Freedom to speak

For 40 years I've kept my opinions to myself as a professional journalist. I never let them influence a story and I never joined a protest, until now. I retired from my last newspaper job in December and on Saturday took part in my first demonstration, March For Our Lives.

Me and some guy with something in common
at Saturday's march in Aix-en-Provence.

It wasn't in my hometown of Columbus, Ohio, or in D.C. It was with 120 other expats or vacationing Americans in Aix-en-Provence, France. It's been my wife's dream to live in France. I bought into it and we're spending the year deciding whether we actually will take the big step next year.

If we do, I'll still be a taxpaying American, still concerned with what happens in my homeland, in part because I have three grown children facing gun violence, outrageous health-insurance costs, cuts on environmental protections and politicians demonizing a free press when it doesn't kiss their ass. So obviously I'm a liberal. I like to say center-left.

I bit my tongue when unreasonable gun enthusiasts called the newspaper to complain about gun control "nuts." I listened to their arguments, discussed both sides with them and hoped that they at least had found a sounding board for their opinion. It's a proud tradition of newspapers, or should be.

I no longer have such professional constraints.

I support banning all semiautomatic rifles. You want to have one, join the military, where one day you might get to use that gun for its sole purpose, to kill many enemy troops. Hopefully it will be in the defense of democracy and the country.

Or go rip off as many rounds as you want at a firing range. Just leave the gun there when you're done. I understand the thrill. I attended an FBI citizens academy where firing a Thompson machine gun and a semiautomatic rifle were the highlights.

You want an AR-15 to hunt? You're a lousy sportsman. Hunting rifle or shotgun should be all you need. Or try a bow and arrow if you're really up for a challenge.

You want it for home security? A handgun or shotgun is ample protection.

You have some crazy theory of government troops taking your gun during a military coup? Good luck with that pea shooter against a tank. This isn't 1776.

Have a handgun, shotgun, hunting rifle with a five-round magazine if you want. There's no practical reason for a civilian to have an AR-15 with a 30- or 60-round magazine or similar weapon. And don't hide behind the Second Amendment. The luxury of allowing these killing machines has cost us too many dead children and concert-goers.

I know I might get a lot of opposing comments. Save your carpal tunnel. I'm not here to debate. I won't change your mind and you won't change mine. Post your own blog.

This mid-term election, you vote for your gun-rights candidate and I'll vote for my gun-control candidate.

That's how we solve these issues in a democracy.

If you win, I'll be out there protesting. If I win, I'll expect the same from you, my fellow American.

Burger vs. baguette

The Americanization of French food has hit a new high, or low considering your viewpoint. More hamburgers on a bun were sold in this culinary-crazy country last year than the ubiquitous "jambon-beurre baguette," sliced ham on a buttered French loaf.

Chalkboard ad outside Marseille restaurant.
 "Du moment" is the new "du jour,"
 or "today's special."

The tally was 1.46 billion burgers compared to 1.22 billion baguette sandwiches, Gira Conseil, which monitors the consumption of food in France outside the home, told the Reuters news agency. The French ate 14 times fewer burgers a decade ago.

"But the French are now crazy about burgers. You find them everywhere, from fast food to Michelin-starred restaurants," Gira Conseil director Bernard Boutboul told Reuters. 

It's not just Mickey D or Burger King steadily gaining in popularity. Of French restaurants, 85 percent now offer a kind of burger, Boutboul said.

I recently  participated in this sea change having ordered a burger off the menu at a bistro in Aix-en-Provence.

I made the mistake of ordering a French hamburger during a visit several years ago. It was barely edible. This time was an experiment. I was expecting another odd-tasting concoction as if its origin was an animal of a different hoof than a cow. It would be on the red side of pink because I ordered it medium. (Ask for medium-well or well down in France, you usually still get medium.)

I was surprised at how good it was. The patty wasn't bleeding all over the plate and tasted close to a burger from a good American restaurant or bar. However, as the French are wont to do, it was topped with a different-tasting sauce; good, just different. Ketchup, mustard or steak sauce would have made it an excellent fit for my Midwest palate. 

Paulita with almost-daily baguette.

The bun was a little dry, but that's sometimes the case at American joints.

"The rest of us had leg of lamb," francophile Paulita noted. 

Like I said, it was an experiment. I'm not about to give up my frequent ration of a baguette with ham and cheese. But I might have a burger now and then, with frites, of course.

Mountains vs. ocean

I might be facing a dilemma.
I retired in December and we decided to spend this year living in France. If we want to make it permanent, we'll buy a house here next year.
We've rented a home in the small village of Quillan in the southwest of the country in the foothills of the Pyrenees.

Sunrise over the mountains around Quillan.

I love the mountains. Back home in the States I'd try to backpack as often as I could in the Appalachian chain or West Virginia or southern Ohio. I preferred camping on mountaintops for the wind and view instead of  designated campsites in the hollers.  Quillan is perfect because we can literally walk less than a mile to several trail heads, every day. We feel healthier after a 2,000-foot climb and walking to the town center for food, the market or a drink by the Aude River. However, I don't know if overnight camping in the mountains is allowed in France.
A big plus, though, is that the housing prices in Quillan are within our budget. Perfect, I thought. I could definitely live here.
Then some friends let us stay at their condo in the Atlantic beach town of Chatelaillon-Plage south of La Rochelle. It's an ocean-front apartment with a terrace.

Sunset on the Atlantic at Chatelaillon-Plage.

We can hear the breaking of the waves, walk along the huge sandy beach and watch the kite and wind surfers and sailboats glide across the crests. It reminds me of our years in St. Petersburg, Fla. We'd go to the beach with friends to have a beer and blackened grouper at the Hurricane restaurant and watch the sun set over the Gulf. Sometimes I'd go by myself and stay until the sun went down, listening to the waves and finding myself feeling calm and even dozing off.
When I was younger I always thought it would be cool to live in a waterfront tourist town. Even when I was older, the traffic and tourist hassles were worth living close to the water.
Then I saw the prices of homes in Chatelaillon-Plage. Reality check. They are way out of our reach, and the same probably is true of any beachfront home in France, or even St. Pete.
Maybe we can find a less expensive place close to a beach in a less touristy area where there are ample amenities like restaurants, markets, wine shops and patisseries. Getting an idea of our priorities?
We have the rest of the year to decide whether France will be our new home, and where.
Right now, the mountains are calling. But who knows?

And we're walking, we're walking...

We've found the perfect yin and yang in Europe: Food and walking.
Our house-sit in England is about a mile from the town of Reigate, where we often walk for groceries, just to walk -- and for breakfast or lunch or dinner. Only one meal a day and not every day. (The British pound is almost half as much again as the dollar.)
We walk everywhere after having decided not to get a car from the rent-a-ripoff place where we had reserved one. No car, no problem.

Waffles topped with sliced truffles and chantilly.

Today, we walked to a newly discovered (for us) coffee shop chain in Reigate called Monty Bojangles Truffle Bar & Coffee Lounge. We had tea there the other day and decided to come back for its truffle-chocolate-coffee drink. I'm sure it had as many calories as the name implies. After a walk through Priory Park we decided to return to Monty for its waffles with truffles and whipped cream breakfast. Again, it was "don't ask, don't tell" as far as calories. On the way home, Paulita's Fitbit had calculated we walked 3.8 miles.
Then it was time to walk the dogs. We took Spud and Minnow for a 50-minute walk up the hill into the woods and back. As we neared home, the Fitbit had tallied almost 6 miles.

Our daily path.

OK, so it wasn't a a 6-mile jog, but surely it burned some fat, right?
All I know is that since we arrived in France and adopted its eating culture, we feel healthier. The food is fresh and you walk everywhere. Hankering for a croissant? You'll probably burn off the calories beforehand walking to get it. The food in France is rich, but the portions are less than in America. Less sugar is used but the French do love their butter. And meals are leisurely, at least an hour or more. Then we would walk around the town and back to our apartment. Today, we had a late lunch of turkey sandwiches. Two meals a day often does it for us.
In England, the portions are a bit larger and the food heavier, but again you walk.
Back home in Columbus, I walked a lot and rarely drove, instead taking the bus.  I was working, and with work comes stress. I ate when I was stressed and often ate after coming home late from work. Since I retired in December, and we sold our house and most of our belongings, my stress level has dropped to Barely Perceptible.

Mountains surround Quillan, France.

We'll continue to be without a car until perhaps May, when we move into a rented house in Quillan, an out-of-the way village in southwestern France where most days include a hike up a mountain in the foothills of the Pyrenees.
Or maybe the 1-euro bus that connects Quillan with larger cities and their train lines and airports will be enough as we visit other countries in Europe and beyond. When we get where we're going, we'll just hoof it.

It's cold, for England

Spuds retrieves a frozen squirrel carcass.

For an update on our England adventure, including mishaps and successes, got to Paulita' s blog posting, Jolly Cold England.