Les Amorioles

This is a great event. It’s known as a balade and consists of a walk of about three miles through the vineyards on a beautiful spring day when the vines are green and the fruit is forming, the fields in between are a riot of wildflowers, and the temperature is 75-80o. Along the way, you’ll stop at six stations, each has one course in a complete meal designed to complement the wines of the terroir available to taste from the 26 participating wineries. The winemakers are there to answer questions and there are several guides on the trail to provide information on grape varietals, soil composition and geological history of the region. The dessert stage is at a plaza in town where a fine jazz combo plays standards in a mellow ending to the day.

The event is sponsored by the winemakers with support from regional council tourism funds. It’s great PR and it sells wine. At the last stop you can buy any of the featured wines and they seemed to be selling well. This is hands-on and local, and when a wine sells out the winemaker rushes back to his cave to get more.

It’s fun, educational, delicious; totally without pretension and you get some exercise too. It’s hard to imagine feeling better about spending a day eating and drinking.

But I was working. I’d been invited to participate, knew to bring my cameras along and for me it was an assignment. I knew there was no money in this but I coveted the t-shirt. I also knew there would be material for my book and blog and an opportunity to meet many winemakers I didn’t already know. So I took it seriously and went to work and for me that means I didn’t eat and didn’t taste (mostly). I know, I know, men are not very good at multi-tasking, but that’s the way I have to work. I don’t make good photos when I’m on vacation or tasting wine.

So when I finished the walk and met up with the leaders, the first thing they asked was “Did I enjoy the food?” I said I didn’t eat. No food, no wine tasting. I said there was too much work I wanted to do. Bernard responded: “There is work and there is life, you must have both.” I love the French, they really talk like this.

Pierrette asked me to stay for the grillade but I was done. I had a shower, some wine, cheese and ibuprophen and went to bed.

The Café

“Grand Hotel…always the same. People come, people go. Nothing ever happens.”

 

In Maury, everyone comes to the café Friday nights. When I arrive Richard and Bob are sitting with Bardot who’s on his semi-hourly pastis break from painting my house. I go to buy him another and gather hugs from the kids on my way to the bar. Bob and I discuss an apartment for rent next door to his house that he had arranged for me to see, but it’s not for me. I need more, a comfortable place where I can feel at home. Meanwhile, Richard is fielding a call from the US and Bardot lets himself into Ben’s house and emerges with a flat of tomato plants. The next day Bardot shows me his garden and where he’s planting Ben’s tomatoes.

 

Jean-Roger and the rain arrive at about the same time, but when the rain turns to hail, JR dashes off to the vineyards to check the vines. The fruit is just beginning to form and is extremely vulnerable to hail. He returns with a report of not much damage and everyone smiles and another round appears.

 

He also mentions a house that will be available soon and promises to find out more. I’ll need to follow up.

 

The children love the rain and I become the adult designated to lift the kids up to push the rain off the awning. Did I forget to mention that we are outside? Smokers.

 

Aimee has a small encounter with a very small dog, many tears but not much damage. The dog’s owner then gets a bit of a talking to from Pierre, the proprietor, who follows it up by buying him a drink.

 

Sarah appears and tells me how much she loved meeting my sister. She talks for a bit about how important siblings are, how they ground us, connect us to the past and most of all to family. I say little, thinking instead of other connections. Sarah mentions that her brother is coming for a visit and she’s sure I’ll like him.

 

Jean-Roger leaves and Manu arrives with young Clarice. The rain stops, starts again, and then the sky clears.

 

Marcel stops in for a beer followed by Taieb the hunter and Jean Pla, who is now a negociant, buying wine from coops and selling it under his own labels. He has an “End of the World” cuvé from Bugarach that’s a big seller. Taieb is a hunter of wild boar but he doesn’t eat pork so I asked him if the pleasure for him was in the hunt. He responded by inviting me to go with him, just to shoot cameras, not guns. I agreed and we made a tentative plan subject to weather, etc.

Taieb ©2012 Ron Scherl

 

Pizza appears and the pizza kid has not taken my advice. He needs to put the chorizo on top of the cheese and put the pizza on the floor of the oven, not on a tray so the crust can bake. Having established myself as a photographer I now need to turn some of my attention to pizza. So much work, so little time.

 

Fragments of conversation roll around the tables until overwhelmed by a political rant clearly anti-government, but otherwise unintelligible to me and most everyone else. I understand very little but it really doesn’t seem to matter. I nod, shrug, pet the dog, make the pff sound and non, non, say beh, shake my head, order a drink. It resembles a conversation until I head for home.

The Painter

Bardot starts early and I can hear him trying to tiptoe on the scaffolding while I’m still half asleep. By the time I’m up for coffee, he’s down to the café for his first pastis break of the day. When he returns, he greets me with “Bonjour, jeune homme”, although I must have 10 years on him. He’s never more than an hour from a pastis and there’s always a cigarette in his mouth, but he works hard and well. This is an old house with a heavily cracked and irregular surface and it’s now looking good.

 

Bardot ©2012 Ron Scherl

Bardot has that heavy southern accent, speaks quickly and always has that cigarette going. He wears a little pouch around his neck to hold his lighter. In the beginning I couldn’t understand a word he said, but now I’m starting to get it. This evening I came back from a walk and he was just packing up.  I asked him if he’d like something to drink and he replied, “Moi, seulement Ricard, vous avez le Ricard?”

Oui, and we went to the kitchen for a drink. He told me some of the shutters were broken and he would fix them and I asked if it would be extra above the estimate. No, no. I never charge more. I want you to be happy and feel I did a good job. I told him I was very happy and would buy him a Ricard whenever we were in the café together. That may suit his retirement plan but it’s likely to strike a serious blow to mine.

I asked him why he was working weekends and holidays and he tells me he has several jobs lined up after this, and he really wants to retire.

“Quel age avez-vous?”

“58”

“Too young”, I said.

“But, I get up in the morning and it hurts to get out of bed.”

“Me too”

“And how old are you?”

“66”

“Beh, taking photos isn’t work, snap, snap. You’re a young man.”

Finishing off his Ricard he told me that tomorrow would probably be a short day because it will rain in the afternoon.

“But in the morning, another coat on top, vite, vite”, he whistled and mimed a painting stroke.

Then he asked me how you say la pluie in English.

“Rain”

“Wing”

“No, rain.  er ah e enn”

“Ring”

There was no way that word was coming out without a “g” at the end. We left it at that with a chorus of allez, salut and ciao.

Another day, another Ricard and Bardot asks me what I’m doing tapping on the piano all day. Since we don’t have a piano, this took a while to unravel, but we finally figured out he was talking about my computer.

“You’re a photographer, non?”

“Oui, and I’m also a writer.”

“You’re writing a book?”

“Oui.”

“Moi, I don’t read.”

“Not at all?”

“Only the invoices. I started work at 13 years old.”

“No more school after 13?”

“No, I’ve been working for 45 years, I’m tired.”

He had told me before that his father was a painter too and I asked if he went to work for him.

“No, he didn’t want me, I worked for another painter, and a grocer, a builder and then for myself. Are you married?”

“No, divorced.”

“Moi, I’m married 40 years, two children, four grandchildren, one wife. C’est bon. Alone is not good.”

He finished his glass with a long swallow and went off to the café for another.

Bardot ©2012 Ron Scherl

Election Day

Like just about everything else in Maury, elections are a family affair. People come to vote with dogs and kids, greet everyone in the room, bisous and handshakes all around and take a moment to chat about the weather.

Voting ©2012 Ron Scherl

I arrived around 10:30 in the morning and the Mayor and Jean Batlle were checking names on the voter rolls, Jean-Roger was accepting ballots and Pierrette was gathering signatures. I asked the mayor if it was alright to take photos and he said of course; then I promptly tripped on a step I didn’t see and fell against one of the booths, fearing that I was about to take the entire French democracy down with me.

I managed a sheepish “Excusez-moi” and Charley, who always has an expression of deep concern said: “No, no, are you alright.”

I was fine and the democratic process was still intact.

Marie-Laure ©2012 Ron Scherl

So here’s how it works: you show your voter card, pick up an envelope and cards with the candidates’ names – you must take both – and go into the booth where you place one card in the envelope and drop the other in a trash bin. Then you’re checked off the list, place the envelope in the slot of a plastic box and an official pushes a lever dropping the ballot into the box while you sign the register.

Voting ©2012 Ron Scherl

Now you kiss or shake hands with anyone who arrived after you, catch up on any local news you may have missed and go home to lunch. The morning was busy and Marie told me most people vote before lunch. Sensible people don’t let politics ruin a Sunday siesta.

 

The Count Begins ©2012 Ron Scherl

I returned around 5:30, and the last few voters straggle in to a chorus of ahhhs and in one case, applause. Pierrette, the president of the Cave Cooperative, takes her ballot. She likes to be the last voter. At 6:00 the polls close and the count begins after a shuffling of furniture. About 30 people have arrived to witness the count by the mayor and members of the municipal council and the room gets very quiet. The mayor opens the ballot box, all the envelopes are counted and the tally compared with the voting records, then they are divided into batches of 100, opened and counted. Null ballots which may result from an empty envelope, both candidate cards in one envelope or a vote cast for someone not on the ballot are tallied and set apart. The mayor counts out loud in groups of ten, while others record his count. All totals must agree. The votes are entered in a spreadsheet, reported to the regional government and then up the chain to Paris and posted on the door of City Hall.

Counting Ballots ©2012 Ron Scherl

It’s a very sober process. There’s never a hint of partisanship, not the slightest indication of any interest in the results, just the sense of doing an important job, doing it efficiently and accurately and going home when it’s done.

For the record:

 

Eligible voters:            702

Voting:                        574

 

Francois Hollande:      305

Nicolas Sarkozy:         239

Null ballots:                  30

Breakthrough

I went down the lane beside the house to see Bardot’s garden and received promises of many tomatoes this summer. As I was coming back up I ran into Jean-Roger and Francois coming to pick roses in Jean-Roger’s garden. He offered some and when I asked if he had enough for Marie and his mother he responded that the gesture of giving them to me was important.

Then, I saw Pappi, Marie’s grandfather working in his garden. A few weeks ago I had made a photo of him that I really like and now was a good time to bring it to him. I retrieved it from the house and came back to the garden. I showed Pappi the photo and his face lit up. Then his smile faded and he looked at me and said:

“Pas jeune.”

“Oui, mais full of life”, I responded and he smiled again. My French really is getting better.

Pappi Serge ©2012 Ron Scherl

Genevieve came in to the garden and he showed her the photo and she did the most unexpected thing, she invited me into the house. Genevieve lives next door with Mammi Pierrette and Pappi Serge and while we’re friendly on the street, I’ve never been in their house. Now I was in the kitchen, the muscat came out and a conversation began as Pierrette swept up the dirt tracked in and gently chided Pappi for not changing his shoes.

She looked at the photo and said: “90 years old” and I repeated my full of life phrase. She smiled and said: “Moi, 92”

“Merveilleuse, ma mere is 94”

Pappi went to get a bottle of wine as a gift in kind and promised me many tomatoes and eggplants this summer. This barter thing may work out just fine.

Genevieve: “Are you going to stay in Maury?”

“Oui, but I need to find a house or apartment to rent to be fair to my partners.” I asked if they knew the house next door to the beauty parlor, but they didn’t and suggested I talk to Severine at the Mairie. I said I had and she will let me know if she hears of anything.

We talked about my interest in their family and the history of the village and Genevieve suggested we meet next week for a discussion with Marie and Jean-Roger. I was delighted and hope we can manage to make it happen. I think getting Genevieve involved can help make almost anything happen.

A neighbor came in angrily waving a soggy baguette.

Sympathetic smiles all around and what a shame that the bakery is so bad. Genevieve picked up a loaf from the table and said: “Estagel, bon pain.”

“Oui, et St. Paul,” I said. She agreed and then shook her finger to strongly express disapproval of the Maury bakery, “pas ici.”.

Then she proudly showed the photo of Pappi and explained that I was an American professional photographer and have an exhibit at the Maison du Terroir.

Much nodding of approval.

Madame then changed the subject to our new paint job: “Une jolie nouvelle façade”

Genevieve: Oui, c’est tres bon pour le quartier.

I noticed a glance at the oven, realized it was almost time for lunch and wishing everyone a bon appetit, left thinking how much these little things mean in a village this small.

 

Shopping News

Fran was here for 10 days and now I know what I’ve missed by not having kids and grandkids: power shopping. I had no idea how complex this could be. Of course you’d want to be fair to everyone but this is no simple matter. One needs to take into account the quality of the gift, where it came from, its color and perceived value in the eyes of the giver and recipient. It was of course inevitable that any purchase could only up the ante and lead to the next store. Very tricky stuff here and I could only watch and wonder, and head for the nearest café and a soothing pastis.

 

 

As for me, I’m into the barter economy. Wages and earnings are very low around here and, as a result, what we would normally think of as reasonable compensation for photography is out of the question. When the government of Maury wanted to use my photos for their web site annual report, etc. they offered me €100 and then proceeded to choose 60 images. I said OK to €100 each for 60 images, but I had misunderstood. They wanted all 60 for the 100. Tough negotiator that I am, I got them to 200. When another organization wanted to use one of my photos of the mayor in their annual report, I knew there wouldn’t be much, so I suggested €50. They were willing to go 15.

 

So now I’m into bartering and since I spend most of my money on wine, that’s my preferred currency. When Marc Barriot asked me to do some photos for a book he wants to make for promotion, I knew I could either work for about five cents an hour, or I could drink his wine. Fortunately I like Marc’s wine, so we struck a deal similar to the one I’d already made with Marcel. This is wonderful as long as I choose the right winemakers.

 

So we started with some photos of plowing, one vineyard by horse, one by a small, hand-driven motorized plow that can fit in the rows of these old vineyards.

 

Emanuel Favier ©2102 Ron Scherl

Marc also likes to talk and to teach, or preach the virtues of organic farming and was delighted to find an earthworm turned up by the plowing and offered up as proof of the quality of soil without chemicals.

 

Marc Barriot ©2012 Ron Scherl

So, having finished shopping, I’m now back to shooting, always a good thing because I like the work and I’ve been mostly happy with the results. Even days that don’t feel very good often produce a photo worth saving, not always, but often enough to convince me of the rightness of being here. Part of that is being in a new place and seeing it with new eyes, but it also has to do with the richness of this place, the beauty of the landscape and the interest I have in knowing it. I’ve been here about 9 months now and think I’ll stay a while longer so I’m looking for a place to rent and I’m looking for a landlord who wants to barter for photos.

Scherl Boffo at Box Office

I hadn’t even realized how nervous I was until I woke up Saturday morning and didn’t want to get out of bed, then I remembered that for the past week my hands had been shaking when I tried to write, food had been an afterthought and I had totally forgotten how to speak French.

There wasn’t really any reason to be nervous. The photos were printed, framed and hung, invitations were out, posters were posted. My remarks were written and my accent honed. There was nothing left to do except show up. And there, I think is the fear. What if no one came?

©2012 Ron Scherl

Irrational of course, but there’s a part of me that thinks if I hadn’t worried no one would have come.

But they came, more than I expected, they enjoyed the show, bought some prints, and understood and applauded my speech. I talked about how different it was to come to a small town in France after living all my life in large US cities and what a pleasure it is to walk around the village and exchange bonjours with everyone. I talked about how special a place Maury is. I thanked the winemakers for sharing their knowledge and passion with me and thanked the mayor and others for welcoming me into their community. And that welcome was the essence of this day, my real initiation into the village of Maury.

I don’t have any photos of the event, it was the only thing I neglected, but here are a few images of the venue in morning sunlight, followed by a gallery of the exhibit.

©2012 Ron Scherl
©2012 Ron Scherl

Budbreak

My friend Nick thinks there’s something operatic about the costumed demonstrators and the elusive florist and he’s right of course. The Perpignan parade could well have been the Parpignol parade that opens Act II of La Boheme and flower girl = seamstress, why not? Let’s hope she can keep her hands warm without me and her health holds up.  It was unintentional but I guess spending 20 years in an opera house has a lasting effect that sometimes finds it’s way online because I’m the boss of this blog and there is no editor to reel me in. If you’ve been with me for a while, you already know that.

So, no need to worry. Our florist, who from now on shall be known as Mimi should be fine. It’s warm, it’s spring, there’s lunch on the terrace, fresh rosé to drink and the vines are budding. And that’s really what this post is about.

This journey began at the last harvest and we’ve now come to the beginning of the next. I’d love this vineyard year, nature’s cycle stuff if I hadn’t had so many birthdays but it is important here, as in any farming community, as you begin to understand how people are tied to the land. Obvious I know, but I’m a city kid and never really thought much about this before. And do I have to tell you again; I’m doing this without an editor (just like most newspapers nowadays.)

Budbreak is one of the milestones and it’s like OK, there’ll be wine again next year and we can gear up for the tourist season and a series of festivals: chocolate this month, wine and food in May, the Voix de Femmes music festival in June and outdoor art in July. There’s a pottery market early in August and then a deep breath until the harvest begins again.

There you have it. While you’re grappling with the idea that I just wrapped up an entire year in one paragraph, have a look at the budbreak photos. They’re pretty.

A click on the thumb brings a larger image.

 

Perpinya

Saturday lunch at the ham man again, this time alone as Marcel and Carrie had gone to Spain, presumably to get closer to the source of the jamon. Still no sign of the elusive florist and I’m beginning to wonder about the hallucinatory powers of Serrano. After lunch, a café in the Republique and then a walk. I’m seeing more Catalan flags than usual and wonder if today is a holiday. The streets are crowded with people in Catalan colors, some draped in flags and my first thought is a major rugby match is about to happen, but many of the t-shirts bear the names of towns and villages not teams and, unless this is a large regional tournament, it’s not about Rugby.

Some Things Make Sense ©2012 Ron Scherl

When I catch sight of several film cameras, one on a Steadicam, one on a crane I decide I’ve just become an extra in a movie. This is plausible, but there’s no making sense of some of some the costumes: I mean OK a bear in downtown Perpignan, that’s fine, but what’s he doing hanging out with guys all in white, some with cleavers, others dusted in flour. The butcher, the baker and the bear: there’s a lot I don’t know about Catalan culture.

Some Things Don't ©2012 Ron Scherl

Moving with the crowd, I head for the Castillet where, there’s music, confetti, smoke and bikers. Someone stamps my hand but I can’t read it and gives me a pair of cardboard 3D glasses and a leaflet in Catalan. Now you need the glasses to view a 3D movie, but not to be in one so I’m still confused.

Bikers ©2012 Ron Scherl

There are some very tall colorful figures off to one side that I first took to be religious figures but a closer look shows them to be historic and primarily secular figures appearing to represent different sectors of society from peasant to royalty.

©2012 Ron Scherl

Now the volume picks up, people are looking up at the camera and cheering, smoke is rising, flags are waving; two men are scaling the wall of the Castillet. I thought this might be the time for the bikers to rev up but they remained quiet. Then, as quickly as it began, the camera crane descended and the crowd started drifting away.

Starting to Look Like a Catalan Les Miserables ©2012 Ron Scherl

I asked a gendarme if this was a demonstration for Catalan independence and he told me no, it is in support of the Catalan language. With the French presidential elections taking place in a few weeks, this was a defense of cultural diversity and a plea for human rights not to be forgotten in the face of economic crisis.

As I walked away, I passed a street musician playing Hava Nagila on the accordion.

Great city.

Perpignan

I really like Perpignan. There’s life in the streets, in the plazas and the bars, which are half in the streets anyway. It’s truly a Catalan city, much smaller than Barcelona and I think, more easily accessible. There’s a vibrant cultural scene with a new theatre and a special interest in photography due to the presence of Visa Pour l’Image. When people find out I’m a photographer, they always ask if I know about Visa, an indication of the extent to which this festival of photojournalism has become part of the city that hosts it. I also need a regular hit of city life.

Saturday, Marcel, Carrie and I went into Perpignan and started the day with lunch at a place we’ve come to call “the ham man.” Marcel and Carrie are the only people I know who eat more pork than me. L’homme de Jambon is a storefront in the central part of the city with three or four tables outside and some great pork. A nice mixed platter with jamon, lomo, some sausage, manchego and pan con tomate goes very well with a cheap rose. It’s nice being so close to Spain. It’s also nice sitting in the sun across from a florist and the lovely woman who works there, who I wanted to invite to the exhibition opening. Alas, she wasn’t working this week.

Salsa Dancing in Perpignan ©2012 Ron Scherl

Around the corner to the café-encircled Place de la Republique for a coffee and the unexpected diversion of a salsa dancing class. Spanish ham, Latin dancing, French cafes, this is a very cool city.

By now the shops had reopened after lunch and we set about bringing exhibition posters and post cards to the wine stores, finding most everyone receptive although Michele was non-committal about coming to the opening.

Michele ©2012 Ron Scherl

Getting on to time for an apero, which means the wine and tapas bars are opening and more places to bring posters and stop for a glass. There are a number of great little bars in the central city and it’s a pleasure to be hanging there. We also discovered there’s a Cava festival in town next weekend, a perfect time to bring more posters and cards.

Perpignan ©2012 Ron Scherl

Having spent the day eating and drinking, it was now time for dinner and we found ourselves eating Asian food and drinking Spanish wine in the Havana Club. This was multicultural overload. The Cuban/Chinese connection shows up in a number of restaurants but Thai noodles at the Havana Club in Perpignan? Seemed a stretch to me. It was. Not bad, but definitely not Thai. The Havana Club is known more for it’s lively bar scene but tonight was quiet. Marcel suggested a nightcap, but I was done.