Un Petit Goût de Bourgogne

A small taste of Burgundy.  Sip it slowly and enjoy all the flavors it gives off.

Here's Brad, contemplating math or a wine lover’s paradise, along the wine road of Vosne Romanée.

You met this young fellow, the watchdog of Concouer-et-Corboin, here.  It’s possible to spend all day in France taking photos of dogs and nothing else.

I haven’t quite figured out who this fellow is.  Doesn’t exactly look like Sarkozy, but his likeness is stenciled all over Dijon.  Clearly someone is trying to say something.

My wish before my stay is over is to get a decent picture of this fellow.  He usually appears around early dinnertime.  We had just tucked into our first course at a restaurant on rue Berbisey when he came along.  I had put my camera away just moments before, so it was a real scramble even to catch this shot.

We had just minutes before arrived in the city of Auxerre and were taking photos of the boats lining the riverbank when I spied this monk out for a morning stroll.  France is always a juxtaposition of the old and the new.

In Auxerre we heard music coming from Cathedral Saint-Etienne so I led the charge to participate in the Sunday service.  We happened to arrive just as an adult baptism began.  The congregation’s musical chants, however, were to the enthusiastic beat of sub-Saharan African drums.  At the offertory, the young woman recently baptized (in white, on right) carried the host, led by other young people dancing down the aisle to a drum chorus, baskets of fruit offerings on their heads and white handkerchiefs waving in one hand.

While I was snapping photos quietly from my place in the back, an old French woman sidled up to me and said something quickly but firmly in French.  I couldn’t interpret it easily, what with the drums going and the random AMENS being shouted, but I’m sure she was telling me not to take pictures in church.  After she left I went back to shooting.  In my church at home people are always pulling out cameras – for the church website, because a child is acolyting for the first time, because because just because.  They never interrupt the service.  Our Lady’s Guild members have practically a full time job archiving the photos from the life of our church.

So before slipping out during the last part of the service I found the donation box every church in Europe has, large and small, and dropped in 2€ as a penance, grabbed one of their brochures on the history of the church, and slipped out.  So here is the “offending” shot of a 4th century European church celebrating the global communion of our 21st century.

What other scenes of France would you like to see?  What would you like to know about France from my American perspective?  I’ll take any and all requests here although I can’t promise I’ll be able to fulfill them.  What would you like to read about while I’m here?

The Importance of Elsewhere

A watch dog watching over the entire village of Corboin in Burgundy

The Importance Of Elsewhere by Philip Larkin

Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home, 


Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff of speech, 


Insisting so on difference, made me welcome: 


Once that was recognised, we were in touch



Their draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint 


Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable, 


The herring-hawker's cry, dwindling, went 


To prove me separate, not unworkable.



Living in England has no such excuse: 


These are my customs and establishments 


It would be much more serious to refuse. 


Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

Thursday I was in sleepy river town of Moline, IL, home of tractor maker John Deere.  Sunday I was navigating the massive airport and busy train stations of Paris, FR.  Today I wander the narrow late medieval streets of Vosne Romanée and hold my breath as massive, modern wine-cultivating equipment creeps past my bedroom window with only centimeters to spare.  Yes, it’s time to travel again.

I’m not a travel snob (I hope not), needing to notch my belt with 1000 places somebody says I must see before I die.  I don’t look for the exotic – in my advanced age I like a bed to sleep on at night and food made from animals I can identify.  I don’t even always need to go far or be gone for long.  My heart dances, however, at the idea of Elsewhere.

Poet Philip Larkin understands the importance of elsewhere.  There is a certain freedom in feeling out of place and a certain familiarity in feeling disoriented.  “Strangeness made sense,” Larkin concludes.  I travel usually sans the now ubiquitous GPS unit.  Not that they’re not helpful, but I enjoy finding my way on instinct and a physical map.  Traveling that way, to get lost just becomes an opportunity to know a new place better. Last summer for my trip between Dijon and La Roche-Posay I did have one.  We were constantly arguing – the machine and I – about which was the more efficient route and which the more interesting.  I voted for interesting every time and suffered the consequences.  But the Loire Valley is now a part of me, the winding roads and the troglodyte houses that marked my path to the Vienne River.

It’s a bit harder to work up enthusiasm, however, for the Elsewheres of the mind and of my life.  “These are my customs and establishments / It would be much more serious to refuse,” Larkin admits.  Too often at home I let the routine of home crowd out an enthusiasm for what might be around the corner.  I grow impatient with detours in my day.  I don’t find the time for salsa dancing lessons.  I hunt for the quickest line at the grocery store.  I feel obligated to say yes when someone asks something of me, even if I had planned to spend that time reading or practicing French.

Navigating elsewhere empowers me to feel comfortable in the unfamiliar.  I arrive someplace new and quickly feel at home and energized.  At home, though, I often feel stuck and dragged down by routine.  For the next month I’ll be elsewhere in place and in mind.  Perhaps by the time I return I’ll have figured out how to keep traveling where I am.  How to keep moving forward, detours and all, while staying put.

Where is your Elsewhere?  What makes you feel comfortable or uncomfortable?  Share your Elsewheres of the body or mind here.

A modern farmer uses the traditional techniques in the vineyards of Vosne Romanée, FR

I think I'll call this color "French Green"