Because we were eager to begin the next part of adventure, it was with some anticipation that we packed our bags and got ready for the drive to Provence. Yet, in another way, we felt some real sadness and we prepared to leave as we adore this part of France. We had toured a great deal, seen some old and new sights, had some glorious times with the Lillers, and exchanged promises with them to see one another again in the near future. We are really quite fond of them both.

We decided to drive to the house in Provence in two days and to stop the first night in Albi. Thus, we did not push ourselves to get ready to leave (do we ever?), and turned in the keys to David Snitch, who was at the house the morning we left to get the house for the next visitors who were to arrive later that same day. David and Colleen Snitch had been very helpful to us when we have been in the Dordogne and it was nice to have this chance to say our good-byes properly.

One thing was for sure, the weather seemed to smile on our departure, for as soon as we started the trek south the sun came out and the drive was beautiful. It was the first sun we had seen since we arrived in Europe and I must say it was most welcome. In fact, its warmth seduced us into stopping in Villefranche de Rouergue to have a coffee and spend some time being sloths at the Grand Café du Globe, as we simply could not bear to let others benefit from the sun's rays alone. The café was doing a brisk business as the people had not seen the sun or felt its warmth for some time; it had been a hard winter we were told. They were tearing of their clothes to get more sun and sitting at the outdoor tables drinking beer and having some lunch. Our rest stop was wonderfully rejuvenating and we spent some time walking around this quite delightful town before piling back into the Ford Focus for the rest of the drive.

The drive we began that day made me think again how driving through France is like driving through different countries. We were fascinated by the change in landscape, from the lush green of the Dordogne as it gave way to the dry landscape near Cahors. Then as we drove on, into the Tarn, the look of the land began to change again, back to the verdant landscape we had grown to love in the Perigord, only to have it change again as we continued into Provence where we had the feeling that we were in California and the mountains leading into the Sierras, with their the scrub brush, the rock formations, and the semi-arid appearance of the land.

Yet, no matter where we went there were always those things that reminded us that we were in a very special part of a universe, one we would never find anywhere else. There were the towns through which we drove, villages really, that resemble nothing we have ever seen in the States. They are something, as are the many advertisements (for pastis and other essentials of French life) painted on the sides of buildings, now with their fading paint giving only faint indications of what people in bygone years held dear. These villages dotted the landscape and clung to the sides of the hills and help to give France its special character, and certainly make driving far better than on the autoroutes, which we would take later on.

The driving conditions, i.e., the speed of the cars (either very fast or very slow) and the twisting roads, were such that it made doing much sightseeing for the driver fairly dangerous. Yet, I always thought the slow drivers, rather than those of us who had a maniacal desire to get someplace as fast as was possible, had the better outlook on life, as they were content to just soak up life and not be hurried, leaving the stress of life to those who were following and panting to pass. They would just go on for hours unconcerned by the line of cars and trucks behind them. Oh, to be able to do that, not the part of this scenario in which there is little concern for others, but the ability to just take life at its own pace. In other words, to go slowly enough to smell the roses along the way.

The drive was enjoyable for many reasons, but one was etiquette that existed between truck drivers so they survive their journey. For example, on a particularly winding mountain road, with lots of switchbacks, drivers could look down or up and see what was coming. At one point the truck, a huge thing that seemed constantly on the verge of dropping one wheel off the side of the road, stopped and waited. I could not understand why until we finally saw another truck of comparable size coming the other direction. The driver who had stopped did so far away from the switch back so that the other one could negotiate the turn safely, straighten out, and continue down the mountain. These were impressive examples of cooperation between comrades that one rarely sees in other forms of driving in France.

Before leaving the Perigord we had made sandwiches to take with us, the traditional baguette with ham and cheese. Eleanor likes hers with mustard so when we first arrived in Le Bugue we got a brand at the Intermarché in Le Bugue that, to my taste buds, seemed more a like sinus clearer than something gastronomic. Wow!! It was too early to eat when we stopped for coffee at the Grand Café du Globe, so after an hour or so more driving, we found an elegant bend in the road that had a grand view of the valley below. However, it turned out to be too close to the highway for real safety and I was constantly looking in the mirror to see if we were going to be clipped. But we were by then very hungry so there we stayed eating the sandwiches and drinking some wine. What a way to live. Finally, we had our fill and were off again arriving in Albi not long thereafter. We had booked a wonderful hotel (the Hostellerier du Saint-Antoine) for the night and went inside to have a drink and unwind. It had been a hard drive and with some of the city streets torn up for a large renovation project the place was rather hard to find. It seemed so easy looking at the map, but the small streets and the circuitous nature in which they are laid out made the hotel nearly impossible to find.

PART II -- ALBI, AN ENCHANTING CITY

After checking in and having our drink, we walked around this enchanting town. Albi is wonderful and exceedingly welcoming to visitors, 300,000 of whom come each year to see the cathedral, the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum, and all the other sights the city has to offer.

The Cathédral Sainte-Cécile is the main attraction, I expect, and it is well worth a trip. It is a masterpiece of southwest French Gothic architecture, constructed of brick between 1280 and 1480, and was formerly part of the city's fortified defenses. Its outer walls rise a hundred feet straight up with windows far above the ground that are rather more like thin slits in the walls rather than the large stained glass windows that are so familiar in other cathedrals throughout France. Finally, there are several bell turrets whose bells beckon worshipers and a massive bell tower, 225 feet high, on the southern entrance. Looking at its size, one wonders how the workers got the bricks and stones from the ground to the top of the structure, a task that is a tribute to both the influence and power of the Church and to the importance it had in lives of those who lived there and helped to build and to pay for it. It is simply stunning to see from any angle, and well worth a trip to visit.

The interior of the cathedral is as exceptional as the exterior. It is ornate and rather Byzantine in appearance, and huge. The single interior space is 97 feet high, 320 long, and 97 feet wide. There is a feeling of being overwhelmed in looking at the interior space and up to the windows above. In my opinion, there is no sense of intimacy at all, but only a feeling of the power and the permanence of the Church in the lives of the people. The frescos are lovely but, again, there is no sense of intimacy or human scale. I do not know a great deal about the construction of the cathedral, but I suspect that Church politics had as much to do with its design and construction as matters of faith.

As we walked around the outside of the Cathedral and the square it dominates, it seemed to us that as the light of the setting sun hit the bricks they took on an ochre color that was simply stunning. In one way, the way the sun hit the bricks, giving off this luminous glow, was more than an aesthetic delight. It was a metaphor for the warm and the open welcome the city and its citizens extend to their visitors. In short, Albi is exceptional. There is little doubt in my mind that this city is the jewel of the area of France known as the Tarn.

The walking had built up quite an appetite, and after a while we headed back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. When we sat down and read the menu we knew we were in for something special. It promised to be an exceptional affair, and it was. It began with warm goat cheese rolled in what must have been fila dough and then cooked in the oven and served with a remarkable vinaigrette. Certainly, this was one of the most memorable ways we have ever had to begin a meal -- so simple yet so good. Then we had a medallion of pork and veggies and a crême brûlée for dessert. A local wine washed it down and got me in the mood for a good sleep.

The next morning we got up and went back to a hat shop we found the evening before so I could get a summer hat and another béret. I had bought one in Paris, but the way I loose them I knew I might need more than one. The one I got is terrific, although Eleanor thinks it is a bit too big. But, then, what does she know about these things!? Then we did what we most wanted to do and that was to visit the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum. It is in the La Berbie Palace right next to the Cathedral and is one of the very best museums we have visited; the sine qua non, of course, is that one must like the paintings and, in my particular case, les affiches done Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

When Toulouse-Lautrec died in 1901, his mother donated his entire collection to the city of Albi. In the early 1920s the interior of the Palace was completely redone to house the collection of 215 paintings and over 600 works. It is fabulous and we could have stayed for hours. We could not, of course, as we had to get on the road for the long drive to the house in Provence. But we lingered to see all the affiches we have all come to associate with the artist and the Moulin Rouge in Paris, which he did much to popularize. There were the working drawings he made before completing his affiches, paintings of the women of the night, and, other works that truly demonstrate his genius. It is a fabulous collection. I have one of the posters, "Astride Bruant dans son cabaret," hanging in my study (and it was exciting to see the original) and every time I look at it, which is very often, indeed, it brings back the time we stayed in Albi and walked this most wonderful museum.

When coming out of one of the exhibition rooms we went down a long hall and Eleanor and I looked out one of the many large windows. What we saw was stunning. It was a large rectangular garden that was geometric in design and overlooked the Tarn river beyond. I wish we had had the time to walk the garden, but just looking at it from this perspective added the perfect touch to what had been a perfect morning. The museum also contains a large collection of modern art with works by Matisse, Utrillo, and Bonnard. Of course, there is also the obligatory gift shop where Eleanor snatched the wallet out of my hand so I would not spend us into oblivion.

Albi was a real surprise to us. We stopped there for no other reason, really, other than to spend the night and to see the museum. What we found was not just these two things, but one of the cleanest, friendliest, and most welcoming cities we have been in while visiting France. The center of town beckons one to walk and to explore the winding and cobbled streets with its shops and have a meal or a coffee at one of the many cafés. In the evening, in the plaza around the cathedral, people gathered to have a good time talking, eating, or just watching what was going on. The weather when we were there encouraged this as it was warm and it remained light well into the evening. We wished we could have stayed for many more days to explore this quite exquisite city.

PART III -- ON TO PROVENCE

We bid goodbye to a glorious city, a great hotel, and all those sights that so enchanted us, but vowed to come back again; Albi is worth several days and we will spend them here the next time we come. We set off in the direction of Castres, where we stopped to look around (and what a beautiful city it is), through Béziers, to the autoroute to the exit that led us to the house that was waiting for us in Sillans la Cascade.

We were heading to our house during what turned out to be Easter vacation in Europe, and the roads were very crowded. Everyone in Europe seemed to be heading south to find the sun, a vain journey as it turned out, either in Provence or in Spain. It was amusing to see families stuffed into their cars with what seemed to be their entire household. They carried everything with them, either in or on the car, including the kitchen sink. Would any vacation be worth the conditions that must have existed in those cars, could any destination be worth the strain and the aggravation that those conditions would produce? I do not think so, and Eleanor and I felt happy that we were not so burdened. Yet, the very full loads and the often obscured visibility they produced did not deter the drivers from going as fast as they could. And fast they went, especially on the autoroute where they were no longer constrained by twisty roads, slow drivers, and trucks.

The drive on the autoroute (a controlled access, fee-based road system) was remarkable. The driving was very fast, indeed, and one begins to get the sense that the French have only two speeds -- stop and as fast as the car will go. When I drove a milk truck many years ago, one of the things I learned was to scan my rear view mirrors every few seconds to monitor the traffic behind me. I have remembered this since and make this scan constantly, yet I still missed cars that all of a sudden appeared out of thin air from behind, got to within two or three inches of my rear bumper, and then flashed their headlights for me to move over. For the most part I was going very fast as well, perhaps 150 kilometers an hour, but compared to most of the other traffic, I was just crawling.

The best example we saw of this approach to driving at speed were two young couples riding two of those super motorcycles capable of truly remarkable speeds. Driven by young men with their girl friends on the back, I saw them whiz by us at a speed that must have exceeded 130 miles an hour, and I thought how fortunate it was that their parents were not around to see what their kids were up to and to be paralyzed by the fear of possible disaster. Their "best" move came after they passed me only to be confronted by some cars in front of them, each in a different lane and each going about the same speed. These young people could not wait for the traffic to clear so they could pass safely. No, they had to get by NOW. One of the bikers passed the car on its right side, between it and the one in the next lane, while at the same time the other biker passed the car on its left, on the shoulder next to the guard rail. It was then I thought that these kids, who were so lacking in judgment and good sense, so totally without regard for others, so completely self-absorbed, could be destined for only one profession. Politics.

The drive was remarkable for many reasons, and one of them was trying to reconcile the inherent contradiction between the nature of French driving and the illuminated signs above the road warning that excessive speed was dangerous and to "soyez prudents," "be prudent." Prudence? That is a concept with which everyone in France will agree until they get behind the wheel or throw their leg over a motorcycle. Then prudence is simply thrown out the window as drivers weave in and out of traffic at speeds that would curl the hair of even the most aggressive and hardened driver on the Los Angeles freeway system. It was a kind of driving to which we never became accustomed, as cars came from no where, disappeared as fast as they came into view, and asked for and gave little or no quarter.

There were other signs, of course, including one that suggested that leaving more than one car's length at high speed (define that as in excess of 100 miles an hour) was prudent. Fat chance of that happening, as the best way that drivers have of getting someone out of their way is to drive up as fast as they can behind the car in front, ride the rear bumper as close as they can while at the same time blinking their high beams to get you to move to the right. Yet, with all the traffic and all the quite remarkable driving we experienced, we saw very few wrecks. That was the most remarkable part of it all.

This is no doubt due to the fact that, unlike the US where there is such a lack of lane discipline, people do obey the rules of the road, and after passing move back into the slower lanes. Unlike California, at least, people do not get into the fast lane and, regardless of their speed, just stay there for mile after mile, thus turning the slow lane into the passing lane, a far more dangerous situation. With rare exception slow traffic throughout Europe keeps right, where it belongs, and fast traffic travels in the left lanes. And they use directional signals far more than we do here thereby telling people what their intentions are. (I am convinced American car makers could save a lot of money per unit if they simply stopped installing these directional signals when cars are made. Why should they? They are almost never used.) In addition, driving schools are mandatory and the training is rigorous. Thus, licenses are much more expensive than they are in America. One wonders at times, based on what one sees on the road, what goes on in those schools, but everyone who wants to drive must take the course and pass a rather hard exam.

Other highways (non-autoroutes) could be equally dangerous, to which another sign near our house attested. It asked "would you risk the safety of a child for a 20 second advantage?" Again, this is something with which no reasonable person would disagree until he or she got behind the wheel of a car. Then, that child had better look out and be able to get out of the way fast. These were the roads on which we did the vast percentage of our driving and, in general, they are great, well maintained with fantastic signage that gets one from one place to the next with very little trouble. Yet, they can be dangerous as the devil. Cars passed on blind corners, in the middle of towns, anywhere they thought they could get a slight advantage, and everywhere maximum speed seems to be the primary goal. The twisting roads took utmost concentration to negotiate safely and to miss those cars and trucks that drifted into our lane as they came around a sharp curve too fast. We had several close calls but did not get hit, and that, after all, is the name of that game.

It was a hard drive, and took longer than we thought. It is a good thing it stays light so long in the evening or we would never have found the house we had rented or the town near which it is located. Yet, we finally got to Sillans la Cascade and followed the directions to the turnoff for the house. We saw a dirt road leading off to the right, but the ruts were so deep that we just knew that this could not be it. But there were no others, so, after passing it several times and becoming more convinced that it could NOT be the one, we decided to try it anyway. The bottom of the car scraped a couple of times and I wondered more than once what I was getting us in for, but after a turn or two we saw this was the road after all. We were there, at the house. At long last.

PART IV -- PROVENCE AND THE HOUSE

We arrived on a Saturday evening and by the time we got there all the stores had closed, and had it not been for the staples we brought with us we would had nothing to eat that night. To drink, yes as we brought some wine with us, but we were miserably low on food with the exception of a few cans of tomatoes and anchovies so I made pasta that first night and then tried to get warm.

Warm you ask? When we walked into the house we were stunned by how cold it was inside. The weather had been overcast, rainy, and generally unpleasant since our arrival in Europe. However, we had hoped that as we moved south to Provence it would change, and the hour or so we spent in Ville-franche de Rouergue and Albi the day before had convinced us that our planning had been impeccable. That proved to be a chimera.

The place we had rented was an 18th century olive mill that faces south with wonderful views across its own valley. We had found it through our simply terrific travel agent in New Jersey (ain't the Internet wonderful?) who has never, ever let us down. (More about Melanie later.) The property consists of 30 acres of hills; ancient woodlands of pines, oaks, and laurel; at this time of years endless expanses of wild flowers; many different kinds of herbs (thyme, rosemary, mint, lavender, fennel, and marjoram, for example); and fruit trees bearing such things as cherries, plums, apricots, and figs; and if one wanted to go root them out, there was lots of wild asparagus. The are olive trees that have been planted not too long ago, and, beyond them, several places were one can fish. The whole area is private and, similar to our house in the Perigord, very quiet.

The whole estate had been purchased 10 years ago by an English couple who lived near Nice as an investment property and as a place that would be, when they completed the renovations, their retirement home. We had chosen this place because of its location, as it is half way between Aix-en-Provence and Nice in the Haut Var. The Var is a department in France that combines a stunning coastline, complete with bays and charming villages, and hills that rise up behind the coast replete with exquisite towns that seem to grow out of the rocks that form so much of the landscape, forests, and some of the very finest vineyards in France.

We rented the place as it would be large enough so that our friends the Korvases and Garners could join us again France on our excursions. (As it turned out, Ron and Carol Korvas could not join us, a situation that saddened us as we have such fun with them. They were in the process of moving from Minnesota to Oregon and just could not afford the time.) We had such fun with everyone last year that we were hoping to have the same kind of enjoyment this time. We did with the Garners, of course, but wished that the Korvases had been able to be with us as well.

The house consists an entrance hall paved with stone, and with a washroom and stairs leading to the second floor with a bedroom with its own bath and shower, to say nothing of views of hills to the east. Continuing up the stairs one comes to the second floor with a good sized kitchen and living room, complete with ancient tile floors. To one end of this floor is one bedroom that Eleanor and I used and, through the living room and kitchen, was the bath and shower, one more bedroom, and at the far end a wc. If the weather had cooperated, we could have continued to the top floor, a roof ter-race with a barbecue and extraordinary views of the surrounding land. The house was great, but what we did not count on was the cold and miserable weather, and the winds that blew and made us even colder. The first was one of the infamous mystrals but the others blew up from the Mediterranean Sea. The mystral lived up to its reputation, but fortunately blew itself out not long after we got there. But from whichever direction they came, these winds made life there, well, interesting.

The house would be perfect had the weather been warmer, and indeed everyone said that the temperatures we were experiencing were unusual for this time of year. However, this realization did little to mitigate the cold in the air, and when Eleanor went into the house the first time she broke into tears and said it was as bad, if not worse, than the place we had last year. At least at Lacoste there was that magnificent fireplace we could use to stay warm. Not here, however, and there was but one portable heater we used for the living room. But we found many blankets for the bed and then I came up with the perfect way to heat the kitchen, turn the convection oven on as high as it would go and then open the door. Voilà. The kitchen was perfect. The owners had wonderfully equipped the place, with many modern kitchen appliances, beautiful china and flatware, enough wine glasses for an army, a TV and VCR, radio, and CD player. Now that we had two warm rooms in which to live and we were warm at night we would be happy.

The day after we arrived was Sunday, April 9, and the cognoscenti know that that is the day of the Paris-Roubaix bicycle race, the longest and hardest single day race in the world. And anyone knowing me would understand completely that there was only one place I could be that day and that was in front of the TV watching this extraordinary spectacle. So, after a leisurely morning I turned on the television and for the next 6 hours watched the race unfold. It was stunning, as Belgian rider, Johan Museeuw, with 50 kilometers to go, joined the American, Frankie Andreau, at the font of the field. Then 10 kilometers further on he shifted his dérailleur down a gear or two and simply powered away from the American, and for the next 40 kilometers held off what was left of the 176-man field and rode on his own to victory, winning in the end by a scant 15 second margin. Two years before in a crash in the same race he fractured his left knee and nearly lost the leg to gangrene after bungled medical treatment. The way he won this year sounds simple enough to accomplish, to be sure, but unless one has ridden a bicycle competitively it is so very hard to understand what strength, stamina, and mental toughness this takes. It was truly awe inspiring. The TV coverage and commentary were exceptional and I had one of the genuine thrills of the trip. And Eleanor? She just slept on the couch beside me, waking up occasionally to ask how I could stand to watch anything so boring.

PART V -- THE TOURING BEGINS

Sunday not only provided a time when I could watch one of the great bicycle races of the world, but time for Eleanor and me to unwind and get ready for the next great tour. We needed it, because we had driven a great deal in the Dordogne and then to the house in Sillans la Cascade. But Sunday did the trick, and we were off and running Monday.

Off and running to the Intermarché to get some grub. As I said, we had brought some staples with us from the other place, but we needed some veggies, meat, and other things. So this was the morning when we would not only go to the supermarket, but the open air market in Salernes a town not far away. But, first I drove into Sillans to get something for breakfast and found the one and only bou-langerie. Upon entering I found what seemed to be half the town of 130 waiting for their goods while the proprietor and one of his customers engaged in an animated conversation, in which the others participated when it seemed appropriate.

This is one of the most enchanting things about this country, as there is always time for these sometimes heated exchanges no matter how many people are waiting. Upon entering a store everyone says bon jour monsieur, madame and the same thing when leaving, and friends deserve and get the kiss on both cheeks. It is quite clear that the talking involves more than the mouth and tongue, but the hands and the endless gesticulations they make, as well as the face, with its frowns, pursed lips, and raised or squinting eye brows. The body also participates, as it collapses at the chest in dismay or becomes taut as with some form of perfect anger. The legs bring participants closer together or take them further apart depending on what is being emphasized, and the arms at times punch the air as if to emphasize some essential truth. It was, quite simply, the best show in town and something I will miss when the time comes to head for home where expediency and a time-driven society have no time for these niceties. I got the things I wanted after 45 minutes or so, but who cares. The bread was good, the pain au chocolat even better, but the interactions between the people there was clearly the most delicious.

When I got back to the house and we ate the fruits of this wonderful encounter, we went to the Intermarché in Salernes and then to the open air market. The latter was terrific, as they always are no matter where in France they are found, even when the weather is wet and cold as it was on this day. The stalls were carefully laid out and each had its own food specialty, fruit, poultry, beef, pork, and so on. Customers took their time when buying what they wanted, and at each stall engaged owners in fascinating conversations about the food, its preparation, or perhaps local politics. We were again impressed with the fact that the French talk with their whole body, and the gesticulations and facial expressions mean as much, if not more, than the words they were using. We walked around and saw all the goods for sale and decided to get a chicken that had been cooked on one of the rotary cookers for that night's dinner. I am not a real fan of chicken, but I must admit that the herbs that were used and the method of slow cooking made it one of the best I have ever tasted.

The variety and extent of the flowers on display at the market was extraordinary, and it was easy to see the importance they have in proven�al life. Having spent the winter in France last year, a very harsh one at that, it is easy to understand the delight people take in the advent of spring. It really is a time of renewal as people leave the dreariness of winter for the promise and warmth of spring and the summer beyond. While I suspect this is no doubt true of people everywhere who experience harsh winters, we live in California where seasonal change is less apparent. Thus, we took particular delight in seeing this aspect of life in France.

Last year when we left it was still the depths of winter and even though many of the fields were beginning to be prepared for that year's crops the grip of winter could be seen everywhere. This year as we took the TGV from Paris to Bordeaux and the car from Bordeaux to the Perigord and then to Provence the transition to spring was palpable. The fields were alive with activity and everywhere one could see the exquisite geometry of agriculture on the softly undulating fields of the Périgord. The colors, the activity, the products that would soon represent the best in French cuisine all signified a fundamental harmony between man and nature. It was breathtaking. Indeed, there was activity everywhere, from canoeing on the Vézère and Dordogne rivers to the newly opened cafés to endless numbers of cars on the road causing congestion when last winter there was none. It was bizarre, but most of all we noticed the new growth, on trees, in the vineyards, in people's yards, and in the fields. It was remarkable.

In Provence, where the mountains drop down to the sea and communities perch on crags or cling to hillsides, the rockiness of the landscape also bears witness to the advent of a new, warmer season, in the orchards, vineyards, in the flower markets, and in so many other areas of life. In other areas of southern France, we saw endless fields alive with wild flowers, lavender, and Yellow Broom that swayed beautifully as the wind blew off the Mediterranean Sea. When harvested, Yellow Broom is used in the perfume industry, but while it is growing is a glorious sight to see. I suspect that one of the things that most fascinated us and stood in sharp counterpoise to our last trip to France was this change in season and how beautiful it was.

When we were in Salernes, we wanted to look around some of its pottery shops to see the ceramic tiles and pottery for which this town is so justly renowned. It is particularly well known for tomettes, hexagonal terracotta floor tiles that can be found not only throughout Provence but, during the era of the French empire, in many of its colonial structures. The reputation, from what we could see, was well earned, and we could have dropped a great deal of money there buying some wonderful things. We found one shop whose proprietor painted some magnificent Provençal scenes in a series of tiles that I knew would look wonderful behind our stove. They were beautiful, but the fear of one of the tiles getting broken on the journey home, thereby rendering all of them useless, made me desist. I still wonder if we made the right decision.

That first couple of days was a terrific introduction to this part of France. It would have been better, of course, if the weather had cooperated and if the Korvases could have been with us. It did not and they could not, and we were left in the cold and rain for much of the time without our friends to share this wonderful part of France..

PART VI -- BEGINNING TO EXPLORE THE VAR AND THE CÔTE D'AZUR

We knew that we had to get up and about as we had the Garners coming and we wanted to know something of the area before they got there. The location of the house was good, but it meant that we had to do a great deal of driving to get to many of the places we wanted to see. However, because of the distances involved, we made the decision not to go to Orange, N”mes, Arles, the Pont du Gard, Aix-en-Provence and others until they arrived. Thus, we concentrated on places closer to us and on Eleanor's desire to see Nice and the Côte d'Azur.

Going back to Nice was high on my list of things to do as well. Many years ago, when I rode a bicycle for a team near Florence I was sent to the French Riviera for a month to train. This was a fantastic experience as at that time many of the pros in Europe went there before the season began for the same reason. I stayed in a small hotel located on the Promenade des Anglais and rode each day with some of the biggest names in the sport, including Gastone Nencini, who had won the Tour de France the year before. I wanted to show Eleanor where I had lived and some of the places where I rode. But what a difference 40 years makes!!

The hotel I guess is now under a huge apartment complex, but it was hard for me to remember where it was as the whole area has changed so drastically. The traffic in Nice is horrid, there are too many people, even at this time of year, and it is about as overbuilt as anything could be. It is like Laguna Beach on steroids during the height of the summer tourist season. I call it Côte de Carbuncle and hated every minute we were there. But we did park and walk down the Promenade des Anglais and were struck by the extraordinary beauty of the Mediterranean, with its variegated coloration, from the deep turquoise near the coast to a deeper hue of blue further out. It was overcast that day but the people were still out in droves and I wondered what this place must be like in the summer. Dreadful, I should think. After a walk of an hour so and lunch, we set off to find the Musées Matisse and Chagall (we found them but they were closed the day we were there, a Tuesday) and then started towards St. Tropez and Antibes. Eleanor had been to St. Tropez 38 years ago and wanted to see how it had changed. It is built up and crowded with tourists and choked with cars.

The traffic was dreadful along the coast, stop and go but mostly stop, so we decided to head back to the house by way of Grasse, the perfume capital of France. It is located in the hills west of Nice, and Eleanor had read about the town and wanted to stop at one of the perfume factories so we could buy something to make her smell pretty. We also went on a short tour of the facility and after seeing some very expensive soap being shoveled into a hopper to be extruded into bars it took some of the sex appeal out of the product. For me, but not for my bride as she seemed intent on getting as many bars as she could carry.

After Grasse, we took one of the many secondary roads available to us back to the house. As we headed back, we began to think about that night's dinner and realized we would have to stop to get some bread and other things for a salad. Just then we saw a small magasin by the side of the road that had a great many cars parked in its lot. We stopped and found the single most wonderful bread shop in the world. It was being baked as we waited, and the smell was enough to make one swoon. We bought enough for that night and the next day and vowed to come back for more. We also bought some lettuce and tomatoes and then went on believing that we had been about as close to heaven as any living person could get.

As she usually does, Eleanor made our agenda each day; my job was to drive. One of her finds was the United States military cemetery in Draguignan. This was a simply extraordinary place, and I knew after visiting similar cemeteries in Normandy and in Italy I had to visit this one as well. I do not know how many Americans take time from their schedules to go to them, but they should as they are well worth a visit. This one was for those who were killed in the landings in Southern France in 1944 that were designed to take some of the pressure off the Allied invasion further north. Those of us who complain about how the government wastes money, and I am one of the worst offenders, can take solace from the fact that these cemeteries are wonderfully maintained and reflect in the best possible way the debt we owe to all those who rest in them. French workers perform the day-to-day upkeep, and they do a spectacular job. When we were there one of the workers was carefully polishing a large bronze relief map of Western Europe that enabled visitors to understand how the battles in Southern France related to the other initiatives being made against the Nazis while others mowed the lawn and trimmed shrubs and trees. Behind it is a building in which all the forces engaged in the landings in southern France were listed. It is a sober experience being there, but one which filled us with a sense of pride and thanksgiving.

We walked the long lines of graves of the 1,000 or so soldiers, sailors, and Marines buried there, looking at names of the fallen, where they were from, and the dates on which they were killed. In one of the rows we came to a sudden stop, rather shocked by what we saw. Before us were the graves of two men, PFC. Calvin R. Lee from Missouri and Pvt. Harry J. Moore from New York, lying next to one another. We were startled as we read their dates of death, and became rather emotional. Lee had been killed on October 11, 1944, and Moore on October 26 of the same year. It seemed hard for me to believe that these two men, who had been killed on those two days, could have been laid to rest side by side here in this beautiful part of France, so far away from home. It brought me to tears because on the days their lives ended I was celebrating my 5th birthday and Eleanor her 3rd, being held in our mothers' arms and living safe and happy lives, things these young men helped to preserve for us all with their lives. We lingered an hour or so more, signed our names in the visitors' registry, and then left, but never, ever, to forget what we saw.

We were going to drive to the Canyon du Verdon, France's Grand Canyon, while we were there, as we had been told by the Lillers that it is spectacular. However, the weather was so cold that we were advised by the family living next to us who had tried to drive it the day before not to go as it was far to cold in the mountains and there were many areas of black ice that made driving very dangerous. We took their advice and thus concentrated on the Var so we would have something to show Van and Virginia when they came to be with us. So once again we set out on a very aggressive schedule.

As we began our drives throughout this region of France we were confronted with some of the things that most impressed us. First was the different and subtle colors that people use to paint their houses. Even for those structures that are physically connected, they are painted with different colors, with the dividing line made of up where one paint color ends and the other begins. There are soft shades of blue, pink, brown, with complimentary colors for the shutters. It is fascinating. All this adds to the special and distinctive Provençal character that makes this part of France so wonderful. This visual liveliness of the towns we visited was such a stark contrast to the houses in the Dordogne that had a common architectural style and way of finishing the houses.

The area's architectural styles give one an immediate sense of the importance of the weather in this region of France, with its intense heat in the summer and the Mistral, winds that come from the north and are said to be so intense that they drive people mad. The thick stone walls and doors, narrow windows, the way a building it sited on a plot of land are all signs that the weather has a formative influence on how provençal structures are designed and built. Trees are planted to the north of a building to act as a wind break and to the south to provide shade. Chimneys are low and squat so as not to get blown over, the roofs are built closer to the ground than houses found elsewhere, and the roofs have a gentle slope to keep the tiles from being blown off in the intense Mistral winds. One of the things that is most fascinating, are the ironwork bell towers one sees on local churches and public buildings. These are built in very ornate ways but their open construction lets the winds blow through them and, at the same time, sound the bells.

Although we did not get to see inside houses other than the one we rented, it is safe to say that the acres devoted to agriculture and vineyards helps one understand the centrality of the kitchen in Provençal life. With so much of the land devoted to production of wine and food, to say nothing of the bounty that comes from the seas, it is easy to understand that food in all shapes and forms is important to the people and that they make it the centerpiece of their lives and homes. We have often said that it is very hard, if not near impossible, to get a bad meal in Paris or Lyon, and so it is true here as well, as chefs mix simplicity and freshness to get the most sumptuous repasts. It is a devotion that suffuses French life and marks a real difference between how they live, what is important to them, compared to the US. It is one of those differences that brings me back time and again, as it adds a depth and texture to the warp and woof of life that, to me, is very important.

PART VII -- THE HAUT VAR AND CARCASSONNE

Even though the department of Var runs down to the Mediterranean Sea, we spent most of our time in what is known as the Haut (or High) Var, that region north of the main east-went autoroute, the A-8, E-80. It is a beautiful area and there was so much to see, and all of it new to us. So, we looked forward to this next stage of our adventure. Yet, it was so cold that we quickly fell into our routine of getting up late, having something to eat, and then hitting the road. The one saving grace was that it stayed light late into the evening giving lots of time to tour.

The owner of the house we rented told us that this region of Provence was becoming more popular all the time as people were moving inland, especially in the summer, to get away from the hordes of people that made life for him unbearable, the beaches and ocean polluted beyond use, and the air fouled by the exhaust of countless cars. It was a motive I could well understand after driving along the coastline even for so short a time.

It is also easy to understand the other motive for the migration. The Haut Var is extraordinarily beautiful, the people friendly and always willing to help, and the cuisine wonderful. In many places the towns seem to grow out of the rocky formations that characterize this part of the country and remain there seemingly defying the laws of gravity. The endless vineyards, which are often terraced into the hills, produce, as we have mentioned above, great provençal wine, especially some fine rosés which we particularly liked.

While we were talking to the owner of the house on one of his regular visits, he asked us to be particularly careful about fires as it had been very dry in Provence up until the time we arrived; the risk of forest fires was extreme, he said. We assured him we were used to these injunctions coming from California and would do nothing to endanger his house or the area. In fact, during the two weeks we were there two or three forest fires broke out and we could see the airplanes used to fight them hard at work. In France or the U.S., forest fires are terrible things and the people who fight them are amazing and earn every cent or franc they earn.

Eleanor is a hard taskmaster when it comes to setting itineraries, but I am grateful for this, as other than Orange, the Pont du Gard, Carcassonne, and Nîmes I left it up to her to determine where we went and what we saw. We set off each day about noon and started driving. As this is not meant to be a travelogue but a remembrance of our trip, I will not write much about what can be seen in each of the villages and towns we visited as there are tour books that do a far better job at that than I can. Suffice it to say that we covered a great deal of territory in a short amount of time, but we did have our favorite spots.

One of these was Aups, which is a beautiful little town set in gently rolling hills and possessing many beautiful fountains and a big and quite elegant square where, on the day we were there, groups of men were playing boules, a game with metal balls that I still cannot quite figure out. All I know is that I delighted in watching the participants, who spent as much time talking and arguing as they did playing. We did some shopping there, finding a delightful t-shirt for our first grandchild who will join us next December and several things for friends. Tourtour is nearby, a pretty village set high in the hills of the Var with a magnificent panoramic view of the valley below. All of these villages have shops that beckon one to spend some money, on pottery or the Provençal fabric that is so colorful and beautiful.

Barjols is further to the west than either of these two towns and lies in an area of woods and streams and a center for local artisans who now ply their art there. One of the fascinating advertisements I heard on the TV and saw in print was one asking the French to stop looking to the big national chains for their goods (whatever they may be) and support their local artisans because if they do not the art these folks produce will be lost This seemed reasonable to me as in an era of globalization and the trend to corporate consolidation it is easy to loose traditions and ways of doing things, and once lost they are very hard to regain. Barjols is a beautiful town with an attractively restored quartier du Réal. We liked it a great deal.

Another of those wonderful little towns we found constantly enchanting was Cotignac that is west of Salernes. It has some troglodyte dwellings similar to those we had seen in the Dordogne. They were nestled into the hills above the Marie and a communal (perhaps, olive) press. It is about as picturesque a town as one can find, with a long main street leading up to the hill above and with shops of all kinds on each side. Walking up to the Marie heading for the cliff dwellings we came across the most wonderful World War I memorial we had encountered on the trip. As you may remember, these fascinate me, and I have taken well over 60 photos of various examples, but this is the finest example of the genre I ever saw.

As one approaches the memorial all one can see chiseled into the front side of the marble obelisk, as tall as a man, is the head and face of a soldier and the dedication, with the fresh flowers in front. However, walking around to one side one can see his rifle and part of his body, and continuing to the rear one sees his boots and leggings, backpack, mess kit, and the other things a soldier carries. It becomes quickly apparent that this statue is meant to represent one of the countless French solders who, relegated to the trenches, is peering over the top out to no-man's land to the German lines beyond. So, here it was, this extraordinary memorial in this extraordinary town in Southern France. It captivated me as I kept walking around it, much to the bewilderment of the town's people who lived with this statue and thus came to take it for granted, taking pictures and thinking about what this war has meant to France even up to the present.

We also went to Fayence, a hillside town between Draguignan and Grasse that is really quite beautiful and home to more local artisans. It has a wonderful wrought iron clock tower that dominates its surroundings and is simply beautiful. As we drove there to and from Grasse we also went through other charming villages that dot the landscape and give it its special charm. We stopped in Grasse again because after she got her first load of "stinkum sweetum" (a favorite expression of my father's for perfume) Eleanor remembered seeing the Molinard factory when we were there the first time and wanted to visit it. A friend had given her one its perfumes and she wanted to see if she could find the same fragrance. We did, much to her delight, so now she will be smelling good far into this century.

As we drove around the Haut Var we realized that we had some conflicting agenda items. I wanted to visit Carcassonne above all else, but with the distance there and back it became obvious we could not make this a day trip with the Garners; they would be with us for too short a time. Thus, we decided to go to Carcassonne for the weekend and see Orange, Nîmes, the Pont du Gard, and other places with our friends I felt badly about that because I knew they would be fascinated by this magnificent walled city but we had to make some hard choices.

Saturday morning we took off and traveled on the autoroute west until we finally made it to Carcassonne. The Ford Focus we drove was fantastic and despite being a diesel had very good power and so we cruised along about 140 kilometers an hour. Still, the drive took us several hours, far longer than we had anticipated, but we made it, checked into the hotel we had found on the Internet and then walked to see the walls and towers of this quite extraordinary fortified town. What a sight to behold.

There were plenty of other tourists there with us, to be sure, and the place was a bit too touristy for my taste but other than that walking around the city was pure joy. We had talked about coming here last year but it never quite worked out and this time I am happy we made the effort, as it was well worth it. The sight of this fortified city, with double walls on top of a steep plateau, 20 towers on the outer wall (about 80 feet high, we read) and the 25 on the inner wall, was simply extraordinary. The outer towers bulge out from the wall that connects them thus giving the archers defending the city greater angles of fire. The slits in the walls made for them were extraordinarily narrow on the outside, making it virtually impossible for opposing archers to hit their mark, but they fanned out on the inside to provide the soldiers with an arc of fire that provided attackers below little place to hide. It is really impressive, and the sheer size of the walls, towers, ramparts, and gates with their massive defensive towers must have made the people who lived there feel a sense of security during a period of history that was all too insecure.

We had dinner that night at a terrific restaurant in the city itself, The Marquière. After it was over we walked back to the hotel to see the city at night. What a great decision as the lights that illuminated the walls gave the entire structure an entirely different feel. There was a softness to the walls and the towers that the light of day failed to convey, as one was overwhelmed then with its sheer size and presence. Most of the people had also left and we wandered around, finding the directions given to us by the quite delightful owner to be precise and easy to follow. She was terrific and so typical of the people we met along the way no matter where we have gone in France. The restaurant is a high quality establishment and we highly recommend it to anyone who is visiting.

The next morning, Sunday, we walked back into the fortified city for another walk around. We wished we could stay longer, but that was not possible. Van and Virginia would arrive the next Tuesday and we wanted to be sure the house was ready for them. But before we left we did want to see that one structure whose presence provided people in medieval times a sense of physical and religious security. This was the Cathedral Saint-Nazaire, and it is remarkable. Its spires are extraordinary, but we were unable to visit the Cathedral itself because of the Palm Sunday Mass that was being held. I am sorry about that as it is reputed to be exceptional, particularly the stained glass. We got some sandwiches and a bottle of wine (which was painted with a scene of one of the walls and which we now use for olive oil; we look at it each time we cook) for the trip and headed back to the autoroute and the house. There are some nice picnic areas alongside the autoroute and we stopped at one of them to have our lunch. The trip had been more than worth it, and our only regret is that we could not share it with our very good friends from California.

PART VIII -- VAN AND VIRGINIA GARNER JOIN US

We were a bit edgy about Van and Virginia's arrival as the weather had been so punk, cloudy, rainy, and very cold, and we hoped they would have the sun and warmth for which this part of France is so renowned. The house did not make the situation any easier because it was hard to heat and keep warm. But we looked forward to having them with us and knew they would enjoy themselves as much as they did being with us for Thanksgiving in 1998. We had scouted the territory so we would have some things to show them. It would be a great few days. It would be great seeing them.

We got up early the day they arrived and got off to Nice and the airport. It was a very easy drive and we got there with lots of time to spare so we parked and took a short tour of the airport before going to the gate through which they would be arriving. And, then there they were looking great even though Van seemed to be favoring one of his shoulders. We learned later this was from a sharp jerk Virginia had given him in order to keep from getting run over by a truck in London; he had forgotten that the traffic drives on the wrong side of the road there and thus walked out into the street after looking in the wrong direction.

From the airport we drove into Nice and parked so we could stroll along the Promenade des Anglais, and they were as fascinated by the coloration of the Mediterranean as we were when seeing it the week before. The crowds were something as was the traffic, but on we walked and finally found a restaurant where we had lunch. It was terrific to be with them again as they are so easy to travel with and we always seem to be on the same wave length. After lunch we decided to do some driving and thus began the next adventure trying to find our way in and out of town and to maintain my sense of humor, which is hard for me when sitting in endless lines of cars that inched their way towards Monte Carlo. Then it was time to head back to the house, as we had to stop somewhere along the way and get something for dinner. Thus, we hopped on the autoroute and headed back to the Haut Var and the house.

In discussing dinner we decided that we would get a poulet roti similar to the one we had bought at the open air market in Salernes the week before. Because we also had to get bread we decided to stop at the roadside stand where we had purchased a loaf or two of the best bread we had ever tasted. Thus, when we got to Draguignan we started to drive east because I just knew the stand was not too far out of town. No, I would not stop at the butcher shop Van saw selling the same item; I just knew MY stand was not that far away. We just kept driving, thinking that we would see it just around the next bend. After many kilometers and at Virginia's persistent proddings that she was at about the end of her rope, we turned around to go to the place Van had seen. Good thing we got there when we did as the proprietor was down to his last chicken. We raced home, took in the Garners' bags, had some wine and beer and ate the chicken. It was fantastic.

At dinner we talked about what we would do the next day and decided to drive around the area in which we were living rather than take off on some grand, and long, drive. The weather cooperated with us for the first time. The morning after the Garners' arrival we awoke to the most glorious sun and warmth imaginable. It was delightful, unexpected, and most welcome. The abrupt change made the day's touring even better, as we were all ready for some leisurely jaunts. Thus, we went to Aups, Tourtour, Cotignac (which caught Van's imagination as much as it did mine, with the troglodyte village behind it and that marvelous World War I memorial), Fayence, and Draguignan. This was the first time that they had been able to be in southern France and Eleanor and I both think they were as enthralled as we were by what we saw.

We went to a village that was new to us all, Villecroze. It also has wonderful Troglodyte dwellings built into the side of the hill above the village. We walked up to and in the Grottes, or caves, and then spent some time in the beautiful gardens below. It was nice just to sit and reflect on life in this tranquil setting and what a magical place it is. It was a real surprise to us to see the somewhat formal gardens below the Grottes, as they seemed to be just slightly askew to the antiquity of the dwellings above. But they were great and it was hard to leave to continue our tour. On the way back to the house we found the winery, St. Jean Villecroze, about which Frank and Denise Liller had told us, so we stopped, had a sampling of their wares, especially the rosés, and then bought some bottles for a later time.

That night was going to be special. It marked the first anniversary that Virginia went into a clinical trial at UCLA for her Leukemia, and what success she has had. It is a miracle what has happened to her during these 12 months as she has gone from as near death as anyone ever wants to be to about as close to normal as we would want. Not only has this treatment brought her blood count back to where it should be, but the bone marrow biopsies show her about 75% cured. This was certainly something to celebrate and off we went for a grand meal at a restaurant we found in Draguignan, Lou Galoubet on Boulevard J. Jaures.

We had been there the week before for lunch and liked it very much. It was a perfect choice because not only is the food good but the people there are so terrific, especially the young man who was our server, no doubt the son of the owners. When I got a bit flustered with my French he said to relax, take a few deep breaths and then start again. I'll be damned if it didn't work, not only there but elsewhere. I will always remember him and that advice, and go back to the restaurant when we go back to this quite delightful town. Again, the meal was delicious (we began with some celebratory champagne, and then Van, Virginia and I had the gigot d'agneau and Eleanor the fish, all washed down by a very good provençal rosé, with the feast finished with strawberries with Grand Marnier and coffee) and we left for the house feeling as though we had been well taken care of in this most hospitable place.

The next day was going to be far more taxing as we decided to go to Orange to see the Roman Arch of Triumph and the Ancient Theatre, then down to the Pont du Gard, on to Nîmes, and around some of the other towns along the way. It was going to be strenuous so we made a vow, only half kept as it turned out, to get up and on the road early. Thank God for a late setting sun.

When we got to Orange we parked, had some lunch and then set off by foot to find the Arch.. We were happy that we did not take the advice of the woman at the tourist office who suggested we should drive to where it is located and then park because we got to walk through what is a quite beautiful town, that is until we finally found the rue Victor Hugo, which leads down to the Avenue Arc de Triomphe and then on to the Arc itself. We were somewhat amazed to see that the road leading to this marvelous Arc was rather grimy and full of traffic and exhaust fumes from the cars and trucks that use this as their main entry into city. But what was at the end of this street made the juxtaposition of the character of the street and the beauty of the Arc de Triomphe even harder to fathom.

The Arc de Triomphe is simply extraordinary, located as it is in the middle of a large traffic circle. Built by Julius Caesar to celebrate his victories over the Gauls, with its highly symbolic sculptures and friezes (with Gaulic prisoners, naked and in chains, below a Roman Legionnaire with arms outstretched in victory, and themes of Roman naval and military victories) it demonstrated to all who cared to look just who was in charge. And, as with so many other conquerors throughout time, the Romans made the Gauls pay for and build the structure that so defined their loss of freedom, to say nothing of the superiority of their conquerors. I walked around the Arch for sometime, letting the sun play on the surfaces and looking at every facet the carvings and themes had to offer. I was mesmerized by what I saw and did not want to leave. Yet, there was the Théâtre Antique d'Orange to see so Eleanor pulled my hand and Van kicked me in the rear, and off we went.

Built during the reign of Augustus, the theatre is one of the best preserved of the entire Roman Empire. Orange was a miniature Rome, with all the buildings and public spaces a Roman citizen would recognize and find familiar. This was true of many of the other towns in this part of the world, but particularly Orange as the museum near the Theatre makes clear. Although it is on a scale smaller than that found in Rome, this theatre is remarkable. The outside of the Great Wall is extraordinary, 338 feet long, 120 feet high, and over 5 feet thick, and built of red sandstone. On entering the theatre itself one is confronted with the tiered semicircle of seating that held room for over 10,000 people, hollow stage doors that echoed the voices of the players so that everyone could hear, and above all, with arm raised in greeting, stands Augustus, all 11 feet of him. The Theatre is still used for concerts and other events and when we were there it was being readied for some kind of performance. I must admit that it would be simply extraordinary to attend one of the performances in Les Chorégies d'Orange, a summer festival of opera, drama, and ballet. We walked up and down the stairs several times before leaving for the drive to the Pont du Gard not very far away on the way to Nîmes.

The drive on the country roads that led to the Pont du Gard was wonderful, and gave Van and Virginia another idea of what rural France is like. When we got to our destination, we had to park some distance away and walk for a few minutes before actually seeing this extraordinary structure. It is awe inspiring. There were lots of other people there as well, but not so many that we were not able to pick our way easily along the banks of the river and through the sand to the aqueduct. Built around the 19 BC, it was part of a system that carried water from an area around Uzès to the Romans in Nîmes for their baths, fountains, and personal use. Comprised of bridges, ditches, tunnels, and siphons, it carried 4.4 million gallons of water daily over a distance of 30 miles to Nîmes and continued to do so for over 900 years.

The Pont du Gard bridges the Gardon Valley and certainly must be the most spectacular part of the entire system. Huge rocks that were curved to help withstand the currents of the Gardon river formed the base of a structure that rose up 158 feet in the air. It has three tiers. The top one was used to transport the water and the lower two the people who wanted to get from one side of the valley to the other. It is still a wonderment to us how the people who built it got the stones which formed the aqueduct up to the top with none of the machine powered devices without which we are so helpless in this modern world. But up the stones went, carefully cut and hoisted into place, the cuts and the work so precise that no mortar at all was needed to keep them in place. Again, it was hard to leave this wondrous spot, but after an hour we had to get back to the car and on to Nîmes.

We traveled down some of the marvelous secondary routes to Nîmes and as it was getting quite late we began to think that there was not enough time to see the town. Doing the driving, I let the others make that choice and when I said the turnoff was quickly approaching and I would need an answer Van shouted, "Nîmes it is" and off we went. On the way we stopped for gas at one of the local stations. A very attractive young woman came out and helped us and when I gave her my credit card she saw that we were foreigners and asked where we were from. When I said California she marveled that we had come so far and said she would like to travel when she got older.

I asked this quite delightful young woman if she had traveled in France and she looked startled by the question and said no. Not even Paris, I asked, and that same look came over her face again. "Oh no, sir," she told me in French, "Paris is so far away." I replied that she could be there in less than a day's drive and surely that was possible. But, no, it was not, as it was so far away. It was then that I knew that it was both a psychological as well as a physical distance she was talking about. The con-versation also demonstrated to me a fundamental truth about the difference between Europe and the United States. The US is so large, we have become so accustomed to the notion of mobility and unconcerned by the concept of distance, that for the most part we do not think twice about getting on a plane or in a car and just going. All this woman knew is that to travel far away from her home was not an easy thing to do, unthinkable really. As we left, I wished her the best of luck and hoped that she would get her wish and do the traveling she wants to do. This was one of those enchanting interludes that make being in another's country so rewarding.

Nimes is a terrific city, and I am very content that Van made his decision to visit so commanding. My only regret is that we did not have more time to spend there, as I thought it was a place where we should spend much more time. Of particular significance to us were the impressive Roman monuments and the wide boulevards and streets that give the city such a feeling of spaciousness. Nîmes was given by Augustus to the Roman legions that had defeated Anthony and Cleopatra at the Battle of Actium and it was they who created this little part of Rome in southern France. It was for their baths, fountains, and other public works that the water carried by the Pont du Gard was needed, and which today make this such a spectacular place to visit.

Most impressive is the Roman amphitheater that is still in used today for, among other things, bull fights. Unfortunately, it was closed when we were there for some renovations so we could not walk inside. Yet, just looking at it from the outside it is easy to see why people say it is so extraordinary. It is 427 feet high and has seating for about 24,000 spectators. It was used during Roman times for gladiator contests, chariot racing, and, because it could be flooded, for mock naval battles. Nearby is the Maison Carrée, considered the best preserved Roman temple. On the opposite side of the square from the Maison Carrée is the modern (finished in 1993) museum Carré d'Art, which one either likes or hates. Then, we went to the Cathédrale Notre-Dame et St-Castor on the Place aux Herbes. In a relatively short time we had seen a great deal in Nîmes and now we had to find where we parked the car. Thank God Van was with us, as by that time I was thoroughly lost, and, as the sun was beginning to set, we needed to begin the drive home before it got too much later. After all, the Garners had to pack for their departure home the next day and I do not like driving all that much after the sun goes down, a far cry from my younger days.

So back to the house we went, arriving late at night, too late for dinner so we just had some cereal and toast and a little wine to wash it all down. We had done so much since Van and Virginia had been with us, and wished that we had the time to share more of this wonderful part of France with them. Yet, just as they were set to fly home the next day, we had to move on as well. Our two weeks in the Haut Var were coming to a close the same day. We had arranged for a hotel in Montpellier for the night on our way back to the Dordogne and then Bordeaux. Thus, after taking Van and Virginia to the airport in Nice we came back to the house, packed our duds, cleaned the place, put everything in the car, and then headed west. We wanted to be in Trémolat by Saturday evening so we could have Easter lunch with Denise and Frank Liller.

PART IX -- BACK TO THE DORDOGNE, BORDEAUX, AND AU REVOIR TO ELEANOR

It was with a heavy heart that we dropped Van and Virginia off at the Nice airport the next morning, Good Friday. We had had a terrific time with them and we felt they had an equally good time with us. It was sad to see them go. After we left them to find their plane we drove back to the house through Grasse so Eleanor could get some more perfumed things for herself and her friends. We then stopped to get some things for lunch at an Intermarché somewhere along the way.

It was Easter weekend, of course, and people were out in droves doing their shopping, and the market was crowded. It was also the greatest show on earth watching the care people took buying what they wanted, talking earnestly with the sales people so they would be sure to obtain only the highest quality food. Families shopped together so that everyone would get what they wanted, and we were sure many of these folks were going to their vacation homes for the weekend. Oh, to be close enough to this part of the world so that we could visit our home for the weekend.

I was buying some bread, ham and cheese for sandwiches and when I had a little trouble thinking of the word I wanted to use the woman behind the counter, in a perfect American accent, asked me what the devil I was trying to say. I told her, she smiled, and we concluded our business by wishing one another a restful and enjoyable Easter. I should have followed the young waiter's advice at the restaurant Lou Galoubet in Draguignan to just breath deeply and relax. But the woman in the deli department of this supermarket in Southern France saved me from this meditative state so she could get back to her other customers. What a world.

Eleanor and I got back to the house, packed our suitcases, did some cleaning, fixed and ate lunch, and had one of the few remaining bottles of wine. There are no sandwiches like the ones we had that day, wonderful smoked French ham, some terrific Swiss gouda cheese, sinus-clearing mustard, and all of this on the most perfect baguette slathered in butter. (Does anyone know the French word for "slather"?) I wanted to take a nap afterward but Eleanor made me clean the house and get ready to leave for Montpellier. We completed all our tasks, packed the car, said goodbye to the owner and thanked him for this wonderful spot we quite liked now that the sun was out and it was warm. The last four days had, in fact, been perfect as the sun was out and the temperatures like those we enjoy in California in the springtime. In the whole time we had been in France this year these were the only four consecutive days of sun we had, and we just knew they would continue for the remainder of the trip. Full of this optimism, we set off for Montpellier where we would spend the night.

It was also a melancholy departure as we knew that our vacation was coming to an end and Eleanor would be leaving for London to visit friends and then home. But, off we went to Montpellier, and in a few hours we were at the Demeure des Brousses, a lovely hotel on the outskirts of the city. This hotel was once a 18th century mas or provençal farmhouse that was restored about 30 years ago and kept up very well since then. Our welcome there was exceedingly cordial and accompanied, when the owner found out how far we had come, by a gift of a huge bottle of beer for me and a glass of wine for Eleanor which we consumed in the very peaceful and shaded grounds. Both Eleanor and I thought this would be the perfect place for our son and his fiancée to hold their wedding reception next year. But getting everyone there from the church in San Gabriel (that is in Southern California) would be a logistical nightmare. But it is the thought that counts, isn't it?

That night we had dinner at the hotel's restaurant, the outstanding Le Mas des Brousses. It was an elegant place and for one of the few times on the trip I felt completely underdressed. The food was terrific (we had a tomato marinée mozzarelle, coquilles St. Jacque Jubilatoires, a fabulous chocolate dessert, a bottle of Provençal wine, coffee, and a bottle of the everpresent Badoit, a very good French mineral water). What made this meal memorable was the service and where we sat. Everyone else was seated at tables on the periphery of the room's center, where there was a single table.

Yes, that is where they put us, and for the next two hours or so we felt as if we were center stage in some elaborate production with everyone monitoring how we did. Well, a little paranoia never hurt anyone, did it? The food was served on very modern plates (not the round things that are just not in these days), the dessert being served on a large, concave piece of glass with lots of dabs of chocolate and powered sugar everywhere. Although I am not a fan of this kind of presentation, it was fun in this restaurant, and we did eat every bite. And the service was the best, as one would expect in an establishment such as this. The price, you ask? All this for 538 francs, about $73.00 with the exchange rate at about 7.3 francs to the dollar. What a steal.

The next morning we awoke to see that our dream of sunny days had been dashed. For whatever reason, the weather had turned again to cold drizzle and overcast skies. It was dreadful. But, up we got, packed, and got ready for the day. The hotel was the perfect place to stay, and we would go back to in a minute. Then, with the help of the owner we chose a route that would get us back to the Dordogne in the shortest amount of time. I was getting tired of driving and all I wanted to do was get back to Bordeaux and turn the car in. The Ford Focus is a terrific automobile but I was getting tired. Yet, we had to get there first so off we went toward Toulouse on the autoroute, up to Montauban on the A-62, and from there on the N-20 to Cahors, where we stopped for lunch and a walk around this town. By then the weather began to look as though it would be terrific. There was actually some sun, but that would be only a fleeting moment as we found out as we drove to Souillac and from there over to Sarlat and then to the Lillers where we stopped to leave some of the food we did not eat and to say hello.

We did not know if they would be home, but were very happy to see that the lights were on and when we drove in out they came with their usual very warm welcome. While we were there the thunder came, the rain came, and so did the hail, in pieces as big as golf balls. They said that it had been miserable during the time we had been gone and people had begun to wonder when the sun would ever come out. Both Eleanor and I were tired so after an hour or so of delightful conversation during which we set our plans to meet the next day for Easter lunch we were off to Trémolat and the hotel, which we found to have been really battered by the storm. The main electricity had been knocked out but the emergency lights worked until the electrician could come to put things right. I was as happy as I could be that this was someone else's problem and not mine, as this brought back some ugly memories of the previous year.

The evening's meal at the Vieux Logis, the hotel in Trémolat, was another good one, made even better by the French family of at least 12 persons that was seated next to us. Composed of at least three generations, the youngest of which was no more than 4 years old, they were there for the Easter weekend. It was fascinating to watch the lessons this young boy was receiving from his parents, a scene far better than the meal we ate, and gave an insight into why French children seem to be so well behaved in public. The youngster was seated on a booster seat in an armed chair at the end of the table with his father on one side and his mother on the other.

As the meal was served and his food was cut, his father instructed his son to keep his left hand on the end of the chair arm while he used his right hand to manipulate the fork. When that left hand came up his father gently took it and placed it back where it belonged. There was not a peep from this handsome lad, as this was adult time and only once did the grandfather attempt to play with the youngster, and that lasted for only a moment. Other than that this young man sat quietly as everyone else talked and had fun, but not too much, mind you. Actually, it did not look like anyone was having a gaggle of laughs and we asked ourselves how people could eat such good food, have as much wine as they did, to say nothing of the digestifs they had afterwards, and look so dour. I had such fun watching all of this that I forget what we had for dinner. All I know it was good and we liked it very much.

Easter Sunday we got up late and I went out to get something from the local boulangerie, some pain au chocolat, and a bottle of OJ at the local market. We had this and then it was time to pack the car again, pay the bill, and then head off to lunch with the Lillers. They had made reservations at one of their favorite restaurants, the Restaurant de l'Abbaye, in Cadouin. We had heard of it from them when we rented the house in Limeuil and ate there once. It is terrific, and we knew we would be in for a treat. And we were not wrong.

Cadouin is a beautiful little village with a wonderful bicycle museum and an even more impressive church, the Abbey of Cadouin, which up until 1930 saw countless pilgrimages to view the piece of cloth said to have bound the head of Christ at the Crucifixion brought back from one of the Crusades by the Bishop of Le Puy and given to the Abbey. In that year (1930) the story of the cloth was proved not to be true and the pilgrimages stopped. Yet, the town is well worth a visit as it is lovely and the church one of the best preserved of its kind in France. It also has this terrific restaurant that is also a very good reason to drive slightly off the main road to this village in the heart of the Perigord Noir. We met the Lillers, had a very good meal and even better conversation before we had to leave for the three-hour drive to Bordeaux. It was raining again and on this weekend I did not know what to expect in the way of traffic. Thus, about 3 PM we were off, bidding a very sad farewell to these two terrific people. We have grown very fond of them and we will miss their cheeriness and welcoming friendship.

Other than the constant rain, the drive was uneventful. We did come across one more war memorial that made me stop to take a photo. Then we were off again, taking this by now familiar road to Bordeaux, where we arrived about 6:30 in the evening. We drove straight to the Hotel Majestic where, as luck would have it, there was a parking place immediately across from the entrance. Being told there were no parking restrictions due to the Easter weekend, which included the next day, Monday, we left the car there for the night and returned it the next day to the rental car agency. We had driven nearly 7,000 kilometers (or about 4,200 miles) in the 30 days we had the car, actually 26 driving days, and I was never so happy to say goodbye to a car as I was to that Focus. It had been spectacular, but I was bone tired and ready for some rest. But with school beginning that Monday, April 24, or so I thought, there would be little time for that. We went to dinner early and then to bed.

The next day, as I have said, we returned the car and then went to see about the school, BLS, where I was set to begin 6 weeks of language training. As it turned out, the school was closed April 24 because of the Easter three-day weekend. This was the first of a series of seemingly endless long weekends in France, ones about which I had not been told when I decided to go to BLS when I did. Had I known I doubt I would have decided to attend when I did. Yet, on another level I was very content the school was closed as I was already beginning to miss Eleanor and this would give us one more day together.

We walked around Bordeaux for some time and were impressed again by its beauty. There are two public parks whose designs are spectacular. We walked around one, Le Jardin Public de Bordeaux until it was getting ready to close. Designed as a French garden in the 18th century by Tourney, it became a military esplanade during the Revolution, and, in 1856, was redesigned in the style of an English style garden. It is truly beautiful, and it was fun to see French families with their young children coming to play. And, of course, there were the ubiquitous dogs running everywhere despite signs requesting they remain on the leash.

On the way back to the hotel, we walked through the Esplanade des Quinconces, which occupies a large area on the river bank, with a 'Girondins' monument and fountain as centerpiece. It was erected in the 19th in memory of the of the revolution. There was a huge outdoor market that day with vendors selling goods of every conceivable description. It had rained earlier and few of the merchants had bothered to move their goods, even those selling furniture. I can't imagine buying a desk or table that had become soaked, but then what do I know. The one thing everyone was buying was flowers for their homes and from the looks of what we saw many of them would be beautiful that evening, festooned as they would be with arrangements we saw.

It was such a nice day with her and I knew that the next few weeks would be tough. We have such a good time together and have grown ever closer during the 33 years we have been married that I wondered, as we walked back to the hotel, what could have possessed me to choose to be without her for 6 weeks.

That night, we had a wonderful dinner at the Brasserie Le Noailles and then went back to the hotel so Eleanor could pack and get things ready to head off to London the next day to be with friends before leaving for home May 3. The next morning I left early for BLS and Eleanor continued her packing. The shuttle did not leave for the airport until mid-morning and, at the class break, I ran back to the Majestic and helped her with her bags. We got to the shuttle bus just in time, and I hoisted that mon-ster bag on board, waved goodbye, and watched as Eleanor's bus trailed off into the distance and out of sight. A wave of loneliness washed over me. I was alone.