November 30 was the day of Patron Saint San Andres (Saint Andrew) in the Roman Catholic world. San Andres was a fisherman together with his brother, Peter. They were peers of Jesus of Nazareth, generally considered the Messiah by his followers of the Jewish faith and the focus of Christianity. Andrew was originally a follower of John the Baptist, but as the story goes, once John introduced him to Jesus, he followed Jesus instead, part time. Prophesied by Jesus that he and Peter would become fishermen of people, he indeed dropped his trade after Jesus’ death; he left for Greece to become a full time evangelist. He was eventually executed by hanging on a cross by being tied up, not nailed, so a longer process of torture preceded his death. So far a bit of background.

I spent this day and the nine days leading up to it this year in Ajijic, Mexico, to participate in the San Andres Fiesta. This is one of the many fiestas in Ajijic and has the reputation as the longest that is only for “sturdy” people who can survive the long nights and early mornings. My host had not partaken herself for the full nine days in the 15 years she has been visiting this medieval town, so it was going to be a challenge for both of us.

Ajijic first saw the Spanish and their missionaries enter their area in the 1530s, after which the Spanish missionaries immediately started giving the towns (and its citizens) European names of the Christian saints that were associated with their respective trades. Ajijic is located on the largest lake in Mexico, Lake Chapala; still some of the residents are fishermen. Of course, the people that lived there, as well as further out to the area of Tequila to the east, already had their own beliefs and spirituality that did involve all of creation; they did not limit their spiritual administrations to one god only and animals and tress could contain a spirit as well.
The Indigenous nations of that area were the Teuchitlan, together with two other tribes that lived in harmony and settled conflicts by games. Their civilization blossomed from about 1000 Before Christ to about 300 Anno Domini (after Christ). This was before the more infamous Aztec nation that flourished around the 14th to 16th centuries overtook that area. So, an old civilization existed long before Europeans entered the country.

Ajijic was originally named Axixix, but the Spanish could not pronounce that X sound, so changed it to a “C” that sounds more like a soft clearing of one’s throat (Note: not an “H” sound, as English speaking people want to make it, as they can’t pronounce the throat sound of the Spanish “J”). To make a long story much more palatable, the indigenous beliefs were pushed aside by the priests aided by the foreign military by whatever means were needed: the whole population was converted to Christianity over time. Today’s statistics say 99% of the nation adheres to the Roman Catholic religion. The population is now a mixed population, with European (Spanish, Germans, and other) heritage, South American, and Indigenous heritage. Now so far this bit of early history.

During the fiesta, each morning bombs go off at 6 AM when it’s still dark and rockets pearce the air waking up the town. This all is in preparation for the first procession of the day followed by a mass at the San Andres church. A band is always part of the festivities. Ajijic seems to have many bands.

The church of San Andres located in the heart of Ajijic was established around 1754 if I remember correctly. The second procession of the day starts around 5 PM moving towards the church slowly while gathering followers along the way that join in. Of course another mass is being held before the fireworks can start and must finish first. This church is a stone’s throw away from the Plaza.

On each of the nine nights a new 25 foot high “Castillo” is built by the pyrotechnical crews out of bamboo and slats, and loose explosive charges attached to erect a tower of fireworks with turning whirligigs, shooting off flying objects to the delight of the bystanders. Especially the young are their excitement by running through the sparks and trying to catch the corona (crown) at the end of each firework display, which symbolizes the crown of the Virgin Maria. Then all the church bells ring out to confirm its presence of a spiritual undertone of it all, to impress on the audience the fiesta’s religious nature, and to indicate the end of the fireworks.
The crowds got thicker as the days went by and the last night was very crowded in the church plaza. Something like this celebration with fire works, exciting and a lot of fun for young and old, but with an edge of danger and potential of injuries, could not take place in Canada.

At the other end of the village is the “Templo” located , as the locals call the second Catholic church. This church is dedicated to the Virgin de la Guadalupe, a reference to the actual church in Mexico City, with the replica of the image of the Virgin, a brown version of the mother of Jesus, and the Mexican version derived from Mother Earth of the old ancestral belief. Processions might leave from there, or from the oldest village centre nearby–the place called Six Corners (Seisesquinas. From here the procession moves through town towards the procession’s end destination: the San Andres church.

The more secular festivities take place on the Plaza, the village square. A gazebo is built in the middle of flowerbeds with low retaining walls, perfect for lounging on and watching the crowds. Benches are placed along all sides. Each afternoon people come out to chat and visit, much like the town’s living room. If you are looking for someone, just go to the Plaza.

After 5 PM the bands start playing at the gazebo or the podium that is built later on in the fiesta. Not that this is the only music playing. People start entering the temporary bars, erected alongside one side of the Plaza under tents with their own music and the street food places in make shift street restaurants on the opposite side of the Plaza.
The Mariachi start moving around at that time. They offer the bar patrons a song and play whatever they are requested—for a small fee. I paid $200 pesos (less than $20) for an eight-man orchestra. It was great! Another night my host Miguel had the Mariachi play quite a repertoire and the guest were all singing with them (at least those who knew the words).

Dancing is pretty sexy in Mexico and I danced my heart out. The couples have full body contact in their Mexican dance style, sort of a mix between salsa and a close body waltz.

By the start of the fiesta a lot of the Canadians and Americans that mostly live up in the hills in their villas had left town; 15 buses left with people that prefer to leave as they cannot appreciate the noise and bombs going off at all hours. I was suddenly aware of that fact when a young woman asked if she could take a photo of me, the reason given that we were the only non-Mexicans left and even seemed to enjoy ourselves, which apparently was very unusual. I started paying more attention and then saw as I was dancing in the Plaza with a handsome Mexican expatriate, the people around me seated on the walls, watching us, were smiling broadly at me. Another time a young guy leaving a bar walked up to me and said he enjoyed my dancing. Yes, very, very few non-Mexicans, although the last day I noticed a few more.

Mmmm, taco’s! I ate quite a few and even tried some more exotic kinds of the filling: lips and tongue. I liked the tongue (lengua), but did not care much for the lips, although my favourite is still Al pastor (meat grilled close to a vertical spit).

Drinks are cheap and got cheaper all the time as the party proceeded. The cheapest shot of tequila I saw for about $2. This is because more and more celebrants were bringing their own. Many brought their own improvised bar with them: a 10 gallon bucket with a bag of ice, a bottle of tequila and a bottle of mix—-very practical. People stood body to body on the Plaza during the last days; ‘t was almost impossible to move to another part of the Plaza.

The temporary party places stay open till the early morning hours. The last band was finished playing at 2 AM. I stayed a few of the nine days till the very end and saw the way the local police ended the festivities. They just stand around in groups of five, on the corners of the Plaza and at other strategic points. Of course they did wear some large guns, but were friendly nevertheless and responded readily to my “Buenas Noches”.
Without a problem, the people slowly decided it was time to be going home. Everywhere in the village one could see people going home, mostly walking, in small groups, talking and joking with each other. I have walked home after the fireworks on my own once; I have never felt hesitant or unsafe. People know me by know and said hello or goodnight in passing.

I found it amazing that there were virtually no fights and no problems with injuries or accidents, in spite of the stiff drinking going on for nine days straight. Once one brief fisticuffs broke out that was quickly suppressed by the friends of the two fighters.
All the festivities were attended as well by everybody of all ages, it seemed. I saw whole families with small children that fell asleep on their dad’s shoulder or in their mom’s arms, elderly people helped by their relatives, several generations tigether, although the elderly and the little children mostly went home after the fireworks ended.

How does this all get paid for, you ask? Well, the sponsors are community groups, such as trade unions, associations, neighbourhood groups, and rich families. The expatriates that live in the USA are an important group as well and have the last day, as that is the summit of all events where the various groups show up for the last procession to the church that is overfull for the mass.

All over the USA are associations that fund raise for the fiesta. These are people that originated from Ajijic and feel strongly connected to their community, and generally still have relatives there. They are calling themselves the “Huijos Ausentes de Ajijic, Jalisco, Radicados en U.S.A. Many come back every year to the fiesta.
The members living in the same city often gather for events in their cities, to fundraise and keep the culture going. Their gifts are often not visible, although they are substantial. Those that have left are considered to be rich, and they are compared to those left behind. The group this year donated a gold leaf covered statue of San Andres to the community that was blessed in the last mass by the priest.

Each sponsor also pays for the bands, the fireworks, the decorations for the processions and the food distributed to the community and the after party. As well, many bombs and rockets are set off, at times 500 bombs are fired off one at the time throughout the early morning or in the middle of the night and this is ALL beyond the castello fireworks.

Although the village is not rich, nobody goes hungry. I have a huge admiration for the practical way in which the Mexicans live and are able to make something out of nothing or very little. Nothing gets thrown away. All of the pig or the cow is used and even the corn husk are used. I have taken a liking to the simple and quick food. Take the tacos: using everything in small quantities, fresh meats, fish or chicken, some fresh veggies, onions, lime, cilantro and salsa of tomatoes and spices. The only work is making the tacos, cooking the meat and then chop it up, no big deal. I am going to try this out and mix maseca (corn flour) with water, now that I have a tortilla press and already have a plate on my gas stove for that sort of thing. I wonder if anybody else has a response to this view of Mexican culture or has had similar experiences. I would appreciate every comment very much….

ON AGING

ON WORK AND MENTAL ILLNESS

BAD BEHAVIOUR OR SYMPTOMS OF ILLNESS?

My last blog post was written a long time ago. The hiatus was due to other things happening and taking over my life. The year 2013 was one of upheaval and change for me, all of it leading to the realization that the next stage in my life is pushing hard to take the place of the present. Yes, that would be retirement from my day job.

I have not been able to write. My brain would not focus. My usual ability to take distance from my daily life–finding refuge in imagination and writing–was completely shattered during this time.

In the months since I last wrote on this blog I was assigned a new job over the summer, and failed in the eyes of my superiors. I was assigned yet another new job with reduced responsibilities and less exposure to stress at a new work site, new supervisor, plus less salary.  I was ill with anxiety.

I had little input in these changes; I felt chastised and very vulnerable. Never before in my life had I felt less control about my work life, or less sure about my rights as an employee. Perception of the reason for my incapacity is everything. Was my poor performance wilful defiance and did it warrant discipline?  Was it a mental health problem and accommodation for illness would be more relevant? How can one tell the difference? What is the right course of action?

Just now the discussion of incapacity on the job is front and centre in the media with Rob Ford, mayor of Toronto, as the subject of the scandal. The man is obviously mentally unhinged and possibly ill, besides being a bully, but he does not seem to know it.  

My trip into mental deterioration started in  2011 and resurfaced this year, 2013. I became aware that I was not myself mentally in January 2012. My deterioration happened due to several causes, but the most obvious was that the stress I experienced from the particular work I did. The exposure to hostile and aggressive clientele during long years on the job, added to the absorption of the trauma told to me on the job by many women and children, finally affected my resiliency. I became ill: my ability to focus and to cope with stress decreased acutely as a result. 

I won’t speak here about other factors that were related to the work site. Suffice to say that I made mistakes on the job, followed by more scrutiny from superiors.  As a strong person, a straight shooter and outspoken, a shop steward for many years, and a volunteer on committees and in associations, it was hard to see for others what was going on with me. Besides the perception of me and my illness, others have their own agenda: office politics always play a role on any worksite.

Once cool-headed and able to deal with the most explosive or hostile rant from any difficult client, I now was crumbling on the job, breaking down crying, hiding from calls, confused, exhausted, full of irrational fears, unable to stay at work. I was off sick for several months. However, I recovered with a short period of prescription medications and by leading an active and healthy life style, yoga a very useful part of it. I returned to work gradually and was deemed rehabilitated, although I felt somehow different, changed forever, vulnerable.

I was easily unhinged: return to the same job with increased stress (as my case load increased) caused a similar flight or fight response and similar reactions of withdrawal as before. Yes, my illness returned. This time I recognized the symptoms and turned to my physician and therapist sooner. I was able to prevent deterioration to he previous point of serious illness and was off for only a brief period.

My illness lingered anyway at a lower level of intensity although my capacity to work was clearly affected. Eventually, the medication prescribed by my specialist together with the clinical counseling I have enjoyed in the last months helped me get back on an even keel. I enjoy the desk job I now occupy. I feel functional again. I have less fear and anxiety about going to work. I have seen the light at the end of the tunnel and know that I am heading for the end of work as I knew it.

Will I ever be the old me again? No, I do not expect that. One always changes through the experiences of life. I would be very concerned if I would not have changed through this ordeal. That would mean that my self preservation instincts were dismantled and then I really would be in trouble.

I have never been a fearful type and usually entered any adventure or challenge put before me. I was proud of my lack of fear. My mantra was “I will try anything once”.

In the least three years I learned what it means to live with anxiety and be fearful. 

My trust in others has drastically changed. Everybody has an agenda, although it may be hidden. What is obvious to me, might not be to others. Trust in myself has changed. I obviously cannot get out of any difficult situation anymore without harm. This is nature; growing older and wiser is part of aging; knowing one’s limits and strengths is part of wisdom.

In a few years I will retire. I will have gained another increment of wisdom towards becoming a Sage. Ha! I don’t have to prove myself any more, nor compete with the Gen-Xers. In this time of overvaluing looking young and unblemished, when plastic surgery for cosmetic reasons is not frowned on while, strangely, young people are not really valued, I am content. I am not young. I am not old, but aging, looking forward to being able to devote more of my time to writing.

I  will continue to write stories and will blog again. Who knows, my experiences of the last years might come in handy one day and show up in a story.

First I will leave tomorrow for a vacation in Mexico. Stay tuned…

Canada experienced the dubious “first” in recent times of having the first female involved in a planned bombing. (I remember the left wing Baader-Meinhof terrorist group with the famous couple staging attacks in Germany in the seventies).
This young woman, Amanda, was born in 1983 and is two years older than my daughter who lived also in Victoria until recently. Together with her boyfriend, John, born in 1974, Amanda placed three home made bombs in the crowd that was celebrating Canada Day, a rather friendly and sedate–and typically Canadian–festivity where we enjoy being Canadian and listen to bands performing for free. It was Canada’s 146th birthday.

Canadians paint their faces with little maple leaf flags in red and white. Ethnic foods are offered and readily consumed. More exuberant youth dress in flags and paint part, or their whole bodies red and white. In the evening crowds gather for the fire works while many youth take this opportunity to indulge a little in the alcoholic variety of drink. This takes places all over Canada in small and large towns, and in our big cities. It is a nice day off that offers one day in the year for use to be (guardedly) proud of being Canadian.

Analogue to the home grown terrorists that caused such mayhem at the Boston marathon, these two BC residents placed pressure cookers with nails and other sharp object in the crowd. It would have been an even greater disaster than that unfortunate event that shocked the American people and their neighbouring Canadians. Nobody of the public knew about this operation in progress,were it not that the bombs did not go off.

What happened?

On July 2 these you radicalized youth were arrested in a city on the mainland close to Vancouver (Abbotsford) on Monday at 2 PM by the RCMP. They were brought before a judge, charged with conspiring to place an explosive device in a public place with the intent to cause death or serious bodily injury, knowingly facilitating a terrorist activity and being in possession of an explosive device.

It is getting close to home: 2 young people, one of them a musician from the province of BC, the so-called California North, and I wonder why these young people with their whole life before them resort to such a destructive act that surely would bring them a whole lot of attention and notoriety in this otherwise laid back province and equally peaceful nation.

The police are closed mouthed and only informed the public that the Canadian Security Intelligence Services detected the plot early, in February, and that many targets and locations for the assault were discussed since then. The police stated that they made sure that the devices would not be alive and were completely under their control, and presented at no time a threat to the public.

They gave no motive for the attempt and pronounced that no links to international organizations were present. This couple allegedly acted strictly on their own, and no direction from any terrorist group was connected to them, although for some reason the police spokesperson found it necessary to add that the threat was “inspired by al Qaeda ideology”, whatever that might be. The next court date will be in a week.

The pair has been living in basement suite in Surrey, another suburb of Vancouver. No other information was presented.
The newly elected premier of our province, Christy Clark, stated that she was informed of the pending arrest that same morning, shortly before she headed out to celebrate Canada Day in Kelowna–my city! It so coincidentally happened that she is campaigning here. Ms Clark lost her own seat in her riding as member of the BC Legislature in the last election. It is weird fro the premier not to be elected herself, so the caucus arranged for the current member to step down and create a need for the by-election in our region: a traditional area where her party is strong.

I did not watch any TV at all as I was out most of the day on Canada Day, watching performers in concerts and having a few drinks myself. When I heard the news the following day, I was pretty shocked, but pleased that these two young people were stopped in their tracks. I also wondered whether staging attacks with home made bombs is now the new bad boy/bad girl thing to do, when nothing else can hold their attention–or get them attention? I surely hope not.

Many of our young people stay quite sedated and passive, causing nobody grief. I wondered what happened to BC bud (the notoriously strong local weed with high levels of THC) that it did not manage to keep these two placated and passive. Maybe they did not smoke it habitually or not often. I am sure eventually we will hear what happened to these two young people who ruined pretty much the rest of their lives, for the most part. I am glad for us and for them that they did not become killers.

Do you have any thoughts about this event or anything you wanted to comment on? I would love to hear it.

I would love a “Like” on Facebook, or a retweet, and if you rate the top that would be even greater.

Last weekend a so-called SUPER MOON appeared in the night sky. The moon was closer to our planet than at any other time in the year; it is also called a Perigee moon. The moon appeared to be more visible, because it was a full moon and we had clear skies.

Those that believe in the super-natural powers of the constellations might allocate meaning to this phenomenon in the universe. A photo below shows the super moon over a mosque at the Univesity of Tampa, Fla. on Sunday June 23, 2013 (Photo courtesy AP Photos/Chris O”Meara on the website on Huffington Post of the Super Moon slide show. Other photos of the Perigee moon can be viewed as well on the website.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/06/23/supermoon-2013-photos-biggest-full-moon-slideshow_n_3487882.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular#slide=2606072

According to a website that teaches about astrology, the cycles of the moon relate to the seasons in nature (and by extension also on a personal level to your productive life) and its meaning for growth: from the winter solstice (beginnings) through spring equinox (growth) to the summer solstice which means clarity and on to the fall equinox: decline.

“In the full moon phase, the Moon and Sun are in opposition to each other on opposite sides of the Earth. This corresponds to the time in the planting cycle for the flower to emerge. This phase symbolically relates to the Summer Solstice, the time of maximum light in the cycle of the seasons.
During this phase, you are very aware of the effect of your work on others. You are operating out of a mode of visible clarity rather than blind faith, and your watchword is objectivity. You are open to the influence of those around you, and are aware of the influence that you can have on them as well. In this sense, your work has meaning for you only in combination with other people.”

So how did the SUPER MOON affect your weekend? Did you find any evidence that the symbolism and meaning might have been at work for you? Do you believe that the constellations have any effect on you?

For me, although I do not believe in constellations’ effect on people, this weekend was an accumulation of strange events and I am tempted to find explanations beyond simply coincidence. Suffice it to say that it seemed indeed more intense and that friends (and strangers) appealed to my skills, and my support, and my objectivity in some way or another.

On FRIDAY I missed an appointment, due to the fact that we were mistaken with an hour difference about the time we were supposed to meet. I was more than forty-five minutes early and waited at our meeting point, relaxing and having a coffee at Starbucks with my friend. I wondered where my appointment was and why she did not call me on my cell phone; my appointment was doing the same about me.
I called her after returning home. She said the appointment was an hour earlier; she would call me back to reschedule when she was finished what she was doing. She never called me back, so I called her again. By that time she was annoyed that I had not responded to her phone messages. I had not received any messages. I was baffled.
It would not have been a problem, had my phone worked. Eventually we did notice that my phone must have not been working after my friend decided to use her phone to call me to test: my phone did not ring. I could call out, but incoming calls did not get through. We rescheduled the appointment for a bit later that same evening and found out then that our paths had crossed earlier that afternoon, with at the most only five minutes difference: she had waited for a while and we were 40 minutes early. I guess the stars did not align and the new iPhone did not do its job. We do need more than technology to get lucky.
Later that day, I spent the good part of Friday evening in the hospital emergency with an ill friend from around 9 PM till the early morning of Saturday. I noticed the extra large full moon while driving home at 1 AM.

My SATURDAY was taken by texting with another friend with troubles of her own of a financial and romantic nature, after strange and unusual events that happened to her the night before. My objectivity was a factor and I needed all my strength to balance emotions of empathy with rational thinking.
On SUNDAY I was walking with a friend along the lakeside beach boulevard in a neighbouring town, enjoying the beautiful weather, like so many walkers and sunbathers after a week of rain and cloudy, cool days. Neither of us carried a purse or a phone: we focused on just enjoying ourselves as it was our day off.

Fifty yards away in front of us two boys of about 10 were skateboarding; one of them fell hard and did not get up. My friend said: ”Oh, oh, he is hurt.” We casually strolled up to the boys while the injured boy came to a sitting position, holding his left arm with his right hand.
My friend is a nurse who changed careers midlife to become a social worker. She checked the boy’s arm visually, all the while talking to him and engaging him in a conversation, so he would not pass out. His arm was visibly broken and his face was ashen-white. He said his name was Jared. He wore no protective gear; neither did his friend.

Jared’s friend said he had a cell phone and we asked him to call Jared’s mom, who was somewhere in a house a few streets away. When she came on the phone, my friend took over the phone from the boy and explained to the mother that her son had been injured and could she please come immediately to the beach area. The mother replied she would come right away and instructed my friend not to call an ambulance, repeating that a few times. We waited, but nobody showed up for at least twenty minutes.
In the meantime, another walker, a man who had seen the incident, came to assist and talked about maybe calling an ambulance, as the boy was in poor condition and his arm visibly broken just below the elbow. He turned out to be a first responder. We passed the mother’s instruction not to call an ambulance to him.

A young woman also stopped and offered to help. She said she was a first year nursing student. She tended to Jared, wiped his sweaty face with water and tried to keep his posture upright, so his arm would not get any pressure. She did not have a cell phone either on her. She later commented that all her training went out the window when she arrived on the scene. Small comfort was that neither of us had any equipment on us, so what one can do in that case, is indeed very little.

Another young woman with a baby asleep in a stroller stopped. She told us her dad who was sitting on the beach further down the road was a doctor; she had no phone and her dad neither. She offered to run up there and get him. We agreed to look after her sleeping baby, assuring her we are social workers and safe to look after her baby. Then she ran down the path to get her dad.

By now Jared had a really hard time coping and was giving indicators he might go into shock soon and would be passing out, if we could not get him out of the sun and addressing his pain soon. While I was pushing the baby stroller stationary back and forth to keep the baby sleeping, I looked up and saw an ambulance further down the road driving at a leisurely pace (speed restriction on the boulevard was 30 KM), heading our way.
I left the baby and stepped into the road with my hand up to stop the ambulance. The driver stopped. I asked whether they were having someone in the back already. No they hadn’t. I said: “We have a boy here with a broken arm. Would you have a look please?” “No problem, “ the driver said and pulled over his vehicle.

The paramedics got out and checked the boy. My friend told them we had spoken to the boy’s mother by phone, and heard that she would be on her way, giving us the instruction not to call an ambulance. The driver responded without seeming surprised: “No, that’s fine, you didn’t call us.” She then stepped back and let the men do their job.

We turned to Jared’s little friend, asking if he would be OK if we left. He said he would, that he lived in the city nearby, but was staying with Jared and his mom would take him home.

At that time, the mother of the still sleeping baby arrived as well, overheated and beet-red from running. She was barefoot, as she had worn flip-flops and could not run in those. She said she had asked her dad to come and he was on his way.

It’s Murphy’s law at work: as soon as the paramedics busied themselves with Jared and I saw one of them preparing a syringe with a painkiller, Jared’s mother screeched up to the curb in a vehicle on the wrong side of the street. The first thing she called out on leaving her car was: “I will take him in, we don’t need an ambulance.” My friend and I looked at each other in surprise. Would that be the first thing out of our mouth if our son were injured? We left the mother to the paramedics and left the scene to continue our walk.

Later that evening we heard from a senior, familiar with calling an ambulance for his illness, that the costs of a one way call-out for an ambulance is $80 and that the Medical Services Plan BC does not cover that. We should give Jared’s mother the benefit of the doubt. I guess she was on a limited budget and had been already aware of this costs.
We were also assured that ambulance staff is allowed to attend any accident, provide first aid and administer the medication that is needed at no costs. As we knew Jared would not be in pain much after his shot from the paramedics, we felt much better.

Anyway, this summer solstice weekend was no ordinary weekend in my life. How about yours? Any strangeness happened in your life?
I would love your comment below, a rating at the top of the page…or a “Like” on Facebook, or a tweet with the link http://www.babyboomerwrites.wordpress.com/SuperMoon/

As promised last week, the photos of the CHATEAU DE FENELON are below. Unfortunately, the inside was too dark for my simple camera and flash was not allowed. I am enclosing the Dordogne travel website as well, so readers can further explore this rustic and peaceful area in France.

The website explains that this castle was originally built in the 13th century; the castle was a stronghold of the Cathar during the 12th and 13th century. The current form is a restoration from the 16th century with more fortifications added in the 15th century. It was an important period of strive about religion in France then (Wikipedia).

The Cathar were followers of a Christian movement that existed between the 12th and the 14th centuries. They self identified as “Good Christians”. They believed in the duality of God, as being one force: the god that is a force for good as embodied in the New Testament of the Bible, and the bad god as personified in the devil or satan, being the force for evil that they associated with the Old Testament of the Bible. (The embodiment of good and evil as two options within the same person or god is a lot like how Hinduism sees god and the principle of all humans. This principle is also displayed in the ancient Balinese figure of the Barong, the embodiment of good and evil in the ancient Balinese dances). So the Cathar were certainly not alone in their thinking.

This Cathar movement existed in southern France, in Spain (Catalonia) and northern Italy and was seen as a heretic religion by the reigning pope. The Cathar believed that the Roman Catholic religion of the time and the Catholic practices were from satan and renounced the Catholic church altogether as being the Church of satan.

The pope of the time (Pope Innocent III) sent a papal legate to negotiate a peace and the sending of missionaries to the Cathar, who were hidden in their fortified castles resisting the actions against them for heresy, such as possibly the burnings on the stake–the custom of the time for dealing with heretics. The ambassador of the pope, Pierre de Castelnau, was killed on his way home in 1208 by the Cathar and thus an outright war followed: the Albigensian Crusade.

If you thought European crusades were always against the Muslims (Mores), you’d be wrong. I bet you that most murders in the name of the Catholic church and the “true religion” were perpetrated on other Christians.

The CHATEAU DE FENELON is now a museum full of artefacts and art treasures, such as some beautiful tapestries. The contents show the mix of items from successive periods in its history; of each period some examples of furniture and art are displayed. It also shows how the last inhabitants lived. Once can sense what it must have been like with only a bit of imagination: it becomes quite clear what life as a member of the French aristocracy must have been like. In times of siege, the water came right from inside the castle through a deep well underneath the castle supplemented by a large basin in the most outside wall that collected rain water from within its walls.

Triple walls surround the inner living quarters, with layers of defence systems and towers containing soldiers at each corner. Before any attackers could get to the inner sanctum and the nobility living there at the time, they had to fight the defence forces first. The castle of course like all other big estates has its own chapel. Until the reformation, all of France was Roman Catholic, with pockets here and there of sects, such as the Cathar.

For movie buffs it might be interesting to know that the move “Forever After” with Drew Barrymore was filmed in this castle and in a nearby castle CHATEAU HAUTEFORT in 1998. The castle is near the village of Mondane.

Videos that truly give a great impression of that castle and of the CHATEAU DE FENELON can be seen on u-Tube accompanied by classical music.

My friend was on her way to choir practice in the church of Mondane prior to a concert, as a member of the local choir. While she met with her choir, I walked towards the Castle, a short walk up the hill just out of town. It was a great little walk, nobody else apparently felt like walking at that time of the day (midday) and only one or two cars passed me on the way to the castle.

After the concert we all had refreshments: cake and lemonade.

Jeanne D’Arc obviously is revered in these parts as a saint.

More modern signs of resistance can be found as well. Currently, France is in uproar for political-economic reasons that affect all of the European Community and the world at large, with a recession and a period of austerity measures by various governments within the EU in an attempt to address the economic downturn and vast deficits, so vast that whole nations threaten to go bankrupt.

Although I flew in by air, I left for Amsterdam with my friends by car, at the end of their summer season at their vacation home in Degagnac. We had no centimetre of spare space left when all packing was done. We travelled with the family pets–a cat and a dog. Of course, the dog did not want to come in the car, as she understood she was also having to leave; she gave us a hard time catching her.

Then we stopped for our last meal in the evening at a lovely place and I forgot what city this was. Will have to keep notes next time!

Back in Amsterdam on my way to a visit to another friend in the city, I passed this cafe, with my name on it, literally!

The small medieval villages in the area are a delight.

The two white doves happily hidden in plain view on the down spout.

The sign reads Rudof von Laban, who was a Hungarian dancer, died in 1958 and was a descendant of French nobility from this area, a cruisader De La Banne, and of Hungarian nobility. His mother was from England. He changed dance significantly and had a dance school in Berlin in 1929. He later studied architecture in Paris at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. He was said to be friendly with the Hitler regime; he left Paris for England in 1937 (Wikipedia).

This is a museum and gallery of modern art, located at a small-ish medieval castle. The inside art could not be photographed as no flash was allowed, but I tried a time exposure for the modern Pieta that moved me.

This is about the oldest church in this area, and a very simple one, stemming from the middle ages. The inside still has its original paintings–a historical treasure.

The Market in Gourdon. I bought various sausages made with wild boar and beef, and goat cheese, and other delicacies. I could not bring too much, as we were leaving in a few days. Officially I couldn’t bring any of it to Canada, although I have been known to bring illegal foods, when I could not resist. From the super market in Gourdon I brought duck confit–all prepared, smoked, and vacuum packed duck legs–that is allowed according to customs, and a jar of processed pate de foie gras. It all was delicious.

The type of goat that delivers the milk for the cheeses, a baby, displayed on a platform by a cheese stand. I wondered whether that goat was there to eat, but then decided the baby goat was there to attract a lot of customers for buying cheese because it so cute and friendly.

That’s what the French do best: relax, enjoy life on a patio with a drink or a coffee and a bite to eat.

Half of the town is changed into market twice a week: always shop for fresh local food and never buy frozen, is the credo of the locals. The 50 mile diet has been a fact of life here for many centuries.

Detail of a row of brick, medieval houses.

Gourdon has a prehistoric past as well, although we did not see those sites this time around. The town is located on a small hill. As most medieval villages, it has a ring road around it and the town lies within its boundaries. It has had a significant role in resistance of the English in its 100 year war with France that started in 1337 and ended in 1453. The river is the Bleou on the south border.

Catch anything?

An old, old bridge. With all the clay deposits in the area from the rivers, the most common building material is brick.

On every hill a castle….

The type geese of which the pate de foie gras is made out on a stroll. It clarifies the term goose stepping, all in perfect step with each other. The practice of producing foie gras by feeding the geese through inserting a funnel in their beak and letting a certain amount of grains slide into their stomach originated at least as early as 400 B.C. During King Louis XVI (16th) in 1779 a chef, Jean-Joseph Clause, made the pate from fat goose livers famous. (http://www.homecooking.about.com/od/foodhistory/a/patedefoiegras).

There are people that find the practice cruel. Others say it does not hurt the goose and they are not “stuffed” full of food, as some believe, but are only fed a sure amount and regularly which they might not do if just offered the food. They do develop a somewhat enlarged liver. I am not sure if that is more cruel than eating lamb or baby calves. I have given up that practice after I ate lamb tenderloin that was only five centimetres long, as I think raising babies and eating them is pretty decadent.

At least the geese get to grow up and live a lifespan that is quite decent and all of their edible parts are being used for other delicious stews and pates. When I was in Sarlat in the Dordogne on an earlier trip I tasted pate de foie gras spiked with small bits of truffle with a few toasted bits of toast: it truly is delicious, smooth and rich and one only needs a small amount to get the idea of the delicacy. According to French law, the pate needs to contain 80% of liver, otherwise is is called, mousse with 55% of liver.

It is possible to order foie gras in Vancouver: in Restaurant Chambar in Gastown for $18. They also have the best Belgian beer.

A Chestnut grove. The surface of the soil is covered with gravel, so the nuts don’t rot if they have to lie around for a bit before being gathered.

On the way to Chateau de Fenelon. The buildings belong to the castle and house important employees, and likely are the business agricultural centre for the castle–the farm part. It’s practical a village on its own.

Pretty farm.

A four hundred year old cypress planted within the outer castle walls.

View from the Chateau de Fenelon.

Next time I will post photos of the castle itself.

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The river Dordogne

The location is about a ten minute drive from the village of Degagnac-Lot, and the closest larger city is Gourdon, 14 clicks away. One can fly in from the airport of Bergerac. It is the region bordering the Dordogne region. I was not before then in this part of France, although I visited Sarlat-le-Caneda and Souillac before, where the home of the author of Le Petit Prince is located, Alexandre de Saint Exupery. The A-20 gets you quite close. The home can house 12 people and it’s just lovely. The site can be checked out on its website. Unfortunately, the link cannot be established. It is searchable by its name Gite Fourcaries-Lot, France. It is a website in Dutch but Google will translate it for you.

Les Fourcaries

The old farms in France did not do so well and agriculture not so much a money maker any more for the smaller farms, when the European Community became a reality. People left the country side for the cities to find industrial type jobs, while richer farms consolidated smaller farms and became large scale operations. Many farms could be bought for a song, relatively speaking. Northern Europeans who live in wetter and colder nations bought these dreamy homes and renovated them to their modern standards for a second home and get away from the cold in this balmy French region.
One can observe different nations’ citizens in their renovations: the British convert their vacation properties to typical cottage style, not so much respecting the original French style, while Germans make them often more ostentatious, while the Dutch try to not change too much of the original, medieval buildings.

The sheep cavern is built a few hundred yards across the path from the main farm building, with a gate that would be closing off the roughly built shelter, to protect the sheep at night from predators. These sheep shelters are typical for the area. Locals hunt for pheasants, rabbits, and other fowl and a type of small wild boar that also roam around the fields and bushes. The farm house is located on a hill in the middle of fields that are leased out to farmers for growing grass for hay.

The sheep shelter close up

At the back of the house one can see the bulge of the built-in wood burning oven. The oven’s opening is inside the kitchen. The enclosure around the oven is meant to keep the goats in that are kept close to the house overnight and milked for the precious goat cheese. The goats are grazing during the day somewhere else, but at night again kept in the enclosure. The region produces many different goat cheeses and is an area where one can indulge in other kinds of gourmet foods as well, for the more adventurous eater. The warmth from the oven will keep the goats from getting too cold in the cooler winters.

Entry to the goat corral

The entry to the goat corral.

This is the main entry from the road with a small patio, which catches the morning sun. We sit there after getting up and drink our espresso coffee, enjoying the first sun rays of the day.

The tower on the farm is the pigeon coop, kept for fertilizing the gardens around the house (non existent now) and for keeping the insect population down; the pigeons also are a tasty bite to eat in the fall. The French have historically eaten song birds as well, although that practice has been discontinued, as far as I know. I do remember observing a scene where a customer haggled with skill and patience over the purchase of one little finch at the market, about thirty years ago.

We had a scrumptious meal in the larger town of Salviac, 7 clicks down the road. Also some friends of my hosts visited the area and we had a great meal at home with my hosts as chefs, in French style: drinking and chatting for hours at the dinner table in the kitchen.

We shared the cooking and here is Hans serving up a delicious roast leg of lamb for the guests. Behind him is the hearth with the former wood burning oven visible, although that part is modified and the opening for the oven is now bricked in and not functional any more: the hearth has been changed to be more useful with more modern appliances, an elaborate espresso machine and an electric oven.

My room in the lower part of the building was large and cool in this all-stone building, with a double door to the yard to possibly allow a nightly escapade, if so desired, or maybe a night-time skinny dip in the pool.

This is an all natural pool with a self cleaning system. Although the basic cement pool is like other pools and a pump circulates the water, the plant materials on the left that grow on a shallow ledge separate from the main pool filters the water and allows for a non-chemical environment. The water is lovely and clear and occasionally we shared the pool with a frog or two.

The indoor photos did not turn out well. You will just have to travel there and see it for yourself. I did manage to shoot the kitchen.

The closest town is Degagnac, an old village 4 kilometres from the farm, with little alleys and pavement just like it was four centuries ago with a gutter in the middle of the street to let the rain and grey water flow down the road.

City Hall, or Hotel de Ville.

Next blog post I will show more of the region with plenty of middle-age buildings and castles.

Julie emails:

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We have a winner!

After 682 entries, we have a winner for the Chick Lit Author Blog Hop.

“Entry #440 Carol C.” was chosen in a random drawing. I have contacted her by email with instructions for receiving the Kindle Keyboard. In about a week, when she confirms she has the Kindle in her possession, I will send another email to you, the authors in the Blog Hop, with instructions on how to send her a copy of your ebook.

That’s it!

Hard to believe our time together on the Blog Hop has come to a close so soon. Thank you for your blog posts, your tweets and your promotion of the event through social media channels. Special thank you to Barbara Barth, who’s provided additional promotional support through guest posts on her blog during this exciting event.

682 people entered the prize drawing – but I have to believe many more hopped along on the journey and enjoyed learning, “What’s on page 25?” That’s some mighty good traffic for one week in the blogosphere.

Let’s continue to network with each other and share the love of reading and writing in this great genre.

In a few hours I’m off to New York for the Book Bloggers Convention and BookBuzz2013 Mix & Mingle. Look for another email from me in about a week once Carol has received her amazing prize. I greatly enjoyed working with all of you and look forward to the next opportunity to promote your books.

Cheers!

Julie Valerie
Book Blogger
Chick Lit Chit Chat
http://www.julievalerie.com
@JBValerie

I want to show some photos of a new neighbourhood that was converted from an old, dilapidated collection of buildings located on three islands in the north harbour of Amsterdam, called the West Islands (Bickerseiland, Prinseneiland, and Realeiland) is located right smack dab in the centre of the city.
Its proximity to the centre of this very lively, international and also beautiful city, makes it a very desirable neighbourhood to working people, especially young families and professionals looking for reasonably priced accommodation. The names of the islands were eventually changed from more mundane names to names given in honour of a grand trader’s family (Bicker), the Prince of Orange–the first Dutch king appointed by the confederation of cities (Prins), and the rich family owning the land (Reael). (Wikipedia)

The neighbourhood originates in 1671 and was first mentioned in the Dutch literature in that year by a Dutch poet. This was an industrial area with ship building wharfs and packinghouses (three story units) for the merchandise passing through this international trade city on its way throughout the world, transported by the merchant fleet that made the Netherlands a great nation. The whole trade and its associated industries, such as smoking houses and salt processing plants became obsolete around the 1900s and the buildings fell in disrepair.

The Central Station

The island neighbourhood is located behind the Central Station (designed by Pierre Cuypers) towards the east. To get there, one can take the ferry behind the train station or one can rent a bicycle and travel first eastward behind the station on solid ground along the water’s edge until one hits a bridge that provides an entrance to the neighbourhood by bike.

The islands are connected via bridges. It is a neighbourhood occupied today by the more artistic types that do not choose to live in the Amsterdam suburbia, but want to be close to where the action is, and waterfront to boot!

I was very delighted with the interesting architecture and innovative mode of building while at the same time preserving the nature of Amsterdam in a modern version. Homes can be bought and are also rented out. On the way walking by the water front we passed the new concert hall built right on the water’s edge. I can just imagine how lovely the patio will be on a hot day that does occasionally hit the nation in the summer.

It was a dreary quiet day midweek in June, so we had lots of opportunity to wander around and shoot photos.

Also thinking about the little ones….playgrounds and green space in between buildings.

Old freighters converted to living spaces are allowed a spot as well along the waterfront, for a fee.

A restaurant in between the blocks of housing that pleases the eye and catches every ray of light in this so often rainy and dreary climate of the Netherlands.

Occasionally, a wealthy boat owner drops in on a poor relative….

Lack of solid ground between the canals and the harbour and the water (named Het IJ) surrounding the islands is dealt with in a creative ways. Bridges and some limited access by car is possible, although the neighbourhood with limited parking and no garages discourages car ownership and promotes green living and the low emission of carbon fuels. This area is only 15 minutes by bike or by ferry from down town Amsterdam, a crazy thought when hearing the quietness and inhaling the fresh air while walking this surprising neighbourhood. It truly is living rurally in the city.

I took this trip to visit my family, on the occasion of a family reunion, at a place in the country. My beautiful daughter came with me. Not to bore you, but I will post a photo or two to show you who we are.

The Dutch do not do many things out of the house, as opposed for instance to the British, who practically live in the pub and do not invite people much at their homes as I experienced. The Dutch on the other hand are very set on making a visit “gezellig” which means creating a homey, cosy atmosphere at their homes, offering visitors coffee and always cookies and after that, generally something stronger, such as jenever (gin made from juniper berries or grain) or of course a pint of beer and wine. No, Heineken is not considered a great beer in the Netherlands, but is sort of factory product, easily available at a standard price. I personally think the best beer comes from the micro breweries in Belgium.

A splash of artistic expression:

Public Transit – Amsterdam style. The sign reads: Do not proceed when traffic light is flashing. The top sign reads: cyclists must dismount.
Sometimes you just have to tell people the obvious, as the Dutch are pretty self directed and stubborn.

The gen Xers produced by the baby boomers of the previous photo.

In the back yard, lucky it was not raining that day, or not much.

They managed to occupy the best seats in the house–every time! The girl on the far right is my beautiful daughter. The leaf on the lower left corner is a plaster copy made by my sister of a real leaf.

On the way home by railway, cousins sharing music…

Please, would you rate this post at the top, “Like” on Facebook, or leave a comment below. All comments are gratefully appreciated.

Next time I will highlight another part of Europe.

This week I am a participant in the Chick Lit Author Blog Hop. You can win 25 free books and a Kindle if you solve the puzzle and find the secret word in each of the participating bloggers’ post of their Page 25. The sentence you find from the words makes sense if you found all secret words in the 25 blogs. The complete list on Julie Valerie’s website will go on line at midnight on Sunday, May 20, to give all participants a fair chance. (I am not able to keep my eyes open that late, so I have published my contribution here today).

Read more about it on Julie Valerie’s blog, follow the link: http://wp.me/p318Hj-lD

Today’s blog post talks about page 25 of my novel-in-stories On Thin Ice. It is also the subject of each participant in the Chick Lit Blog Hop’s novels, so the readers will have an opportunity to explore a number of books in the same genre by simply clicking on the various links provided in this blog post.

PAGE 25

Page 25 is an excerpt of the short story Finding Ecstasy, and takes place near the end of the relationship. The story is a coming-of-age story in which the protagonist, Adrienne, explored her sexuality and experienced ecstasy for the first time in her life at age 23 with handsome and sexy Ethan during the early seventies in Amsterdam. As might be expected, Ethan’s beauty also attracted attention from other women; he could not resist. After the inevitable, heart ripping break-up with Adrienne, Ethan called Adrienne a year later asking to meet. You need to read the whole story to really get a feel for how Adrienne’s love object had changed since they first met. I hope that the page 25 excerpt leaves you wanting to read the rest of the book, a novel in stories that reads like the memoir of a baby boomer from the late sixties into the present. It touches on everything you wondered about that generation and how they grew from protesters and the make-love-no-war generation with society changing powers (acceptance of birth control, of divorce, of other than one-male-one-female families, of recreational drug use) to your grandparents of today.

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They set a date and time on the weekend to meet.

She wondered what this was about. Adrienne hoped deep in her heart that he wanted to come back to her and repair the relationship, but she knew this was not likely. She had been heartbroken, but was pretty much over him now. A memory of past joy remained solidly seated in her heart and stirred within her.

When Ethan arrived, he looked completely different from the young man she had known. He had grown a small, thin moustache. His hair was short and shaved closely at the sides, almost a brush cut. He was very clean cut, quite military looking. His eyes were distant; he fidgeted uncomfortably and his gaze seemed so different from what she remembered—introverted, shifty. His clothes were neat and neutral, fitting a future physician. He did not smile.

Adrienne offered the usual beverages and he chose coffee. While she made it, they engaged in small talk. Ethan was doing well, his internships completed and now he worked in his first residency. He had decided that psychiatry was not for him. His studies and residencies had been a long, difficult haul. He would first start working as a general practitioner for a few years before deciding his specialty. They did not talk about his new relationship.

The small talk ended and he tried to get to the reason for his visit after coffee was served. Adrienne didn’t quite understand the crux of his consternation, but it obviously mattered to him. Now that she saw him in person, she realized that he was not the same man with whom she had first fallen in love. (Win the grand prize! The 22nd secret word in the 25-word sentence is: “you”). Ethan had become what his father expected.

She then realized she had done Ethan’s bidding for him, helping him resist his father’s expectations so he could break away from the tight confines of home. In the meantime, she had kept Ethan from being who he apparently wanted to be, after all. Good lord! How blind had she been? She had been Ethan’s little rebellion.

“I’m sorry about having treated you so badly when we split up,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know how to end it and I didn’t want to get into more fights. I have become aware of my vulnerabilities now, after seeing a therapist for a while. I was confused and wanted to quit my studies, or at least switch. I didn’t feel I was suitable material for a doctor.” He stayed vague about what those vulnerabilities were. “I apologize for having put your things outside, and also for not being at home at the time. It was not nice of me and you did not deserve that, sorry.”

After the conversation, Adrienne and Ethan parted on friendly, and expectedly distant, terms. She pondered the purpose of Ethan’s visit. Did he come to soothe his conscience, relieved to see she had not become depressed, suicidal, or had gone off the deep end, like one of his study buddies? She realized his visit was still all about Ethan’s own struggles in life.

She had noticed that Ethan wasn’t returning any of the precious art etchings or vinyl records she had paid for with her hard-earned money, nor had he brought up the subject. It’s not important anymore. Adrienne was relieved she had survived her first broken heart and had come out the other side a better person.

She had made new friends, was almost graduated from her fine arts program and had landed a fabulous job in a drug treatment centre. She had a good income that allowed her to go on vacations and buy nice shoes. She had a great first floor apartment in a central and lively neighbourhood in Amsterdam. She was a single woman, adventurous, independent, and able to seek out partners for short-term fun, if she felt like it. She enjoyed her life. She vowed not to seek out a committed relationship for the time being.

Now what was a girl to do?

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Keep hopping! Click here to return to the list of blogs: http://wp.me/p318Hj-lD
Julie’s blog

The winners of the What’s On Page 25 contest Raffle Copter will be announced on May 27 at 11:59 pm by Julie Valerie who will hit “random select” and a winner will be selected. Their first and last initial will be automatically posted on the Rafflecopter widget and the name should automatically appear on any of the blogs that showed the widget.
Alternatively, you can go to Julie Valerie’s website or come back here at http://www.babyboomerwrites.wordpress.com. The bloggers-participants will all post a notice as well on their blog, after which we authors each will send out a free book to the winner.

TAKE NOTE: The WHAT’S ON PAGE 25 give away is open to all Canadian and American contestants. Again, Julie’s blog will be life at midnight on Sunday May 20.Julie’s blog