Conventional wisdom has it that travel expands one’s horizons. I’ve been testing that hypothesis this summer and have discovered that the horizon is not the only thing that can be broadened by travel.
Over the past six or eight years I’ve met lots of people who live, or regularly visit the little village of Las Galeras on the Samana Peninsula on the northeast coast of the Dominican Republic. Of course, most of the people I’ve met there are Dominican. Those who are not Dominican are French or Italian; they’re Belgian, or Swiss, or German. Very few of them are American. The majority of the expats in Las Galeras are French.
The Italians, and the French in particular have been after me for years to visit them in Europe and this summer I have done so, making for some interesting stories on both sides of the Atlantic.
France
Christian is French. He is my friend and neighbor in Las Galeras. In a previous life Christian owned and operated a Michelin-rated restaurant on the Continent. He’s been in Las Galeras for fifteen years, more-or-less, and he has a pretty high profile in the community of French expats living there.
Over the last several years he and I made a plan to travel through France together, visiting his old friends and our more recent and mutual friends all over the country. We figured to do this until we got on each other’s nerves, or until we’d run out of friends. My secret hope was that our French friends–who mostly all know one another–would compete with each other in an effort show us what makes their part of France special. My fantasy was particularly vivid when imagining the regional culinary specialties, as Christian described them. Once you think about it, this is a pretty compelling fantasy. As it turned out, something like this actually happened. We were five weeks in France without running out of friends OR making each other crazy. This speaks well of our friends, who were consistently generous, welcoming, and patient, even if they are all French and accordingly a little different.
In fact, everything about France is more than a little different from the United States, or the Dominican Republic for that matter. For example, everyone there SPEAKS FRENCH! And they behave as if this is quite normal. When conversing together they will often speak French rapidly. I find this confusing. At that point the conversation becomes for me something like a soft wave of sibilant sound that rises gently over my head and then recedes, leaving me charmed, but none the wiser for whatever the speaker intended to mean. I can listen
For me, one of the real joys of traveling anywhere is discovering that my own preconceived idea of something is just wrong. This realization is like a bonus–I discover an interesting and true fact about the world and at the same time, if I’m paying attention I can also discern a surprising and true fact about myself. Since it’s all about me, this is very important and really, really interesting . You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?
That’s one more cool thing about my more honest friends–they often and inadvertently provide little windows into my soul, and generally from a novel perspective. On a particularly good day I reciprocate. Whooeee! Anyway, take it from me: if the opportunity presents itself, the way to visit France is in the company of a good friend. Even better if you can make the trip with an accomplished chef and stay in the homes of French friends who know and love their regional culture and cuisine and are enthusiastic about sharing.
Of course, I must have gained three kilos in five weeks. For those of you who are accustomed to think in terms of “pounds” or “ounces” rather than in “kilos” and “grams,” think “many.”
France may not be all or only about the food–and in fact it is not. But they certainly do have a food culture there. This culture begins with the production of food, and continues with its’ display, purchase, and preparation and in the enjoyment of meals in the home. Further, the French seem to also enjoy talking about the production, purchase, preparation and consumption of their meals and–truth be told, it makes for pretty interesting conversation. And memorable eating.
Driving in France
At least the French don’t make the same profound motoring mistake as the British and Japanese; they know upon which side of the road to drive. And it appears as though they have driving rules, and mostly everyone seems to follow them.
And they have traffic roundabouts. Oh, the French have roundabouts. They seem to prefer these traffic circles over “X-type” intersections. Once you get used to them, the roundabouts make a great deal of sense. I suppose somewhere there is a traffic economist who could tell us exactly how such a system saves petrol by eliminating a lot of stopping and starting. As for me, I just like the feeling of being a player in a seamless ballet of more or less constantly flowing traffic. Of course it is sometimes necessary to come to a stop before entering the circle, but more often you can easily take your place in the organic swirl that is the French roundabout and generally you can exit when desired. Failing a timely exit, one can always whirl around one more time. Life in France seems to be like that.
I don’t know where the French get their reputation for rudeness. Maybe from visiting New Yorkers? I certainly didn’t experience inordinate rudeness in France, even in the traffic circles.
We didn’t spend more than a few days in Paris, where I do seem to recall one driver glaring at me as I wandered distractedly against the light and into an intersection. Now that I think of it, drivers did honk at me on two occasions before I figured out what the wavy lines on the road mean, relative to who has the right-of-way at an “X-type” intersection. But I think those were self-defensive honks. They weren’t like the emotional bleats of gridlocked drivers on the beltway in Washington, nor did they resemble the jubilant blaring of traffic in Santo Domingo. In my experience, the French are polite, on the road and off.
In fact, my French friends are generous, and their generosity extends to the meta-level of sharing their own friends. And so we had a marvelous meal of cassoulet at the home of Marie François and Marie Francis, good friends of our hosts in Toulouse. This was followed a few days later by a somewhat larger party featuring an additional number of vibrant and attractive women, including our host, the wife of a chap named Jean Jacques. I had been forewarned that this party was perhaps not a place to try out my best French phrase (“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”) unless I was prepared to be taken seriously.
And so I was uncharacteristically reserved at this dinner. In fact I was tired. And it was late. And ten or twelve bottles of wine had been consumed (none by me). And ten or twelve people were speaking at once and I seemed to be the only one pretending to listen. And after a while, it was exactly as if a tumultuous ocean of French was repeatedly breaking over my head. I’m sure my eyes must have glazed over as my thoughts drifted away from the party and the table…the next thing I knew, our hostess was standing beside me and holding my hand. “Come with me upstairs,” she said enthusiastically, “we will play Babyfoot together!” With that, she pulled me to my feet and began to run through the living room towards the staircase leading to the upper floors. As I passed, I glanced at her husband, who shrugged and smiled and at the other guests who were only mildly interested and so I whooped and joined in the chase, if somewhat apprehensively as she lead me upstairs to an unknown destination and an uncertain fate.
We continued past the second floor and on to the attic where, prominently displayed, there was a professional model Foosball table. The table soccer game called Foosball, you may recall, was popular in homes and bars in the United States in the 1970’s and ‘80s. In France, Foosball is called “Babyfoot” and it seems to be enduringly popular. And so she and I warmed up our babyfootmen and then challenged all comers for the remainder of the evening. Although I was a distinct liability to our side, she played brilliantly and a good time was had by all.
A few weeks later found us visiting with Jacques and Eunice in their cabin high in the mountains near to Spain. Jacques and Eunice have a five year old son, Yahn. Yahn speaks French and understands but does not speak Spanish. He has no English.
Initially, Yahn did not like me, perhaps because I appeared to understand French selectively and speak it very badly. In any event, Yahn surprised me by taking a jab at me when his parents weren’t looking. I tried to joke and tease him into more civilized behavior, employing all three languages,but only succeeded in frustrating him more. Finally, he spit in my direction, which prompted me to take his little arm and firmly remonstrate with him in my own language, which seemed to translate pretty well on the occasion.
This made Yahn cry but, to his credit, he didn’t race off to rat me out to his parents. That’s when I decided that I like Yahn, and that I wanted him to like me. After that exchange he and I had a couple of awkward hours together until I discovered the Foosball table in the basement. It turns out that the kid is mad for Babyfoot, and so we played together.
Yahn cheats. I let him get away with it three out of five times (that I noticed) and then I also began to cheat. The first time that he caught me at it he smiled, and our relationship blossomed. We became a sort of brotherhood of Babyfoot ladrónes, with larceny as our common bond and Babyfoot points the common currency.
Over our next few days with the family it was not unusual for Yahn to quietly and unexpectedly appear in front of me, a beautiful curly-headed Franco-Dominican child with soft brown eyes, a slightly protruding lower lip, and in his quavering childish voice utter the single word we share in common, a word that contains both question and answer and all meaning in between, a word that I share with you now: “Babyfoot?”
Switzerland
Switzerland is a different story–also wonderful, but entirely different.
I could tell immediately when the high-speed train crossed over from France to Switzerland. France is tidy, but the Swiss vineyards look as though they’re pruned with a laser and the fences repainted early each morning. The mostly masonry homes are built of dressed stones that are uniformly laid, neatly pointed and surrounded by beds of colorful yet somehow disciplined flowers. Only later would I realize that these things are quite likely to be a matter of law and have probably been put to a vote of the people.
Switzerland is small. The nation is composed of quite distinct Cantons. There are four official languages in the country. It is politically, if not entirely culturally unified. It is fierce in any number of ways and it is unyieldingly democratic. It seems that the Swiss will vote on anything and legislate everything. Those traditions which are not legislated are enforced by very strong cultural norms. God help the driver who illegally moves a truck on a national holiday or the Swiss homeowner who fires up the power mower on Sunday, for example.
Perhaps that’s why the Swiss take such delight in Ass-bombs.
Some of you, I know, remember the liberating feeling of running head-long across the grass, building up a load of momentum before leaping with abandon into a pool of cold water while clutching your tucked-up knees in a vain attempt to empty the pool of water with a single gigantic splash.
Ass-bombs!! So much more fun than a cannonball.
Enjoy the rest of your summer and be sure to enjoy your ass-bombs and Babyfoots where- and whenever you may find them.
My father was the funniest mathematician I’ve ever known. In his younger days Dad’s humor was often at the expense of others and frequently tended toward the acerbic. Since I didn’t grow up in the same household, I was mostly spared the barb of what could be a quite sharp wit. But I did develop early an appreciation for the occasional concise and cutting insight.
As he grew older, he seemed to develop a capacity to appreciate the more generally absurd aspects of living and so the point of his humor then frequently found expression in the more mundane and less personal aspects of the human condition and its subsets.
I’m happy to report that near to the end of his life I even noticed a capacity to find amusement in his own decisions, circumstances and self. Even at his most acerbic, Dad always appreciated a good job, well done.
He was an aficionado of Japanese food–perhaps in part because there is so much that is necessary to do well in preparing a decent Japanese meal. Wherever he lived for any length of time he managed to locate at least one more or less acceptable Japanese restaurant. Good job, dad!
I first appreciated the maturation of his humor when we were leaving a restaurant outside of Chapel Hill, NC after a particularly nice meal of tempura and sushi accompanied by a chillilin of warm sake. Dad detoured from the door and approached the sushi chefs, Mexican all, and warmly thanked them: “Arigato, chico!”
In linking those words plucked from two distinct cultures Dad implied a wealth of appreciation for much more than the chef’s artistry. His “arigato” acknowledged the guy’s culinary accomplishment, sure, but by this particular tip of his linguistic hat he managed to convey a genuine respect for a good job, performed well in an unusual profession and meeting the expectations of two cultures foreign to the chef’s own. Way to go, Chico!
Really, Dad’s verbal feat seemed to me at least as elegant as the Mexican’s sushi. And so, like any number of his better phrases, I appropriated this one and began the long wait for the appropriate occasion to properly employ it.
In the little Dominican village where I am living there is a restaurant, “La Adventura de Jean.” The locals all know it as “Francis’s place.” The food is consistent and fresh and good, the menu is varied and the prices fair; the ambiance is pleasant and the pizza is arguably the best in town. And now, on Friday evenings, the regular kitchen staff at Francis’s place is joined by a Dominican named José.
José is known for his barbecue and for a number of other things. ¿But sushi? Who knew? Hell, who could have guessed?
And so on Friday I had a very nice miso soup, an excellent tempura and some totally acceptable California rolls all fresh and reasonably priced right here in Las Galeras!
Arigato, José.
And thanks to you, too, Francis.
There aren’t a lot of Americans here in Las Galeras. The few who live here as “residents” are more occasional visitors rather than full-time occupants in the village. Katie and Paul are the exception, and Katie is simply exceptional.
Paul is retired, I think from the constabulary in Boston. Except for three or four weeks each year, he and his wife live here year-round and have done so for more than a decade. Paul’s special time is the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas. He’s a real traditionalist and for those few weeks beginning with Black Friday he is a very credible Santa Claus. I think there’s a photo of him in his “casual Santa” outfit somewhere back in the archives of this blog.
I’ve given up trying to anticipate Katalina. It’s much easier–and more rewarding–to simply marvel in her presence and enjoy the way the world swirls around her and she through life. This is not to imply that she’s in any way a superficial person; there are seemingly depths to her beyond what we mere mortals can apprehend. And she, modestly and charmingly, blithely continues along as though we ALL have a share in these wonderful qualities, a characteristic that to a large extent appears to govern her life. She is perfect for this place as it in turn is perfect for her.
Paul and Katie have animals, apart from a normal complement of wildlife. They have cats and chickens. They have two dogs. Somewhere on YouTube, there is a clip of Katie feeding her donkey a passionfruit by mouth. (This was shortly before the animal went completely and demandingly out of control resulting in several days where Paul and Katie were barricaded in their house. Eventually, cooler thinking prevailed and the donkey was returned to a more normal if less interesting existence on the farm of Sr. Quinengo down on the flat at the foot of the little hill on which we live. But this note isn’t about Matilda the donkey. It’s not about la lomicita. Nor is it about Paul–in or out of uniform, and neither is it about me (other than to the common extent that it’s ALL always about me.)
Rather, I want to tell you about their dog, specifically the bigger of the two, the one with the maybe smaller personality but the more reflective disposition, Buddy.
Yesterday I drove down to the village at 6:45 AM to pick up Pasquala, who cleans and cooks a couple of meals for me about once a week. Yesterday Pasquala was late; the normal gua-gua driver was in the Capital and so all bets were off as to her timing. She called and told me that she would take a moto-concho up to my house whenever she arrived in the village. And so I returned home.
At the turn into the lane leading to my house I encountered Buddy the dog. I stopped. My window was down. We regarded each other. I asked him: “Buddy, Where’s Katie?” He looked at me as if to say “What does it matter?” I suggested that he’d better head on home, and then I did likewise.
A few minutes later, Buddy materialized on my walk. He regarded me once again. He helped himself to a little drink, stopped over for a brief ear-scratch and then he settled down on the concrete veranda, maybe waiting for the sun to come around and make it pleasantly warm.
Pasquala arrived. Buddy settled in. I called Katie. She answered the phone with “Is Buddy with you?” and I said, “well, yes he is.” She asked me to send him along home and I did so but, honestly, my effort was half-hearted. I sort of liked the idea that he’d taken it upon himself to come calling. This is something he’d never done before, even though both he and Saucy (Ms. Canine Personality) frequently accompany their master when visiting here.
After about a half hour my phone rang. It was Katie. “Is Buddy still there?” I said that he was and allowed that he showed no sign of wanting to leave anytime soon. Then Katie said–and I did not see this coming–“let me talk to him.”
Pasquala’s eyes widened. She does not speak English but it was pretty evident what was going on as I held the phone out to the dog and said “It’s for you.”
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of living with a really smart dog you will understand fully when I characterize the look that passed over his face as something like “…this is a call I would really rather not take,” even as he took a hesitant step and a half towards my outstretched hand holding the cell phone. I could hear Katie, in a voice not at all authoritative let alone commanding as it squeaked from the tiny speaker “Buddy, I want you to come home.”
It took a beat or two for this to register before–I am not making this up–Buddy deliberately turned and just as deliberately began to pick them up and put them down as he headed off for home. He didn’t even say goodbye, thanks for the water, see you around. Nothing. He was simply off away home.
Katie, who of course couldn’t see this, continued yammering something or other into the phone. Perhaps she was asking him to pick up a loaf of bread on his way. (That’s what I choose to believe this afternoon, anyway.) As her small voice continued to rattle from the phone in my hand Pasquala and I just gaped, first at each other and finally at Buddy as he disappeared up the lane.
All of this occurred before my second cup of coffee today. And some of you wonder what I do here!
Well, I marvel; I simply marvel.
Hi,
Perhaps you’ve had the opportunity to go to the Circus of the Sun. I sure hope so.
I go every chance that I get and over the last 20 years I’ve had a fair number of opportunities.
The Cirque de Soliel was formed in Montreal a number of years ago with the happy joining of some number of acrobats and gymnasts with a troupe of street performers. To all appearances they’ve been growing and going strong ever since.
We first saw the Circus when a traveling troupe performed in Seattle. It was a magical performance and I, at any rate, was hooked. Since that time I have made a point of seeing the Cirque at every opportunity.
Denise and I saw traveling troupes in Seattle and in Washington DC and permanent installations in the wasteland–cultural and otherwise–that is Las Vegas. We saw them in Orlando, which followed Las Vegas’ lead–for many of the same reasons, and in Pascagoula, Mississippi (about which city I will mercifully say nothing other than to mention Haley Barbour.) In the US, Las Vegas is the place to catch the Cirque—there are multiple venues with different shows and that city now has something worth the trek to the desert, along with maybe the Blue Men and the gelato at the Bellagio .
Somehow I have never managed to see them in Montreal, so there’s something to look forward to in the Circus Department.
And now I have seen them in Santo Domingo. Here, going to the circus is a two-day expedition filled with bonhomie, adventurous driving, interesting side expeditions, good food and challenging hotel accommodations, peaking with the huge and uniquely Dominican cultural experience of the Cirque de Soleil in the National Sports Palace.
The NSP isn’t the best facility in which to stage a circus, but it was still a pretty swell show–and I’m not referring just to the crowd.
Check ‘em out when you get the chance, with a Caribbean crowd if you’re fortunate enough to have that opportunity present itself.
Whooeee!
Hope all’s well with you.
Hi,
A review of the El Otro WA archives reveals that I’ve spent a surprising amount of time talking with you about the roads around here. I’ve written in particular about the disastrous 35 km. stretch between Santa Barbara de Samana and Las Galeras. This is what Philippe once referred to as “the small road–the one with the big holes.”
Now, in fairness and with full realization that several sets of you are heading this way and will eventually see for yourselves, I find that I must hit the subject of the Dominican highway at least one more time.
Move along if you’ve had enough, I’ll understand.
Nearly everything about this small road between the two towns is different. This is also true for several of the larger roads. (But, really, enough is enough—yes?)
For small road starters, the water main is now laid all of the way from the treatment plant in Samana to the foot of the hill where I live in Las Galeras and most of the leaks have been repaired. (No, I won’t have public water anytime soon.) Where the pavement was formerly relatively intact (almost nowhere), the service cuts in the asphalt have been carefully and completely patched. Where for years there was no pavement to speak of (which was most of the distance between Las Galeras and Samana) there is now decent asphalt laid over a well-compacted if sometimes oddly banked base.
The folks who live around here had no sooner gotten used to this startling turn of events—a paved highway–than the line-painting crew showed up to make a yellow line down the middle of the road.
Our centerline is a good line. Clean. Crisp. Bright. And right exactly down the middle.
Mostly it’s an unbroken line. At several locations it’s dashed, indicating that it’s OK to pass, even if in one place or two it’s dashed around a blind curve. Curiously, the dashed line also indicates that it’s OK to pass while crossing over two of the “sleeping policemen” speed bumps, these in front of the local elementary school. So take the new centerline with a grain of salt, but do enjoy it as an aid no navigation. I do.
Some people were complaining about this stripe down the middle of the road, asserting that it was sure to cause accidents. They actually made a half-way decent case for the argument, at least until the white lines at the sides of the road materialized. Now all of those bets are off.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but traffic has even seemed to slow through residential and commercial areas, if not so much around the blind curves. Go figure.
A few weeks after the stripes were apparently finished on the road I found myself returning from the Capital in the dark. I try to avoid doing this for a whole host of reasons, some of which may be obvious and many of which are reasonable. But a night-time return often happens anyway–the day can just get away from me in Santo Domingo. So, driving in the dark and passing through the washout just before La Balandra I snapped on my headlights and—I am not making this up—there were REFLECTOR BUTTONS glued down the middle of the road! It felt as I imagine one must feel when bringing a 757 in for a smooth night landing! Incredible! Astonishing! Wow!
Shortly after the revelation of the reflector buttons there came one other. Professionally painted road signs materialized, identifying each wide spot on the road between Las Galeras and Santa Barbara de Samana. Even after six years here there were a number of names that were new to me and several places that I hadn’t even recognized as discrete barrios. It’s wonderful. There’s even one yellow “curve ahead” sign.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get much better in the road department, they began to raise the manhole covers to the same elevation as the pavement, eliminating that jolt when your tire suddenly drops six inches off the pavement to the steel manhole cover at 60 kilometers an hour. Actually, that has to happen only once before you commit every manhole between the two towns to memory…
And now there is a GUARD RAIL CREW installing shiny new guard rails in lots of interesting places!
I’m thinking that the engineering specs and the stamping machines may be right out of 1950’s and ‘60’s USA, even if the placement is 100% present-day RD. Most of you remember the old-style guard rails that could just IMPALE a car at either end, I know you do. Well, we got ‘em here now. Secure in the middle, though.
Now, late in 2011, the ride to Las Galeras—all of the way from the Capital, nearly all of the way from Santiago and—especially–all of the way from Santa Barbara de Samana into downtown Las Galeras is pretty quick; the ride is quite smooth, and it is still remarkably beautiful.
Keep an eye out for that idiot who’s recycling the manhole covers, though.