As I said at the end of last month's journal, it was nice to get back to the quiet confines of the Dordogne and Lacoste after a hectic but terrific time in Paris for Thanksgiving. There is something so peaceful about this place and its effect is always so soothing to my soul. We have not done much since we got back. In fact, Eleanor and I are perfect sloths, sleeping until late into the morning, flailing ourselves for doing so, finally getting up to have breakfast at noon, and then wondering what we will do for the remaining 5 hours of sunlight. Is this reality? Can we really live this way and be content? You bet. (Eleanor just said "no" to these questions. But then why is she always the last one out of bed?)

We have taken more drives around this part of the world and have seen some fascinating towns that are new to us. In one way it is enjoyable to go to new towns and learn something about them, to say which ones are worth going back to with the kids once they get here for Christmas, and which ones we would like to revisit on our own. Yet, in another way, I really like to find new things with friends and family and to share with them the sense of wonderment at the beauty and antiquity that are at the core of these places. But to wait would mean never leaving the house except with visitors, so out we go to either revisit places we really like and on the way taking detours and new bends in the road that invariably bring us to new sights and new vistas, or just heading on unknown roads and leaving the familiar behind. The one constant is the unending beauty of this part of France and the friendliness and helpfulness of the people.

There are several things these drives reveal, other than the physical beauty of this area. One is, as I have suggested before in an earlier journal, our belief that some European architects have mastered the art of the utilitarian, cheap to build, indescribably ugly, corrugated-sided boxes that masquerade as buildings. They are everywhere -- small businesses alongside the highway, auto agencies, anywhere where the compromise has been made between ugly and cost, with ugly always winning out. Like strip malls in the US, these buildings mar the natural beauty of the land and of the towns and villages in which they are located, and create their own form of urban blight, if that is possible in a predominately rural area. The buildings are new and that in itself may be a virtue, I do not know about that. But, it seems to Eleanor and me a pity, really, as there has been or soon will be so much lost in the process.

Another is the wonderful mix of English and French words that one sees on highway signs, linking the two languages to create new forms and new idioms. Every language is dynamic, of course, changing with the times and circumstances. This is no less true here in France despite the fact that the country has the Academie francaise to oversee the correctness of the language and the Haut Comite de la Langue Francaise, which was established by the government in 1966, to defend the language against the invasion of English and to discourage the use of franglais, which is a mixture of the two. In theory, this has meant no more use of "week-end," "drugstore," or such expressions as "OK". The government made further attempts along this line in 1994 when it passed the Toubon law that made it obligatory to use French in economic, social, and intellectual life and for all public notices and advertisements in the country. Yes, the French now use "ordinateur" rather than "computer," but listening to conversations in the street by people who know not a word of English reveals really how, in the final analysis, Quixotic this attempt is.

So, too, do many of the signs on buildings we have seen along the roadside as we drive. They reveal how intermingled with the French language English has become. There are signs for Mr. Bricolage (a do-it-yourself hardware store), Self-Lavage (a self-service car wash), Plomberie Self (a do-it-yourself plumbing store), and, one that mixes Italian and English, Mr. Pizza, a place, the sign says, that "delivers." The one I like best is the store "Firsty - le roi des prix," a store in Bergerac that seems devoted to tacky home accessories. And in the back window of a car there is a sticker that on the top says "bebe a bord" (baby on board) and on the bottom "baby boom," something (the baby boom, not English!!) encouraged by the government through the family allowances it gives couples to encourage them to have more children.

We also see this sort of language mixture or the use of English on clothing, on labels stitched to or with phrases stamped proudly on garments in the most conspicuous places. We were in the Intermarche in Le Bugue recently and saw a mother and her one year old baby boy who had on a jacket with an American flag stamped on the back with the inscription "Baby Super All American Boy." And there are so many other examples, in magazines and newspapers, and on the television and radio. This does not sit well with many in France, who see in this the inevitable dilution of their language and culture. Ultimately, I think, theirs will be a spirited albeit loosing defense against an ever mounting tide, especially now that English has been made the official language of the EU. What an affront that must have been to the French whose language was at the center of world politics, diplomacy, and culture for so many centuries.

Lest anyone think I am making fun or light of this, or of the reaction of the French to protect their language and culture, let me say that I find it refreshing and laudable that they even make the attempt. This is something about which we Americans could not care one whit, consumed as we are that things just work and are cost efficient. There is concern for functionality here as well and for getting good value for money spent, of course, but it seems to me there are some other things that are as, if not more, important, things that lie close to the soul and remind the French of their traditions and heritage. I am reminded here of that wonderful service in Sarlat on November 11 that commemorated l'armistice, la victoire de La Grande Guerre, and of a dinner in 1993 Eleanor and I had in Paris with our friends there.

This was the time of the GATT (General Agreement of Tariffs and Trade) negotiations and the uproar caused by the French insistence that they get special concessions to protect their film, television, and music industries (which they won thereby permitting them to subsidize movies and TV and requiring a minimum of French music heard on French radio). Our friends, passionate in the defense of their government's position, thought this was the only way these industries could survive against the onslaught of Hollywood, and they were vehement in propounding their position. They were right, I think, although, in the end, this victory may be only a holding action in a world that is evolving at a faster rate than ever before. Yet, to me, what is significant is that the attempt was made in the first place, and with such fervor.

Another of the things with which our drives impress us is our thanks that we paid up our life insurance before we left. The French not only have a passion for seeing how close they can come to one's back bumper before passing, but for determining if the maximum speed promised by the salesman when they bought their car is, in fact, really as fast as the it will go; for passing in the most dangerous places, on blind corners, with the road curving away from them, in the middle of a town with not one thought given to what will happen if a child darts into the road; and for testing just how swiftly they can go around curves without loosing control. It still surprises us to see, as we are going around some of the wonderfully sweeping curves that are such a part of the countryside here, drivers coming in the other direction, eyes glued on the road ahead, hands tightly gripped on the steering wheel and arms locked at the elbow, with the occasional tongue sticking out of the corner of the mouth for that extra little bit of concentration, and their cars on the knife's edge of adhering to the pavement. And, as happens all too many times, the pull of gravity brings them ever so slightly into our lane. On several occasions, only vigilance has prevented us from meeting in the most unseemly (and painful) way.

This mania for speed is true even for those who drive the Citroen 2CV, that little car that seems to be the image that is used so often (along with an old man riding a bicycle wearing a beret with a baguette lashed to the back of the bike) to conjure up an image of France in the public mind. Here is this little two stroke car (I think it is two stroke), with virtually no springs at all from what I can determine, hurtling towards us around a bend, with the fenders scraping on the ground because the car is tilting so far over. This is a really scary sight. No scarier, however, than that of an old woman who, enrolled in the local "auto ecole," was learning how to drive. She was driving around a corner as fast as she could, with white knuckles grasping the steering wheel and a grimace on her face as she fought to maintain control. And there was the terrified driving instructor, madly trying to shield her eyes from the blinding sun into which she was driving. They made it, or at least they got beyond us safely. They were in my vision for only a few seconds, but have been in my thoughts many times since then, and I wonder if they ever got home safely and without killing anyone in the process. So far we have survived all this and the thought of the unexpected only lends excitement to our excursions beyond Lacoste.

Our drives also demonstrate that many towns and villages have plans for beautification that can be carried out in a thoughtful and delightful way. Because this is a quiet time in a part of France that must be a zoo during the height of the tourist season, many cities, towns, and villages are using this period to undertake construction and beautification projects, to repair things in need of it, to make new entrances into their jurisdictions, and to prepare the public gardens for the spring. There is a civic pride at work here that we find exhilarating,. At a time when we at home bemoan the lack of funds to do anything, from cleaning litter to taking care of the most helpless (and hopeless) of those around us, France is doing quite the opposite. It is refreshing.

So, too, is the fact that the roadsides in this country seem to be so clear of trash and refuse. But, this is true for most of the country, even Paris, which must be one of the cleanest metropolitan areas in the world. There are no signs alongside the road reminding people of the hefty fines for littering, that the next stretch of the highway is being cleaned by this or that business or civic group, or anything like that. We went on a 165 kilometer drive this month and I can remember only two cigarette boxes on the road the entire trip. The walk ways beside the road and into the country beyond are also very clean. It was and is remarkable. Finally, we also have passed a great many cars we thought must belong to hunters parked alongside the road. However, whenever we see the men, dressed in their "camo" suits and their shotguns lying open across their arms, they are grouped in bunches carrying on animated discussions, seemingly more interested in the search of good conversation than birds of prey.

Part II -- Settling Back In and Further Explorations

Part of our lack of energy has been promoted by the fact that for over five weeks in November and early December it was uncommonly cold, and we have been spending our time and energy trying to stay warm. I have been told by a man who lives in Bordeaux and who maintains a home near Belves that this has been one of the coldest and most unpleasant winters in recent years. It makes perfect sense, then that we picked this as the winter to come for an extended period! It was very cold before we went to Paris for Thanksgiving, cold the entire time we were there, and remained cold after we returned to Lacoste December first. This meant that as soon as I unpacked and got settled I went back to the wood pile and began to split some more wood for the fire.

The petit bois that I had found at the local lumber yard works just fine to start the nightly blaze, but most of the wood we got from my homme du bois last October was huge, semi tree trunks, if truth be known, and needed to be split into smaller pieces in order to burn effectively. This chore was left to me. Let me just say this is not in my repertoire of skills, and clearly was not something I was chafing to learn, but if others can do it I could as well. I remembered the tips that both Ralph Meuter and David Mayne had given me about how to use my tools correctly and the easiest way to accomplish my task -- these are two wise men of the world whose advice is to be followed assiduously. And, they had a good student whose main motivation was the desire to keep warm. That motivation worked wonderfully well, and the chips flew as the temperature dropped.

I went to work and had a field day splitting wood and getting piles of wood organized by size. (I am quite good at this kind of thing as it turns out. Once, when I was working on my dissertation and was looking for any excuse to put off beginning to write, I organized the food coupons Eleanor had clipped from the newspaper into food groups and then by where in the market we would find them. They were neat little stacks and ever so handy. Van Garner, a very good friend, looked at them when I showed him what I had accomplished and, with a look of utter horror on his face, said that it was time to move my stuff from my office in the garage to one at the UCSB library. He was right, of course, and I did. Thirty days later the first chapter was done.)

Splitting wood is really much more fun than counting and separating food coupons, and, unlike the work I usually undertake in my consulting, I can see I am actually getting something accomplished. The main drawback, however, is that I now hurt all over and, worst of all, I have a bad case of Paul Bunion elbow (the loggers' equivalent of tennis elbow) in both arms from using all tools and carrying the very heavy logs. How I wish I were close enough to my acupuncturist so I could get a treatment. This trip has made me believe that before I leave I will have had a good introduction to all the trades and that, if I wanted to, I could pursue a flourishing career as a fix-it man, plumber, electrician, wood sorter, chopper, splitter or any of the other tasks our civilization has worked so hard to move beyond. However, I think I would rather be a bounty hunter so I could go out and find out where the hell M. Gomes, the plumber, has been hiding. When I got back to the house after Thanksgiving Mme. Lacoste said he still had not come to do any of the work he said he would do.

When we opened the door and came in we found most things just as we left them. However, Mme. Lacoste told us that the people from the national electrical company had been here to increase the amount of power coming into the house and that the load had been balanced so it would be shared equally by all the circuits in the kitchen fuse box. This is an improvement and will mean no more blowing the circuit breaker; oh, hopeless dreamer, but more on this later. But I still maintain my nightly ritual (and when it is very cold during the day, my daily ritual) of stuffing a towel into the cavity at the top of the door where it is out of alignment at one end by more than an inch to stop the infiltration of some very chilly air. And I am forgetting what it must be like to go to bed without getting dressed -- I put on my LL Bean chamois shirt (cuffs buttoned, of course; I am not so crude and uncouth as to go to bed with them loose!!) and long cotton gym pants tucked into wool socks to keep the legs from inching up during the night.) It is an adorable sight, but Eleanor thinks I am a wus for doing this as she sleeps in just her flannel nightgown. Yet, even she dons a heavy shirt when the temperature dips too much.

Even though it has been very cold we have done some more exploring and driving around the Perigord Noir. One exceedingly brisk Sunday we went back to Domme, because we like this old bastide town with its stunning view of the valley below. It also has a nice pottery shop that we hoped to find open, as the sign on the door suggested it would be. The shop was closed, of course, as signs such as this are suggestions of what might be rather than a testament of what will be. However, the wind was so cold that it cut though our warmest clothes and made us flee for the warmth of the car for the drive home. No touring this day, no walking around Sarlat (a town we really like and were going to visit until we got cold), no driving to Belves and Monpazier to stroll around these historic and beautiful places, not if we did not want to freeze, that is.

As the days passed and there was no sign of the temperatures moderating at all, we decided to go into Le Bugue and see about buying a larger portable heater. Neither Eleanor nor I object to the cold weather when we are outdoors, in fact we quite like it, but when we are cold inside the house as well we get cranky. When we got to Lacoste in October there were four wall heaters and two space heaters, and now that the electrical capacity has been increased into the house we can run them all at the same time without fear of blowing the circuit breaker when Matt, Kristen, and Elizabeth will be here for Christmas. But we also needed a heater for the third floor (or second, depending on your inclination and heritage) where Liz will sleep; there is no heat at all in the room now and it gets very cold indeed there at night.

We decided to go to the electrical store that Mellen Candage recommends for electrical supplies to buy something larger and more powerful than what we have now, something that would get us WARM in our continuing fight against the cold. We had to park a distance away and then walk to M. Goupilleau's shop to see what he had to offer. When we got there we saw it, a heater that would pump out 2500 watts of heat and keep this place toasty. The woman who waited on us started talking with me in French and made that wonderful leap of faith I have mentioned before, the one that makes people believe that because I can get my thoughts across fairly well in French I can also understand when they speak to me in that rapid fire cadence with which the French speak. When she saw me befuddled she asked if I spoke English. I said yes, and we then went ahead, speaking French as long as I understood and then throwing in the English when I got stumped. I will leave it to others to say which language got the better workout, but I had fun as well as getting what we wanted.

As we walked to the store we looked up (to see the sights), from side to side (to keep from getting run over) and, always, downward to see where we are walking so we will not stumble or step on a land mine left by someone's pet. One in three French households has a dog and I suspect that fewer than one in one hundred cares at all where their pooch does its business, whether it is inside Charles de Gaulle airport where a young woman watched as her dog just squatted and did its business (it was a puppy so does that really count -- yes, especially to those who stepped in the mess), on the sidewalk, or anywhere else. It is a case of the devil take the hindmost insofar as pedestrians are concerned, and more than one person has stepped on a pile left behind by someone's pet to have shoes and at times socks and pant cuffs befouled by a mess that belongs other than where it is usually found.

To deal with this same problem in Paris, on some of the streets there we have seen the outline of a dog painted in the gutter as a subtle reminder that this is the place for dogs to visit when in need. But people park in these areas, of course, so the dogs use the sidewalks, as do the cars when the curbs are full (as are everywhere here in France). But I will take cars anytime. They are bigger and easier to see. I wonder what Max would have done. He is beautifully curb-trained and I guess he would have reverted and went wherever and whenever he wanted. (In Paris the city sanitation service has a fleet of motor bikes with vacuums on the back and when the rider spies an offending pile, he drives up, unhooks the hose, starts the suction and, voila, it is gone. What a device. What a country.)

The next few days we decided to take some more drives. Our neighbors, the Lillers, used to have a house in St. Chamassy and talked so fondly of that community that we decided to go there one Sunday afternoon to walk around. It was another of those very cold afternoons that did not bid one to stay and linger for too long, but the village is so beautiful that we braved the cold wind for an hour or so. The village has an old church and several old buildings that look as though they have been there for centuries, and I am sure they have. St. Chamassy has a charm and grace that is absolutely compelling. I can see why the Lillers hold it so near to their hearts.

While there we saw an old woman unloading the trunk of her car that was filled with wood. (I remember thinking I was glad I was not on the same road when she fetched it, both because of her age and the fact she was not tall enough to see over the steering wheel.) I stopped and went up to her asking if I could help her with the wood. As I reached for the basket she gave me an astonished look. A young mother walking her baby heard me as well and explained my intentions. The old lady said "oui" and asked who I was. I said we were two Americans on vacation here in France. She looked astonished again, but let me tote the wood for her. Hers was a very basic house from the glances I got of it through the slightly opened door, and made me feel slightly ashamed about complaining of the problems we have had at Lacoste. The exchange made me feel good, not just because I could get myself understood by a woman in this rural part of France, but because the wood was heavy, even for someone who must have heaved tons of it in her lifetime as she sought to conquer the winter's cold in this tiny village in France.

This altogether too brief interlude was pushing us further into the late afternoon and, when the sun begins to set it can become even colder, as it was doing this day. Thus, we hurried off, waving good-bye to the old woman who by this time had her entire stash of wood neatly piled just where she wanted it. We decided to drive home through some of the places we had been to before and about which I have written in this journal -- Tremolat, Limeuil, back to Le Bugue and then to the place of our daily social interaction, the Intermarche where one of the clerks is going to school to learn English. So now we have an agreement. One visit I will speak in English to her so she can practice and the next time it will be my turn to practice. It works out very nicely.

Our friend in Bordeaux suggested that we should drive through another beautiful area in this part of France, an area he referred to as Bergerac Noir, that is, the area just north of that city. He said it was filled with stunning sights and exquisite villages. Thus, on a relatively warm Sunday (the weather mod-erated slightly for about 5 days and this day was one of them, fortunately) we did just that. We set off from Le Bugue and went north for a while and then west through a beautiful old town named Vergt where we stopped for a while, walked around, and snapped several photos. Vergt turns out to be, much to our surprise, the strawberry capital of France with a production of almost 20,000 tons per year. We had never seen so many strawberries fields, most of them protected by long, low "Quonset huts" of plastic sheets held in place by large metal loops, making them into hot houses and great protection from the cold. There was a sea of plastic used in this way, protecting what must have been millions of strawberry plants. The advanced agricultural techniques, the warehouses for the crop, and the fleets of tractor-trailers used to transport them to markets throughout France stood in sharp contrast to the ancient covered market place in Vergt that has stood since medieval times. This part of France hums with economic activity but, it seems to me, in a way that maintains a harmony with its past traditions.

From Vergt we went onto Mussidan through Montreal, turning off there to see, we hoped, the Chateau de Montreal; no soap, as it is closed this time of year to everyone except in groups of 20; Villamblard and the ruins of its fortress; and St. Jean-d'Estissac. Mussidan was once an old Huguenot city that was the scene of many battles and sieges during the Wars of Religion. From our perspective, and maybe we are missing something here, but if this town is the best the Huguenots could do they deserved to loose. We then headed south to Bergerac and then north again toward Vergt and then east and south to Le Bugue through St. Alvere. On this part of the drive, just north of Le Bugue, we saw hundreds and hundreds of pheasants in large open air fabric net cages. These are wonderfully beautiful birds, and the best I can figure is that they were being raised to restock the wild pheasant population and for the hunters who are everywhere this time of year. It was a fascinating sight.

It had been a particularly nice day, our longest drive ever here (over 165 kilometers) and through some simply beautiful countryside. Now it was time to go to the market and get meat for a gateau de viande (meat loaf, French style and is it good) and some wine, and, when we got home, start a raging fire. We have found a wine store here in town with the name of Caves Julien de Savignac. It is very good and we can get some very nice wines there. Many of the local people go there to get wine by the jug -- 5 litres (a little over 5 quarts) for about 7 Francs a litre; they have more expensive jug wine at 10 Francs a litre. A truck makes a weekly delivery to the store and refills the big barrels from which the wine is dispensed with a nozzle that looks like something one would find at a filling station. It was a gas to see. I am going to have to try this wine, as the people who work there, one of whom is English and a very nice young man, say it is quite good. We were also told that when the English come to Le Bugue or the vicinity for holidays, they stop by on their way home, fill up with 135 litres (the legal amount they are permitted to bring into their country, I presume), bottle it when they get home, and drink it during the next 6 months. Then when that is gone they take another French holiday and repeat the whole process all over again. Now, I wonder how I can get that many jugs on the plane with me back to America. They might not fit into an overhead compartment. And hold the fort if any of them broke and spilled their contents. That would be sad. And smelly.

Part III -- Preparing for Christmas

Things are really hopping here, as Christmas is coming and Pere Noel is about to make his appearance. I mean what else could you say about Le Bugue, a town that is playing Christmas music in the streets, has placed lights across the roads of the town, and has a tree decorated in the parking lot across from the main plaza, the Marche Haut? This understated approach to the holidays is a far cry from what we have at home, of course, and a counterpoint I find remarkably refreshing. It is like this everywhere we have been in this part of France. And the people are still cordial with none of the holiday stress I associate with the Christmas holiday season in the States. It is one of the things I most hate about this time of year. But, I am quite enjoying getting ready for the holidays this year.

We went to Belves and then to Monpazier not long before Christmas. We wanted to see both towns, most especially Monpazier, which is reputed to be the best preserved bastide in France, and found there shops and homes with trees leaning against the wall beside the front doors and festooned with metallic strips tied in bows. Attached to the shutters of houses and the sides of buildings were Christmas boxes wrapped with bright gold and striped paper with bows affixed to them, creating a wonderfully inviting picture of families getting ready to celebrate an important religious and family day. These scenes change only slightly in motif and context from town to town and maintain the understated theme and approach to Christmas. Certainly, this was true of Belves and Monpazier, but also of Sarlat, Domme, and all the other places we have seen as Christmas drew closer. It is charming. It makes the celebration of this day meaningful for something other than helping the merchants with their annual balance sheets, as important as that is.

Monpazier is one wonderful town, and touches my soul in a way that La Roque-Gageac does. Its build-ings have been witness to so much history and the fact that they have survived in their present condition is remarkable. We went to the glass blower's shop, whose entrance was beautifully decorated, as were the trees next to the curb. These decorations acted as a magnet, drawing Eleanor and me inside, because if the outside was done so well, what kind of beautiful things must we find on the inside? We were not disappointed. We got a beautiful hand blown decanter for wine with a glass stopper that has swirls of blue in it. I would love to know how this is done. We will go back before we leave for some other items as this is a really terrific place, and one of the most delightful stores in which we have shopped so far. We also went to a store that has ceramic pieces from Provence and got some things for the kids, and a very nice blue pitcher for Mme. Lacoste. I hope she likes it -- bright blue with a wonderful, bright golden sun face on it. We got one from the same shop in Domme and use it all the time, especially for flowers.

Then we went to Belves to look around and went into an antique shop where we found a set of very nice antique crystal wine glasses and got out of there before the saleswoman tried to sell us the whole place; she had her sights on us for everything there and found it impossible to accept the word "no." At the end of the day on the way home, we drove to Limeuil again (what a magical village that is), and then on to Le Bugue where we stopped for a copy of the International Herald Tribune (just more Clinton impeachment crud). I was reminded again while we were there for this short errand of another of the things that intrigues me so about the French.

In some instances they are remarkably impatient people, never waiting, for example, until it is really safe to pass but taking chances to get around the driver ahead, even if that means an all too close joust with a car coming in the opposite direction. Yet, in town, when people in America would be going crazy blowing their horns and doing mean things with one of their fingers, they sit patiently behind a car whose driver double parked to go into a store on an errand. Or it could be a truck unloading. This can go on for minutes with little shouting, horns honking, or protestations of any other kind. It is really amazing, and I think it is because everyone double parks and holds up traffic at some point in the day and the drivers who are stuck behind an obstruction know sooner or later it will be their turn to double park and for the others to wait. I thought this civility would break down during the hectic Christmas rush, but it was not to be. If anything it was even more pronounced. Remarkable.

Getting ready for Christmas also meant getting Eleanor's hair done so she would feel comfortable. It had been a long time since she had been to her hairdresser in Davis and she convinced me she could not go another week before having it cut and styled. We got the name of a shop in Sarlat from our new friend in Bordeaux and made an appointment for a Wednesday afternoon. We had lunch before the appointed hour and then we went to meet Frederick and for the next two hours he worked his magic on my bride. He, Eleanor, and I talked in his limited English and my even more limited French about what she wanted to have done. Thus, when we were all sure of what the results should be he began.

I had never been with Eleanor before when she got her hair done, and I was amazed at how quiet the place was, as no one engaged in inane chitchat or anything like I imagined would be the case. Was it always this way everywhere or just here? One thing for sure, I never want to find out. You could hear a pin drop. It was heaven. Frederick washed, cut, held some hair up with a clip to get it out of the way, and cut some more. He combed out her hair, looked carefully and then cut again, and more and more hair hit the floor. As he continued what I saw was extraordinary and the more concerned I became. I saw before me the makings of a disaster, one that would leave Eleanor in tears.

About three quarters of the way through this process Eleanor's hair looked dreadful -- short, straight in the back and no shape at all. Frankly, it looked as though Frederick has received his training cutting hair in the French Army using a cup for a template he used on all new recruits. But, then he began to comb out what he had done and put in the form and style I thought he had lost forever. It was magical, and certainly this took far greater skill than I ever thought. As layer after layer was combed into place with such great care my fears evaporated. What he had done was remarkable. When we left, I had a new wife with a great new cut and shape, and she looked really great. And she was happy. (I breathed a huge sigh of relief.)

Back at Lacoste we finished all the cleaning and straightening up in preparation for Matt, Kristen, and Liz' arrival. This is an endless task, of course, as the fire and wood bring dirt and ashes with them, as does the simple act of living in any house. Yet, there are other causes. This is the first winter residency at Lacoste for many years. The lack of heat in the house during the moist winter months is taking its toll, as the plaster is effervescing in places where water has penetrated and paint is flaking from all the walls, thus producing constant dust on the floors that we must sweep up everyday. It is a wonderful place, but there are things that need tending to, as is the case in any house. We made the beds, allocated the portable heaters to the rooms where they would be needed, and we were all set to head off to collect the kids and Liz for what was going to be one terrific and memorable Christmas. v Then, about noon December 22, I could not wait any longer before leaving on the three hour journey to Bordeaux (the guys did not get in until 7 pm). It was a cold day, but there was no fog or rain, and it would be an easy flight from Paris to Bordeaux where we would meet them at the train station; not knowing the city at all, we had them take the shuttle bus from the airport to Gare St. Jean. Each kilometer that passed was one closer to my eldest son, his new bride, and Liz, but they passed ever so slowly. The thing that would make this Christmas complete is if Andrew would have been able to come. But he is beginning a new job and had to remain in California.

Part IV -- Matt, Kristen, and Liz Are Here So Let Christmas Begin

The two weeks before their arrival had been difficult ones, for me at least, as the train strike was still going and there seemed to be rumblings on the Internet that one of the unions would call a labor action against Air France at Christmas time. The SNCF strike dragged on and on (the conductors wanted management to get more workers hired and other things) and there seemed to be no end in sight. Then I decided to turn to the ever faithful American Express travel service who came through once again with tickets for a flight from Charles de Gaulle to Bordeaux a couple of hours after Matt's plane landed in France. They sent confirming faxes to my son and me, and all was well. The company continues to provide me with superior service and it is a pleasure to deal with it.

The drive to Bordeaux was always nice, but this time it seemed to take far longer than ever before. But we were finally there and parked the car in the same free lot as before. We were going to spend the night in Bordeaux and then drive to the house the next day. Thus, we took a taxi to the Hotel Majestic, a very nice place by the way and in a great part of town. We checked in and then walked around for a while. The hotel is near the Esplanade des Quincones, one of the largest plazas in Europe, and some very fashionable shops, and for two hours we window shopped. Quite by surprise Eleanor found some things in a hardware store for her tree in St-Cirq, some branches of Holly that were very deftly arranged in a vase with twisted aluminum ties and ribbon for decoration. But she has been looking for some small ornaments to hang on the "tree" as well, and here in Bordeaux she was in luck. We bought several very cute ones and then looked at our watches. It was time to go to the station. After all the plane would land in an hour and it would take us 10 minutes to get to the station. We had to rush.

Before going, however, we thought again of how relaxed the people were in their last minute shopping. The stores were all beautifully decorated and invited people to come in. There was little of the gaudy displays that seem so characteristic of the way things are done so often at home. The people were busy and moving rapidly, but with none of the last minute hysteria and mania I find in the States. People still have time to be polite, the traffic was no worse than at other times of the year and there was very little honking as cars were held up by someone who had double parked while doing an errand, and everyone seemed to be having fun. Wow. At Christmas? What a concept. But it was time to go back to the hotel, leave the decorations, and head off to the Gare St. Jean to get Matt, Kristen, and Liz. We could hardly wait to see them.

At the time I thought the bus should be getting in I began to pace and wonder what could have happened to them. My, oh, my I wish I were not like this, such a profound worrier. But I paced back and forth, driving Eleanor crazy. Then, I went to a phone to call the hotel to see if Matt had phoned and as I looked for my phone card I heard Eleanor's voice. She waved to me and I saw Liz and Kristen, but where was Matt? Yes, there was another person but he was blond and I did not recognize him. Neither had his mother, who walked right past him to greet Kristen, Liz and inquire about Matt's whereabouts. The "other" person was Matt, who had dyed his hair blond to celebrate his 30th birthday and had completely changed his appearance. It was remarkable. After giving him a hug of welcome, I did the same with Kristen and Liz. We saw their luggage and gasped and then flagged two cabs and off we went to the hotel. We had the very nice desk man take the bags to the rooms (the staff at the Majestic is superb) and went to a nearby restaurant where we had made reservations earlier in the evening. It could not have been a better evening, and our group was complete with the exception of Andrew, to whom we made a toast wishing him a wonderful Christmas and wishing he were with us.

The next day, after a good sleep, we got up, got to the parking lot and off we went. This drive seemed to go very fast indeed, and what a great one it was. It is hard to describe. We showed them the sights along the way, and the three visitors were amazed to see the endless acres of vineyards as we headed toward the house. On the way, we went through Tremolat and then Limeuil and from there into Le Bugue. We drove on to the house and unpacked the car, took the bags to the rooms, and then went to the Intermarche to buy what we needed for dinner and the next day. We were together at last. And, as if by magic, my stomach problems disappeared. No more pain. Could I be my own worst enemy? Oh, I think you could say that.

Part V -- Christmas and the Second Semester of Trade School Begins

The house was cold when we got there, particularly on the third floor where Liz would sleep; she likes the cold. However, it seemed a prudent safeguard against frostbite to take the new heater to her room and plug it in. That simple act created disaster later in the night, something anticipated by Matt when he turned on his heater to take the chill out of the air and, with that simple act, blew a fuse. All the lights in the house went out -- the main circuit had blown again, I thought, just as it had before. Damn, the electrical service was still not fixed. But I knew what to do by now, so I went to the garage to flip the main switch on. But something was wrong. The main switch was still on yet there were no lights. My heart sank to the floor, my temper flared, and my stomach, which had ceased hurting the instant I saw Matt, Kristen, and Liz, began to burn again, badly. But something was also weird. When I went back into the house Liz said that the refrigerator and oven worked, as did the two downstairs wall heaters, and two lights in the living room. What is going on here? I went to see Mme. Lacoste and told her what had happened and she said she would call her son, Raymond, the electrician, and have him come. He was not there. She said she would keep trying.

We got the candles out and as I was making dinner for some reason Eleanor mentioned the name of Gomes, the plumber. I remembered that he did some small electrical work and I sat down at the computer and sent him a fax saying what had happened and asking if he could help. Within 10 minutes he was here and found the problem -- one of the circuits in the kitchen had blown and this had brought down the whole house with the exception of what was working. Gomes said the "systeme electrique est tres ancienne" and needed to be replaced. He made a temporary repair and said to be careful and his fix should work until Raymond could come. We then shared a glass of wine and some conversation during which he argued forcefully that Bordeaux wines were the best in the world. As a parting gift, I gave him a bottle of wine we had just purchased at Julien de Savignac. Gomes is a delight and a lifesaver, and certainly no one has responded any faster than he did that night when we were so in need. In fact, he had been here that day to clean the chimney and to put a new drain in the shower. The septic tank, he said, would have to wait until after the beginning of the new year as he would need to bring a Bob Cat (a small tractor) in here and dig.

That night it got very cold for Liz, so Liz turned on the heater. That did it. Gomes' fix was undone, the fuse blew again, and we had no electricity except for what we had before. This was not Liz' fault, of course, as all she was trying to do was keep warm. We are Mellen's first winter renters ever and thus she has no basis for knowing that the system was too undersized to handle the load. Yes, the amount of power coming into the house had been increased, but it is like hooking a 1998 power supply to a 1948 distribution system within the house. It just is not up to running everything we need to stay warm. This is a terrific place and for the spring, summer, and fall the four wall heaters do just nicely. But in the winter, with the rooms the size they are and with the stone construction, they are inadequate and must be supplemented with the three portable units that are here. But we cannot run all 7 at the same time let alone a heater on the third floor. The system will not handle it, as we found out early on the morning of December 24 when Liz turned on her portable unit.

The next day I started down the lane to tell Mme. Lacoste we had lost all power again when I saw a truck driving up the hill. I waited to see who it was before knocking on her door -- after all, it was Christmas Eve. The truck was driven by Jean-Claude, Raymond's helper, who had come to see what was wrong. He whistled when he saw the system and echoed Gomes' belief that it was too old for the demands placed on it. But that was a job for after Christmas, he said, and until then he changed the fuse and left saying we could use two portable units in addition to the four wall heaters but not to use any heater on the third. That was good news, and because I had arranged for Liz to use Mme. Lacoste's apartment if she wanted to, I felt fine about things as I headed up to take a shower. We had the six heaters going because of the cold and it had been an hour or more since Jean-Claude's departure and if things were to come unglued surely they would have done so within that time. Wrong. When I was rinsing all the lights in the house went out.

It took a second to get dressed and to the kitchen where I smelled an intensely acrid aroma, the smell of plastic and hot metal burning. I touched the fuse receptacle and it was extremely hot and I knew what had happened -- the fuse had heated up to such an extent because of the 6 heaters it not only blew the fuse but melted the circuit switch. I then decided to call Mellen Candage in Virginia and got her out of bed to tell her what had happened and that I thought there was now a hazard of fire and feared for the house and my family. I said we had reservations at a hotel in Sarlat for Christmas and beyond but that we wanted to stay if things could be fixed that day. Fat chance for that to happen, I thought, given that it was Christmas Eve, but Mellen said she would call Raymond herself and see what she could do. I also told Mme. Lacoste who also said she would try to contact her son.

To get away from the problem and to show our visitors why we like this part of France so much, we went on a drive and left the house keys with Mme. Lacoste in case someone did come. We went to Domme where we walked around and gazed down at the valley below, La Roque-Gageac where we took a walk high above the town, Beynac where Liz, Matt, and Kristen walked the 3 kilometers up to the chateau, and then Sarlat. We may have problems at the house, but it did not take anything away from enjoying the beauty of what the Dordogne has to offer. It is simply spectacular, and our three special visitors were mesmerized by what they saw.

And they are entranced by the view from the house that greets them each morning. That view is the same, but endlessly changing, and the colors and their intensity reach out to grab hold of the soul never to let go. They can now understand when I say one could spend a year here and never tire of the sights or the friendliness and helpfulness of the people. I have a serious personality flaw in that I get bored very easily and, in most cases, want to move on to new things more quickly than I should. But here I have never experienced that, and Eleanor feels the same. She is as entranced as I, and now Matt, Kristen, and Liz are similarly effected. It is quite magical.

We had been gone for several hours and it was time to get home and see if Jean-Claude or Raymond had been there. That is, it was time to get back to reality and my continuing French trade school education. I had already taken Plumbing 1A and 1B and now it was time for the course in home electrical systems. Oh, goody. The instructor, Jean-Claude, who is a really very nice guy, was at the house replacing several things. One was the third circuit switch that had been fused shut that morning when its fuse blew. He had also replaced some other fuses and checked out the system again. He again said the service was too old and had to be modernized but Raymond would have to look it over before giving Mellen an estimate of what this would cost. But that would not be until after Christmas.

Jean-Claude then gave me my homework. Instead of each of the four electrical lines servicing the house equally, one, the third, was handling most of the load. This meant until the work was done, we had to be very careful about how many appliances we used. Therefore, I became a kind of latter day Firsty, Le Roi des Prix, except this time it was the Firsty, Le Roi du Watts. My job was to go around and look at each appliance or light bulb we were using or wanted to use and add up how many total watts this entailed when the appliances were on. Then, if we were above the safe level, we had to turn something off before we turned something else on. This had to be done for all the rooms serviced by the third electrical line, which turns out to be about the entire house. He thought that with the new switch we would be able to use a heater on the third floor and took one there to test.

He came back down to the kitchen and after a couple of minutes touched the new switch box and quickly removed his hand; it was hot and would have blown everything again if the heater were left on any longer. He went up to the third floor quickly and unplugged it. No heat for Liz. And no portables anywhere in the house; the four wall units were OK, however. We had a good dinner that night and hoped that Jean-Claude was as good an electrician as he was a teacher. I strapped the calculator to my body and became the watt policeman for the duration. That night it was 40 degrees in Liz' room but she eschewed Mme. Lacoste's apartment and braved the cold. The rest of us got by with a roaring fire that heated up the second floor so that by the time we went to bed that Christmas Eve the temperature in each second floor room was about 64 degrees. Snuggling took care of all the rest. We all held our breath for Christmas and the weekend. It would be a long time before we could get help again.

This is really a bother, but it did not get in the way of a wonderful Christmas. We had done the shopping, got the presents ready, what there were of them, and, taking Ralph Meuter's advice of "not to worry," took off on Christmas day to tour more of the country. I thought we would be the only ones on the road but I was wrong. There were lots of people visiting the same sites as we. It was cold, but not unreasonably so, and we saw lots more of this part of the country. But by 4 p.m. it was time to get back to the house, not to count watts, but to start the boeuf bourguignon as it takes over 3 hours to make. But first we had a bottle of champagne to celebrate what everyone of us knew would be one of the best Christmas celebrations we would ever have. It tasted good and marked this day as special.

The boeuf bourguignon recipe was one of Julia Child's that a friend in Paris scanned and e-mailed to me. It is easy but time consuming. We got the meat at the local butcher shop, and it is nice to deal with the people there as they now know me and my broken French and are always willing to do whatever they can to please. It must be hard for them to compete against the Intermarche, and they do so on quality and service, a winning combination anytime. We also prepared garlic mashed potatoes, peas, a salad, and, for dessert, a bread pudding soufflŽ. Oh, yes, we had some wine. Maybe too much wine. We sat down about 9:30 and for the next two hours ate, drank wine, talked, and laughed. We looked back to some of the other Christmases we had had together, shared presents, and talked about what we would do for the remainder of our time together at Lacoste. After dessert, we went into the living room to loosen our belts. It was a superb night. Even better for me, as the others washed the dishes and all pots and pans I had used to prepare dinner.

Andrew called us from his house and we had a great conversation with him. He was very lonely for his family but was getting ready to spend the day with Eleanor's other sister. It was fun talking to him, but it made us aware of how much we all missed having him around. Later that day Mary and John called to say they were expecting Andrew at any minute and that they were going to have a terrific day. Now, having touched base with the family in California Liz, Eleanor, and I followed Matt and Kristen to bed. Christmas had been simply magical. The dinner had been delicious and the tour that preceded it was fabulous. How could it be otherwise in this most beautiful part of the world. We all went to bed knowing that we had memories that would resonate in us for as long as we celebrate Christmas. And we had electricity for the entire day and night. What a way to end the day.

Part VI -- Le Grand Tour Continues

Christmas was terrific but there were several days left before we needed to pack up our gear and head for Paris for the New Year's celebrations. Eleanor and I decided that we would go to see our friends in the Haag after the kids and Liz leave for home January 3 and from there go to Amsterdam for a couple of days before returning to the house. We need to get away from the problems here and give Raymond and Mellen time to work things out before we make a decision about when we go home to California.

Saturday everyone wanted to go to the public market day in Sarlat, so after we awoke and had breakfast off we went. The kids loved the town and the market and walked through the medieval streets wondering what life would have been like so many years ago. We wanted something to eat, so we went to a small cafe we had frequented many times in the past to get a late lunch. I had an omelette, a decision that would come back to haunt me later that day. As we strolled the market we bought some things, including fromage blanc, a cheese I had been told would be a decent approximation for ricotta in some of the recipes I want to cook, and then left to drive to see the gardens at the Manoir de d'Eyrignac, which are judged to be one of the finest gardens in France.

The Gardens are simply extraordinary and a wonderful example of the difference in the English and French approach to garden design. To me this seems best represented by the French desire to impose man's will and sense of order on nature and make it bend to what the designer wants to accomplish. This is certainly true here and can be seen again at Versailles. The Gardens are part of a private estate and can be seen almost every day of the year but only on organized tours. We signed up and spent the next hour reading the English text and following behind the tour guide who was speaking in French. We always knew which one of the group was Eleanor, however. She was the one with her fingers in her ears so she would not get distracted by the tour guide as she read. It must have worked because she knew all about the gardens, but it looked really rather weird.

From there we drove home through Montignac, and then another of the most beautiful villages in France, St. Leon sur Vezere. We decided to stop off for a quick tour as it was getting late and I was increasingly feeling poorly. It felt like food poisoning, but all I had was the cheese omelette. I asked everyone to walk a little faster so we could get back to the car and the house. By the time we got there I was in real pain and went upstairs to lie down. The pain was not just in my stomach but started radiating around to my back. By then I was becoming concerned and said "yes" when Eleanor asked if I wanted her to call our neighbors for help. When they spoke, Denise Liller, who is French and speaks wonderful English, told Eleanor that she would help but wanted us to know that the doctors throughout the country were on strike (because if they see more than a certain number of patients they must reimburse the system some of the money they received). The news of this strike was almost the last straw. She called back in a few minutes to say she had contacted a young resident who would come right by.

Denise was right and in a quarter hour they arrived. The doctor asked several questions, pressed my abdomen in several places, and took my blood pressure and then did an EKG. He asked in an ominous way if I ever had heart problems and when I said "no" he continued examining the histogram and then said that everything looked fine with my heart and there was nothing to worry about. What I had, he said, was no doubt indigestion and then gave me three prescriptions and wished me luck and left with Mrs. Liller. Thank God she was there and could help. She is such a delightful lady. She has fixed up a wonderful old house down the lane and lives there with her husband, Frank, who is an American. They have lived in France for many years, and for the most part in this region. She spoke with the doctor for me and did the translations when they were needed. The doctor was an attractive young man with a good understanding of English so, with Mrs. Liller there, I could not have been better off. I went back to bed feeling better but still not out of the woods.

The next day I felt somewhat better so we all went to Monpazier and Belves to do some shopping and walk around these two extraordinary towns. I began to feel poorly, so we went home so I could go to bed. Eleanor then took the rest to Le Bugue so they could walk around and also get the medicine the doctor prescribed the night before. When they returned Kristen made dinner and everyone but one had a delightful evening. That night Eleanor could hear my stomach rumbling from across the room and we made plans for the next day that called for her to be the tour guide. It was a good thing we did as I was house bound the next two days when Matt drove to Rocamadour, Perigueux and Brantome. I wished I could have gone with them but as it turned out it was good I did not. Not only would it have been very inconvenient but it gave me the time to rest and get ready for Paris. Matt found that driving in a strange country can be very tiring and Eleanor maintained a reasonable pace as the tour guide. Thus, by the time we were set to go to Paris Wednesday, December 30, I felt well and looking forward to the next several days.

On December 30 we packed the car again and wondered how this little car could handle so many bags and 5 passengers. We said good-bye to Mme. Lacoste, who looked astonished when she peered inside the car and said she hoped we were not driving to Paris this way. We also saw my Homme du Bois who brought another load of wood. What a nice man he is, with a quick and winning smile and engaging personality. But it was time to head off to Bordeaux and off we went. We had a great time at Lacoste even with my continuing technical education and our electrical problems. It was time to continue this adventure with our family in the City of Light.

Part VII -- The City of Light and New Year's Eve

The TGV ride to Paris was terrific. We parked the car in Bordeaux in the same free lot that we have used several times before, said a quick prayer for its safety and then headed off for Gare St. Jean. After boarding the train and three hours of splendid travel we pulled into Paris, got off the train, found two taxis that would handle our load and then went to the Hotel la Bourdonnais to be coddled in the lap of luxury for the next few days. This trip to Paris was to be the best yet.

The first night we decided to hoof it down to Le Suffren, a very nice brasserie where Eleanor and I had ended our Thanksgiving stay just a few weeks before. It was a delightful reintroduction to the city for Matt and Kristen as they had been there just a few months before on their honeymoon. We sat next to a very nice Mexican couple with whom we shared good conversation and when the kids bid us good night we continued it for another hour or so.

The next days Matt and Kristen went off on their own rediscovering this extraordinary part of the world. Eleanor, Liz and I went out and saw some of the things we liked very much and just doing what is the best thing in Paris to do, just walk and look. As I have said before, other than Paris it is hard to get me excited about walking but there I just take off and go. There are so many things to see, so many neighborhoods to investigate, so many cars to dodge that each block, each step, really, makes this a walker's paradise. Liz and Eleanor were not as enthusiastic as I as I chugged in front stopping just long enough to exhort greater efforts from those two who lagged (far) behind. But if nothing else all this exercise has produced two salubrious effects. The first is a continuous appetite that will not be quenched except by some wonderful French cuisine. The second is that I keep loosing weight.

New Year's eve was an extraordinary time. None of us had ever been in Paris for this momentous night before, and we were not sure what to expect. We went out to our favorite restaurant in the 7th district, Le Maupertu on Boulevard de la Tour Maubourg and had a simply exquisite meal. This place has the best fixed price 139 franc meal in the city, but this night they just had the a la carte menu out, but without the supplement that many other places charge for this night. Everything about the restaurant is first class, from the greeting that Sophie gives her guests to the food and desserts she brings. It makes paying the bill a pleasure. When we were finished Matt and Kristen went off on their own and Liz, Eleanor and I walked to the Eiffel Tower to see what was going on.

Neither Eleanor nor I have been very big on celebrating the arrival of the new year. The desk clerk at the hotel told the kids to be careful as the city of Paris had put about 2,000 riot police on duty on the Champs Elysees so no repeat of last year's trouble would take place. "They kiss at midnight," the desk clerk said, "and an hour later they are all fighting." Matt and Kristen took notice of this, I think, and said they would be careful as they left. When we got to the Eiffel Tower about 11 p.m. hundreds of people had already gathered with their fireworks and drinks.

These folks were lighting their stash and throwing very big fire crackers and other things they knew not where and could not have cared less -- into the crowd, into groups of people standing by themselves, anywhere they wanted to without regard for anyone's safety. One person lit a rocket and instead of holding it aloft vertically he held it parallel to the ground so that when it went off it flew in the direction of some innocents sitting on park benches minding their own business. When a chunk of phosphorous exploded it landed in the hair of one of the women and only very quick action saved her from serious injury. I thought of Matt and Kristen and only hoped they were not surrounded with the same kind of idiots as we.

The thing that amazed us about all this was that none of those setting off fireworks seemed at all interested in what they were doing. In fact, it seemed to us they displayed the greatest degree of boredom possible. Thus, why do this kind of thing? Because it was New Year's Eve and it was obligatory, their sense of manhood demanded it (there were no young women partaking of this from what I could see, although I am sure there must have been ), or what? I know we must sound really old and out of it, but this only convinced me that the best way to celebrate New Year's eve is with friends or in bed. It was the latter alternative we three chose as the night got both colder and crazier. So we headed across the Parc du Champs de Mars to the hotel and bed. The concussions continued into the small hours of the night and I did not sleep well at all. Finally, I woke up and called the desk and was told that Matt and Kristen had come back and were in bed for the night. I got under the covers again and went soundly to sleep.

Part VIII -- Final Thoughts

December was a great month for us. We had some problems at the house, to be sure, but they were overshadowed by the fact that we had our son and daughter-in-law with us and Eleanor's sister, Liz, for two weeks. On the way back from Sarlat December 30, when I had to visit my bank and the day we left for Paris, I thought to myself how much I really did love this part of France and what it meant to me to be here. And I thought about what the adjustment to life in California would be like when I returned. It would not be easy, I knew that for sure.

I also knew on this short drive to and from Sarlat that I had achieved what I came to France to do -- have the time to recharge my batteries and gain a fresh perspective on life. The French have helped in this because they have been so kind to us and so tolerant of my fractured French. The pace of life and its quality in the Perigord have also played a part. As has the house in its own way, even though I had not counted on going to technical school when I came here to learn how to count watts before turning on some appliance or other. But that has been OK, as in the long term it was its other attributes that have been the most important -- the view from the windows, the serenity of the place, the ability to do nothing for hours except to look out at the valley below. These have been a powerful influence on me and how I look at life.

But perhaps most of all this feeling of serenity was generated by my homme du bois whom I saw the day we all left for Paris, as he seemed to personify much of what I had been thinking about that morning. He brought another load of wood and, offering his hand to shake when he got down from his huge tractor, whistled good-naturedly when he saw that the huge pile he left last October was now almost gone. It had been a very cold winter and the depleted supply only proved it, he said chuckling. We chatted a bit about his Christmas trip to Paris and what a great city he thought it was. He asked if I still liked living in France and thought our New Year's trip sounded terrific. He cared that we were having a grand time and loved being in what he called the heart of France. He is such a gracious, affable chap, of modest height and stout frame, with a wonderfully round face with eyes that dance and a mouth that is quick to form the most engaging smile. When I asked if he would have a glass of pastis with me to celebrate the new year he declined, citing the early hour. Good thing, too, I guess, as I had to drive to Bordeaux and he had to use a chain saw to cut some of the logs he had brought into a smaller, more manageable size. This encounter with a man so nice and so accommodating brought me back to reality and to the realization that things were not so bad after all; it fact, he made me realize that life, indeed, is pretty good.

This realization was a nice way to leave Lacoste. We were off to Paris for the New Year's celebrations and then, after everyone left for home, for the Netherlands to see John and Liesbette Wiley in the Haag again and then to tour Amsterdam. But this is for the January journal, so let me now send everyone reading this our very best wishes for a wonderful and prosperous and safe 1999. We hope the year is a great one for you all. The best one yet. Happy New Year.