tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363109682024-03-07T14:03:02.798-05:00In the Shadow of the BaobabBluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.comBlogger345125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-85660836586615371082020-01-06T03:13:00.000-05:002020-01-06T03:13:42.688-05:00Exploring the Honey-Hued Cotswolds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Travel opens
your heart, </span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">broadens your
mind and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">fills your life
with stories to tell.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">– Paula
Bendfeldt</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The morning was velvety; soft sunshine,
breezeless and with a total lack of any early morning dew. Outside the backdoor
the overgrown garden was songbird-filled noisy. Sure, it was mid-June, but in
the English countryside the weather can be unpredictable and summers can
sometimes last no more than just a few good weeks in July and August. An umbrella
should never be too far away. But the ten days we spent in England would turn
out to be different, with no rain and the hottest weather in years.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our rented Airbnb lodging for our stay
in Stow-on-the-Wold was near the historic town square, which these days’ looks more
triangular and hotchpotch than square. Stow, as it is affectionately known, is in
the northern part of the Cotswolds, a romantic English countryside region about
an hour and a half’s drive northwest of London. The Cotswolds is crisscrossed
with many honey-hued, chocolate-box villages, built from local yellow Jurassic
limestone, and is bordered on the west by Bristol and Gloucester, the
university town of Oxford to the east, William Shakespeare’s
Stratford-upon-Avon to the north and the old Roman city of Bath to the south.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUy_ObfGACy4euDVz3ZWeXKUJ0nP8NFWq6olez3I32q_n8DPRWpnR41snLx8dJXnOYYUJ21C5fK5qsSQ8Q7NWJk7Dntdt20pIzEUQVdjNgVB8Cg5MPyfuOxwW-0MdWMQTHp2G/s1600/c+Stow+on+the+wold+Sheep+street++P1000258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUy_ObfGACy4euDVz3ZWeXKUJ0nP8NFWq6olez3I32q_n8DPRWpnR41snLx8dJXnOYYUJ21C5fK5qsSQ8Q7NWJk7Dntdt20pIzEUQVdjNgVB8Cg5MPyfuOxwW-0MdWMQTHp2G/s1600/c+Stow+on+the+wold+Sheep+street++P1000258.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Traffic and flowers on Sheep Street in Stow-on-the-Wold. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our cottage on Park Street, built
sometime during the 19<sup>th</sup> Century, was all yellow-stone with thick
walls, a crooked slate roof that looks more than a hundred years old, a large
fireplace and uneven red tile floors downstairs. A squeaking staircase led to
an upstairs with creaking wooden floors and 2 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms, one
featured an old porcelain-enameled cast iron claw foot bathtub surrounded by
ugly avocado-green bead board paneling. Next door to the cottage is an eyesore,
the only building on all of Park Street whose façade was not left the natural honey-hued
stone of the region. Greedy’s Fish & Chips was painted white with a red
door. Their fish and chips though, were very good. We tried it on one occasion.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From the front window, the only window
downstairs, I could see the restaurant staff of The Old Butchers across the
street was already wiping tables and moving chairs into their proper place,
getting ready for the lunch crowd that was soon to follow. Tourists were
already parading up and down the street, some downhill while others went towards
the top where Park Street forks, Sheep Street to the left and Digbeth Street to
the right and further along Digbeth onto Market Square. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stow-on-the-Wold
Market Day</span></b>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After I made a breakfast of pan fried eggs,
English country bread with local butter and some savory, buttery Cotswold cheese,
all graciously provided with the cottage by the Airbnb hosts, we locked up and
walked towards Market Square. It was Thursday, market day in the Stow. At the fork
we went down the narrow Digbeth Street, past the Porch House, with a plaque upfront
claiming it to be oldest inn in England, dating back to 947 AD. Further along
we passed The Old Bakery tea room, the Cotswold Garden Tearooms and the New
England Coffee House until we got to the square with its historic Market Cross.
Here we kept to the right onto Market Street, passed the Kings Arms hotel, The
Stag Lodge Inn, more coffee houses and Roly’s Fudge Pantry until we reached the
north end of the square where several tent stalls were erected next to a small
grassy park area with benches under large trees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Market day in Stow-on-the-Wold </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I love European markets! Throughout all
our travels, whenever we get the opportunity of being in a town or village on their
designated market day we would go and browse through them. The Stow-on-the-Wold
market was not very large, but they had a variety of local fresh produce with
soil still clinging to the potatoes and the carrots, and shiny red strawberries
neatly stacked in paper baskets. Baked goods ranged from classic steak and
mushroom meat pies to sausage rolls in flaky dough and quiches made with tomato
and Stilton blue cheese in it. There was a table laden with cheeses, some cream
colored from sheep’s milk, some with a blue streak running through the middle
of the wedge, while another wedge was a golden yellow Sparkenhoe cheese from
Leicester. Another stall had scones and muffins and little bottles of lemon
curd and honey and jams. There were handmade jewelry and knitted woolen gloves,
socks and throws. We bought some meat pies, sausage rolls and a slice of quiche
for lunch, walked back to where our rented car was parked near our cottage and
then drove north to Shakespeare country and to explore the Cotswolds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> St. Edward's Church in Stow-on-the-Wold. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The north door is flanked by two very old yew trees. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">On the day of our arrival in London the
drive from Heathrow Airport was nearly uneventful. Driving on the left side of
the road is a skill I nearly forgot after 20 years in the USA. It used to be
natural driving on the left during the years I stayed in South Africa. But in
England I had to remind myself all the time, stay left, stay left. After some
grocery shopping at a Tesco in Stow I exited the parking lot on the right hand
side of the road at the very moment when a car was turning into the lot. I
didn’t immediately realize my mistake and it was M that said, “You are on the
wrong side of the road.” Luckily the other driver was patient, no hooting or
cursing while I apologetically nodded my head and waved and drove to the left
side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So when we left Stow-on-the-Wold via
the A429 north (alternatively known as the old Celtic path, The Fosse Way) that
message of “stay left” was uppermost in my mind. But luckily the day’s and for
that matter, the rest of the trip’s driving were uneventful. Except for the few
times we got lost or took the wrong turn off. But that’s nothing unusual in a
foreign country.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Stratford-upon-Avon</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">William Shakespeare's Tudor England in Stratford-upon-Avon's High Street </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I had no preconceived idea about Stratford-upon-Avon
or its attractions, and after little more than an hour’s drive we entered the
city, found a parking spot near the commons next to the River Avon and started
to explore on foot. Our motto was “Let the city surprise us!” After crossing
the river via Bridge Foot, we walked down Bridge Street and soon found
ourselves on High Street and in the heart of William Shakespeare’s Tudor
England. As usual, we purposefully got ourselves lost in the city. We gaped in
wonder at the many old black and white framed Tudor buildings along High,
Church and Chapel Streets. Every now and then some restaurant or shop owner had
turned an old façade into a quirky alternative with a modern or colorful touch.
At Chapel Street’s end we turned left onto Old Town Street and followed the tourist
signs to the Holy Trinity Church, the oldest building in town, dating back to
1210 and the church where Shakespeare was baptized and buried. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Entering the church yard, the pathway
to the gothic entrance is flanked by twelve old lime trees, thought to
represent the twelve tribes of Israel or the twelve apostles. Although it is
one of the most visited churches in England, it is not a very large church nor
very elaborative, but it does boast an interesting nave with a decorative wooden
ceiling, a few large stained-glass windows, a very old 19<sup>th</sup> Century
organ and, in front of the altar, the graves of William Shakespeare and his
wife Anne Hathaway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From the church we took a leisurely
stroll through a park all along the river towards where we parked our car. Our
last stop was at a memorial site for William Shakespeare with a statue of the
poet surrounded by more statues of some of the main characters in his plays,
among other, Hamlet, Lady Macbeth and others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our visit to Stratford-upon-Avon was a
brief one, by intention, because we planned to visit several other villages that
day on our way back to Stow-on-the-Wold. But it seems to be a wonderful town
with many architectural, historical, theatrical and leisure attractions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our first stop after Stratford was in the
small village of Mickleton, where we found a tiny square with a small fountain,
a single tree and 2 benches and we ate the pies and quiche we bought at the
Stow market earlier that morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chipping Campden's High Street</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chipping
Campden</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From there it was a short drive down
the B4081 to where it meets the B4035, where we turn left to our next
destination, Chipping Campden. What a little jewel! The crown on the curved High
Street with its honey-colored buildings is the Market Hall halfway down the
street. The Market Hall, still in use today, was built in 1627 by Sir Baptist
Hicks, the 1<sup>st</sup> Viscount of Campden and for whom there is a memorial
inside St James’ Church, at the top of the hill overlooking the village. The
church was our first stop. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chipping Campden's Market Hall on High Street</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After we parked our car near the top of
High Street we saw a tourist marker towards the church and went to investigate.
We walked back uphill along Cidermill Lane, passed the historic Almshouses to
our left, the Court Barn Museum to the right and beyond that, the impressive East
and West Banqueting Houses, which are private property and off limits to
tourists, until we got to St James’ Church. Except for the external
architecture and the Hicks <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="display: none; mso-hide: all;">iscks</span></b>memorial, the church’s inside
was rather non-descripted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We meandered down the west side of High
Street. Every English town it seems has a High Street, the American equivalent
of Main Street. We popped into a quaint china shop, but found nothing
interesting to purchase. We browse through a stationery store that doubles as a
postal office, bought some postcards, and near Sheep Street (it seems every
village in the Cotswolds have a Sheep Street,) M felt the need for some clothes
shopping. While she entertained herself inside a charity shop, the American
equivalent of a Goodwill store, however the quality of goods inside the English
charity shops seemed far superior to the flotsam and jetsam in a Goodwill store,
I further explored High Street down to St Catherine’s Catholic school, and
other hidden alleys and side streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Inside the Market Hall. If walls could talk...</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Broadway</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After M’s shopping and a visit to the
Market Hall, we explored the east side of High Street until we got back to our
car. Back on the road agin, heading south I saw a turnoff to Broadway and the
Broadway Tower and thought “Why not, we’re here.” We did a drive through of
Broadway, which was actually a pity because it was quite a little gem and then
onto the tower. By now it was nearly 5 pm and unfortunately it was too late in
the afternoon to get access to the tower, but the café was still open (only
just) and we enjoyed some scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream. I love
scones this way! However, from the parking lot we were able to drink in some
great vistas of the Cotswolds’ rolling hills thank to its elevated location and
upon our return to the main highway south, we saw some beautiful sheep-filled
verdant countryside. A quintessential Cotswolds scenery! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Near Broadway Tower.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lower
Slaughter</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was after 6 pm when we reached
Stow-on-the-Wold again, but instead of turning from the A429 into Stow, I
remembered from previously researching a Cotswolds’ map there were some small
must-see villages only a few miles south of Stow. By now some off the day’s
heat has worn off a bit and a comfortable mellowness has descended upon the
young evening. After a few minutes’ driving we turned off onto a narrow country
road with no road markings and tall hedgerows on both sides, which led us to
Lower Slaughter, which is linked to another village called Upper Slaughter by
the River Eye that flows lazily through this leafy little hamlet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">With only 3 or 4 streets in the village,
there wasn’t much to see, but a leisurely stroll under old majestic trees along
the river allowed us luxurious views of quaint cottages with beautiful tiny
flower-rich gardens until we reached the Old Mill Museum with its waterwheel
and tall chimney. Lower Slaughter was well worth a visit if only for its
unhurried and gentle atmosphere as dusk approached. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lower Slaughter Collage </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Bourton-on-the-Water</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thank goodness for the late sunsets in
England during summer months because there was time for one more stop to round
off the day. A few miles further south from Lower Slaughter is another
honey-hued village, little less chocolate-boxy and a little more commercial. According
to historians, Bourton-on-the-Water (doesn’t these Cotswold villages have the
most beautiful descriptive names), has been occupied for the past 6000 years.
The Windrush River meanders through town at a snail’s pace and along High
Street you will find businesses with quirky names like The Small Talk Tea Room,
The Mousetrap Inn and the Forget Me Nots Florists. In the commercial hub of the
village, on a grassy patch between High Street and the river, in the long
shadows of the day, adults filled benches, watched their children play on the
grass or catching up on the latest social news on their cell phones, or both, while
others, like us, sauntered along the river path past imposing old houses turned
into restaurants, inns and bed and breakfasts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By the time we arrived back at Stow dusk
has settled in and we were rather exhausted from the day’s walking and not in
the mood for a restaurant dinner. We went and ordered fish and chips from
Greedy’s next door and then put our tired feet up in front of the television
with a bottle Bellingham Chardonnay from Franschhoek in South Africa, which I
found on the shelves of a Tesco. The Bellingham was a case of drinking nostalgia
over quality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">With an open front door to let in some
coolness we couldn’t escape the twinkling of glasses, happy conversations and a
general atmosphere of indulgence drifting in from across the street from the
Old Butchers restaurant. We felt pretty much like the diners after a day indulging
ourselves on the beauty of the Cotswolds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lower Slaughter </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A tranquil scene in Lower Slaughter</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chipping Campden's High Street</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Bourton-on-the-Water Motor Museum</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Stratford-upon-Avon</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Along the River Avon </span></div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-43679115511866386192019-06-07T01:19:00.000-04:002019-06-07T01:20:56.439-04:00Chateau de Chantilly - A Day’s Escape from Paris<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By the time we arrived in the town of Chantilly
it was mid-morning. The cloudy sky and cold breezes that blew down the <i>rues</i>
of Paris had given way to glorious sunshine and frosted pastures in the Hauts-de-France
department, “the North Pole of France” as the southerners, exaggeratedly, calls
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our destination was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chateau de Chantilly</i> and at the entrance
gate of the vast <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">domaine</i> large patches
of the pond were frozen and on the one or two isolated thawed spots, white swans
and harlequin ducks paddled in search of food. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZRasrbQmKyAMriqDsi_kOrVjPCIKyZA3l1p4RzX-4FWmvySfEAyz5NpIjbLpI9ktGcWfAWQg63QiZLDDJDyg1zBkT13xR0snqGOVeQQTV4vbYLPuKYjw41tm3RBcxZ4rHwOh/s1600/c+Chantilly+statue+at+entrance+P1020998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZRasrbQmKyAMriqDsi_kOrVjPCIKyZA3l1p4RzX-4FWmvySfEAyz5NpIjbLpI9ktGcWfAWQg63QiZLDDJDyg1zBkT13xR0snqGOVeQQTV4vbYLPuKYjw41tm3RBcxZ4rHwOh/s1600/c+Chantilly+statue+at+entrance+P1020998.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The train ride from Paris to Chantilly
ran through the rather boring industrial north of Paris and beyond that,
farmland, mostly unseen because most of the rolling hills were carved out to build
a straight flat terrain for the train tracks to allow the regional train to
pick up some form of speed. The few patches of landscape I could see through
the dirty window looked forlorn under the grey sky. A landscape that did not looked forward to the winter ahead. Only as we neared Chantilly
did the sun emerged from beyond the dissipating clouds. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnq2D9WD6qWnPfJU8bREiSxcVd-dKSDuPaM7XBeJbL2HHRhyphenhyphenXwT9krODhk2Sb9PyVm1PSSSlkqrnqWJPLV0_Tatvzi0vDF3PTUTSXlpS_98iNMzR_N5fYFVTMyvA38A9lajB6R/s1600/c+Chantilly+before+the+French+Revolution+IMG_20181226_063407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnq2D9WD6qWnPfJU8bREiSxcVd-dKSDuPaM7XBeJbL2HHRhyphenhyphenXwT9krODhk2Sb9PyVm1PSSSlkqrnqWJPLV0_Tatvzi0vDF3PTUTSXlpS_98iNMzR_N5fYFVTMyvA38A9lajB6R/s1600/c+Chantilly+before+the+French+Revolution+IMG_20181226_063407.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> A portrait of Chantilly as it looked around 1741.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The chateau is an 800-year old outpost whose
history is closely intertwined with French royals and one of the most
distinguished and noble families in France, the Montmorency family. Today the statue
of Anne de Montmorency on a horse, the 1<sup>st</sup> Duke of Montmorency, (the
duke originally build the first castle around 1528) can be seen in front of the
castle’s drawbridge. The original mansion was destroyed during the French
Revolution and between 1875 and 1882,</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Henri
d'Orléans, the Duke of Aumale, the fifth son of King Louis-Philippe I of
France, rebuilt the chateau as we see it today. (For more information about the
owners of the estate <a href="http://www.domainedechantilly.com/en/accueil/history/owners-centuries/" target="_blank">click in the link</a>.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Within the chateau is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musée Condé,</i> our main focus of the day. According
to a little research I did it seems the museum’s art galleries are the second
largest collection of antique paintings in France after that of the Louvre. Any
museum compared to the Louvre is worth a visit! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5muasVIUuM8B28KTGOl63T-BTBnOJLJFurn6Mon-bXWEHYuy1hUq2C09htLBVFZE2azjr8ROkAYhgPfSA3BNPntOi13P6BfJey_GinkKBXnZ5HyNpMF5ZM8tG62v4JE9RMGqo/s1600/c+Chantilly+Stables+P1020999.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5muasVIUuM8B28KTGOl63T-BTBnOJLJFurn6Mon-bXWEHYuy1hUq2C09htLBVFZE2azjr8ROkAYhgPfSA3BNPntOi13P6BfJey_GinkKBXnZ5HyNpMF5ZM8tG62v4JE9RMGqo/s1600/c+Chantilly+Stables+P1020999.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The chateau’s second major feature is
its stables, which houses the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musée de Cheval</i>,
the Museum for the Horse. The STABLES could well be the most spectacular
stables in France and approaching the vast chateau complex from the west and
coming upon the stables first, one could easily mistake the stables for the
actual chateau. Lavish in design! </span></div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">French
aloofness?</span></i></b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Many
have written or talked about the aloofness of the French, but thrice on our
short visit to Paris we experienced the opposite. Twice at the Gare du Nord
train station. First, when a man helped M with her baggage down the stairs, (we
were temporarily separated while I was searching for a ticket kiosk and which I
eventually found hidden behind a huge billboard.) The second event was when another
Frenchman, seeing me struggling with the ATM not accepting my credit card for
some reason (I have used the same card several times before at other ATMs) helped
me getting train tickets by using his own card and then I paid him back in
cash. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
third time was when we arrived at the Chantilly train station, a 25-minute ride
with a regional train north of Paris. There was no taxi available at the time and
the bus service to the chateau, according to another bus driver at the bus
terminus, was only to arrive an hour from our arrival. I was not willing to
waste that amount of time! However, a young French gentleman and his
girlfriend/wife who arrived on the same train as us were waiting for a hotel
shuttle to pick them up. When the shuttle arrived he asked the driver if he
could drop us off at the chateau. The driver graciously agreed and we were very
grateful. Later in the morning, I notice the same couple was also visitors to
the Musée Condé. Upon seeing them I took the opportunity to thank them again
for their assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">An Unchanged Layout</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Duke of Aumale, an ardent collector
of art, old books and manuscripts, was the last private owner of the Chateau de
Chantilly. In the large Gallery of Painting he hung his paintings of<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> suit his own personal taste. In fact, the
layout closely relates to the Duke’s personal history and the layout has not
changed since he bequeathed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">domaine</i>
to the Institute of France in 1886. On the left wall of the grand gallery the art
works are mainly Italian, reminders of his mother's family background and his
time traveling through Italy. On the opposite wall are works from France,
relating to his father’s side of the family and his own illustrious career in
the French military. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzBRPpJa1kNmnxog42mY4QPXb1aIlW5BtsBEPQj6gPLYxszUYl8ElR67wYBrfA_gKUJwyAAo4AahC07ZA_Mfvu7TAVMsmpeEL4AYnYYOFhAitRCwZ7IqxYZPcA-qbBXFa0X3LV/s1600/c2+Chantilly+gallery+hall+IMG_20181226_062457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzBRPpJa1kNmnxog42mY4QPXb1aIlW5BtsBEPQj6gPLYxszUYl8ElR67wYBrfA_gKUJwyAAo4AahC07ZA_Mfvu7TAVMsmpeEL4AYnYYOFhAitRCwZ7IqxYZPcA-qbBXFa0X3LV/s1600/c2+Chantilly+gallery+hall+IMG_20181226_062457.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The Gallery of Painting.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXLcTFWZGeS8foSwa1z8wS5D84ZgWc_xqD7KB-BJiHGop8tD53S3W0JDdpGKjzKpzi-M4uQ1wRRqZum7Pc96YEn4XDOW_hWAIgN3VG7LX7hobJVMF4IX32ypZgjWUGqJfojpi/s1600/c+Chantilly+IMG_20181226_063204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXLcTFWZGeS8foSwa1z8wS5D84ZgWc_xqD7KB-BJiHGop8tD53S3W0JDdpGKjzKpzi-M4uQ1wRRqZum7Pc96YEn4XDOW_hWAIgN3VG7LX7hobJVMF4IX32ypZgjWUGqJfojpi/s1600/c+Chantilly+IMG_20181226_063204.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Got to have some family pics on the wall too! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the Sanctuary, a small inner room
for the castle, hangs the treasures of the Museum’s collection; two paintings
by Renaissance painter, Raphael: The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Virgin
of the House of Orleans</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Three
Graces</i>, and 40 pages of the miniature illumination manuscript, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The book of Hours of Etienne Chevalier</i>
by Jean Fouquet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nNMcvH8U8LJLgS8BzdZ7lSyks7IYhyphenhyphenvNxWTi0NELvMHD9u9NSqXckp7kbbBmhiULWrsC1RKd5u4d5SNLiw6BWF9Ool-QirJNu9iDSVLVVcU8BZkhKAFMoCX6blBT9MMdg__2/s1600/c2+Chantilly+Library+P1180943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nNMcvH8U8LJLgS8BzdZ7lSyks7IYhyphenhyphenvNxWTi0NELvMHD9u9NSqXckp7kbbBmhiULWrsC1RKd5u4d5SNLiw6BWF9Ool-QirJNu9iDSVLVVcU8BZkhKAFMoCX6blBT9MMdg__2/s1600/c2+Chantilly+Library+P1180943.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the Reading Room, with its warm wood
atmosphere, in one corner, kept in a locked glass cabinet I was thrilled to discover
the Complete Works of François de Malherbe (1555 – 1628), a possible ancestor
of mine on my mother’s side. Being an amateur genealogist for the past 15 years
(my mother’s maiden name is Malherbe) and I having traced the Malherbes back to
1066 AD when one of them accompanied William, the Conqueror, as a knight,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> to conquer England, this,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
have to admit, was my personal highlight of the day. The book was printed in
1630 and its cover is still in immaculate condition. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivQ6aE85DJm6DVzqDpKGhiPN6fvM5Xwc6a9ZXHaUqTcfn3oxWzhnrWk9LBbXNbUh4BR_Wn9muJHYvZPtRAdSkhyphenhyphenF4S2luAzWKw2Sx0Q9lJyg85_hzc_5eYkvv4QAXVOVbuyags/s1600/c+Chantilly+Library+Works+of+Francois+De+Malherbe+P1180944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivQ6aE85DJm6DVzqDpKGhiPN6fvM5Xwc6a9ZXHaUqTcfn3oxWzhnrWk9LBbXNbUh4BR_Wn9muJHYvZPtRAdSkhyphenhyphenF4S2luAzWKw2Sx0Q9lJyg85_hzc_5eYkvv4QAXVOVbuyags/s1600/c+Chantilly+Library+Works+of+Francois+De+Malherbe+P1180944.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A 1630 print of <i>Les Euvres de Mr Francois de Malherbe </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">François De Malherbe was a great
reformer of French poetry and by some described as the father of French poetry.
In South Africa, centuries later, the Malherbe family, descendants from Gidion
Malherbe that arrived at the Cape of Good Hope from Normandy, France, in 1687, was
instrumental in the development of the Afrikaans language and several of the family
men were poets, writers and educators through the generations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Unfortunately, probably the most
valuable book in the museum’s library cannot be seen except in digital format.
It is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Très Riches Heures du Duc de
Berry</i>, one of the best surviving examples of French Gothic manuscript
illumination. (To learn more about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illuminated_manuscript" target="_blank">manuscript illumination, click on the link</a>.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Entrance to the </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musée de Cheval</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After our visit to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musee Conde</i>, we walked the half mile or
so to the Horse museum. <span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Meandering through the stables,
seemingly one ancient horse stall to another, modernized to museum style, it does
a decent job of capturing the history of the horse in military and personal usage;
the history of saddles, stirrups, horse bits, and horse racing at the famous
Chantilly race course, and much more.</span> The stables are thought-provoking, to some degree, but
as the French would say: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C’est mon truc</i>,
the English equivalent of “not my cup of tea.” I have to admit it seemed M
enjoyed the horse museum far more than I did, especially the royal carriages on
show. She's got a soft spot for carriages.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2tbfBbl_Ouo8cy6tCihsSriO48c1Tf3sbgjwrfvQ7b3kjL5DRDV1klXE8iEMezrAF_ykiWNkW9EEhYrjeeYz4jrzClPs1WVVrSQZJGD7OXhbCzCuHgUlhacVYG2u-4xWh8Jd/s1600/c+Chantilly+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2tbfBbl_Ouo8cy6tCihsSriO48c1Tf3sbgjwrfvQ7b3kjL5DRDV1klXE8iEMezrAF_ykiWNkW9EEhYrjeeYz4jrzClPs1WVVrSQZJGD7OXhbCzCuHgUlhacVYG2u-4xWh8Jd/s1600/c+Chantilly+collage.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Collage of the Horse Museum</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At the totally inadequately staffed
snack restaurant on site, we waited way too long to be served and lingered only
a short while after the late lunch before walking back to the estate’s entrance
to await our bus back to the Chantilly train station.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsOvOvRyxvFjkU3t2YFlE4aqIqsMET60iWu_-3_dCfLBltPsoPeN3qrIgiqyizwEfJg7NZrYWgUkCnheIbBh5obbukJYajNs_bRkT0NUTq5x2eXulnX2AvYtl2GJLOtnDVuLM/s1600/c+Chantilly+castle+in+afternoon+sun+IMG_20181226_091551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsOvOvRyxvFjkU3t2YFlE4aqIqsMET60iWu_-3_dCfLBltPsoPeN3qrIgiqyizwEfJg7NZrYWgUkCnheIbBh5obbukJYajNs_bRkT0NUTq5x2eXulnX2AvYtl2GJLOtnDVuLM/s1600/c+Chantilly+castle+in+afternoon+sun+IMG_20181226_091551.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The Chateau de Chantilly basking in the late afternoon sun</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chantilly, the chateau, art museum and
stables is certainly worth a visit. The estate is vast with woods, ponds, leafy
walkways and bike lanes, and even small hamlets in the woods where workers used
to live. It would have been a pleasant adventure to rent a golf cart, take a
picnic basket and tour the vast estate, but that would be more appropriate
during the summer months. Unfortunately we traveled there during December. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During the trip’s planning phase I initially included
a visit to the Chateau of Vincennes in Paris, (close proximity) but I am glad M
did some research, discovered the Paris chateau is not worth a visit and we
both looked at Chantilly as an alternative to still our grave for visiting a castle
of some sort on our short trip to France. I am glad we did investigate
Chantilly. It was a fantastic escape from Paris. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Chantilly Chapel</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY6tLhyphenhyphenksR6y4lwHlOdlpVrSdpAmjYCN4D_q59hcuttnu9TiN13B5616trK2hb4oR7gJNa7clEAWVvZ5mQahsZGI2ZMDmISLVUjapBTl5vt3EWA5sapxTEC9T1-_I_tI3JUOSy/s1600/c2+Chantilly+Horses+heads+scupture+P1180972.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY6tLhyphenhyphenksR6y4lwHlOdlpVrSdpAmjYCN4D_q59hcuttnu9TiN13B5616trK2hb4oR7gJNa7clEAWVvZ5mQahsZGI2ZMDmISLVUjapBTl5vt3EWA5sapxTEC9T1-_I_tI3JUOSy/s1600/c2+Chantilly+Horses+heads+scupture+P1180972.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Two enormous horse heads dominates a small square </span></div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-57139010046533871132019-01-26T14:41:00.000-05:002019-03-21T22:25:13.866-04:00Christmas in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ2VJihny8oJNrLRm7EjsxcxIGXUW4wo2n9sRnPxmMxrspZjL0otI2DcMw4_ZTFMGEH9h6FWQ29sZ_cukPhEbSwF0eoBzoKLXuD7PDs9Y1TY6eLE_BZTMLBsZVM-XOy4JwJeLd/s1600/b2b+Christmas+in+Paris+Heading+2+580x435+P1020846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ2VJihny8oJNrLRm7EjsxcxIGXUW4wo2n9sRnPxmMxrspZjL0otI2DcMw4_ZTFMGEH9h6FWQ29sZ_cukPhEbSwF0eoBzoKLXuD7PDs9Y1TY6eLE_BZTMLBsZVM-XOy4JwJeLd/s1600/b2b+Christmas+in+Paris+Heading+2+580x435+P1020846.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>W</b>hen
I started to plan for the short European vacation over the Christmas season
there was one day I knew was going to be difficult to plan for: Christmas Day
in Paris. According to my internet research every museum except one, most
public facilities and even many restaurants were going to be closed on
Christmas. And if the weather was going to be miserable that day it would mean we
would be stuck in the apartment, a lost day of sightseeing. It would be a
restful day, but unwanted. But you can’t believe everything you read on the
Internet. Thank goodness Christmas day turned out to be sunny and a splendid
day of new experiences. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">On the train from Amsterdam to Paris via Brussels</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>T</b>his
was our 3rd visit to France and 5th to Paris (what makes
you think it is one of our favorite destinations) and walking the rues, between
all those Haussmannian <i>pierre de taille</i>
(dressed stone) buildings and seeing all those familiar landmarks again made me
feel I’m home again. Even using the metro has become second nature. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>A</b>nd
for not believing everything you read on the internet, well that is true. On
previous occasions we have stayed in the 3<sup>rd</sup>, 4<sup>th</sup>, 6<sup>th</sup>
10<sup>th</sup> arrondissements and this time our apartment was in the 11<sup>th</sup>.
It was a little outside the usual tourist area and on the internet it showed
there were several grocery stores in our area. However, arriving late on a
Sunday afternoon we were in need of some basic groceries like milk, coffee, bottled
water, wine (always, but specifically not needed on that day because I bought a
bottle of South African red wine, a Nederburg Cabernet Sauvignon in Amsterdam)
and also some vegetables, butter, cheese, etc. because I had to make dinner
that night with some sausage we bought at a Christmas market in Amsterdam,
which was supposed to be dried, but was not at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>G</b>oogle
maps showed that all the groceries stores in the area would be closed by 12
noon with the last one opened only until 2 pm. We arrived at our apartment
after 4 pm and immediately went searching for an open store, hopeful for a
non-French owned produce store that sometimes also sells a few general
groceries or a superette along Boulevard de Beaumarchais, which was not far
from our apartment. Well, we found a Franprix convenient store, not shown on
Google maps at all, just two blocks away and it was opened on Sundays until
late. It was even opened on Christmas day until 12 pm. So while M had her feet
up and caught up on her emails and Facebook correspondence, I slapped together a
Penne with a Bolognaise sauce made from Dutch sausage, red wine, mushrooms and
Swiss Emmental cheese and served it up with a small green salad and a few
slices of baguette and creamy French butter. The strong flavorful dish was well
supported by the Nederburg Cabernet Sauvignon. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The George Pompidou Centre for Modern Art</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>O</b>ne
of the places that have eluded me on previous visits is the Pompidou Centre for
modern art in the Beaubourg area. It is the largest modern art museum in Europe
and two of its floors are dedicated as vast a library for research. I like all
forms of art and all mediums, and I like to believe I have a balanced outlook
on art. As long as it is reasonably pleasing on the eye or evokes a reaction or
I can understand what the artist is trying to convey I will appreciate it. I
will admit that since a young age I have had a soft spot for Wassily Kandinsky,
Salvador Dali, Picasso and the landscapes of Camille Pissarro. I thoroughly
enjoyed the morning’s visit to the Pompidou Centre, M probably not that much,
although I have to acknowledge there were some works that totally baffled my
mind and which I would not call art. Or rather, “art” that can be done by
anyone with a few brain cells, not necessarily enough cells to be talented. But
hey, who am I to judge? Their work is in the Pompidou and mine isn’t. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Indian art exhibition inside the Saint Merry Church on Rue Saint-Martin</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>A</b>fter
a late lunch, we roamed the streets in a seemingly “aimless” fashion, browsed the
open markets down Rue Saint-Martin, popped into Saint Merry Church to look at
an exhibition of Indian mixed medium art, sculpture and photography, until we
ended up at the Saint-Jacques Tower and from there walked to the Hôtel De Ville
and a Christmas “market” on its square. There weren’t many stalls, (nothing
compared to the real thing with a festive vibe we experienced in Amsterdam
outside the Rijksmuseum,) just a carousel for kids, some artistic natural
representation of a festive season (I guess in an effort to attract everyone
without offending anyone) and not much more. Dusk was settling upon Paris and
we started to walk down Quai de Gesvres toward the Place de Bastille and our
apartment, realized its crazy to walk that far in a nasty cold breeze and on
tired feet, so we stopped at a Starbucks for warm coffee and some people
watching of Parisians hurrying passed us with their last minute shopping on
Christmas Eve, and then walked back to the Hôtel De Ville metro station and
caught the train home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>O</b>ne
of the arrangements I could secure beforehand for Christmas evening was a
dinner cruise on the Seine River. It seems that among Parisians a dinner cruise
on the eve of Christmas was very popular and traditional, but cruises on
Christmas evening were more for tourist. The only museum that was opened
according to my internet research was the Jacquemart-Andre Art Museum, which claims
to have an impressive Italian collection, but also had a special exhibition
over the Christmas season of Caravagio paintings. But I didn’t wanted to take
the chance of buying tickets up front, not knowing whether the museum was
really going to be open or not. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>O</b>n
Christmas morning, the first thing I did was tried to call the museum but no
one answered the phone. Maybe they were busy, maybe they were closed after all.
Not deterred though, we stepped out into the cold Parisian streets, boarded the
Line 1 metro at Bastille station, switched trains at Franklin Roosevelt station
to Line 9, traveled to Saint-Philippe-du-Roule station and emerged from the
underground in glorious sunshine. At a Starbuck on Avenue Myron Herrick we
enjoyed a croissant and coffee before we walked to Boulevard Haussmann and the
museum. The museum was open and very busy. Because I didn’t buy tickets
beforehand we had to wait nearly an hour to get inside and the line grew longer
by the minute. Tour groups and people who bought specifically timed tickets beforehand
had preference. However, it was well worth the wait.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Inside the Jacquemart-Andre Museum</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>T</b>he
museum was previously the mansion of Édouard André, a very rich Parisian banker
during the late 19<sup>th</sup> century and his wife, the painter Nélie Jacquemart,
who, upon her death, bequeathed the mansion and its collections to the <i>Institut de France</i> as a museum. These
two traveled the continent extensively and were great art collectors and built
the mansion specifically as a place to display their art collection. I guess
you could call them showoffs. Although impressive it was not as impressive as
what we would see the next day at Chantilly, but then…there is a difference
between being rich and being royal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>A</b>fter
the visit to the museum we took the train to the nearest station to the Place
de la Concorde. We enjoyed a light lunch and a glass of Chablis under the
covered colonnade at Café Sanseveria on Rue de Rivoli and then started to
explore the area. We have traveled through this area on several occasions by
bus, but never actually got off to explore it. But that is why I keep on coming
back to Paris. There is always something new to explore and there are still so many
places I have not yet visited. After all these visits I still have not been to
the Les Invalides, the L’Orangerie, the Rodin museum or the Picasso museum.
Last mentioned has also been in reconstruction on previous visits and this time
it was closed on the Monday before Christmas. But at least this time I got to
visit the Pompidou Centre. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">L'eglise de la Madeleine</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>F</b>irst
up in exploring the area around the
Place de la Concorde was a visit to the church with the most beautiful name, <i>L'église de la Madeleine. </i>It is just me,
but the name Madeleine is such a beautiful rhythmic name. Built in the
Neo-Classical style, inspired by a Roman temple in Nimes, France, it is a
rather unusual style for a church, with its Corinthian columns and beautiful
carved pediment featuring a scene of the Last Judgment. Arriving just before 4
pm, the place was chock-full, standing room only, Christmas afternoon Mass was
probably to start any minute, but I was not sure. Not that we were planning to
stay, we were just drifting through. For a usual Catholic church, the inside
was rather darkish but beautiful. From its steps it offered a spectacular golden-yellowish
view down Rue Royale towards the Luxor Obelisk and the French National Assembly
building beyond the Pont de la Concorde. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>A</b>t
the entrance gates to the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Jardin des
Tuileries</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">, M indulged in a warm sugar-filled crêpe. By now thousands of
Parisians and tourists, wrapped up in scarves, woolen hats and windbreakers
joined us to enjoy the rare sunny day in the middle of winter as we strolled
down the garden paths of the Tuileries towards the Louvre. A golden sunset was
descending upon Paris and apart from enjoying the wintry scenery, the duck
ponds and the statues along the paths through the Tuileries Garden we were
making up time before we had to be at the marina in front of the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Musee D’Orsay</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> for our dinner cruise at
6:30pm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>W</b>e
lingered for a while at the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, sitting on the stone
blocks nearby, more taking a breath than anything else, then ventured to the
Louvre to snap more photos, capturing the moment. We crossed the Pont du
Carrousel to the left bank of the Seine and at the Café La Fregate, in full
view of the lighted Louvre Palace, we enjoyed a hot drink, the very same place
we enjoyed a breakfast 6 years ago on our first morning of our first visit to
Paris. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
icons of New York and Paris together, constructed by the same artists, Gustave
Eiffel. The Status of Liberty on the little man-made island in the Seine River,
</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Île
aux Cygnes</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">, at the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Pont de
Grenelle</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> in the 15</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> arrondissements, not too far from the
Eiffel Tower. (By the way, there are 5 statues of Liberty in Paris.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>B</b>y the time we got to
the marina, darkness has descended upon Paris and a bone chilling breeze was
blowing down the Seine River as we lined up and waited to board the boat. As
mentioned in my previous post, this trip was not a foodies’ paradise and the
dinner and the Bordeaux wine on board was nothing spectacular, but it was by no
stretch of the imagination the best of the vacation, visually and on the
palate. However, for me it was not about the food, it was about the atmosphere,
that moment and place in time, being in Paris on a nighttime cruise,
experiencing the city and its lights from a different perspective, and being
with M at the end of a very unexpectedly enjoyable exploratory day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-47594422841065631472019-01-19T12:43:00.001-05:002019-03-21T22:26:39.370-04:00Amsterdam! Venice of the North<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_ih4Zu_I7D2YzD_Wob7fUP7a7kgBR4G5vwrhN67_bfTmpfbf-cajhzidGDpV2aQGI4LmuKn-i0lJCmB8i04YufOkWfVvnpU25w_zngBY5UoM0a0voDlRlTTihx-oOaNsdhKr/s1600/b+Heading+3b+Amsterdam+bridge+and+bicycles+580x436++P1020720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_ih4Zu_I7D2YzD_Wob7fUP7a7kgBR4G5vwrhN67_bfTmpfbf-cajhzidGDpV2aQGI4LmuKn-i0lJCmB8i04YufOkWfVvnpU25w_zngBY5UoM0a0voDlRlTTihx-oOaNsdhKr/s1600/b+Heading+3b+Amsterdam+bridge+and+bicycles+580x436++P1020720.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nowhere
where I have traveled have I been so aware of traffic and people as in
Amsterdam, the city of canals. (The general chaos of Naples comes close.) If
you are out on Amsterdam’s streets you constantly have to be aware of where you are
and on the lookout for bicycles, motorbikes, trams, more bicycles and people.
They all seem to mingle in perfect harmony, but one step to the right or to the
left without looking and you can end up in front of a fast moving bicycle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A classic Amsterdam memory</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Traveling
in winter have benefits: Shorter lines at museums and restaurants, but on the
weather front it was mostly dreary with the sky varied from woolly clouds
interspersed with rare patches of light blue to a dirty dark grey with
occasional rain. Luckily, on the worst weather day when it was very windy and
rainy we were indoors in the Rijksmuseum.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The flower market and cheese caves</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Traveling
from America to Europe inevitability means an overnight flight and an early
morning arrival, which means one cannot book into a hotel/apartment/Airbnb
before 3 pm and walking around in any city dragging even your single suitcase
everywhere is a schlep. Some hotels allow you to store your luggage before
checking in. Ours, the JL No. 76 Hotel on Jan Luijkenstraat, a stone throw from
the <i>Museumplein</i> and the Rijks and Van
Gogh Museums, did allow for storage, and we went straight to our hotel after
our arrival in Amsterdam and asked if we can book in earlier. I was not
expecting an affirmative answer, but I took a chance! They can only say no. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was then that I experienced the latest trend being employed by hospitality
establishments, especially in Europe. If you try to book in earlier, they will
make a show of looking for a room to book you, never find your room, but
magically find an alternative room and then offer you an upgrade, in our case,
$50 per night extra. We don’t usually stay in hotels so we have never
experienced this sales pitch before, but luckily I read about it on Tripadvisor
and Google Reviews and didn’t fall for the trap. Interestingly, it would happen
again in Paris, even though we arrived there after the eligible booking time.
Times must be hard in Europe or scamming hotel guests must have become the
norm? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
respectfully declined the offer to an upgrade, knowing full well, based on
prior research on the internet of the types of rooms available in this hotel, that
what I originally booked was one of the better rooms on offer. We selected to
store our luggage at the hotel and floated into the streets of Amsterdam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sitting inside <i>De Vier Pilaren</i> restaurant and watching the world float by</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">On
one of those occasional rainy moments, on our first day out walking towards the
Jordaan area, we popped into </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">De Vier
Pilaren</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, a “Poffertjes en Pannenkoeken” restaurant for lunch, located near
the Vondelpark entrance on </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Stadhouderskade</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
and across the </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Singelgracht</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> from </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Max Euweplein</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. Of course the Dutch </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">pannenkoeken</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> (pancake) is not a strange
dish to us because we grew up with it. Every traditional Afrikaner gathering in
South Africa usually served the thin styled pancake, mostly with a cinnamon and
sugar mixture on top and rolled up like wrap. M went sweet and had a pancake
with only a granular sugar coating. I went the other way, savory, and had one
with aged </span>Gouda<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> cheese and liberally layered with cured ham, a light burgundy
colored ham. It was so delicious! The tiny restaurant’s service was excellent,
the aroma of the freshly baked pancakes and “poffertjes”, the warmth inside
while it was cold and raining outside, created a cozy atmosphere that was
perfect in that moment. We lingered inside </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">De
Vier Pilaren</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> for quite a while. Feeling the effects of jet lag, time was not
important, resting our feet was, and taking an early break to absorb the
Amsterdam vibe was important. And we did. While we watched people come and go
and tourist canal boats floating by on the </span></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Singelgracht,</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
M sipped on a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and I savored some French
Chardonnay. [Gracht is Dutch for canal.] <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Rembrandt's <i>The Night Watch</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
day after our arrival was all about the main purpose of this short vacation. The
Rijksmuseum: The pride of Amsterdam and the Netherlands. Rembrandt van Rijn and
his fellow <i>schilders</i> (painters) from the
17<sup>th</sup> century, the Dutch Golden Age, are a major love of M’s art
interest. We spent a whole day in the museum. In the end, the Rijksmuseum
offered so much more than just a bunch of paintings against walls. It presented
the history of the Netherlands and its conquered lands in art form and how the
different cultures impacted the country. It certainly turned out to be one of
better museums we have been to. One criticism though: Although they had a
special exhibition of South Africa and its relationship with the Netherlands in
the Rijksmuseum in 2017, it seems the settling of a halfway station at the
southern tip of Africa by the Dutch and the incredible impact it had on the
creation of the Afrikaner people, its language and on South Africa in general for
centuries to come (after all the Dutch ruled the Cape of Good Hope for 150
years) are not enough to justify a permanent section on South Africa in the
Rijksmuseum. Except if I missed it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Rijksmuseum at night and the Christmas market on the right of the ice
skating rink </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After
the Rijksmuseum and a walk through the Christmas market in front of the museum we
were famished and went searching for a restaurant. A few blocks away we came
across an Irish pub, packed to the rafters. After all, it was Friday night and
happy hour was still in full swing. Two blocks away, M found the <i>Le Garage</i>, a Michelin Bib listed
restaurant, French/Europe in cuisine and molecular gastronomy in style.
However, the restaurant was less than satisfactory with terrible service,
nicely decorated plates, but rather tasteless food. I had a bland rotisserie
chicken which barely had any color on it. A chain grocery in Danville sells
better rotisserie chicken than these “wannabe” chefs. Harsh, but that’s how bad
it was. M’s fish was only slightly better, but they forgot to bring her side
dish and when it eventually arrived after we had to ask for it, it was cold. The
next evening’s dinner at an Irish pub on Max Euweplein, the atmosphere was
livelier, the music much better, the food a slight improvement on the night
before, and the price much less. In
general, even in Paris, this trip cannot be described as a visit to foodies’
paradise. But that’s our fault; we never made a serious effort to find
exceptional restaurants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Although
we also visited the Van Gogh Museum, the rest of our time in Amsterdam was
spent walking the streets, at times using the tram to save our feet and we went
on a canal tour late one afternoon and returned to our base as dusk descended
upon the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Basilica of Saint Nicholas near Centraal Station</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Although I found the <i>Koninklijk Paleis</i>, the Royal Palace,
rather dirty on the outside, Amsterdam in general is a very clean city. You
hardly saw a cigarette butt on the street. With its numerous canals, hundreds
of bridges, thousands of bicycles in all shapes and sizes, I found it an
exciting and cozy city. Very walkable. Just a pity it was such a short visit. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A small lunch and tea for two. That tea was very delicious (Rooibos, orange, vanilla and honey) </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Vondel Park</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The Red Light district with the Oude Kerk, Amsterdam's oldest building, in the background</div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-42996883485192895722018-03-24T23:53:00.000-04:002018-03-25T00:18:35.156-04:00The Fish Shack<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaip33A-VoIoGI6u3ZOPv8S5vG0O3r2gVoAS2cL0IPeegUzSV4zR32lfHnSeA6X7BFEEDb05x8nm0Vd0eagfROWarjhoh_Nw_Swv3k2P0k50tM0dDUv9Uj5d4LLuJAr0kSvh1j/s1600/c+The+Fish+Shack+Heading+JPEG+P1180037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaip33A-VoIoGI6u3ZOPv8S5vG0O3r2gVoAS2cL0IPeegUzSV4zR32lfHnSeA6X7BFEEDb05x8nm0Vd0eagfROWarjhoh_Nw_Swv3k2P0k50tM0dDUv9Uj5d4LLuJAr0kSvh1j/s1600/c+The+Fish+Shack+Heading+JPEG+P1180037.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Move over Man Cave, the She Shed has arrived.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some time now, Monica wanted a She Shed, the latest craze
that is sweeping over America. It is used by women for painting, reading, yoga,
meeting and partying with the girls or just a place to leave the house and the household
behind for a sanctuary of their own. It is in a way dovetailing with the tiny house
craze although a she shed is not for permanent living. But…I guess it can be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Facebook there is a She Shed Shop. On Google you can buy
the She Shed ebook. Now Lowe’s and Home Depot sell them and these backyard
beauties are featured in House Beautiful magazine. The she sheds range from a
converted wooden potting shed to rustic enclave, to specially constructed,
nearly all glass buildings to invite nature in. From a soulful escape from husband
and kids to a total party place with the girls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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So a few months ago M bought a small basic wooden cabin (12 x 10 feet) with a
small front porch and it was positioned at the pond on Lily Rose Ranch. I added some
steps and insulated it. Initially she had a working title for the place of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le Petit Maison</i> (the tiny house) with
the intention to decorate it in a Shabby Chic décor and all Parisian, I think.
But after it was all fitted out with bead board ceiling and walls it turned into The
Fish Shack with a nautical theme.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But erase that image of a basic cabin on a frozen lake with
a hole in the floor for ice fishing, a bunch of ruddy guys and cases of
beer and bourbon in the corner. Oh no, this fish shack is painted a soft shade of pink
inside, decorated with M’s effervescent style and a 16-foot deck that stretches
to the edge of the pond for bug-free and slipfree fishing. It is still a work in progress because I still need to add the nautical rope to the deck posts and put some finials on the day bed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She really took fishing and a fish shack up a notch!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt75DfKeJXg5pTdprRnH4HcB4-2spV7ITcMjceMPdG3khZ4tYGCiMj6R5CYWp4qDxny5wLzhgTwz54y57H1fBUJioJQTg1h5_HFst99TIBbaQH3sYrOytzGC7XnGvb807Y7jUE/s1600/c+Entrance+P1180033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt75DfKeJXg5pTdprRnH4HcB4-2spV7ITcMjceMPdG3khZ4tYGCiMj6R5CYWp4qDxny5wLzhgTwz54y57H1fBUJioJQTg1h5_HFst99TIBbaQH3sYrOytzGC7XnGvb807Y7jUE/s1600/c+Entrance+P1180033.JPG" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQL_CVHr_ybul7kmjiGcE4Vqn7Iv6TZK2sVJgwbm1rQIJrUOPQNiVXWZiXnhR3MRGiIWCl46ctQ779rRh95lnqV-NLL6NiqVQWGSuQk-zM4j_oROWwHdj4tE_TS__wT817lumG/s1600/c+The+Fish+Shack+Collage+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQL_CVHr_ybul7kmjiGcE4Vqn7Iv6TZK2sVJgwbm1rQIJrUOPQNiVXWZiXnhR3MRGiIWCl46ctQ779rRh95lnqV-NLL6NiqVQWGSuQk-zM4j_oROWwHdj4tE_TS__wT817lumG/s1600/c+The+Fish+Shack+Collage+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
And it even comes with battery operated globe light and candles for just the right romantic ambiance</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">for night time visits.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYDZRfomzNHpAP2HlI_wQbcqtGPl0Yc8pFj-aVQa5JebYLuAWRcbSHR8iL50rI87i0-s40lqhMO4mPsZhpSuEHwhziOQe5kv-I5p3k-lYU0e38IEOndFjPpQIAeWVrw4WF9pN/s1600/c+At+night+P1180065.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYDZRfomzNHpAP2HlI_wQbcqtGPl0Yc8pFj-aVQa5JebYLuAWRcbSHR8iL50rI87i0-s40lqhMO4mPsZhpSuEHwhziOQe5kv-I5p3k-lYU0e38IEOndFjPpQIAeWVrw4WF9pN/s1600/c+At+night+P1180065.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It will be the closest she can bring the beach to Kentucky.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMM1VveeR7xq-tUu6s8XjypkLNSbuN5POQbcgfVGl1cf_EanZXIxlbWO_h68YoSA5eJZlXZcGfCCF7M4O-pVcBW-_Y3Q6T-Lb5QdxMuNQnrMYKKGeK9QeLa3zuvTUnzC_QDKk2/s1600/c+View+1+P1180037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMM1VveeR7xq-tUu6s8XjypkLNSbuN5POQbcgfVGl1cf_EanZXIxlbWO_h68YoSA5eJZlXZcGfCCF7M4O-pVcBW-_Y3Q6T-Lb5QdxMuNQnrMYKKGeK9QeLa3zuvTUnzC_QDKk2/s1600/c+View+1+P1180037.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioYuwQxdPgm4F9D8fJsYxzaWve2dZ7DYB8euXB_4oTyvXPJEjXUKE5B2iLtRrj0gdbMMFbh-CW1KY79JlqZZcpe5o5-QnkoHJsGYt3xb4Oo506MoBAHkLHFJHtAs9eWAZ9-nlB/s1600/c+View+of+Pond+2+P1180038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioYuwQxdPgm4F9D8fJsYxzaWve2dZ7DYB8euXB_4oTyvXPJEjXUKE5B2iLtRrj0gdbMMFbh-CW1KY79JlqZZcpe5o5-QnkoHJsGYt3xb4Oo506MoBAHkLHFJHtAs9eWAZ9-nlB/s1600/c+View+of+Pond+2+P1180038.JPG" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">My next project is to plant grass and build a fire-pit and picnic area on that brown peninsula in the background that juts out into the pond. Last year most of the trees were cut down and now I have to cleanup and beautify. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid89uPvrhFazhyphenhyphenHCGwlNipBS5QqJE-baZjqo7e6Vz7MY6oMKtgIdVUFd_Mr-ijCReYLuyOztyM6RsriB199nzoW5X76LM-AfdfvHvCTUBkr5lDmFeCTnUAgpuBxSuqEKCLcRY7/s1600/c+View+3+P1180056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid89uPvrhFazhyphenhyphenHCGwlNipBS5QqJE-baZjqo7e6Vz7MY6oMKtgIdVUFd_Mr-ijCReYLuyOztyM6RsriB199nzoW5X76LM-AfdfvHvCTUBkr5lDmFeCTnUAgpuBxSuqEKCLcRY7/s1600/c+View+3+P1180056.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgiTVd9YGKPJpEe4qRF0FlXakD5TiuaVQWhrz8gXuFPn3iyOk7VRTppxWYp9Ml69n43wg3cii_t2D_Prlmy1DDSkH-AAiWyarTORomfw8eLjatNCDemKgOP-q8otp9rzQCXsa/s1600/c+Porch+P1180032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgiTVd9YGKPJpEe4qRF0FlXakD5TiuaVQWhrz8gXuFPn3iyOk7VRTppxWYp9Ml69n43wg3cii_t2D_Prlmy1DDSkH-AAiWyarTORomfw8eLjatNCDemKgOP-q8otp9rzQCXsa/s1600/c+Porch+P1180032.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The tiny porch is perfect for catching the late afternoon sun.</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_m6hdCmMexap4Kh9G3tdS93Mlp9l1E0EowFu7N6_vTYoDgfm0p0Y44Qkhk8pIPYOZIPwT79-1LV1FAXiEJeBOO8FOfeSwuwSv8jC5EhxGIFH9vh8TNEN8bDdC3l_I0cjfLLzl/s1600/c+far+view+P1180090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_m6hdCmMexap4Kh9G3tdS93Mlp9l1E0EowFu7N6_vTYoDgfm0p0Y44Qkhk8pIPYOZIPwT79-1LV1FAXiEJeBOO8FOfeSwuwSv8jC5EhxGIFH9vh8TNEN8bDdC3l_I0cjfLLzl/s1600/c+far+view+P1180090.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Two days after we decorated The Fish Shack, seeing that the start of spring was one day away, winter once more acted out its recurring visiting act of barging in and "...oh, and one more thing..." </span></div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-3997426598283292902018-02-05T13:37:00.000-05:002018-02-08T10:15:05.147-05:00The Twice a Year Ritual of Making Hay <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlNx6EqtnwUSL1PamC_Qc088hvp8LAvV7S7eWLbJGdQswYeYls1E89PvWTIuG1ovDPqceiBmELusQWJNurVJNRj0q84edy2wYNCWq1-hCwlxOmOyxflMPOAIqYujYAalgpLAa/s1600/c2+Lily+Rose+Ranch+P1170682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlNx6EqtnwUSL1PamC_Qc088hvp8LAvV7S7eWLbJGdQswYeYls1E89PvWTIuG1ovDPqceiBmELusQWJNurVJNRj0q84edy2wYNCWq1-hCwlxOmOyxflMPOAIqYujYAalgpLAa/s1600/c2+Lily+Rose+Ranch+P1170682.JPG" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have a friend that works with me in the concrete jungle
and who just like me lives on a small farm, financially not viable for permanent farming, and loves
to say that he will gladly sit on a tractor all day long and drive in circles
if it makes enough money. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Well, sitting on a tractor the entire day and cutting grass can
be boring, but it sure beats waddling in mud on a cold winter’s day working
with animals. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpW7HJN9Eoi0OJMI2BxgOdmy6-Hz5mjVspV9h4h-TVm_wgUPG4tx31wMj1ObsKfMaW50d0EEFfKNwvJ9vwMt1Aqny8V-dyQvovgGi96o7l-SNLb433wJu_AfRelyc1fzCpgzH/s1600/c2+Arrival+P1170729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpW7HJN9Eoi0OJMI2BxgOdmy6-Hz5mjVspV9h4h-TVm_wgUPG4tx31wMj1ObsKfMaW50d0EEFfKNwvJ9vwMt1Aqny8V-dyQvovgGi96o7l-SNLb433wJu_AfRelyc1fzCpgzH/s1600/c2+Arrival+P1170729.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The arrival</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don’t own haymaking equipment. It is not financially
viable for me to lay out the capital on Lily Rose Ranch seeing that here in
Kentucky grass is in surplus and hay is relatively cheap if you buy it straight
from a farmer instead of from an agricultural store. At the same time the grass
mixture on some of my pastures vary from tall fescue/clover mix while on others
is it a prairie/switch grass mix. Although great for cattle, especially the
prairie grass which is high in protein, neither mix is ideal for sheep. My sheep
seems to not like fescue, not even when it stands green in the pasture. From a
dry hay point of view, they seem to prefer an orchard grass/clover/alfalfa mix.
Certainly softer, and tastier I suppose.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhan1TRDp2PZUtKfissMJvnwwIynBmEI-G69GXd55LUB43aSZakOaSSK1ZwvpWjJmsbkrzTmKitsn7hLUCWVtOQV6KULjYF8mdF3Qym6GLCgevWop3un1Vj4PV_EB5o2FX9NFW2/s1600/c2+Pasture+before+mowing+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhan1TRDp2PZUtKfissMJvnwwIynBmEI-G69GXd55LUB43aSZakOaSSK1ZwvpWjJmsbkrzTmKitsn7hLUCWVtOQV6KULjYF8mdF3Qym6GLCgevWop3un1Vj4PV_EB5o2FX9NFW2/s1600/c2+Pasture+before+mowing+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Prairie grass and wild flowers pasture before moving</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So twice a year I must get a farmer in to cut my pasture and
bale. He uses his time; his equipment and gas and get food for his cattle and I
get rid of the tall grass and the allergy problem that comes with tall grass. He
gets it for free and leaves me 2 or 3 round bales from the fall cutting for
winter food. That is more than enough for my few sheep and the 2 donkeys for
winter. I supplement that with square bales of the orchard/clover/alfalfa mix I
buy from farmers.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSMhxb3eb0zZ-BL6Uwxiw9P8xDRQyS-zQ3ENCzgSrfcRNgC_wXFEBglKfoftgb_BEBpI3K0aT62BIHx_MxegIlbVwnRqYPeE8DNDAAhAFkGZ-8NFoyKk_XJGDsbFfjV8NK9rE/s1600/c2+Mowing+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSMhxb3eb0zZ-BL6Uwxiw9P8xDRQyS-zQ3ENCzgSrfcRNgC_wXFEBglKfoftgb_BEBpI3K0aT62BIHx_MxegIlbVwnRqYPeE8DNDAAhAFkGZ-8NFoyKk_XJGDsbFfjV8NK9rE/s1600/c2+Mowing+1.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfr9kxPkgYb5CDAyuBrbZN62mWIhFsEpRW34avcoV9Rp8EJ_fZjsA7EITNKFStr06tB7HmsE1rNL66sLS2rpEMAPaVSqaT979Z4-Zg_hCp7SPO-JmkZhZetC7sGJTT6kt1iOD/s1600/c2+Raking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfr9kxPkgYb5CDAyuBrbZN62mWIhFsEpRW34avcoV9Rp8EJ_fZjsA7EITNKFStr06tB7HmsE1rNL66sLS2rpEMAPaVSqaT979Z4-Zg_hCp7SPO-JmkZhZetC7sGJTT6kt1iOD/s1600/c2+Raking.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-TWyH1vd_3tyQhUd4VIOilwyWIoiw7KRWGr7Gl4zkU0FM1GgnfXgSQDMBESopzTc3XWlI73KlpJmkn5yqTdAIlM11SYaoZsS6Z7y2ukcqBJqCQT-yAAzXkksc4Gufn77KkfN/s1600/c2+Baling+Into+the+Baler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-TWyH1vd_3tyQhUd4VIOilwyWIoiw7KRWGr7Gl4zkU0FM1GgnfXgSQDMBESopzTc3XWlI73KlpJmkn5yqTdAIlM11SYaoZsS6Z7y2ukcqBJqCQT-yAAzXkksc4Gufn77KkfN/s1600/c2+Baling+Into+the+Baler.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The process of mowing, raking and baling</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">During spring last year, I was struggling to find a farmer
to come and cut. He promised to come but kept on extending his arrival and the
grass was getting taller and taller, so I decided to use my own tractor and rotary
cutter and cut it myself without making bales of hay. It also gave me the
opportunity to cut deep in to the encroaching brush at some areas which was
invading the pasture. </span></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDjiPG1bToYrza27lHObLmlYl0_N67_wEfnGEyVg_rdMhpXNss-LHc9l4Cvz_V4FjV24A7eDUT9pT8jc9suehCCC4Itt8nvQfyA4CqRCTS2t_-Eg2MU8X0ciqm0AXSawG1Jef/s1600/c2+Bales+of+Hay+in+landscape+P1170738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDjiPG1bToYrza27lHObLmlYl0_N67_wEfnGEyVg_rdMhpXNss-LHc9l4Cvz_V4FjV24A7eDUT9pT8jc9suehCCC4Itt8nvQfyA4CqRCTS2t_-Eg2MU8X0ciqm0AXSawG1Jef/s1600/c2+Bales+of+Hay+in+landscape+P1170738.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, after three 8-hour days in the tractor seat I must admit
it can get boring at times. And hot too. I do not have the luxury of an air-conditioned
cab on my tractor. Seeing that I was just cutting and not doing any raking,
baling and transporting the bales afterwards, I certainly will acknowledge my
respect for farmers that do this kind of work 2 or 3 times a year on much larger
farms than mine. Although you have to concentrate all the time the work can be
mind-numbing after a while. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7aV9nj5m3jniv5BxZo-eakFuNHjJp-UEeVGIs_nSu5nV-OSL_v6HL_7a_vD_nHp3Wc2DsNH9nX2Weg9ho1_506RT9RfXSMHDevzdufSMZtjZWPh1gPPy_ghjXB_yvDxAjsJQM/s1600/c+Baling+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7aV9nj5m3jniv5BxZo-eakFuNHjJp-UEeVGIs_nSu5nV-OSL_v6HL_7a_vD_nHp3Wc2DsNH9nX2Weg9ho1_506RT9RfXSMHDevzdufSMZtjZWPh1gPPy_ghjXB_yvDxAjsJQM/s1600/c+Baling+Collage.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18UmxyFnQM4MJe4OkJ9jMVnjttTHvFG9d1S3tX0yGYEdi-pd0PnhqEvc0CAJ473jRT4YWSiPs76AGa4d5xHY2snhSa8XKBDLjqCeoGhaKOYa6Mt0OXmSHZxOt3b-xmuyktoZX/s1600/c2+departing+P1090224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18UmxyFnQM4MJe4OkJ9jMVnjttTHvFG9d1S3tX0yGYEdi-pd0PnhqEvc0CAJ473jRT4YWSiPs76AGa4d5xHY2snhSa8XKBDLjqCeoGhaKOYa6Mt0OXmSHZxOt3b-xmuyktoZX/s1600/c2+departing+P1090224.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The departure.</span></div>
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<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Last year, for the late summer/fall cutting, I asked a
different farmer. I have used him in previous years and he knows the lay of my
land well. He was more than willing to cut and prompt and seeing that his farm
is close to mine, transporting the hay to his farm was a breeze. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtH9dW9xJuA1fY3lx4XX2gv3E0a24IyQQlrCyBH-wO5PnHlSEoJwPHy2aQKAnMOrpdIIl4dPKEYPFyKmP5xRjSzRDPOFsCATaSw9yguNnMxGixCGUe0tQaCc6S0VL_Uw8LhBVG/s1600/c2+Departure+of+last+hay+P1170804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtH9dW9xJuA1fY3lx4XX2gv3E0a24IyQQlrCyBH-wO5PnHlSEoJwPHy2aQKAnMOrpdIIl4dPKEYPFyKmP5xRjSzRDPOFsCATaSw9yguNnMxGixCGUe0tQaCc6S0VL_Uw8LhBVG/s1600/c2+Departure+of+last+hay+P1170804.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The last of the hay leaving</span></span></div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-2420831920464958072018-01-13T16:35:00.000-05:002018-02-08T10:12:49.690-05:00The Morning After a Snowy Night<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There
are few things in nature so rewarding as getting up in the morning after a shroud
of snow fell during the night. This morning was no exception on Lily Rose Ranch.</span></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A
poem about snow by Emily Dickinson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
sifts from leaden sieves,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
powders all the wood,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
fills with alabaster wool<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
wrinkles of the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
makes an even face<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Of
mountain and of plain, —<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Unbroken
forehead from the east<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Unto
the east again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
reaches to the fence,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
wraps it, rail by rail,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Till
it is lost in fleeces;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
flings a crystal veil<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">On
stump and stack and stem, —<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
summer’s empty room,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Acres
of seams where harvests were,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Recordless,
but for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Road through a snowy woods</div>
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The icing on a hay cake</div>
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Waiting to be fed</div>
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Cabin is a snowy woods</div>
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A shed at a frozen pond</div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-3611880885521434812017-05-05T01:16:00.000-04:002017-05-05T01:31:48.686-04:00Nietemin...Waarom Is Die Wereld so Faktap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dit is nie elke dag dat artieste en musikante, wat taal daagliks gebruik om emosie, woede, blydskap, liefde, haat, geskiedenis, phychedelic idees, drome, redenasie, evangelisme, en ander stories te verkoop, hul taal vereer in ‘n liedjie nie. Stef Bos en Amanda Strijdom (Strydom) het.<br />
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Hier by ons en regtig orals oor Amerika is daar lokale radiostasies wat gewoonlik Klassieke Rock & Rock uitsaai. Afhangende van hoe jy Classic Rock definieer, sal jy by die een baie AC/DC, Led Zeppelin en ‘n horde van Amerikaanse “big hair bands” van die sewintigs en tagtiger jare hoor. By die ander een is Die Rollende Klippe (Rolling Stones), Pienk Vlooie (Pink Floyd), Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, The Eagles, en nog ‘n horde van Amerikaanse “big hair bands” te hoor. Maar elke nou en dan dan adverteer stasie nommer twee: “We are not ashamed to play this on our radio station” en dan hulle trek weg met ‘n obskure nommer een van die verlede of iets “folksy” of “countryside.”</div>
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As ek soms met mede Suid Afrikaners oor musiek praat en ek bring die name Amanda Strydom of Coenie De Villiers op of selfs Thys Nywerheid of Battery 9 dan kry ek so ‘n tweede kyk wat sê:</div>
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“Huh!...O ja…die kaberet sangers!” of "Wie's hulle?"</div>
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Opgeneem 25 September 2008 in die Koninklijk Theater in Amsterdam, Nederland. </div>
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Miskien is ek van ‘n vorige tydperk en De la Rey is eintlik ‘n karakter uit die geskiedenis boeke en nie so seer die naam van ‘n gewilde liedjie nie. En Karlien van Jaarsveld...wel...nietemin...<br />
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Ek is nie skaam om te sê ek geniet Amanda en Coenie en selfs sekere van Karen Zoid en ander soortgelyke komposisies. Kaberet oftenot, wie het nou eintlik genres nodig? Dis die genot van die musiek wat tel.<br />
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Karen Zoid bly 'n gusteling. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So gepraat van Thys Nywerheid, hulle het in Januarie 2017 hul nuutste album uitgereik. Die eerste in baie jare. Met hulle onlangse uitreiking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>Brekfis in Orania</strong></i> het hulle blykbaar ‘n bladsy uit die Heuwels
Fantasties se boek geskeur. Alles klink ‘n
bietjie te geprogrameerd en te Pop-py en te "Heuwels Fantasties". Dis ‘n jammerte
want hulle <em><strong>Husse Met Lang Messe</strong></em> van jare gelede bly een van my gunsteling alternatiewe
Afrikaanse albums. Hulle het hulle funk verloor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Wel, genoeg gesê voordat ek hierdie bladsye verder bemes met woordelike misstof.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ietsie nuut van Thys Nywerheid en ook hedendaags toepaslik...</span></span></div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-33029946775557824522017-05-01T21:56:00.000-04:002017-05-01T21:56:50.454-04:00An Enchanted Day in Vaison-la-Romaine<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSTYENQt2nqmcPHPwE86Nc2UwOv9qYLnXrtikhLL4oywdhjV4NwJmO1S0ZKNwKaN4dF_2aEsWUk-uLqT6of0pzYbMoTGZCH5F0d8ALCQ97fl2D1DmlomoHOQCO18JGsRW5n8N/s1600/c4+Vaison+la+Romaine+streets+3+Heading+P1080985.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSTYENQt2nqmcPHPwE86Nc2UwOv9qYLnXrtikhLL4oywdhjV4NwJmO1S0ZKNwKaN4dF_2aEsWUk-uLqT6of0pzYbMoTGZCH5F0d8ALCQ97fl2D1DmlomoHOQCO18JGsRW5n8N/s1600/c4+Vaison+la+Romaine+streets+3+Heading+P1080985.jpg" /></a> </div>
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From the parking garage next door to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marché les Halles d’Avignon</i>, the city’s marketplace near the Palace
of the Popes, we zigzagged our way northward through the ancient narrow streets
until we exited the city’s old ramparts through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Porte du Rocher</i> to join <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boulevard
de la Ligne</i> (Route D225). Avignon is a maze and we would have been totally
lost without a GPS. Running all along the mighty Rhone River, the boulevard
later becomes the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Route Touristique des
Bords du Rhone, </i>The Tourist Route of the Rhône (Route D907/D225). We
followed the road until it swung away from the river and at the first major
roundabout where the D907 heads north to Sorgues and the D225 heads to
Carpentras, we went north. My clear intention was to avoid any major highways
or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">autoroutes</i>. I wanted to explore the
backroads of Provence, from roundabout to roundabout, through lanes bordered by
fields of fruit trees, vineyards and old stone farmhouses, and whenever we got to
the outskirts of a town, the road was flanked by factories and warehouses, and
filled with service trucks. No problem! There was no rush. We had time on our
hands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were slow traveling France.</div>
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It may have been lunch time and shops were closed but the wares were still displayed outside in Vaison-la-Romaine</div>
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When I recently wrote about Spain and the magical day spent in
Barcelona’s Bari Gotic I mentioned that another enthralled travel day was a
visit to Vaison-la-Romaine in the Haut-Vaucluse region of France, loosely
defined as the northern section of Provence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was our last day in Provence before returning to Paris for a further
dose of enchantment. </div>
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Caesar Augustus statue high up on the stage's wall</div>
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Our first destination for the day was the town of Orange, a major Roman
period town. Later it became a unique Dutch Principality (from 1544 to 1702) in
the south of France before it was ceded to Louis IV of France. It was a popular
Protestant destination during the French Wars of Religions (1562 - 1598).
However, the Dutch, the House of Orange-Nassau, never ceded the title, Prince/Princess
of Orange. For that matter, neither did the Kingdom of Prussia, the House of
Hohenzollern, which also laid claim to the title. The Dutch continued to use
the title for the heir apparent to the Dutch throne. Today, the thirteen year
old Princess Catharina-Amelia, current heir apparent to the Dutch throne, is
the first <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Princess of Orange</b> to
claim the title in her own right since 1417 when Mary of Baux-Orange, the last
Princess of Orange, died. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> The back of the stage area of the Amphitheater. </o:p></div>
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The itinerary for Orange called for a visit to the weekly market, the
ancient Roman amphitheater and the Triumphal Arch, the oldest complete
structure in Orange, possibly built during the reign of Augustus (27 BC - AD
14). In the end we spent most of our 2 hours in Orange at the magnificent amphitheater
and the adjacent museum, before a short walk through the market and never got to
see the Triumphal Arch. But that’s the way travel days sometimes goes.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> From the top row of the seating area the people looks tiny near the stage. </o:p></div>
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<o:p>The lonely figure in the first row on the right is M. </o:p></div>
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The Amphitheater, still in use today as a musical venue, is ginormous,
even by today’s standards, and a glorious testament to the skills of the
builders of the Roman Empire. Started in the 1<sup>st</sup> century AD under Caesar
Augustus, it is the most well preserved Roman amphitheater in Europe. It was extraordinary
to see such an ancient building still in relative good condition. While M
stayed on level ground near the stage I climbed all the way to the top of the
seating area. The seats of the amphitheater rest against the side of St.
Eutrope Hill, which dominates Orange. Below the hill’s summit is the St.
Eutrope Park, this at one time housed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chateau
Nassau</i>, but because of William III, the Prince of Orange’s protectionism of
Protestants it was destroyed in 1672 on the command of Louis XIV, the sun king,
in his effort to enforce Catholicism. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A Pink Floyd concert at the Theatre Antique L'Orange</span></div>
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From Orange we travelled along Route D977 passed the turn offs to classic
Provençal villages, with names that flow off the tongue like liquid poetry: Gigondas
(little brother of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine region), Sablet, Segúret, and Rasteau
until the road started to run more or less parallel to the Ouvèze River, which
took us into the town of Vaison-la-Romaine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>The 1st century Roman bridge </o:p></div>
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We parked our car just inside the new town on Avenue Cesar Geoffray
about 200 meters from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pont Romaine de
Vaison-la-Romaine</i>, a bridge built by the Romans in the 1st century AD and which
is still in used today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We first
explored the lower town or new town, where the ancient Roman settlement was
located. We walked uphill along <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grand Rue</i>
until it becomes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Avenue General de Gaulle</i>
and at the tourism office next to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musée
Archéologique Théo Desplans </i>we stopped. It was lunch time and in the south
of France lunch time is sacred. There was nearly no one around. The place felt
deserted. Shops we all closed. It felt like we had the place to ourselves. M
and I annexed a bench that overlooked the city’s Roman ruins to eat our lunch
that we brought along from our apartment while we waited for the museum to open
again after lunch. Lunch consisted of some rustic black olive bread, sharp pale
yellow cheese we bought at the Gordes market a few days ago, fruit and some “to
die for” yogurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2Yr3CJ1FZtyCQDpQAf3mXrs4yjmeiqoopyMmxvd-SRTaCgkAvJfTvUgcjFMqv3tm8GI4vAUjVr-89kRW9BLf49Ne_6SkzRy7kWdXF9Kqy-KtMJFNe_-QHU-yhJM275Q6RJH4/s1600/c+French+yogurt+in+glass+jars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2Yr3CJ1FZtyCQDpQAf3mXrs4yjmeiqoopyMmxvd-SRTaCgkAvJfTvUgcjFMqv3tm8GI4vAUjVr-89kRW9BLf49Ne_6SkzRy7kWdXF9Kqy-KtMJFNe_-QHU-yhJM275Q6RJH4/s1600/c+French+yogurt+in+glass+jars.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">[Please let me indulge for a minute about French yogurt. If you haven’t
eaten French yogurt yet, put it on your “foods I must try” list. I am not a big
yogurt eater, or rather I never used to be, but I fell in love with their
yogurts during my travels through France, especially the ones that come in tiny
delicate glass jars with the clear fruit and fruit juices at the bottom and the
thick, creamy yogurt on top. It is simply heaven in a jar. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The difference
between American and French/European yogurt is a higher fat content. French
yogurt contains nearly double the amount of fat than the American standard
percentage. And fat means flavor. There is a French word <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vachement</i></b>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">In Google it translates
to: really, bloody or damned! If used as a superlative, it means “unbelievable”,
or in American English “Oh my god, it’s frigging awesome.”]</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
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Apart from some kids also waiting for the museum to open, there was no one on the streets.</div>
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After lunch we visited the archeology museum, walked along <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rue Burrus</i> and beheld the splendor of
the Roman ruins. Through a public garden and along more Roman ruins we arrived
at the Cathedral Notre Dame De Nazareth, a classic Romanesque-style church, the
present building dates back to the 1200s, although some parts inside dates back
to the Merovingian period, early 8<sup>th</sup> Century. It was by far the
oldest church building I have ever been into. We lingered for a while, and then
in a roundabout way, passed more Roman ruins, we arrived back on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rue Grand</i> and made our way back to our
car. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">More Roman ruins, a tranquil <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">garden and the c</span>athedral in the distance </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Cathedral Notre Dame De Nazareth</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mOegYlr55Qz7sP2kygVgKC91_5nUwzXknyqzud4BjBFulL7qnxmzCCDEBOtmu7vqeUnZVcXABoW3ocNTpb75pbjb31TA3YSzOsHOVWJax8RIxM8Iyb8iW1eBQTBgB0vm6_-m/s1600/c+Cathedral+N+D+de+Nazareth+inside+P1080919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mOegYlr55Qz7sP2kygVgKC91_5nUwzXknyqzud4BjBFulL7qnxmzCCDEBOtmu7vqeUnZVcXABoW3ocNTpb75pbjb31TA3YSzOsHOVWJax8RIxM8Iyb8iW1eBQTBgB0vm6_-m/s1600/c+Cathedral+N+D+de+Nazareth+inside+P1080919.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Inside t<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">he Cathedral Notre Dame De Nazareth</span></o:p></div>
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<strong>And we nearly missed the magic of the day! <o:p></o:p></strong></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
It was already late afternoon and had more than an hour’s drive back to
Avignon ahead and I was ready to go in order to avoid driving in the dark. But
then M suggested we took a quick walk through the old town on the other side of
the river. Bless her soul for making the suggestion. Our “quick” walk turned into
more than an hour of being transported back to a 14<sup>th</sup> Century “stone
sanctuary.” What was so strange was that there were no tourists. We walked the
ancient streets all by ourselves. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
After visits to the charmed hilltop villages of Gordes and Roussillon, and
spending time sipping wine in various historic Châteauneuf-du-Pape wines cellars,
and watching the sun set over the Rhône River at Ponte d’Avignon, and finding
some beautiful classic French copper kitchen utensils at a flea market on Place
Pie in Avignon (the seller specially unpacking his wares again because we came
to the market very late), I didn’t think anything could beat our Provençal experiences
so far until we cross the Ouvèze River into the old medieval town on the left
bank and entered a time machine, which transported us centuries back. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGxhu318txjRDqsyX2I0dccYzoR8QRxPg9SWSGTCIHkSGkZCx9muxjidu1OAcxFRcxWJA-mG2IU8KgwICbjkjqlSsE_fnhIq5NuJsgTYc4N49xchDdeYTzyX9O-MzZU6bJ9cH/s1600/c+Another+fountain+vaison+la+Romaine+P1030087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGxhu318txjRDqsyX2I0dccYzoR8QRxPg9SWSGTCIHkSGkZCx9muxjidu1OAcxFRcxWJA-mG2IU8KgwICbjkjqlSsE_fnhIq5NuJsgTYc4N49xchDdeYTzyX9O-MzZU6bJ9cH/s1600/c+Another+fountain+vaison+la+Romaine+P1030087.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
The old town, perfectly restored, or maintained, I am not sure, retained
its ambiance of centuries ago. Steep narrow cobbled stone streets, flanked by
ancient grey stone houses, gardens hidden behind iron gates and tall walls, multiple
tiny plazas with water fountains, and here a house with blue and there one with
green and further down the road a house with burgundy red and around a corner one
with brown shutters. On one square a bed & breakfast hotel, around a corner
an artisan’s shop. On top of the hill, very strategically placed and overlooking
the new town and the valley behind the old town, the ruins of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chateau Comtal</i>, the old castle of the
Counts of Toulouse, which provided the town’s folk a safe haven during the
Religious Wars. The pictures really tell the true story of the magic of those
ancient streets in this enchanted hamlet with houses and gardens clinging to
the steep hill like rock climbers ascending El Capitano in Yosemite National
Park<span style="color: red;">.</span> <o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> Looking down from the top of the hill beyond the old town, farms and vineyards </o:p></div>
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The twilight hour was near when we eventually left Vaison-la-Romaine
and we had to totally rely on Samantha, our trusted Garmin GPS to lead us back
to Avignon and its narrow ancient streets. That evening as we walked back from
the parking garage we didn’t directly went to our rented apartment, but meandered
along the many quieter backstreets in the vicinity of our apartment, away from
the small squares, populous and noisy, and the busy streets that house banks, neighborhood
bars, a Carrafour supermarket, and other shops. On a quiet pedestrian-only
street we came upon a tiny restaurant, a true mom-and-pop (actually a
husband-and-wife) hole-in-the-wall, with space for only 5 or 6 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">el fresco</i> tables. It had no diners
occupying any of the tables and we were initially skeptical as we studied the
menu on an easel near the entrance. A very friendly lady asked if we were
Americans and in English explained that their food was traditional French. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
A man standing nearby leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette also
chipped in and said the restaurant was a neighborhood favorite and that the
food was very good. Between them they convinced us and we sat down and enjoyed
a fabulous p<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lat du jour</i>; a mixed
greens house salad, a creamy Normandy pork stew with vegetables (a la chicken
pot pie style), presented in tiny Le Creuset-like pots, followed by a delightful
local Provençal version of Tiramisu in tiny Mason jars. (It reminded me of
those delicious yogurts in glass jars.) As the evening matured more diners
filled the empty tables, lively conversation ensued and the quiet thoroughfare
became a joyous celebration of that quintessential French pastime, dinner. It
turned out to be one of our best open air dinners in France. It was quite late
in the evening and after many glasses of Côtes du Rhône red wine we found our
way back to Rue Carnot and our apartment. A perfect day to end a truly
enchanted stay in Provence! <o:p></o:p><br />
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A tranquil garden space </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI02HW-PSNZvqD_92_Fjyr9yLPkhGHvPYQNyo0tJbhpvmvESzreZHOS8c42AlGhSwD4fQVWeQKdGPl-zekhnAL_tIJPp8i-6FG_7PXdgCypKwUZV2Qk3N4fNFEMyRVLnvi7ZgD/s1600/c+Vaison+la+Romaine+street+6+P1080953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI02HW-PSNZvqD_92_Fjyr9yLPkhGHvPYQNyo0tJbhpvmvESzreZHOS8c42AlGhSwD4fQVWeQKdGPl-zekhnAL_tIJPp8i-6FG_7PXdgCypKwUZV2Qk3N4fNFEMyRVLnvi7ZgD/s1600/c+Vaison+la+Romaine+street+6+P1080953.jpg" /></a></div>
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Another fountain. The old town is littered with fountains</div>
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M next to the <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Ouvèze </span>River with the ancient Roman bridge in the background</div>
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<o:p> A last look at Vaison-la-Romaine at the twilight hour</o:p></div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-67909124089640530752017-02-11T18:39:00.000-05:002017-02-12T11:10:08.907-05:00From the Prado to the Royal Palace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHZhPGZ0LryD_97v3sRPG2XFnNkh68qQyjRy5_Bn8VIkZ6pWXdG05efxZfFT7gKNiJEn0hi7BrPw8Ziw5_DC58CCjo7QrvLrY8ieYmvbhbL9aU7KhdRyltGii5t1SD2ykSsNt/s1600/a+Madrid+Royal+Palace+and+garden+Heading+P1020034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHZhPGZ0LryD_97v3sRPG2XFnNkh68qQyjRy5_Bn8VIkZ6pWXdG05efxZfFT7gKNiJEn0hi7BrPw8Ziw5_DC58CCjo7QrvLrY8ieYmvbhbL9aU7KhdRyltGii5t1SD2ykSsNt/s1600/a+Madrid+Royal+Palace+and+garden+Heading+P1020034.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Our last days in Spain</b> were
a series of bus and train rides, excursions to the towns of Toledo and Segovia,
and wandering through the streets of Madrid. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> La Cathédrale Santa María La Real de La Almudena </o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We visited the Prado Museum</b>,
got there around ten o’clock in the morning and the line to enter was halfway
around the building, so we left, took a bus ride through the modern part of
Madrid and was terribly disappointed because it was not nearly as enchanted as
the old part. We arrived back at the Prado two hours later and walked right in.
For the next three and half hours M died and went to heaven. She was among the
old masters of European painters and totally in her own universe. I was in
total agony. The 4 hours standing of the previous evening watching the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana Santa</i> in Plaza Mayor rekindled an
old hip injury and the slow walking and more standing in the museum took its
toll on my hip. All I wanted to do was to sit somewhere comfortable to diminish
the pain. And sat I did from time to time and just let M meander through the
marbled-floor halls and appreciate the works of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>her perennial favorites,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rembrandt,
Petrus Paulus Rubens and Anthony van Dyck, but we both got to know and like the
works of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goya too. At 5:30 pm I
eventually dragged her out of there, she reluctantly agreed, and we paid a
quick visit to the San Jerónimo el Real Church across the street from the
Prado. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4a76FZrkENSXxbJWEh2PJBNM54rnpeifjebjkaL7lfA3rizQDJa3l1kwEoFMtqg4kjUCdhhA2U5hgZOnPHqKwaCNVuCX8iHRnc27FpgUv11XrDn1KLJK2X4e50apZLzoV51ux/s1600/a+Puerta+del+Sol+P1150209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4a76FZrkENSXxbJWEh2PJBNM54rnpeifjebjkaL7lfA3rizQDJa3l1kwEoFMtqg4kjUCdhhA2U5hgZOnPHqKwaCNVuCX8iHRnc27FpgUv11XrDn1KLJK2X4e50apZLzoV51ux/s1600/a+Puerta+del+Sol+P1150209.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Puerta del Sol, Madrid's Time Square</o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We crossed the busy Paseo del
Prado</b> street, allowed ourselves to be swept away by the crowd of
pedestrians towards Gran Via and down a quiet side street we found a quaint
square and the restaurant La Plateria, named after the square. For the next two
or three hours we sat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al fresco</i> under
the heated umbrellas of the restaurant watching the comings and goings of
people either heading home or on their way to the Friday night Holy Week procession
through the neighborhood of Huertas just a block or two away from the square.
We reflected on the day’s activities and savored Rioja wine and local Madrilène
cuisine. The food was generous, the house wine above average, the service swift
and the chairs comfortable to allow our tired feet a rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<o:p>The Royal Palace</o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On the Monday, our last day</b>,
we visited the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palacio Real</i>, the Royal
Palace, and the Cathedral Santa María La Real de La Almudena next door to the
palace. In the Palace, just like in the Prado, I was sternly told that
photography was not allowed. Spoilsports! Of course, I still snapped the secret
photo here or there. See the selection of chandeliers in the video below.
Afterwards he had a late lunch near the Opera House before we returned to our
apartment for some rest and packing for the next morning’s departure to Munich,
Chicago and then Lexington.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Oyz_Rd_grZ0" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<o:p>Street scenes from Madrid and inside the Royal Palace</o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Early evening after the sun has
set</b> behind the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains and a hazy darkness has settled
upon Madrid, I walked out on the apartment’s balcony for a cigarette before we
went out for our last dinner at an Italian trattoria around the corner from our
apartment. On the balcony next door a dog sniffled once or twice before an
unseen male voice silenced it from behind the wall that divided the balconies. A
star flooded sky could faintly be seen in the halo of the city’s lights. In the
distance a communications tower’s red light flickered insistently. Somewhere a
church bell rang and from the Rondo de Atocha, the main street that leads to
Madrid’s major railway station, the high pitch of a motorbike going much faster
than the speed limit pierce the tranquil twilight hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> Entrance to Plaza Mayor</o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Personally I preferred Barcelona
to Madrid</b>. I don’t have any specific reason. Maybe it’s Barcelona’s
location by the sea or its ancient origins from Roman times. Or maybe it was
because our apartment was located where I felt more inclusive of the community
with a small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tienda de productos frescos</i>,
a fruit and vegetable shop, across the street and a community grocer, a
butcher, a fishmonger and a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">panaderia</i>,
a bakery, just around the corner, which I paid a visit to every morning for
croissants. Maybe it was because I found the Barcelonians friendlier than the
Madrilenians and the food and service exceedingly better. But I have to admit
Madrid is a very elegant city with beautiful architecture, wide boulevards and a
regal attitude which rivals that of Paris, Rome and London. Well, maybe not
Paris. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3x-l7bVDppcMtYdBskR24OO0IAt2S3jgXmVHVsjDL2bRCbT_yn48nC_ewqZrLJY4qMZm6ykBboRAm3ClxOjNClt-yBK1upU_fpoffdnV7YGsjGneyk3zqcJjPpBYAxqFLxid0/s1600/a+Ministry+of+Justice+A+P1150199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3x-l7bVDppcMtYdBskR24OO0IAt2S3jgXmVHVsjDL2bRCbT_yn48nC_ewqZrLJY4qMZm6ykBboRAm3ClxOjNClt-yBK1upU_fpoffdnV7YGsjGneyk3zqcJjPpBYAxqFLxid0/s1600/a+Ministry+of+Justice+A+P1150199.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> The Ministry of Justice</o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Maybe it was because</b> the day
we spent in <a href="http://bluegrassbaobabs.blogspot.com/2016/04/barcelonavibrant-and-beautiful.html" target="_blank">Barcelona’s Barri Gotic neighborhood</a> was one of the best travel
days I have ever experienced. I have walked the streets of many medieval cities
or towns: Kyoto, Venice, Avignon, Gordes, and Les Baux-de-Provence to name a
few, and among the ruins of several Roman settlements in Rome and Pompeii, but
I never felt history as vibrant and alive as that day we spent in the Barri
Gotic. I know the Barri Gotic was totally revamped and modernized during the
early 20<sup>th</sup> century, but they kept the old world atmosphere and charm
in the narrow streets and hidden squares and the buildings’ brownish patinas reflected
the Middle Ages and allowed me to be transported back in time. No other travel
day, except maybe that late afternoon we meandered through the streets of the Haute
Ville of Vaison-la-Romaine in France with its extremely steep narrow passages,
tiny squares, ancient fountains and ruined castle of the Counts of Toulouse,
did I experience history so real that it left you melancholy with the thought
of having to return to reality. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNBM9H2QLiT-Pzw8Y2lHI1wU1QRdjDpNUhFKleqdSNWtuq4UvMZOqAMw_siWO4jZx3P7eDX2pI_2EI0oHyprpgcMQVCcDvgNffqpq5FyVE42Af7mGzJiyeHHb6-rn0LZ4szvC/s1600/a+The+Church+of+San+Manuel+y+San+Benito++P1140967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNBM9H2QLiT-Pzw8Y2lHI1wU1QRdjDpNUhFKleqdSNWtuq4UvMZOqAMw_siWO4jZx3P7eDX2pI_2EI0oHyprpgcMQVCcDvgNffqpq5FyVE42Af7mGzJiyeHHb6-rn0LZ4szvC/s1600/a+The+Church+of+San+Manuel+y+San+Benito++P1140967.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> The Church of San Manuel and San Benito </o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I have no doubt that one day</b>
I will return to Spain. I just don’t know when. I have no interest in seeing
the Costa del Sol or the islands of Majorca or Ibiza, but Seville, Córdoba,
Granada will always beckon and the white hilltop towns of Andalusia in the
south and the medieval villages in the Basque Country, Cantabria, Asturias and
Galicia in northern Spain must be as beautiful as the French villages of Provence,
the Dordogne and northwestern Midi-Pyrénées between Limoges in the north and
Cahors in the south. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">As the old saying goes</b>,
dreams are ten a penny. Because I have so many and due to inflation travel
dreams have become more expensive, so I will have to save more dollars to make
those dreams come true. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwT5VlVann_LHYWaG5olaGU1d3a5PW0lRsig5MpwVP_NuGRWbAnfjUFuyjmp-s8qGjnryhB-DaowR7w8wRI2idhZwZ1sEhlyGvJydSu2tvL7IzjEeZE_5KS9ehFi4KMj26Uprh/s1600/a+La+cath%25C3%25A9drale+Santa+Mar%25C3%25ADa+La+Real+de+La+Almudena+doors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwT5VlVann_LHYWaG5olaGU1d3a5PW0lRsig5MpwVP_NuGRWbAnfjUFuyjmp-s8qGjnryhB-DaowR7w8wRI2idhZwZ1sEhlyGvJydSu2tvL7IzjEeZE_5KS9ehFi4KMj26Uprh/s1600/a+La+cath%25C3%25A9drale+Santa+Mar%25C3%25ADa+La+Real+de+La+Almudena+doors.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p>The magnificent doors of the Cathedral Santa María La Real de La Almudena </o:p></div>
<br />
<strong>Adiós Espana o hasta pronto!</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
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Spain in Summary</div>
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<strong><o:p></o:p></strong><br />BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-52249127274807112932017-02-04T11:40:00.000-05:002017-02-04T14:13:17.545-05:00A Holy Week Procession in Madrid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7TIkrFjxihgtUdtQsUz3tTggFGvUt3QlmRMUV9jVxeIpf6ZQsYricvzEVE-i3m5w0KSHarguqzl8sIH563m5lRibFD_I6jR8AgWPLArcAPnP4Dq50DFQDnFt1SHv0eQ4Pk-M7/s1600/c+Nazarenos+HD1+v1+P1150062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7TIkrFjxihgtUdtQsUz3tTggFGvUt3QlmRMUV9jVxeIpf6ZQsYricvzEVE-i3m5w0KSHarguqzl8sIH563m5lRibFD_I6jR8AgWPLArcAPnP4Dq50DFQDnFt1SHv0eQ4Pk-M7/s1600/c+Nazarenos+HD1+v1+P1150062.jpg" /></a></div>
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They call it a procession, a march, but it is more like a dance
to the beat of a brass band. In a Spanish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana
Santa</i>, a Holy Week procession, the candles and wooden crosses carriers in
their penitential robes, capes and conical hats, and the accompanied women,
mostly dressed in black and wearing the traditional Spanish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mantilla</i> head dress, do their best, to march
to the band’s “militarized” music, as if it was playing Johann Strauss Sr.’s,
<em>Radetzky Marsch</em> Opus 228, but the heavy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pasos</i>,
the priceless religious floats of artwork, sway to the waltzing rhythm of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">costaleros</i> or “sack men”, the carriers
of these floats, as if they are the upper class of the late 19th Century Vienna
dancing to the music of Johann Strauss Jr.’s <em>Blue Danube</em> at an imperial ball in
the Schönbrunn Palace. No wonder in some regions of Spain the <em>pasos</em>, procession, this waltzing dance, is
called a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bailadosto</i>, a ballet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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(Watch the video at the end of the post and see what I am
talking about.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYISiM1xDiwdhJFsAaYfUF2q5KwsYOcIX4JgDMMm8sqk1_lwuZFF8mNBZOAfApxV6qzcWCHCpdgUjcEo_2cTzpG2GGp0nd_wQcGddnP6o88TLRF2xAYXBzqgepnrn5EqYwWd0/s1600/c+People+waiting+for+the+procession+P1020093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYISiM1xDiwdhJFsAaYfUF2q5KwsYOcIX4JgDMMm8sqk1_lwuZFF8mNBZOAfApxV6qzcWCHCpdgUjcEo_2cTzpG2GGp0nd_wQcGddnP6o88TLRF2xAYXBzqgepnrn5EqYwWd0/s1600/c+People+waiting+for+the+procession+P1020093.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> At the beginning of the long wait</o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
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On a bright, sunny, but cool day, only a few hours after our
arrival in Madrid from Barcelona, and after a visit to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mercado de San Miguel</i> for tapas we discovered that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana Santa</i> procession was to pass through
the Plaza Mayor, which was adjacent to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mercado</i>
(food market.) We exited the tapas marketplace at around 5:30 pm and by
accident saw that police were preparing for the procession. We entered the
Plaza and found a table at one of the restaurants inside the plaza to kill
time. For the next hour or more I made a big deal out of drinking a glass or
two of white wine and munching on a bowl of Manzanilla olives and M savoring a cup
of tea to while away the time until the arrival of the procession. Because we
were occupying prime table space the waiters constantly came around to ask if
we wanted dinner. Even though we were satiated from the tapas, in hind sight we
should have ordered a light “tourist” dinner, which is all that the restaurants
on the plaza were good for, because it turned out to be a very, very long
night. By 7:30 pm the police started to cordon off a small area inside the
plaza in readiness for the procession but the whole path was not cordoned off. So
we abandoned our table and joined the crowd right in front of the precession’s
path in a prime standing location. And we waited! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
As the evening grew older, a late winter coolness descended
upon an ever increasing crowd, a full moon slowly rose above the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Islesia Santa Cruz</i> located just outside
the historic plaza. We felt like pimento stuffed Spanish olives packed in a jar.
<o:p></o:p><br />
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And we waited! Asking any one of the thousands around us what
time the procession would come through the plaza was useless. We did. No one
knew. No even the police, who was in communication with other police along the
procession's path via cellphones and walkie-talkies did not know. They kept
telling anyone who asked, “in one hour.” M and I couldn't quite understand this
situation. How on earth could they not know? They have done these processions
before, year after year, since around year 1530 AD, maybe skipping a few
processions during wars or revolutions. And Spain has its fair share of those. I
would find out later why no one knew the exact time.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsLaI07_bweO2VxXWxsdqyQ9fDJXmTe2KmxUZw7tfMcoH2kBtg7DY4Xz9btbJ0Nx1s4MPmDmM0oDX8jghH6J_C9z5Mi2Lwe1KgvM4usCAUq8gEybJrC8dfDi_9tOiR4-XLGor/s1600/c4+Mantilla+Collage+P1150114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsLaI07_bweO2VxXWxsdqyQ9fDJXmTe2KmxUZw7tfMcoH2kBtg7DY4Xz9btbJ0Nx1s4MPmDmM0oDX8jghH6J_C9z5Mi2Lwe1KgvM4usCAUq8gEybJrC8dfDi_9tOiR4-XLGor/s1600/c4+Mantilla+Collage+P1150114.jpg" /></a></div>
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Standing there with time to think aplenty, I also found it
rather strange why the procession’s path was cleared so many hours ahead of
time without them actually putting up any form of physical barriers like they
do in New York for the many parades that that city hosts. The result was really
hilarious. The police would clear a piece of road through the plaza and once
the 2 or 3 policeman moved on people would cross the opened path constantly and
over a short period of time the masses would encroach upon the clearing and
then the police would come along again and push the crowd back. And this snaking
path and concertina movement would continue for at least 2 hours or more.
Simple mobile steel barriers could have kept the clearing open and they would
have had to do it only once. I could only guess that in case of a sudden frightful
event the lack of barriers could prevent people from being squashed and injured
against a ridged object. Or the fact that once the procession passed there was
no cleanup to be done. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5MhK4w3HonH9M47VKynx8qKvBDQQcWWr7pyh2y38sirk1_JvngndHt3Rg2jbSrhuOhTzBMHgaav-_DZqWbZ3qwmmSF8XA6cO0ezV-kplUHn8X7Epip4gZhn7OLOq9zkw2IniT/s1600/c+Nazarenos+2+Start+P1150046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5MhK4w3HonH9M47VKynx8qKvBDQQcWWr7pyh2y38sirk1_JvngndHt3Rg2jbSrhuOhTzBMHgaav-_DZqWbZ3qwmmSF8XA6cO0ezV-kplUHn8X7Epip4gZhn7OLOq9zkw2IniT/s1600/c+Nazarenos+2+Start+P1150046.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Eventually, shortly after 9 pm we heard the first sounds of
a marching band nearing the plaza. Ten to fifteen minutes later and with a
great sigh of relief, the procession entered Plaza Mayor through the Calle
Cdad. Rodrigo entrance. Leading the procession were the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nazarenos,</i> the ones wearing the penitential robes with conical hats
(in America you would associate this outfit with the Ku Klux Klan, but in this
case they were all in purple.) They were followed by a marching band which
tried their best, but was sometimes out of tune. Then came a group of women
dressed in black and wearing the familiar Spanish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mantilla</i> head dress, then more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nazarenos</i>
carrying wooden crosses, followed by the candle carriers in white robes and
purple capes. Shortly after 10 pm the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Pasos”</i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus Nazareno “El Pobre”</i> (The
Procession of Our Father Jesus of Nazarene, the Poor) appeared. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqpXyZxsrMLWJsKcehofRfN5go6O-m7WkVk91f84rWeWuSCN6brD6-oBalTbjLcCo7EubOtbHFv9_d-Wdk4JPXLdm2GFgZdJJnh9kRDSwGVR5yjNqFpUdTf9B6huZcuPm4LB39/s1600/c+Pasos+Jesus+Nazareno+b+P1150106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqpXyZxsrMLWJsKcehofRfN5go6O-m7WkVk91f84rWeWuSCN6brD6-oBalTbjLcCo7EubOtbHFv9_d-Wdk4JPXLdm2GFgZdJJnh9kRDSwGVR5yjNqFpUdTf9B6huZcuPm4LB39/s1600/c+Pasos+Jesus+Nazareno+b+P1150106.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p> </o:p></div>
It was then that I understood why no one knew the exact time
the floats would arrive. The procession was not marching to anyone’s clock. It
was marching to its own rhythm. The portion of the procession leading the first
float took an hour to pass us. It took another half hour for the first float to
move 200 feet and the whole procession took more than 2 hours to go through the
plaza. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">costaleros</i>, the float carriers,
often rested and the floats were accompanied by medical staff. It was obvious
that these floats were very heavy. Each float that passed us was carried by about
60 men. The first float was followed by another band, more <em>Nazarenos</em>, more ladies in black and then came the second float, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">María Santísima del Dulce Nombre,</i> (The
Holy Mary with the sweet name) which was followed by a third band. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nZXREYw_CsCkWqDEfSSa1MP8kJ2-EUDERhiaVgBpIMm_zOKCN4lF7-p2SlshEVyGh9xOnhGdGmr6k48OnhtnJTs6j9phU6zOPmASOVUERQiIK71j0cNoCYnyESmVaaRL-JSJ/s1600/c+Entrance+of+Maria+Santisima+P1150135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nZXREYw_CsCkWqDEfSSa1MP8kJ2-EUDERhiaVgBpIMm_zOKCN4lF7-p2SlshEVyGh9xOnhGdGmr6k48OnhtnJTs6j9phU6zOPmASOVUERQiIK71j0cNoCYnyESmVaaRL-JSJ/s1600/c+Entrance+of+Maria+Santisima+P1150135.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> The entrance of the Holy Mary's float </o:p></div>
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The whole procession was an unbelievable spectacle! It is
not easy to describe a Semana Santa because it really is something that needs
to be experienced, visually and physically. The scene could not have been more
dramatic. Inside Plaza Mayor, encircled by the historic red buildings with
hundreds of white framed windows and an illuminated colonnade below, a transparent
ceiling of a blackened sky, watched over by a full moon, and surrounded by
thousands of spectators, the procession was absolutely amazing and we felt very
privileged to have been part of this celebrated cultural festival. The visually
striking and physically exhausting extravaganza was worth the long wait. It is seldom
that when <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>one travels to foreign places and
happens upon a festival and see something extraordinary one knows that what is
being experienced at that moment is a once in a life time experience. This was
one of those times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6-gZCPU8EjyD2IY4nQG_1sGWttU8lvTR3gc_fUntlcd7xmOl_pOY5pc-dwhzHFUmMIF9zo3PV5w-eyvci644gyBDPQlXQmXIvrmL6hW5Mr9iaoujZJD9DAZUaW2J4BuLe6WY/s1600/c+Pasos+Jesus+Nazareno+a+P1150104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6-gZCPU8EjyD2IY4nQG_1sGWttU8lvTR3gc_fUntlcd7xmOl_pOY5pc-dwhzHFUmMIF9zo3PV5w-eyvci644gyBDPQlXQmXIvrmL6hW5Mr9iaoujZJD9DAZUaW2J4BuLe6WY/s1600/c+Pasos+Jesus+Nazareno+a+P1150104.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>“Pasos”</em> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus Nazareno “El Pobre”</i> (The Procession of Our Father Jesus of Nazarene, the Poor)</div>
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It was way after midnight and we were totally exhausted. Cold,
with stiff joints and on swollen feet we staggered our way toward Puerta del
Sol’s metro station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place was
packed with people, but luckily there was a metro worker at the ticket vending
machine to expedite the process and the next train for us came soon thereafter.
Sol was thankfully only three metro stops away from our destination, the Atocha
metro station. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Close by the Atocha station we found an open-till-late fast
food place that looked dodgy with napkins and other trash lying in the floor,
but its la fresco tables were still packed with youngsters. African street
vendors and half-drunken beggars were standing around outside, but we took a
gamble because we were thirsty! Behind a long serving bar counter a large
fellow with a greasy ponytail and a wild beard greeted us in a friendly smiley manner.
We ordered two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">café con leches</i>. We
savored the coffee sip after sip and we both agreed it was quite a good cup
o’Joe. Satisfied we took the short walk from there to our rented apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day was supposed to be one of the highlights of our
trip, as if the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana Santa</i> was not
already a major highlight. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day we would be going to the Prado Museum, not just
Spain’s but one of Europe’s premier art museums, to have our visual senses
overwhelmed by the likes of Diego Valazques, El Greco, Goya, Pieter Paul
Rubens, Raphael, Titian, Rembrandt, Hieronymus Bosch and many more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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But tomorrow was another day. Tonight we needed to crash and
get some sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It was a very long and eventful day.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> (Also see the post <a href="http://bluegrassbaobabs.blogspot.com/2016/09/madrid-pickpockets.html" target="_blank">Madrid and the Pickpockets</a>.) </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2iPAzPrIYZkLbLl8sbvXVjWeSCpKcoihoH9YKjIatw0apcyGYMnSrvjSHRBr-6v7nrCp0Kdw6QtrCSoDxOFBT8JIrOJvJcNqfxZRcLi_MiLfcdGRs5iakjmFFxwxoithVVGL/s1600/c+Semana+Santa+Mary+Float+P1150145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2iPAzPrIYZkLbLl8sbvXVjWeSCpKcoihoH9YKjIatw0apcyGYMnSrvjSHRBr-6v7nrCp0Kdw6QtrCSoDxOFBT8JIrOJvJcNqfxZRcLi_MiLfcdGRs5iakjmFFxwxoithVVGL/s1600/c+Semana+Santa+Mary+Float+P1150145.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><em>María Santísima del Dulce Nombre,</em> (The Holy Mary with the sweet name) </o:p></div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-90973174171380151322016-12-18T15:53:00.003-05:002016-12-18T15:53:27.959-05:00Ikarian French Fusion – A Vegetable Casserole<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was the end of summer and fresh vegetables were in season.
Zucchini, yellow squash, eggplants, tomatoes, etc., and all the necessary herbs
were freely available from the garden or the greengrocer, and at good prices
too. So if you have it all, and more, in the pantry or fridge what better way
to celebrate that magical culinary explosion of tastes with a French Provencal classic,
a ratatouille? <o:p></o:p></div>
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But wait! The French are not the only ones that have learned
to lift a simple vegetable stew to extraordinary culinary heights. More than 2,800
kilometers southeast of Provence there is a small island where people forget to
die. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ikaria, also spelled Icaria, is a small Greek island in the
northeastern Aegean Sea, about 30 miles from the coast of Turkey and about 2
hours by ferry east of Mykonos. Ikaria is one of the identified “Blue Zones” in
the world, a demographic and/or geographic area where people live, on average,
to a very old age due to the food they eat, the lifestyle they live, the amount
of physical activity they are involved in and their engaging relationships with
family and lifelong friends. The Blue Zones also have other characteristics:
the people rarely move out of the area and they exhibit a rigid pattern of
similar activities in their community. In Blue Zones it is not unusual for
people in their late 80s or 90s to still attend to their vegetable gardens, be
beekeepers, or walk several miles a day. On Ikaria between 35%-40% of the
islanders live to enjoy life into their 90s. In America, only 4.7% of the current
population reaches their 90s. That's why they call Ikaria the island where people forget to die. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>A pan of roasted vegetables</o:p></div>
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I love veggies in general, roasted or as a stew. Whether it
is a South African green beans, onions, tomatoes and potatoes stew, a
Southwestern corn and black beans stew, Grecian Spanakopita (Spinach and feta
cheese pies), or a simple pan of roasted mixed vegetables with fresh Italian
herbs and olive oil. In the past ratatouille, that classic French vegetable
stew has been my go to dish. It goes well with any kind of protein or grain
dish. It gives contrasting flavor and texture to fish dishes, stands up
perfectly to grilled steaks or lamb chops and compliments any chicken or pork
roast. Of course, ratatouille is very similar in ingredients and in method of preparation
as the Grecian Briami, another classic vegetable stew.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few months ago I watched an international food program on
television about Ikaria and one of the dishes featured was the famous “longevity”
Ikarian vegetable stew. Where the French prepare the individual vegetables for
a ratatouille separately and then combine it all into a single pot and stew it
on the stove until it forms a rich sauce, the Ikarians prepare the long cooking
vegetables like beans or peas in advance of the other vegetables and then
combine it all into a casserole to be baked in the oven. The fact that more or
less the same ingredients and herbs can be taken, and produce two totally
different flavor sensations and textures, simply because of a slight variance in
preparation methods, makes cooking such an interesting hobby. Since then I have
had a healthy interest in Greek and Ikarian food. Especially the way they
prepare their vegetables. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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A Sunday afternoon. A month or so ago. It rained nearly
constantly for 24 hours and the clouds have cleared up nicely by the afternoon,
but left behind a wet and humid world. By early evening the humidity
disappeared and I was going to barbeque a rib-eye steak, some chicken drumsticks
and grill a few slices of wheat and oat bread using the vegetables as a bruschetta.
Accompanied the food and in keeping it all Mediterranean, a bottle of Marqués de Cáceres Rioja Crianza 2011 from Spain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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In the past I have made Ikarian vegetable stews using black
eyed peas or butter beans as a base for the casserole and then followed with
traditional veggies like carrots, onions and tomatoes. In an effort to be
innovative I decided to create an Ikarian French fusion. I used the basic
ingredients for a ratatouille, but followed the Ikarian method of preparation. It
is very similar to the Greek Soufica dish that uses eggplant as a base. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
The result: A hot vegetable salad. Yes, this was not a stew
at all. It was summer goodness at its best. An explosion of bright, summer colors,
fused sweetness from the various ingredients and melded textures, but one could
still taste every ingredient individually. It was so unlike the richness and
sauciness of a ratatouille, which is more robust and leans itself more to
winter comfort food. <br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdane9zmYdUoUQyUK70JZ8h5AqNHD0yOhiyaLuzVtK6MixcdPZkujxAZMa9ZdSyKtUEReeyZ1QzaNnAJg3gNkKP0G9hMox_QOnLBOEAperY0iiHMpIvKh8oT8vRmeOW5mEGyez/s1600/c+Ikarian+Vegetable+stew+P1160491.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdane9zmYdUoUQyUK70JZ8h5AqNHD0yOhiyaLuzVtK6MixcdPZkujxAZMa9ZdSyKtUEReeyZ1QzaNnAJg3gNkKP0G9hMox_QOnLBOEAperY0iiHMpIvKh8oT8vRmeOW5mEGyez/s1600/c+Ikarian+Vegetable+stew+P1160491.jpg" /></a></div>
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A forkful of summer delight</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
And it’s really simple, rustic and as Jamie Oliver would
say, naked.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ingredients<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Skin one eggplant, cut in ¼ inch slices, salt on
both sides and let it sweat in a colander for at least an hour<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->In the meantime slice 1 zucchini and 1 yellow
squash into ¼ inch thickness (same as the eggplant for even cooking)<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Slice 1 Spanish or yellow onion into thin
slices, put in a bowl and pour about a ¼ cup of olive oil over the onions and
massage the oil into the onions with your fingers. (Yeah, get those fingers
greasy.)<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->1 Green bell pepper, remove seeds and roughly
chop into 1 inch pieces <o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->4 cloves of garlic, peeled and mashed.<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->3-4 Roma tomatoes, chopped<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Fresh Rosemary, oregano, basil and lots of thyme.
Any combination will do.<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Salt and pepper<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Olive oil for grilling and frying<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Preparation<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Prepare a grill. Must be between 400 ºF and 450 ºF.
You can also do this in the oven, but I prefer the grill. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Rinse the eggplant under water and dry with
kitchen towels<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Brush eggplant pieces lightly with olive oil (do
not add any salt) and grill the eggplant for about 4 minutes on each side. You
must get nice grill marks and the eggplant must feel soft to the touch, but
still firm. Set aside<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Heat the oven to 375 ºF<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Heat a little oil in a skillet on the stove<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Flavor the zucchini and the yellow squash lightly
with salt and pepper and fry them until they get a golden color on both sides<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Now layer the casserole<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Put the eggplant at the bottom of a casserole dish
and then add the zucchini, the squash, the green bell peppers, the onions and
lastly the tomatoes<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Add the herbs on top. No need to chop them.<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Cover and bake for about 45 minutes. Remove cover
and continue to bake for another 15 minutes.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Savor and enjoy!!!</div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-12019544554844898342016-11-14T01:45:00.000-05:002016-11-14T01:45:07.983-05:00Last Week Bob Dylan Was In My Back Yard<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Last
week Bob Dylan was in my backyard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He
came to Louisville, Kentucky and then traveled on to Knoxville and Chattanooga,
Tennessee. All within reasonable driving distance from me. After googling some
reviews I selected not to go and see him based on the setlist of his current <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Ending Tour</i>, which mostly feature
songs from his last two American Songbook albums, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shadows In The Night</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fallen
Angels</i> and a few songs from his post year 2000 albums. Although a forever reinventing
artist, one of my favorite artists and a major influence on my life, I prefer
the earlier Bob Dylan music. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZbUvE3lXCbjXHBJ2nU5KDOqVRKlyydwkf1Liv8UrNo-l0-Zr3d89QJjQ_TeylyW5SzuYJXH-lFf7A1JD5Hsfjak7ngplWF0cY9c0Oq6fQ2Z8NqM7YGe3EorcH2ET0NC8wLxp/s1600/Bob-Dylan-1963+B%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZbUvE3lXCbjXHBJ2nU5KDOqVRKlyydwkf1Liv8UrNo-l0-Zr3d89QJjQ_TeylyW5SzuYJXH-lFf7A1JD5Hsfjak7ngplWF0cY9c0Oq6fQ2Z8NqM7YGe3EorcH2ET0NC8wLxp/s1600/Bob-Dylan-1963+B%2526W.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
was first introduced to Bob Dylan, I remember well, when I was about 12 or 13
years old. It was in the converted front-porch-to-bedroom of John Henry Jordaan.
A ship engineer or something like that, I never really knew, but I used to hang
around at his house like a rock star groupie wherever he was in town. Well, I
use to hang around more often than not because I was a friend of his younger
brother and he had cool sisters too. I loved the stories he use to tell about the
Scots dancing over swords, the English countryside, how he was robbed of a full
month’s salary within 5 minutes of setting foot on French soil in Marseille’s
harbor, and many other travelogues. But mostly I hung around because he had a
state of the art turntable with a mean set of speakers, and an awe-inspiring vinyl
collection that impressed the bejesus out of my young mind. Apart from a folky
Dylan, I was also exposed to Woody Guthrie, Leonard Cohen, Willie Nelson,
Waylon Jennings, Gordon Lightfoot, Johnny Cash, John Denver, and too many
others to remember, mostly folk and country artists. I can’t credit John Henry
for my lifelong wanderlust, I think that is my mom’s doing with her geography
and history lessons, but I can most definitely credit him for teaching me how
to play the guitar and a lifelong love for the instrument and music in general.
Initially I practiced on John’s guitar while I nagged my mother for months to
buy me a guitar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTcoKOGPyJVtnvKPCiairBUHgOWBPCnUqKRQqk8u0aHlZfFcCjnTBcsG7Qn-wX8vEQQupVsmjSVzTOBfXob9aBKcNr9LMY7Esc6h9ekGV1zruhlZM8n-XoN2o-mcOEw8QjFdI/s1600/Bob+Dylan+1975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTcoKOGPyJVtnvKPCiairBUHgOWBPCnUqKRQqk8u0aHlZfFcCjnTBcsG7Qn-wX8vEQQupVsmjSVzTOBfXob9aBKcNr9LMY7Esc6h9ekGV1zruhlZM8n-XoN2o-mcOEw8QjFdI/s1600/Bob+Dylan+1975.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> Bob Dylan at Gordon Lightfoot's House in Toronto in 1975</o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Many
years later I stayed for six or so months through a bitter cold Highveld
winter in the “Chelsea Hotel”, a battered old caravan/camper in the front yard
or back yard or whatever side that was, of Andrew Donaldson, the acclaimed
South African journalist of the Rand Daily Mail and London Sunday Times fame,
and band member of The Hip Replacements and lately of the Porchlights; in his
own words: “Writer, journalist, sloppy guitarist, mostly happy, sometimes
bewildered, occasionally angry”. There in Randburg I got to know another side of Dylan, profounder,
more philosophical. It was there where I heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Basement Tapes</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hard Rain</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Desire</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Street Legal</i> and especially <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blood
On The Tracks</i> for the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Come in, she said<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I'll give ya shelter from the storm<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My
sheltered musical upbringing at home on Cliff Richard, The Shadows, Creedence
Clearwater Revival, traditional South African <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boeremusiek, </i>Afrikaans gospel and 60s and 70s light pop music was shattered
by Bruce Springsteen, The Clash, Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols, The
Stranglers, Roger Lucy, The Rolling Stones, Patti Smith, Punk in general, and
any form of alternative music. During that period
of my life I also saw Dylan trading Joan Baez to Harry Dean Stanton for a
chestnut mare in Renaldo and Clara, got to know most of the bars in Rocky
Street, rocked at two-tone parties in Houghton communes and was barely aware of
seeing forgettable performances of unknown rock and punk bands with limited
talents at the Wits Campus. Those were the days of hazy dreams, little money but
no worries, drinking and driving and not going anywhere in any hurry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwvFnxhjoxzOQreDZYPGSiasHLXDPSkFebVHtAplXaHcE4LY-20GQZReAeaxtIxlZ_M6WNzjwY_a0XLIp5YiY-oUGQXvWNmF1F98heaKJjps_DetbxaIZ_PJdFogsIUHR2Yfu/s1600/dylanbaby475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwvFnxhjoxzOQreDZYPGSiasHLXDPSkFebVHtAplXaHcE4LY-20GQZReAeaxtIxlZ_M6WNzjwY_a0XLIp5YiY-oUGQXvWNmF1F98heaKJjps_DetbxaIZ_PJdFogsIUHR2Yfu/s1600/dylanbaby475.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was a hot August night, the 31<sup>st</sup>,
1997. A Sunday. The traditional heat of Kansas City at that time of the year
was enforced by clammy humidity, which pushed the heat index into the high 90s.
We arrived late afternoon, family in towed (we waited for some of the heat to
dissipate) at the Liberty Memorial Park on the Missouri side of the city. The
whole weekend was a musical orgy, not quite like Woodstock, more controlled,
but the city’s Spirit Festival was nonetheless footloose and fancy free. Friday
night the house was rocked by Cher and INXS. Saturday was bluesy and headlined
by the Robert Cray Band and B.B. King. But it was the Sunday night that made my
years of dreams and strumming his tunes and belching out his poetry came true.
After a visit to the jazz stage to watch Alex Bugnon and Peter White we found
ourselves an advantageous position, just to the right of the main stage on a
slight slope. Those days Liberty Park was still undeveloped, grassy and
standing room only, unlike today’s seated arena. Anticipation was building; the
natural bowl of the park was filling up and the buzz got louder. Today, all I
can remember of the band that preceded the main event and they impressed me
somewhat then, was their sound, rockabilly-folky and a twang of country with an
attitude.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXPalKnfYQKECmUs4xvvMIIGSMoxw-4AhyphenhyphenNcGI__Oba8awC5Eid3ugC8EsndEFq-CRnzivdSTDemU0u_8TyIuXL_MtizqJtBiH6Shiuv5TtG0AmZVlwR-lMuWbKCznHGaqrsz/s1600/bob-dylan-1997+B%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXPalKnfYQKECmUs4xvvMIIGSMoxw-4AhyphenhyphenNcGI__Oba8awC5Eid3ugC8EsndEFq-CRnzivdSTDemU0u_8TyIuXL_MtizqJtBiH6Shiuv5TtG0AmZVlwR-lMuWbKCznHGaqrsz/s1600/bob-dylan-1997+B%2526W.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">When Bob Dylan walked out that night in his
black embroidered suit, Boss of the Plains cowboy hat and Apache scarf, and an
electric guitar under his arm…you can’t fabricate the kind of stuff that went
on in my head at that moment. For the next ninety minutes or so I didn’t take much
note of anything going on around me. My focus was solely on that little big man
on stage. I was…“It’s alright Ma, I am breathing”, sporadically and only in
short shallow gulps, but nevertheless breathing. Most of the time I was singing
along too.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Those
days there weren’t things like bucket lists. You only had dreams and they were called
DREAMS. They weren’t called planned achievements, or wish lists items that you can
add to on the top right hand corner of your computer screen. They were called dreams.
Surreal or not, I honestly never thought I would ever see Dylan live. Come on!
A poor kid from one of the poorest suburbs of Cape Town whose mother could only
afford a $10 deposit and then pay off the rest of the $30 guitar over the next
six months! Seeing Dylan…ever…live? Those were unrealistic dreams. Those were the stuff you
lived for. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7Q8ITZgLvypv4rjOP5VhfXlVZLaw8N-LerFOkqatngrDs-W-P_KR1oIr7LQyLyP9oCeQUpnHBDfR-9PiKpG1BFALpevWbJrCC-HC5UIRsmqTjEZSeA_hyH-CvWw_EMLW-RIZ/s1600/The+Author.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7Q8ITZgLvypv4rjOP5VhfXlVZLaw8N-LerFOkqatngrDs-W-P_KR1oIr7LQyLyP9oCeQUpnHBDfR-9PiKpG1BFALpevWbJrCC-HC5UIRsmqTjEZSeA_hyH-CvWw_EMLW-RIZ/s1600/The+Author.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
still have that old guitar. It is still my favorite. No matter that I added
others over time. I don’t play it much anymore. But it has gone around the
world with me the past 40 years. Beaten up, battered and bruised, but load it up with a new set of brass strings and
it will zing the grey matter upstairs, reverberate through the folds of my brain and
create waves of memories that will come flooding out like a tsunami striking a
lonely island in the Pacific. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEu-mzLsyhHdkCej5mWlhByGHM5_PlsqnP48WgKfHCvOMeuyYZ74tLkHpFEznG23H1q9_iEo8qYwpqFuiRM53MuYUMsZcbKZ2ca-qYOzSPSbIYH0z74Ssdvn2Rt9D0Ry71XOg/s1600/Bob+Dylan+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEu-mzLsyhHdkCej5mWlhByGHM5_PlsqnP48WgKfHCvOMeuyYZ74tLkHpFEznG23H1q9_iEo8qYwpqFuiRM53MuYUMsZcbKZ2ca-qYOzSPSbIYH0z74Ssdvn2Rt9D0Ry71XOg/s1600/Bob+Dylan+3.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> J<span class="irc_su" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">oni Mitchell Roger McGuinn and Bob Dylan</span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Either
my dreams have changed, I know I still have many left, or the “new sounding”
Bob Dylan is not part of my remaining dreams anymore. I guess the latter must
be the case because I said no to see him, possibly for the last time, in action
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">However,
my decision to not go does not in any way diminish Bob Dylan’s greatness as the
greatest poet of the Rock and Roll era for me. As the lately departed Leonard
Cohen observed about Dylan’s Nobel Prize: “It is like pinning a medal on
Everest.” That is how I still and forever will feel about Bob Dylan. Nor does
my decision mimic some Dylan fans’ reaction at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival
when he was booed because he plugged in and went electric. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In crystal clear clarity I am reminded of Paul
McCartney’s lyrics from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Song We Were Singing</i>
from his album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flaming Pie</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">For a while, we could sit, smoke a pipe<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And discuss all the vast intricacies of
life<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We could jaw through the night<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Talk about a range of subjects, anything
you like<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Oh yeah<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But we always came back to the song we
were singing<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At any particular time<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Yeah we always came back to the song we
were singing<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At any particular time</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Take a sip, see the world through a
glass<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And speculate about the cosmic solution<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">To the sound, blue guitars<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Caught up in a philosophical discussion<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Oh yeah<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But we always came back to the song we
were singing<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At any particular time<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Yeah we always came back to the song we
were singing<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At any particular time<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YwSZvHqf9qM" width="560"></iframe>
</div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-37072215188565658252016-09-17T16:40:00.000-04:002017-02-04T11:42:27.825-05:00Madrid & The Pickpockets<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiET2ot9rnDIzjANL6WU2UTXbtsbXE3ZeBm6YoKgZ_ftjt_nrq3N8-9wPDg69Rjv4r83o_0oj5XVztWER8FVmSJsssJrrbujDzzU2A0GZd89m0kYMd7ivtxQuvbRNBOAygGV2HR/s1600/c3+Heading+Post+1+P1150824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiET2ot9rnDIzjANL6WU2UTXbtsbXE3ZeBm6YoKgZ_ftjt_nrq3N8-9wPDg69Rjv4r83o_0oj5XVztWER8FVmSJsssJrrbujDzzU2A0GZd89m0kYMd7ivtxQuvbRNBOAygGV2HR/s1600/c3+Heading+Post+1+P1150824.jpg" /></a></div>
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My Madrid experience felt at most haphazard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A classic hit-or-miss, unfortunate-or-lucky kind
of experience. It may be because we were in and out of the city on daytrips and
no continuous stay. It sometimes happens on these “we are on a vacation, but there
is no rest for the weary” vacations. I am usually fairly relaxed and thoroughly
enjoy what I am seeing, hearing, and experiencing on these overseas outings, but
unfortunately Madrid denied me that important element of relaxation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence, my mixed bag of memories of Madrid. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Usually one of the first things we do in an unknown city,
after we completed the business of finding our apartment, meeting with the owner,
and taking possession, are to take a ride on a red City Sightseeing bus. They
are in most world cities these days. Tickets are relatively expensive, but I
consider it value for money because I feel it is the quickest way to learn the
lay of the land, so to speak, or discover areas of a city I did not previously
considered, and to get a general “vibe” for the new city. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We found one of the bus’s stops near our apartment and as M
was ready to board the bus, a girl bumped into her, cleverly threw a scarf over
M’s backpack and tried to unzip the back flap. M immediately felt it and
recognized what was happening and quickly pulled away and turned around. The
girl seeing her pickpocket plan is not going to come to any fruition, quickly
disappeared into the pedestrian traffic at a busy street corner. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Yeoc0lnmnGeKpp1JjI0NqLW1lMj1ztH-9FkmrkOQ9K8-zlkPoqduntXDIq8RlHui4ny2SKSqnMmrDLxN8vxem4tUM52Go_j_QfU4X1ypSf47GMF4lCvGxcuJpDEY3HnMAoKq/s1600/c+Temple+of+Debod+P1150009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Yeoc0lnmnGeKpp1JjI0NqLW1lMj1ztH-9FkmrkOQ9K8-zlkPoqduntXDIq8RlHui4ny2SKSqnMmrDLxN8vxem4tUM52Go_j_QfU4X1ypSf47GMF4lCvGxcuJpDEY3HnMAoKq/s1600/c+Temple+of+Debod+P1150009.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
About 30 minutes into our ride we got off the bus at The
Temple of Debod, an Egyptian temple near the royal palace complex. From there
we would walk to the palace’s garden and other plazas around the palace to
consume the many statues and building facades of the area. But while casually
strolling near the gardens, two girls, I would guess 18 – 20 year olds, in a wide
open area with many benches on the edge of the wide walkway, crashed into M
from both sides, sandwiching her, while one tried to get to her backpack. This
time M violently got out of the sandwich by twisting her body away and the two
girls ran away. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1o7kfcR0xIRIBVmAB_tEJZ7fGvHBjtGMH0IAj3bKOa5SLqm0xdYjljiveSnW-BUM_7w7lTsK5FhWCMgK_LZggafeBemOtS0YC-0oWq7g5xMa6Chis_BxOEL25ejbIGwJlE0-/s1600/c+Site+of+pickpocketing+P1150019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1o7kfcR0xIRIBVmAB_tEJZ7fGvHBjtGMH0IAj3bKOa5SLqm0xdYjljiveSnW-BUM_7w7lTsK5FhWCMgK_LZggafeBemOtS0YC-0oWq7g5xMa6Chis_BxOEL25ejbIGwJlE0-/s1600/c+Site+of+pickpocketing+P1150019.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The site of the second pickpocket attempt near the royal palace. I think the audacity of the second attempt in an open space in broad daylight while other people actually sat on benches and watched the whole ordeal unfold and did nothing surprised me most about the incident. </div>
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<br />
The first and the second attempted pickpocketing happened in
a blink of an eye, not more than 2 seconds I would guess from contact to
escape. Twice targeted in the first hour of being on Madrid’s streets? Not the
best introduction to a new city. Coincidence? Or was there a message? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From then onwards M swapped her backpack for a
small on-the-belt pouch. Luckily there were no further pickpocket attempts
during our trip. But these attempts had negative consequences on the rest our
vacation in that I was never really relaxed thereafter, looking over my shoulder
all the time. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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We hopped back onto the bus and a few stops later we found
ourselves in the heart of Madrid, the Puerta del Sol Plaza, where we hopped off
again. The plaza was packed with people and a quick look around confirmed that
it really is a nondescript place devoid of any real beauty or interest. Very
much like New York’s Time Square; nothing more than a traditional place to get
together, a hub. Still jittery after our pickpocket experiences, I however,
wanted to get out of there and directed M in the direction of the nearby Plaza
Mayor, Madrid’s other famous square. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBM0ovojPs3GDVgmlEcHxvJ-CxN9mPzhGraf_rfMYsllwt7LQ9FwU02HlmeAHxxgrnpyPS8o4k6sypx2a_epM-0dpCp1U05o_VSZ2zwQdkYnbAYh5pbVr94gQk0XKhJXLBWZq1/s1600/c+Plaza+Mayor+Collage+2b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBM0ovojPs3GDVgmlEcHxvJ-CxN9mPzhGraf_rfMYsllwt7LQ9FwU02HlmeAHxxgrnpyPS8o4k6sypx2a_epM-0dpCp1U05o_VSZ2zwQdkYnbAYh5pbVr94gQk0XKhJXLBWZq1/s1600/c+Plaza+Mayor+Collage+2b.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Scenes of Plaza Mayor</o:p></div>
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By now it was late afternoon, tapas time, and we found the
perfect place for it at the Mercado de San Miguel adjacent to the Plaza Mayor. Oh
My! I have never seen so many delicate, appetizing, mouth-watering dishes
together under one roof. Pure food porn! I have been to many food markets on my
travels, I love to go to them. I have drooled in Florence’s iconic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mercato di San Lorenzo</i> and in the irresistible
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Halles D’Avignon</i>. I have bought vegetables
for a made-from-scratch Bolognaise sauce at the massive street market in La
Spezia, Italy, and sharp cheese and black olive bread on the Tuesday morning
market in the tiny hilltop village of Gordes, France, and ate strange fried
balls and other unknown delicacies on Kuala Lampur’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jalan Petaling</i>, but Mercado de San Miguel was a culinary feast beyond
them all, both on the eye and the palate. Obviously we changed tapas into
dinner and unbeknown did the right thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4KJUIsrfuDBKFqdXFVZp7gzk_iR81vA0vKkLwy9qT-ddQasggbShK8_JSJaWiMz-VS5-DBVZhC53hdqBiekgExgzlwMycV-6EbApGEVucBJNNWa-KDy2lLMrF9mUIkT4h4WEL/s1600/c+Collage+San+Miguel+Madrid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4KJUIsrfuDBKFqdXFVZp7gzk_iR81vA0vKkLwy9qT-ddQasggbShK8_JSJaWiMz-VS5-DBVZhC53hdqBiekgExgzlwMycV-6EbApGEVucBJNNWa-KDy2lLMrF9mUIkT4h4WEL/s1600/c+Collage+San+Miguel+Madrid.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Mercado de San Miguel</o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-TyGieJQSlDOLBQDV4VwvR7I01CPm1U8wCrs94K5p0Vzb-GoPLylxEf32Lzeo8NMndrJ00cMQKDIobdSN9SoyIN4brIiniqLl87TCb6tn-qCMzwI_v0_ag0_OftJOENqf7fj/s1600/c+M+Plaza+Mayor+IMG_0639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-TyGieJQSlDOLBQDV4VwvR7I01CPm1U8wCrs94K5p0Vzb-GoPLylxEf32Lzeo8NMndrJ00cMQKDIobdSN9SoyIN4brIiniqLl87TCb6tn-qCMzwI_v0_ag0_OftJOENqf7fj/s1600/c+M+Plaza+Mayor+IMG_0639.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Upon exiting the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mercado</i>
we rested for a few minutes on some concrete balls just outside the entrance and
contemplated our next move. We were a bit tired from the travels from Barcelona
that morning, but I had plans to join thousands of other Medrileans to watch a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana Sante</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly several policemen on motorbikes
stopped right next to us and started to cordon off the road and the entrance to
Plaza Mayor in front of us. We were aware of the terrorists attack on Brussels
airport 2 days earlier, and although not terribly alarmed I asked one of the
policeman what is going on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Procession” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Alright!” I said to M and immediate got my phone out and
googled which procession was to walk through Plaza Mayor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43SOY9wH6CbqbUdToYsqd1PO5EqBSF5ryNKZOs4XOI-7VeSAb5gTWI5YSh-KxZDm3LF2hxyIBUl-aXCAmH7uQ4kKpsWvmR0LLIjKFhIRDcxWaO-U_Bj4rXee2QAmtxVNjjbV0/s1600/c+Square+near+Plaza+Mayor+P1150030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43SOY9wH6CbqbUdToYsqd1PO5EqBSF5ryNKZOs4XOI-7VeSAb5gTWI5YSh-KxZDm3LF2hxyIBUl-aXCAmH7uQ4kKpsWvmR0LLIjKFhIRDcxWaO-U_Bj4rXee2QAmtxVNjjbV0/s1600/c+Square+near+Plaza+Mayor+P1150030.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A picturesque little square near Plaza Mayor</span></o:p></div>
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It turned out to be a case of being at the right place at
the right time for one of the highlights of our Spanish expedition. What a fortuity
it was to see a traditional Spanish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana
Sante</i>, a Holy Week tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
processions, a nearly 500-year old tradition, through hilltop villages, coastal
towns and the riverside cities of Spain, by highly committed Catholics, some
wearing tunics and robes with conical shaped hooded hats and their faces
masked, others playing in the band or carry the religious floats, are still
revered and going strong among modern-day Spaniards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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More about that in a next post. <a href="http://bluegrassbaobabs.blogspot.com/2017/02/a-holy-week-procession-in-madrid.html" target="_blank">Click here of The Holy Week Procession in Madrid</a>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVOApvBgnWfD80B7SWE6JPXxyjVyi-ImBIL2PbWpjpon-5JEIxliOKdew2k7crsnsRhE3gnorN4Km7kmqFyfxhyphenhyphenhrONRtK0mhaT7FSCpGTNFoQwkWhzGzXoLCX8h2ZhAfg7mh/s1600/c+Plaza+Mayor+P1020085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVOApvBgnWfD80B7SWE6JPXxyjVyi-ImBIL2PbWpjpon-5JEIxliOKdew2k7crsnsRhE3gnorN4Km7kmqFyfxhyphenhyphenhrONRtK0mhaT7FSCpGTNFoQwkWhzGzXoLCX8h2ZhAfg7mh/s640/c+Plaza+Mayor+P1020085.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Plaza Mayor</o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRv6M_1sO_rXeCOA9yUjt9YQUXwOTslKk0nrws8CciwPrt8jg9MqgKPsS-tM-E58Xox2L6tGnXVb1HtNHyoaHlPsyBr-fS4lcF3ZIpnCRcKobK9zkWwhXJ4eB53F8xYDCOisW6/s1600/c+Madrid+Statues+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRv6M_1sO_rXeCOA9yUjt9YQUXwOTslKk0nrws8CciwPrt8jg9MqgKPsS-tM-E58Xox2L6tGnXVb1HtNHyoaHlPsyBr-fS4lcF3ZIpnCRcKobK9zkWwhXJ4eB53F8xYDCOisW6/s1600/c+Madrid+Statues+Collage.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGv-Aj8tEP-cJk1cizeED75cIKtcUfPBMyKmYtrgAho7mU17ySkDF0y6bTULrJpfmLAbZZ_6rXYBKIccSPThDnZ5vpLNC51-tZaWZg3g73aBiFGjwJsoTlA5xsXd-uJAVlQPA/s1600/c+San+Miguel+Madrid+Fruit+Pies+P1020060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGv-Aj8tEP-cJk1cizeED75cIKtcUfPBMyKmYtrgAho7mU17ySkDF0y6bTULrJpfmLAbZZ_6rXYBKIccSPThDnZ5vpLNC51-tZaWZg3g73aBiFGjwJsoTlA5xsXd-uJAVlQPA/s1600/c+San+Miguel+Madrid+Fruit+Pies+P1020060.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<o:p>Fruit Pies in Mercado de San Miguel</o:p></div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-69876870835723922372016-09-09T10:58:00.000-04:002016-09-09T10:58:01.212-04:00The Animals That Visit Lily Rose Ranch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknerv9SYJa7DmvaO5nM_HL-wlD6gnXaAHv5PG-9nTvLXfEEeQPyhLivt7BdshYn0zfllXNRgx7IoH0NvgEwxiaYceH09Rr4ubZLRZwX6BVZPcmp0mvFhAlnzdnkc9WHSC7x2D/s1600/c2+Heading+cardinal-pair-sideways-bonnie-t-barry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknerv9SYJa7DmvaO5nM_HL-wlD6gnXaAHv5PG-9nTvLXfEEeQPyhLivt7BdshYn0zfllXNRgx7IoH0NvgEwxiaYceH09Rr4ubZLRZwX6BVZPcmp0mvFhAlnzdnkc9WHSC7x2D/s1600/c2+Heading+cardinal-pair-sideways-bonnie-t-barry.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">There are very few things more enjoyable than
watching the animals that visit Lily Rose Ranch. It is a joy and a privilege to
share the land with them. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2W76z0rpsR7mL9RvKrCOTCiKe9g1lOuIkncCZJyaKHEly8rUqyqlgGDjcP1Kom0qQnaSc3jtTI42znHneciZ2ssSIHE3-R4cBmJQ2QmG0ezNh_j1svGET_Txex-wLV0rwY4I/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2W76z0rpsR7mL9RvKrCOTCiKe9g1lOuIkncCZJyaKHEly8rUqyqlgGDjcP1Kom0qQnaSc3jtTI42znHneciZ2ssSIHE3-R4cBmJQ2QmG0ezNh_j1svGET_Txex-wLV0rwY4I/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u>Top to bottom, left to right:<o:p></o:p></u></div>
a Starling, an American Robin, <o:p></o:p><br />
a Heron, a Blue Jay,<o:p></o:p><br />
a Common Grackle, a White-throated Sparrow<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">a Yellow Finch, a Red
Bellied Woodpecker</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByro8meWAvCGDrwg-E3lAIFLaqlRiYnxEU4FV6IKy-aTf6mtWZ3o7tT_a2JGMdOpIu4Bi51hGMqWB47SfwPT98RsI_h4H9lBkg63PBGsTNgflWDH6DeeFYnYAAdXqvb_emc83/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByro8meWAvCGDrwg-E3lAIFLaqlRiYnxEU4FV6IKy-aTf6mtWZ3o7tT_a2JGMdOpIu4Bi51hGMqWB47SfwPT98RsI_h4H9lBkg63PBGsTNgflWDH6DeeFYnYAAdXqvb_emc83/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u>Top to bottom, left to right:<o:p></o:p></u></div>
a Red Wing Black bird, a Northern Cardinal<o:p></o:p><br />
a Mourning Dove, an Eastern Screech Owl<o:p></o:p><br />
Canadian Geese, Buzzards<o:p></o:p><br />
a Barn Owl, a Carolina Chickadee<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfHj9sQzS2WMallKF9gHkK2twi7mKLNa40BBDv9xqBkhREKTfCtf2WG49ct_Ppqbx1Prjpb0sUjS4t3KtWW0mukipTVgLzXjHE7hblJX7nH0nNm2gdQDa2AUQlavgNaHDkQRh/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfHj9sQzS2WMallKF9gHkK2twi7mKLNa40BBDv9xqBkhREKTfCtf2WG49ct_Ppqbx1Prjpb0sUjS4t3KtWW0mukipTVgLzXjHE7hblJX7nH0nNm2gdQDa2AUQlavgNaHDkQRh/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+4.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u>Top to bottom, left to right:<o:p></o:p></u></div>
An Opossum, a Gray Squirrel<o:p></o:p><br />
A Whitetail deer, a Red Fox<o:p></o:p><br />
A Raccoon, a Rabbit<br />
<br />
[This year during spring a red fox had a den near the pond and gave birth to 3 little foxes. We use to sit on the back porch and watch them play. Luckily they showed no interest in the sheep who was in the pasture right next to the pond.] <o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGDaSNW_gH3_hsIuhHo-mwZXcUXcdEl46iQ4flY0eHYm_zqnUPqS5LrPvC7jvfC3JMzYtETytrCIPP0ll3eCGxKjsF7M2UiQ7FKC2x4PaXfdfuYbgudvIUEi4adOT3ECxVRJU/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGDaSNW_gH3_hsIuhHo-mwZXcUXcdEl46iQ4flY0eHYm_zqnUPqS5LrPvC7jvfC3JMzYtETytrCIPP0ll3eCGxKjsF7M2UiQ7FKC2x4PaXfdfuYbgudvIUEi4adOT3ECxVRJU/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+3.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u>Top to bottom, left to right:<o:p></o:p></u></div>
a Mocking Bird, a Carolina Wren <o:p></o:p><br />
an Eastern Blue bird, a White-crowned Sparrow<o:p></o:p><br />
a pair of Wood ducks (female & male), a Bay-breasted Warbler<o:p></o:p><br />
a Green Violet-ear Hummingbird, a Brown-headed Cow bird<br />
<br />
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[The Carolina Wrens love to make a nest in our hanging
baskets on the back porch. I suppose their nest gets wet quite often because we
have to water the plants in the baskets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Every night as sunset arrives the wood ducks come and invade
the pond. One can see the silver streaks as they come the land on the water.]<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_55Am9I9aXXfoyq1xnKsoQAz-k_JxINO3JTUDmVK9JrNZEZnLpz7QMdEmWvTvs8r9f6jBli0d2kNLhZ9OdXrStfJ_URCTh7zElkJD4B3n3ymX5bC1roBm5FezUwJfx-sO3Um3/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_55Am9I9aXXfoyq1xnKsoQAz-k_JxINO3JTUDmVK9JrNZEZnLpz7QMdEmWvTvs8r9f6jBli0d2kNLhZ9OdXrStfJ_URCTh7zElkJD4B3n3ymX5bC1roBm5FezUwJfx-sO3Um3/s1600/c+Animals+on+LLR+5.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<u>Top to bottom, left to right:<o:p></o:p></u><br />
an Eastern Box Turtle, a Snapping Turtle <o:p></o:p><br />
a Copperhead snake, a Brown snake or cow-sucker<o:p></o:p><br />
a Coyote, Wild Turkeys<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
[I have not actually seen a coyote yet, and I hope I never
will because they will only be interested in the sheep, but I have heard them
at night.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Of course, millions of insects, bees, frogs, cicadas,
butterflies, spiders also invade the farm during summer. <o:p></o:p><br />
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-3389628373777534652016-08-23T13:45:00.000-04:002017-02-12T14:48:58.298-05:00Sielskos en Theuns Jordaan in 'n Perdeskuur<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItmpoT0hJkVMhpQSAcCoYVf-rqhrGTAJt0MmH0l7s3-zXu0SFkIzs6wgG7izPHeZ7nnlvY5nDmELE23tuf8zQqdtCSwtGoYrdl7QRv4h_Ax52JnxcSHaZ5gcQ99__9wtx76U3/s1600/c+Theuns+Jordaan+Heading+2b+P1010329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItmpoT0hJkVMhpQSAcCoYVf-rqhrGTAJt0MmH0l7s3-zXu0SFkIzs6wgG7izPHeZ7nnlvY5nDmELE23tuf8zQqdtCSwtGoYrdl7QRv4h_Ax52JnxcSHaZ5gcQ99__9wtx76U3/s1600/c+Theuns+Jordaan+Heading+2b+P1010329.jpg" /></a></div>
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Daar het dié week so ‘n klein stormpie in die Afrikaanse
musiekbedryf se koppie boeretroos uit gebreek. Gert Vlok Nel, skrywer, digter,
sanger, en ‘n diep seun van die Afrikaanse taal, het die sanger Theuns Jordaan
daarvan beskuldig dat laasgenoemde glo sy liedjie <em>Beautiful in Beaufort-Wes</em>, 18
jaar gelede gesteel het en slegs skamelike tantieme van ongeveer R8,000 aan
Vlok oor betaal het. Ai toggie! En dit terwyl Nel gekrepeer het van armoede in
die Karoo en Jordaan meer as 500,000 eksemplare van die liedjie verkoop het. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ek persoonlik het natuurlik geen haan in dié geveg nie.
Tewens, ek het nog nooit voor vandag na die liedjie <em>Beautiful in Beaufort-Wes</em>
geluister nie. Na ek die storie gelees het het ek na albie se weergawe van die
liedjie gaan luister op Youtube en ek kan eerlik nie verstaan waaroor die
bohaai gaan nie. Nog minder kon ek verstaan hoe op dees aarde Jordaan 500,000
eksemplare kon verkoop gekry het, each
to its own I guess. Maar volgens my kennis van die musiekbedryf is dit nie die
sanger wat ‘n ander sanger se musiek opneem se plig om tantieme oor te betaal
nie, maar die oorsponklike musiek uitgewer se plig. Dit werk so wêreld wyd. En
hoekom die musiek bedryf anders werk as die boek bedryf waar skriftelike
toestemming verkry moet word van die skrywer om sy or haar werk te gebruik, dit
kan ek ook nie verduidelik nie. So Gert Vlok Nel sal maar aan ‘n ander deur
moet gaan aanklop om sy tantieme te herwin. Good Luck! Onthou wat gebeur het
met Sixto Rodriguez. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoguGlxliI8tnRaSqDxx7yAWO8rsE7Mi8e9oKp7chyphenhyphen9sFi-nHzyoshBcaxHddjzgQHfeav6ag3MkngrXJnMHWRPGvYeyynPJ9E2nJ9EpDj6PMxNCqLQpgnV-zmMIqKhECWFDdA/s1600/c+Theuns+Jordaan+2b+P1010332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoguGlxliI8tnRaSqDxx7yAWO8rsE7Mi8e9oKp7chyphenhyphen9sFi-nHzyoshBcaxHddjzgQHfeav6ag3MkngrXJnMHWRPGvYeyynPJ9E2nJ9EpDj6PMxNCqLQpgnV-zmMIqKhECWFDdA/s1600/c+Theuns+Jordaan+2b+P1010332.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Vanoggend, terwyl rëenbui na rëenbui oor Kentucky uitgesak
het, ek die storie op Maroela Media raakgelees het en ek ‘n ongewone Saterdag
“vry” het op die plaas, het die geskarrel in die Afrikaanse musiekskuur my laat
heriner aan ‘n Saterdagaand so amper ‘n jaar gelede toe ek en M en ‘n klomp
ander Suid-Afrikaners opgetrek het Shelbyville toe om na ‘n konsert van Theuns
Jordaan te gaan kyk in ‘n perdeskuur. Hy was deur ‘n Suid-Afrikaner wat nou
hier in Kentucky boer uitgenooi om te kom op tree op ‘n perdeplaas met die
gepaste naam van Singing Hills Farm, natuurlik sonder enige bedoelde woord
speling. Voor die konsert het ek geen idee gehad wie Theuns Jordaan is nie en
ek en M moes eers na van sy musiek gaan luister het. Ons was nou nie juis bowled
over nie maar ‘n saamtrek is ‘n saamtrek. Hy kon wel daardie aand Beautiful in
Beaufort-Wes gesing het, ek het geen idee nie. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Do_yMUQpgpg" width="560"></iframe><br /></div>
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
Ek sê “’n vry Saterdag” want die afgelope twee maande met
elke vrye oomblik is ek, M en my seun al besig om die plaashuis se sederhout
huisbedekking te “power wash’, af te skuur, te sandpapier en te verf<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>terwyl dit die warmste, natste, bedompigste
en mees insekte-besmette somer is die afgelope 18 jaar in Kentucky. En enige
iemand wat al hul huis buite om geverf het sal weet wat se enorme taak dit is.
So ‘n reëntjie op ‘n Saterdag is eintlik ‘n verwelkoming. Ongelukkig was daar
ander werk wat ek toe gaan gedoen het in die werkswinkel. Daar is nooit regtig
iets soos ‘n vry Saterdag nie. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
En die ongure weersomstandighede gedurende die somer het ook
veroorsaak dat die groentetuin maar ‘n skrale oes voort gebring het. Vorige
jare het ons altyd ‘n oorvloed van groenboontjies en tamaties gehad wat ingelê
kon word vir kerrieboontjies en pastasous, maar vanjaar is daar te min. Dit wat
geoes kon word moes dadelik gebruik word in ‘n dis. So terwyl ek op die
agterstoep sit en ‘n koppie boeretroos drink en die rëen beloer met droewige
oë, dink ek wat ek sal maak met die emmertjie tamaties wat ek twee dae gelede
geoes het. Daar is eitlik maar net een oplossing. Iets wat ek al weke voor lus
is. Tamatiebredie! Wat is dan nou lekkerder as skaapskenkel en tamatiebredie.
Ek besef skaapnek is seker ‘n beter snit maar om skaapnek in ons geweste by ‘n
kruidenierwinkel te kry is soos om vir kudobiltong in Amerika te soek. En die
skaap wat ek laas geslag het, net soos alle ander skape, het ongelukkig net een
nek gehad en dit is al lank gelede in ‘n Franse bredie verorber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Ek weet dit is nie winter in Kentucky nie, maar die
bewolkte, renerige weer het my laat voel ek is genoop om ‘n bredie te maak. En
wie het die reël neer gelê om te sê bredies is net winterkos? Sielskos bly
sielskos, winter of somer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tamatiebredie
is een van die egte tradisies wat Suid-Afrikaners van die Hollanders geerf het.
Dit is so tradisioneel Suid-Afrikaans soos braaivleis, biltong, malva pudding
en Hertzog koekies. By sommige mense is daar die persepsie dat die Maleiers
bredies na Suid-Afrika gebring het, maar dit is eintlik ‘n dis wat seker in die
Midde Ooste by die oer-oue mense ontstaan het en toe weswaarts na Europa gereis
het. Ek is seker die Franse Hugenote het ook hulle stempel op sekere
Suid-Afrikaanse bredies geplaas, maar die Hollanders en later die trekboere en
hul swart driebeenpotjies het die grondslag gelê om bredies ‘n lekkerbekkig en
‘n kulturele erfstuk van te maak. Dis seker hoekom swaarboompotte, swart gegote
yster vir die vuur of gekleurde Chasseur vir die stoof of oond vandag nog
bekend staan as “Dutch ovens”. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlZ9kdrs2TEZATS2Nh6jUk6DoURos_Gn2qgBtcDf6D7j6JyJ06q4RUCyVKOXN_BVa-rHF0h_KJBIlyzSXxJjDpKhZlx6sOFUEPnBCgMuRDfy-KmH1ffKLCS7CTlG3oy9PZxiZ/s1600/c+Groot+Constantia+Cabernet+Sauvignon+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlZ9kdrs2TEZATS2Nh6jUk6DoURos_Gn2qgBtcDf6D7j6JyJ06q4RUCyVKOXN_BVa-rHF0h_KJBIlyzSXxJjDpKhZlx6sOFUEPnBCgMuRDfy-KmH1ffKLCS7CTlG3oy9PZxiZ/s1600/c+Groot+Constantia+Cabernet+Sauvignon+Collage.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p> </o:p></div>
En om bygaande impak te voeg by die gemoedstoestand van
tradisionele Suid-Afrikaanse kookkuns het ek my kelder besoek en ‘n bottel
Groot Constantia 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon gaan uitkies. Wat kan nou meer
tradisioneel wees as voggies van die oudste wynplaas in Suid-Afrika, die een
wat die grondslag gelê het vir wynbou in die land. Ek het die bottel gekoop
tydens ons laaste besoek aan Suid-Afrika in 2010 en dit gehou vir ‘n spesiale
geleentheid en sienende dat my swaer Godfrey vandag sy 50ste verjaarsdag daar
in die Suidelike Halfrond vier, is dit ‘n ideale geleentheid om dié bottel
Groot Constantia van sy opgekurkte aromas en smake te verlig. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sielskos! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
Kaapse Tamatiebredie saam met Kaapse rooiwyn! Altyd ‘n
uitstekende kombinasie!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Nou sit ek hier na aandete en in die woorde van daardie
Worcester boytjie met die rooi veldskoene, David Kramer, “stoksiel alleen op ‘n
Saterdagaand” maar gelukkig saam met M, op die agterstoep en sip aan my eie
tuisgemaakte koppie Italiaanse cappuccino. Die tamatiebredie het fantasties
uitgekom en die wyn was topgehalte. Definitief die hoë prys werd. Die storm in
die Afrikaans musiekbedryf is vergete. Dit reen nog steeds en meer word
voorspel vir die res van die nag. Maar die oomblik om te waardeer is nou. Die
lewe is eenvoudig te kort vir margarine, geproseseerde kaas, TV dinners,
Budweiser Light en goedkoop rooiwyn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
PS: Ek sien nog 'n Afrikaanse troebadoer, Valiant Swart, is
ook aan die kla oor booking agents en venue-eienaars wat maar traag is om te betaal
wanneer hulle moet. Ek skat daar is ietsie wat stink en vrot is in die
Afrikaanse musiekbedryf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-7742405226788246002016-07-28T14:09:00.000-04:002016-07-28T14:09:55.749-04:00Provence, France Revisited<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhM3OewAZrpPK9DYtvof7xymkrY7NVuHBiPxScjPyadxcB6kiABm8hWWk2im19p_Wd8NcYOJIJjdnuFGlWTFEBdG9sqHA570vfQqEOS-luWm1SLGeAvif9TvxXHdkkrPC3VRa/s1600/c+Entrance+sign+Heading+P1080756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhM3OewAZrpPK9DYtvof7xymkrY7NVuHBiPxScjPyadxcB6kiABm8hWWk2im19p_Wd8NcYOJIJjdnuFGlWTFEBdG9sqHA570vfQqEOS-luWm1SLGeAvif9TvxXHdkkrPC3VRa/s1600/c+Entrance+sign+Heading+P1080756.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It is already quite something to find a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape
in a Kentucky liquor store, but then to find one of the vintage from the same
year that I actually walked through that specific Château’s vineyard is really magic.
Pure nostalgic value! What a coincidence! Of course, if you live in a wine region then this kind of
thing can happen quite often, but not when you live a continent away and a
visit to France is a rare occurrence. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Discovery<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTlH5z24GJN67JOlhSux-hrcpUiX7t4LTZU3RaSRH9L4YPTzwbf4FwA1WG3t5rgAleqSnK087jHb20eeeOEZypTuQVrPR2SfpFYJKWAy5rU5wU4lh-8Ux9DQviJz1_mk8av8I/s1600/c+Mont+Redon+2012+P1160093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTlH5z24GJN67JOlhSux-hrcpUiX7t4LTZU3RaSRH9L4YPTzwbf4FwA1WG3t5rgAleqSnK087jHb20eeeOEZypTuQVrPR2SfpFYJKWAy5rU5wU4lh-8Ux9DQviJz1_mk8av8I/s320/c+Mont+Redon+2012+P1160093.jpg" width="293" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">But that is exactly what happened a few weeks ago
when I wandered through a local liquor store’s aisles and stumbled upon three lone
bottles of 2012 Château Mont-Redon. They were standing on the edge of the
French section, alone by themselves with no indication of price. I thought I
had to relieve them from their loneliness. I saw the store manager nearby and
asked him to check the price, expecting to hear something close to or above $40,
the usual price for an average Châteauneuf-du-Pape. After a few minutes of
trying to find the wine in their computer system, he said that the wine was
supposed to be sold out and there is no price in the system. So I gave him the
eyes and said “Well, obviously it’s not.” He then asked me where I found it and
I said “It was standing near other bottles priced at $16.” I did notice that
they were in the process of reorganizing the store.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then he gave me the eyes. He was deep in thought
for a few seconds, looked at the bottle again and then smiled wryly, and said, “Ok,
you found it. $16.” I thanked him, took the bottle, quickly walked away before
he could have second thoughts and then went to collect the other 2 bottles too.
Returning home I search the internet and saw that wine.com is selling it for
$42 a bottle. What a bargain!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqEhc-tpPWwstQJG4FNrL8NAwp2HP7SBum-h42GtiKXG63Yz9pEcuGBgKyU5iNoEJaNpOn_cR3XT-ao_n1l7TTSK_0di70ZamwlVpziR2mluGuk_5mTJt_rCRhdziiBgUuWfd/s1600/c+Meal+1+P1160152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqEhc-tpPWwstQJG4FNrL8NAwp2HP7SBum-h42GtiKXG63Yz9pEcuGBgKyU5iNoEJaNpOn_cR3XT-ao_n1l7TTSK_0di70ZamwlVpziR2mluGuk_5mTJt_rCRhdziiBgUuWfd/s1600/c+Meal+1+P1160152.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">What’s for Dinner?<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So come Sunday, M took out a frozen packet of ribs for
barbequing, thinking it was pork ribs, but instead it was beef short ribs.
Which, off course, can also be grilled successfully if you like your beef tender
and still half bloody on the inside, but my family does not like their steaks
that way. In any case, that Sunday by 1:00 pm it was 95 degrees Fahrenheit in
the shade, the humidity in the 90s, meaning the heat index could have been well
over a 100 degrees, and we fled inside to the cool of the air-conditioned house.
There was no way I was going to stand in front of a hot grill in that heat. So
it became another experimental Sunday afternoon in the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was not in the mood for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boeuf bourguignon</i>; I made that a few weeks ago to accompany a
bottle of Allesverloren Shiraz that M bought me some time ago. So I stuck my
nose into Jacques Pépin’s near 700 page culinary bible, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Essential Pepin</i>, to see if I can find a Provençal classic to bring
the best out of its Châteauneuf-du-Pape neighbor. And on page 323 I found
something that looked interesting and which I could adapt to put my own stamp
on, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boeuf Daube Arlésienne</i>, a beef
stew that comes from the Provençal town of Arles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0hQ6jUef6REqWM9McM2QsSdQ6yiBkBtMS98N3u-vh2oe0dRPdrxAApYJpzhTcKoOBh_tDmKGeP3c09pBQqwGGBgS8p9SC0g0K9RB2FvGBAy9xJh7Xj1dQa5DHoAA-XN0PVGt/s1600/c+arles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0hQ6jUef6REqWM9McM2QsSdQ6yiBkBtMS98N3u-vh2oe0dRPdrxAApYJpzhTcKoOBh_tDmKGeP3c09pBQqwGGBgS8p9SC0g0K9RB2FvGBAy9xJh7Xj1dQa5DHoAA-XN0PVGt/s1600/c+arles.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Starry Starry Night<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Arles, located on the banks of the Rhone River, and the
surrounding area have been populated for the past 2,800 years by various
civilizations, among other the Ligurians from northern Italy, the Celts, the
Phoenicians, the Romans, the Moors from Spain, and eventually in 1378 it became
part of the kingdom of France. During the late Roman era, the 4<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup>
and 5<sup>th</sup> Century AD, the town was very popular with Roman Emperors that
used it as their headquarters during military campaigns in the region. The
town still boasts several Roman ruins and buildings, including the magnificent
colosseum-like amphitheater. But the town is probably more famous today for the 200-odd paintings that Vincent Van Gogh painted here during his 14 month
stay in 1888 and 1889.<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <span lang="EN">The
Night Cafe, the Yellow Room, Starry Night over the Rhone, L'Arlésienne</span></span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> and of course,
<i>Café Terrace at Night</i>, is among the famous paintings Van Gogh painted
here.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzjegiomxkFdChNkh3WmAb9r9_OXZEtyfOEtBJ4EwFnzOCxQ_GCeXYmsEJjnEyf3T5ZJp-cqJ8PUVJMB51g_U8lxWidfYR38ZdnLLFSY32ZAmxC3GH7V_6AjNSSW9pTUEh3MA/s1600/c+Van_Gogh_-_Terrasse_des_Caf%25C3%25A9s_an_der_Place_du_Forum_in_Arles_am_Abend1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzjegiomxkFdChNkh3WmAb9r9_OXZEtyfOEtBJ4EwFnzOCxQ_GCeXYmsEJjnEyf3T5ZJp-cqJ8PUVJMB51g_U8lxWidfYR38ZdnLLFSY32ZAmxC3GH7V_6AjNSSW9pTUEh3MA/s1600/c+Van_Gogh_-_Terrasse_des_Caf%25C3%25A9s_an_der_Place_du_Forum_in_Arles_am_Abend1.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="irc_su" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Vincent van Gogh's Café Terrace at Night in Arles</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Another connection and point of nostalgia; During
our 2012 visit to Provence we did not ventured as far south as Arles. Our
furthest point south was Les Baux-de-Provence and Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, where
we visited the Saint-Paul Asylum. Van Gogh came to Saint-Rémy after his Arles
period and spent a year in the asylum from May 1889 to May 1890. During his
Saint-Rémy stay he painted many canvasses of the hospital’s garden, the
surrounding fields and the famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Starry Night</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irises</i>. Two
months after Van Gogh left Saint-Remy he shot himself and died in the town of Auvers-sur-Oise,
north of Paris. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Starry Night. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Painted by Van Gogh while staying in Saint-Paul Asylum in Saint-Remy-de-Provence</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
Of course, we also visited the tiny enclave of Châteauneuf-du-Pape
(see my blogs <a href="http://bluegrassbaobabs.blogspot.com/2013/10/proetyd-1st-glasie.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://bluegrassbaobabs.blogspot.com/2013/11/proetyd-2de-glasie.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a> about our visit.) Although we never went for a
tasting at Château Mont-Redon, we had lunch just up the hill from the estate, but
after lunch our guide stopped at the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">domaine</i>
to give us a short history about the area and to tell us about the importance
of the river stones that are the “secret” to the wonderful wines made in this
valley. And we went for a walk through the vineyards.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Taking a walk through the vineyard of Château Mont-Redon</span></div>
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Perusing the recipe I realized I had all the ingredients
required for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boeuf Daube Arlésienne</i>,
but I decided to replace the white wine the recipe asked for with red wine,
making it a little heavier dish than the original. A few days earlier I opened
a local Kentucky merlot, but after a few sips I destined it to be more suited
for the pot than for my palate. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
merlot now came in handy. In order not to change the recipe into a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bourguignon </i>one has to have a light hand
with the red wine. I was maybe a little too heavy handed because I marinated the
short ribs in the merlot, some garlic and dried Herbes de Provence for about
two hours. That in itself made it lean towards a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bourguignon.</i> Nevertheless, I am not going to publish my recipe
because I am sure my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">daube</i> did not
taste at all like that of Pepin’s and the method I used was also much different
than his. So it will be a gross injustice to Mr. Pepin to publish my adaptation
or his recipe, because mine, I am in no doubt, was a far flung deviation from his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZmiP4abOST6uFu92gcRi2s44Xu53_DECjOWIYdyClccQvpewkLHAgbKFB2Yoav_Uu4Wc-CRkSI7slIbyXWB_T97zyxFsJZ8qUNXZ1pQypiL5o7Luo6nTlTd4igz5Jy5wL0ZjJ/s1600/c+Meat+after+pan+fried+P1160126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZmiP4abOST6uFu92gcRi2s44Xu53_DECjOWIYdyClccQvpewkLHAgbKFB2Yoav_Uu4Wc-CRkSI7slIbyXWB_T97zyxFsJZ8qUNXZ1pQypiL5o7Luo6nTlTd4igz5Jy5wL0ZjJ/s1600/c+Meat+after+pan+fried+P1160126.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I tested a piece of the short rib after browning it in the pot and it was melt-in-the-mouth tender.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It’s All About <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terroir</i><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I have to admit I was in two minds about opening a bottle of
Mont-Redon. It was only 4 years old, relatively young for a Châteauneuf-du-Pape
red, but I was also charmed by its possibilities and by what it could offer at
this tender age. I have learned over the years that modern wines could be
surprising good at a young age and sometimes terrible at an older age. In the
end my inquisitiveness and sentiment got the upper hand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92h7-m4bwHoarQh3ErdUOsa2o-4NqMe1NaOLar8Yh6W9Fyj2ZvTRLPAso63XUGEVtm6zLN7AkfEtQCFqU1YofvRusRfKH530_TfdeDQA-L7z2-wDws9ajC_q3OOv93q2XgLfp/s1600/c+Mont+Redon+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92h7-m4bwHoarQh3ErdUOsa2o-4NqMe1NaOLar8Yh6W9Fyj2ZvTRLPAso63XUGEVtm6zLN7AkfEtQCFqU1YofvRusRfKH530_TfdeDQA-L7z2-wDws9ajC_q3OOv93q2XgLfp/s1600/c+Mont+Redon+Collage.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Château Mont-Redon. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In the family picture of the current owners, top left: </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Didier Fabre (front left), Yan Abeille, Jerome Abeille,
Pierre Fabre and Jean Abeille (front right)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Wine has been produced on the Mont-Redon estate since the
age of the Avignon Popes and the estate was first mentioned in historic
documents from 1344 as “Mourredon’. Between then and the 1700s not much is
known about the property until Joseph d’Astier, a lawyer from Avignon, obtained
the property. His descendants, the Mathieu family owned the estate until about
1856 when, at the death of Clara Mathieu, the property was divided between her
children. Shortly thereafter the phylloxera epidemic of the 1880s devastated
wine-making at the estate and in most of the winemaking regions of the world. In
1923 when Henri Plantin obtained the property, Mont-Redon consisted of only 2.5
hectares of scattered vineyards. Plantin and his descendants actively worked to
enlarge the estate, buying up adjacent land when it became available and today
it consists of 186 hectares with 100 hectares under vineyard,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>making it the largest single-vineyard estate in
the Châteauneuf-du-Pape valley and one of the most well-known and respected
producers of crus in the appellation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
current owners, Jean Abeille and Didier Fabre, the 3<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>rd</sup> generation
descendants from Plantin, have also expanded their operations beyond the valley
and now also produce Côtes-du-Rhône wines from 35 hectares they own across the
Rhône River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vUQpfGlJ6XRdO1xwZuzgrOBqsDE_xaqHb4YsD8sPtK2dXqEjEsZsmFQj72QNdewA8lLRtLvGJ4-OufvkCNsU5RNF2RvMKwkDGrykMhRzi6Q9Ks56PcnMmopduZwaLT9RcwkA/s1600/c+Chateau+Mont+Redon+2012+P1160094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vUQpfGlJ6XRdO1xwZuzgrOBqsDE_xaqHb4YsD8sPtK2dXqEjEsZsmFQj72QNdewA8lLRtLvGJ4-OufvkCNsU5RNF2RvMKwkDGrykMhRzi6Q9Ks56PcnMmopduZwaLT9RcwkA/s1600/c+Chateau+Mont+Redon+2012+P1160094.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
In the glass the wine was a deep ruby red and still very purple
at the rim. On the nose it was fruity with faint hints of chocolate and
characteristically from a Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine, strong hints of licorice.
But the proof is always in the pudding, and on the palate the initial taste had
surprisingly strong tannins, with cherries and blackberries and the licorice was
now shining through as if to confirm its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">terroir</i>.
The ending was rather abrupt and mildly spicy. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I thought I made a big mistake to open the bottle so soon with
the tannins still grossly underdeveloped. So I let the wine rest while I
continued with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boeuf Daube Arlésienne,</i>
which by this time looked more like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bourguignon</i>.
In hindsight the Burgundian version was better suited for the wine in any case
and I am sure there is a Provençal dish out there with red wine very similar to
its northern cousin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54-uUSUnrn8uFzju2MFKO9E3ZG4ju22WgttgqaHgHhxUDNHACUVxx7rJMSz37AyxcK4opLdSNl0zEmYAg-C5FupKOC3Gt35hsF7glxFjACkL5YbN6UzdFeScI2_Aryntw7nF5/s1600/c+capers+olive+jam+and+olives+P1160133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54-uUSUnrn8uFzju2MFKO9E3ZG4ju22WgttgqaHgHhxUDNHACUVxx7rJMSz37AyxcK4opLdSNl0zEmYAg-C5FupKOC3Gt35hsF7glxFjACkL5YbN6UzdFeScI2_Aryntw7nF5/s1600/c+capers+olive+jam+and+olives+P1160133.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Finishing off a Mediterranean
ensemble <o:p></o:p></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">An hour later to finish off the dish and to give it a more distinctive
Mediterranean twist I added some Greek capers, Spanish Manzanilla olives, but
to counter the vinegary taste of the olives and saltiness of the capers I added
a teaspoon of “treasure” from our pantry to add sweetness, Confit d’Olive, all
the way from Blaauwklippen Road in Stellenbosch, South Africa. The confit or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mountain marmalade</i> has a very unique
flavor, and until I found it in a store in Lexington, KY, of all places, I
would not have thought one could make jam from black olives. BTW, it goes very
well with camembert or brie cheese on crackers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The rest and the air did the wine a world of good. Although the
tannins were still distinct, clinging to the tongue, it has mellowed a bit. The
middle became soft and rounder and the aftertaste longer and a little spicier with a
stronger hint of chocolate. (Oops! That sounds like I am describing a maturing
woman. But don’t they always say a woman is like a good wine that gets better
with time?) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The wine, made mainly from the Grenache, Shiraz, and
Mourvèdre cultivars and topped up with Cinsault, Cournoise, Muscardin, and
Varrarèse, was, to use a Kentucky term, a thoroughbred Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Overall
the wine was a very good, fully bodied, well-balanced wine, a true <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">grand cru</i> that can only get better with
age. It went very well with the food, which in the end turned out to be a
classic I-like-to-cook-with-wine-and-sometimes-even-put-it-in-the-food
experiment. How long the other two bottles will last time will tell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">What a bargain for $16? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNXETN1ol2wuJB3xjHsvaW2L-s95mpkxg4B4suiPW8oxKOL9c2tNoGLzY9N01C93sllUyQLCZoZg8buQrORyWaKae9ajzNq2Rjw1egsdzewRCEMk-elibrQ9eIrOyA3YnKk9P5/s1600/c+Meal+2+P1160148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNXETN1ol2wuJB3xjHsvaW2L-s95mpkxg4B4suiPW8oxKOL9c2tNoGLzY9N01C93sllUyQLCZoZg8buQrORyWaKae9ajzNq2Rjw1egsdzewRCEMk-elibrQ9eIrOyA3YnKk9P5/s1600/c+Meal+2+P1160148.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></div>
</o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
My apologies Mr. Pépin, but in my hands your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boeuf daube Arlésienne</i>, turned out to be
more of a Mediterranean-influenced <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boeuf
bourguignon.</i></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_-KPdHcRiVe-CY-uuB3aIyX74LBfdMfD55zwzeOHHyVTPYji63ueAiXza-vC1aNZeAuKeSWabwvjZ2h51N5P4XJ5dnSiD7DP27ptp0nktI_T8t1f1_PK0HxhHhTDzshbQqJr/s1600/c+Mont+Redon-Collage+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_-KPdHcRiVe-CY-uuB3aIyX74LBfdMfD55zwzeOHHyVTPYji63ueAiXza-vC1aNZeAuKeSWabwvjZ2h51N5P4XJ5dnSiD7DP27ptp0nktI_T8t1f1_PK0HxhHhTDzshbQqJr/s1600/c+Mont+Redon-Collage+001.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> The chef at work in the kitchen.</span> </div>
</o:p>
</div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-33676306352427765262016-05-12T13:53:00.001-04:002016-05-12T13:53:46.637-04:00Sunday in Segovia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKw1FE-vPpaCaDwvxSWSTwgbMva3uX681Zei21fw8eU9-W5Rcxsc8nSS6GsOY2ja-hbpLZAISgJCuikucwNG6riWc9JuTcnN_YjdFrBnDKEy8IyLTmDG7IYeZPvA71pARiFOy/s1600/c1+Sunday+in+Segovia+Heading+P1020616-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKw1FE-vPpaCaDwvxSWSTwgbMva3uX681Zei21fw8eU9-W5Rcxsc8nSS6GsOY2ja-hbpLZAISgJCuikucwNG6riWc9JuTcnN_YjdFrBnDKEy8IyLTmDG7IYeZPvA71pARiFOy/s1600/c1+Sunday+in+Segovia+Heading+P1020616-001.jpg" /></a></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Present day<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sunday evening and the very last of the day’s light is
disappearing fast. From somewhere nearby I hear shots being fired. It is not unusual
for around here even though it is not deer season yet. This time it sounds like
someone is shooting target. Getting ready for deer season? Or maybe the person
just wanted to spend some bonding time with his/her rifle, clean it, oil it, put
it back in the safe. Each to its own. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But sitting here in a rocking chair on the back porch after
dinner with a cup of coffee laced with a little whiskey, I recall our trip to
Segovia, Spain, a few Sundays ago. Segovia. It is a word that rolls so effortless
from the tongue. Segovia. It was the best of times it was the worst of times. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sunday, Late March
2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
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I gave us 1 hour to get from Atocha metro train station in
the south of Madrid to Chamartin train station in the north of the city for our
connecting train to Segovia, which is about 92 km north of Madrid. Arriving at
the metro the information board informed me that the next train will arrive in
10 minutes. That was not good news. Usually you don’t have to wait more than
2-3 minutes for the next train. But this was a Sunday morning! It escaped me. Less
commuters means less trains running. The second miscalculation materialized on
the metro train ride. It took much longer than what I anticipated and we arrived
at Chamartin with about 5 or 8 minutes to spare. From the underground it was a
mad dash up a set of stairs and then up escalators. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>M, somewhere between a jog and a very fast
walk, was doing her best to match my brisk walk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Passing a shop on the top level I asked a man dressed
in what looked like a train service uniform, the way to the Renfe platforms.
“That way” he said and pointed to another walkway to our left. Above his head
against the wall an electronic information board showed that the 10:15 train to
Segovia departs from platform 3. We ran down another escalator, found platform
3’s entrance gate and then had to go down another set of stairs to get to the
platform and the train. There was no time to check coach numbers so we just
entered the train through the doors nearest to us. A few milliseconds later the
train's doors closed and it pulled out of the station. Wow! In the nick of time!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuiAjYdy7CEaQtnddLOxXI1iv66EV85U4l5Nlw9NpwGhcnSlYgIHSAqyzu7HwVc4CGlSwdHQzwswjjyESIgTPeVCSfWaQWbhCVS_iy72KNBLHLJGpAPtXOxo3yu21mG3Q4H5k/s1600/C+Segovia+1b+STAINED+GLASS+WINDOWS+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuiAjYdy7CEaQtnddLOxXI1iv66EV85U4l5Nlw9NpwGhcnSlYgIHSAqyzu7HwVc4CGlSwdHQzwswjjyESIgTPeVCSfWaQWbhCVS_iy72KNBLHLJGpAPtXOxo3yu21mG3Q4H5k/s1600/C+Segovia+1b+STAINED+GLASS+WINDOWS+collage.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Windows inside Segovia's Alcazar</div>
<br />
Once I got my breath back and looked around I noticed that
this train inside did not look like an AVE train. There was no seat numbers and
the seats… oh Shit! We were on the wrong train. How could this have happened? I
was convinced the information board said platform 3 for Segovia. Walking down the aisle to
find us some seats I asked a group of late teens if this train was going to
Segovia. I got confirmation that it was. It turned out that we were on a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cercanias</i> rail service train, a slow
regional train that stops at all stations and not on the fast speed AVE rail train.
When I looked at the electronic board I never looked at the train number, only
at the destination and time. There was no time. There must have been more than
one train leaving at the same time to the same destination. What a coincidence?
My mistake, but as I sat there I also realized we would have missed the AVE
train seeing that we barely made this train before its departure and that the
platforms for the AVE trains were further down the station. (I learned that upon
our return to Chamartin that evening.) <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I got up and looked at a route map just behind our seats and
looked for Segovia, but there was no Segovia on the map. I figured out from the
map that we were on the C-8 train line and this line only went as far as Cercedilla. I
asked a woman in the booth across from us whether the train goes to Segovia and
she said yes it does. But Segovia is not on the map, I said. She said that we had
to change to another train at the end of the line to go to Segovia. Great!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_SazkegyzbEEVXu9PVeaIVvm9JKQJXKPFZOhgOTYDbkTBpmJU1rtpWEhyphenhyphenjmkyheA38XBmvVnGHAlNmsSX8du2e6YV8kQySU4ziyQ8nQEl6wfa6Rwdz5Ak8T893q34r-VYjAf/s1600/c+Segovia+Plaza+Mayor+Collage+Post+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_SazkegyzbEEVXu9PVeaIVvm9JKQJXKPFZOhgOTYDbkTBpmJU1rtpWEhyphenhyphenjmkyheA38XBmvVnGHAlNmsSX8du2e6YV8kQySU4ziyQ8nQEl6wfa6Rwdz5Ak8T893q34r-VYjAf/s1600/c+Segovia+Plaza+Mayor+Collage+Post+4.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Segovia's Plaza Mayor <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">anchored by its late-Gothic cathedral</span></div>
<br />
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To make a long story short, we did change trains at
Cercedilla and eventually arrived in Segovia about 2 hours later than planned and
at a different train station on the side of town we didn’t wanted to be. To
make matters worse, as we walked to the solitary taxi at the station it pulled
out with passengers and we had to settle for an inner-city bus to Plaza Mayor,
the city’s main square. Luckily the bus station was near the train station and
the bus came within a few minutes. Not the best of starts to our day, but our
spirits were still high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no
way to make up the lost time, and after a quick walk around the cathedral, the
last Gothic cathedral to be built in the Spanish style in Spain, we skipped the inside
and walked up hill towards Segovia’s Alcazar and into a cold and stiff breeze
coming of the snowcapped mountains on the city’s doorstep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnn44LBgjkD7SAGeXRKaGv50HMmRnBHHGkL3Au94vrglsBkn0cAfKMRJUQmRexL1Fv7fDSeTmxewhza1D7kea1_xBhCHDWG6hpZeCdVgpvJWSOy6PBO1rDQuUEHqffsYTT8m2O/s1600/c+Alcazar+outside+P1150662.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnn44LBgjkD7SAGeXRKaGv50HMmRnBHHGkL3Au94vrglsBkn0cAfKMRJUQmRexL1Fv7fDSeTmxewhza1D7kea1_xBhCHDWG6hpZeCdVgpvJWSOy6PBO1rDQuUEHqffsYTT8m2O/s1600/c+Alcazar+outside+P1150662.jpg" /></a></div>
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Segovia's Alcazar with King John's tower under maintenance. </div>
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The Alcazar or castle is situated on top of a rocky outcrop high
above the confluence of two rivers and was one of the inspirations for Disney’s
Cinderella Castle. And following the lay of the land, a triangular outcrop
sticking out into the confluence, the castle’s shape is unique, like that of a
ship’s bow. It originally was a wooden Roman fort and then a Moorish fort before the current stone
structure was built in the late 12<sup>th</sup> Century. Since then it has been
a royal palace, a prison, an artillery college, a military academy and now a
museum. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The castle has a long history
and it played an important role in the history of Spain, especially the Kingdom
of Castile. It was in this castle that Spain’s most historic queen, Isabella I
of Castile grabbed the thrown from her sister Joanna. It was in Segovia that
she married Fernando II of Aragon and together these two completed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reconquista</i>, taking Spain back from the
Muslims, which laid the foundation for a unified Spain, and they also ordered their Muslim
and Jewish subjects to convert to Catholicism or leave the country during the
Spanish Inquisition. This was the same Isabella that funded Christopher
Columbus’s 1492 voyage to “discover” the New World.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Alcazar is a
very interesting museum. Inside it reminded me quite a bit of the Château de
Blois in France, but with less furniture. The Alcazar was not Versailles, nor the
royal palace in Madrid. No over-the-top gilded fixtures, virtually no paintings,
no gilded mirrors, none of the usual extravagance you get in 18<sup>th</sup>
Century castles and palaces. This was far more basic, more brute stone and good
artisanship. This was pre-Renaissance and pre-Baroque styles. This was Mujédar and
later additions were Gothic. A pleasant surprise though was the beautiful
ornate ceilings and the fresco paintings. The suits of armor and pieces of
artillery scattered throughout the rooms imparted a real sense history
to the castle. </span></div>
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After our visit to the Alcazar we wandered along the backstreets of Segovia, sticking to the sunny side of the town, sometimes inside the ramparts, sometimes outside, slowly making our way in the direction of the aqueduct. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TDWIWF3XHz6xuz3GHMXZV5KUjZZ0HdmWY-UZLlfSjkqpKTlH0PztGfChBJcI2KLGEeVpxYpS_qmi5O6CGWX5cYOwD5jmUcW2bPcxuP7BUK5q-iaz7lWc-gg-NlkIxrzFWfMT/s1600/c+Plazuela+del+Socorro+P1150749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TDWIWF3XHz6xuz3GHMXZV5KUjZZ0HdmWY-UZLlfSjkqpKTlH0PztGfChBJcI2KLGEeVpxYpS_qmi5O6CGWX5cYOwD5jmUcW2bPcxuP7BUK5q-iaz7lWc-gg-NlkIxrzFWfMT/s1600/c+Plazuela+del+Socorro+P1150749.jpg" /></a></div>
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At the tiny Plazuela del Socorro we had to choose. Go left
and stay within the city ramparts or go right and exit the city.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwN_HxingPjQjQOEHswWOoqpE-0rYLiS4xqUc8IKW8Gp23l-EEv5TjPC7vV2RItOCYbb17mVnytfn8n0yIOiRKxeRiEMuPrZN1gvnEIpKZ97rbY5tVXNZtnx58D729KQvHTs2N/s1600/c+Puerta+San+Andreas+P1150754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwN_HxingPjQjQOEHswWOoqpE-0rYLiS4xqUc8IKW8Gp23l-EEv5TjPC7vV2RItOCYbb17mVnytfn8n0yIOiRKxeRiEMuPrZN1gvnEIpKZ97rbY5tVXNZtnx58D729KQvHTs2N/s1600/c+Puerta+San+Andreas+P1150754.jpg" /></a></div>
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We went right and exited the city through the impressive
Puerta de San Andreas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At one stage we found a tranquil spot with a bench beneath
trees that still needed to sprout blooms for spring, on the edge of a cliff with
views over the river and mountains in the distance. We lingered for a while,
nearby water trickled from a fountain and then ran down a tiny moat on the side
of the road. We were the only people there. It was rather amazing to have this
quiet spot totally to ourselves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnqCPhHLHQTXHRGT0zYmpbbFAnLRxYYZey9I-WE93LT9yfOMhiFt1qvaH5GlHG-fJvDh96cMrUa7JSDG4dsIFcKDSNCEo43lhV-ITVO0B-eFxHuI3bIo-30MP1dh-WuPi6MiV/s1600/c+Segovia+skyline+P1150739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnqCPhHLHQTXHRGT0zYmpbbFAnLRxYYZey9I-WE93LT9yfOMhiFt1qvaH5GlHG-fJvDh96cMrUa7JSDG4dsIFcKDSNCEo43lhV-ITVO0B-eFxHuI3bIo-30MP1dh-WuPi6MiV/s1600/c+Segovia+skyline+P1150739.jpg" /></a></o:p></div>
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Segovia's Skyline</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Continuing on we found a modern passage through the city
walls that led us to Calle Juan Bravo and the Plaza de Medina del Campo with
the statue of Juan Bravo (I guess the original Johnny Bravo) and the Romanesque church
of St. Martin with its soaring belfry and arched and columned portico. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Shortly afterwards we had our worse eating experience in Spain.
To get out of the narrow streets where the cold breezes chilled us and also to
rest our tired feet, we came upon a windless sunny spot, a small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">el fresco </i>restaurant between two
buildings, the <em>Bodega del Barbero</em>. After a long wait for service,
the food was absolutely terrible. M’s fish was half baked, the French fries
oily and cold and the bread felt as if it was only recently removed from a fridge. My
‘breastfed’ lamb chops was so fatty I left half uneaten. When we complained the
waitress was apologetic in words but her gesture indicated she couldn’t care
less. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Come to think of it, none of the food we ate in Spain was really
memorable, some meals were better than others. The better meals were in
Barcelona and on our last night in Madrid at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Diavoletta</i>, but mostly they were just acceptable. So unlike our
trips through France or Italy. I can still recall our dinner in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Auberge Nicolas Flamel</i> in Paris, or the
gourmet food of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Cheval Rouge</i> in
Chisseaux or even further back to an excellent dinner at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Cicala</i>, that lovely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">agriturismo</i>
where we stayed for 3 days high above the Bay of Poets in La Spezia, Italy. </div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
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In this picture one can get a good idea of how tall the aqueduct is. No mortar/cement was used. It is kept together by the sheer weight of the stones. </div>
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From our awful lunch experience it was a short walk to the
jewel of Segovia, the best preserved Roman structure in Spain, the aqueduct.
Seeing it for the first time I was quite taken aback. I never realized it was
so huge. Very impressive! We lingered in the area for quite some time. I
climbed the many steps to the top for panoramic views while M wandered around
the square down below before we caught a bus from near the aqueduct to the AVE
train station. This time I got it right and we sped back to Madrid at high
speed. </div>
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The stairs to the top of the aqueduct</div>
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At Chamartin station we did not take the metro back to Atocha station, but a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cercanias</i> train, an impromptu decision, an added adventure. This is the train we should have taken that morning! With only 4 stops between the two
major stations we arrived at Atocha 12 minutes later. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Romanesque bell towers seen through the top arches of the aqueduct</div>
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Notwithstanding the morning’s dilemma of the wrong train and
late arrival and the terrible lunch, our Sunday in Segovia turned out to
be one of my best days in Spain. I have countless good memories of meandering
through the charming stone labyrinth of Segovia or our walk all along the ramparts, the visit to the Alcazar, the
vistas of snowcapped mountains and of being overawed by the imposing aqueduct. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Far below the Segovia Alcazar, the Church of the True Cross, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Iglesia Vera Cruz</i>, the round/12-sided shrine patterned after the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, was built by the Knights Templars before 1208. They stood guard here over a small piece of wood that they claimed was a fragment of Jesus’s cross. The relic now resides in a church in a nearby village.</div>
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Shortly after we arrived on Plaza Mayor we notice they are preparing for another <em>Semana Santa</em> procession outside the cathedral.</div>
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Inside the Alcazar</div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-47064440664523014312016-05-08T11:45:00.000-04:002016-05-08T11:45:40.243-04:00Postcards from Toledo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Behind the high altar of the Sacristy hangs El Greco's </span>famous <em>The Disrobing of Christ. </em>He lived in Toledo from 1577 to his death in 1614 and we walked past his house at one stage during the day, now a museum. The pictures really doesn't do the real painting justice. Up close it is a stunning work of art. The red robe looked so real I felt I could touch it. </div>
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Behind the main altar the exquisite El Transparente. Personally I felt this enormous piece of artwork was the best in the cathedral.</div>
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El Transparente. Floor to ceiling with a huge hole in the wall at the top (see below). It was created between 1729 and 1732 by Narcico Tome and his four sons, all artists and architects. According to Michener's <em>Iberia,</em> that I mentioned in the beginning of this post, it was commissioned by the bishopric to allow for more light to enter the cathedral. The dark object in the top left is a red cardinal's hat suspended from the ceiling, one of several.These hats belonged to the cardinals buried in the tombs directly below. The
tradition is that cardinals can be buried anywhere in the cathedral and their
red caps are hung above until they rot away, which can take more than 100
years!</div>
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A painted ceiling above the El Transparente.</div>
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Toledo Cathedral Altar and very ornate gate</div>
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Entrance to the Choir</div>
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Some of the chapels</div>
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The Portal of Lions</div>
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The Cathedral from a distance with the flying buttresses in clear view. Together with the Alcazar it dominates the Toledo skyline.</div>
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Street scenes</div>
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Santa Cruz Museum<br />
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Toledo's Puerta del Sol, the Sun Gate</div>
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Near the Alcazar's entrance</div>
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La Taberna Del Pescador's menu for lunch</div>
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Toledo's AVE train station in a modern Moorish style</div>
BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-43085036709244433592016-04-28T15:11:00.000-04:002016-04-28T15:13:44.551-04:00A Modernism Marvel and Montjuic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The next morning, although sunny and bright, a cool breeze
was blowing from the Mediterranean towards the western mountains surrounding
the city, bringing with it thin high clouds and the faintest presence of a
haze. Having grown up on a peninsula this kind of weather in the morning is not
unusual for a city near the sea. It would burn off quickly and another
beautiful sunny day was ahead of us. It would turn out to be our hottest day in
Spain.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Casa Amattler (left) and Casa Batlló (right)</div>
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If you search the Internet for Barcelona’s top attractions
you will find several of them relates to the buildings of Antoni Gaudi, and
other Catalan architects famous for their Modernism era (roughly from 1880 to
1911) designs. On our first day we visited the Passeig de Gràcia, one of the
city’s major avenues and gaped at the multitude of Modernism buildings that
line the avenue: Casa Amattler (designed by Josep Puig i Cadafalch) next to
Casa Batlló (by Gaudi). Further down are another Gaudi, Casa Mila, and Casa
Lleó Morera by Lluís Domènech i Montaner, and standing on the Plaça de
Catalunya one can hardly miss the rooftop of the Casa Rocamora with its
distinct orange ceramic roof tiles designed by the brothers Basegoda. The
Passeig de Gràcia is certainly a most unique street. No wonder Barcelona brags
so much about it and its beautiful buildings.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Casa Mila by Gaudi</div>
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But there is one building that trumps them all. No matter
which Barcelonan high ground or rooftop you are on its incomplete towers and
ever present construction cranes are visible from anywhere in the
city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Begun in 1886, and projected to be
completed only by 2026, 140 years are actually a short time compared to how
long it took to build many other buildings of this kind, this Modernism
masterpiece by Antoni Gaudi has become the symbol of Barcelona, not to mention
a major source of tourists Euros. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> The Basilica de Sagrada Familia </o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p> </div>
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Call it whimsical, wacky, wonderful, weird, and wayward or
whatever w-word you want to employ to describe it, the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Basilica of the Sacred Family</b> or simply the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sagrada Familia</b> is something rather exceptional and singular. I am
not saying it is the best church I’ve seen, that will come later in the week,
but it is different and architecturally the church is a tour de force of
ingenuity and light as oppose to the usual darker Gothic churches. Inside and
outside it is the amalgamation of the spiritual and the natural according to
Gaudi’s vision of the human’s existence in relation to God. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>The Basilica de Sagrada Familia </o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p> </div>
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His ability to envisage something of this magnitude, then made
detailed drawings of nearly every square feet of the church’s surface, inside
and out, a really extraordinary detailed thinker, and then to build one of the
highest naves without the customary flying buttresses and allowed for a
kaleidoscope of color from the stained glass windows to provide the décor to
compensate for the near absence of the expected ornate chapels, made him a
standout among his already phenomenal peers of the Modernism movement of
Barcelona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> The Passion Façade of the Basilica de Sagrada Familia</o:p></div>
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Upon leaving the basilica we enjoyed a moment’s
contemplation in the park across from the church, taking in the big picture, as
if that’s possible, on a bench in the shade of one of the many trees with the
reflection of the Nativity Façade crystalized in a shallow pool. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>A Modernism marvel </o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p> </div>
Interestingly enough, as we sat in the park, my initial
thought on the basilica was that it lacks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ambiente</i>,
ambiance. The place felt cold because of the grey colored stone used on the inside,
the extremely high pillars of the nave, and the overall perception of ginormous
openness because of the sheer size of the building. But I was making the
mistake of comparing it to the many Gothic churches I have seen. There is a
huge gap between the technology, tools and design of the early 20<sup>th</sup>
Century and those from 13<sup>th</sup> to the 15<sup>th</sup> Century, the same
way that Gothic-styled churches were more advance in construction techniques
than the Romanesque churches, although artisanship could be of the same quality
throughout all periods. This is a relative modern church, a Modernism marvel and should be judged
and admired accordingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, no
Gothic architect has ever dared to build an altar that looks like Jesus is
parachuting in from the heavens. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIbZCCo86wzIaB8QSRfJpN1PS6GFujxoXAm0MzdD6-8uP45tQQWCIG1FHiN550bsRr_7mebOaYSsjv2vWEKE_qhJrIOQ8ljcq-3AF42yY1RSOvzSia0gGoercyafPcGmW1FU7/s1600/c+SF+Altar+P1140725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIbZCCo86wzIaB8QSRfJpN1PS6GFujxoXAm0MzdD6-8uP45tQQWCIG1FHiN550bsRr_7mebOaYSsjv2vWEKE_qhJrIOQ8ljcq-3AF42yY1RSOvzSia0gGoercyafPcGmW1FU7/s1600/c+SF+Altar+P1140725.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The suspended altar in the Basilica de Sagrada Familia </div>
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Afterwards we found a sunny sidewalk table at <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Farggi</b>, a coffee shop on the quiet side
of the church, but still in full view of the basilica, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">café con leche</i> and a light, late morning pastry. It wasn’t quite
lunchtime yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snack time was short-lived
however, time was running out and this was our last day in Barcelona, so we
pushed ourselves to move on, out of the massive “shadow” of the Sagrada Familia
and headed to the opposite side of the city, to Montjuic, the Jewish
Mount.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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We rode the metro to Plaça d’Espanya, a major circular
square on the southeastern side of the city, with massive, but beautiful
proportioned statues and fountains, walked pass the tall Venetian Towers and
slowly made our way up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de la Reina Maria
Cristina Avenue</i> that leads to the National Art Museum of Catalonia. Along
the way I marveled at the treasure-trove of different architectural styles, the
buildings and much of the area erected specifically for the 1929 International
Exhibition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytPwkkVzmn50Tu4la7loW4xEUBBRKNKHuETE2reNXVeFHIJddYXjKojJaZ3EEL5Oe3Mch4UEVnpkfwTknrUFtJriva5F7IfRxcZe6OA2iLD5zuBM3WsBZWIMMjBYzNSDB1N2n/s1600/c+view+from+Montjuic+P1140858.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytPwkkVzmn50Tu4la7loW4xEUBBRKNKHuETE2reNXVeFHIJddYXjKojJaZ3EEL5Oe3Mch4UEVnpkfwTknrUFtJriva5F7IfRxcZe6OA2iLD5zuBM3WsBZWIMMjBYzNSDB1N2n/s1600/c+view+from+Montjuic+P1140858.1.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> View from Montjuic with the unfinished Greek columns and the Venetian Towers in front of us and the Church of the Sacred Heart on the hill in the distance </o:p></div>
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We climbed some of the stairs up the hill and for the rest
use an escalator to the museum level. We never actually went inside the museum.
We were not in the mood for artwork. On the horizon the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor</i></b>,
the Church of the Sacred Heart, dominated the Tibidabo Mount on the edge of the
Barcelonan bowl. Towards the west, where we just came from, the Sagrada Familia
stood high above the surrounding neighborhoods, and immediately below us the
varied architectures of the exhibition area and the plaza provided enough
panoramic stimulation. Instead of art we were contented with the views from up
there, eating a ridiculously overpriced ice cream at the café on the terrace in
front of the museum while being serenaded by a Spanish troubadour on a guitar
in the hot sun. Unfortunately the huge and famous cascading fountain in front
of the museum was not running at that moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfnV4rB2ItQ9DCh-bRsXOu9pQm3O4n8ogoYLVfes30jxoc8xBp1PngSnVWvhAMHxkR51VCFBOuYfiuE8NVD1DBc_gCk2FYMfCHcJ5lH2VinNvtRvHQngazhfD-2x5L3I86_iZ/s1600/c+Barcelona+Historic+Botanical+Gardens+P1140891.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfnV4rB2ItQ9DCh-bRsXOu9pQm3O4n8ogoYLVfes30jxoc8xBp1PngSnVWvhAMHxkR51VCFBOuYfiuE8NVD1DBc_gCk2FYMfCHcJ5lH2VinNvtRvHQngazhfD-2x5L3I86_iZ/s1600/c+Barcelona+Historic+Botanical+Gardens+P1140891.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> The old Catalonian farmhouse inside Barcelona’s Historic Botanical Gardens</o:p></div>
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One of the surprises we found on Montjuic was the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jardi Historica de Barcelona</b>,
Barcelona’s Historic Botanical Gardens, just behind the Catalonian Art Museum.
We saw the direction board towards the garden, went in search of it,
incorrectly took an escalator to a higher level of the mount, realized we must
have passed the garden somehow, took another escalator back down and then found
the garden’s entrance hidden behind a non-descripted bear-brown wooden gate. It
was not a very big garden, really nothing more than two large hollows into the
hill’s side filled with local and foreign species of flora. The tallest and
oldest trees in Barcelona is said to be located in the garden. Wandering
through the sunny side of the garden some cycads brought back memories from
Kirstenbosch in Cape Town for M, while a massive Agave plant reminded me of one
that stood in front of my childhood home in the same city. We cross to an area
with tall trees and found a pleasant vista. In the garden’s second hollow, a
series of rough terraces and stone steps were created, planted with varied thin-stemmed
hardy shrubs mixed with ivy ground covers, a large wisteria, its support of
small trees groaning under its weight, and many trees, all covered in cool
shade, and in the bottom of the bowl what looked like a lovely Tuscan villa,
gloriously baking in the bright and hot afternoon sun. It is actual not Tuscan,
but a reproduction of a Catalonian farmhouse. I would vouch the house of a very
wealthy farmer since I cannot imagine it being a house of a typical Catalonian
farmer. The average Spanish farmer has never been that well-off to build such a
large house. We took the weight of our feet on the stone steps for a good 20
minutes or so, we sat there chatting, absorbing the greenery, the view, the
occasional twittering of birds, the soft whisper of a nearby fountain and the
overall tranquility of the unexpected location, and enjoyed the absence of
crowds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon leaving the garden I spotted more Catalonian buildings
in another garden further up the hill and tried to entice M to climb the 50-odd
steps with me but she was more than happy to wait for me at the bottom of the
stairs on a bench in the sun on the gravel walkway, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passeig de Jean Forestier</i>, that runs along the front of the museum
area. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQtuTRoo4h-0jsiXJMyMXK6r5bZV9-iDvI5Eyg3G2nZMPwTqzFmVcFtIRNE4q_9Td0n2qdxkeqY8ydh1SRGI3_bxUos5NHOg8zIzZ0QpdsNwt_cP68UqKudfT-vKoieLW1i1w/s1600/c+Art+Museum+of+Catalonia+waterfall+P1140924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQtuTRoo4h-0jsiXJMyMXK6r5bZV9-iDvI5Eyg3G2nZMPwTqzFmVcFtIRNE4q_9Td0n2qdxkeqY8ydh1SRGI3_bxUos5NHOg8zIzZ0QpdsNwt_cP68UqKudfT-vKoieLW1i1w/s1600/c+Art+Museum+of+Catalonia+waterfall+P1140924.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p> National<span style="color: black;"> Art Museum of Catalonia</span></o:p></div>
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By now it was already past three in the afternoon and I
suggested we slowly descend Montjuic in the general direction of our apartment,
which was somewhere out there below the mount, but not too far away. A good
rest, a cold beer or two, an early dinner and early night were ahead for the
rest of the day seeing that we had to catch the early morning high speed train
to Madrid the next day. Just as we started to walk away from the area, the
monstrous fountain in front of the museum started to flow and a river of water
cascaded over its precipice. What a sight! Good photo opportunity too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, on a zigzag course down narrow backstreets, not quite
sure the exact location of our apartment, I led us down the mount, keeping
Avenue Parallel, a major road that I could see as we descended, always in my
eye. We reach said avenue one block from our apartment and came across <strong>Restaurante Manolo</strong>, which advertised
chocolate and churros on their menu and spontaneously decided to tick off
another item from our bucket list. When we gave our order the waitress was
rather surprised, probably realized we are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Americanos</i>
and not aware of the Spanish culinary protocol to eat churros late at night,
but 10 minutes later we received freshly fried churros and a cup of thick sweet
chocolate. The snack and drink were absolutely delicious, and the service so
prompt and friendly that we decided to return to the restaurant for dinner too.<br />
<br />
<o:p><span style="color: #222222;">Ticks of the bucket list: Churros and chocolate, authentic seafood paella, and a whole plate of the most delicious acorn fed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamón (</i>Spanish ham). </span></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPOa3SvtyI3LoBZkGnZ6GrkK-um6kPMbKRkCIyBKvl7HVnmmGVCAs0yNVAWUodcET92lHzcgldMk__wI3QtJAVqJ1JKmdYjTdVAzlsOLQZ3d9WSHe7gMuJ_7ROazZbs1IyHrQ/s1600/c+View+of+Sacre+Cor+2+P1140852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPOa3SvtyI3LoBZkGnZ6GrkK-um6kPMbKRkCIyBKvl7HVnmmGVCAs0yNVAWUodcET92lHzcgldMk__wI3QtJAVqJ1JKmdYjTdVAzlsOLQZ3d9WSHe7gMuJ_7ROazZbs1IyHrQ/s1600/c+View+of+Sacre+Cor+2+P1140852.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p>The <em>Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor</em>, the Church of the Sacred Heart, dominates the Tibidabo Mount on the edge of the Barcelonan bowl.</o:p></div>
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Early evening, the sun was already behind the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Serra de Collserola</i>, the mountain range
that surrounds Barcelona in the southwest, and dusk was slowly descending, I
stood on our apartment’s tiny balcony, sipping a pre-dinner glass of Rioja red
wine and looked down on the fresh produce shop and the activities on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carrer de Vallhonrat.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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A couple walked their dogs, a man popped into the shop and
emerged with a baguette, the butcher on the corner rolled down security rails,
closing shop for the night, two gentlemen of advanced age were in deep
discussion on a corner leading to a narrow alley, across the street two kids
took trash out to large bins near the small square at the end of the street,
and a steady stream of pedestrians continued to hurry home from work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Further down the street two kids was noisily hollering to
each other while kicking a soccer ball, and next door a television broadcasted
highlights of the past weekend’s football. Meanwhile, the number of customers
to the produce shop steadily increased, the smell of food being prepared hung
in the air like fog in a valley, and the aroma entered my nostrils and made my
stomach rumbled. The neighborhood of El Poble-Sec was doing what it has been
doing for the past century. Live and let live. Not much has changed. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Prior to my visit to Barcelona, whenever I heard the city’s
name, the song honoring the city, performed by Freddie Mercury from Queen with the
soprano Montserrat Caballe involuntary used to start playing in my mind. But
since my visit the song has faded a little to the background and the memories now
being recalled are filled with the feeling of cool sea breezes on my face, with
the footfall and voices of pedestrians and traders on the Las Ramblas, with the
smell of seafood and red peppers from a freshly baked paella, with the silence
from the Roman remains underneath the narrow passageways of the Barri Gotic, with
the sound of soothing ecclesiastical music in the Basilica de Sagrada Familia,
and with vivid images of medieval, classical and Modernism architecture. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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For a too short period of time M and I were fortunate to be part of this exquisite city. Observers, participants, temporary Barcelonans! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzH2jwp6dCuMzv8C1bio2SjFOKXQIG2P14R0XwTLNgZldhjHIB9UIFyZrCSrxNpXpb2xX1oav8rRHLpKDt0k_dmnh5D1zzPrHMrTwGD3CvOyE1p5Ya7rmkJb8yIOGItFVUadfD/s1600/c2+FS+9+Barcelona3-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzH2jwp6dCuMzv8C1bio2SjFOKXQIG2P14R0XwTLNgZldhjHIB9UIFyZrCSrxNpXpb2xX1oav8rRHLpKDt0k_dmnh5D1zzPrHMrTwGD3CvOyE1p5Ya7rmkJb8yIOGItFVUadfD/s1600/c2+FS+9+Barcelona3-001.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
More Sagrada Familia</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwodoouEEv-F2XW-FjGwnLVoeMmLumSGZFLnrw0dn11pdpVKocW5QlTOirLhn1_E6GxL1Nk_Igec7Sm25YhcLfaHSbjsGJdPbMUO8VGVKE0i8L1oItERI4sA1CpbPeYJlx79zA/s1600/cx+Montjuic+small+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwodoouEEv-F2XW-FjGwnLVoeMmLumSGZFLnrw0dn11pdpVKocW5QlTOirLhn1_E6GxL1Nk_Igec7Sm25YhcLfaHSbjsGJdPbMUO8VGVKE0i8L1oItERI4sA1CpbPeYJlx79zA/s1600/cx+Montjuic+small+.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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Around the Plaça d’Espanya area</div>
</span><o:p></o:p><br />BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-91357800833516555222016-04-28T00:25:00.000-04:002016-04-28T00:27:57.659-04:00Barcelona...Vibrant and Beautiful<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9rc_Fz-cw-SP_eJij3abBirW9hJJqBj58N1UPAj4SMojOCl2z4HKOcZkc5HeaY-n969Xf8cNqXFmaURN2tcwMHKuQKCwch1PwRD5ztFvrIizmJl30fw55wlHwDCWC7nXzxju/s1600/c1+Church+Entrance+Heading+P1140602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9rc_Fz-cw-SP_eJij3abBirW9hJJqBj58N1UPAj4SMojOCl2z4HKOcZkc5HeaY-n969Xf8cNqXFmaURN2tcwMHKuQKCwch1PwRD5ztFvrIizmJl30fw55wlHwDCWC7nXzxju/s1600/c1+Church+Entrance+Heading+P1140602.jpg" /></a></div>
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There was something surprisingly refreshing to walk out on a
tiny balcony with a container of profusely blooming red geraniums and place for
only a tiny table in a foreign city, with the morning’s first cup of coffee and
look down on the red tomatoes, the orange oranges and tangerines, the green lettuces
and celery and yellow apples in the small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tienda
de productos frescos, </i>fresh produce store,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>across the narrow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carrer de
Vallhonrat.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It instantly brightened what
already looked like a perfect spring morning in Barcelona, Spain. </div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HzEm5TclROJYokHYRqSVXRHqxU6TJBe0iSdX_VD3r9XxFQsc6qs1LMXrI3fmmn28i5JTmzPgjGbhsy69FrFO33NvAw2WhLLeZsDrzlFXI-HXAHCQn7rYHwKE_cm7J8pLC3hb/s1600/c+Barcelona+Vallhonrat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HzEm5TclROJYokHYRqSVXRHqxU6TJBe0iSdX_VD3r9XxFQsc6qs1LMXrI3fmmn28i5JTmzPgjGbhsy69FrFO33NvAw2WhLLeZsDrzlFXI-HXAHCQn7rYHwKE_cm7J8pLC3hb/s1600/c+Barcelona+Vallhonrat.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Carrer de Vallhonrat. El Poble-Sec, Barcelona</div>
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After coffee I ventured out into the narrow streets in
search of freshly baked croissants for breakfast. M was sleeping in;
recuperating from an allergy attack due to a sandwich that must have contained
red peppers on the Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Barcelona. It was just
after eight in the morning and the neighborhood streets of El Poble-Sec was
still mostly quiet except for building contractors that were clearing rubble
from an old building being remodeled. On the corner of the street a butcher
shop was already opened, the butcher preparing meatballs, and across from the
butcher on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carrer de l’Olivera</i> a
fishmonger was placing fresh fish on ice. Further down the street a small supermarket
was still closed and across from it the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fleca</i>,
a bakery, had no croissants in their display window yet so I continued my wandering
down the street, found an open bar and through its windows I saw that it had
croissants on the counter but decided against it, the freshness possibly questionable.
On the next corner I found a small convenient-cum-produce store, the attendant behind
the counter totally absorbed in his smartphone and did not look up when I
entered. I bought some bottled water for coffee in the apartment. I retraced my
steps back to the bakery, still no fresh croissants visible, but I nevertheless
went inside, ask for four croissants, which they went to fetch from the kitchen
in the back, still hot and smelling buttery and toasty and headed back to the
apartment. </div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
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Barcelonan delicacies. </div>
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</div>
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After breakfast we took a metro train to <em>Liceu</em> station and
emerged from underground into bright sunshine on the famous <em>Las Ramblas</em>, a tree-lined
street that cuts through the center of the city and where they sell anything
from flowers, tourist knickknacks, fridge magnets, and artwork, to books and
off course food. Barcelona’s outside-in Champs-Elysees due to the pedestrian
area in the middle of the street and cars driving on the outside of the
pedestrian walkway. We slowly followed the human river, tourists and locals
alike, westwards, passed the Erotic Museum where a faked Marilyn Monroe
look-alike, dressed all in white with black sunglasses, paraded on a balcony, a human advertisement and every now and then M stopped and browsed a
vendor stall, sometimes purchasing a small souvenir for someone back home, until the pedestrian
lane poured into the Plaça de Catalunya, a large square which is considered to
be the center of the city and together with Las Ramblas a popular destination
for some Barça football fans to celebrate championship wins or for Barcelonans
to gather in protest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> Wandering through the Gothic Quarter, the <em>Barri Gotic</em></o:p></div>
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On the square we snapped some photos, rested under a shady
tree, crossed the Passeig de Gracia, rumored to be Spain’s most expensive
street, and then allowed ourselves to get totally lost in Barcelona’s Gothic
Quarter, the Barri Gotic. For the rest of the day until long after dark we
ambled along narrow medieval streets, some that rarely feel sunshine on their
cobbled surfaces. We were modern pilgrims, memory-moment hunters with light backpacks and digital cameras who ended up on large squares in front of
gigantic Gothic churches with hundreds of tourists or tiny plazas mostly devoid
of people except for old locals seeking a sunny spot. We came across quaint and
leafy courtyards with soothing water fountains and walked underneath intricately
decorated archways that link ancient buildings and along very old walls with
statuesque windows and doors from a time when builders were patient artisans and architects
cared to build beautiful buildings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> Inside the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia</o:p></div>
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For a while we dawdled on the square in front of the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint
Eulalia</b>, drank in the atmosphere and grandeur of the 13<sup>th</sup>
Century buildings, then went inside and later onto the roof for beautiful views
of the city. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After an excellent lunch and
superior table service at <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taverna de
Bisbe</b> on the square next to the Cathedral we went under ground in the Plaza
del Rei where we walked through the very modern glass reception hall of the
city’s History Museum (<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Museu d'Història de Barcelona, the MUHBA) and
stepped back nearly 2,000 years in time to explore buried Roman origins of
Barcino as Barcelona was known then. It was fascinating to see the remnants of old
Roman streets, a laundry where they washed and dyed clothes, the round vats for
winemaking still in the earth and many more interesting excavated artifacts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsA06LOBVbY8FVle37I5vp2n9lYCkzhuvYUQb5gEdfNueRhElUaxd9wC6iE8_wIiuvS-qx9jajW15JJjlMJfgwFOQ9jwNjTA5EH5hFVPDIimSODu2fnnh296vX1dwdSjTTgUSf/s1600/c+Post+2+Barcelona2-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsA06LOBVbY8FVle37I5vp2n9lYCkzhuvYUQb5gEdfNueRhElUaxd9wC6iE8_wIiuvS-qx9jajW15JJjlMJfgwFOQ9jwNjTA5EH5hFVPDIimSODu2fnnh296vX1dwdSjTTgUSf/s1600/c+Post+2+Barcelona2-001.jpg" /></a></o:p></span></div>
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Street scenes in and around the Barri Gotic</div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When we emerged from the museum the day’s last
golden sunlight was still lingering around and we went in search of the
remaining pieces of the old Roman walls that once surrounded the city. We found
a huge corner of the wall on a quaint little plaza where restaurant waiters
were arranging tables and chairs for the cocktail hour crowds. As twilight
descended glowing pools of light from tapas bars and general shops lightened
the darkening alleys, giving it the appearance of dappled sunlight in a jungle.
Our wandering continued until we found a cozy plaza with several restaurants
and we decided to rest our weary feet and had a tapas dinner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al fresco</i> under large umbrellas at <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">El Paraigua’s </b>while the sound</span><span lang="EN"> </span>of a live band playing Dave Brubeck style jazz spilled out from
one of the restaurants and filled the square<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Ticks of the bucket list: Gazpacho and Spanish omelet. M's foie gras was just as delicious. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A splendid end to a thoroughly entertaining day in the Gothic Quarter of the city. Barcelona, vibrant and beautiful, ancient and modern has become one of my new favorite cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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Dinner on Plaça de Sant Miquel<span lang="EN"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Late night heading to the metro station on Las Ramblas </div>
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A city of statues</div>
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On Barcelona's Cathedral Square</div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-36132382090345526332016-04-06T08:12:00.000-04:002017-02-07T23:41:47.000-05:00Conquering Spain...Neither Did<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-X-XyveCr3vT4G6b8ylGnLX3bIfSj69lwPo2J652MxP7fEmD1AQoI3hSb36nU1u2nhHslThHdagh6PjPE97B1Z40YiTWzBktuFMNNaK-G_la01XzdVDgNsM1KxPKEQIsd4PY/s1600/c+Post+1+Heading+f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-X-XyveCr3vT4G6b8ylGnLX3bIfSj69lwPo2J652MxP7fEmD1AQoI3hSb36nU1u2nhHslThHdagh6PjPE97B1Z40YiTWzBktuFMNNaK-G_la01XzdVDgNsM1KxPKEQIsd4PY/s1600/c+Post+1+Heading+f.jpg" /></a></div>
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Spain, the land of conquistadors, Don Quixote, Goya, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reconquista</i> and the Inquisition, but
also the land often conquered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Although it has been planned for some time and a fair bit of
time, but not enough it seems, was allocated to study our destination, it
was always going to be one of those cultural enrichment vacations that could
turn out to be less than expected and a minor disappoint or a pleasant surprise
and a total delight. What was in stored for us?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Spain! I wouldn’t say it was our first choice, but any
country further north was still too cold for our liking this time of year and
Greece, well, with its current Syrian refugee problem did not enticed us at
this moment. So Spain fitted the bill from a weather point of view and its rich
cultural contribution to the Mediterranean and European history, culture,
cuisine and art makes it a natural must see on any one’s bucket list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuvqWjuSef7Xycvn8qjfcWq75ZffsyNGMKQ3P9dgnAx2Zsjo-vhSs5DBG7fmspKHd5xGJPuZ5UwPwaa2ov7vA4bhep0j3YpF001xn4H8r3ZObVGBy6JmKTWM3DhA6VYHDFhfc/s1600/c+Egyptian+Temple+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuvqWjuSef7Xycvn8qjfcWq75ZffsyNGMKQ3P9dgnAx2Zsjo-vhSs5DBG7fmspKHd5xGJPuZ5UwPwaa2ov7vA4bhep0j3YpF001xn4H8r3ZObVGBy6JmKTWM3DhA6VYHDFhfc/s1600/c+Egyptian+Temple+c.jpg" /></a></div>
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<o:p>The Temple of Debod in Madrid, a rarity of ancient Egyptian architecture that can be seen outside of Egypt. It was a gift from Egypt to Spain as it was possibly going to be submerged due to the building of the Aswan Dam </o:p></div>
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Upon our departure I did not feel the usual adventurous excitement
during the flight from Lexington to Chicago or from there to Frankfurt, Germany.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With so many current distractions and so
much in our lives in flux at the moment, the run-up to the vacation and its immediate
preparation felt more ritualistic than the usual flutters of exploration. Flying
over France the grey and brown landscape below was not encouraging either, but the
moment that opened the front door and let in all the vacation vibe I needed was
when the plane made a slight turn to the left while flying over the black and
shadowy mass of the Pyrenees Mountains, but with its peaks still covered in
snow, out over the deep blue Mediterranean Sea and then banked right again to
fly all along the Spanish coast, past what I presumed were the towns of Premia
de Mar, El Masnou, and Badalona until we banked to the right again to come in
to land at Barcelona’s El Prat airport. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> A cozy little plaza in the shadow of a Roman period relic built around 70AD as daylight was disappearing. </o:p></div>
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So off we went in search of Roman ruins below and on Barcelona’s
streets and its intriguing buildings that float on the eye like waves rolling
in on a beach, and to Madrid where we found architecture and palaces as
classical and beautiful as any on offer in France or Italy. We ambled through Gothic-encapsulated
streets in Toledo and Segovia to stimulate our history-starved senses and satisfy
our inquisitiveness, and I indulged on local cuisine like gazpacho, Spanish
omelet, Castilian soup, Catalonian paella fresh in seafood and sweet in red
peppers, tapas of all kind at Mercado San Miguel in Madrid, delectable acorn fed
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamón </i>(ham), and every morning
freshly baked croissants and, well, anytime during the day too, the delicious <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Café con Leche. Grande, dos, por favor</i>. Two
large ones please. </div>
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Tapas, Churros and Chocolate</div>
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At the end of the vacation I felt the longer I stayed in
Madrid the more I like Barcelona. Madrid started off with a drive through the
historic side of town and I felt here was a city that could give Paris a go for
its money. The architecture was nearly comparable. But the worse the service
got and the overwhelming crowds I realized I had my best moments and ate the
best food in Barcelona, and there I also experienced the best restaurant service
and more friendliness in general than anywhere else in Spain. Whether it was a
waitress that went beyond than what can be expected to introduce us to
Catalonian food and the chef coming to our table to talk to us about the food
(he did make a half-sized paella specially for me) or a metro assistant helping
us buying tickets and took the time to explain the metro system to us, in
English, and when I thanked him he said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“de
nada, I was only doing my job”</i>. So different from Madrid where a metro
assistant told me it was not his job to help me buy a ticket, and where every
time we went to a restaurant I always had the feeling that I was intruding upon
the waiter’s privacy or free time because service in Madrid was slow,
unfriendly, less than expected and certainly below par for Europe according to
my past experience, except on our last night in Madrid when we dined at the
restaurant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Diavoletta</i> on Rondo de
Atocha near our apartment where the service was exceptional and the food top
class. Even got 2 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lemoncellos</i> on the
house. </div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
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Strolling along centuries ancient streets of Barcelona's Barri Gotic area</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
We arrived in Madrid at the start of a 4 day long weekend,
it was Holy Week ending with Easter Sunday, and although some Madrilenians, no doubt, left town for a
short vacation outside the city or to spend time with their family in their
home town, many more Spanish and tourist alike poured into the city. The place
was a hive of activity and constantly moving masses. Very crowded! After our
arrival that Thursday we went out exploring, ended up at one stage at Puerto
del Sol square, but it was so crowded we left the plaza immediately again for
quieter streets. We were weary of crowds after 2 pickpocket attempts on M in
the first hour of being in Madrid’s streets and the events in Brussels the same
week. It didn’t look like there was anything of interest in Plaza Puerto del
Sol in any case. Overrated! Another New York Time Square! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> Holy Week procession through Plaza Mayor in Madrid</o:p></div>
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But Madrid did deliver one of our highlights during its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semana Santa</i>, Holy Week. The Thursday
evening before Good Friday we stood with thousands of Spaniards and others for
more than 3 hours in Plaza Mayor and waited for and observed the Church of San
Pedro’s famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuestro Padre Jesús
Nazareno, El Pobre, and María Santísima del Dulce Nombre</i> procession. Although
not Catholic or religious for that matter, I found the procession quite
spectacular and a moving experience in sheer determination from the men, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">costaleros</i>, carrying the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pasos</i>, the religious icons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tale of two streets in Toledo, Spain</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
In our effort to flee from the Madrid crowds we went to
Toledo and Segovia over the weekend. Unfortunately Toledo was a case of jumping
from the frying pan into the fire. With Toledo being much smaller than Madrid
and the crowds seemingly larger than Madrid, navigating some of the ancient
narrow streets was bumper to bumper traffic. By late afternoon walking on the
major streets inside the city walls became totally claustrophobic and we
escaped through the Puerto del Sol gate, watched how darkness descended on the
old city on the hill and instead of taking a bus or a taxi we took a long slow
casual walk to the station to catch our train back to Madrid. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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Segovia skyline with snow-capped mountains in the background</div>
<br />
Segovia was slightly less crowded but only because we stuck
to the quieter streets on the outskirts of the city, sometimes inside and at other
times outside its walls. With snow still on the surrounding mountain peaks,
Segovia was also much cooler than Madrid and Toledo. But more about these
cities in a later blog post. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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Dusk descending in Barcelona's Gothic Quarter, the Barri Gotic.</div>
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In the end we did not conquered Spain, the time we spent
there was far too short. Although it was a hectic visit, and although we spent
more actual hours sightseeing than on most other European vacations, we
regularly ran out of time and energy before we could accomplish what we set out
to do. We barely scratched the surface of Madrid and Barcelona and I am
convinced that Toledo could be a real jewel on a different day and on a longer
stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
But Spain did not conquer me either. There were many
highlight that I will remember for a life time, but Spain did not blow me away the
way France and Italy did. But then I have not seen the winemaking valleys of La
Rioja, or the hilltop towns of Aragon. Nor did we ventured south to Andalusia with
its Moorish history or experienced the desolated plains of Extremadura or the
white beaches of the Costa del Sol. But what I saw was more than enough to
justify the visit and I certainly would not mind returning one day again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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Puerta de Alcalá, The Citadel Gate in Madrid.</div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-22610387003738345692016-03-17T10:58:00.000-04:002016-03-17T11:02:47.841-04:00Musical Muse: Connections<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EcpyrKBauQgbV4ZeVtwMAT5yokoFlPwI-8c2q0plZu1EIKJEMaiKCulYp0QxBQ4DcS7_YWGmqpnZ1PTrf00n1M5MCBo74sT6QpvKpVyakW6IpPOL3nIcUpLCVp5VsI3gEwX1/s1600/Wine+Header.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EcpyrKBauQgbV4ZeVtwMAT5yokoFlPwI-8c2q0plZu1EIKJEMaiKCulYp0QxBQ4DcS7_YWGmqpnZ1PTrf00n1M5MCBo74sT6QpvKpVyakW6IpPOL3nIcUpLCVp5VsI3gEwX1/s1600/Wine+Header.jpg" /></a></div>
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The Exchange: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A 600
plus page semi-romantic Victorian-era tale of how the Pākehā settled the South
Island of the Land of the Long White Cloud for 3 bottles of Gallic juices from
Burgundy, Beaujolais and Languedoc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Languedoc: The land of troubadours (male) and the trobairitz
(female) during the High Middle Ages (1100 - 1350 CE) in Occitania (present day
Southern France & part of Spain).<o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t2TYFPU-bQ9DK3i9_wptE78AWzn-IqkfOvhkmSzsMegeLxYA5C2B7eaO3sotPNtZ4Wei5CGjM_5E9K8ZO1e3KkPdgQVRT6ez9QP0rrK4AnmLa1ZkCrVSJuBw7uriDLJtCA1_/s1600/Map_Catatania_%2528VegWorld%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t2TYFPU-bQ9DK3i9_wptE78AWzn-IqkfOvhkmSzsMegeLxYA5C2B7eaO3sotPNtZ4Wei5CGjM_5E9K8ZO1e3KkPdgQVRT6ez9QP0rrK4AnmLa1ZkCrVSJuBw7uriDLJtCA1_/s1600/Map_Catatania_%2528VegWorld%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
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Occitania: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not
a country, but a medieval term used to group a language, culture and cuisine together
of people that lived all along the Mediterranean Sea in the south of France as
far east as Nico (modern day Nice) to Bordeaux on the Atlantic coast, north to
Limousin and into Spain to the mouth of the Ebro River south of Barsino
(Barcelona) and modern day Catalunya. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Barcelona: The Barcelona Gipsy Klezmer Orchestra (BGKO) was a
musical project of international, modern day troubadours and trobairitz. The
group were:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sandra Sangiao (Vocals - Catalunya)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Robindro Nikolic (Clarinet - Serbia/India)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mattia Schirosa (Accordeon - Italy)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Julien Chanal (Guitar - France)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stelios Togias (Percussion - Greece)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ivan Kovacevic (Double Bass - Serbia)<o:p></o:p></div>
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and sometimes, Vroni Schnattinger (Violin - Germany)</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Serbia, Bulgaria and Romania: The area where the Roma, a people
without a country, came from. This song, Djelem Djelem, is a tribute to one of the greatest
Romani songs and was adopted as the Romani national anthem in 1971. <o:p></o:p></div>
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-18630721483352903522016-01-01T01:07:00.000-05:002016-01-01T01:07:56.676-05:00The End of an Indian Summer<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9lgSlWS6PdDgdKEOxSarTdheIiwsUSnX0q_KgDDyRxNqTlEuF60OjiU0sGukhc62S_3TEb3fp_UE5Pr14tzjzmwEWOLMKsnJT5g8Az08FBtLuae174p-yCAmQG4jtetI3oS4/s1600/c+Pond+1+Heading+2+P1010500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9lgSlWS6PdDgdKEOxSarTdheIiwsUSnX0q_KgDDyRxNqTlEuF60OjiU0sGukhc62S_3TEb3fp_UE5Pr14tzjzmwEWOLMKsnJT5g8Az08FBtLuae174p-yCAmQG4jtetI3oS4/s1600/c+Pond+1+Heading+2+P1010500.jpg" /></a></div>
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<strong>Even the frogs</strong> have emerged from their winter hibernation
holes. Probably thinking spring came early this year. From the back porch I can
hear them at night at the upper pond, croaking in saxophony-like voices to
possible mates near the creek and lower pond from which a more alto-level choir
responds in return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEAV1Qt6LmKQnbfJUvxVoPtIcnGwWj0G8anpwMCK41PbyiClTX6jLID_VFiippPbDwAIjiCqPyzQNojJgXfXBt14cdLg6Bqd7A7XzXHf80Jh2cVUEy0shlaQWj_-7WD7ATeMJ/s1600/c+Start+to+another+beautiful+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEAV1Qt6LmKQnbfJUvxVoPtIcnGwWj0G8anpwMCK41PbyiClTX6jLID_VFiippPbDwAIjiCqPyzQNojJgXfXBt14cdLg6Bqd7A7XzXHf80Jh2cVUEy0shlaQWj_-7WD7ATeMJ/s1600/c+Start+to+another+beautiful+day.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG7K-XCCFeDOUviK3r2oW51boZ0U9ZvUKf3ClQURA6CWzsQrXd29RCD83DC4RPlGcmulp-whzlrvqEN1hVIlhz_Ws6IX6_BsdK0optq3ykyUqiR3iTuS_-qHWIAox_2RG3-D-i/s1600/c+morning+1+IMG_0358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Off to work in late October. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<strong>Although we had</strong> one day in November and only one in December
so far where the mean daily temperature cruised below freezing point, it has
been a magnificent prolonged fall, week after week of Indian summer weather. <br />
<br />
You
won’t hear any complaints from me. The longer the fall, the shorter the winter,
the better. <br />
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This is why I built the back porch...to sit and watch the incredible Kentucky sunsets.</div>
<br />
<strong>An Indian summer</strong> is technically a short period of above average dry
conditions in mid-fall, late November or early December. Usually lasting a week
and there can be several Indian summers in a single fall. The last of our
current Indian summers, which occurred over the Christmas week, was rather wet but temperatures were in
the high 60 degree Fahrenheit and very pleasant outside. Most years we had some
snow and definitely moderate periods of cold spells by Christmas. There has not
even been a hint of snow this fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<strong>The drawn out</strong> warm weather’s only negative was the dreary
display of fall colors. With no gradual decrease in temperatures and associated
loss of chlorophyll from the leaves, there was no mass display of fall colors
at any particular time. It was mostly just isolated patches of color from trees
that hung on to their leaves for as long as they could, contrasted by the many grey, leafless White Ashes that quickly
lost their summer coat in one sudden cold and windy spell in late-October. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<strong>Alas, the frogs</strong> will have to learn to move back to their
muddy holes and do it very quickly because by New Year’s Day the bottom will
fall out and winter will arrive with its icy nights, frozen windscreens in the
mornings, and bone-chilling winds during the day.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU022MNas2G7xYt6AUCQQQD_28Mrv-AaD-zuUnWqh-ZpJczVMeV4YOnRh0zTfCbb57uT-evthXhGhGPW8FjAJhYQGNHe90LgulsTHnpg0zXjZzr4VM94wLTY7WqloEyaPT-U4P/s1600/c+sheep+in+pasture+2+P1010560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU022MNas2G7xYt6AUCQQQD_28Mrv-AaD-zuUnWqh-ZpJczVMeV4YOnRh0zTfCbb57uT-evthXhGhGPW8FjAJhYQGNHe90LgulsTHnpg0zXjZzr4VM94wLTY7WqloEyaPT-U4P/s1600/c+sheep+in+pasture+2+P1010560.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<strong>During late spring</strong> we got some sheep and they settled down
quite quickly and enjoyed the ample pasture available to them. But they quickly
mowed the grass down to very short stubs. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6Bzqq9K_S6-C7GrrMAX_7z91YOtAAGdmh8KPai2pdgVREewz8ml7iUxj87ItVDGtr1J2kQ4ioiEGsSNZnkixFlKSMHwWWjarli_3VUXvdTeesD4m6u_1fhk75qNGv9m__gLn/s1600/c+greener+pastures+IMG_0451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6Bzqq9K_S6-C7GrrMAX_7z91YOtAAGdmh8KPai2pdgVREewz8ml7iUxj87ItVDGtr1J2kQ4ioiEGsSNZnkixFlKSMHwWWjarli_3VUXvdTeesD4m6u_1fhk75qNGv9m__gLn/s1600/c+greener+pastures+IMG_0451.jpg" /></a></div>
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Just before Christmas I created a temporary fence for the
sheep to roam and eat on a green patch of grass near the barns.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQzCqIE5lYstvgbj0kgtcUseOvc-xIOuYXexfYDlHU1hVEA_J-J69mAn27QSGprSDcVo51xaA8hJWiHKG60dE5NaZraz13WD4XnWV_ZQfI8u08qDkknS5fQi1Fesd7dO_SYDn/s1600/c+sheep+at+back+porch+P1140073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQzCqIE5lYstvgbj0kgtcUseOvc-xIOuYXexfYDlHU1hVEA_J-J69mAn27QSGprSDcVo51xaA8hJWiHKG60dE5NaZraz13WD4XnWV_ZQfI8u08qDkknS5fQi1Fesd7dO_SYDn/s1600/c+sheep+at+back+porch+P1140073.jpg" /></a></div>
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The day after Christmas while we were inside the house
the sheep broke through the temporary fence and this was the sight that
greeted us when we walk out on the back porch. It seems for sheep the grass is
always greener on the other side. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFz5Znz9TAJmgdxfPNN0ylsPxQaG6LZgbL7c0gU1W0YOjPE5GkkkwxOk2YKL41HshsnuWPAhGoADEwZNlt3SPKZbsgGIiHaEPDwXRPzvk8kyDVZE_u6EJrwek5APvVpmZAdFg/s1600/c+dark+dusk+P1140086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFz5Znz9TAJmgdxfPNN0ylsPxQaG6LZgbL7c0gU1W0YOjPE5GkkkwxOk2YKL41HshsnuWPAhGoADEwZNlt3SPKZbsgGIiHaEPDwXRPzvk8kyDVZE_u6EJrwek5APvVpmZAdFg/s1600/c+dark+dusk+P1140086.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Barely 20 minutes
after I put the sheep back in their paddock and fed the chickens, dark clouds
settled overhead and at dusk it felt like winter had suddenly arrived. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGZVAwYyIGCDLm1hCVLbSbdepFD2znZD0EPvUhh0z3Vh0zc693aIvtQtdESHv9wjTdCBjCLrss4LQfdqvIPnOFP0p8mB4Kic17zk-xMRZnj8SJVlMGaV6UYCrelU8IRbUEoaG/s1600/c+weathervane+P1140097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGZVAwYyIGCDLm1hCVLbSbdepFD2znZD0EPvUhh0z3Vh0zc693aIvtQtdESHv9wjTdCBjCLrss4LQfdqvIPnOFP0p8mB4Kic17zk-xMRZnj8SJVlMGaV6UYCrelU8IRbUEoaG/s1600/c+weathervane+P1140097.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>As far as</strong> I can remember this was only the second Indian summer that I have experienced since coming to America. But 2015's was by far the longest. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">No complaints from me! </span><br />
<br />
I just hope winter is not going to take revenge for this...<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Happy New Year!!!</strong> <strong>2016...</strong></span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36310968.post-9796301627139379022015-12-11T01:12:00.000-05:002015-12-11T01:12:48.895-05:00Musical Muse: Afri-Frans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihip7AvxwulKJS1wqcKTsFYJeClO6-T7iF_wFV9pqEIOJ3sjZb9iI4PjQHYT-mfwtXWVsbCwQIlQS94sZ6FwYyltlGnIqE3ouob2_GS7yb0PAvQyZ-czcyUE5pCQ11NLWRyvBD/s1600/afri-frans_cover0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihip7AvxwulKJS1wqcKTsFYJeClO6-T7iF_wFV9pqEIOJ3sjZb9iI4PjQHYT-mfwtXWVsbCwQIlQS94sZ6FwYyltlGnIqE3ouob2_GS7yb0PAvQyZ-czcyUE5pCQ11NLWRyvBD/s1600/afri-frans_cover0001.jpg" /></a></div>
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Toe ek dié liedjie, Lucas Maree se <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wat Sal Ek Doen Met ‘n Miljoen</i>, gesing deur Myra Maud vanaf die
Afri-Frans projek, vir die eerste keer gehoor het, seker so 5 jaar gelede,
het ek gewonder, is dit ‘n uitbuiting of uitbouing van Afrikaans en Afrikaanse
musiek. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As ‘n Quasi-Francophile (as dit
kom by kos, wyn, literatuur, geskiedenis, landelike atmosfeer en algemene
leefwyse) het die verwerkings onmiddelike inslag gemaak op my musikale tentakels.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Vandag besef ek, met die huidige dilemma van Afrikaans te midde die patetiese tentoonstelling van kulturele leierskap, of die
afwesigheid daarvan, van die Universiteit van Stellenbosch se bestuur om Afrikaans
as onderwystaal te probeer af gradeer vanaf ‘n unieke inheemse taal tot net nog
‘n slagoffer van die sogenaamde “gelykheid van kulture in Suid-Afrika”, dat
Afrikaans allerhande tipe vriende benodig om vir sy bestaan te veg.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Na jare van Eurovision kompetisie se vertaalde liedjies wat tantieme
die land uit laat vloei het, is dit ‘n verfrissende ommekeer en ‘n “werklike” erkenning
van die gelykheid in taal en kultuur tussen Frans en Afrikaans. <br />
<br />
Geniet!!! <em>Profiter!!!</em><br />
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BluegrassBaobabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617320054588161346noreply@blogger.com0