Czech Cubist Art at the National Museum

agggh. I lost the artist name.

The best Kvetaak I ever had . . .

dang this blog software sucks bigtime . . . that picture has been rotated right side up, but it still shows sideways here . . . I loved it . . . it had a taste most cauliflower lacks, the texture was the same, and the look is so-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o alien!

Worker outside Chodov Train Station

Don't know what, don't know why, there it is . . .

On Namesti Miru

Armagnac -- 8th Day -- The Long Journey Home

So, according to plan, we rose as early as the hours for the Petite De Jeunner permitted, noshed, checked out of the motel, humped the-now-6-cases of wine & armagnac back down to the car -- I suppose it is worth noting that tho' I removed all the alcohol from the car not only in consideration of the effect of solar heat damaging the wine, but also concern that the recognition that armagnac resided in the car might prove too much temptation for some discerning felon, but I left my beloved golf clubs in the car, shrouded with our dirty clothes bag and the luggage cover in the back of the combi, propped shut with a large water bottle, since it was broken.

Stopping only for benzine, we raced to toulouse, to the farmer's market, to provision our picnic basket so we could avoid the culinary ravages of burger king, mcdonalds, et al, on our way back.

Paranoid, now, I staid with the car while Mrs shopped in Toulouse, regrettably missing out on the sights and smells . . . I was only able to snap this picture from my camera phone as we whizzed by leaving as an afterthought. . . but she had scored a chicken roasted with herbs, a loaf of olive bread, some nectarines, and some cheese, which she had selected in what we call Lupe mode: an adventurous choice of an unknown foodstuff.



Then we drove and drove and drove . . .The french countryside is lovely but the eye grows blase' as if after several hours at the grand canyon . . . from the freeway . . . evenmoreso . . . this bridge caught our eye . . . we stopped and took pictures of it after we had past, but the best one was from within the car, thru the windshield, before we went thru . . . has something to do with the Dali-esque appearance of the bridge before those clouds . . .Dam', Dali-on-the-brain . . . may have to go to the hokey Dali museum in Prg, after all. . .



the trip back was uneventful . . . the countdown on the TomTom was excruciating . . . I kept asking Mrs, when are we going to turn East, instead of North!? The best part was the lunch we had provisioned ourselves . . .the chicken was superb, the nectarines like from the garden of eden, the olive bread was fabulous, but the cheese . . . I tho't I had achieved the sophisticated palate to appreciate any cheese no matter how . . . challenging . . . but even my juvenile sense of decorum prevents me from describing how this cheese tasted to me . . . Mrs wouldn't even try a nibble . . . "I SAW your face!" she said, "and I can smell it." we thru it away at the next stop. SHe'd tho't it might be a sort of camembert . . .a softish-yellowish cheese, but then we wondered . . . was it Limberger? of Our Gang Fame?

We had our music but the only other entertainment we had was once when the TomTom got confused. Tho' we were still on the freeway, the TomTom narrator started issuing confusing instructions, "get off, get on, turn around", the display started flashing discordant, disjointed maps, the cursor started flying off the road, like a wingman -- for like 11 miles, the cursor shadowed us, off road. The coordinates must have been mis-entered is all I can figger, there wasn't an old road over there or anything . . .

Later, much later that night, as we crossed the german/czech border, TomTom freaked out again, ordered me off the freeway. . . exhausted, I followed mindlessly . . .instead of cruising we were suddenly inching around little by-roads in a small village, taking some perceived short-cut . . . there was construction, so even more wildly, we were taking detours in the darkest-before-dawn-dark on a route that was clearly, in retrospect, another bug in the programming.

When we got back on the freeway I spied a car pulling a boat on a trailer that I had past before. Oh, well.

We pulled into the circle near our apt in PRG without further trauma. We went up together on the first trip, but I left Mrs in the apt. while I carried all else up . . . 8 trips . . . I've never felt so paranoid in Prg before as when I was carrying up the cases of wine and armagnac, at 4am.

They say that the doing is the pleasure, not the having done, but finally getting back to the Apt. with all that stuff, was a good feeling, even now.

Next day we lounged about after getting the car back -- noticed that the traffic was heavier than when we left, since everyone has come back from vacation, back into the city . . . Mrs washed clothes, we watched two movies, we ordered Indian Food Delivery from Himalya . . . took 'em 3 hours to deliver, almost worth it. . . . I savored some rare imported Armagnac.

Monday could not possibly be a good day, I figgered.

7th Day - Armagnac

Without setting an alarm-clock to wake us, with an inevitable melancholy that could only be described as french, in french, that this was the last recreational day of our vacation, we desultorily rose and attended the cozy petite dejeuner . . . we were served by the mother of our hoteliesse, in her housedress, which I found rather droll, but Mrs demurred, said it was homey . . . we could smell the coffee and croissants baking in our room upstairs, which was a yummy apertif . . . we were willing to overlook the use of tinned preservatives instead of home-made, like we'd had at the chateaus . . . c'est la vie . . .

We ambled over to the titular raison d'etre of our vacation, the musee' Armaganac . . . it is small but interesting . . . there's a grape press the size of a fire-truck . . . collections of tools for cultivating, harvesting, and distilling armagnac grapes . . . collections of antique stills . . . and displays of antique ways of enjoying armagnac, like crystal decanters and small glasses and snifters . . . but perhaps most important . . . the proper dressage: a blue velvet vest with little metal grape clusters on it . . . this picture kinda turned out Dali-like from my reflection in the glass . . . but I am resolved to make this my next purchase of custom tailoring, not so ornamented, perhaps, and with golf motifs, instead of grape clusters, since I am a better bad golfer than armagnac sommellier, if you see what I mean . . .



They had a short video to watch in a small theatre, with a choice of 4 languages. I chose English for intelligibility over French for authenticity. It was only a PR flick, but was enthralling to such a afficionado as I -- I'd forgotten: I'd asked our sommellier at LaFontan what the french equivalent for afficionado was . . . she came up with Amateur! Ouch! . . . 8^D . . . but I think I'd heard that before, so, ok . . . like a black belt just means you are a serious student instead of a dilletantte. The film did manage to convey the information that Armagnac was first distilled in the 1280s, and it is the oldest distilled product in France. I always wonder about those types of First Pioneers . . . how do they come up with these ideas? Did Spacemen tell them? Did they have a bad mushroom? Were they just incredibly bored on winter eves?

Outside the theatre was this Poem about Armagnac distillation. I'm still working on the translation, but I share the joie de vie in the magical process celebrated by the poet.

because as the still embers buffetted
lightens a vapor that gradually mounted
the summit the hat and moist, unable
to sweat smelling her go farther
grazes gently, then a drop falls a drop
clear as crystal, in glass drips
the more subtle humor that floats in the sea
is the scope of the sun rays in the air

After the museum, where there was no tasting . . . incroyable! . . . we wandered the old-town section of Condom looking for a place for lunch . . . we disdained the St. Pierre for no other reason than fine as it was, we wanted a difference . . . we finally wound up at a table in the street outside a pizzeria. The street is blocked off as a pedestrian zone, but that pedestrian traffic is very heavy . . . the hikers and bikers are constant, not to mention the locals breaking for lunch . . .



We didn't really expect a gourmet feast from a pizzeria, but it was such a charming location, half in sun and shade, we had to pick it.



We waved away the menus and gave our standard order, fumbling such that we wound up with vin blanc instead of vin rose -- there's some secret to ordering vin rose in france I have not mastered -- only after re-persuading the waitress that we wanted wine in addition to eau minerale naturelle.

But Mrs loves the salades in France, that come in so many colours and seem to always have bits of melon and avocado . . . this one also had little yellow tomatos that must have a name of their own, but we don't know it . . . Mrs suggests Baby Golden Heirloom Tomatos . . .



The main course I just call FishKabobs . . . I forgot what the restaurant called it . . .saumon en brochette or something . . . it was succulent beyond belief . . . there were bits of bacon included, too, which I applaud, if somewhat ruefully, but Mrs puritanically disdains.

When the waitress returned, she asked "dessert ou glace'?"
So we said "Oui!"
She repeated, "dessert ou glace?"
and we said "Oui!"
this went on for enough iterations to draw irritable & pitying glances at other tables, till the waitress retreated in confusion, and dispatched her colleague, who was able to convey the concept that "ou" = "or".
I found this rather funny as a demonstration of my linguistic shortcomings . . .



goes into the category of "I will never learn" I guess . . .

was a nummy caramelized pavlova set into custard, an excellent complement to my espresso.

After lunch we expanded our circumambulation to the periphery of old-town. We found a grocer -- I don't think it was a Lidl, but I don't remember -- Mrs enjoys seeing different grocers, and taking stock, if you see how I mean, but she also made valuable purchases . . . plastic tableware to go into our picnic basket with our plastic plates and paper napkins -- essential we tho't for our trip back to Prague.

We also ran across this shop specializing in English Articles . . . The cashier greeted us in English, and chatted to us while we perused . . . we didn't really want any marmite, but bought a used paperback, Kinflicks, and some crackers. When we left, I said, "Cheerio!" which made her smile.

6th Day -- Armagnac

So we hit the Petit De Jeuner at the Chateau de Pallane, nodded at our French Friends, murmured bon jour, noshed our cafe au'lait and croissants; packed up -- by humping 4 cases of wine and armagnac back down to the car . . . .

so then we headed out towards condom . . . with the idea I wanted to hit Chateau de Cassaigne . . . they had an interesting web site, their armagnac is alluring, and the old castle is formidable . . .

It was great walking thru the old rooms . . . it's hard to visualize how it would have been before electricity, but you can tell that the old building is like it was centuries ago . . .

I wanted to joke that this the room we staid in . . .

They're awfully proud of their armagnac . . . after reaching into my pocket so often the last few days, I was gun-shy, so to speak . . . so I only bought two bottles of single vintage bottles . . . rather than the hors d'age we were tasting . . . I shoulda bought 4 bottles, at least . . . I can't believe now I wussed out like that . . . in the name of economy & prudence . . . what a dope . . .

we stopped at another place, DeFord . . . along with Millet and Lafontan, this would be one of my favorites . . . this place was awesome . . . we did our normal, tasting from youngest to oldest until we couldn't taste anymore difference . . . we barely made a dent in the first shelf, never mind the 2nd shelf, or OMG, the 3rd shelf . . . the prices down there averaged 250Euros, the age averaged 50 years old . . . the temptation to buy a 1951, the same age as me, was intense, especially since I'd chickened out at Cassaigne. . . but no . . . .dang . . . just a few bottles barely 25 years old . . .

we drove on to condom and checked into our hotel . . . sort of a comedown after the Chateaus we been in, but much cheaper, and in the heart of Condom . . . had a pool too . . . from the hotel we had a recommendation for lunch at the St. Pierre, next to the big church . . . we knew better than to challenge the mores of the region . . . we headed right down there . . .

The St.Pierre brasserie faces the back of the main courtyard of the Hotel de Ville and the front of the Cathedral, a large plaza in its own right. We traipsed upstairs and I saw the seats out on the small terrace? I pointed quizzically. The maitre'd shook his head sorrowfully, but then checked his book, checked his watch, drew a line thru a reservation in the book, gave me a look of cunning appreciation, said "something, something, something bon chance", picked up some menus and led us out to a table on the terrace.

"What did he say?" asked Mrs.
"Something about our lucky day," I replied, "somebody didnt show up, so we can eat out here."

Years ago I had a head=hunter rap to me about how when she was a waitress, she always wondered about the people she was serving, what kind of superior lives they led, and now (she said then) I am living the life of one of those people!

This was one of those moments for me, too . . . we sat up there, sipping wine and eau minerale naturelle, watching the hikers, the bikers, the tourists trudge by below us, while we sat in this prize position admiring the spectacle . . .

the first course was a salad, with melon, endive, avocado and regular stuff . . . Mrs' eyes rolled back in ecstasy . . . wine and vegetables, is all she wants . . .

but then came the money shot: leg of goose, with legumes, mushrooms, and vegetable terrine, I guess you could call it . . . I think it was great, but up on the terrace, in the sunlight under a brolly, with the breeze above the plaza, I think it was ecstatic.

there was some dessert course, natch, but we were so besotted we took no picture, and have no idea what it was . . . I'm sure it was fantastic, and I had coffee with it. . . 8^D . . .

we went back to the motel after lunch, for our siesta . . . we tho't we might swim afterwards, but it was raining, so we just went walkabout back around Condom instead . . .

we found a little store with grocery items, wine, and armagnac . . . I found some bottles of the Pelle Haut we'd had at dinner in Cabuzon and a bottle of armagnac from the same ventre, so I picked those up. They also had those very old and very tempting bottles going back more than 50 years old . . . geez, it was like a sign or something, but I turned away from the madness . . . I mean if you drink a bottle dated by your birth year, and you finish it, aren't you finished ,too? Just asking. . .

we got some more tapenade for our nightly picnic . . . we found the Armagnac museum and bookmarked it, in a manner of speaking for the next day, we walked past a frommage cottage without stopping, but then doubled back . . . I was trying to tell the cheese master I wanted 250 grams (deux cent et canq) but the jolly fellow couldn't understand me, so we just bought the slice of brie he ad in his hand . . . it was 289 grams . . . close enough . . . 8^D . . . we stopped at another shop, a patisserie and bought one baguette . . . that seemed easy in comparison . . .

by the time we got back to the motel, and put away our purchases, and turned around thrice, it was time for our nightly picnic, at a table away from the pool, now crowded by vacationing legionaires.

So we leisurely noshed, then retired to the room to read and listen to music and tipple a little armagnac.