Le Sud de France 6.4 : Journées Taurines, the Days of Bulls

The young men stood nervously rocking on the balls of their feet, waiting for the riders and horses. The long allée of plane trees leading into the heart of the village was full of people. New parents pushed strollers, old folks walked slowly with canes and teenagers gossiped ceaselessly on their mobiles. Every one of them passing easily through the tall red, steel barriers that had been erected along the allée. They chatted and laughed in the street, oblivious to the danger the young men next to them were anticipating.

The gardiens are France's cowboys

In the distance, from the direction of the village recycling bins, came the clacking of hooves on hard asphalt. Within seconds, the young men could see the Camargue gardiens and their graceful white horses turning the corner and racing down towards them. The tightly packed horses surrounded something, something dark and foreboding. In a ghostlike blur, they flew passed the young men. Just visible between the horse’s flanks were two black bulls.

After several circuits of the village the bulls are tired and can be caught up with.

The youths took off after them, running as fast as they could. They tried to catch the bulls and a few got close enough to grab an animal’s tail for a few seconds, but most did not. In frustration, some of the young men shouted out at the rapidly disappearing animals.

“When I catch you, you lousy son-of–a-cow, I will turn into a McBurger!”

The young men show their cajones.

“Hola bull, I had your sister for dinner. Nice steaks, she tasted great! I’m waiting for you.”

Then, winded and sweating, the young men stopped and bent over to catch their breaths to the scattered applause of a few friends. For those who touched the bulls’ tails there was visible elation.

Welcome to our village’s “Journées Taurines” or “Days of Bulls.”

We are located in the Herault, halfway between Spain and the cattle ranches of the Camargue. Raising bulls and bullfighting is a tradition in the Languedoc and many cities have arenes (arenas). The larger venues, like Nîmes, Carcassone and Béziers, are part of the “corrida” circuit that the toreros travel each year. While bullfighting may be a controversial sport, with its ardent supporters and equally ardent detractors, the Journées Taurines is not a bullfight at worst it is bull annoyance.

The bull running began Saturday and continued on Sunday. The first year the event was held one of the organizers stepped out in front of a bull and taunted it. The taurine was not impressed and flung the man into the air, a moment immortalized on YouTube.

Thinking of breaking out?

Thereafter crowd control and public safety became a big concern. This year along the Avenue de la Gare, the tree lined road that leads into town, the village workers erected heavy, red steel barriers. About two meters tall, there was enough room between the bars to allow people to pass through them, but not enough space for a large animal. However, there was a glitch in this security arrangement. No one cared that you were supposed to stay behind the bars. People just passed through them and continued on their merry way, as though nothing were going on. The event announcer kept telling people to stay back behind the barriers but no one seemed to pay any attention to him except for the local band, Fanfare Banzai. They wisely sat well back from the barriers and played their music from the terrace of a nearby restaurant.

This old guy threw his hat at the bulls to get them to run faster.

The horses and bulls made a wide circuit down the allée and around through the fields. Each time they came down the Avenue, the crowd stepped aside to make room for them and cheered a little, then just as quickly stepped back out into the street.

As the village photojournalist, I loaded up my professional gear, long lenses and all and covered the “action.” And, there I stood out in the middle of the street, cameras at the ready, ignoring the taunts and the warnings of several British friends who shouted from behind the barriers.

Fanfare Banzai played from the safety of the restaurant.

Even Diane added to the chorus, begging me to come back to safety.

“No,” I said proudly, “I am a photojournalist and my job is to get the photos.”

My sang froid rising, I added, “I’ll be okay because I will stand next to this old lady and her two little granddaughters. Surely, not even an angry bull would harm a child or the photographer standing behind her.”

Then I heard the sounds of the approaching horses and I began to have some misgivings about my plan. Luckily, the little girl looked up at me and smiled.

The horses flew by us and I hurriedly snapped frame after frame. Most of these shots, of course, were photos of the rear ends of horses, young men, and bulls. No, Pulitzer there. Clearly this event would not rise to level of an Ernest Hemingway bullfight, there was not even going to be a broken arm much less a Death in this Afternoon.

After a lot of taunting this taurine chased a kid across the arena. 

Then I realized what the village’s little secret was. These bulls were rather young. Imagine if you will as one year old, sweet, and gentle Ferdinand the Bulls, rather than some sort of steamrollers of death. As herd animals they ran, dare I say, happily in the safety of the horses? 

Notice how small the bull is.

Moreover, unlike Pamplona where the bulls chase the people, in Tourbes people chase the bulls and try to catch up with them. Sure, these frisky steers could hurt you but you literally have to get in their faces to do it, as that event organizer did in that first running. Cattle are nearsighted, that is why toreros use red capes to get their attention, to get hurt you have to get in their way.

A log day of running bulls draws to a close.

“Gardiens,” the cattle ranchers from the Camargue marshes of the Rhone, operate these bull runnings all around the region. They are in control of the animals and having raised them are aware of each one’s mood and attitude. I’ve written about the gardiens before. These are the French cowboys who at the turn of the 19^th century hosted Buffalo Bill Cody and his Wild West Show when they were forced by bad weather to spend a winter camped in the Camargue. The gardiens learned a lot about riding and roping from the cowboys and adopted both American style saddles and clothing.

People without barriers watch the loose bulls.

Although the weekend went well and there were only minor injuries, some question remains about whether or not there will be a Journées Taurines next year. While the bulls were well behaved, the people were not. With dozens of people milling about oblivious to the bulls, horses and men racing by, it was an injury lawyer’s dream and an insurer’s nightmare.

Most people totally ignored the barriers. The bulls, on the other hand, recognizing the danger these people posed, wisely sought shelter with the riders and horses. Facing the horde of reckless moms, wandering children and incautious grannies, that was the smart thing to do. In their hooves, I would have done the same.

Le Sud de France 6.0: And then the Indian Cried.

Maurice, a driver of long haul, refrigerator trucks, was sitting across from me at dinner when he began to tap his fork against his wine glass to get everyone’s attention. Standing up he announced, “Yesterday was my last day of work. As of today I am retired.”

Amidst smiles and laughter, all of us around the long, outdoor table raised our glasses and said, “à votre santé!” When he sat down, I leaned over and asked him, “Maurice, what are you going to do now that you are retired?”

He looked at me, grinned, and said, “Make love.”

My jaw dropped and he looked at me quizzically. Pointing to his crotch he added, “Well, why not, it still works?” Then he hugged his wife who smiled shyly.

Welcome to the South of France, to the Looking Glass world, where, as the comedy group, the Firesign Theater, used to say, “everything you think you know is wrong.”

Retirement for Americans is all about moving from one area of accomplishment and competition to another. Things like playing golf, visiting the grandkids, building a second home or travel become the new goals. Making love? Not so much.

a happy guy

Yet, this is what is at the heart of our experience of moving to France. We are learning to see the world anew and we are discovering that it is possible to be happy.

Happy. What a strange word that is? We didn’t move here to be happy. As adults, we had more rational reasons; things like the cost of living, the quality of the food and the temperate climate. How could we have even told friends and family that we were leaving the United States to be "happy" when we ourselves were unaware of what "happy" is.

Sitting under the evening Midi sky, the breezes from the Med rapidly cooling off the day’s heat, sipping wine and listening to Maurice tell jokes about Andorra and Belgium--that I only half understood--for this small moment all the frustrations and trials of moving and resettling didn’t matter. I was just happy.

Proust wrote « N’allez pas trop vite. » (“don’t go too fast.”) What I think he meant, was that we need to take pleasure in our lives in the moment and not to go so fast to the next thing, that we end up not actually living our lives. That is what we’ve begun to do here. We’ve slowed down and are tasting happy.

Ironically though, in Proustian terms, we've done it, in part, by falling in with a very fast crowd.

in the Looking Glass World

I’m talking about bikers, “Les Motos d’Espoir” or Motorcycles for Hope. An association of motorcycle riders who raise money for kids with special needs. In June, they had a big gathering and some friends invited us to join them there.

Arriving at the rally we once again stepped through the Looking Glass. Suddenly, it was as though we were back in the US of A. 
There were American and Confederate flags all over, bandana wearing bikers in Harley-Davidson jackets and tunes like “Oh Diana” and “Folsom Prison Blues” booming over the sound system.

However, we were still in France, the bikers here drank tea and espresso, and had brought along their extremely cute kids--the girls dressed in frilly sundresses, the boys in half shorts--who ran around the grounds laughing and giggling. A very sweet version of biker life.

There was a distinct lack of big beer bellies  and, oddly enough, a lack of actual “chopped’ Harleys. “They are too expensive and too noisy for France,” one biker told me.

Motorcycles clubs are an hommage to American culture rather than an anti-establishment movement. This is a lifestyle of “l’amité” centered around a deep love for all things American. Whenever I hear a French person sing an old Elvis song or a long forgotten Broadway show tune, it makes me think that the French may cherish American culture more we Americans do.

Towards late afternoon, several motorcyclists lined up to give spectators rides around the village on their bikes. One of the kids who they were raising funds for was lifted up onto the back seat of a big three wheeler. It was driven by a guy with long hair, lots of tattoos and a German WWII style helmet. When the boy was secure on the bike, the guy turned around and gave him a big "high five". The boy "high five'd" back and I was quick enough to get a photo of the two of them smiling at the gesture.

Now let me fast-forward ahead about two weeks. I’m sitting at our village café with some of the Motos when who drives up but the longhaired guy. Except today he is in full American Indian regalia. We are introduced to each other and start to talk.

l'indien

His name is Jerry but everyone calls him, “l’indien” --the Indian--a nickname he got because he had lived for six years in a teepee, high in the Ardèche mountains, raising horses and living simply off the land like a North American Plains Indian. French TV did a documentary about l’indien and it made him famous, but it didn’t change him. He still wears his handmade Indian clothing; Cheyenne necklaces and bracelets, a loose deer skin leather shirt and a bison horned, fur covered motorcycle helmet.

It is the Looking Glass world again.

Here I am in a tiny French village, wearing my black cowboy hat and drinking Marseilles pastis with a guy --from Belgium--dressed like a Cheyenne Indian, surrounded by leather jacketed motorcyclists. It is a surreal moment, like something out of a Fellini movie or perhaps, an acid trip, yet the whole scene is infused with that odd glow of “happy.”

We live close to the café and after awhile, I excused myself and went home to get an 8x10 print I had made of the “high five” moment. Returning to the café I gave it to l’indien. ‘Pour vous. Avec plaisir” I said. He smiled, and looked at the print of himself and the little boy.

I turned away for a moment and when I looked back, I saw him wiping his eyes. My photo had touched his big heart. The Indian had cried and then, I cried too.

Happy tears I think.

Happy tears.






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Le Sud de France 5.9: Searching for The Moon and Molière.

Martine

Wednesday night, after sundown, with tripod on shoulder, we set out to “chercher la lune.” Tonight there was to be a spectacular  total eclipse of the moon and I hoped to get pictures of it. However as we crossed the village square, we ran into a bunch of our friends who were sitting outside the village café finishing their dinners. After ten minutes of kiss-kiss-kiss and many “bon soir,” I explained our mission to them. 


Immediately, several  looked up into the sky to find the moon. As locals, they felt certain they could show us, we Americans, where their moon was on this special night. But there was no moon to be seen. Everyone looked and looked, and then pondered this mystery. A small boy was even sent off to see if perhaps the moon was hiding behind a building or tree. But he found no moon either, anywhere.


A great deal of conversation followed this strangeness as it was not like the moon to disappear like this on important nights. Our discussion lasted late into the night and despite the talk, there still was no moon to be seen. It turned out, we were told later, that the moon was low in the sky and visible only from the vineyards beyond town.  


Setting out to find the moon and ending up  discussing its loss instead, is the kind of  redirection of intent that often happens in Molière's plays. Which made it a fitting way to end a week of music and theater productions that made up the Molière Festival in Pézenas. 

I hadn’t read much Molière (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin) before we got to France and I hadn’t understood his importance as one of the major figures in French literature and theater.

the Place Gambetta

We live near the town of Pezenas in the Herault and it just so happened that in the middle of the 17^th century, Molière and his touring company, l’Illustre Théâtre, stayed in here, under the protection and support of the Prince of Conti--Louis XIV’s governor of the Languedoc. Molière famously spent his time performing his works and seducing the noble ladies of the region.

A couple of hundred years later, Pézenas realized the treasure it had in that visit and today the town has a Hôtel Molière, a Brasserie Molière, a Restaurant Molière, the Caveau Molière (with its Vins Molière) and the Molière Festival.

Martine and Sganarelle

That would be a lot of Molière, perhaps too much, if not for the fact that he is a great, funny playwright and his plays are wild combinations of broad slapstick comedy--with real slapsticks--and very complex language. His goal was to undermine received wisdom and opinion and poke fun at the pompous. His plays have aged well and I think still resonate today as powerfully as when he wrote them.

The photos with this post are from Molière’s “The Doctor in Spite of Himself” (le médecin malgré lui) as performed by the maniacs of the Théâtre de l’éventail (the theater of the hand fan) of Orleans. The performance was held outdoors in the Place Gambetta in the heart of Pézenas' historic district of Renaissance era buildings.

looking for a doctor

The play starts with the protagonist, Sganarelle beating his wife Martine, with a slapstick. Two men accost him and berate him for this, but then things are soon stood on their head when Martine objects to the men's presence and tells them to mind their own business. She says that she just might enjoy a beating every once in a while and who are they  to interfere?

Then it turns out that the men are on a mission to find a doctor for a  rich man who will pay well for one’s services. Martine, seeing a chance to make some money tells them that Sganarelle is a doctor. Sganarelle is the cunning, over-the-top country wiseass, who ultimately gets the best of all the other characters, and it was role Molière always took on for himself.

Sganarelle find a doctor’s costume--a black smock, white ruffle collar and pointed black hat--and goes off to be a doctor. He soon finds that he likes being a doctor, saying at one point, that being a doctor is the best job ever. The main reason is that if the patient lives the doctor is hailed and praised, and if the patient dies, the doctor simply shrugs and says that it is the will of God, in either case the doctor gets paid. Hmm…sounds a lot like modern medical care.

Sganarelle and his patient

the beautiful wet nurse

Later, when he asks a beautiful wet nurse to undress for an “examination,” her husband objects and Sganarelle says to him derisively, “How dare you contradict a doctor’s commands!” Even his lack of any sort of medial knowledge doesn’t stop him. He tells one patient that the heart is on the right side of the body and the liver on the left. When the patient points out that he has it backwards, Sganarelle’s response is the haughty and elegant line, “We have changed all that!” (Nous avons changé tout cela.)

Molière is anti-establishment and sarcastic, making fun of religion, the aristocracy, the peasantry, and anyone else he could squeeze into a play. I like that and I enjoy feeling Molière’s presence around me here in the Midi, in the richness of the language and the way people play with it. He's also alive in the cynical attitude people have towards poseurs and pomposity.

Next year, the Molière Festival will take place again  in Pézenas in early June and I have been asked to create an exhibition of the photos in this post--and others from the Festival—for the event. So, despite misplacing the moon, we found Molière; which I think made for a very good week in le Sud de France.

Nous avons changé tout cela!

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Le Sud de France 5.1: Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye So Pass the Haggis M.Hallyday.

Burns Nite

“By the late 1870s the haggis had been hunted to extinction in Scotland, “said the kilted speaker his glass of whiskey raised high in praise of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, “but there is still the occasional haggis spotted in northern Italy where they are called “haggiolli.”

The dinner crowd roared with laughter at this fable.

“Bull” yelled a John Bull in the audience.

Okay, so what are haggis, Scots and the British doing in my blog about Le Sud De France? It’s a long story of an odd week that resembles a trip into Alice’s looking glass. 

It began when the village baker decided to celebrate his 39^th birthday and his eleventh year in business by throwing a party in his own honor in the town square--an idea that met with great general approval. He set his “fête” for the coming Sunday and invited a few of us to join him that Saturday evening for a few drinks and a rehearsal of the next day’s karaoke show.

Karaoke in the Herault? 

I hate karaoke because it makes people either think they can sing—when they can’t—or simply shames them for trying to sing. Well, that is not quite what karaoke is in France. 

Christian and Toons

Keep in mind, the Languedoc is the original land of the troubadours and singing is a natural part of life here. There’s a long tradition of people singing together and like a scene out of an old French movie, at the drop of a hat a group of people will burst out in song. Everyone knows the words and tunes and whether it’s an old folk tune or an Edith Piaf song, it is all about singing together and not who sings better. 

Our karaoke was to led by “Christian & Toons” a local couple, who perform karaoke around the region. They do a variety of French songs with a few American and British numbers for the expats. They sing rather well so just watching them perform was a pleasure. The difference though was when they pulled someone out of the audience; it was not to make fun of them but to have a song leader. 

The songs this Saturday evening were mostly by George Trent, Jacques Brel and Serge Gainsbourg with a little modern rock thrown in—tunes by the ever-popular Johnny Hallyday whose imminent return to the stage in Montpellier in 2012 has the Languedoc abuzz. Hallyday aside these are those wonderful, passionate French songs, that swell with each refrain, and tug at your heart while lifting your spirits in the face of bitter sweetness of life.  

Our village is full of vineyard workers, plumbers, electricians and other laborers who are not your right-of-center Sarkozy supporters. By late in the evening, things got a bit rowdy and songs like Brel’s “Port of Amsterdam” were sung, with special gusto for song lines like “the bourgeois sing like pigs.” It was, to say the least, refreshing.

The next day around 11 in the morning tables were set up in front of the bar the fête started with bottles of the local white wine, whiskey and pastis (anise liquor) set out along side several bowls of potato chips.

I decided to record the event for the town’s “historical record” and just for the fun of it. By noon, the crowd had grown to about fifty people. Bottles of wine were emptied, people chatted and sang, and occasionally a couple danced in the early spring sunshine. 

Then one of the neighbors drove up and unloaded a case of white wine and a couple of tubs of oysters he had just gotten from his oyster field fifteen minutes away on the Mediterranean coast. Several townsmen volunteered to shuck the oysters and after trying a few out themselves and began passing out the sparkling wet shells to whoever had their hand out.

Contented sighs followed.

Now even more food began to arrive. One neighbor rolled up with big pots of mussels in cream sauce, the bar owner added big trays of crispy frites--what we mistakenly call “French fries”— and small sausage and tomato sandwiches. More folks arrived and there was more singing. Several vignerons brought cases of their local red wine and these were consumed at a prodigious rate, disappearing almost as soon as they were opened.  

At this point, feeling happy and a little silly, I gave the baker a big hug and told him that he was the best baker in the world, perhaps the universe. I declared that his bread the best in all of France. He agreed and we ended up singing with the karaoke machine a tune that I didn’t know and can’t remember. It was a perfect moment.

Later in the afternoon as we were about to leave the party we were approached by a couple of Scots. They had come to the village to play rugby against the locals and they invited up to a Robert Burns Supper on Wednesday. The supper would be complete with haggis. We agreed and crawled home to recover. I remember wondering what this “haggis” thing was. I had a vague memory of it being some kind of sheep gut stuffed with offal.

Monday was quiet and my head cleared rather rapidly. Around mid-morning I drop a disc of photos at the bar and the owner invited us to come to the bar the next night. Christian and Toons had a digital projector and were going to show the fête videos and photographs—including many of mine.

A Scotsman after too many pastis.

Tuesday night rolled  around and we went to the bar to watch the videos of people eating, drinking and singing and pretty soon we are all eating, drinking and singing along with the images on the screen. Around some late hour or another we slid home.

Wednesday came and I was seriously partied out and we are still facing the Burns Supper. In a show of unity the local Scots, the Brits and Irish had planned a whiskey and haggis event that would be only six weeks later than the official Supper night of January 24^th.

The important thing that the Scots have smuggled several haggises (haggi??) down from Scotland, I suppose disguised as rugby balls. These were the real thing and so we HAD TO have a Burns Sipper no matter the time of year. Now it is Wednesday night and the formal ritual begins of praising the haggis and Scotland. Soon we are all singing Scottish songs—including some anti-British tunes about a free and independent Scotland. Aye, Scotland forever!  

The haggis was hardly awful but rather surprisingly bland, but the straight whiskey sauce sure helped.

And that’s how we found ourselves in the South of France standing up with a bunch of Brits, Scots and Irish, hands  and arms crossed and linked together singing “Auld Lang Syne” at the top of our voices celebrating the life of the Scottish poet Robbie Burns.

I had not sung so many songs in the last fifty years as I did in these four days and I came to realize that the best way to get to know a bunch of people is to stand with them and sing together at the top of your lungs.

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Sud de France 4.4: Out to Lunch at Béziers’ Au Soleil Restaurant & Salon de Thé. .

Au Soleil Restaurant

I define art as something that surprises and delights me and by that standard “Au Soleil” restaurant is a work of art. It is everything a small eatery should be and more. It is an intimate Salon de Thé, at the heart of a city with a dining area decorated with a minimalist sensibility that makes for clean lines and an airy atmosphere.   

“Au Soleil” (In the Sun) is one of several restaurants on the square between Béziers’ la Madeleine church and “les Halles,” its large indoor public market. 

A Roman statue found in the city.

To me, Béziers is one of the most beautiful cities in France but, like so many places, it is struggling to define its future while simultaneously trying to repair past neglect. 

It was settled in Neolithic times, was a Roman town, then a medieval center and then it finally boomed at the end of the 19^th century (only to have its fortunes dimmed in the 20^th.)


But that 19th century heyday left the city with a legacy of beautiful places. One of my personal  favorites is the “allée Paul Riquet” a several block long, tree lined promenade, with the city’s municipal theater at one end and a delightful English style formal park, the “Plateau des Poètes,” at the other. 

A "Belle Epoque" building in Beziers

The allée itself is surrounded by gorgeous “Belle Époque” buildings replete with lovely terraces and lots of exquisite, intricate ironwork. And it’s just a short walk from Au Soleil, through Béziers’ clothing shop lined streets to the quiet of the allée and the park.

I have photographed and written about food and restaurants for dozens years and I’m pretty jaded about the subject. I’ve been in Michelin star restaurants and in American “Best Places” but for me “Au Soleil” is among my favorites. Simply it is one of the best small restaurants I’ve ever been in. 

At  “Au Soleil” the whole point is the food. We were in the city on some business the other day and decided to have lunch at the restaurant. After settling into our chairs we ordered tea and one of the day’s special, the “La Terroir” plate. Terroir refers to the special nature of the land and this plate is a celebration of the land and autumn. 

Unfortunately when the food arrived I jumped in and started eating, forgetting that I wanted to do some photos first. So please excuse the nibbles I took out of the food in the picture below.

On the plate from left clockwise around you can see a small salad, a duck and potato “parmentier” (which I’ve opened up to reveal the duck), jambon (dried ham) with a red wine confit, a thick autumn vegetable soup (in the glass jar), an onion tart and chicken mousse in pastry (which I cut open too.)

Each of these items was superbly prepared but what really caught my attention was how well their flavors worked together. In my experience the matching of flavors and textures on a plate is one of the hardest tasks for a chef. And as a result I think that you can often judge a chef’s skill by checking out how they've presented the vegetables. 

Most chefs take pride in their main preparation but the vegetables are often an afterthought, put on the plate to provide some color or to fill an empty space. This was not the case  with my “la terroir” plate. The onion tarte was a treat in itself. Moist and light, the egg and onion mixture was hot and perfectly cooked. 

It is not the kind of sensitive and creative care you see every day.

Our lunch cost us about $12 USD each and as I left the restaurant I thought to myself that if “Au Soleil” were in Paris the meal would have easily cost three times as much.

And that’s what is so special about the Herault. It is a region that has been overlooked and bypassed. Undervalued wines and a lack of big name star supporters it lay dormant. But today its the fastest growing region in France, talent and new ideas. With luck in a few years Béziers will become the the Paris or Berlin of Sud de France.

The city hall mural complete with the mayor and the artist.