On the first day of the month the Meuters and the Roberts drove off into the dark for their trip back to Paris. They had to get the car back to Charles de Gaulle airport by early afternoon or pay a horrendous late fee. Thus, they were up early in the morning and packed some pain au chocolat, fruit, and other things to sustain them on the trip. It was time to leave, so they put their bags and food in the car and away they drove. Theirs was to be a sprint to Paris, and there was no time to sightsee along the way; Jim would see to that.

For Eleanor and me, their leaving was a sad time. We had such fun with these folks and did not want it to come to an end. But most good things must, so we looked at each other and went back to bed to ponder what we would be doing in the next few days. There is a plethora from which to choose, of course, but we somehow felt a little down and dispirited. Yet, we also knew it would be a very busy month with friends from California and Minnesota coming for Thanksgiving. A gang of five wonderful people and it promises to be great.

The week after the Meuters and Roberts left was devoted to cleaning the house, getting laundry done, various things straightened out, and other chores. Constant fires in the evening meant that there was a great deal of soot to clean from every flat surface in the living room, floors needed vacuuming, and other things that come from people living and having a grand time in this really very nice house. There were also some things that needed fixing, such as the wall heater in the living room, which I needed to arrange for. Thus, I was in contact with Mellen Candage, the owner, about getting her plumber, M. Gomes, to come not only about the septic system but to fix the heater. Up to then the temperature had been moderate so far this Fall so the need for the heater has not been great, but there were indications that this could change very fast. Mellen said she would call him or send a fax (this man is a modern plumber) and keep me posted on her success. The septic system still needs repair, which we hope will be done sometime soon.

On All Saints Day, November 1, the day the Roberts and Meuters left and our youngest son's 28th birthday (and my how we miss Andrew and his elder brother, Matt), Eleanor and I took a drive to Saint Cyprien and other towns near us, and were taken by the fact this seems to be the day when families go to the cemeteries to visit the graves of family members who have passed before. It is a nice custom, I think, and made this otherwise dreary day for us memorable. The next few days were lazy ones. We slept late and when we got up made a small lunch and then a larger meal at night. As I said last month, one of the most delightful things about having a house while away from home is the ability to cook what you want when you want. Neither Eleanor nor I can understand how anyone can eat two big meals a day so when we have a large lunch we have a light dinner and visa versa. It works out very well for us both, and for our guests so far.

Not needing to be on the road constantly, we took our time exploring more of this won-derful region. On one afternoon after the fog (or heavy mist, really) lifted we drove to Tremolat and walked around this delightful village. Another day we set out driving and turning on this road or that, just exploring. I have said before that the French roads are wonderful and the signage is equally good, once one gets used to its placement. Now that there are fewer cars on the roads, many highways are being repaired after the summer's heavy traffic and the farm machinery and trucks that travel them at all times of the year. The road departments do a wonderful job of repairing their highway system, and in many places were rebuilding stone walls along the side of the highway (rather than replacing them with cheaper and faster metal barriers), thus maintaining fidelity with the original design. This is an aspect of France I really admire, a determination to maintain a sense of place that we seldom have time for at home. I am sure there are ancillary motives (providing a steady flow of work for the crews, etc.), but I prefer to accent the first one.

November 8 we took a long drive through the countryside, some of it new to us and some of it we had seen before. We drove to Sarlat to walk around, La Roque and Beynac, Vezac, Montignac, St. Cyprien, Le Roque Saint-Christophe (which is fabulous), and Le Grotte du Grand Roc, and others. It was about 160 kilometers in all, and the interesting thing is that we drove it in the opposite direction we usually do and the entire drive seemed new. We saw houses and chateaux we had not seen before, the light shone through the trees at different angles, and the change in the seasons had its effect as well. It was a wonderful day that saw both of us tired and ready for a drink when we got home. I started a raging fire, poured some Sapphire gin (what a way to end any day) for me and a glass of wine for Eleanor. Some bread and cheese made the late afternoon drift into evening, when I slipped into the kitchen to make dinner. We had had such a delightful day that I thought of slipping into something else, but that mood had not yet reached my bride, so the kitchen it was. This was clearly one of the nicest Sundays we have spent together in recent years.

Neither Eleanor nor I are sure what will happen when we get home to California next year to resume our lives there. I usually get up and work in the morning and Eleanor gets out of bed to race off to Jazzercise. Yet, here in France no matter how we resolve to get up early and begin the day with a walk we never get started quite as early as we want to. We stay up late so Eleanor can read and do e-mail and I stay up with her. Thus, we linger in bed in the morning (it is cold and the snuggling is nice), there is nothing but that wonderful and simply indescribable silence that seduces us into remaining there just a bit longer, and the view, when we do emerge from under the covers, is too heavenly to bear. How will our lives be different when we return home and will we find getting back into the California groove easy or hard? We do not spend a great deal of time thinking about it, but the idea is there, niggling at us from time to time, reminding us that this trip will come to a conclusion at some point and that we must be ready to face reality once again.

To our delight, not long after our first guests departed, we were in contact with the May-nes in London, and David said he and Jo would love to visit. David had just returned from South Africa after a melancholy journey home and Jo was just getting over a bad cold. We were pleased they wanted to spend some time with us in France. They are very special people to us, and to their many friends in Davis where David spent some years at the University of California. They have a house near Toulouse, a "ruin," as they call it, so they are used to being in France and like it here very much; and we hope they will have a grand time with us in Le Bugue and Lacoste.

The next couple of days saw us getting ready for their arrival, and on late Tuesday after-noon they were here, and what a joy it was to see them.

Part II -- The Maynes Are With Us

David had told us Jo and he would be here in the late afternoon, but as the day wore on I began to worry, just as I had with Ralph Meuter and his troops. "You are such a jerk," Eleanor said, "they are big people and can take care of themselves." She was right, of course, as just then we heard the sound of the gate and they were here. Sounds familiar, right? "I told you we would be here in the late afternoon," David said, "and here we are." They brought their bags in from the car, unbagged a bottle of Sapphire gin (and other goodies from London) and we had a toast of welcome followed by a simple dinner. And so began a wonderful week with very special people.

The week was a lazy one, really, with no agendas to serve other than spending some time together. The reputation of the open air market in Sarlat had not escaped the Maynes, however, so we decided to begin their visit with a trip to that town and then do a little driving around. It was a genuinely good choice as we got to Sarlat just in time to see one of the most moving tributes to the end of World War I any of us has ever witnessed. This was November 11, after all, and all France seemed to join together as one to remember those who had fallen in the Great War or, as President Wilson called it, the war to end all wars. This century has been witness to the falsity of that dream.

Just think of it. France is a nation that chooses to remember this event on the actual day it occurred. It is remarkable. And our seeing it was pure serendipity, as when we got to the Rue de la Republique the parade passed us heading toward the Place du 8 Mai 1945, which commemorates those who had been killed by the Nazis during World War II. It is a simply beautiful and beautifully maintained public garden. Across from it stands the statue commemorating the men from Sarlat who died in World War I, and this is where the ceremony of speeches and thanks giving was carried out. There is one of these statues in almost every town, it seems, and it is easy to see that here in France this war, which destroyed an entire generation of young men and changed the course of European history, still captures the popular imagination and is a living presence in the minds of the French people.

At the end of the ceremony several men were awarded a medal to celebrate their contri-bution to France, one presumes in the resistance against the Germans (they were certainly too young to have fought in the Great War) and given kisses by the beautifully uniformed presenter. As this was going on, an older woman turned to me and asked if I were English. When I said no, I was an American she smiled and said, "good." I took that to mean she was happy I was there because she remembered America's assistance to her country in past conflicts, including the one being celebrated on that beautiful day in this small town in rural France.

At the end, the Marseillaise was played with enormous gusto by a small band of musi-cians of all ages and sung by members of the crowd, and as I hummed along rather more loudly than I thought, the woman looked at me again and smiled. It was one of the best days I have ever had in this country and reminded me of what it is like to be proud of one's country and heritage and what citizenship in it means. It was reaffirming in many ways, but in another it made me rather sad that we Americans do not seem to have the same zeal as the French and have settled for things such as Presidents Day (Lincoln and Washington were NOT born on the same day!!!) and other holidays that have lost their raison d'etre in the rush to move them so we can have longer holiday periods. That is, so that they will be more convenient. Ah, la douce France.

At the ceremony's conclusion, we all went to the market and bought some things for din-ner and had lunch. Then we drove to Domme, La Roque-Gageac, Beynac-et-Cazenac and home. One of the nice things about showing some of our favorite places to guests is to see them through their eyes. This was certainly true of this day, as neither David nor Jo had been to Domme or Le Roque and were as fascinated by them as we. I have writ-ten before about the effect of La Roque on my soul and that is as true now as ever. David and I took a stroll on a path above the town from one end to the other and it was fascinating. I had not done this before and it is a spectacular stroll. We also saw the place where a big rock broke away several years ago, crashing down on houses below killing several people.

This first day together, as our son, Andrew, would say, was "killer." This phrase, so ex-pressive of a younger generation, was right on target as it was a sumptuous day. Much of the next day it rained, but being from England this did not deter either Jo or David. So off we went to Rocamadour all set to have the picnic we had planned. We cut up some pork from the night before and bought some things along the way, but when we got to the sanctuary, on the top of the three plateaus that make up Rocamadour, it was too rainy and cold to sit outdoors. Thus, we parked the car so we could see out to the sanctuary and the country beyond, opened the wine, and ate our sandwiches. No one has ever had a better picnic than that. Good food. Great view. Even better company. And we did not spill a thing. Life cannot get any better than this. (But I said that last month as well. I guess it can under these circumstances.) After the meal, we went into the village and walked around, now that the rain had decided to quit for a while. A package of walnut cookies for Jo, another for Eleanor, and quickly we hoped to never see any of them again; a beautiful umbrella for Eleanor and a coin purse for me; some other silly things and we were ready for the long drive home, a fire, a drink, and dinner. And bed. It was a long but terrific day.

The pace on Friday was relaxed as we decided to stay around the house. We went into Le Bugue for coffee and croissant and a stroll around this very charming town. Le Bugue is really a very nice place and we all liked the chance to get to know it better. We are still caught off guard by the 12-3 pm closing for lunch but find that it is a schedule to which we could be accustomed without great trouble. When we got back to the house, David and I went to a local lumberyard to see if I could buy some more petit bois to use to start my fires. I was running out of what I found here and I knew I would need to find a new source to start the logs (or semi tree trunks from the look and weight of them) that I got from l'homme du bois in October.

David and I met the manager and I told him what I wanted. He sort of understood but did not really put two and two together as we traipsed through the yard, ankle deep in mud and from one pile to another. I kept saying I needed petit bois to start my fires, not the logs or other things to which he took us. The manager was a really very nice guy whose business it was to produce lumber for the construction trades, not petit bois for my fireplace, and he really wanted to help, a trait common to this part of France. Finally, way in the back he showed us some bundles of stakes used to make fences and I said, "voila," that most useful of all French words. We were in petit bois heaven and I said they were just right, provided the wood was dry. He said, "no, monsieur, it has been raining, the wood is wet." I said true enough, but were they tres sec, sec enough to start a fire, to which he shrugged noncommittally. This was, of course, the natural response, as I am sure it would never have occurred to him to try to start fires with wood that was meant for fence posts.

David and I were laughing mightily at this point, which must have confused the poor man even more, as the whole thing must have seemed so silly to someone who was only trying to please. David and I took home three stakes to try and promised to return if they worked. Somehow, this was lost on the manager, as he looked totally befuddled as we drove off with expressions of wild appreciation. That night we used the stakes to start the fire and found they were just the thing; I knew I would go back for more. This was almost as exciting a time as the one I had with my original homme du bois. And it only serves to reinforce the point about the friendliness and hospitality of the French. That night Jo cooked a great meal of cauliflower with a terrific cheese sauce (I must get that recipe) and some other things and it was just delicious. So simple yet so elegant, the hallmark of good food and a great cook.

The next couple of days were leisurely but fun. Saturday we went back to Sarlat for the big farmers' market to purchase food for dinner and some wine, bread, tomatoes, and sausage for another picnic. This was not to be an open air picnic, either, as there was no convenient place to sit and it was drizzling. So we went back to the car, which was parked in the public square that also contained stalls with vendors selling goods of all de-scription and variety (unlike the Wednesday market day, the one on Saturdays has ven-dors selling general merchandise not just food stuffs). We got in the car, opened the wine, took out the food and made sandwiches. We must have made an interesting sight to those wandering by -- four people crowded in this little red Peugeot with steamed up windows eating and drinking and laughing all the while. This picnic did not have the view of the last one, but it was equally good.

That night Jo was going to cook dinner for us again, but as she was walking by the pool to pick some flowers for the table tripped on one of the stakes that had been placed to hold the tarp over the pool. She fell heavily, bruising her face very badly and cutting the inside of her mouth. It was scary but she thought she would be fine. (She would recover nicely, the doctor told her after their return to London. But it made me mad as hell, as I should have anticipated this might happen as the stakes are invisible and there was no tape around them to give people the visual clue they were there. The tape is now in place.) David took such gentle care of her and, to my protestations to the contrary, continued to make Jo's dinner. It was very good, of course, as she is a cook to envy and made sure David did things just right, but we were reminded by Jo's increasingly swollen face and bruised eye of what might have been.

The next day, as one might surmise, was a difficult one for Jo, as she was not feeling really up to par. We decided to stick close to home and went to the quite remarkable La Roque St-Christophe which is near the house. This is a series of over 100 caves that rise vertically above the valley floor over 250 feet. The caves are both natural and man -made in origin and were in use from the Upper Paleolithic Age through the end of the 16th century. The French have done a wonderful job in maintaining them and creating a site where visitors can find out what life must have been like for the people who used this as a home and a fortress against the Vikings, during the 100 Years War, and the Wars of Religion at the end of the 16th century, when everything was destroyed.

These extraordinary terraces were capable of harboring up to 3,000 people at a time and we were able to see how they made this into a small town that included walls at the face of the cave openings that looked down on the valley below. We walked the entire area and simply marveled at what we saw. It was also wonderful to see Jo and David walking on ahead of us, David so attentive to how his wife was feeling. We saw them walking arms wrapped around one another, leaning in as though to hold one another up. This was, to me, a perfect and physically enchanting metaphor of their over 40 years together, two lives entwined over time to make one. That night we had a shrimp dinner and headed off to bed, as Jo and David had an early start in the morning for their drive back to London.

It was hard to say good-bye to the Maynes the next morning. This was a precious time for Eleanor and me as we had such fun being with them. Jo went off looking better and more full of life than she had the last couple of days, something that encouraged us all. So they departed into the morning mist and, almost, into the stand of bamboo that borders the lane as David was backing down it to turn around. Almost lost him there. Whew. We waved good-bye, looked at one another, and sighed. It was cold and we went back to bed, leaving to a later hour the decision of what we would do next. (After they got back to London and Jo had seen her doctor, David e-mailed us to say that all was well and that Jo had incurred no serious injuries. That was GOOD news, indeed.)

Part III -- Time For A Getaway

After the Maynes left we were rather down and needed a break. Eleanor and I had had it with things and decided to get away for a couple of days. We like the house and the area, so our sense of needing to escape had nothing to do with that. We just got tired of toting wood, chopping same, going to find petit bois to start a fire, cooking, and all the rest. And Eleanor wanted to take a long, luxurious shower during which she could, to use a phrase that will resonate with our boys, do "the works" (a phrase that will go undefined to protect Eleanor's sense of dignity). So, we called the Le Vieux Logis in Tremolat. The choice, although it came with a very interesting price tag, was very good as it has a great staff and a superb kitchen.

The drive from Le Bugue was simply extraordinary. We had been to Tremolat a couple of weeks before when we took a turn on a side road as we were heading toward Bergerac and just came upon the village. Yet, as with so many other drives in this part of France, with so different roads that lead to the same destination, we found this time we could get to the village by taking another route. What a remarkably good choice that was. The drive was simply beautiful, a word that I seem to use a great deal when describing the Dordogne. The road rose high into the hills above the river which could be seen through the branches of the trees, now increasingly denuded by the onset of winter; the leaves were loosing much of their color and their fight to cling to the trees for just a day or two longer. If truth be known, I really like the images this defoliation creates, looking through the spiny architecture of the trees down to the river and the fields beyond. And through the frost of one's breath in the air.

Even though it is increasingly winter, with the very cold air to prove it, we saw lots going on. Some of the fields we saw below us and across the Vezere river were well manicured and still in production, with large plastic coverings over them held up by large hoops to create hot houses that are used to produce winter crops. This kind of farming, interspersed with green pastures and brown fields that had been harvested and made ready for the winter, created a mosaic that was fascinating, endlessly varied, and has an esthetic quality that is irresistible. And dare I use that word again? It was wonderfully quiet.

We passed through the town of Limeuil and saw where the Dordogne and Vezere rivers converge. Like La Roque-Gageac, Limeuil has been judged to be "L'un des plus beaux villages de France," one of the most beautiful villages in France. And how right the judges were. It is magnificent. And, set at right angles are two bridges that cross the Dordogne and Vezere rivers where they converge to form the Dordogne. It is a simply beautiful spot and not to be missed by anyone who follows this route. We then drove to the water sports area and walked around for a bit before getting back in the car to drive further west to Tremolat. As we drove we came to a sign that read "Cingle de Limeuil" and stopped to gaze at the view. And what a view it is.

"Cingle" is a word that means "meandering trail," and this is what it did along the pali-sades above the Dordogne river. I know in this journal that I keep harping on this, probably to the boredom of whomever reads it. But it is hard to understand the impact the vistas and the solitude are having on Eleanor and me. They are so beautiful, so se-rene, so variegated in complexion and coloration, so overwhelmingly quiet. Yet, we did not stroll too far before turning back to the car. It is almost the third week of November, and it was getting colder by the minute.

We arrived in Tremolat about 2 pm and drove around a bit. It did not take too long as less than 500 people live there. This is a tobacco growing region and one can see a large number of sheds in which the leaves are drying before being turned into those little cylinders of death. (I guess there is no need to ask whether or not I smoke.) It is a quaint town filled with really nice people, as is so often the case in France. Three of them were at the local pastry shop where we stopped to get something to eat, as neither Eleanor nor I had had anything that day. In the shop were the owner, her young son, and one customer to whom they were talking in a very animated fashion. Yes, there was also the pain au chocolat. My I love them so.

The young son of about 10 years watched us intently as we talked about what we wanted to eat. When we paid for the snack and were saying our good-byes to the proprietor, her son, and the customer, a wonderfully civilized ritual that is so very French and makes social intercourse so salubrious and pleasant, her young son said "good-bye." What a treat. I stopped, went back to him, kneeled down, shook his hand and had a short conversation so he could practice his English. He was nonplused and a bit embarrassed yet pleased, but it was so unexpected and so delightful to hear this young voice blurt out something he had learned in class. And if he only knew that it was HE I wanted as a tutor as I attempt to get better at French. It was a great welcome to this small village in la France Profonde and so typical of our receptions wherever we go.

Le Vieux Logis is very nice, but just a bit stuffy and catering to a crowd that is too distant in taste to ours. The hotel itself has been formed out of an old farm and the rooms and the dining room have that flair and flavor to them. Next to the Inn are farms and fields that are such a part of the region, and make strolling around very pleasant, indeed. However, much to our displeasure we found that our room had little heat when we checked in and downstairs in the sitting room the fire looked as though it had taken lessons from my first attempt at starting one in Le Bugue. (Not wanting to hold myself up to ridicule again, let me just send you to October's page.) At my urging, the desk clerk came by to get it going and threw paper balls at the log that persisted in doing nothing but smolder, producing no heat and lots of smoke. I suggested she was wasting her time, that she needed some petit bois to get the log going, and that I knew a place where she could find some. She was not amused. But all in all the stay was fine and we had a great time.

Dinner was served in the restaurant, of course, but this one was created out of the old sta-ble and done to perfection, from our point of view. Tables are set into what were once stalls, something that made me look down more than once to see on what my shoes were resting (oh, just kidding). The space was absolutely terrific and made me think of how things can be done when enough attention is given to detail. Lots of money does not hurt, either. We began dinner with a vichyssoise, followed by a vegetable dish, monk fish in beurre blanc, a steak in a mushroom and demi-glace sauce, cheese, and an apple tarte on the most exquisite puff pastry I have ever tasted. Oh, did I forget espresso and chocolates? (Please, STOP and I will tell you every secret I know. Just NO MORE FOOD.) We chose a wine from Bergerac because the label stated it was "the glory of my father." Anything with that so clearly stamped on it could not be bad, and it was not. After we got a crane to hoist us out of our chairs, there was nothing to do following the completion of this really quite wonderful meal but to head up to the room and dream about what was for breakfast!! You know what this cost? It was 245 FF for the two of us, exclusive of wine and coffee. This is the best bargain in the Western world. Wow.

The next day was a reminder of what was to come, in terms of the weather. It was COLD. I mean seriously cold. We met a very attractive young couple from Wisconsin the night before, and they must have been in their element with the weather that greeted them in the morning. After Eleanor got finished with "the works," we strolled around on this cloudless morning and noted with some degree of wonderment that the frost everywhere we looked took on the outline of the shadows that protected it. Thus, as the sun cast a shadow on the grass in the form of a roof line, that was the outline of the frost. Same with hedges and anything else large enough to cast a shadow. It was quite beautiful and a lesson I remembered as we drove back to Le Bugue and the house; I did not want to fall victim to verglas (black ice). We had a terrific time in Tremolat and one we will remember for a long time, as much for the dinner and the Inn as the beauty of the drive over and back. It was just 12 kilometers (about 7 miles) , but it took us well over an hour each way. It is spectacular, and no one coming to this part of the world should miss it.

Part IV -- Thanksgiving and The Great Train Strike

Besides good service and great food at Le Vieux Logis, we also learned that a rail strike had been called for the time when we planned to leave for Paris to meet two sets of friends who were coming to France to spend Thanksgiving with us -- Ron and Carol Korvas and their daughter, Allison, from Minnesota and Van and Virginia Garner from California. That news threw us into a panic, of course, as the train was the only conven-ient way to get there other than a plane, and I did not want to consider that just yet. France in November always seems to be strike prone and this year looked as though it would be no different. However, when we went to the splashy new office of the SNCF, the French rail line, here in Le Bugue to ask about our chances of getting away Saturday we were told that the train would be running and not to worry. I worried anyway.

When I talked with Ron and Van about coming to France I suggested that we all spend a day or two in Paris and then travel to Le Bugue to spend Thanksgiving at the house and to tour the area where Eleanor and I are spending our time, and then a day before they left for home back in Paris. We wanted to take them to the spots in the Perigord that had so excited us and our other visitors and why we thought this part of France is so special. It was an elegant plan that depended on the SNCF keeping its schedules and having no strikes. This was, of course, to be frustrated. We hoped for the best as we got ready to head for Paris, but were filled with a sense of foreboding. And excitement as we looked forward to seeing old friends no matter what the circumstances might be.

On November 21 we piled our suitcase in the car and took off for Bordeaux, not knowing what to expect. This is a short drive in kilometers (140 in all) but it takes just about three hours to complete, driving as one does, through small towns and, as one gets closer to Bordeaux, endless acres of vineyards. It is a remarkable sight, really, and sometime Eleanor and I will make the detour to St. Emilion, a town known for its beauty and great wine, to take in both. We got to Bordeaux an hour before the train left and began to look for a place to park, as the station garage was completely full.

With the help of some friendly police and the Avis car rental agency we found one in an open lot that had big signs warning those who parked there did so at their own risk, that there are no security cameras, and to remove radios and all personal items from view. But it was free, so we locked the car and set off, wondering if the car would be there when we got back the next Monday with the Gang of Five. We hiked the block to the train station, found our train was running and went to our seats; we were off. It was a good thing we left an extra hour for the journey as we used it in going through the kinds of mini adventures that will, in time, add texture to the warp and woof of our memories but at the time got the acid dripping, dripping, dripping, into my stomach.

The train took us to Paris quite nicely. It is really a wonderful way to travel, as long as the trains leave and arrive when they are supposed to. We got a taxi at the station and arrived at the Hotel La Bourdonnais about 5 pm and checked in. From out of the sitting room popped that Red Head from Minnesota, Ron Korvas, who had heard us at the desk. We had not seen one another for two years and in the interim he had experienced some tough physical problems but one would never know it. He looked spectacular.

Carol and Allison were upstairs in the room resting, he told us. As we found out, it had been an exhausting trip for them, with a canceled flight on American Airlines and a change to Air France in Chicago. This resulted, of course, in lost luggage that trickled in over the next couple of days. Ron took us upstairs and we had a few drinks and planned the evening. It was going to be an early one, as we were all tired. We decided to try the restaurant downstairs in the hotel. It was wonderful and a great way for our friends to be introduced to the gastronomic delights of this city. After dinner, as the eye lids of our friends began to sag under the weight of weariness, we released them from their social obligations and told them to get to bed. They did not resist.

We went up to the room and I turned on a TV for the first time in over 7 weeks and found CNN. Guess what was on, a panel of pundits led by Wolf Blitzer talking about the Monica tapes and what the fallout would be for Clinton. Eleanor was in the bathroom a t the time but hurried into the bedroom when she heard my shriek. She must have thought I was having a heart attack. Are they still on this? How many times can these people chew on the same piece of cud? Even cows have to swallow after a time. Will it EVER die a natural (or, more appropriately, an unnatural) death? Would the House vote for impeachment or censure? Would the House use this to eviscerate Clinton's last two years in office, the Republican majority acting like the statesmen they are? Would he be able to get anything through the Congress? And what of its effect on his legacy? -- right, legacy. Paleeeeez. It never ends. And it is so stupifyingly boring.

I have an answer to part of this dilemma, and could not care less about the rest. My sug-gestion is a modification on the electronic anklet used to track people who are confined to their houses as punishment for some kind of infraction or another, the kind that buzzes when the miscreant goes off the reservation. My idea is for an electronic zipper the President would have to wear and whenever he lowered it for whatever reason a bell would ring in the Secret Service office. Then, upon hearing it, an agent would rush to the Oval Office (or wherever) to see if everything was as it should be. Now, knowing the President was being made to act in an adult and responsible fashion the House Judiciary Committee, to say nothing of the rest of the Congress, could get on with the nation's business. What a unique and refreshing idea that is. TV? No thanks.

Sunday, November 22 the compliment of visitors was complete when Van and Virginia checked in about 11 in the morning. Theirs had been an easy flight, Van said, and we sat and chatted about strikes and what to do. I said that I was concerned about taking them to Le Bugue with the labor actions that were planned for that week. The French railroads would be struck Monday, which meant we could not get to Bordeaux and Le Bugue until Tuesday and, because there was an action called for Friday, we would have to spend Thanksgiving on the train heading back to Paris rather than at the house. On top of that we found out the Thursday before we left that the electricity into the house was undersized as we blew out the circuits on a particularly cold night.

That Thursday morning at about 4 am I awoke just freezing and scampered to the third floor, which by then was giving a fairly accurate imitation of a meat locker, to retrieve a space heater we had left there when the Roberts used the room. I plugged it in our bed-room and everything seemed so much better. I set the thermostat and timer for 4 hours and started to drift off again contentedly. Just then I heard the heater click off but I could still hear the ticking of the unit's clock. Wow, that heated the room fast, I thought, but why was I still so cold? Then I noticed the hall light was off and I knew instantly what had happened. I shouted to Eleanor, "we have lost electricity," and reached for the flashlight I keep next to the bed. It was not there. Drats. The room was dark, I mean really dark, giving a whole new definition to the word "BLACK."

I got hold of the wonderful LL Bean barometer clock we brought with us that, when you press the top, lights up for two seconds. So here I was, using this thing for a flashlight, pressing the top repeatedly to get short bursts of illumination as I crashed into things lying on the floor, trying to find what I had done with that damned flashlight. I always say I will put my shoes under the bed, hang up my pants, and pick up other obstacles, but I seldom do, to which my sore toes could attest the next morning. (The flashlight was on the dresser where I had placed it after coming down from the third floor.) This must have looked so silly, this old guy with white hair all askew in his underwear fumbling in the dark and using a travel clock's backlighting for light and freezing all the while.

At first we thought the entire grid in our area went down but the next day found that the added drain from the space heater had tripped the main circuit breaker to the house. Thus, we had to call Electricite de France to come out and increase the wattage. I e-mailed and then phoned Mellen about what had happened, and she was again terrific in helping to get things fixed. We were off to the big city the next day and left it for others to worry about. Mme. Lacoste was there to let the people into the house to do the repairs. She is the best there is and would make sure that everything was done right. But this lack of sufficient energy, together with the train strikes, made it clear to our friends and to us that we should remain in Paris for the Thanksgiving holiday, refugees in search of sights to see and good food to eat. What better place than Paris for this. I think it took our friends about a pico second to decide to stay.

None of our guests had been to Paris before. What a treat to show them some of the things we like so much about this most wonderful place and to have them have the time to explore by themselves. Ron and Carol had done a lot of reading about what they wanted to do and see and so took off by themselves most of the days and just explored. But that first day we spent together as we went to Sainte-Chapelle, Notre Dame (where everyone climbed to the very top), and other sights we encountered just strolling around this simply extraordinary city, took the metro to Boulevard Haussmann and ended up at Printemps department store for some shopping, but not too much as prices are about dou-ble what they are at home for the same items. Then as we were set to head back to the hotel I said "why not walk? The hotel is just a short 20 minute stretch of the legs away." After all, Van said he loved walking in the city as much as I do.

It is rather bizarre, but I hate to walk and refuse to do so almost everywhere in the world but Paris. There I can go for hours and was accused by the 5 others of terrible deception and leading a death march as we headed home that night; Van and I were having a grand time. Eleanor calls me the Energizer Bunny. The 20 minutes "soon" became 50; we were further away than I thought. We walked down to the Opera and past the Madeleine to the Place de la Concorde, over to Le Petit Palais and Le Grand Palais, over the Pont Alxandre III (what a beautiful bridge that is), down the Avenue du Mal Gallieni to the Hotel des Invalides, and from there to the Boulevard de la Bourdonnais. Picky, Picky, Picky. Just because it was just a smidge more than "a short 20 minute stretch of legs" and the weather hovered around freezing late in the day, these people got a little testy. But they saw Paris by night and a more fantastic sight cannot be imagined. Finally, the hotel sign was in sight and we were there, ready for our Happy Hour, nibblies, and dinner. It would be a great one as we were all very hungry.

The next few days saw the Korvases go off on their own, led by the intrepid and never-gets-lost Ron to see the sights. Van, Virginia, Eleanor and I set off in other directions to see what we wanted to. It is a nice way to do things, it seems to me, as we would catch up with one another in the evening as we had drinks together and thought about where we would go for dinner. For lunch we ate sandwiches on the fly, went to Cafe Flo on the top floor of Printemps under that simply extraordinary stained glass cupola, and on one or two occasions had very good meals in formal places. For dinner we all went out to some really fine restaurants, and a couple that will not make anyone's top ten list.

There was the Terrassee Restaurant on the first floor over a brasserie of the same name; Le Maupertu whose hostess, Sophie, was terrific as was the food, a combination that made us return twice -- what a grand place no one should miss if they are anywhere near Les Invilides; and Le Sancerre, which is a lunch place really, but it had quite satisfying omelettes, boar (and other) pate, wine, and tarte tatin, and a most engaging young wait-ress who made the evening memorable, as did the dog that roamed the establishment now too old, we were told, to hunt boar. This is not a bad way to spend evenings anywhere, with good friends talking about so many extraordinary sights they absorbed in so short a time, good food and wine, and, of course, my wife, Eleanor.

The weather in Paris, although quite cold at times, cooperated nicely. No real wind to speak of and, for the most part, no rain. There were low lying clouds and heavy mist at times, which, unfortunately, Van and Virginia got when they went to the top of the Eiffel tower. The top was fully enclosed, they said, but the first level gave them a good view of the city below. However, the Tower swayed a bit too much for Virginia's tastes, and she was happy to be back on firm ground. On several different evenings we walked to the end of the Parc du Champs de Mars to look at the Tower with its lights were turned on. It is a simply beautiful sight, particularly with mist in the air and when its top is obscured. There is a reddish orange glow that surrounds it as the light refracts off the water vapor in the air. Extraordinary. Too bad, though, that Van and Virginia chose a misty day for their excursion as the top of the Tower affords a visitor a spectacular view.

On Thanksgiving, Van and Virginia wanted to go on one of the boat rides on the Seine that give such a good insight into the city and the important buildings that are along side the river. We had a great time and enjoyed the ride tremendously. Ron and Carol were going to go with us but were detained after Carol had her camera stolen from her pocket while they were leaving the metro. They said a nice young man saw what had happened and retrieved it from the thief. Remarkable. As we got off the boat to head to the Arc de Triomphe and the Avenue des Champs Elysees, we saw the Korvases in line for the next departure. They had a grand time, they told us later, but it would have been great fun for us all to have been on the ride together.

We got to the Arc later than intended, but it was good that we did, as by the time we were almost to the Place de la Concorde it was dark enough for the lights along the Avenue to be turned on, along with those placed in trees. Some of the trees had been flocked recently, and in the daylight they looked oddly out of place. But, with lights on them in the evening it was a vastly different sight. The Champs Elysees and Place Charles de Gaulle were beautifully illuminated, as was the Arc itself. I encouraged Van to dart into the middle of the street where there is a pedestrian sanctuary and take photos in both directions. He looked at me as though I had lost my marbles, but then saw it could be done and took what I expect will be some terrific photos of this wonderful holiday spectacle.

We were so close to the Place de la Concorde and therefore to the hotel, we agreed to walk back to the hotel, another short 20 minute stretch of the legs. Again, the 20 minutes stretched into 60 and by the time we got to the hotel both Eleanor and Virginia were hardly speaking to me. Feet hurt, even mine, although I never admitted it, and we were cold and ready for a drink. That night for our Thanksgiving dinner we decided to have dinner at a place Ron had seen and it was a very good choice, I thought, as it was full of life, noise, and a lighthearted atmosphere. Van particularly liked his andouillette sausage, not so much for the taste, which he admitted was unique, as because the others at the table felt sorry about his choice and passed him samples of what they had ordered for him to eat. This was particularly true of Ron, who said he liked organ meat (the primary ingredient of this particular sausage), and gave Van some of his lamb. Ron is one of these loathsome people who could keep three chefs working full time while never gaining an ounce of weight or experiencing a single stomach upset; clearly he has never met a meal he did not like. He IS amazing.

Ours had been a terrific time in Paris, and on the last day, the Friday after Thanksgiving, Van and Virginia, Eleanor and I went off to the Musee d'Orsay. It is a place not to be missed, as it is one of the most beautiful museums in the world. Only the French could lavish such love and money on a plan to turn a train station meant for demolition into the unparalleled structure it is today. It is the perfect way to end a stay in Paris. Ron, Carol, and Allison went off on their own again, back to the Louvre and some of their favorite places.

Just as we got back to the Bourdonnais and sat down for a drink in came the Korvases, and , of course, the indomitable Allison, their 14 year old daughter. Perhaps behind closed doors to her parents she complained but never in front of anyone else and was al-ways ready to go. We have known her since she was a few months old when Ron and I worked together at Harvey Mudd College in Claremont, where we were hired to do the same job. (That error was ironed out in short order.) She has matured into a really very attractive young woman and it was fun to watch her take in and react to the sights she was seeing and the food she ate. I have spoken with others who have taken their kids this age with them on trips and for the most part I was very happy to be on a different continent. This was not the case with Allison, who was such a pleasure to be with.

We had our last dinner together at Le Maupertu, which was memorable not only because of the food and the owner, Sophie, but remembering the terrific time we had had together, laughing, recalling the good old days, and what good friends we all were. Eleanor and I have known Van and Virginia since he and I were both working on our doctorates at UC Santa Barbara 28 years ago and shared the same office as teaching assistants and they are like a second set of parents for our kids. We could not have closer or better friends in the world. Ron and Carol we have known for not quite as long, since our Harvey Mudd College days of the early 80s. We have watched Ron's career blossom, as it should for people of his capabilities and personality. And it will continue for some time, I know, as he is a young guy and full of energy. They are a really attractive and fun family to be with.

Saturday, so short a time after their arrival, both sets of friends returned home. And we were left to wonder how we would get back to Bordeaux. Van and Virginia left first, about 9 am and I went down to wish them good-bye. It was hard, as Eleanor and I are both so fond of them and this trip of theirs was so special. We had bid the Korvases a final farewell the night before as they were set to leave later in the day, hoping for none of the trouble that had plagued their trip to France. So, after I said "ciao" to the Garners Eleanor and I packed the last few things and headed for Gare Montparnasse hoping that the rail strike would be over.

When we got to the station the place was a mad house. There were a few trains running, but not many. Our 10 am train had been canceled but I was assured that we could use our tickets on the one scheduled at 10:45. We kept looking at the track assignment board to see on what track our train would be located; these are normally announced 30 minutes before departure. When the track number for our train was posted it looked like the Oklahoma land rush, and when people started streaming towards the track the whole balance of the building seemed to shift. By the time we got to the train there must have been 5000 people looking for 1000 seats; it was extraordinary. Then when the lights in the cars went out I knew this was not for me.

The most interesting thing was the demeanor of the people. No excitement or sense of annoyance, in the main, just a resignation that this is the way things are so why fight it. In a sense they are right, but in another I suspect that a significant percentage of people sympathize with the strikers and their sense of anxiety about what the future will bring and what the accommodations needed for European economic integration will mean to them, personally, and to their system of social services. It is a problem that is hard for most Americans to understand, because we have such a different notion about the place of the State in the lives of its citizens. And, like most people everywhere the French are loath to give up what has been given them in a flusher and less harsh and unforgiving global competitive environment. They can hardly be blamed for that.

When we saw that the train situation was not for us, Eleanor and I decided to go back to the hotel. Ron, Carol, and Allison had already left for Orly Airport by then, of course, so we went to the room for a little sleep. We got up walked down rue Cler, one of the best food streets in the city, and had a marvelous lunch of grilled sausages on a baguette. What a treat. We did more walking in new parts of the 7th and 15th districts and as we walked decided that evening we would go back to our favorite restaurant, Au Petit Mar-guery on rue Fontaine in the 16th district. It is a wonderful place that we reserve for our first or last meal in the city. We finished our walk (it was raining slightly that day) and when we got back to the hotel went into the sitting room looking for the other 5. Then we remembered we were on our own for happy hour and somehow it was not quite the same. We went up stairs and changed and headed off for the metro and the restaurant.

Sunday was the same. The strike endured and I just did not want to spend another taxi fare to and from the train station just to be run over by a crowd hungrier for the seats than were we. So we decided to stay. It was a good decision as that Sunday was one of the most wondrous days we have ever had there. A beautiful, brisk day without a cloud in the sky but with a bit of a breeze. For a change of pace we decided to have lunch at a Chinese restaurant and then we walked a long way, down to the Seine and the steps that take you to river level. We walked by the barges and boats moored to the river banks and saw in-line skaters practice their sport, dogs being walked, and lovers arm in arm, oblivious to anyone or anything else. It was spectacular but getting colder so I gave in and took the metro back to the hotel. That evening we went to a new place, the Brasserie Le Suffren, which was fun, crowded, and noisy, with quite good food. It was the perfect end to a really great day.

Part V -- Back to Le Bugue At Last

Before leaving the hotel on Sunday I thought to myself that I have this platinum Amex card for emergencies when we are in Europe, so why not call and hand the problem of getting back to Bordeaux to them; the strike was going into Monday for sure and maybe longer. I did and they fixed it with an Air France flight to Bordeaux, which was cheaper than the train. This company has given me consistently superior service and the people there saved me once again.

We got to Bordeaux at 1:30 pm and found the car in good shape (think of it, 10 days or so in an unguarded lot and it was there when I returned with all its tires, gas, and radio -- what a country) and able to start. We got back to Le Bugue in time to start a great fire and cook our favorite pasta. It is a lovely drive, and it felt good to be back in the Dor-dogne once again. The house was warm and nice with the new electricity. Paris is great but how nice to get away from the noise, the sirens, the hustle and bustle of that extraor-dinary part of the world to the calm and quiet of the French countryside. We were back at Lacoste.

This had been a fantastic Thanksgiving, and such a good month. Yes, it has been cold and we have had our problems with heating the house, to say nothing of the continuing issue of the plumbing. But Mellen is always there to help resolve any issue and that is what counts. David and Jo Mayne had come from London to spend a week with us and that was just terrific. What wonderful people. Then there was Thanksgiving so shortly thereafter. We did not celebrate the holiday with the traditional turkey and all the trim-mings, of course, but somehow we were not the losers for this. We had a glorious time with very good friends who had come a long way to celebrate with us no matter what or where we ate. We toured a fabulous piece of real estate, ate good food, drank some good wine, and saw so many sights. But most of all we just took great pleasure in being together and producing a set of memories that will be like no others.

October and November were too glorious for words. Now it is time to get ready for De-cember, Christmas and the arrival of our son, Matt, and his new wife, Kristen, and Elea-nor's sister, Elizabeth. That will be fun, and no strikes had better get in the way of that. But this is grist for next month's journal.

The approaching holiday season also brings to mind John Prine again, a song writer and singer I like very much. This song of his addresses a subject and ethic that is all but for-gotten today. I think it is important so I commend it to you now. It seems appropriate for this or any other season of the year:

You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say
Hello in there
Hello
...

So if you are walking down the street some time
And spot some hollow, ancient eyes
Please do not just pass them by and stare
As if you did not care
Say hello in there
Hello

Eleanor and I wish everyone reading this the most wonderful holiday season imaginable. You have waded through a lot of undisciplined writing and therefore deserve something worthwhile. Have a great and rewarding time, drive safely and come back to see us next month.