes that came from the heart of New Orleans were spell-binding, including a lengthy bit of solo noodling on the piano and a touchingly sentimental duet with Payton.
Don't get me wrong, to the uninitiated the show was an unmitigated success. But it was not a show that presented the music of New Orleans. As Cathey put it, "It was a show for Yankees." And while the Yankees in attendance seemed perfectly satisfied, THIS Yankee felt it necessary to point out its deficiencies.
HEALTH CARE: A FOREIGN ENCOUNTER
We arrived at our vacation home on Sunday, May 16th, to celebrate the 60th birthday of my wife Cathey’s twin sisters, Connie and Liz. By Monday morning, Connie had fallen ill with a hacking cough, lung congestion making breathing difficult, and a low-grade fever. By Tuesday, it was clear that Connie needed to see a doctor.
One problem. Our vacation home is in a small village in the south of France. Connie and her husband Paul did not have travel insurance. Cathey and I had never interacted with the French healthcare system. Since I was the only member of our party who spoke more than a few words of French – and I’m by no means fluent – the task of arranging for Connie’s care fell to me.
I was concerned about my ability to communicate. I was concerned about the time that it would take to get the care that Connie needed. I was concerned about the lack of insurance. I was concerned about cost.
As it turned out, none of my concerns were valid. Here’s how it went:
TUESDAY, MAY 18th
• 11:00 AM – I walk a block to the pharmacy in the village square to ask about a doctor in the village. I’m given directions to a multi-doctor practice two blocks away. I ring the bell on the door of a large house, probably once the home of a well-to-do vigneron (wine maker) with a brass plaque by the door showing the names of three doctors. A young woman in jeans answers. Between my limited French and her limited English, we manage to make an appointment for 1:30 that afternoon.
• 1:30 PM – Connie, Paul, and I enter the waiting room. It’s lined with cheap plastic chairs and has reasonably current French magazines to leaf through. One patient is ahead of us. Within 10 minutes, the doctor – a woman of about our age dressed in whites over casual clothes – calls us into her office/examining room. It was probably the old front parlor complete with marble fireplace.
We sit in front of the doctor’s office desk and do our best to explain the symptoms. The doctor seems to understand and motions Connie to an examining table. She uses her stethoscope, she takes Connie’s blood pressure and temperature, she puts a clip on one of Connie’s fingers to test blood oxygen. We return to the desk where the doctor asks Connie about any meds that she’s taking. It’s a fairly long list – hormones, diabetes medication, a statin for Connie’s high cholesterol.
The doctor has decided that Connie has a bronchial infection and she writes three prescriptions. But there’s another problem. She doesn’t like Connie’s pulse. It seems irregular. I have taken the time to learn the French word for ‘nurse’ and, on hearing that Connie is an infermiere, the doctor asks Connie if she thinks that her pulse seems normal. Connie admits that it does not.
The doctor recommends blood work and a cardiac consult. Using both her desktop computer and an overstuffed appointment calendar book to find the necessary contact information, she calls a nursing service and arranges for a nurse to come to our house the next morning to draw blood. She then calls a cardiologist’s office in Beziers – a city of about 75,000 people less than 10 miles away – and arranges an appointment for Thursday afternoon. She hand writes a letter that we are to take to the cardiologist.
The doctor charges us the equivalent of about $25 for the visit – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge – and she wishes us well.
We go back to the pharmacy to have the prescription filled. We’re charged about $80 – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 19TH
• 8:00 AM – A nurse, casually dressed, rings our doorbell. She doesn’t speak English but what’s there to say? Connie rolls up her sleeve and the nurse draws several vials. We’re charged the equivalent of $8.50 – that’s not a typo and that’s not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
THURSDAY, MAY 20TH
• 3:00 PM – We all climb in our rental car and head for Beziers. After getting lost a time or two, we find the cardiologist’s office on a side street off a busy avenue in the northwestern quarter of the city. It’s more like a typical doctor’s office, in a low cinder block building with office suites for several practices. We announce ourselves and are directed to a waiting room with comfortable chairs, more French magazines, and contemporary art on the walls. After a wait of about 15 minutes, the doctor calls Connie and I into his office, more like a den than an office, with a big wooden desk and shelves full of books.
The cardiologist doesn’t speak very much English but we manage to convey the symptoms Connie is experiencing. We hand over her list of meds. The doctor dictates for a minute into a small cassette recorder, then leads us to an examination room. He listens to Connie’s lungs and heart. He takes her blood pressure. He performs an EKG and an ultrasound of her heart. (This requires Connie to disrobe completely above the waist. The doctor asks if I’m Connie’s husband. When he realizes that I’m not, he makes certain that I turn away.) We return to the office. He dictates some more.
The doctor shows Connie the results of her labs. There’s a potassium deficiency which could very well explain the arrhythmia. He begins explaining the complications that can arise from diabetes. In frustration over our language difficulties he pulls out a little laminated folder with pictures. I explain that Connie is a nurse and he makes clear that she should therefore know the importance of exercise and diet.
The cardiologist dictates some more, prescribes a potassium supplement, and hand writes a letter back to the GP in the village describing what’s been done. We shake hands and he wishes us well.
The cardiologist charges us the equivalent of about $150 for the visit – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
• The pharmacy charges $10 for the potassium supplement – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
SATURDAY, MAY 22nd
Connie is much better. She joins fully in our second week of sightseeing, wine drinking, and cheese eating. Within 48 hours she’d seen two doctors – a GP and a specialist, had a home visit from a nurse, had lab work done (We got the bill in the mail for the lab work after a few days. $70 – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.), and had an EKG and an ultrasound. She had four prescriptions filled.
Total cost? Under $350 – not co-pays, not the negotiated insurance rates, but the full charges.
Ask yourself the following questions:
1. In the USA, if you didn’t speak the language very well, if you didn’t have a primary care physician, and you had no insurance, how long would it have taken you to be seen by all of the professionals that Connie saw in France? Would you have been shunted off to an emergency room instead?
2. In the USA, how much would all of the treatment that Connie received have cost at ‘retail’?
3. In the USA, why do we continue to demonize ‘socialized medicine’ and why are we willing to pay more per capita for healthcare than any other industrialized nation?
One problem. Our vacation home is in a small village in the south of France. Connie and her husband Paul did not have travel insurance. Cathey and I had never interacted with the French healthcare system. Since I was the only member of our party who spoke more than a few words of French – and I’m by no means fluent – the task of arranging for Connie’s care fell to me.
I was concerned about my ability to communicate. I was concerned about the time that it would take to get the care that Connie needed. I was concerned about the lack of insurance. I was concerned about cost.
As it turned out, none of my concerns were valid. Here’s how it went:
TUESDAY, MAY 18th
• 11:00 AM – I walk a block to the pharmacy in the village square to ask about a doctor in the village. I’m given directions to a multi-doctor practice two blocks away. I ring the bell on the door of a large house, probably once the home of a well-to-do vigneron (wine maker) with a brass plaque by the door showing the names of three doctors. A young woman in jeans answers. Between my limited French and her limited English, we manage to make an appointment for 1:30 that afternoon.
• 1:30 PM – Connie, Paul, and I enter the waiting room. It’s lined with cheap plastic chairs and has reasonably current French magazines to leaf through. One patient is ahead of us. Within 10 minutes, the doctor – a woman of about our age dressed in whites over casual clothes – calls us into her office/examining room. It was probably the old front parlor complete with marble fireplace.
We sit in front of the doctor’s office desk and do our best to explain the symptoms. The doctor seems to understand and motions Connie to an examining table. She uses her stethoscope, she takes Connie’s blood pressure and temperature, she puts a clip on one of Connie’s fingers to test blood oxygen. We return to the desk where the doctor asks Connie about any meds that she’s taking. It’s a fairly long list – hormones, diabetes medication, a statin for Connie’s high cholesterol.
The doctor has decided that Connie has a bronchial infection and she writes three prescriptions. But there’s another problem. She doesn’t like Connie’s pulse. It seems irregular. I have taken the time to learn the French word for ‘nurse’ and, on hearing that Connie is an infermiere, the doctor asks Connie if she thinks that her pulse seems normal. Connie admits that it does not.
The doctor recommends blood work and a cardiac consult. Using both her desktop computer and an overstuffed appointment calendar book to find the necessary contact information, she calls a nursing service and arranges for a nurse to come to our house the next morning to draw blood. She then calls a cardiologist’s office in Beziers – a city of about 75,000 people less than 10 miles away – and arranges an appointment for Thursday afternoon. She hand writes a letter that we are to take to the cardiologist.
The doctor charges us the equivalent of about $25 for the visit – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge – and she wishes us well.
We go back to the pharmacy to have the prescription filled. We’re charged about $80 – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 19TH
• 8:00 AM – A nurse, casually dressed, rings our doorbell. She doesn’t speak English but what’s there to say? Connie rolls up her sleeve and the nurse draws several vials. We’re charged the equivalent of $8.50 – that’s not a typo and that’s not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
THURSDAY, MAY 20TH
• 3:00 PM – We all climb in our rental car and head for Beziers. After getting lost a time or two, we find the cardiologist’s office on a side street off a busy avenue in the northwestern quarter of the city. It’s more like a typical doctor’s office, in a low cinder block building with office suites for several practices. We announce ourselves and are directed to a waiting room with comfortable chairs, more French magazines, and contemporary art on the walls. After a wait of about 15 minutes, the doctor calls Connie and I into his office, more like a den than an office, with a big wooden desk and shelves full of books.
The cardiologist doesn’t speak very much English but we manage to convey the symptoms Connie is experiencing. We hand over her list of meds. The doctor dictates for a minute into a small cassette recorder, then leads us to an examination room. He listens to Connie’s lungs and heart. He takes her blood pressure. He performs an EKG and an ultrasound of her heart. (This requires Connie to disrobe completely above the waist. The doctor asks if I’m Connie’s husband. When he realizes that I’m not, he makes certain that I turn away.) We return to the office. He dictates some more.
The doctor shows Connie the results of her labs. There’s a potassium deficiency which could very well explain the arrhythmia. He begins explaining the complications that can arise from diabetes. In frustration over our language difficulties he pulls out a little laminated folder with pictures. I explain that Connie is a nurse and he makes clear that she should therefore know the importance of exercise and diet.
The cardiologist dictates some more, prescribes a potassium supplement, and hand writes a letter back to the GP in the village describing what’s been done. We shake hands and he wishes us well.
The cardiologist charges us the equivalent of about $150 for the visit – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
• The pharmacy charges $10 for the potassium supplement – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.
SATURDAY, MAY 22nd
Connie is much better. She joins fully in our second week of sightseeing, wine drinking, and cheese eating. Within 48 hours she’d seen two doctors – a GP and a specialist, had a home visit from a nurse, had lab work done (We got the bill in the mail for the lab work after a few days. $70 – not the co-pay, not the negotiated insurance rate, but the full charge.), and had an EKG and an ultrasound. She had four prescriptions filled.
Total cost? Under $350 – not co-pays, not the negotiated insurance rates, but the full charges.
Ask yourself the following questions:
1. In the USA, if you didn’t speak the language very well, if you didn’t have a primary care physician, and you had no insurance, how long would it have taken you to be seen by all of the professionals that Connie saw in France? Would you have been shunted off to an emergency room instead?
2. In the USA, how much would all of the treatment that Connie received have cost at ‘retail’?
3. In the USA, why do we continue to demonize ‘socialized medicine’ and why are we willing to pay more per capita for healthcare than any other industrialized nation?
SPRING CLEANING
The weather is warming. Spring is in the air. It's time to clean house.
Not really.
I don't clean by the clock...or the calendar, for that matter. But The Southern Woman That I Married has decided that the rug in my Man Cave needs to be replaced. I think that the reason for that decision - aside from the fact that it's spring and that the rug is as old as Moses, tattered at the edges, and worn through in spots - is that there was a cute little rug on sale.
I shall refrain from reminding you of the difference between Martians and Venusians: A man will spend two dollars the first place that he shops on something that he could have bought for one dollar if he'd read the ads. A woman happily spends two dollars on something that she doesn't need but the ads say is on sale.
Anyway, the changeover has to happen on a weekday while I'm at work because TSWTIM's help is not available on weekends. I come home and my stuff is in boxes. All of my stuff is in boxes. Stuff I haven't seen for 30 years is in boxes. I can't leave my stuff in boxes. I have to go through my stuff.
Have you ever gone through 30 year-old stuff? Not just any stuff. Your stuff.
OK. I'll quit doing my George Carlin imitation.
43 birthday, anniversary, get well, and congratulatory cards. Pictures of my parents, an uncle, old friends, old girl friends (that TSWTIM has met and doesn't like very much), me with hair on my head, TSWTIM with different colored hair on her head, Captain Jim's old Camaro with a hand-painted gardenia on the hood, and Rusty Sharp's Yamaha TZ250 with the custom aluminum fairing.
18 old floppy disks containing useless information - I think, but I didn't check them to find out. A dozen compact discs on which are various pictures and songs that are already on my computer and backed up. Five unopened decks of cards. Various hand-held games meant to be played in cars and on planes that have never been opened. Two pairs of cheap suspenders (gifts) that have never been used.
A box full of non-returnable paperback murder mysteries and spy novels bought at the used book store - I hate throwing away books. Nine classic sci-fi books that I WILL save. A history of the Filmore East that TSWTIM gave me on my birthday long ago. I can pick out a half-dozen shows that I attended with those girlfriends the TSWTIM doesn't like. 26 catalogs long out of date. Two boxes of papers left over from my stints in local government.
Notepaper in the shape of the state of Texas (another gift). My mother's jewelry (that my sister doesn't want). Various Kiwanis bits of memorabilia. Various other bits of memorabilia.
So, lots of garbage on the curb on Sunday night. 30 years of stuff that I haven't looked at in 30 years. Never needed any of it.
Why do I miss it?
Not really.
I don't clean by the clock...or the calendar, for that matter. But The Southern Woman That I Married has decided that the rug in my Man Cave needs to be replaced. I think that the reason for that decision - aside from the fact that it's spring and that the rug is as old as Moses, tattered at the edges, and worn through in spots - is that there was a cute little rug on sale.
I shall refrain from reminding you of the difference between Martians and Venusians: A man will spend two dollars the first place that he shops on something that he could have bought for one dollar if he'd read the ads. A woman happily spends two dollars on something that she doesn't need but the ads say is on sale.
Anyway, the changeover has to happen on a weekday while I'm at work because TSWTIM's help is not available on weekends. I come home and my stuff is in boxes. All of my stuff is in boxes. Stuff I haven't seen for 30 years is in boxes. I can't leave my stuff in boxes. I have to go through my stuff.
Have you ever gone through 30 year-old stuff? Not just any stuff. Your stuff.
OK. I'll quit doing my George Carlin imitation.
43 birthday, anniversary, get well, and congratulatory cards. Pictures of my parents, an uncle, old friends, old girl friends (that TSWTIM has met and doesn't like very much), me with hair on my head, TSWTIM with different colored hair on her head, Captain Jim's old Camaro with a hand-painted gardenia on the hood, and Rusty Sharp's Yamaha TZ250 with the custom aluminum fairing.
18 old floppy disks containing useless information - I think, but I didn't check them to find out. A dozen compact discs on which are various pictures and songs that are already on my computer and backed up. Five unopened decks of cards. Various hand-held games meant to be played in cars and on planes that have never been opened. Two pairs of cheap suspenders (gifts) that have never been used.
A box full of non-returnable paperback murder mysteries and spy novels bought at the used book store - I hate throwing away books. Nine classic sci-fi books that I WILL save. A history of the Filmore East that TSWTIM gave me on my birthday long ago. I can pick out a half-dozen shows that I attended with those girlfriends the TSWTIM doesn't like. 26 catalogs long out of date. Two boxes of papers left over from my stints in local government.
Notepaper in the shape of the state of Texas (another gift). My mother's jewelry (that my sister doesn't want). Various Kiwanis bits of memorabilia. Various other bits of memorabilia.
So, lots of garbage on the curb on Sunday night. 30 years of stuff that I haven't looked at in 30 years. Never needed any of it.
Why do I miss it?
2WHEELS 4 MEALS MOTORCYCLE/SCOOTER CHARITY RIDE
2 Wheels 4 Meals will be held on Saturday, June 12, 2010, to benefit emergency feeding programs. Last year, the Lehigh County Conference of Churches served 55,000 meals free of charge to the hungry, the homeless, people with mental illness, and the working poor. Every $25 raised will buy 100 meals. In May of 2009, Scoot for Food attracted 40 riders but the name caused some of our higher displacement cousins to avoid the ride. So this year, it's 2 Wheels 4 Meals. A loop of about 55 miles is planned, starting and ending in Keystone Park (Route 329 and Green Street) in Bath where there will be a live band and burgers and dogs, included in the ride registration. Two rest stops have been arranged. One stop will be at Blockers Enterprises, a huge Harley/Yamaha/Kawasaki dealership (http://blockers.com). The other will be at the country estate of an avid motorcycle collector who will allow the use of his swimming pool and hot tub! You can check out a part of Biker Bill’s collection of Harley’s that’s up for sale at http://www.bikerbill-hd.com. The Miller Blood Center van will be on site for donations. Respond to this posting or call the Scootdude at 610.762.7210 for a registration form or a flyer. $20 per rider includes the ride, the ride tee shirt, and BBQ. $15 for just the ride and the food without the shirt. Below are some pictures from last year's ride.
THE FARMHOUSE MOULES/FRITES NIGHT - DEAL OF THE DECADE
The Farmhouse Restaurant in Emmaus has always been one of my favorite area restaurants. Chef/Owner Michael Adams is a skilled cook, the selection of beers is unique in the region and is outstanding, and the ambiance is country inn peaceful and serene. But The Farmhouse has outdone itself this time.
Tuesday is moules/frites (mussels and fries) night. Anyone who has spent time near the Mediterranean, especially in the south of France, knows how plump and juicy the mussels are. I'm a steamed clam guy myself, but the mussels near the Med are completely satisfactory, even if completely different.
The French steam these black-shelled, wing-shaped bivalves and accompany them with an amazing array of sauces, everything from just plain broth to exotic bleu cheese concoctions. Moules/frites are sold in all sorts of restaurants, from sidewalk cafes to pizzerias to joints that only serve moules/frites but serve a veritable Heinz 57 varieties. A steaming pile of moules with a healthy serving of frites might set you back seven euros or so, about ten dollars, in France. Imagine my surprise when The Farmhouse's electronic newsletter announced that their Tuesday nigh moules/frites special came in at a paltry $7.00. SEVEN DOLLARS! Could this be real?
The moules/frites are served in the bar, a cozy little downstairs cave with a couple of small tables (white linens and candles), a short, no-frills bar, and NO TELEVISION. A bar with no television. Fancy that.
The meal began with crusty, house-made rolls and a dipping sauce followed almost immediately by the moules/frites. The Southern Woman That I Married chose the special of the day, moules with a lobster/saffron sauce. I had the traditional moules - American traditional - featuring apple-smoked bacon bits and balsamic vinegar. The servings were healthy, filling me up and a bit too much for TSWTIM. The frites were frites. Good frites, though. It was all just yummy yummy good. I'm telling you. Yummy yummy good.
SEVEN DOLLARS!
With a snifter of a chocolaty stout for TSWTIM and a tall, colorful, fruity, cask-drawn lager for me, and including the tip, $33.00.
THIRTY-THREE DOLLARS!
We'll go back every Tuesday night that we can make it. It's the foodie Deal of the Decade.
Tuesday is moules/frites (mussels and fries) night. Anyone who has spent time near the Mediterranean, especially in the south of France, knows how plump and juicy the mussels are. I'm a steamed clam guy myself, but the mussels near the Med are completely satisfactory, even if completely different.
The French steam these black-shelled, wing-shaped bivalves and accompany them with an amazing array of sauces, everything from just plain broth to exotic bleu cheese concoctions. Moules/frites are sold in all sorts of restaurants, from sidewalk cafes to pizzerias to joints that only serve moules/frites but serve a veritable Heinz 57 varieties. A steaming pile of moules with a healthy serving of frites might set you back seven euros or so, about ten dollars, in France. Imagine my surprise when The Farmhouse's electronic newsletter announced that their Tuesday nigh moules/frites special came in at a paltry $7.00. SEVEN DOLLARS! Could this be real?
The moules/frites are served in the bar, a cozy little downstairs cave with a couple of small tables (white linens and candles), a short, no-frills bar, and NO TELEVISION. A bar with no television. Fancy that.
The meal began with crusty, house-made rolls and a dipping sauce followed almost immediately by the moules/frites. The Southern Woman That I Married chose the special of the day, moules with a lobster/saffron sauce. I had the traditional moules - American traditional - featuring apple-smoked bacon bits and balsamic vinegar. The servings were healthy, filling me up and a bit too much for TSWTIM. The frites were frites. Good frites, though. It was all just yummy yummy good. I'm telling you. Yummy yummy good.
SEVEN DOLLARS!
With a snifter of a chocolaty stout for TSWTIM and a tall, colorful, fruity, cask-drawn lager for me, and including the tip, $33.00.
THIRTY-THREE DOLLARS!
We'll go back every Tuesday night that we can make it. It's the foodie Deal of the Decade.
QUICK LINKS TO PLACES WE'RE GOING IN MAY, 2010
Cities/Towns to Visit:
Cazouls les Beziers: Our village. Not a touristy town but near to all the good stuff.
Narbonne: Population of about 50,000. Nice city to walk. Great cathedral.
Beziers: City of about 70,000. Another great cathedral. Commercial center.
Carcassonne: Walled city where Costner filmed the exteriors for his Robin Hood.
Montpellier: City of 270,000. University town with loads of culture and history.
Albi: Scenic city. Home of the largest collection of Toulouse-Latrec's works.
Coilliure: Tourist trap on the Med where the Impressionists came to paint.
Arles: Center of Roman influence with a canal built to the Med 2100 years ago.
Avignon: Seat of the Papacy in the 14th Century.
Wineries:
Domaine Treloar
Chateau Caza Viel
Chateau Saint Martin des Champs
Domaine La Croix Belle
Restaurants:
Auberge de la Croisade
MISC.
Olive Co-op
Cazouls les Beziers: Our village. Not a touristy town but near to all the good stuff.
Narbonne: Population of about 50,000. Nice city to walk. Great cathedral.
Beziers: City of about 70,000. Another great cathedral. Commercial center.
Carcassonne: Walled city where Costner filmed the exteriors for his Robin Hood.
Montpellier: City of 270,000. University town with loads of culture and history.
Albi: Scenic city. Home of the largest collection of Toulouse-Latrec's works.
Coilliure: Tourist trap on the Med where the Impressionists came to paint.
Arles: Center of Roman influence with a canal built to the Med 2100 years ago.
Avignon: Seat of the Papacy in the 14th Century.
Wineries:
Domaine Treloar
Chateau Caza Viel
Chateau Saint Martin des Champs
Domaine La Croix Belle
Restaurants:
Auberge de la Croisade
MISC.
Olive Co-op
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