How anyone could land a Boeing 777 with such delicacy and precision is beyond me, but after a 6 hour flight from Dulles in Washington, D.C. I was in Amsterdam. The entire journey from LAX to Amsterdam on United had been wonderfully uneventful. I flew the airline because I had become a captive of its frequent flyer program, using its credit card to charge everything I could and flying the airline whenever possible. It turned out to be a good decision, as everyone with whom I dealt could not have been more helpful, no matter how trivial the issue might seem. It is refreshing to deal with a group of people who were as professional as they and who carried out their commitments to me to the letter.

I had decided some time before to use some extra frequent flyer miles and fly business class (I am sure United has some other, more exalted name for it) and to go by way of Dulles so I could meet Mellen Candage, who owns Lacoste, the name of the house where we will be living, and who lives in Virginia, not too far away from the airport. Both decisions were wise. Breaking up a 10 hour flight is the only way to travel, and it was good to put a face with a name and meet the person who has made me smile and laugh with how she writes about life -- in France and the US.

I spent the first several days in The Netherlands, a truly really remarkable country. Children learn four languages until the age of 16 -- Dutch, English, French, German -- so everyone whom one meets speaks the most impeccable English. It is too bad, really, to think, as I do, that they speak a more correct form of the language then we in the United States, and for reasons I do not quite understand. Beyond that is their unfailing good nature and unending willingness to help. I like the country very much.

I had flown to Amsterdam to see a man who has been a family friend since the mid-30s when he and they bumped into one another in Yosemite Valley. John had taken the train there from New York City and my mother and father, my grandfather and grandmother, and uncle were there for a weekend get away. They immediately became fast friends and remained so up until my mother's death in 1991. John is now 85 and lives in Den Haag with his wife, for whom he cares in the most loving manner, plays tennis 3 or 4 times a week, and never utters a syllable of any other than the most positive words. He is, in short, remarkable and a thoroughly enjoyable human being.

Thus, as I got off the plane and headed for the baggage claim area it was with some keen anticipation. I had not seen John in 10 years at least, but we had chatted several times in the recent past about my visit. Now, at long last, I was to see him again and talk about old times. When I got my bag I realized, for the first time really, that I had packed far too much. Now it was up to me, not the airport porters, to carry it wherever I went, and my God, it was heavy. I really did not need to bring every stick of clothing I own, as there are those new contraptions in Europe called washing machines. The Boeing 777 from Dulles had carried it without trouble, of course, but it had two huge engines each with enormous thrust. Now lifting it was up to my single engine and, after a 6 hour flight, it has precious little thrust left. But I got it off the carousal, onto a cart, and from there to the train to the Haag. I was off to see John at last.

When the train pulled into the Haag train station, I thought I had better call John to see if was OK to come by that early (it was about 9:30 am), and when he answered he was in a state. His wife had a bad night and morning and he had had to call the nursing folks for help. Thus, he asked that I not come but to try and make it the next day, Friday. I said I would, or perhaps Saturday. So, back I went to A'dam with that damned duffle and my computer bag, weighing more by the minute, but thinking of John who was handling his situation with infinitely more grace than I ever could.

When I got back to the city I was told it was going to be a busy weekend and finding a hotel would be difficult. Great. Before I left on the trip I had tried to make a booking at the Orlando Hotel, so I decided to start there. As luck would have it, someone had just canceled for that night. I snapped up the room for Thursday and then got one for the next night at another hotel not too far away. I had a booking for Saturday at the Hotel Ambassade where I would meet a friend, Brian Kennedy, who was traveling with me for the first two weeks. So, for the first three days of this adventure, I felt like a vagabond with an enormous weight, a millstone, to carry everywhere -- a form of punishment, no doubt, for being so stupid to pack as I did.

When I got to the Orlando and looked inside my bag I found that one of my plastic bottles of gout medicine had come open and half the tablets had been ground to dust. It was everywhere; it looked like the area around Mount St. Helen's must have after it erupted and spewed volcanic ash far and wide. The dust infiltrated everything, turning things into an ungodly pink (the color of the medicine) that seemed to glow in the dark. I just sat and looked at it, thinking what had I done to deserve this.

I unpacked everything, and, after shaking every piece of clothing and giving the duffle a bath in the tub to get rid of all the residual dust I dried the bag and repacked. The thing looked like an inverted black and blue whale that had been beached and then dragged into the bath tub for one final indignity -- a shower using one of those handheld sprays. It was such a fun evening and a lovely way to reacquaint myself with Amsterdam. I kept hoping that if I front-loaded the trip with such disasters the rest of my time in Europe would be uneventful. Looking back, I can see how fanciful that thinking was.

I slept all day Friday and called John late in the afternoon to arrange for a visit Saturday; it was just too much to get there any sooner. I spared him the details of the previous evening and said I would be there in time for lunch. We had a grand time together. His wife was in fine form and John was his usual self. Age has taken its toll, of course, as he was more stooped than before and he moved just a bit more slowly than in the past. But the joie de vivre was still there, the zest to tell old tales, the lilt in his voice, and his love for my mother and father, and the rest of my family. We had great fun talking about the old times, his triumphs and tragedies, and the things that made his life worthwhile -- his wife and family, and his circle of friends in the Netherlands. It was hard to say good-bye at the end of the day to head back to Amsterdam to meet Brian.

My time with John was half bitter, half sweet. Half bitter as one can see that, no matter how well he is doing now he and his wife are having tough times with her health. This takes its toll on both of them over time and one wonders how long they can sustain the present situation. Half sweet because at no time when we talked about this situation has John ever uttered one word that has betrayed a scintilla of regret or bitterness. The fact that his wife has had a stroke and that this has left her incapacitated in many ways is not something to be rued but dealt with in a way that suggested the most noble side of human nature. It was and is remarkable and one of the reasons why John is one of my heroes.

Amsterdam is a wonderful city. I met Brian at the Ambassade Hotel, which is very nice by the way and well worth trying, and we began touring together. He is like a third son in many ways, a young man I had gotten to know when I was at the University of California at Davis and he was the Hewlett-Packard rep to the campus. When I knew that Eleanor could not come with me for the first several weeks I asked him if he wanted to join me for the first couple of weeks of the trip. We would spend 3 days in Amsterdam, take the train to Paris for 4 days and then go to Bordeaux, get the car I had leased, and drive to the house near Le Bugue. Then I would take him back to Charles de Gaulle and pick up Eleanor who was flying in the day after he left. The planning worked perfectly, and we began our trip mooshing around A'dam.

This is a city where one can find almost anything. For many Americans the ever-present sex shops are an eye catcher, and where else would one find at a local curio shop two erect penises used as salt and pepper shakers. "Typical of Amsterdam," the shop keeper said good humoredly, as she saw us looking at them with bemusement. A canal tour, dining at some very nice places near the hotel, walking at night to see the lights that illuminate the arches of canal bridges (it is stunning, by the way), a stop to purchase a muffler as I was in shock from the cold -- thin blood from a very hot summer -- and we were ready to head to the City of Light.

Part II -- Paris and Dr. Groussin

The train ride to Paris was uneventful, although it was easy to see everywhere one looked that European architects have mastered the art of the utilitarian, ugly, square box form that is used for housing people, things, businesses, you name it. They are cheap to build, no doubt, but are as ugly as sin and stand at times in sharp, depressing juxtaposition to the older, more elegant buildings one would think they would strive to complement. I.M. Pei talked about this idea in the PBS documentary on his life called "First Person Singular" (which is extraordinarily good) as he set out to design the pyramids for the expansion of the Musee du Louvre. Architecture does not have to be bland to be utilitarian or inexpensive, lessons those who design so many buildings here seem to have forgotten. But we have them at home as well, but there are so few ancient structures with which the newer ones must compete. We raze them to make room for parking lots.

We arrived at the station in Paris about 4 in the afternoon and got a cab. The cabbie started to pick up my duffle when his back arched under the strain and that wonderful phrase, "Mon Dieu" escaped, barely audible from his lips. Crazy American, he thought, until I told him in my inimitable French that I was here for six months and had packed just enough to get by. He added, "without going to the laundry." I gave him a big tip anyway. We checked into the Relais-Bosquet Hotel near the Eiffel Tour and went to dinner.

Au Petit Marguery on rue La Fontaine in the 16th district is Eleanor's and my favorite restaurant and Brian and I went there for our first meal in Paris. It was very good as usual, and the chef and the wait staff have begun to recognize me. The chef came up and shook my hand and took us to our table. It was a nice beginning. The salad with poached egg, the steak with pepper sauce, and the tart tatin with creme fraiche were wonderful. The red wine was OK, too. What a way to begin this part of the trip.

It was here, at dinner in a small, neighborhood restaurant, that I became aware, for the first time, really, of the ubiquity of the cell phone in French life. (You are right. It is not limited to France.) It was like some new toy without which people just cannot live. We had a very stylish couple next to us in Au Petit Marguery, who were engrossed in their dinner and conversation and who no doubt only wanted to be left in peace. About one-half hour after we arrived two businessmen were seated near us. The inevitable happened and one of the two men's cell phone rang. No, that is not quite right. This phone just did not ring, as I know ringing, at least. It made an even more odious sound that resembled some wretched, mutant music -- the synthesized kind which, when one hears it, incites the listener to murder, or what would be justifiable homicide in any court in the world. The person answered the call and conducted his conversation so everyone else could listen, and when the man next to us turned to register his complaint he was told, in some wonderfully broken English, "I am sorry, but I don't speak French" -- the coward's way out that only Brian's strong arm kept me from pointing out. Yet, it seemed to satisfy our dinner companions, who ruminated about the conversation and who looked pleased when the two men left.

The thing that surprised me about this was that, not only here but at most other fine restaurants where we ate this was a common occurrence. This, at a time of day (either lunch or dinner), that has always been reserved for conversation and leisurely excursions into French gastronomy. Everyone has a cell phone, it seems, and drags it out to chat, or is called, at the drop of a hat, while waiting for the food to come, after a gulp of wine, between dessert and coffee, or waiting for the check. It was a hideous advance into the future, and it will be interesting to see where this will go and how people will tolerate this intrusion into their private lives in public places.

That night was one of the worst in many years. I awoke about 2 am with a racing heart rate of about 140 beats a minute. Normally it is about 45 when I am at rest but this morning it was so fast I became very concerned and nearly called Brian's room. Fortunately, I had a prescription drug for anxiety and took one. This slowed my heart rate and eased my nervousness so could go back to bed. I called Eleanor the next morning (midnight her time) and asked her to call my doctor. The answering service sent her to the emergency room of the local hospital where she was told I should see a doctor right away. That was my thought, too, and so began my saga at the American Hospital.

Suffice it to say, looking at it from this end of the periscope it was amusing but at the time I was very concerned. On Thursday I met with a French cardiologist, Dr. Pierre Groussin, without any waiting at all. He gave me a thorough exam and performed all the obligatory tests and pronounced me in good health. He did say that he thought I should have a stress test because of my extended stay in La France Profonde, and so asked me to come back the next day. My visit was reassuring, but I still wondered what the test might find.

Friday was the first day of the nationwide student strike for better conditions, more professors, and better and more applicable courses (what nit pickers these students they are, and from professor friends who have taught in French universities the demands are well justified), and after strolling around the Luxembourg Gardens, the Rodin Museum (how glorious those places are!), and other wonderful areas, Brian and I headed off to the Hospital, leaving two hours for the 45 minute trip. The metro was a mess (there was also a transit strike on one of the RER lines -- better security for the drivers was the issue here-- more nit pickers), the streets were congested as a result, it was raining, and it was almost 3 p.m., the time for the test, and we were nowhere near the place. The only thing to do was step in front of a taxi and hope he stopped (one does not hail taxis in Paris but goes instead to the taxi stands -- there were no cabs anywhere). This one stopped for me and when I told him the story, off we went. When I finally got to the office I knew that if my heart could take that kind of stress I was in good shape.

I had the stress test and the doctor said I had the heart of a teenager. When I indicated I would rather have his libido, he replied ruefully "so would I." He asked if I were fastidious about my diet. I responded I was not one of those Americans who obsessed about every fat gram; he smiled and said, "good." He then asked if I smoked, to which I said no, but then modified that to say that everyone in France smokes even if one does not in fact because of secondhand smoke. He said we Americans are a pain in the ass with all this crud about smoking and counting fat grams and that all we do is make life hard on people. Finally he asked about wine. When I said I loved it and preferred red because of its salubrious effect on the heart he smiled and said, "good. Drink lots of it but never, ever drink white wine. Its effect is bad. And never, ever drink the water in Bordeaux. In Paris it is fine, but Bordeaux...," and as his voice trailed off he wagged his finger at me in the most eloquent gesture. He said my blood pressure and weight were fine and to go on my vacation, have fun, and not to worry. Nothing was wrong. I did like this man _very_ much. I'm in good health and happy I was traveling with Brian at the time or I would have been a wreck.

When Brian and I got back to the Hotel Relais Bosquet late Friday evening after doing a little celebrating we found that I had been asked to find another hotel -- they had rented my room. After I saw Dr. Groussin, I had told the desk clerk what had happened and that I had to stay two days longer than anticipated so I could have some emergency medical tests. I was told this would not be a problem and not to worry. But I should have, as it turned out. They had put my things in Brian's room and said he was welcome to stay but that my room had been given to someone else.

We found another hotel, La Bourdonnais, and moved. The Hotel Relais Bosquet is not a place to stay if you are anticipating a staff that is helpful. (One of the young men at the desk indicated that he was too tired to answer questions about hotels in Bordeaux, our next stop; he was too exhausted from the previous night's romantic interlude to be concerned with such trivialities. Yet, he did say he was sure there were many fine hotels there from which we could take our pick. ) La Bourdonnais is very nice and in the same neighborhood, and the staff is terrific.

Part III -- Going to Lacoste

The next day we got up and went to the train station for the trip to Bordeaux. Because of my tests I could not take delivery of my leased car (it was the weekend after all). I had anticipated getting in the day of my stress test but had to put it off. Thus, I faxed my very good travel agent in New Jersey and asked her to change these arrangements the best she could. Melanie did a terrific job, and she is someone whom I can recommend without hesitation. It is nice to have experts on your side (melanie@mhinet.com).

Brian is such a whiz at such things as maps and fires. He got us out of the Bordeaux train station after getting the car, on the road to Bergerac, and then to Le Bugue. This is the first driving I had done in Europe since 1965 but it was easy to adapt. Yield to the person on your right is the only real rule I could discern people obeying all the time. Other than that it is damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Park where you want, tailgate as the only means possible to let the driver ahead know you are there and want to pass, flash the headlights at intersections, and just have fun. Can't be uptight behind the wheel, and always be flexible. It is great fun. I can remember I was in Sao Paulo and there was a law against parking curbside on one of the streets. The solution was easy. Park on the side walk and let the people use the gutters. That's what I said. Be flexible and there is a solution to everything. Much easier than the far more rigid American approach, which permits no deviation whatsoever.

I was back in my element, with no traffic laws to break, charging down the road, looking only to the right -- just as I did in 1961-62 when I lived in Italy. It was intoxicating thinking about the house and beginning something about which I had been thinking and planning for months. Bergerac was behind us, La Buisson in front and in front of that Le Bugue and St. Cirq, where the house was located. The kilometers melted away, as we passed each of these cities and some simply exquisite French countryside. Finally, there was the turnoff for St. Cirq. Up the hill to Mme. Lacoste's house -- she the simply wonderful caretaker of Mellen's home. She was away for the moment but, as arranged, the keys were on her front door grate. We drove a few more meters, past the Grotte St. Cirq, past the stand of bamboo -- yes, bamboo -- to the green gate of the house. I stopped just there and said to Brian, "never in my wildest dreams did I EVER think this day would come, that I would be here, that this adventure had commenced." It was simply too wild to endure.

Part IV -- Lacoste and the Dordogne

Rural France is, well, very rural, and very, very beautiful. The quiet is all pervasive, punctuated at times by that most wonderful sound in any language -- a train passing in the distance with its whistle blowing and the clickity-clack of the tracks just audible. Reminds me of the Johnny Cash song about Folsom Prison. One of his very best.

When Brian and I got here we were amazed how much this place resembled the photos and the descriptions Mellen Candage, the owner, had sent us. The house, as you can see from the photos on the home page, is the essence of rural French architecture and the same style can be seen throughout the Perigord. The fireplace on the ground floor is terrific and invites raging blazes at the slightest chill, the kitchen large and well equipped (but a shopping trip to that extraordinary kitchen store in Paris, Dehillerin [every gageteer's heaven], was called for to get a few odds and ends.) The two bedrooms we would use were on the first floor and had quite a chill on them, so when we found the switches for the wall heaters we started them and then made the beds. It had really begun, this odyssey and all I lacked was my wife.

At this point, Mme. Lacoste, one of the really nice people in this world, came to introduce herself, and so began my excursion into French. The lessons I had before I left paid off, yet whatever linguistic skill I have owes more to enthusiasm than to any deep understanding of grammar. As always, Mme. Lacoste was very kind, pretending to understand more than I am sure she did. After she knew we had what we needed, she left and I began to think of how I should have said all those things I stumbled over when she was here. I felt such a dunce, but two months of tapes and a month of twice-a-week lessons are never enough to make one fluent, at least not me.

I reckon that the more I try to speak, together with the continuing graciousness of the French who see I am making a valiant effort to communicate in their language and who never complain, means I should be fluent by the time I reach my 150th birthday. After all, Mellen said her father is in his fourth year of learning ancient Greek, and if he can do that while in his 70s the least I can do is attain competency in conversational French by the time I am 60. Yes, I realize this is an enormous leap of faith. But all I can do is trudge ahead, hoping for the best and keeping by my side at all times that most wonderfully useful book of all -- Barron's book of 300 of the most commonly used verbs in the French language, all fully conjugated. Professor Kendris has done us all a huge favor with this book and certainly deserves a medal from those of us whose brains are becoming more porous with each passing year.

We look out the bedroom window to a vista of such varying colors of green it is astonishing. I never knew there were so many or that they could be so intense. I know now why light was so vital to the Impressionists, as the scenes we see from the same place change so radically as the day progresses. It is astonishing and far too much for words. Wonderful wine at $2.50/bottle and wonderful food at considerably more. Most of all, there's no Monica or Bill, or that revolting image, played over and over until one wants to scream "stop it, please, for the sake of humanity and my sanity, stop ", of them hugging in that reception line. Have they eloped yet????? Hope so, and never to be heard of again. And this guy obsessed over his legacy -- Harding and him. What a pair. To think I voted for him, twice.

Brian and I both allowed as how we were happy to be here rather than home in the weeks leading up to the election, a process condemned by negative ads, politicians posturing as leaders but having no idea whatsoever what that concept means, the prattling on of all too many Republicans, with their smug aura of moral superiority, people who brush aside Henry Hyde's youthful indiscretion (at 41 and for 5 years -- paleeeeeez) to attack the President's character -- but such an easy target, I know. To say the Europeans find all this just a bit confusing is an understatement, and it is much more fun to witness this often sad spectacle from afar than to be inundated by it at home. But this is the price we pay to live in a free and open society, so, when all is said and done, better that than the alternative.

The next day, our first full one at Lacoste, we just puttered around, became well acquainted with the town of Le Bugue and the stores where we would shop, the small towns nearby (well most of the towns in this part of France are small, one of the real charms of the Dordogne), and bought grub for the next couple of days. Brian became the tour leader, mapping out what he wanted to see and planning the next day's agenda. He is such a delight and so much fun to have around, and when I began to get lonely for Eleanor he would not let that happen. I made dinner each night, he opened up the wine and got the tape player going, started all the fires (I SHOULD have watched him, as I would find out later) and we ate, drank some wine and some beer, logged onto CompuServe so he could check his football pool and I could get and send e-mail. My Dell laptop is working like a charm, thank heavens, as it keeps me connected to the larger world beyond.

Brian, the ever youthful Brian, set a wicked pace for this old man. Up early (well, sort of), out of the house by noon into shirt sleeve weather, and set for another tour. It was gorgeous and very different from Amsterdam and Paris, where it was overcast and rainy. We drove two big loops while we were here, each of which started in Le Bugue. As the towns and things are described in any number of travel books far better than I ever could, I will leave that for them. But the impressions are mine and that is what I will give here. I really hope you enjoy them.

Part V -- What a Remarkable Part of the World

It is hard to describe the countryside Brian and I went through here in the Dordogne. He wanted to see as much of it as he could, of course, but he also wanted to help me get ready for our next guests who would arrive on October 21. We started by exploring the Grotte de St. Cirq, which is guarded over by the sweet and very accommodating M. Palluzzano, who sits with his three dogs in front of his house and the Grotte waiting for people to come. I suspect the summer months are very busy for him, with the months of our visit being far less so. This is just down the lane from us and a great sight to see each day as we drive back and forth to the house.

Our first stop was Les Eyzies (the capital of prehistory as the first important discoveries were made here) and the National Museum of Prehistory, which is superb but currently undergoing a major expansion. The statue of Cro Magnon Man sits high above the road beckoning people on, and at night he, the cliffs, and his caves are lighted, making the scene almost as beautiful then as it is in daylight. The physical beauty of this small town in France is hard to describe. It has but one street for the most part and the shops and houses are built up to it, and then back and up into the cliffs above. The higher up one looks one sees structures built into the rocks whose roof lines conform to the contours of the rock formations with such precision it makes one think they must have been scribed by some gigantic mason.

The tile, slate, and stone roofs form a wondrous architectural liet motif that is utilitarian for those who live within and stunning for those of us who just stand and gaze. The stone roofs, such as the ones just down the road from the house, are particularly remarkable as they are not laid as we expect roofs to be, with the roofing material laid vertically, one course on top of the other up to the peak. These roofs made of narrow stone pieces are set in at the horizontal on a very steep pitch until the peak is reached. The craftsmanship is extraordinary as there are no gaps between stone courses and the setback one course to the next is consistent throughout. We were lucky to see the roof from both the inside and out when we visited the Grotte St. Cirq and witnessed how effective the masons were who built the roofs. Surely, they were more rough hewn on the inside than out, but only occasionally did one see light shining through cracks. The quality of the work was extraordinary, but so, too, must be the weight. Clearly, this is not a material designed for earthquake-prone California. These images of the Dordogne will be with me forever.

After strolling around, Brian and I then drove on to Sarlat, a major regional center and which has a simply exquisite medieval center. Many of the old buildings, which had been permitted to fall into disarray, have been restored in the last 35 years and now the town welcomes hundreds of thousands of people a year. The crowds this part of the world attracts in the tourist season is one reason I like it here this time of the year -- far less people. The downside, of course, is that there are far fewer places open and it is much colder. I'll take that tradeoff anytime. Sarlat is known to have the best outdoor market in the area. But bring your wallet as the things you will desire will sneak beaucoup francs from it with uncommon speed.

Then on to the village I just love, La Roque-Gageac, which sits beside the Dordogne river, the longest and, some say, prettiest river in France. La Roque is an amazing place that just touches my soul with such gentle caresses that it makes me want to return time and again. It has been awarded in the past the title of "the pettiest village in France," and for good reason. The houses are built up and into the hills above the road and cling to them as if by magic. The town is long and slender (as is Les Eyzies) and built along what is now a principal highway through the region. And there is a chateau that stands guard over it all. It is priceless, and one can take river boat rides to get a good look at the four chateaux that are on the hillsides, one of which belonged to Josephine Baker who used it for many years as a refuge for young people from all over the world. There can be no lovelier place on the planet than La Roque.

In fact, one could spend endless days in this part of the Dordogne traveling to the small towns and chateaux that dot the area. No matter what road one might take just around the bend is another village with its castle, filled with wonderful people who have always been gracious to us and ready to help if the need arose. This seems to me to be typical of France, from my experience, and it is one of the characteristics that made me want to spend time here. Then there are the colors of the vegetation and the fields, the houses, barns and other structures that dot the countryside, and the cows, and geese and duck farms (together with the stands of corn) that satisfy the endless craving for foie gras. (We stopped one day at a farm to watch the gavage -- the forced feeding of the geese. That is a sight to behold,.) The richness and variety of this countryside is stunning and wonderful to behold.

Brian wanted to get on. Impatient lad. So we got back in the car and we bid the village a fond farewell. But I would be back. We drove just down the road to Beynac-et-Cazenac where we stopped again to inspect a simply wonderful little town, which has beautiful shops and places to eat, and, after a long climb, Bynac Castle. (Only later did I find one can drive up to the Castle rather than take the 3 kilometer walk, straight up into the clouds, or so it seemed to me at the time.) Brian wanted to explore it and bought both of us tickets, but my claustrophobia prevented this. What a curse that is (the claustrophobia, not me, or so I hope). After a time exploring the outside of the Castle, we went on again, to Le Buisson and back to Le Bugue. We stopped at the local supermarket, the Intermarche, for more supplies and to walk around. Le Bugue is a pretty little town that has the Vezere River running through it, some nice restaurants and hotels, and an outdoor market twice a week, something typical of the entire region.

Then we headed home in time for a beer for Brian, some gin for me, and then the preparation of dinner. It was a great day and such an extraordinary introduction of a part of France that Mellen Candage kept telling me to prepare myself for. But reading the travel books and looking at "The Most Beautiful Villages in the Dordogne" photo essay could not have prepared anyone for the physical reality of what we saw. It was simply remarkable.

Ours was not a long journey that day, as kilometers go, but it was long in history. We wanted to inspect the ancient home of humankind, to better understand how people so many years ago lived and survived, and to see where they lived and depicted that life in drawings on cave walls in such stunning detail and colors; how could those drawings have lasted for so many thousands of years? We were also entranced by the intense variegated coloration of the countryside as the leaves on the trees changed in the Fall weather. Certainly this was the most intense display of color that either Brian or I could remember seeing. And the weather could not have been more perfect and seduced my into thinking this is what it must be like for the remainder of the trip. That was one thing that has not panned out.

The next day we took a trip through the Vezere Valley to Montignac and the Lascaux Cave. Both were wonderful although I could not go into Lascaux II because of my claustrophobia. (The original Lascaux has been closed to the public to protect it, but the government has created Lascaux II, an exact replica to which the public is invited on escorted tours. Yes, one must buy tickets.) After this we did some more sightseeing so that Brian and I could get more of a feel for the area and I would have some knowledge of things for our next guests from Chico to see. But most of all we just wanted to sit back and gaze on the natural sights before us, lush and green and with such intense coloration. One must remember the summer at home had been long and hot and most everything was brown when we left. Not so here. Then there is the quiet that surrounds everything. It is always there, punctuated at times by a train or a car or a rooster, but when we are at the house we are, in effect, on another planet where nothing can bother us. There is just silence, and the occasional sound of a wine cork popping in the kitchen.

Unfortunately, Brian had to get ready to return to the US so we had to pack and headed back to Paris. We drove to Bordeaux October 13 where we turned in the Avis car rental and took the TGV to Paris. There we checked in at the hotel and went for dinner. Brian went to bed early to get up in time for the taxi that would take him to Charles de Gaulle airport. It is hard to say how much I enjoyed having him on this trip. We talked a lot, caroused a little, and the difference in our ages never seemed to make any difference at all. I will miss him, but the fact that Eleanor is arriving the next day will mitigate that. I bid him good-bye at the hotel door the next morning and somewhat discouragedly went back to bed. It would be a long 36 hours before Eleanor came. But I had some shopping to do at my most favorite kitchen place in the world and that would occupy much of the day, as one cannot be rushed at Dehillerin. What a place. I ordered what I wanted and had it shipped to Le Bugue. Eleanor was coming and I knew she had at least 3 bags so I would need both hands empty.

Part VI -- Eleanor Is Here

As I went to the airport October 15 to pick up Eleanor I kept thinking of the John Prine song "Sailing Around" from his "German Afternoons" album: "Tell me where you've been so long/What have I done so wrong/Well, I am so glad to have finally found you/I can't wait to put my arms around you/Sailing around/[Finally back] to you." I missed her more than I thought I would and couldn't wait for the plane to land, the passengers to get off and to come through the doors from the customs area. Then she was there, dressed to the nines, and looking terrific, as she always does. Two large bags, one large purse, and another large carryon. Eleanor had hit Paris with a bang -- or a groan as I tried to get it all under control.

We made it back to Paris and Gare Montparnasse to get the TGV to Bordeaux. I had a hotel res-ervation there and planned to pick up my leased car the next day for the trip to the house. Eleanor had more energy than I anticipated and, after a sandwich and a coffee, the train left and we were on our way south. It was an easy trip, as usual, and Eleanor, ever the generous hostess, serenaded our seat mate with such sweet noises from her nose. These are called snores in more vulgar parts of society, and the man was amused when I tried to shake her gently, to no avail. So the wonderful countryside passed away as we sped along with my wife sleeping like a baby but sounding like a lumber jack.

The one thing I didn't have to carry or worry about on this part of the trip was Max, my grandson with the long ears. I knew as soon as I got here that it would be very hard on him and harder on Eleanor than was justified getting him ready and to the airport in San Francisco and on me getting them from Charles de Gaulle airport to the house. And I would have been terrified of him getting away and lost forever or getting ill again and having to find an English speaking vet. So, he is at home with a great young house sitter who takes him on his daily walks, the thing Max loves most in the world. Yet, we miss him and wish he were here. But it is best for him and us. Having him was not an idea whose time had truly come.

We got to our hotel and had a very good dinner at a local restaurant. After a good sleep we got our Peugeot 306 from the local dealership. Brand new, red, and 5 door, it is a good little machine. After a time with the manager, who spoke very good English and who gave us the keys, documents, and directions out of town, we were off. We followed the highway signs to Bergerac and beyond, and we were at the house. After looking around, Eleanor and I went to the Inter-marche, our favorite hangout in Le Bugue, for some food and wine, and then dinner. It was a very special one, our first together in this house of ours (oops, Mellen's) in France. Then to bed so Eleanor could sleep soundly and conquer her jet lag.

Eleanor was here, and that is all that counted. She did not want to come on this trip at all and the fact she did is proof of her love, and that is quite enough for me. Her enjoyment and sense of excitement will come, I know, and then she will be reluctant to leave. But that can't be forced.

Part VII -- The Interstitial Inn

I always thought of having a B&B in Napa for San Franciscans to get away to for the weekend and that I would call it the Interstitial Inn. Good name, I think, and I can use it here, as we are having so many guests visit. The first set come in a week or so. In fact Jim Roberts and his wife, Judy, are already in Paris for a week when they meet Ralph and Merilee Meuter at CDG for the drive to the house where we will be together for 10 days. Then Jim and Judy return to Chico and Ralph and Merilee spend a week in Paris before heading home Nov. 7. It will be simply terrific to have them, as we 6 get along so well together.

First, however, Eleanor had to sleep to get over jet lag and sleep she did. It was good for her, and when she rolled out of bed we did some driving around so we could at least find some of the places to which we are supposed to "guide" our guests. I have such a rotten sense of direction that I can hardly find Le Bugue after being here a couple of weeks. Brian could not believe what a dunce I was and always took me by the hand (metaphorically speaking, that is) and led me around like some dottering old fool who gets lost in the shower. Turn here, turn there, stop here, WATCH OUT, all commands he used with great regularity as he and I toured. Now it was up to my bride, and after 32 years together she is learning to be more forceful in her direction s about where to go. We did get out and about, and she became increasingly impressed by the extraordi-nary beauty of this place.

However, as the week went on the weather began to change from the shirtsleeve variety to rain and cold; we prefer the former. Eleanor brought with her a clock that has a barometer function in it (one of LL Bean's finest) and we look each night as we get ready for bed. Miraculously, it seemed to indicate that the closer to the time Ralph and the troops were to come the better weather we could expect. The clock was right, as it turned out, and by the time they got here our days were filled with sun with some clouds while it rained only at night. Some days it has been s foggy until noon, the time we get out of bed anyway, so who cares.

We are still getting settled in. The house is a bit more basic than I thought but it is quite service-able. And quite lovely, really. Eleanor complains because the shower drains slowly. But at least we have one and the toilet flushes each time. Now that _IS_ a plus. It will get far colder as the winter comes on and then we will see how much we like things. My blood is thin from the summer heat and will thicken as I get used to the colder weather. I can remember during one day in August wishing for the cold. Now I have it and I am bitching again. Ain't no pleasing me.

I am also desperately trying to learn how to start fires. I have not started a fire without a gas assist since......, well never. The first night I got 2 logs smoldering, just enough, don't you know, to fill the house up with smoke but no heat. What ever happened, he asks with a smile on his face, to the notion of gas jets into the fire box? Whatever happened to you joining the Boy Scouts as a kid and learning how to start one on your own, the fire box responds, with more truth than it might ever know. (Am I going nuts or what, having conversations with a fire box that seems, for me at least, capable of producing only silly invectives and endless, choking smoke?)

However, my sense of self, my essence as a man, has been saved by the extraordinary fires I have been setting recently. I bought a small ax and gloves at a hardware store, and then a moll and something else whose name means nothing to me (it splits wood, that's all I know) and then split some large logs into smaller ones and then set them all in a neat stack next to the fire place. I set them alight with petit bois and LOTS of newspaper and empty cereal boxes and, viola, fires raged for hours. As the first one took off, I had a glass of wine and looked contentedly into the blaze, thinking about how ancient man must have felt the first time he got one of these things going. What a life and civilization changer that single act was. I feel right in place living in an area that was home to prehistoric man. I WAS Cro Magnon Man.

We also bought a CD player that first day together so we could have some noise in the house. (Thinking there was one here I brought many of my favorite CDs and playing them from my laptop just doesn't make it.) Outside noise I can do without, but I have to drown out silence within, especially if I am working, as I have been doing these last few days. I am now listening to John Prine, who I find to be a great tonic. Life with Eleanor at times also calls for some gin to go with that tonic, and there is some of that here, but not much. Red wine is also great for this as well. (I am so placid a person that she needs only mineral water.)

As we were talking the evening of Oct. 22 about what we had to do the next day to be prepared for everyone to arrive, Ralph phoned and asked if he and the others could come that night. They were having dinner in Perigueux just 40 kilometers away and didn't want to spend the night in a hotel. We said yes, of course, and set about in a mad rush to get the heaters going in the bedrooms, the beds made, the floors swept, and the house straightened up. We had dinner and waited as it got progressively darker, time passed, and they were no where to be seen. Having at least triple the number of worry genes of the ordinary, inveterate worrier, I began to worry that they had missed a turn, were now in Toulouse or a ditch, had had a flat tire, had been picked up by some alien beings for investigations into just how earthlings act and behave (although why they would pick on either Ralph or Jim for this purpose was beyond me), and just about anything else I could think of to worry about. "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, with Maglite flashlight, mandolin (for the kitchen, not music) Sapphire gin, and brandy in hand. Are these great guests or what?

Part VIII- The Grand Tour

The Meuters and the Roberts were not here to screw around. That was clear from the first day. Plan the agenda, scope out the routes, set the time of reveille (no noon departures for us), and off we went. Five of us in seats with someone always way in the back of the station wagon. Being with them as they explored this remarkable area was so much fun. Jim even found a second moon the evening of his first full day here. It was a remarkable moon because it never seemed to move and looked to me, at least, like a house across the valley. But Jim is persistent if he is anything and the moon it was until we saw another moon in the sky the next evening, which, I have to admit, was less misty and cloudy than the night before. (We soon found the source of Jim's moonbeams -- many of the caves are lighted at night and the reflections can be seen from far away, and one of the houses across the valley from Lacoste was also lighted. The real moon continued to do its thing -- moving and changing as it has done for, well, years.)

I have commented above about the quiet and that is the one part of being here that Ralph and the others noticed immediately. And the views, and the colors of the green pastures that are inter-spersed with tilled fields as they are harvested and prepared for the winter. An occasional train and car pass by, an occasional fighter jet practicing low altitude flying (preparing for Bosnia, I wonder) or something else from the modern world that occasionally intrudes to break the sense of isolation and quietude. Each evening Ralph would sit outside having one of his Hav-a-Tampa Jewels with their exclusive Birchwood tip and listen to the silence and (I guess) wishing it were like that at the University. What serenity. (The box of the Hav-a-Tampa says that "These cigars are predominantly natural tobacco with non-tobacco ingredients added." I wonder if Ralph has ever asked himself what those other "non-tobacco ingredients" might be. Having smelled them I might venture a guess, but I am too good of a host to have brought it up. -- Sorry, Ralph. Just joking.) We both wondered aloud one evening how much the pace of life has changed here in this region of France in the last several decades. Not a whole lot, we thought.

The house here was filled with continual mirth and good humor. These are fine people and we were very happy to have them with us. We can't speak for our guests, of course, but I think they had a mind-expanding experience here. Jim chauffeured us around and he was very good at it. We all agreed that the French road system is fantastic. The highways are wonderfully maintained and the signage, once you get used to its placement, the best we have encountered anywhere, which makes it hard for even me to get lost (thank you, France). French drivers have a persistent quest to see how close they can come to your rear bumper without hitting you before they pass, and seem mystified when I put my arm out the window and signal for them to pass. And speed is the one virtue for which everyone strives. Yet, we share the road peacefully together.

Look in a tour book of the area and that is where we went. Brantome, a delightful little town on the banks of the River Dronne; Bourdeilles further down the same river; Perigueux, a beautiful town we toured on foot; Montignac and a visit to Lascaux II and then on to Le Thot, a museum that has a video of exactly how Lascaux II was created; Les Eyzies several times just to tour, for dinner one night, and because it is on the way to Sarlat; Campagne and St. Cyprien, both very attractive the former far smaller than the latter; Beynac and La Roque-Gageac; Domme, a fantastic medieval walled village with its fabulous view of the Dordogne River and Valley; Sarlat for two visits, one for a leisurely tour and the second for the Saturday open air market; Rocamadour -- what can one say about this but simply beautiful; Castelnaud; and all the other small towns and villages in which we just stopped and strolled around. There are times when words fail to do justice to the sights they were invented to describe. Each day this seemed to become ever more true.

These were long but wonderfully exciting days. Brian had been thriller by what he saw, and so were the Meuters and Roberts. We will be seeing these same sights again when our friends from London are here in November (they could not come in October because of a family emergency), our close friends from California and Minnesota come for Thanksgiving, and our son and his bride and Eleanor's sister are here for Christmas. But who can ever tire of them. They are wondrous.

We had almost all our meals at the house. At the end of each day's drive we would determine what we wanted that night for dinner and stop at the Intermarche to buy the necessary provisions and other things we would need for snacks and breakfast. Or we would buy them at the open air markets that abound in this region of France. I cooked and the others washed. Indeed, one of the things that is best about having a house such as Lacoste is that we can eat what we want when we want. (And when no one is here we can run around in our long johns; it's too cold for just un-derwear!!) We did have dinner out a couple of times, the first time to celebrate Eleanor's birthday, but for the most part we ate at Lacoste.

Two of the days the Meuters and Roberts went out on their own. We had things to do here at the house and so stayed. We are having some problems with the septic system -- the drains from the bath and shower do not drain fast enough (everything else works, thank God) so I had to wait for M. Gomes, the plumber, to come and investigate. He came and with a combination of Portuguese (he is from Portugal), French and Italian we got along quite nicely, but he said I had a "gros probleme" with the system and he would have to dig. Mellen Candage has been great in helping with faxes and calls to Gomes (I should have studied plumbing vocabulary before I came) so the work should begin soon (while we are here?). We also had ordered some more wood and it came, on a carriage drawn by a huge tractor and behind that up walked Mme. Lacoste. L'homme du bois, as I called him, drove very cautiously under her watchful gaze through the front yard, the tires making deep impressions in the grass. I looked concerned at this but Mme. Lacoste signaled not to worry. She was right, of course, as the rains have smoothed them over for the most part, but making the whole area very muddy in the process.

L'homme du bois, Mme. Lacoste, and I unloaded the trailer full of wood. She is a wonder at 75, heaving those big pieces of wood, pieces certainly longer than I had ordered and heavier than I ever expected. But she said not to worry about the length as the fire will cut them in half for me. Having been at this fire game longer than I have I could only nod agreement. L'homme du bois was small in height and round in girth but huge in spirit, with a very easy smile and way about him, a thoroughly delightful guy.

As we unloaded the wood, Mme. Lacoste said something about my helping and strength. I flexed my arms and said it was because I am an American. It seemed to work and everyone laughed. She may have said I was a fool and my response would have worked as well, but I don't think she did. After we finished I asked l'homme du bois if he would like a pastise (Mme. Lacoste had left by this time) and he said "yes." We went inside after brushing off and he showed me how to pour it -- just enough pastise and just enough water -- and we had it, talking all the while about my being on vacation and still being able to work with my clients on my laptop, as long as I had a reliable telephone connection. He nodded and said, "ah, the Internet and e-mail." He understood both me and the concept well. All this in French and not at all that bad from my stand point, I think. It was, for me, a tour de force, and I loved every second of it. He particularly liked the fact that I said several times how much I liked being in France and here in the Perigord. I am not sure what I said was in correct French. In fact, I am sure it was not. But he seemed to appreciate the fact I was making a genuine and valiant effort and that seemed to make up for any lack of linguistic skill. What a country. And what a nice man.

The new wood made possible more fires in the evening, a good thing because it was getting colder as the month came to an end. The Meuters and Roberts had seen what Brian and I had, plus some things we did not. This had been a wonderful journey of discovery and each day brought new delights. The sights, the smells, the luxury of setting one's own schedule and pace. Then there was the food we prepared. Most everything having to do with food here is extraordinary, starting with the most basic stuff. The butter has no equal. and the creme fraiche, which we have to imitate at home, is divine. They make a good Tarte Tatin possible, and when done well it is heavenly. The variety of breads is stunning and all very good and so very different that is dazzles the eyes and tantalizes the palate.

Chicken, which Eleanor loves and I far less so, is very good, whether bought at the market or a local shop off a rotisserie stuffed with lemons, onions, mushrooms, or ham. Eggs are sold unre-frigerated and can be purchased one at a time from Mme. Lacoste or the local outdoor markets and are safer and more flavorful than any eggs at home. There are an astonishingly large variety of olives available, all prepared in different ways. There are huge varieties of all kinds of food types available, up to and including skinned carcasses of rabbit and other animals whose outline I couldn't recognize. For wintertime, there is a large variety and abundance of vegetables in the open air markets (the ones at the Intermarche are not what I would call impressive), but nothing like one what would encounter in summer, I'm sure. There are jams and other preserves, sausages of all kinds and descriptions, pastries, croissants, and pain au chocolat (yes, pain au chocolat). Fruit tartes, and cakes of such beauty that one can hardly stand cutting into them. The cheeses, of course, are other worldly in their variety and taste; Mellen has a book in her house devoted exclusively to the subject. Every third shop in every town, it seems to me, is devoted to foie gras, and it is everywhere on the menu. And all this gets washed down by the prodigious variety and quality of wines that are available. Thank you, Dr. Groussin, thank you for insisting that I drink it. But, STOP all this talk of food. It's killing me. I can't stand it any longer. And I'm here, just a short drive away from being able to buy it.

So we had a great time. The sad thing is that it had to come to a close. November was ap-proaching and Ralph and Merilee and Jim and Judy had to get back to California. They packed and left us on November 1, where this journal will take up next. We would have to get used to the quiet and cooking for and eating by ourselves all over again. No more little glasses of brandy prepared with Ralph's usual TLC. No more runs into town to buy all the remaining papers for Jim to read that evening -- he simply devours them. No more watching Merilee do her crossword puzzles and Ralph finishing them when needed. No more Nana e-mail updates for Judy, who had such fun reading about how her mother added a new window to the house with the rear of her car. But we could sleep Ôtil noon again, and that is small, but not much, consolation. We just hope they liked being here as much as we did having them. It will be lonely until the next group arrives.

October was a very good month. It is one that we won't soon forget. Good friends. Good food. Good wine. A very nice house in a wonderful part of the world. And my wife is with me. Can't get much better than that.