Playing French, eating like a Bourgondier

Belgians consider themselves quite the lovers of good food and drink. So much so, that they created a term for that side of themselves. Know what they chose? “Burgondiers.” That is, people from Burgundy. France.

If your food and wine are so good that when other people want to exclaim how good their eating is, they compare themselves to you? You’re probably doing something right.

So when I got to Burgundy, arriving through the sort of scenery that could drive an Impressionist into ecstasy and/or insanity, soft green hills supporting sprays of lavender blossoms and tranquil white cows, and learned that those cows are specifically bred and destined to be boeuf bourguignon, I knew what I had to order for dinner that night. You see, it’s a tour guide’s responsibility to know what he’s talking about, and I am determined to pass on that little animal husbandry factoid to tour members for years to come.

But do real life Bourgondiers eat only this apogee of beef stew? Non non non! The meal began, of course, with a small metal plate like a watercolor palette, each of whose half dozen concave niches held an impressively large snail shell. The verdant green of the herb and garlic sauce erupting around each mollusc was delicious to the eyes. Escargot, si vous plaits. Très délicieux!

I could only discipline myself to take this one photo from
the meal, so you'll have to imagine the rest. Je suis desole!

Then came the boeuf bourguignon, so tender and savory that it deserved each and every one of those superfluous letters to ornament its palatial presence on the plate. But was that all? Time to go home? Non! And what was next? Why, fromage of course!

The three wedges of cheese arrived like something out of Greek Mythology. Three sisters of ominous potency, unique in character but sharing origin and essence. They built upon one another’s strength in a potent triumvirate, from the seductive creaminess of the first, through the herbal punch of the second, and into the toe jammy potency of the third. And of course, my wine was tailored to match, because we are civilized creatures.

Normal street detail in Beaune, Burgundy, France

I savored every slith and slythe of cheese on taste bud, and when the plate held only a smear to trace my achievement, my belly felt plump as, well, as a farmhouse cheese. No way I could fit anything else in there.

So it was time for dessert. When it arrived, I looked at the sugared expanse with remorse, knowing I was inadequate to the task. But wait! I was not alone at the table! Two new friends framed my overloaded belly, but alas, one of my mentor’s orientation culture talks mentioned that Europeans do not share food the way Americans do.

“You are always passing your plates around, saying ‘Try this!’ What is that? Why do you do this? No, we don’t do it. You order your own food and you eat it. By yourself.” Suddenly those words were like smoke signals from my rescue ship as it steamed off towards the horizon without me, leaving me lost, abandoned, hopeless in a sea of creme brulee.

But I am not a European. And as an apprentice guide, I am granted a certain amount of leeway. Cultural compromise, if you will. With my mentor’s mercenary help, our two tiny spoons progressed through the wealth of perfectly golden vanilla bean luxuriance.

So the Belgians claim culinary sophistication and epicurean qualification by comparing themselves to Bourgondiers? Yeah, they got that one right.

Hogar Para Todos is still going strong, but could use a little help

If I could choose one topic to survive the irrelevance of archival old age that sets in for my blogs within two days of their posting, it would be Hogar Para Todos (AHome for Everyone), the orphanage in Azogues, Ecuador, that K and I visited in 2012. So when Ann Halsig contacted me about posting an update on the house, I was delighted. Here is her update:

For 30 years, Nancy Calle worked in adoption with some of the most vulnerable children in Ecuador. At the age of 63, when most people are preparing for retirement, she applied to register her family home as a “Casa Hogar” for children in transition. Some of the children now living here will be adopted, some will be reunited with their families once the court’s orders have been met, and a few will continue to live here, because their circumstances – or age – render them “unadoptable”.

But this is not a house of sadness.

The children at Hogar Para Todos are thriving with the support of an incredible staff, including a Clinical Psychologist working with a team of 5 interns, an Early Childhood Intervention Specialist, an Educational Psychologist, a team of specialist support workers, a Social Worker, and the “tias” of the house, who prepare meals, clean the house, ensure school uniforms are ready in the morning and much more.

At the age of 76, Nancy generally rises at 6:30 and weaves her way in and out of meetings and children and staff support until well after dinner is served. All of the children are engaged in education and both group and individualized therapy, as well as numerous other activities every week.

This is not a house of sadness.

But it is a house that has fallen on hard times. While the staff’s salaries and the food for the children are paid by social services and the provincial government, all other costs must be covered by donations: electricity, water, gas, general maintenance, toys, clothes, activities and more. The cost of this part of operations was $82,068 in 2013, $72,841 in 2014, and is projected at $63,558 for 2015.

Until this year a large percentage of the funds to cover those costs came from a Belgian partner organization that sponsored the Casa with donations from many individuals. This year, the director has retired and following the closure of this organization, the Casa has effectively lost 23,000€. For the past two years, costs have exceeded donations, and so there is currently a deficit of nearly $30,000, and it will worsen next year.

There are so many reasons to support this Casa – we have seen with our own eyes how differently it functions, how immediately one gets the sense of “home” here. But the biggest reason to support HpT is because it is invaluable to this community, where there are significant socio-economic problems leading to substance misuse, neglect, abuse, and abandonment. Whatever the future holds, in debt or with healthy finances, the existence of this place is absolutely imperative.

Nancy Calle is an extraordinary woman. But she is human, and will eventually need to pass the torch on to the next generation, who will continue the life-changing – and literally life-saving work – she began. But before she goes, she wants this house in order.

For many, $30K doesn’t sound like much, and with a little support from a lot of folks, it really isn’t. But is the world to the future of this organization. And this organization has, is, and will continue to improve the world for countless children.

If you can donate absolutely any amount at all, please go to Ammado, where with a couple of clicks you can donate any amount you wish.

And rest assured that this drive for funds is not an end-all effort. At the moment, several players are working together to ensure that in the years to come HpT’s finances are stronger than ever. The organization’s website will be launched in July, and volunteers from Holland, France, and the US are working together to fundraise in a variety of ways. One of these is developing a network of sponsors who can commit to giving a small sum every month. If this is something that might interest you, please let us know.

Further information is available via email in Spanish, French or English at ann.halsig.hpt@gmail.com, or in German and Dutch at w.croes@planet.nl.

There's something about Venice

Venice was after a quiet quarter eternity crossing Croatia and Slovenia. On the cliffs of Kotor and alleys of Piran I was stunned speechless, which was fine since there was no one there to hear my awe anyway. Perhaps my first, perhaps my worst, and nearly the only conversation was with the Australian I'd courted through the lanes of Ljubljana. Her laughing eyes had gone pensive when she asked me to help her pick out a present for her boyfriend in Prague.

“You have a boyfriend?” I asked, consternation and sad irritation.

“Well, not really a boyfriend, no. Just a guy I’m kinda into. But he’s kind of a jerk. And he’s ten years younger than I am. And he’s more into my friend than me.” And I was ready to scream.

So back into the solitary wandering of off the beaten path, until I reached Venice, and a hostel somewhere in the labyrinth of Dorsoduro, where I had just the one oddly shaped dormmate, of drooping disposition and uncertain provenance, his only utterings such indiscernible mutterings that I couldn't even listen for an accent.

"What's that, my perhaps German friend? Say again, you maybe-Englishman? Did you know I'm going insane right now? That I talk to myself, and can't quite tell when the monologue is internal or external?" I had a surplus of myself built up inside, seeds of speech sprouting despite the infertility of an absent audience, so the lasting impression I had of Venice was a labyrinth where my mind had fuzzed away from full coherence.

“Venice?” I would have said. “Sure. It’s…Venice. Yeah, you should go, just to see it. Whatever.”

But this chance to be a guide took me back there. To the Austro-Hungarian causeway, where I felt my skin prickle as the lagoon opened up before us, where boats and history swirled and breathed. I was back, with a busload of humans labeled clients but defined as friends, and I would have no time for useless wandering, no luxury for blurred brains, and any word I made was likely to be heard and noted by the alert minds of my companions. And Venice itself? It was there, present, visible in a way I hadn’t been ready to see before.

Now I had no interior fog to obscure the columned balconies of ancient homes, no haze to hide the green appeal of winding waterways, and no fugue to muffle the drifting lyrics of gondolieri somewhere around the bend. I was left, bare and aware, vulnerable to the romance of Rialto and saturated memory of San Marco, where history washes around the walls that inspired Napoleon on the echo of the campanile bells.

This job, this opportunity, is a gift. To see past places in the mindful present, new things with avid eyes, and the traces of my past wanderings from the balcony of my present.

Venice? There’s something about Venice. See you there.