tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89881116893827483452024-02-19T08:19:11.646-08:00The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Food and Travel BlogThe Pilgrim's Way Cafe is the place where traveling the world on foot meets discovering the local at the pace of one's spirit. It involves a lot of trekking to sacred sites and often some form of enticing local food. My feet have taken me to four continents. Most of my recent treks are in France, Spain, and the USA.The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-72307104578600825612022-05-14T18:56:00.002-07:002022-05-14T18:57:48.102-07:00<p>In unplanned perfect Camino trail magic synchronicity, I have two new books coming out this spring, one week apart, from entirely different publishers, and both on the Camino de Santiago: </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7LY8Pt9DS5MQSiZQc4jsVnTdAYdqMMzFuMkPXeuhkiaMbTqbr4CWVq0nn1muDucWVL9ubMUyjHGJDrE2nZ_QEl7YcyEWfJzeDyYLQXf4s59rlp5ZmvZFC-ytqOxrhNcFOaqBYMeptkMV1r7rGvIy48puJ5spXLrtNNdS-w46vqD7o31u1MGpS-hfe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="333" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7LY8Pt9DS5MQSiZQc4jsVnTdAYdqMMzFuMkPXeuhkiaMbTqbr4CWVq0nn1muDucWVL9ubMUyjHGJDrE2nZ_QEl7YcyEWfJzeDyYLQXf4s59rlp5ZmvZFC-ytqOxrhNcFOaqBYMeptkMV1r7rGvIy48puJ5spXLrtNNdS-w46vqD7o31u1MGpS-hfe=w211-h314" width="211" /></a></div> <p></p><p>From Monkfish Book Publishing, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Way-Wild-Goose-Pilgrimages-Following/dp/1948626632/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+way+of+the+wild+goose&qid=1634315193&sr=8-1"><b><i>The Way of the Wild Goose</i></b></a>
is a pilgrimage-turned-adventure story in pursuit of a pagan mystery on
the Camino de Santiago across France and Spain: Through three
pilgrimages across southern France and northern Spain that define a
single journey on the Camino de Santiago, <i>The Way of the Wild Goose </i>recounts
an inner and outer journey full of wild nature, ancient roads and
history, quirky pilgrims, wise and humorous locals, and mysterious
folklore. It’s a compelling tale of quest, initiation, and
transformation following the Way of Saint James. <i>The Way of the Wild Goose</i>
is also a detective story that reveals an old mystery: Why is the goose
associated with the medieval Camino de Santiago, and how did it come to
preserve a whole universe of pagan, preChristian lore in one innocent
symbol? When I decided to find out, I
unknowingly catapulted myself into a true wild goose chase,
unearthing a magnetically alive and meaningful long walk on the ancient
roads in France and Spain—and a journey of inner transformation. In <i>The Way of the Wild Goose </i>I return again to Sarlat, the same colorful and beloved home base as in <i>Café Oc </i>and <i>Café Neandertal. <br /></i><br /></p><p>And from Hachette/Avalon/Moon is the fully revised and updated second edition of my guidebook, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Moon-Camino-Santiago-Historic-Villages/dp/1640496084/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=moon+camino+de+santiago&qid=1634315995&sr=8-4"><b><i>Moon Camino de Santiago: Sacred Sites, Historic Villages, Local Food & Wine</i></b></a>:</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWRqe6JEwAinKfmmh-seFjD7YyHndQTomuNG-h-7ZM6BE-cBRJG5gVS5ZLaISJ9_lVXO-UdooAjrp-YIDkC8SLAUOBAH-TF5Y744ijLIdEVP46McFTDAo9fMWYM3lD1DMHDJ7dkT-ipolrrOqKQ66uP93l4areiUqv0RqsWLm79OK1GfvbsL_Q6eZr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="198" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWRqe6JEwAinKfmmh-seFjD7YyHndQTomuNG-h-7ZM6BE-cBRJG5gVS5ZLaISJ9_lVXO-UdooAjrp-YIDkC8SLAUOBAH-TF5Y744ijLIdEVP46McFTDAo9fMWYM3lD1DMHDJ7dkT-ipolrrOqKQ66uP93l4areiUqv0RqsWLm79OK1GfvbsL_Q6eZr=w208-h320" width="208" /></a></div><br /> To a joyous spring, and always, ¡Buen Camino!<br /><p></p>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-54212203064519533172020-10-02T17:53:00.003-07:002020-10-02T17:53:28.789-07:00The moment I became a pilgrim
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5N9dorrpFZERV4rUAMp3MhwNh7lCpHZPXFg1NQxjgZphyphenhyphenmD5zFkuQwQPD3JY4Ay7G4rMUX0BrVItUX11nZ56gqsC7VdYGRz8VzrkX4YFBmVIp2FIlGOSTAQsKetlLCcsbHgBkO9y7z2w/s1688/Remote_coastal_path_1995_Bahrami.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1688" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5N9dorrpFZERV4rUAMp3MhwNh7lCpHZPXFg1NQxjgZphyphenhyphenmD5zFkuQwQPD3JY4Ay7G4rMUX0BrVItUX11nZ56gqsC7VdYGRz8VzrkX4YFBmVIp2FIlGOSTAQsKetlLCcsbHgBkO9y7z2w/w400-h276/Remote_coastal_path_1995_Bahrami.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p> </p><p>(A long overdue letter of thanks to the lady with water and sandwiches in Galicia...)<br /></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dear kind Señora
in remote coastal Galicia near Padrón, Spain,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Since I met you
back in the early spring of 1995, I have met many trail angels, but you were my
first. It was you who made me a pilgrim, possibly you who fueled this obsession,
to walk long walks in sacred space and time. I have thanked you many times in
my heart. I am pretty certain you have long forgotten what you did. Isn’t it
remarkable how one seemingly little act can alter a whole life?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">That spring was
nine years after I first heard about the Camino de Santiago. In 1986, those
three words lodged into me and I knew that one day, when I could, I would walk
it. But despite the long years, you would think that I had a plan for it. Instead,
when the moment arrived, I was utterly unprepared. In fact, I hadn’t planned to
walk it just then.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was coming up from</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> southwestern Spain where I had just </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">finished doctoral research for my
dissertation. My husband, Miles, met me midway in Lisbon and we took the train north
through Portugal and into Galicia, destined for Santiago de Compostela. I
figured I had a few days to see the glorious city of legend and myth and then one
day, a year or two later if providence allowed, I would return with more time
to walk the whole trail from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But just before reaching
the train’s terminus in Santiago, we heard the train conductor announce, “last
stop, Padrón.” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Padrón, right?
Where Saint James first arrived by stone boat? Where this whole Santiago thing
really begins? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Miles and I
looked at each other and knew it had to start here. Just as the train was
beginning to pull out of Padrón, we grabbed out packs and jumped. I heard an
explosive, “¡<i>Coños</i>!” erupt from behind us, accompanied by the well-justified
arm pumping of the conductor. But we landed well, knocked the dust off of the
hems of our pants, and after visiting the town where Saint James’ stone boat purportedly
moored nearly two thousand years, we began walking. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJJFm6fK3KmpRBA7ZvgLsLHCT2TnJ4tPWnsiPBs9O12WEP8HbA6u-rpH6pQjxjD3SDLQYAH7jGT6P6ZbvMZ83oxGVVjSjZLTv6piZjpFHGQlVdsvQLTqQa-nJ9Vg572v_tZumgcJG1EA/s660/StJasmes%2527sBoat_SdC_1995_Bahrami.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="642" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJJFm6fK3KmpRBA7ZvgLsLHCT2TnJ4tPWnsiPBs9O12WEP8HbA6u-rpH6pQjxjD3SDLQYAH7jGT6P6ZbvMZ83oxGVVjSjZLTv6piZjpFHGQlVdsvQLTqQa-nJ9Vg572v_tZumgcJG1EA/w389-h400/StJasmes%2527sBoat_SdC_1995_Bahrami.jpg" width="389" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We had no map,
no food, and no water. My thesis, all 500-pages of it, was strapped to the hood
of my pack. We took the scenic route, a roundabout detour to walk along the coastal
finger of land between Padrón and Noya. Only when we were out in the middle of
nowhere did we realize what royal idiots we were. We entered a natural
protected park, a rare place in Spain where there are no cafés. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t worry,”
Miles said, “This here is a pilgrimage. Let’s trust the path to give us what we
need when we need it.” With that sketchy plan, we pressed on. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Three hours
later, seeing no one and no café, feeling an increasingly dry texture in my
throat, I began to doubt Miles’ optimistic approach. But it was right then that
you appeared, driving past us and serendipitously stopping you car on the
roadside to check on something. I rushed over to you to ask you where we could
find water and food.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re
in the middle of a protected natural park,” you’d answered, “so not very near
here, except…” You smiled and opened your trunk, rooted through several bags,
and then pulled out a large unopened bottle of mineral water and two
sandwiches. You told us to take them, that you had just come from your grocery
shopping, and, thinking of going for a hike later in the day, had on a whim
picked up the water and <i>bocadillos</i>. You insisted and refused any
payment. “This is pilgrimage,” you’d said and drove off.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This
is pilgrimage. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Those
three words reverberated in my mind and rewove my body and being. Christening
us pilgrims, out there on that wild finger of land in the middle of nowhere,
was a game changer for me. It was the very moment I turned into a lifelong
pilgrim. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Your
one act also seemed to have opened a magical door, one flowing with serendipity
and synchronicity. The rest of the day, people showed up right as we needed
guidance, sustenance, and support. By night, coastal villagers gave us a place
to sleep and shared their dinner, just-caught fish and just-plucked vegetables
from their gardens, along with homemade sparkling white wine. </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thanks
to you, I became a pilgrim. Thanks to you and your many brother and sister
Camino angels since, I have remained a pilgrim, and I continue to learn from
you about grace, magic, generosity, and kindness with each step of the Way.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mil
gracias por todo.</span></p><style>
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{page:Section1;}</style>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-581716689099632272018-10-30T13:57:00.000-07:002018-10-30T14:20:06.205-07:00A New Camino de Santiago Guidebook<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzOuqBqJpwncovCKc23cSoB5uo5QcdTJY-6k1jz36qBdL37c2-UAiEKHjL8Ciy8E4DhPPm5jDZ3niUhg5DThiv1ljrfGpoBPHCcKzHEQmAQRVX9sKlZkPGuQJCyfXVgOGwTwv033N7NE/s1600/DSCN9745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzOuqBqJpwncovCKc23cSoB5uo5QcdTJY-6k1jz36qBdL37c2-UAiEKHjL8Ciy8E4DhPPm5jDZ3niUhg5DThiv1ljrfGpoBPHCcKzHEQmAQRVX9sKlZkPGuQJCyfXVgOGwTwv033N7NE/s320/DSCN9745.JPG" width="320" /></a> The first time I set foot on the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain was in 1995, an unplanned adventure and soulful education in trail magic.<br />
<br />
That life-changing journey led to my return to the trail many times since, so many that I have lost count.<br />
<br />
I am excited to share that one major outcome of all those adventures on the
trail is my forthcoming guidebook on the Camino de Santiago: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Moon-Camino-Santiago-Historic-Villages/dp/164049328X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Moon Camino de Santiago: Sacred Sites, Historic Villages, Local Food and Wine</a>, due out April 2019.<br />
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And between now and then, here is an account, recently published in <i>Perceptive Travel</i>, about that first trek in 1995, which I call, <a href="https://www.perceptivetravel.com/issues/0618/spain.html">The Way of the Octopus.</a><br />
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I hope the magic of trekking on sacred terrain offered by journeying on the Camino will capture you as much it has me. ¡Buen Camino!The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-8408858867554193012017-02-08T02:09:00.000-08:002017-02-08T06:07:22.376-08:00Hiking the Dune du Pilat in the Arcachon Basin near Bordeaux, France<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">
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My friends Mel and Sue say that everyone has a dune story to tell when they come to this stunning southwestern French Atlantic outpost near Bordeaux.<br />
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When I hiked the Dune du Pilat, my dune story was the thrill of climbing to the ridge of the immense dune and having the constant bird's eye view of forest and ocean on either side. It was as if walking on the spine of a giant slumbering beast: I could also see the Arcachon Basin, an amazing estuary rich with diverse bird and sea life. I could just make out the waves at Cap Ferret, a narrow finger of land that almost closes the basin off from the ocean. And on my way up, I met a smart young Bavarian woman who was an agriculture student and spoke passionately about (re)creating a world where we grow good food locally and with sustainable practices. I hiked and learned and saw the potential of that world all around me. </div>
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When I descended from the spine after trekking the 6-kilometers long trail, I discovered a little open-air dune-side restaurant serving simply prepared, just-foraged mussels, perhaps the best I've ever eaten. The mussels came from just over the rise in the Arcachon Basin, and the chef was happy to share her recipe, noted below.<br />
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Arcachon and the Dune du Pilat are an easy day-trip from Bordeaux: Take
the train from Bordeaux’s St-Jean station to the town of Arcachon where
right in front of the train station is a bus going to the dune. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dune du Pilat Tarragon Mussels</b></div>
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1 ½ to 2 pounds fresh mussels, cleaned, rinsed, and discarding any that are open or broken.</div>
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1 small white onion, minced</div>
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1 tablespoon olive oil</div>
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¾ cup dry white wine</div>
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¼ cup fresh tarragon leaves stripped from the stem but not chopped. </div>
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Salt & pepper to taste</div>
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Sautee the onions in the olive oil in a large pot. Add the mussels, white wine, tarragon, and salt and pepper. Cover and bring the pot to a boil and then lower the heat to steam the mussels until they open. Once they open, take the mussels off the heat and discard any that did not open. </div>
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Enjoy the mussels with a glass of dry white wine (ideally, the same one you cooked with) and crusty bread or french fries.</div>
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-87563756514851661712015-08-12T07:24:00.001-07:002015-11-10T06:34:29.595-08:00The Camino de Vino Across Southern France and Northern Spain on the Way of Saint James<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcREAl9KGVn_85nF0JrFVm8wAWu8ztW8N7ipQlajpeWSShgQFBm-MxrUm7K4qMEMKoXciHrddPjKKl57m0D7lLmROl7-Kuc7kA_gF3nHQxwPnz5fHunRyaThNdGlY8lLY4k4lQKy8_ybY/s1600/VIneyards_Navarra_Bahrami2015.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcREAl9KGVn_85nF0JrFVm8wAWu8ztW8N7ipQlajpeWSShgQFBm-MxrUm7K4qMEMKoXciHrddPjKKl57m0D7lLmROl7-Kuc7kA_gF3nHQxwPnz5fHunRyaThNdGlY8lLY4k4lQKy8_ybY/s320/VIneyards_Navarra_Bahrami2015.JPG" /></a><br />
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<i>Both pilgrimage and wine are about the journey and on the Camino de Santiago the two are often in one glass</i></div>
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Nothing connects me more deeply to wine than walking eight hours a day through vineyard after vineyard across southern France and northern Spain on the Camino de Santiago, that thousand year old pilgrimage route to Saint James the Greater’s supposed tomb in Santiago de Compostela. Life unfolds at the pace of photosynthesis and footfall. At night the two fuse over a glass from the land and with the locals I met that day. (I've been walking this road, on different routes, since 1995 and it keeps calling me back. My most recent trek was this spring. There is always more to learn!)<br />
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In Gascony, heavy clusters of golden Petit Manseng hanging on a fence high upon a hill overhead dazzled me as the sun backlit them in late morning light like luminous angels descending from heaven. At night, I found a bottle of Jurançon from the vineyard and shared it with fellow pilgrims: It tasted like the day, a liquid journal, right down to the sweep of wind through sorghum and sunflowers and the distant moo from the caramel-cream spotted cow.<br />
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In Navarra, I took in a local glass at the old wine monastery of Irache’s fountain with two spigots, one for water and one for wine, a tradition carried on by Bodegas Irache to honor pilgrims and recall Jesus’ first miracle. Like Jesus’ wine, theirs was pretty good.<br />
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In Leon, I joined the harvest and stomped Tempranillo with acquaintances in an old bathtub in their garage. We barreled and stored the future wine then uncorked prior years’ vintages and feasted all night on backyard grilled paprika chicken, potatoes, and salads plucked from the garden. <br />
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In Galicia, at Santiago at last, two brother chefs at Café Iacobus celebrated my finish with a gift, grilled sea scallops and a glass of small-production Albariño, both procured from the same coastal spot.<br />
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How can one separate the Camino from wine when this intimately bound together?<br />
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The Camino’s making was directly connected to winemaking. With their medieval building campaigns to support the pilgrimage, celibate foodie monks also revived the interrupted ancient wine craft brought to southern France and northern Spain by Phoenicians, Greeks, and Romans millennia before. On the church stones they engraved copious wine scenes, from wine miracles (water to wine, wine to blood) to the vine representing Jesus who sustains it all.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcJvKatpIeuhXiXCw8U9xr6hlPuxsYjQB-qVRya5oiepLm58OPIu-g6Owa9gVWaP5skVrEdOc1JFoU3QYA-sKlx0Mk95fKXG8bP8fbJFMHB_LqtCzUzd5eKA-v4IhQWPtbrb0Qvx2Yk0/s1600/SacredVine_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcJvKatpIeuhXiXCw8U9xr6hlPuxsYjQB-qVRya5oiepLm58OPIu-g6Owa9gVWaP5skVrEdOc1JFoU3QYA-sKlx0Mk95fKXG8bP8fbJFMHB_LqtCzUzd5eKA-v4IhQWPtbrb0Qvx2Yk0/s320/SacredVine_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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When around AD 1139 the monk Aimery Picaud wrote Europe’s first travel guide, The Pilgrims’ Guide to St James of Compostela, he praised the wines of Bordeaux, Estella in Navarra, and Carrion de los Condes in Castile. In Galicia, so close to Santiago, he bemoaned wine’s scarcity but in the same pen-stroke praised the cider.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyHlbNQDGdoSL3lHK2DsnxsewPtWnrXz-wimlSyolyK9u31-YivfQTa4dEcyIgEmEZ7cWHpU03LqlzuWWlV9133lMFc2AP1pFn3d6CLtnc7bUxMHwgngwfUKsQvKYTZUCwE6V3vnjEfUM/s1600/Auch_Bahrami2012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyHlbNQDGdoSL3lHK2DsnxsewPtWnrXz-wimlSyolyK9u31-YivfQTa4dEcyIgEmEZ7cWHpU03LqlzuWWlV9133lMFc2AP1pFn3d6CLtnc7bUxMHwgngwfUKsQvKYTZUCwE6V3vnjEfUM/s200/Auch_Bahrami2012.JPG" width="141" /></a></div>
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If Picaud and the other monks had wine as much as salvation on their minds, I feel fine following in their footsteps. The Camino will work this magic anyhow, weaving the walker into the sacredness of the land and people, with wine as its conduit.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt7XNBnrMAREL04V0lsW_1Stjr7lyRfE3gVNIiLrFITa7sNVskhpynwyCtkztTM7UOE2ZrdO9I_L0KLYWdLMhW9leO5AOXmpaFU2sMzNvKMfTy7q72PCxunpUuwufY5y51MKBoDinpfU/s1600/CheminMenu_Bahrami2012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt7XNBnrMAREL04V0lsW_1Stjr7lyRfE3gVNIiLrFITa7sNVskhpynwyCtkztTM7UOE2ZrdO9I_L0KLYWdLMhW9leO5AOXmpaFU2sMzNvKMfTy7q72PCxunpUuwufY5y51MKBoDinpfU/s320/CheminMenu_Bahrami2012.JPG" width="203" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLS9oRPoi7ZLa_4itpaxvUe4BxMAVqbst0DDpRGgyhsYcn0alfkTRiVRU-4Q5TVEHASjmWUzbSynvkvt76Tn1EBXaaINMtXdAHKfiEioA1sjPneOem_JeZ1gz5ywY_fLl-kWsDmTiYoM/s1600/LorgronoTapas_Bahrami2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLS9oRPoi7ZLa_4itpaxvUe4BxMAVqbst0DDpRGgyhsYcn0alfkTRiVRU-4Q5TVEHASjmWUzbSynvkvt76Tn1EBXaaINMtXdAHKfiEioA1sjPneOem_JeZ1gz5ywY_fLl-kWsDmTiYoM/s400/LorgronoTapas_Bahrami2015.JPG" width="131" /></a><b>Some Camino wines with heavenly little plates: </b><br />
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<b>Southwestern France </b><br />
<i>Gascony</i><br />
Jurançon sec and Abbaye de Belloc sheep’s milk cheese<br />
Madiran and dry cured duck prosciutto with fresh figs<br />
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<i>Basque Country</i><br />
Irouléguy rosé with jambon de Bayonne and melon <br />
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<b>Northern Spain</b><br />
<i>Rioja</i><br />
Crianza and sautéed wild mushrooms with garlic and thyme<br />
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<i>Bierzo</i><br />
Mencía and spicy lamb meatballs in tomato sauce<br />
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<i>Rias Baixas</i><br />
Albariño and grilled sea scallops and chivesThe Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-34291174591686305582014-07-22T10:10:00.005-07:002014-07-22T10:13:03.631-07:00Najera’s Cave, Rioja, Spain<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>(among the most magical (and often most-overlooked) places on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, begun on <a href="http://pilgrimswaycafe.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-most-magical-and-often-most.html">6 June 2014</a>)</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Straddling
the pretty Naverette River with red sandstone cliffs and green river banks,
Nájera is a gregarious town hiding a holy cave. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The monastery, Monasterio de
Santa María la Real, is built right into the cliff. Upon entering you pass
through the cloister with its delicate Gothic-arched latticework and then
deeper in you reach the church. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the very back is the cave, discovered in AD 1044
when the king of Navarra, García III, followed his hunting falcon, who was pursuing
a partridge. Behind the thicket hiding the cave he spied a mysterious light and
discovered Our Lady of Nájera surrounded by white lilies and the two birds, now
good friends rather than predator and prey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You can visit the red sandstone
cave, most likely carved out of the soft stone around the 3<sup>rd</sup>
century. It was then forgotten, overgrown by forest and hidden, until that mystical
day in the 11<sup>th</sup> century.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">More on </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://pilgrimswaycafe.blogspot.com/2012/12/a-peaceable-kingdom-on-pilgrimage-in.html">Nájera's folklore</a>.</span> </span>
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-40284108874320697992014-06-27T07:24:00.000-07:002014-06-27T13:52:54.043-07:00San Pedro de la Rua, Estella, Navarra<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>(among the most magical (and often most-overlooked) places on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, begun on <a href="http://pilgrimswaycafe.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-most-magical-and-often-most.html">6 June 2014</a>) </b></span></span><br />
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Called “Estella la Bella” in the
Middle Ages, Estella remains beautiful and is packed full with sacred sites but
none that exceed the 12<sup>th</sup> century hilltop church of San Pedro de la
Rua. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHKixCqvSGzfWn_oJUYH_KQc1GMezEQ3QG6xmASB7hBSeGKNChyphenhyphen06Qg4LU4v0X5aRJ8gzfS5cCyIIQGenXRR5n8QufFXtjB37wd56yHpf3RP3tmGm5RV1u_qe1GSLMdfStKKaGpVafA4/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRua_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHKixCqvSGzfWn_oJUYH_KQc1GMezEQ3QG6xmASB7hBSeGKNChyphenhyphen06Qg4LU4v0X5aRJ8gzfS5cCyIIQGenXRR5n8QufFXtjB37wd56yHpf3RP3tmGm5RV1u_qe1GSLMdfStKKaGpVafA4/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRua_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The doorway is a multi-lobed
Mudéjar style by Muslim craftsmen working in medieval Christian Spain. The
archway holds several mystical keys often missing in other entranceways. One
medallion over the arch points shows the hand of God holding up three fingers
for the Trinity. Another depicts a lamb and the chi-rho that both represent
Christ, but notice that the Alpha and Omega are in reverse, leading some to
believe that the artisan was influenced by Arabic or Hebrew, both of which are
written from right to left. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Islamic creatures populate the arches, such as the
two Persian-style winged birds on the left capital. Interwoven throughout the
arches are Biblical tales, fanciful plants, and Celtic knots. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tIRK3iptF2iF6r4AlTspsrVBOnqUbhvPiCwKT7Jl4P0jYeWfjfimJfcr-0fbRaV5mx6yFN7pLNnGjrEQSJb11-qAYElMOJhUqPO-83vC3rjvF6gENsWeFpPI5hW_MtWunknW8uQpPRA/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRuaPersian_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tIRK3iptF2iF6r4AlTspsrVBOnqUbhvPiCwKT7Jl4P0jYeWfjfimJfcr-0fbRaV5mx6yFN7pLNnGjrEQSJb11-qAYElMOJhUqPO-83vC3rjvF6gENsWeFpPI5hW_MtWunknW8uQpPRA/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRuaPersian_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cVtHk5iRTpajGSbZbE1qHdlTKMaYPy2AoFnXZxqLHIEyTWopvnpBdxHR8vv2dfYp2AAb9t7f0wVGdgYyNIo1Bkqy-LWpaWcjB7mjmRn7O55uhPa1hWoppfFfU8Jp1PAjx8N9Jf0z820/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRuaSerpents_(c)Bahrami.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cVtHk5iRTpajGSbZbE1qHdlTKMaYPy2AoFnXZxqLHIEyTWopvnpBdxHR8vv2dfYp2AAb9t7f0wVGdgYyNIo1Bkqy-LWpaWcjB7mjmRn7O55uhPa1hWoppfFfU8Jp1PAjx8N9Jf0z820/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRuaSerpents_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span>I<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">nside is an open, rounded altar that holds Mary on the viewer's left, and left of her, an enigmatic pillar of three braided serpents. Mary
is from the 13<sup>th</sup> century, but the three serpents are the 1893 restoration
work of sculptor Cayetano Echauri who was a specialist of occult
symbolism. He wanted to restore the medieval esoteric tradition of this
region in his work. The three serpents represent good, evil, and wisdom and they
are intertwined to represent the interplay of wisdom in discerning good from
bad. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Further back, San Pedro’s cloister reflects the mixed heritage from the
front of the church, especially in the Basque pre-Christian solar disk
tombstones and the Islamic Mudéjar-style plants and animals on the pillar capitals.<span style="color: maroon;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kQKw7Le5Fdra76p_dRhRhTm-uhAilMoPoeTPbnbWQKd9QSPxmLtycVleG1GFiwg6a2JPAey2DFZoAnWVjL0yJkwrksMFaiaPmImZZpO1jf089g3wR3AuEuz-7C4F9nLYVT2QvbDteNc/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRuaCloister_(c)Bahrami19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kQKw7Le5Fdra76p_dRhRhTm-uhAilMoPoeTPbnbWQKd9QSPxmLtycVleG1GFiwg6a2JPAey2DFZoAnWVjL0yJkwrksMFaiaPmImZZpO1jf089g3wR3AuEuz-7C4F9nLYVT2QvbDteNc/s1600/EstellaSanPedrodelaRuaCloister_(c)Bahrami19.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-align: start; text-indent: 0.5in;">To learn more about the deeper esoteric past and present in Estella and other mystical sites on the Camino, please see my book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Spiritual-Traveler-Spain-Pilgrim/dp/1587680475">The Spiritual Traveler Spain</a></i> and my app (both on iTunes and Android), <i><a href="http://www.beebesfeast.com/app-camino.html#order">The Esoteric Camino France & Spain</a></i>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo66CLpXJQQwq3-iTlj7ZqK5TMbsFxoklMwO5yD1j1w-fXUvWNcizLenmVXahovAt1TbArsey65bcEu0kN07q7zcAf9vuA_8dSJ90W0IX1U9zQexnCBnYxNVIKy6RlpZFX9I5uehFOLOE/s1600/SantiagoCathedral_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo66CLpXJQQwq3-iTlj7ZqK5TMbsFxoklMwO5yD1j1w-fXUvWNcizLenmVXahovAt1TbArsey65bcEu0kN07q7zcAf9vuA_8dSJ90W0IX1U9zQexnCBnYxNVIKy6RlpZFX9I5uehFOLOE/s1600/SantiagoCathedral_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="200" width="166" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Inside
the 12<sup>th</sup> century Romanesque cathedral of Santiago de Compostela are
several splendid little universes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Among
the most interesting is the Capilla de la Corticela, an overlooked little chapel
just to the right of the northern entrance, the Puerta de la Azbachería. It was
a 9<sup>th</sup> century church that was once separate from the cathedral but
that eventually was absorbed into its expansion and reconfigured with a 12<sup>th</sup>
century Romanesque entrance. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfh2cpsYa6EHhcEFy6LaZIL0Kkhrx1Rg5RAt8McqPKJ748IHGuDbVwr1qViWOXN6tWvpTlAN7tCsW9AMyaaLiaL6pLpTLXmpL-tPgs_d_LhasAWTYmPWoYQ1iLvrJxmDkj8O_pEzV6Jc/s1600/CapillaCorticelaSantiago_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfh2cpsYa6EHhcEFy6LaZIL0Kkhrx1Rg5RAt8McqPKJ748IHGuDbVwr1qViWOXN6tWvpTlAN7tCsW9AMyaaLiaL6pLpTLXmpL-tPgs_d_LhasAWTYmPWoYQ1iLvrJxmDkj8O_pEzV6Jc/s1600/CapillaCorticelaSantiago_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="400" width="261" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Step through the threshold and you will likely
discover that La Capilla de la Corticela has an amazing magic pulsating in it,
as if the old magic of this Neolithic hilltop is for some reason strongest
here. If you sit here and pray and meditate a while, you will also witness
locals coming and going in their own magical engagement of the space, some
leaving offerings and others writing wishes on slips of paper to deposit to the
left of the shrine.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-68118200138243478242014-06-26T01:19:00.000-07:002014-06-26T01:19:22.270-07:00Eunate, Navarra, Spain<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>(among the most magical (and often most-overlooked) places on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, begun on <a href="http://pilgrimswaycafe.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-most-magical-and-often-most.html">6 June 2014</a>) </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
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--</style><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Santa Maria de
Eunate is a beautiful little remote round chapel surrounded by grazing sheep
and rolling hills between Pamplona and Puente la Reina. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrELvIL9JZj02_NaD-V9tkCYdapqBgL4iajVC_CE3ss7kfZtcWe27c6Ki96RtQJHICx0Ge6FRrtHG3D9lcf-2UYanbpTEzEMPkmJZPBBdBZ_Rj1cvBM5dDeGr1lJJd_8e-KCQ7q0TwqMM/s1600/Eunate_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrELvIL9JZj02_NaD-V9tkCYdapqBgL4iajVC_CE3ss7kfZtcWe27c6Ki96RtQJHICx0Ge6FRrtHG3D9lcf-2UYanbpTEzEMPkmJZPBBdBZ_Rj1cvBM5dDeGr1lJJd_8e-KCQ7q0TwqMM/s1600/Eunate_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">No one knows who built this
octagonal chapel dedicated to Mary. It may have the Templar Knights, who were
inspired by the eight-sided Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. What
makes this 12<sup>th</sup> century church all the more enigmatic is its
33-arched cloister surrounding the outside of the church like Saturn’s rings
and that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eunate</i> is the Basque word
for “one hundred doors.” </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnS2yqXRIEQH2-b32k1l6UAxNhtOgEKwtzYoEvvVrGS6HmZuypmnsvU77wVczR_d6qKJ8sAu7ItwGct1IJEx9QU3z1IuxH8h8irWwIzMK7545AdKSD2x66ZtZR556XF_Avb4eSOvtVxCA/s1600/ArchesEunate_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnS2yqXRIEQH2-b32k1l6UAxNhtOgEKwtzYoEvvVrGS6HmZuypmnsvU77wVczR_d6qKJ8sAu7ItwGct1IJEx9QU3z1IuxH8h8irWwIzMK7545AdKSD2x66ZtZR556XF_Avb4eSOvtVxCA/s1600/ArchesEunate_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">From Basques to Christians and Muslims, there is a
mixed ancestry at work here. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRqd4t5h3gKFZoLS1U0hsVWgqat6EoyVmibGIYc6NM8AhZBuMMtv29Y7G-DnpLEagEBJTB1JsPeF5jeD3FoHudYoon_t1p_jvhtr6DFicsEuP2cKQaXIoSoMN6_lXEQv5-AyLehkaiUfY/s1600/EunateSpiralBeard_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRqd4t5h3gKFZoLS1U0hsVWgqat6EoyVmibGIYc6NM8AhZBuMMtv29Y7G-DnpLEagEBJTB1JsPeF5jeD3FoHudYoon_t1p_jvhtr6DFicsEuP2cKQaXIoSoMN6_lXEQv5-AyLehkaiUfY/s1600/EunateSpiralBeard_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4iUELD2vBQT4NguxpzY1dYx0H9j3jXR0C4-qhM651pIO62ujSVuG4CtFgmm-rF5YWPVGS7_r9sWCP17uZXPAzmChqHRxKH3XmKP_TXLdAegCAhKQo_uq3_lKo1AncTfofKt1IJs9XDZU/s1600/CapitalsEunate_(c)Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4iUELD2vBQT4NguxpzY1dYx0H9j3jXR0C4-qhM651pIO62ujSVuG4CtFgmm-rF5YWPVGS7_r9sWCP17uZXPAzmChqHRxKH3XmKP_TXLdAegCAhKQo_uq3_lKo1AncTfofKt1IJs9XDZU/s1600/CapitalsEunate_(c)Bahrami.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thirty-three is Jesus’s age when he was crucified.
Jesus is a part of a holy trinity. Prayer beads in Islam number 33 and are circled
three times to meditate on the 99 names of God. Eunate’s 33 arches can be walked
around three times like a labyrinth or <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>walking rosary, arriving at 99. Enter the chapel door and you
have “one hundred doors.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">That this meditation is set in one of the most
enchanted landscapes of northern Spain adds to its depth.</span></div>
The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-9323928136550909862014-06-06T04:45:00.001-07:002014-06-07T05:16:08.636-07:00Ara Solis, Finisterre, Galicia <style>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>(among the most magical (and often most-overlooked) places on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, begun on <a href="http://pilgrimswaycafe.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-most-magical-and-often-most.html">6 June 2014</a>) </b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Finisterre,
an outcropping of land jutting into the Atlantic Ocean along Galicia’s rugged
fishing coast, is considered a final destination of the Camino after Santiago de Compostela.
Here, the old Roman road across northern Spain also ends, marked by the <i>Ara Solis</i>, an altar to the dying sun. It
was once located on the highest point near Finisterre’s present-day lighthouse<i>.</i> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxylwv2Asm6-vT7MmLjwqm6ZrohXFusQGWzeMnFF2VcclQn7vx6aa1NLvrhFQDHQbWrWhtsIRghSdZukgBjOpEScT-CbYBhInkJFCRJ6VxuFoAl6GNiqcbMwjqU0Zm64flFbnJpuxWpg/s1600/FinisterreToTheLighthouse_(c)Bahrami.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxylwv2Asm6-vT7MmLjwqm6ZrohXFusQGWzeMnFF2VcclQn7vx6aa1NLvrhFQDHQbWrWhtsIRghSdZukgBjOpEScT-CbYBhInkJFCRJ6VxuFoAl6GNiqcbMwjqU0Zm64flFbnJpuxWpg/s1600/FinisterreToTheLighthouse_(c)Bahrami.jpeg" height="207" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Finisterre also appears to have been
the end of an initiatory road dating back before the Romans, to Celtic and
perhaps Neolithic times, as indicated by the ancient remains of a nearby
Neolithic stone circle on Monte San Guillermo and other Neolithic and Celtic
remains sprinkled along Finisterre’s jagged coastline. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Pre-Christian
lore survives concerning fertility rites among women who were having trouble
getting pregnant: They would visit a dolmen nearby, on Mount Fache, a
tall, vertical dolmen that once stood there, hoping to improve their chances through proximity to its symbolic potency.
Too explicit and disturbing for an 18<sup>th</sup> century bishop, he had the
dolmen destroyed. While the dolmen is gone, the climb is exhilarating for the
stunning view and feeling of being on top of the world.</span> The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-25276566615695624952014-06-06T04:26:00.001-07:002014-06-06T06:21:58.288-07:00The most magical (and often most-overlooked) places on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, Spain<style>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thanks
especially to Shirley MacLaine, Paolo Coelho, and Martin Sheen, the Way, the Camino
across northern Spain, is as popular today as it was in the Middle Ages. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
unlike medieval pilgrims who were taking their time, modern pilgrims tend to
miss some of the most magical sites on the Camino, walking right past them in a
rush to their next bed or meal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Camino emerged in the ninth century after a
hermit discovered the tomb of Saint James the Greater, one of Jesus’ twelve
disciples, on a hilltop in northwestern Spain. That hilltop, which was also an
ancient Neolithic burial ground, later became known as Santiago de Compostela,
the Camino’s destination. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Camino was medieval Europe’s great adventure for
the devout and the restless alike, and a repository of sacred and mystical lore
sourced as much from its Christian birth as from the pagans, Jews, and Muslims who
also lived and built along it. They collectively left a chain of magical sites strung
across the wild beauty of northern Spain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the next several blog entries, I
share what I feel are the most magical but most often
overlooked sites. I’ll begin by going backwards, the Other Way, as I like to call it, at the Atlantic
coast in Galicia at Finisterre…</span></div>
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-29751991510782727702014-05-30T04:13:00.001-07:002014-05-30T06:27:01.483-07:00The Pilgrimage Roads to Santiago de Compostela<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-LSumVsajh6tGe_IkbFSEhysMR5ZXvF2ZH3ZV6mDdbU30f6DtbC_xaZ-M3uMA4a9QVTHAojTrnOC-OdgXoDHuygTzwLpCJa7aAyXtykoyCO7oVR56MOrs5I0gCeM0rKUlEO26DiaNFw/s1600/CaminoBahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-LSumVsajh6tGe_IkbFSEhysMR5ZXvF2ZH3ZV6mDdbU30f6DtbC_xaZ-M3uMA4a9QVTHAojTrnOC-OdgXoDHuygTzwLpCJa7aAyXtykoyCO7oVR56MOrs5I0gCeM0rKUlEO26DiaNFw/s1600/CaminoBahrami.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
A YouTube video from an enchanting evening at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, talking about the Camino in France and Spain:<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNXcSKu1U2E"> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNXcSKu1U2E.</a><br />
<br />The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-58425765298268940722013-06-25T06:14:00.000-07:002014-06-06T06:35:17.070-07:00Romancing Neanderthals<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTO8OOnmAT_nGgl9xTCabuFY8Ipj2LPiNb5LOVBmJ5b_4Olz2FwpYmxDSGkgv-Y8r78_RQ3ozx0g392dGnj2uYNIb8z0ZnzlDZJV6_Y1e2yTbgLuH8ppdGTLcMiaB1s-t3k4X8XNrnaM/s1600/ChapeauIndiana_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTO8OOnmAT_nGgl9xTCabuFY8Ipj2LPiNb5LOVBmJ5b_4Olz2FwpYmxDSGkgv-Y8r78_RQ3ozx0g392dGnj2uYNIb8z0ZnzlDZJV6_Y1e2yTbgLuH8ppdGTLcMiaB1s-t3k4X8XNrnaM/s320/ChapeauIndiana_Bahrami.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I am about to head off to France for the summer to work on a book concerning Neanderthals and an international group of paleoarchaeologists who specialize in Neanderthals and early modern humans. For the Pilgrim's Way Cafe it is the ultimate pilgrimage to our roots. It also has me meditating upon our romance and popular imagination when it comes to these interesting human cousins.<br /><br />
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The mass appeal of Jean Auel’s The Clan of the Cave Bear has shown that a lot of people are fascinated by this romantic tale of a young Upper Paleolithic woman, Ayla, and her adoption by a clan of Neanderthals. Auel’s book has also revealed that modern people, in some small or great way, romanticize Neanderthals and in a way that we don’t romanticize ourselves. <br /><br /> There is a constant pendulum swing of theories about the Neanderthals, who they were, and why they went extinct around 30,000 years ago, mostly, they say, thanks to us. These theories are engaging in part because the factual evidence, though growing, is still so scant that we want to fill in the spaces with a good human story. And it is a human story. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDoSWWgbKt37SNB9ckJSC_sAsV_2jFa2eEJl1JuspreVLriHF5my5VSocpH4loz0EvjfM1XimZFULE5uSD_LrSCptgxiBcXb1wVJmDa5mfxcQ-S_CMOvxM7aFMsjpX8CwHPptZjTYqeQ/s1600/Roc_de_Mrsal_Bahrami.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDoSWWgbKt37SNB9ckJSC_sAsV_2jFa2eEJl1JuspreVLriHF5my5VSocpH4loz0EvjfM1XimZFULE5uSD_LrSCptgxiBcXb1wVJmDa5mfxcQ-S_CMOvxM7aFMsjpX8CwHPptZjTYqeQ/s320/Roc_de_Mrsal_Bahrami.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>Not so long ago, based on the reading of the evidence, Neanderthals, already unquestionably established as skilled toolmakers, were also afforded art making, fire making, burial rites, and language. Recently, based on new evidence, some archaeologists find that Neanderthals used fire but it looks like they didn’t make it, that ritual burials may not have been the norm, and that what language and symbolic thought they had were restricted both physically and also culturally, meaning, maybe they had the burgeoning skills but did not trust that way of working in the world. This is in contrast to us moderns who took symbolic thought and ran with it. (But, this does suggest that Neanderthals had culture, which is a very human trait indeed.) <br /><br />This assertion puts forth that our trust in the ability of symbolic thought and its cultivation over many generations led to new and more complex ways of living in our environment and gave us a survival edge, especially when food sources were scarcer. This adaptive difference became more apparent as we migrated into areas in Asia and Europe where Neanderthals lived; our ways may have competed with theirs in the same environment and maybe contributed to their extinction some 30,000 years ago. <br /><br />But we did mingle. Recent DNA analyses of Neanderthal bone samples proved definitively that we interbred and that between 1-4 percent of DNA from modern humans from Asia and Europe is shared with Neanderthals. Which comes back to Auel’s evocative and poignant portrait of Ayla’s life among the Neanderthals, who even if more limited linguistically and symbolically, were no less feeling and sensitive. <br /><br /> Most recently, a new theory is circulating. Based on analyses of Neanderthal eye sockets and crania, it suggests that Neanderthals relied more on sight than we do; it suggests that while Neanderthals were dedicating a good chunk of their brain-power to visual skills, it came at the cost of developing other parts of the brain, such as the frontal lobe. <br /><br />It is an intriguing idea. But is it too simple? We know that Neanderthal brains were larger than ours and even when we factor that larger portions were dedicated to sight and to managing a larger body build and musculature, we can’t deny that they looked a lot like us and that any theory about their brain would seem closer to the mark if it afforded a more complex analysis of cerebral functioning—even if different—that we grant ourselves when analyzing our own brains.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSi8qMoKT4wfeFY5cEBZbVrf16TjKbvFyIKHSB3fjQXg6AilVsQSnkCdM50qO9EI-1GcNklVnQuRtPwCc0VM7UfxmjmVXzZ6QKfhdKg58wlnCtv6rxZ53IMaOC3kB9fc8Q9CMv1kAqDHE/s1600/Tools&Curb_Bahrami.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSi8qMoKT4wfeFY5cEBZbVrf16TjKbvFyIKHSB3fjQXg6AilVsQSnkCdM50qO9EI-1GcNklVnQuRtPwCc0VM7UfxmjmVXzZ6QKfhdKg58wlnCtv6rxZ53IMaOC3kB9fc8Q9CMv1kAqDHE/s320/Tools&Curb_Bahrami.jpg" height="320" width="291" /></a>But I think here is the root of why so many of us romanticize Neanderthals: They are so very like us and many of us carry a bit of them within, and yet, they made different choices and were so different, too. As we look around our complicated world, complicated because of our exceedingly capable ability to manipulate our environment and communicate it to each other both face-to-face and to future generations, I think many of us actually long for a simpler life when we gathered around a fire as meat roasted and someone shared a story, whether through complex vocabulary or grunts and gestures. I think this especially as I look around and see so many people bending their visual and cognitive skills to little handheld devices while missing a stop sign or sidewalk curb. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSi8qMoKT4wfeFY5cEBZbVrf16TjKbvFyIKHSB3fjQXg6AilVsQSnkCdM50qO9EI-1GcNklVnQuRtPwCc0VM7UfxmjmVXzZ6QKfhdKg58wlnCtv6rxZ53IMaOC3kB9fc8Q9CMv1kAqDHE/s1600/Tools&Curb_Bahrami.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />Neanderthals, who lived from around 350,000 to 30,000 years ago, had a good long run of some 320,000 years. Anatomically modern humans have been around only for around 160,000 years. It is eminently clear that our choices made with our run-with-it-symbolically-oriented brains may very well determine if we will manage to live as long as Neanderthals did, an eye opening thought just in time to see the curb.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDoSWWgbKt37SNB9ckJSC_sAsV_2jFa2eEJl1JuspreVLriHF5my5VSocpH4loz0EvjfM1XimZFULE5uSD_LrSCptgxiBcXb1wVJmDa5mfxcQ-S_CMOvxM7aFMsjpX8CwHPptZjTYqeQ/s1600/Roc_de_Mrsal_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<br /><br />The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-87051971909520805292012-12-20T08:38:00.000-08:002012-12-20T08:42:09.890-08:00A Peaceable Kingdom, On Pilgrimage in Rioja, Spain<style>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I recall one day
of walking the Way of Saint James, the Camino. When I got to Nájera, just west
of Logroño in the Rioja wine region of northern Spain, it was an overcast day
and I was hungry. But first, before it closed at midday, I wanted to visit the place
of legend and myth that put Nájera on the map, and probably made it one of the
important stops on the pilgrimage, the cave where Mary and Jesus appeared with
two birds in AD 1044. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I walked toward
the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>red sandstone cliff that
guards one side of this riverside town, where I knew I would find the Monasterio
de Santa María la Real embedded into the natural stone wall. I reviewed the
details of the legend in my head as I walked, wanting to retrace events as they
are described.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It goes like
this. One day in AD 1044, the Navarrese King García III was out riding and
hunting with his falcon. The falcon suddenly flew after a partridge and both
birds disappeared into a thick growth of trees. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The king
dismounted and went into the trees to see what had happened to them. He found
himself standing in front of a hidden cave. More unusual, an ethereal light
poured out. He entered the cave and followed the light. At its source, he saw
the falcon and the partridge sitting peacefully on either side of Mary, with
the baby Jesus seated on her lap. In front of the celestial pair were lilies
and a bell. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">King García
never forgot this stunning vision and in AD 1056 he founded the monastery of
Santa María la Real around and incorporating the cave. Today when you visit,
you can visit the cave by passing through the church to the back wall that is
still the natural cave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The original
cave was most likely carved out of the soft stone around the 3<sup>rd</sup>
century, both for living as well as for defense. It was then forgotten,
overgrown by forest and hidden, until that fateful day with the clever falcon
in the 11<sup>th</sup> century.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Having fed the
mystical hunger, it was time to feed my growling stomach before continuing the pilgrimage.
I discovered that Nájera is a very warm and welcoming town. I went into a café
that called to me, either for its beautiful riverside setting, or for the
welcoming patron and clientele, or, just maybe, for the array of tapas splayed
on the long wooden counter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There I
discovered another miracle, of the culinary kind: a little open-faced sandwich
where the bread had been brushed and toasted with olive oil and then layered
with roasted red pepper, thin slices of cured ham, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamón Serrano</i>, and topped with a little fried quail’s egg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doubtless this exquisite tapa was
paying homage to its cousin the peace-making partridge in the holy cave. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Content and sated,
I continued on, but doing as I do, walking in my own way. First, there was a
detour to San Millán de la Cogolla, just south, and one back to Logroño (by
bus) to visit yet another pilgrim’s detour at the Cistercian convent of Santa
María de Cañas, just north. I also contemplated how many fine holy sites and
pilgrim detours there were here in Spain’s most famous wine region. I think the
two have something to do with each other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">If the deeper
stories and legends of the Camino interest you, please check out my new
app—both on iTunes and Android—<a href="http://www.beebesfeast.com/app-camino.html"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Esoteric Camino France & Spain</i></b></a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Wishing you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">un buen Camino</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">un bon Chemin</i>, and a good Road.</span></div>
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-6956851998208868042012-12-05T04:54:00.002-08:002012-12-05T04:54:39.155-08:00On the Chemin Looking for Wild BoarOne day in the middle of our two and a half week trek on the Chemin de St-Jacques, the Way of St. James through southwestern France this autumn, my friend, Sarah, and I <i>really</i> wanted to see our first wild boar, the famous black <i>sanglier </i>of the Pyrenees. <i> </i><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">That day, taking lunch in the middle of a corn
field in the Béarn, we heard the distant
snorting surely of the wild Pyreneen <i>sanglier</i>. We were certain that there were at least two or three of them in the middle of a corn field to our right. We quietly packed up our picnic and we walked stealthily toward the sound so as not to
disturb them. We turned the bend and into a clearing. Many snorts greeted us. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">We discovered we were on the edge of a
pig farm in the middle of the corn fields. </span></span><br />
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">Alas, the angels laughed hard
(at our expense) that day.</span></span><br />
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-32930057324033946062012-07-22T08:38:00.000-07:002012-07-22T08:38:51.547-07:00Mary Magdalene's Feast Day from Llanes to Vézelay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL6v1VTDZ-MIG2qBAX5LLad2M9txocr5PqrR2pNktxGpRKb8CFqUbKgGMg5KYg-VmecTwEcD6ogVkvUa5FW_37fhnKOTfaA_jt5plPWd9aIV2d-Bc2q-vuYSdNPo5OkKjdVnL_BC9fZhs/s1600/1-MaryMagdalene_France_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL6v1VTDZ-MIG2qBAX5LLad2M9txocr5PqrR2pNktxGpRKb8CFqUbKgGMg5KYg-VmecTwEcD6ogVkvUa5FW_37fhnKOTfaA_jt5plPWd9aIV2d-Bc2q-vuYSdNPo5OkKjdVnL_BC9fZhs/s320/1-MaryMagdalene_France_Bahrami.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><style>
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</style><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today honors the energy of the divine and feminine grace of Mary Magdalene. Having just come from making the pilgrimage to Vézelay in Burgundy, France, where her basilica honors the highest point of that ancient Gallo-Roman hilltop village, I am even more appreciative of her beauty.</span> <div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This spring I hiked to Vézelay from Avallon on a day that was threatening heavy rain throughout. As much as I love to hike into wild and unknown territory, I resisted starting. I resisted and resisted and then I knew deep down that if I let the rain stop me, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I forged forward through my resistance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As soon as I set one foot before the other—finding my way down the steep fortified hillside of Avallon toward the Cousin river and into the Morvan forest—that magic took hold that every pilgrim knows: The road began to show me signs and my way was clear, one step at a time. Prior rains had washed out parts of the trail. I lost it. I found it. I lost it again, but always found it again. Song birds punctuated my triumphs, my mind taking their song as a victory dance. White Burgundian cows munching on lemon yellow mustard flowers sauntered over to greet me, making me pause to see where to pick up the trail across the field. Once, was that a snake that slithered loudly to the right, making me notice the trail marker I'd missed painted on a leaf-covered rock? Even the threatening weather ceased. Grace punctuated every turn, no matter how trying some turns were. The expected heavy rains did not arrive. The storm clouds literally parted and dramatic striated rays of sun shined through.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFmP69nOfHHmmFKUEam30QmcKGNsXA1nhA-v2Loxoa-bCN84u_6wKEmKc9yCgdX2r2Qcxmh8P-CQBS2mzXuOWKImVD0P1PdM1QKsYdqcoHACiJzbIgZeVAH79-egXs6ijrbVlIxQfQ7o/s1600/2-Mustard&Cows_Burgundy_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFmP69nOfHHmmFKUEam30QmcKGNsXA1nhA-v2Loxoa-bCN84u_6wKEmKc9yCgdX2r2Qcxmh8P-CQBS2mzXuOWKImVD0P1PdM1QKsYdqcoHACiJzbIgZeVAH79-egXs6ijrbVlIxQfQ7o/s320/2-Mustard&Cows_Burgundy_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It took eight hours through the forest and the rising and falling vine and mustard covered hills of Burgundy to arrive in Vézelay. First, the hill appeared, the highest in the vicinity, and grew as I walked. Then, the towers of the basilica became apparent. Finally, the scorpion shape of the hill—as one book described it—upon which the church sat revealed the pathway from the scorpion's tail at the foot to its crowning head at the top. The pilgrim’s path to the basilica was like walking along a rising spine, some ancient kundalini that the stonemasons and monks must have known implicitly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Vvq1j-ORpjiuooAdh6Xi2we2FuKKm6gY5gTy7JEifE5SpuMDVl-p6-MpD2Qz-Jsp0gnxPAvLEfbhrLm6VZXftPcgSAMBX9hFM46wxdqFWH9_Gfg8XSJxHwHtOe9CMvBaO0yO8PPiZtw/s1600/5-Pilgrim'sPath_Vezelay_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Vvq1j-ORpjiuooAdh6Xi2we2FuKKm6gY5gTy7JEifE5SpuMDVl-p6-MpD2Qz-Jsp0gnxPAvLEfbhrLm6VZXftPcgSAMBX9hFM46wxdqFWH9_Gfg8XSJxHwHtOe9CMvBaO0yO8PPiZtw/s320/5-Pilgrim'sPath_Vezelay_Bahrami.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And when I finally entered into the nave of striated light-play from the high arches of bicolored stone, Vespers was about to begin. Sound and light in perfect harmony swirled up and down the basilica and entered into the crown of my head. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An active monastic community of nuns and monks live in Vézelay and carry on the sacred traditions within this medieval Romanesque church dedicated to this Lady of Grace. Her crypt is beneath the nave, built of the stone carved out of the hill. The small chamber allows visitors to sit and meditate undisturbed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The strongest feeling, one that recurred each time I entered the basilica, was balance. It is a place of harmony and balance, between male and female, heaven and earth, god and mortal, sound and light.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Another church that I love, that is also dedicated to Mary Magdalene, is in the heart of the fishing town of Llanes, along the northern Spanish coast in Asturias. On a smaller but no less powerful scale, it also offers the experience of harmony and balance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCN1L3DbpEwdTyOM_p4K609eWWUJ5OYiy9D6WJTwV-POqzM8eWo1kmxGnSDd15FrGiwvjFoSl-QwVYTdsE8JrpFxDXK1X84L3J6KrYXIjsTpnKFMMHeRchazmkrqB7fNzrXpLX0Itk8c0/s1600/7-MaryMagdalene'sChurch_Llanes_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCN1L3DbpEwdTyOM_p4K609eWWUJ5OYiy9D6WJTwV-POqzM8eWo1kmxGnSDd15FrGiwvjFoSl-QwVYTdsE8JrpFxDXK1X84L3J6KrYXIjsTpnKFMMHeRchazmkrqB7fNzrXpLX0Itk8c0/s320/7-MaryMagdalene'sChurch_Llanes_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt;">Here, I love how this photo of its altar captured a fleeting streak of light.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To read more about Llanes and the surviving expressions of the ancient feminine divine that holds foot in northern Spain, as well as into southern France, the fabled territory where Mary Magdalene may have lived during her later years, please read my piece for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perceptive Travel</i>, <a href="http://www.perceptivetravel.com/issues/0509/spain.html">The Goddess Still Lives Here</a> and also see my book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Spiritual-Traveler-Spain-Sacred-Pilgrim/dp/1587680475/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1342970100&sr=1-1&keywords=spiritual+traveler+spain"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spiritual Traveler Spain</i></a>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;"><br />
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</div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-38031597470938958462012-06-07T05:34:00.001-07:002012-07-08T08:06:03.788-07:00Stepping away from routine and into magic<style>
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Complacency and routine seem to be the kiss of death to a
fully present life. Pilgrimage has taught me this. Rather than focusing the life force on fear and the fruits of
fear (having enough, having the things everyone thinks everyone needs to have, seeking
comfort as the first order of life…) it has taught me to focus on what to do next
to grow, what to look for, to savor beauty, and to expand.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElRxynTQdCRsS2Zml7BmFlvYbcofKAD4Q-T7MHGdz3nmFKZtPElMHOznG6pvtKuWmzlaSOLp69MD0jq-OvFriBSCm2E2ZaJ0sh6kLFi12gLGt7uS8jZCssRdzSX-FMk3TalBeFgwlrBE/s1600/Path_to_Vezelay_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElRxynTQdCRsS2Zml7BmFlvYbcofKAD4Q-T7MHGdz3nmFKZtPElMHOznG6pvtKuWmzlaSOLp69MD0jq-OvFriBSCm2E2ZaJ0sh6kLFi12gLGt7uS8jZCssRdzSX-FMk3TalBeFgwlrBE/s320/Path_to_Vezelay_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I think such a routine-busting focus makes amazing things
occur, so much so that the frightening things that forced a person into
complacency and routine in the first place are no longer an issue; a person
learns to be ever at the ready for the next step, the next unexpected
adventure, the next cosmic gift that wants nothing better than to give itself
to her or him.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzX3Bzx9inA5vvr8qsbYrqceRqf9VcmQsRT77axORoqUf7eimir-1nerBAO1BWx4hVMo68R8tHNykn4B2g-1a0oMXEOjHc1TTUhrm7j7XviHVWfZz141DpUDp3Nw3Q4GEJeBA_9nMMgeA/s1600/On_path_to_Vezelay_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzX3Bzx9inA5vvr8qsbYrqceRqf9VcmQsRT77axORoqUf7eimir-1nerBAO1BWx4hVMo68R8tHNykn4B2g-1a0oMXEOjHc1TTUhrm7j7XviHVWfZz141DpUDp3Nw3Q4GEJeBA_9nMMgeA/s320/On_path_to_Vezelay_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A pilgrimage teaches this magic by example, by giving the
walker-seeker a gift each day as soon as his or her focus shifts to the growth
side of life. </div>
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Each step becomes a step into the unknown and into real
magic.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nCD1zlvrhcRu5gE0_s2eDlgFcWk-VPPDpfX-SExmJI7coEvSIyfaA58v2BN6NSchDGmpf0lZ79uausRAe39nXEAFK3I2XaT3a1WtfzGa5YPRo9cwIuP1vlvTryrZD4BeFtgtNQxUSCc/s1600/Arriving_Vezelay_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nCD1zlvrhcRu5gE0_s2eDlgFcWk-VPPDpfX-SExmJI7coEvSIyfaA58v2BN6NSchDGmpf0lZ79uausRAe39nXEAFK3I2XaT3a1WtfzGa5YPRo9cwIuP1vlvTryrZD4BeFtgtNQxUSCc/s320/Arriving_Vezelay_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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My most recent encounter with this constant lesson was on a recent pilgrimage I made to Vezèlay, one of the four major pilgrim starting points in France along the Way of Saint James to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. I wanted to arrive at this sacred site on foot, from a point east. I wanted to feel what it was like to see the enchanted hilltop village with its basilica dedicated to Mary Magdalene appear on the horizon at the walking pace. </div>
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<br /></div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-10069313894473333642012-02-20T16:34:00.002-08:002012-02-20T16:50:21.940-08:00Black Truffles in the Périgord, France<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItpvbuJjXFyel_4ZKopRcPn9-YhPD9XzaS_qIuMrAEkS-KOfLyi4S3YsP2S-_JwydipvRNgnfpxJsMfPsw_mkY-G-ZM2gQlt0iGTuNEl3uZlTtgzvwr7bNcZZ576u9s52F9-eWBI-mPw/s1600/TruffledPeaSoup_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItpvbuJjXFyel_4ZKopRcPn9-YhPD9XzaS_qIuMrAEkS-KOfLyi4S3YsP2S-_JwydipvRNgnfpxJsMfPsw_mkY-G-ZM2gQlt0iGTuNEl3uZlTtgzvwr7bNcZZ576u9s52F9-eWBI-mPw/s320/TruffledPeaSoup_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Dordogne (also called the Périgord) is famous for its black truffle, that delicious underground fungus that grows symbiotically with tree roots, such as oak, beech, and hazel. It is the ingredient that enchants savory dishes from omelets to roasted chickens to pea soup. Winter is its time and from November to February truffles begin to appear in the weekly town and village markets throughout the Dordogne. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I first came to southwestern France, an elderly woman I sat next to in a café in Sarlat told me how in December she would gather black truffles in a forest near her farm and take them to market, hoping for a good month so that her family could afford the festive foods of Christmas. She then leaned in and whispered, “If you are saving your Euros for a truffle, save them for truffles in late January or February. That’s when the truffle season peaks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I heeded her advice. I also learned that January and February are the months when it is easiest to find the truffles, even if you don’t have a dog or a pig to help. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEpixiUxYfiZVGNR4j_oGAf1GHb58pxjaooFmjkubxgfODLg-yxyIRaKl8vZI2tZxXjIvo0QXAa9DFJIYURutfcLHy0Dw7V_wvNKO5S7mhvDCqOIaz8Fb7tzAoc4IMILAleek5R7k4AU/s1600/PerigordDog_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEpixiUxYfiZVGNR4j_oGAf1GHb58pxjaooFmjkubxgfODLg-yxyIRaKl8vZI2tZxXjIvo0QXAa9DFJIYURutfcLHy0Dw7V_wvNKO5S7mhvDCqOIaz8Fb7tzAoc4IMILAleek5R7k4AU/s320/PerigordDog_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxq2qf3gF-ZR7YkR_7BPai2CnNBigCwpkQEOj5gISD-cBjpHuF9r23Dlcs9waMXTVo3iYiJS3v9jf5QCGaVyT67zsZS0kpjLWRWQhdFPOfGZRQXpfaA2UZvQFx-oQmUatCFxRb26FwiQ/s1600/PerigordTruffle_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxq2qf3gF-ZR7YkR_7BPai2CnNBigCwpkQEOj5gISD-cBjpHuF9r23Dlcs9waMXTVo3iYiJS3v9jf5QCGaVyT67zsZS0kpjLWRWQhdFPOfGZRQXpfaA2UZvQFx-oQmUatCFxRb26FwiQ/s320/PerigordTruffle_Bahrami.JPG" width="167" /></a>A friend from Sarlat who is a truffle expert with his own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">truffière</i>—truffle trees—taught me. He explained that there are telltale signs. One is of little flies that aggregate about the ripe truffle. If you see a delirious buzz about the ground around one of the trees that are symbiotic with the black truffle, you are in the vicinity of a culinary gold mine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But another sign, one that is sure even if the flies have not yet arrived, is a slight ground swell that wasn’t there before. This of course requires patience and close study. A true truffler will know every contour of his territory and notice subtle changes to it. It enters the realm of mindfulness meditations, which explains why the truffle hunters I’ve met are some of the most grounded and calm people I know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhco39VbakqZEukYop0ZseJ7yFsRTY_5Ev1ZYLC4HOFe1Q_k30ji3O4E8X-6NSA9thy6ZtYcB7kJ8URN34VQnj7BbXqjlNarfbr5LFr0roqbvw4fA7rwAWDNCtfCKeHSp23G1ht33WySs0/s1600/TruffleHunt1_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhco39VbakqZEukYop0ZseJ7yFsRTY_5Ev1ZYLC4HOFe1Q_k30ji3O4E8X-6NSA9thy6ZtYcB7kJ8URN34VQnj7BbXqjlNarfbr5LFr0roqbvw4fA7rwAWDNCtfCKeHSp23G1ht33WySs0/s320/TruffleHunt1_Bahrami.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">When you’ve located a ground swell, you lean in and the next sign should be a pricking in the nostrils of that unmistakable and strangely earthy and otherworldly scent that arouses all manner of romantic images. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once you have this expensive fungus, how do you handle it? I have only once purchased a truffle and the truffle hunter told me her two favorite applications: grated into scrambled eggs or sliced thinly and placed on top of foie gras toasts. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, annually Sarlat holds a <a href="http://www.sarlat-tourisme.com/en/rubrique/Fete-de-la-truffe-a-Sarlat/95cd3591390191781b5e6ddf5daeb174">truffle festival</a> in the middle of January and regional chefs prepare all manner of recipes with the black truffle, allowing people to sample its diversity without going broke. (It’s like a truffle tapas party where little plates and glasses of partnered wine can be purchased for a few Euros at a time.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtKwxua6DLUUXd6EQkOOo2bC1xD-NTF7jbj162Rg_GblDlSB0T9QHKnxwiyB9S3W4oR9Y1LhKkORWtFFblMcc7FbYyZGyrUY7uPQq1O0EOmeZa9RS9F7_iUcUtCuYWo7ywHPJ9ZVJLKo/s1600/CanapeAuxTruffes_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtKwxua6DLUUXd6EQkOOo2bC1xD-NTF7jbj162Rg_GblDlSB0T9QHKnxwiyB9S3W4oR9Y1LhKkORWtFFblMcc7FbYyZGyrUY7uPQq1O0EOmeZa9RS9F7_iUcUtCuYWo7ywHPJ9ZVJLKo/s320/CanapeAuxTruffes_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With all this serious research—including some excellent treks into the region’s wild forests—I can now say that my favorite recipe comes from that same lady in the café. This is the recipe her family enjoyed as appetizers in flush years for New Year’s Eve and it is the simplest and most sublime of recipes because nature has done all the work: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Canapés aux truffes</b>:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A fresh baguette, sliced into disks</div><div class="MsoNormal">A black truffle, sliced thinly</div><div class="MsoNormal">Good quality sweet butter</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sea salt</div><div class="MsoNormal">Brut champagne</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Butter the bread and layer on the truffle slices. Sprinkle lightly with sea salt. Enjoy with friends and a glass of dry champagne.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bon Appetite!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jkhK0sOS4N2mhYM6aAt8T1BakP4qQlXGX2DEQ-i1YgJw9vGMnbJteygWxATmXODS6Z3EybR_c0Bm9x0snNfgsG3SffPv3euRBujGfeQ8ihEiWwlB4AENdQJk3FaD5wqdaY81yy0u3LY/s1600/PublicMuralSarlat_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jkhK0sOS4N2mhYM6aAt8T1BakP4qQlXGX2DEQ-i1YgJw9vGMnbJteygWxATmXODS6Z3EybR_c0Bm9x0snNfgsG3SffPv3euRBujGfeQ8ihEiWwlB4AENdQJk3FaD5wqdaY81yy0u3LY/s320/PublicMuralSarlat_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-84678854245421953822012-01-03T07:21:00.001-08:002012-02-20T16:55:44.030-08:00Wild Mushroom Hunting in Southwestern France<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">A lot of my treks lately have been in and around Aquitaine in southwestern France. It’s an amazing region, from the wild areas of the Pyrenees to the wild Atlantic coastline, to the interior of limestone prehistoric caves and rock shelves, river valleys, medieval chapels and fortresses, and vineyards as far as the horizon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3OZEZ_BSQSFuFxYPYzEkX6Y3-bebxfKtbk10gM1BdY_YYF_G7LzJTivPDOi0izS7D33DN90Bb4-OpBDlNOJRIvXYnOVQB6HgOybl3WT6aRtZF7gnpBWHm6kmhOFc4TMqzAVNOtKPdZY/s1600/IMG_1322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3OZEZ_BSQSFuFxYPYzEkX6Y3-bebxfKtbk10gM1BdY_YYF_G7LzJTivPDOi0izS7D33DN90Bb4-OpBDlNOJRIvXYnOVQB6HgOybl3WT6aRtZF7gnpBWHm6kmhOFc4TMqzAVNOtKPdZY/s320/IMG_1322.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was an odd autumn here, as in so many other areas. Instead of a cooling and wet season, the days remained bone dry and warm. Anticipation of the year’s wild hunt for porcini mushrooms, regionally known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cepes</i>, was dashed. Many locals, mushroom experts for decades, told me that because there was no rain in September, there would be no cepes this year. Cepes crop up magically overnight when the rains come in September. I had asked if there was a chance that they’d appear in the forests if it rained in October or November. The answer was a somber no.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So imagine all our surprise when in mid-November, after some decent rains, older farmwomen began appearing in the weekly markets of the Dordogne with baskets laden with cepes. It created a buzz and people’s hearts lightened. The season was not lost and moreover, those delicious fungi were still willing to grow even though September had come and gone. We cheered for now egg omelets with cepes, mushroom tarts with cepes, and simply olive oil and garlic sautéed dishes with cepes were back on the menu.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgxEh5jvzaJuudy_U7pDnpU-N5onEDpeIT1aP4t5rRHxuk-BTn8wnRrFNkaY9W82DlvYgxi4uZyUtyQYk8H2klcw6er1xaJslGlsU_Mb6a39NkprNwgft-SgY7dnN_GIHnY1u8c684Kc/s1600/IMG_1205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgxEh5jvzaJuudy_U7pDnpU-N5onEDpeIT1aP4t5rRHxuk-BTn8wnRrFNkaY9W82DlvYgxi4uZyUtyQYk8H2klcw6er1xaJslGlsU_Mb6a39NkprNwgft-SgY7dnN_GIHnY1u8c684Kc/s320/IMG_1205.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had the unexpected delight of going mushroom hunting twice with good friends. One day we went to the neighboring south central French region of Cantal, from where the famous Cantal cheese comes, and on another day we stayed more local in the forests of the Dordogne near Les Eyzies, the heart of prehistoric painted and engraved cave country.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7huZFd75KojFkIcx4D435tNaAZfAKlK-7lOc6Nylw2HXaI876tyEbOKzEaaFoyPN6OQ16meVbaA0BSodJ7jbLU6T9-2xikpEhkCbRk1waNorPw178UD6OmTLj_HXkZxVNqLEN8gW6IM/s1600/IMG_1327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7huZFd75KojFkIcx4D435tNaAZfAKlK-7lOc6Nylw2HXaI876tyEbOKzEaaFoyPN6OQ16meVbaA0BSodJ7jbLU6T9-2xikpEhkCbRk1waNorPw178UD6OmTLj_HXkZxVNqLEN8gW6IM/s320/IMG_1327.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The challenge of a later cepes crop was that by now the fall leaves had turned color, dried, and fallen off the trees onto the forest floor. To look for the telltale tan brown top hat of cepes meant a form of mental concentration and being present in the moment that modern humans are less practiced at compared to their prehistoric brethren. But being so near the latter’s homes in the rock shelves overhead inspired us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Both days, we found lots of mushrooms of all varieties. Many were poisonous and we had to be careful. But only cepes have the bulging stems that look like a person after Thanksgiving dinner. Those, we kept and took home and sautéed them in olive oil and garlic and tossed them with eggs and a hit of sea salt and sat to a meal with a crusty baguette, a green salad, and a medium bodied red Bergerac wine. It all tasted so much more vibrant for the day spent hunting and gathering out of doors. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2V9EW7wIhmb2XxagFujDyMXAUNIprfRG2KmmzqXzu5Vajniykw_p6TLOsogZYRkuHonDIDurZ4jkRgHHI6A7AQs0mm2Yt-Gybe_JiP9mXJDZ4gxpfhMOWhc2qjNa9c2_HTwZi6v_iRZA/s1600/IMG_1208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2V9EW7wIhmb2XxagFujDyMXAUNIprfRG2KmmzqXzu5Vajniykw_p6TLOsogZYRkuHonDIDurZ4jkRgHHI6A7AQs0mm2Yt-Gybe_JiP9mXJDZ4gxpfhMOWhc2qjNa9c2_HTwZi6v_iRZA/s320/IMG_1208.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In moments like these, I feel more intensely that I am connecting to our ancestors who some 25,000 years ago lived in these forests, valleys, and rock faces and hunted and gathered for a living. It is moments like these that I also hope that I can take that level of concentration and mindfulness back into the modern world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6Z4BWAB0zOuqyC5DVWfO5VcVWgUcbHj66GEm84yw_wnzs04FtifSz6ZPDy6aTYpkhEe7iPoKb7hyBPWVoN11hwisRvj-SGo7ZYdbkeibj7ZJOcCxwrKq5eoxGVFrNYNwcRgNoAjH7RU/s1600/IMG_1264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6Z4BWAB0zOuqyC5DVWfO5VcVWgUcbHj66GEm84yw_wnzs04FtifSz6ZPDy6aTYpkhEe7iPoKb7hyBPWVoN11hwisRvj-SGo7ZYdbkeibj7ZJOcCxwrKq5eoxGVFrNYNwcRgNoAjH7RU/s320/IMG_1264.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-18463871897012853402011-12-08T06:38:00.000-08:002011-12-08T06:39:44.241-08:00Moroccan Mountain Adventures with a Feminist Friend<style>
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I’d known Fatima since I’d lived in Morocco eighteen years ago. Though we wrote only intermittently, when I returned to Morocco two winters ago to teach anthropology and travel writing to American college students, she and I bonded again and picked up where we’d left off. She was in Rabat, where I’d touched in briefly, and then I was in Fez.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX4ld9vEr4gKI3zkC600HLHOzYFGl1lUpSXwF51HZEXwZ219AWcrVsUzAdkPbRua4Fck1-yiHhETlYsp40ecW-EZ1ag8ssndGqMgnyvPztWw4K3WOuO4hAagk_8OWqX74SQNWQW_HHaU/s1600/Returning_to_Fez_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX4ld9vEr4gKI3zkC600HLHOzYFGl1lUpSXwF51HZEXwZ219AWcrVsUzAdkPbRua4Fck1-yiHhETlYsp40ecW-EZ1ag8ssndGqMgnyvPztWw4K3WOuO4hAagk_8OWqX74SQNWQW_HHaU/s320/Returning_to_Fez_Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One day, Fatima called. “I’m driving to Fez. Let me take you away for a day. You need a break from the city and from teaching duties.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fatima loves her country and simultaneously feels it has a long way to go for its women. Her proposal promised adventures.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll never forget her indignity, eighteen-years back, as she and I stood on the train platform in Rabat waiting for the train to the south where I’d spend the weekend with her and her family. She had killer legs and was wearing a skirt that fell above the knee. Men were swooning. She looked at me and said, “These legs,” she swept her arm up and down for effect, “get me into a lot of trouble.” I admired her panache and that it never occurred to her to wear a longer hem in order to skirt out of trouble. She didn’t buy into the gender restrictions of her culture and wanted to change it one law and one leg at a time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She hadn’t changed one bit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As she signed off, she added, “I want to take you to the countryside, to show you The Big <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waloo</i>.” This was Fatima’s experience of God: An open vista of breathtaking mountains. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waloo</i> in Moroccan Arabic means “nothing.” The Big Nothing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDBoSeTzrmOT-1viM7FHZAnXV1B18axbKqJN53C_UXuEd5RVZIBMGT43wv1H46ljwv7uVCJzqEQSlDd4WSk1ah4Djn7r73lxX8qOoR4tGpLl2a4C7n7h1YPjpZV3CIJmz4LzKLWXcsmE/s1600/Motorig_in_Morocco_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDBoSeTzrmOT-1viM7FHZAnXV1B18axbKqJN53C_UXuEd5RVZIBMGT43wv1H46ljwv7uVCJzqEQSlDd4WSk1ah4Djn7r73lxX8qOoR4tGpLl2a4C7n7h1YPjpZV3CIJmz4LzKLWXcsmE/s320/Motorig_in_Morocco_Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shortly after we left Fez, Fatima told me about a local mineral spring she wanted me to experience. “It’s the real thing, full of well-being and very local.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She suddenly saw a little boy carrying a pail on the roadside and careened to a stop. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hello. Where are you going?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“To the spring.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“For water?" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, to take a bath.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You don’t have running water at home?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The feminista-Morocco-lover surged. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why aren’t you in school?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I have no father and three siblings. I have to help my mother.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Is she sick?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How old is she?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thirty-five.” He said hesitantly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So,” recapped Fatima, “She is young, healthy, and capable of working but she has you do it? Where do you live? I want to talk to this mother of yours.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The boy trembled. He just wanted a bath. Fatima softened. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Okay, listen, promise me, when you go home, talk to your mother. Tell her that you will make more money when you have an education. Tell her from me that she should get off her bum…” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I interrupted in English, “Maybe that’s enough. It’s his mother...” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She looked at me angrily, “Yes! And I’m making her a better one!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We left the youth at the spring and again were on our way to The Big Waloo, Fatima’s favorite lookout point in the Middle Atlas, when we picked up a policeman walking in the rain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This grown man in uniform, one who’d gone to school and made more money, got the same treatment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why are you walking in the rain? You’ll catch a cold.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s the only way to get to the residence where I’m a guard.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Is there no other way?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, I have no car. Walking is fine, except when it rains.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The grilling stopped. The two carried on like old buddies. We dropped him off. He wished us blessings along our path.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In forty-five minutes, my friend had befriended—and berated—people from vastly different social strata in her society. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, we arrived at Nothing: It was a vast, still, multi-layered and colored expanse of mountains in all directions. Once my eyes tuned to it, I could also make out the specks of shepherd and sheep along a few distant hills. Nearby, a donkey and human ambled together side by side. By the looks of it, they were having a heartfelt conversation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisVKVsKO4zX-AegYG3LL3ip7ASVlD-wsP5JdQGdYmuagCFLOSNknSirQZDrmYE8rdB50T9FgYcma9J-5G1GuVfTp8PDrNxdHnFnoHPgMf_us2_k2DROMed0RqhlRsGr-imvFsTYdGSTp8/s1600/TheBigWaloo_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisVKVsKO4zX-AegYG3LL3ip7ASVlD-wsP5JdQGdYmuagCFLOSNknSirQZDrmYE8rdB50T9FgYcma9J-5G1GuVfTp8PDrNxdHnFnoHPgMf_us2_k2DROMed0RqhlRsGr-imvFsTYdGSTp8/s320/TheBigWaloo_Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ancient rhythms, the ones all humans evolved to and are still wired to, took over. Fatima had been right. This was the transcendent Big Waloo. And yes, I’d needed a break from the congestion of the bowl-shaped but captivating city of Fez. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We lolled the rest of the day at Fatima’s mineral spring, absorbing so much well-being that we were too tired for anything other than sipping fresh orange juice at the village café. Donkeys loaded with a refrigerator, bricks, and melons sauntered by. Fatima was about to grill the donkey driver when she decided to save her energy for the drive back to Fez. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCkClH4DawTP1c3V3LLPbp69UJ8G493Jgws4m9DU7tVnoBZX9p1ixXXHrrgq_EcvDdwpkYQ2J5DOIhK7DhZqmGH17eO3axGCMgIzgpfPdM6WmuhufF3o9j8_1hGKZcXWcu_kcT2c-YUw/s1600/MineralSpringDonkey_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCkClH4DawTP1c3V3LLPbp69UJ8G493Jgws4m9DU7tVnoBZX9p1ixXXHrrgq_EcvDdwpkYQ2J5DOIhK7DhZqmGH17eO3axGCMgIzgpfPdM6WmuhufF3o9j8_1hGKZcXWcu_kcT2c-YUw/s320/MineralSpringDonkey_Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I realized then that Fatima’s idea of The Big <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waloo</i> was more than mountain vistas. She was the Taoist paradox: Something is Nothing; Nothing is Something.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNmAld9XDqwXnUcRBfIgRUdPg3-M5GcpQB6dylCatdJHr4agGIfwaVRZkyNHsSJQpldiFJ9Yjr52-NDol9yvBlUrLSKLM_txUInjmM1HC5sHDofpXMAMjues9u41BwkU7_0tm8mP2fAo/s1600/MoroccanMosaics_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNmAld9XDqwXnUcRBfIgRUdPg3-M5GcpQB6dylCatdJHr4agGIfwaVRZkyNHsSJQpldiFJ9Yjr52-NDol9yvBlUrLSKLM_txUInjmM1HC5sHDofpXMAMjues9u41BwkU7_0tm8mP2fAo/s320/MoroccanMosaics_Bahrami.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-80192859972761847182011-10-18T11:42:00.000-07:002011-10-18T11:53:03.055-07:00France’s Vin de Domme and Dodue the Valiant (Pug) of the Dordogne<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> [A Hike in Southern French Wine Country]</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpKUDoA0ehAUwSULSBdBpGDLXaPjoaqzLndNUdYuM_Dv-Z3dj56nYpJX1WAAD6KfnW_M5kjiBpnN8OxLlCOrVNwCOM3Zv66n0A-9y_2wF8vAzXGMHxtrx-R9OTYUclKC0NJTAIQbDWXM/s1600/View+of+Vin+de+Domme+vineyards_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpKUDoA0ehAUwSULSBdBpGDLXaPjoaqzLndNUdYuM_Dv-Z3dj56nYpJX1WAAD6KfnW_M5kjiBpnN8OxLlCOrVNwCOM3Zv66n0A-9y_2wF8vAzXGMHxtrx-R9OTYUclKC0NJTAIQbDWXM/s320/View+of+Vin+de+Domme+vineyards_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was a scream and my friend Béa came running out from behind the stand of bushes where she had disappeared. Running behind her with tongue lapping out the side of her mouth was little Dodue, a blond pug with a black stub of a tail and a perennial smile on her hard-to-read, wrinkled face. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“She licked me!” Béa said with alarm. “While I was taking a leak!” She then quickly set straight the misunderstanding written on our faces, “No, not there, on the thigh, but still…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dodue</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> was the name we had given this little member of our hiking team. I added, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dodue La Vaillante</i>, The Valiant, after she joined me on an ascent up a lookout point that made us both sting mightily with vertigo: I inched my anxious self back down the shaky height and she stayed with me the entire way, body low to the ground and shaking like beech tree leaves in winter, but she did not abandon me. She let me know we were in it together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We six, five humans—my four adventurous local friends Petrus, Béa, Thierry, and Bruno—and Dodue, were taking in a day hike of the Vin de Domme region south of Sarlat-la-Canéda in the Dordogne, that part of southwestern France famous for its prehistoric caves (such as Lascaux), foie gras, and black truffles. The local wine industry was only recently making a comeback after the devastation of the late 19<sup>th</sup> century phylloxera epidemic that wiped out a region once blanketed in vineyards. One glance today and all that once-striped wine land is now nearly covered in indigenous forest, except for the famous Bergerac area west of here and the Vin de Domme. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Vin de Domme resurgence began in the mid-1990s with a grassroots gathering of several growers, some who were also sheep herders, tobacco growers, and farmers, who decided to turn their attention to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">terroir</i> and wine-making of the land, knowing its soil, climate, and exposure promised good bottles down the road. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The fifteen-kilometer rugged and rocky trail through forest, hills, abandoned ruins, and revived vineyards was the idea of Béa and Bruno, area experts from <a href="http://www.dordogne-fellow-traveller.com/"><b>Dordogne Fellow Traveller</b></a>. They were taking the slower winter season to show me and Petrus their favorite places. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFabNkmVaayuXmyyCV6P_B5CfOGXhY4hOQsjpB59xTvf0MLWfcjzPeiLSpWT20MLeZqZ7GK3BvJFQQdPcd0TLcjbWGRlfOd1m9zSA7VPUxdgD6yCuE51yq8JkCALNfjY_-mywTXaW2S4/s1600/Bea%252C+Bruno%252C+and+Dodue+at+the+vineyard_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFabNkmVaayuXmyyCV6P_B5CfOGXhY4hOQsjpB59xTvf0MLWfcjzPeiLSpWT20MLeZqZ7GK3BvJFQQdPcd0TLcjbWGRlfOd1m9zSA7VPUxdgD6yCuE51yq8JkCALNfjY_-mywTXaW2S4/s320/Bea%252C+Bruno%252C+and+Dodue+at+the+vineyard_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was in one of the old villages that Dodue found us. She joined a larger dog, a tawny colored cocker spaniel, to bark at us as we arrived. Once we passed through the village so courageously guarded, the spaniel dropped off and went back to her front stoop to sleep. But Dodue stayed with us, trotting along with that funny smile and side-hanging tongue. We kept telling her to go back, but, no. Dodue was ours. Or more accurately, we were Dodue’s.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Béa tried to read the tag hanging on Dodue’s red woven collar. After a struggle—Dodue jiggled any time a hand came near her—Béa got a hold of the tag and saw a cell phone number, with no name or address. She called from the edge of a vineyard. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8XFhWXYTgmW9W1-4lahw4sc6beb91pHO4_aIZlttcQ1SOwiZPdWkAtEwFGvhPXMFFUagRVHk-p8zXOQgsBJGlHw75nhYubjsa5vajD_VUc_Nhd88MNMhwK5xMefiFY-LBt0tRnf5LS8/s1600/Thierry%2526Dodue_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8XFhWXYTgmW9W1-4lahw4sc6beb91pHO4_aIZlttcQ1SOwiZPdWkAtEwFGvhPXMFFUagRVHk-p8zXOQgsBJGlHw75nhYubjsa5vajD_VUc_Nhd88MNMhwK5xMefiFY-LBt0tRnf5LS8/s320/Thierry%2526Dodue_Bahrami.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">As we waited, I could see the sweep of merlot and cabernet franc vines rise then fall and dive toward the rocky hills north and south of here, hills that promised chalky limestone soil, hot sunny days, and cool nights. A young man answered. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hello,” said Béa, she paused, then blurted, “I have your little pig here.” We all heard silence and then laughter coming through the phone and the man said, “She does that a lot. Where are you?” Béa explained that we were on the trail heading to the Vin de Domme cellars. They agreed that he would get “his little pig” at the winery. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We never got the little pig’s real name and so continued to call her “Dodue,” an endearing term in French that means plump, or in our usage, little fatty. Apparently, the village from which she adopted us was not her home either. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We then stopped for a picnic lunch in a thicket of oak and that was when Béa was jovially licked on the thigh in the bush. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">By the time we arrived at the winery, Dodue had become a member of our expedition, a daring and valiant one at that. I was impressed by her courage and devotion, staying with me on that lookout height that made us both go green. But it was a spectacular height: it afforded us a view of the entire wine growing lands of some 17 growers, the serpent’s winding of the Dordogne River, and the hilltop fortress chateaus of Beynac and Castelnaud. To the south, it revealed the drier but more attuned to wine growing lands of the Lot that opened toward Cahors, another rich wine area, especially for malbec.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the wine coop, we explained our dog situation. The president of the coop, Bernard Manières, did what any self-respecting French person would and invited Dodue to join the tour. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In 1989, Germinal Peiro, a native of the area and regional counselor, proposed reviving the vineyards that had lay silent for a century. In 1993, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Association des Amis du Vin de Domme</i>, Association of the Friends of the Wine of Domme, was created, with over 300 members. By 1995, after some experimental plantings on half a hectare of land the year before, three locals joined the planting revival—Eric Duclaud, Bernard Manières, and Michel Perry—and planted several more hectares on prime wine land. Today, some fourteen others have joined the planting and the coop has twenty-three hectares of vines and aspires to increase it to thirty hectares in the future. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amis du Vin de Domme</i> now has over 2300 members. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The five wines that they produce—three reds (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuvée Tradition, Périgord Noir, </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuvée Cabernet Franc</i>) and two rosé (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rosé de Domme</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rosé Gourmandise</i>)—are standard fare in regional restaurants in an area dedicated to eating and cooking from locally grown and produced ingredients. The table is now complete: local grilled duck breast is heavenly with the Vin de Domme <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuvée Tradition, </i>an unoaked cabernet franc and merlot blend, a wine made the old way, before oaking became popular. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">(For those desiring oak, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Périgord Noir</i> (cabernet franc and merlot) and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuvée Cabernet Franc</i> (pure cabernet franc) deliver the right notes.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzzG3jGHOl-VcPJnaZgwwF44VMyFsCQ4T6CoiJ2NZw2ERDqB0Qvv0ORf8NiTsBdmAiu7gsll_2C9atZzv-XH9baUHtCdlftcClDOn9lbCT1phxA75HHP6i__1lTp-4hKI9p6fL55ebJw/s1600/Dodue+on+wine+tour_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzzG3jGHOl-VcPJnaZgwwF44VMyFsCQ4T6CoiJ2NZw2ERDqB0Qvv0ORf8NiTsBdmAiu7gsll_2C9atZzv-XH9baUHtCdlftcClDOn9lbCT1phxA75HHP6i__1lTp-4hKI9p6fL55ebJw/s320/Dodue+on+wine+tour_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We went to see the press, the stainless steel containers, and the barrels. Dodue wove in and out, like a seasoned wine connoisseur. We ended at the tasting room where Mr. Manières offered us tastes of the three reds since we were a crowd of red wine lovers. The Vin de Domme’s two roses are also worthy wines: the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gourmandise </i>is sweet, meant as an aperitif that can easily be paired with foie gras, traditionally demanding a sweet pairing, and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rosé de Domme</i> is drier, perfect for pairing with first courses such as smoked Aquitaine trout or a traditional salad with greens and thin slices of dry cured duck breast. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Somewhere between the second and third wine, we lost Dodue. “Uh-oh,” said Petrus, “now we have to find her to make sure the young man gets her back.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We looked around steel tanks, behind oak barrels, beneath the picnic bench in the tasting room, to no avail. Suddenly, there she was, all along, asleep on the floor with its dominant cream and brown tones just like hers. She was asleep right on the place names painted on the floor, imposed over the logo of the labyrinth of the Vin de Domme label, showing all the micro growing regions involved. He little paws and thick snout lay right on the word Domme. Clever girl. She went right to the heart of matters just as she had gone to the center of our hearts. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At that moment, a young man walked into the tasting room. “I’m here for my little pig.” Everyone laughed. We were happy that he had not taken offense. Indeed, he looked relieved. By now, we all knew her as Dodue but were curious. “What is her name?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ficelle.” Which means string.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ficelle?” Three of us said at once, incredulous. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oui</i>, Ficelle.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We said goodbye to “Ficelle.” We bought a few bottles of wine. As we took off to the trail again, almost as one voice we each said, “She’s no Ficelle. She’s Dodue, Dodue the Valiant.” And we felt something lacking. We knew it was the presence of our sixth trekking member, smaller than all of us but full of life, energy, and daring. We could not imagine Dodue returning to a life as Ficelle, one that seemed woefully rife with lolling about before the television, eating bonbons, and longing for another adventure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The wine from the Vin de Domme is an honest wine, made with traditional methods, by locals dedicated to the land and the fruit. For me, it also tastes of that day, of that little friend who adopted us, and of adventures as yet unknown until you strike out onto the trail. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Forever in my mind, the Vin de Domme will be the Vin de Dodue. Certainly not Ficelle.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGOpFI7BbjktKOjelzzD6YuO2lt6Ypr2mQ5VTvdKCH9lV_xixfTD7F9M5SHMYl13S5djE6CBZDDCPTDJzCiuoGKPJvy8m5pwg6-HL1ZY6spyq95jwCwIryjxQ8Cqo-4lrGuHGffxnDx4/s1600/Vin+de+Domme_Bahrami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGOpFI7BbjktKOjelzzD6YuO2lt6Ypr2mQ5VTvdKCH9lV_xixfTD7F9M5SHMYl13S5djE6CBZDDCPTDJzCiuoGKPJvy8m5pwg6-HL1ZY6spyq95jwCwIryjxQ8Cqo-4lrGuHGffxnDx4/s320/Vin+de+Domme_Bahrami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some practical advice:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Getting to the Dordogne, Quercy, and the Lot, where Vin de Domme is situated, is easy by train from Paris, Bordeaux and Toulouse. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The two best ways to get to the Vin de Domme cooperative are either with <a href="http://www.dordogne-fellow-traveller.com/">Dordogne Fellow Traveller</a> or by car. With Dordogne Fellow Traveller, they will tailor an excursion to your interests and they will handle all the logistics, from picking you up from your home base (Sarlat is an excellent base), driving, arranging the tour, and if you desire, taking you on a wine trail hike. The appearance of adorable, must-take-home-dogs cannot be guaranteed. If you rent a car, head south from the town of Domme to the village of Bouzic and from there follow signs to the Cave du Vin de Domme, in Florimont-Gaumier.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Vin de Domme also makes an appearance at Sarlat’s Saturday market during the late spring and throughout the summer. Their label is distinctive and the best way to find them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">au marché</i>: a labyrinth in the shape of a wine leaf. When I asked Bernard Manières why they chose this emblem, he said, “It is a labyrinth to come here.” It felt that he meant this both physically, and it was, as well as metaphorically, detailing a century of return and comeback with slow, deliberate, and paced work.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cave du Vin de Domme</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Moncalou</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">24250 Florimont-Gaumier</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">telephone: 05-53-28-14-47</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">email: </span><a href="mailto:vindedomme@wanadoo.fr"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">vindedomme@wanadoo.fr</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hours: <u>June-September</u>: Monday thru Friday, 10 AM to 12 PM and 2 PM to 6:30 PM; Weekends and holidays, 2:30 pm to 6:30 PM. <u>October-May</u>: Contact them to arrange for a time to visit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-84676397959849824662011-10-09T07:23:00.000-07:002013-01-03T08:32:06.053-08:00The Esoteric Camino to Santiago de Compostela through France and Spain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Jaca’s cathedral in Aragón has a basilisk that seems to come from some pre-Christian Pyrenean past. </div>
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Eunate’s church in Navarra has a sacred flutist possibly harkening to a Sufi influence, not to mention its ring of thirty-three external arches that are akin to Islamic prayer beads, acting as a meditation upon the ninety-nine names of God—three times around, and entering the hundredth door, as the Sufis call it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eunate</i> in Basque actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">means</i> 100 doors. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzq1Q-vFn9xpYkTshcfeTBKtwr0dfa-diBVgbCDmozdxRX2TLWEY-Aa7GUD9q3ZetYTrcKgccdSsr35Ml_XZ8pudpB5qYwC08pYVu3AtJNjvtZoJhtU6heDf25QPbbPt0qnCx4UDp7SLY/s1600/Spain_Eunate_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzq1Q-vFn9xpYkTshcfeTBKtwr0dfa-diBVgbCDmozdxRX2TLWEY-Aa7GUD9q3ZetYTrcKgccdSsr35Ml_XZ8pudpB5qYwC08pYVu3AtJNjvtZoJhtU6heDf25QPbbPt0qnCx4UDp7SLY/s320/Spain_Eunate_Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Nearly 500 kilometers further along the Camino, Santo Tomas de las Ollas in León possesses nine horseshoe arches in its apse that form an eleven-sided polygon. Another mediation on 99, not to mention on the interfaith nature of the sacred road? </div>
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Even St. James’ tomb in Santiago de Compostela may instead contain the bones of another beheaded martyr, the Galician Priscillian, a monk, hermit, and local leader from the 4<sup>th</sup> century who wove many locally beloved pagan ideas into his rendering of Christianity.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTg9gYnxQkGPw2KlWno1ZV5244N_sAxQnOLuH6FwLZ_Nj5WkKbqaiHXOcDcs1RFbZ4HsRARhU_q7042KIPxq7bXpQDTA4SnO_lmYZZxv9EID23eEj12mWi9EDHCOQDeAsuFr9kNhftRk/s1600/Portugal_StoneMonks_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTg9gYnxQkGPw2KlWno1ZV5244N_sAxQnOLuH6FwLZ_Nj5WkKbqaiHXOcDcs1RFbZ4HsRARhU_q7042KIPxq7bXpQDTA4SnO_lmYZZxv9EID23eEj12mWi9EDHCOQDeAsuFr9kNhftRk/s320/Portugal_StoneMonks_Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgxUyji3_U1Y1-yZmZl8wnE8GBj154AiKTlqe00Olkh4G0FKYR2E-z38eb-XS5XsqwHKzheqkgYR9UwUVF_-GmaKKU9kb5RpfHeXQ0QiOLJ8_LAMbzjBjZTSENGLqQDJyiikZvENvajQ/s1600/France_Magdalene_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgxUyji3_U1Y1-yZmZl8wnE8GBj154AiKTlqe00Olkh4G0FKYR2E-z38eb-XS5XsqwHKzheqkgYR9UwUVF_-GmaKKU9kb5RpfHeXQ0QiOLJ8_LAMbzjBjZTSENGLqQDJyiikZvENvajQ/s320/France_Magdalene_Bahrami.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Throughout the sacred pilgrimage road to Santiago de Compostela, the Camino, many churches are infused with a sacred geometry that only makes fuller sense if the pagan, the Classical, the Judaic, the Christian, and the Islamic traditions are considered together. Moreover, all along the corridor spanned by the Camino there are dolmens, menhirs, engraved stones and cave walls, and holy springs that also speak of a prehistoric past that saw this corridor as equally sacred.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrXlleTfQT09FGhwvthW9cfrPx4yfhfn2nlwYAuajcpJHXWOFauAVK6njjRhhUh6pvLrLk-MXM9MYhrEXhZqXvJSy9xGgr0fwtgJrddTeTPEXokbeGsXbydEu9nsvYgD7R_Seoaiwhjw/s1600/France_Perigueux.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrXlleTfQT09FGhwvthW9cfrPx4yfhfn2nlwYAuajcpJHXWOFauAVK6njjRhhUh6pvLrLk-MXM9MYhrEXhZqXvJSy9xGgr0fwtgJrddTeTPEXokbeGsXbydEu9nsvYgD7R_Seoaiwhjw/s320/France_Perigueux.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The Camino—the many roads across Europe and across northern Spain to Santiago de Compostela—has many layers; the Christian layer is only the most recent and evident. </div>
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I have recently published a multi-layered travel guide on the Camino, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Esoteric Camino France & Spain</i></b>, as an application download for iPhones, iPads, and iPod Touch. (An eBook is forthcoming.) Based on over 25 years of exploring, walking, and studying the Camino as a pilgrim, anthropologist, and writer, this app carries in it explorations into the many layers of this sacred road, from prehistory to the present.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Esoteric Camino France & Spain</i></b> complements other Camino guides, the more numerous practical how-to guides, and does something no one of them does in one place: offer the deep layers of ancestry and the less obvious lineages and symbols of the places along the Camino. It is rich in esoteric lore, regional folklore, and sacred geometry.</div>
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Moreover, as I continue my treks, I will continue to explore stretches of the many Caminos in Europe. As I do so, I will expand the entries in the app.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The current edition of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Esoteric Camino France & Spain</i></b> covers the French <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Road</b>, the Camino Francés, from St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France, to Finisterre, Spain. The current app also covers the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Camino Aragonés</b> from the Somport Pass to Puente la Reina, Spain, as well as parts of the road that begin in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Le-Puy-en-Velay</b> in France. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRhz8GTLlGrvBVeJEixkjJCdptoRLPe-2wnDXjvWJSHQMA1zuujSj3qn9AUxTT-YLZ6StJ5yqK50UcsCSbaxUUHsgFGwZ_0PgTcQPsRJkgEVL1BTP7L98U3LWVFjjPk7q1jDy9k3mZtU/s1600/Spain_Pilgrim%2527sRoad_Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRhz8GTLlGrvBVeJEixkjJCdptoRLPe-2wnDXjvWJSHQMA1zuujSj3qn9AUxTT-YLZ6StJ5yqK50UcsCSbaxUUHsgFGwZ_0PgTcQPsRJkgEVL1BTP7L98U3LWVFjjPk7q1jDy9k3mZtU/s320/Spain_Pilgrim%2527sRoad_Bahrami.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/esoteric-camino-france-spain/id588935557?mt=8"><b><i>The Esoteric Camino France & Spain</i></b></a> is available through <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sutro Media</b> on <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/esoteric-camino-france-spain/id588935557?mt=8"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">iTunes</b></a> and on <b><a href="https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.sutromedia.android.guide.the.camino&hl=en">Android</a></b>.<br />
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<i>Bu</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">en Camino</i>!</div>
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-14511204653729732402011-08-25T08:51:00.000-07:002013-01-03T08:37:02.383-08:00Trekking in Madrid: Historic Walking Tours<style>
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Madrid is like Paris and Lisbon, incredibly walkable. I love to trek in great cities like these as much as in the great wild outdoors.<br />
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I’ve recently compiled my favorite <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Historic-Walking-Guides-Madrid-Bahrami/dp/0955928168/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1259690238&sr=1-1-fkmr2">Historic Walks in Madrid</a> in a book with eight historically themed tours. All are self-guided.</div>
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The 8 historic walks in Madrid are:</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Medieval Madrid</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Hapsburg Austrian Madrid </div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Bourbon Madrid</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Belle Époque Madrid </div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Historic Writers’ Madrid</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Historic Artists’ Madrid </div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Historic Wine Taverns of Madrid</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Historic Mysteries of Madrid</div>
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I also include a list of:</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Historic Eating and Drinking </div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Historic Hotels<br />
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If I only had time for one walk in Madrid, I would make it the territory outlined in my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Medieval Madrid</b> tour.<br />
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It starts at the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Puerta del Sol</b>, meanders toward the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Plaza Mayor</b>, and then south of it into the heart of Madrid’s surviving <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">medieval neighborhood</b>. There, you can taste the centuries (9<sup>th</sup> to 11<sup>th</sup>) when Muslims occupied and made the town a major garrison site. You can see the medieval churches (11<sup>th</sup> to 15<sup>th</sup> centuries) some of which were once mosques. You can visit a quiet walled <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">rose garden</b>. And you’ll pass by the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Royal Palace</b>, which stands on the original grounds of the Muslim fortress. All along, under your feet are now dried up subterranean waterways. These water sources were the original reason Madrid was such an appealing place to inhabit: Though the Manzanares River flows through town, it was these underground water sources that guaranteed life’s most essential ingredient close at hand. Apparently, the water ran for many centuries and only dried up after 1850.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCj0u3JVe-GgMVnm4s3JdlN3S6CokufitcGpohj3J3zXkysF7JMFyi4DCX70tyct2JKrGFmjo1kbVTVO854D4C8vAXrLDpDoe1rvf9_u-w6IXKodzGBSE4vzGXo0pCOZWg_90D7EOCL8k/s1600/Madrid-Plaza_Mayor-Bahrami.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCj0u3JVe-GgMVnm4s3JdlN3S6CokufitcGpohj3J3zXkysF7JMFyi4DCX70tyct2JKrGFmjo1kbVTVO854D4C8vAXrLDpDoe1rvf9_u-w6IXKodzGBSE4vzGXo0pCOZWg_90D7EOCL8k/s320/Madrid-Plaza_Mayor-Bahrami.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I often end my Medieval Madrid trek near the Plaza Mayor at the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mercado de San Miguel</b>, a neighborhood covered market that was recently restored and converted into a gourmet covered market with several open-space tapas bars. The atmosphere is always vibrant and convivial and a mix of locals and visitors.<br />
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I have other favorite tours, too, depending on my mood. Sometimes I love the tour that walks in the footsteps of Madrid’s artists and writers. As a writer, I love to get a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">café con leche</i> at the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">El Gran Café Gijón</b> (Paseo de Recoletos, 21) and feel kinship with writers past and present (you’ll know who they are as they’re all nursing their one drink and scribbling away on a pad of paper before them—very old-fashioned!).<br />
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Other days, I love a good <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Madrid Mystery </b>tour, complete with unsolved crimes and ghosts (including ones fabled to roam the halls of the famous <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Reina Sofia Museum</b>). And yet other days, I like to follow the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Historic Wine Taverns</b> tour with a good appetite, enjoying places that have been serving up the same dishes since the 18<sup>th</sup> century.<br />
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And did you know that it was the 13<sup>th</sup> century king of Castile and León, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Alfonso X</b>, who imposed a law making <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tapas</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>little snacks, mandatory when people ordered alcoholic drinks at pubs and inns? The tradition has held to the present, which is why when you order a glass of wine or a beer, the bartender almost always includes a little plate of something to eat. Alfonso X was both concerned about public drunkenness as he was about people’s health and felt it was enhanced with something to eat with wine. It’s been a good tradition and a part of what makes Spanish public culture so appealing.<br />
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Prefer apps to books? Please check out my <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/madrid-walks/id588935062?mt=8"><b><i>Madrid Walks</i></b></a> app on <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/madrid-walks/id588935062?mt=8"><b>iTunes</b></a> and <a href="https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.sutromedia.android.guide.madrid.walks&feature=search_result#?t=W251bGwsMSwxLDEsImNvbS5zdXRyb21lZGlhLmFuZHJvaWQuZ3VpZGUubWFkcmlkLndhbGtzIl0."><b>Android</b></a>.</div>
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The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-5268136726894289552011-06-30T06:24:00.000-07:002011-06-30T06:24:09.026-07:00Trek, Surf, Eat Local, Down the Jersey Shore<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87cpcCpSYjuZQrh4zcAk4svnDKGhGmFpK98gnnMr98pJEeL0PjY9qqP3RcNkqxbTAQMuBmrUPRWYjckvOso5xlpayumKoBMpv7fee7K4tUcBea4JqJNwkd0oTHnzZ7WJEBkmo1DvB5ho/s1600/Le_Surf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87cpcCpSYjuZQrh4zcAk4svnDKGhGmFpK98gnnMr98pJEeL0PjY9qqP3RcNkqxbTAQMuBmrUPRWYjckvOso5xlpayumKoBMpv7fee7K4tUcBea4JqJNwkd0oTHnzZ7WJEBkmo1DvB5ho/s200/Le_Surf.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A favorite trek is walking to the beach, carrying nothing but a surfboard tucked under my arm. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The summer is in full bloom here along coastal New Jersey. The water is a balmy 70 degrees Fahrenheit. I have noticed if I am very quiet when I reach the water's edge, the ocean has a melody unique to each day. So I listen and wait until the music alights upon my ears. Two days ago, it was a jazz quintet. Today, a Bach chamber piece.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxkZiFNMd5yhpXci9qcxL7dTis81CfY12jZh1p96hNvxwQknbPqsfCSJTWnzIxJP6XfZZz6Z4pxYXNGmFMHBl1V0n2dVDZ0_5e0I0Wsh8bHqN6Ddf8dpt8qeW-HZGPsC0Rw8zw9_Gq58/s1600/DSCF6257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxkZiFNMd5yhpXci9qcxL7dTis81CfY12jZh1p96hNvxwQknbPqsfCSJTWnzIxJP6XfZZz6Z4pxYXNGmFMHBl1V0n2dVDZ0_5e0I0Wsh8bHqN6Ddf8dpt8qeW-HZGPsC0Rw8zw9_Gq58/s200/DSCF6257.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another pleasure of the season is the farmer’s markets and their seasonal, local offerings. These are the folks and the practices that give New Jersey its Garden State rep. Asparagus season has passed but blueberries and corn are here for a few weeks. The chard, arugula, and beets are robust and vibrant. Peaches are just beginning to peak.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aOLth7NiZD5wV6EVzcAsSjouiuXCikA1pWOLPhyRMcVc_uMcZRG-ywHTGASDchE7vV6kwd-mx4UM9H0FeoaiJA70azTUGgW4dyrDxbMOxE9WAEnHzDKLa9skep7NKhOGAnkOSzqvNYY/s1600/DSCF6263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aOLth7NiZD5wV6EVzcAsSjouiuXCikA1pWOLPhyRMcVc_uMcZRG-ywHTGASDchE7vV6kwd-mx4UM9H0FeoaiJA70azTUGgW4dyrDxbMOxE9WAEnHzDKLa9skep7NKhOGAnkOSzqvNYY/s200/DSCF6263.JPG" width="182" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another aspect of the farmers’ markets I enjoy is that they bring a lifestyle from France and Spain that I love: shopping locally and everyday for food without ever getting into a car. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is such deep pleasure in walking to market and carrying food home. The car sits quietly in its parking spot and I see more of my neighborhood, my neighbors, and my market baskets overflow. I have sunflowers riding atop, ready to cheer my kitchen table and bring in another connection with France and Spain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A favorite summer dinner with local fare:</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sautéed Swiss chard in olive oil, garlic, and chili pepper flakes and tossed it with angel hair pasta made with Jerusalem artichoke flour (it tastes fantastic, like artichokes and herbs).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dessert: Simplicity rules. Rinsed blueberries in a pretty bowl, to pluck one by one or to pop greedily into your mouth by the handful. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Locating The Garden State’s Farmers’ Markets:</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.state.nj.us/jerseyfresh/searches/urban.htm">http://www.state.nj.us/jerseyfresh/searches/urban.htm</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.farmersmarketonline.com/fm/NewJersey.htm">http://www.farmersmarketonline.com/fm/NewJersey.htm</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.jerseyfarmersmarkets.com/Home.aspx">http://www.jerseyfarmersmarkets.com/Home.aspx</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.njskylands.com/fmmarkets.htm">http://www.njskylands.com/fmmarkets.htm</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.jerseyfresh.nj.gov/">http://www.jerseyfresh.nj.gov/</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988111689382748345.post-2229291251815228452011-06-15T08:25:00.000-07:002011-06-17T08:19:07.789-07:00Hike, Eat, Drink, and Contemplate the Pyrenees near Lourdes, France<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">There is no question that Lourdes in southern France, on the edge of the Pyrenees, is a powerful spot. Indeed, the entire stretch of mountains, from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, possesses several mystical spots, many associated with Mary.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPIcmBirNh9PYPiW0S5lHmzfBFemswgpu0ov4B0kChIEtmjgQRGOg2PqLCnRQo6S72Q4yTY4XnnxnUtLpVKHkbtmqS5BN7kWCsfg3SNg2IEMu9PTHVKJAd9YudWmCZ3pNM8YM5QxLcgg/s1600/DSCF8871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPIcmBirNh9PYPiW0S5lHmzfBFemswgpu0ov4B0kChIEtmjgQRGOg2PqLCnRQo6S72Q4yTY4XnnxnUtLpVKHkbtmqS5BN7kWCsfg3SNg2IEMu9PTHVKJAd9YudWmCZ3pNM8YM5QxLcgg/s320/DSCF8871.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have traversed several of them, and also a few in northern Spain. All are remote places in overwhelmingly beautiful natural vistas of mountain, ocean, or forested valleys.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe because of this, on my pilgrimage to Lourdes, I felt overwhelmed by the number of other visitors. After paying my respects to Our Lady, I sought to return to the quieter contemplation of the pilgrim’s road. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xn3p1tDvMUhkYbVIv1DrNVwZ42jQT4A-Itp3zW7_faMRCbE5-oWvX0k4mEP8ltUpQ-36Z6zHnRIdwd8A1vtSUWejRqeL2YrmQNngPNm7-pZK7vIeDE40U0id7miN09GAa6bNeSBPivo/s1600/DSCF8720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xn3p1tDvMUhkYbVIv1DrNVwZ42jQT4A-Itp3zW7_faMRCbE5-oWvX0k4mEP8ltUpQ-36Z6zHnRIdwd8A1vtSUWejRqeL2YrmQNngPNm7-pZK7vIeDE40U0id7miN09GAa6bNeSBPivo/s320/DSCF8720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The tourist office in Lourdes had just the answer. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">voie verte, </i>the green hiker’s and biker’s path, from Lourdes south, went right into the Pyrenees. I could take it from the town edge or I could catch a local bus and pick it up deeper into the mountains. I opted for the local bus so that I could start in the midst of the wild and then trek back into Lourdes on my own foot power.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I now realize that the two activities are the perfect balance for the sacred traveler who wants both to pay a visit to one of the world’s great shrines and to partake of the landscape that Saint Bernadette herself would have seen as more familiar than the Lourdes of today. It is a landscape that still inspires transcendent experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP85dNGm-HrDuZb3eeJ2C-F5pH6lbk52lLlIXSGaCcIcczoO0BY2N_0wlD9k-J11CHWYzAte-XM16ZWToAaSOpr7SnGGEpCniNaq4JpizAk1_-V-BfVYoWmVZxlV7BSXkb3cBi6KWnOrA/s1600/DSCF8752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP85dNGm-HrDuZb3eeJ2C-F5pH6lbk52lLlIXSGaCcIcczoO0BY2N_0wlD9k-J11CHWYzAte-XM16ZWToAaSOpr7SnGGEpCniNaq4JpizAk1_-V-BfVYoWmVZxlV7BSXkb3cBi6KWnOrA/s320/DSCF8752.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To take to the path, visit the tourist office for a good map and advice, asking for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Voie Verte des Gaves</i>, the name of the walking and cycling route south of Lourdes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicGwU-u8hKCOUJIZgAIYBjK_kOq9BcVeiFYvj_3h7k4T0I6wI0oQXB1xchKiFRBXK7sYW7fDm6saO9KnA1MA__DXm-D3hcrUQ8OII59vuPs3k5uJF31HJjeMiKIsRPAovJ_Ox__HRHDE/s1600/DSCF8726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicGwU-u8hKCOUJIZgAIYBjK_kOq9BcVeiFYvj_3h7k4T0I6wI0oQXB1xchKiFRBXK7sYW7fDm6saO9KnA1MA__DXm-D3hcrUQ8OII59vuPs3k5uJF31HJjeMiKIsRPAovJ_Ox__HRHDE/s320/DSCF8726.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Culinary Miracles:</b> Hidden in those hills is a culinary miracle, the restaurant Le Viscos in the village of St-Savin (<a href="http://www.hotel-leviscos.com/en/hotel-le-viscos-saint-savin-table.php">http://www.hotel-leviscos.com/en/hotel-le-viscos-saint-savin-table.php</a>). I dare say, hiking will never be the same after resting my feet and ordering chef Jean-Pierre Saint-Martin’s shorter—five course instead of seven course—walker’s menu, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Menu de Retour Balade</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Other Marian Routes:</b> If you are interested in powerful but little known Marian sites along coastal northern Spain, fishermen’s shrines dedicated to Mary, please see Chapter 9—San Vicente de la Barquera to Navia in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spiritual Traveler Spain</i> (<a href="http://www.beebesfeast.com/book-flier.html">http://www.beebesfeast.com/book-flier.html</a>)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>The Pilgrim's Way Cafe - A Travel and Food Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821695033573997732noreply@blogger.com0Lourdes, France43.091463 -0.04572600000005877543.048642 -0.11195400000005877 43.134283999999994 0.02050199999994122