Les Quatre Seigneurs

It’s been quite cool here for a whole week -but yesterday was rather sunny, so we headed out for a little walk.

There is a small mountain called Les Quatre Seigneurs that sits directly between us and the main valley where Grenoble lies.  It’s what we look directly at from our place, with the Vercors mountains in the background, on the other side of the valley.

This means that if you know where to look (and what you’re looking for) you can see our place from over there.

On the way home we stopped at our favourite cremerie, filled our glass bottles with fresh farm milk, and got a nice chunk of  Raclette cheese.

CHARTREUSE.

Since Wednesday is not a school day (see previous post for details) we had the day to do some more exploring. The distillery of Les Peres Chartreuse in the town of Voiron, just up the valley from us so we thought it would be a good destination for a day trip.

This is the place where a monastic order founded almost a millenium ago still produces its world-famous 55% alcohol green liqueur.  There are so many amazing facets to the story of this - that I don’t even know where to start.

I think if I have the genealogy right: the colour chartreuse is named for the liqueur, which is made in the mountains, which are named after the monks, which St Bruno named after the town.


Les Peres Chartreuse are a monastic order founded by St Bruno in 1065.  He came seeking a secluded place where he and his brothers could live out a life of quiet contemplation and prayer.   He said that he was lead to the spot where the monastery of la Grande Chartreuse still stands (yup, this one) through divine inspiration as God lead him via the stars.

The story of the fabrication of the liqueur and its history is a long, complex and fascinating story.

The liquor itself is a blend of 130 different plants, a concoction that is taken from a manuscript that has been passed down for centuries.  It almost was lost when Napoleon passed an order that all ‘secret recipes’ in the empire be turned in for official bureaucratic review. This one however was deemed ‘too complicated’ and was returned to the monks - unexamined.
The blend actually seems to be one of the few trade secrets in this world better guarded than the Google search algorithm.  The original scroll with the manuscript is hidden in some undisclosed location, and only two monks ever know the blend at any one time.  I don’t know what happens if they’re riding together in a Peugeot hatchback that veers off one of the narrow winding roads that leads from the distillery back up to the monastery (for more on that area see here).

3-D MOVIE!

There is also the chapter of the story when they Cartheusian monks were expelled out of France in 1903, and had to seek refuge in Italy and Spain until 1929 (where they took their secret recipe for the liqueur with them, and continued production in Tarragona, Spain)  There is also the story about how, upon their return, the distillery was destoryed by a mudslide.


There is also the bizarre fact that this small, strict monastic Catholic order which started concocting a medicinal elixer just after the turn of the 17th century (basically when liquor fabrication was beginning to be more properly understood) now lives off the profits of manufacturing and selling a strong liqueur that is bought in bars and liquor stores all over the world

In order to get a better sense of this story all we had to do was drive to the small train station at the bottom of the hill and grab a 30 minute regional train. And - when you have kids who love riding on trains, any trip that involves train-travel will get unanimous support. We had a tour of the distillery, the aging cellar which are supposedly the longest and largest in the world, and also produce the only naturally green liqueur in the world.




It’s all pretty impressive for a handful of hermit-like monks who live in the mountains and drive down to this small town with their burlap sacks of plants, which they blend up in the monestary - so that the actual plants and their combinations is even harder to derive.

So our kids get to wander through all this, try to take in as much of this centuries old story  as they can.  A story of monks and liquor, of religious persecution and techniques for distillation, of secret recipes and giant oak vats with green stuff leeching out, wandering through underground aging cellars, trying to understand as much  as they could (all in a language that they are still struggling to adapt to) and then ride an electric train back down a valley in the French Alps so we could get home in time for supper.

…and I used to think growing up in small-town Alberta was weird!

First Week with Grandma Here!

Susan’s mom got here last Monday (narrowly escaping sub -30 temperatures and +30cm of snow in Edmonton)  so I thought I better let you know what we’ve been up to.

The weather has been quite nice the last week - so we’ve tried to make the most of it (before the imminent cold snap approaches starting tomorrow - predicting overnight lows as cold as -5)

On Saturday we drove down to Grenoble to ride the tram (2€ for parking and 5 return tram). We had a pretty good idea of what we were going to do - as all of the kids have had it in their minds, since before they even knew their Grandma was coming, what they wanted to do with her. They have been talking for weeks about taking here for a ride in Les Boulles  up to the Bastille (the cable-car that goes up from Grenoble to a fortress atop a mountain just across the river) So we had fixed Saturday as the day- and boy were the kids excited.  We got off the tram - walked over, the kids ran up the steps to the ticket window -and I double-checked the prices …’oh what’s this?’ - “Fermature Annuelle”  nice. I suppose  it’s good that they do routine maintenance on a cable car first built in 1934  that dangles over the the river…but still.

So we decided to climb up to the top.  It’s about 265m up, over a labrynth of trails, thousands of stairs and lots of smaller paths, but it was a beautiful sunny day, we were full from pizza at one of the many tiny Italian pizzaria’s with wood-burning ovens that line the river at the bottom of the hill - so we climbed up.

The 19th century French writer Stendhal said:  ”I haven’t the strength to describe the admirable view, which changes every hundred steps, that one enjoys from the Bastille… ” I was thinking that I felt out of strength as my pack seemed to get heavier as everyone else kept shedding clothing, and finally there was a child on my back - but I suppose he has a point.

The view is amazing - you can look up the valley at Mont Blanc, across the valley over Grenoble - and count the helicopters (I think we saw 6) as they land at the hospital bringing yet one more skier who’s day has met an untimely end.  (I suppose if there were air-ambulances in the 1800’s - Stendhal would have mentioned them instead)

On Sunday afternoon we walked out from the house, up the road to the equestrian centre, down into the woods, and along a logging road to a creek.  It was a beautiful way to spend the day - and enjoy the beauty of the mountains around us.  I think one of my favourite aspects of living here is the ability to be able to just walk out of the door, and not drive anywhere, but just start walking or biking, and feel like you are in smack in the middle of the mountains, with no sign of civilisation around in a matter of minutes.

Things that I sorta knew would happen...

but still seem strange.

1. our youngest using “Oh la la” - and in a totally non-ironic, not satirical manner


2. my kids not only correcting my pronunciation in French, but actually being unable to not laugh at it


3. hearing the kids yell “the German’s are coming!” when they were playing outside and heard a siren

I’ve had an Epiphany

Well, perhaps not an epiphany but we have celebrated the traditional festival of Epiphany (as in the Christian festival that is meant to recall Jesus Epiphany - becoming known/ manifested to the non-Jewish world through the three Magi - the “King’s” who came from ‘the East’  outside of Israel) - where the French (based on their Roman Catholic past) celebrate with a fantastic cake called the Galette des Rois.

No matter what - it’s hard to argue with layers of pastry that are filled with an almond paste - and in some cases - basically dripping with butter.  Now that’s a celebration that I can really get behind.  We’ve had three so far - not that anyone’s counting.

Part of the tradition is that there is a  small fève - a ‘prize’- hidden in the Galette somewhere - and whoever gets it, is the King! Anytime you buy a Galette des Rois  you get a paper crown to go with it so that there is no confusion as to who the royalty is among you. The best part is of course that the finding of  the fève is what all children find the really interesting part - and since you are going to bury something in a cake that will be eaten by children what else would you make it from, other than - that’s right - porcelain.  I’m going to assume that there is a significant national spike in the treatment of pediatric mouth/throat lacerations that coincides with this particular tradition.

Doing Fine

Just wanted to let you all know that I am still doing fine, am feeling just bruised and sore - as if i had a bad fall on my bike or something. 

The day it happend  our neighbour told Susan that  she had seen almost this exact same thing when she was first practicing as a doctor. It was a young man who presented with extreme chest pain, shortness of breath etc. so she rushed him to the hospital suspecting a heart attack. Turns out it was the same thing - and intercostal muscular spasm.  This man however was our village garbage-collector, so they assumed he had pulled it somehow in his work. Then today she said she was speaking with another doctor who had experienced the same thing, but it was a young man who ran his own business, was sitting at his computer, and then - Boom - chest pain, shortness of breath - and since he was under so much stress at work, again diagnosed as a heart attack until the EKG proved otherwise.

So when I was saying how incrediblly bizarre the whole thing was, about how one day I was rushed to the hospital, and the next I didn’t reallly feel ‘sick’  or anything - just worn out and sore and tired. She said that’s what’s to be expected.

Or at least - that’s what I think she said.  Conversations like that about medical stuff remind me of what our kids say when we ask what happened at school or something - and they just look at us matter-of-fact like and respond: “I have no idea.”

January 2, 2011: the day I didn't have a heart attack

Yesterday morning at about 6:30 I woke up with pretty bad pain in my chest; left-hand side.  It was so bad that I basically lunged forward to sit up, as almost a reflex -and it got worse. It was then I realized that my chest was so tight and there was so much pain that I really couldn’t move - so I lay back down. Then it dawned on me that my chest was so tight and there was so much pain that  I really couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t take anything other than very short, shallow breaths.  Susan had woken up - and I told her that I thought something was indeed wrong - so she ran next door to get Madame Ribo. (Let me interject this: next time you look for a place to live in a foreign country, you should seriously consider having “next door to a Doctor who retired this summer” as one of your top criterion.)

Madame Ribo ran across the yard, and took my pulse, pressure etc - and said that the ambulance should be called, which she actually did for us.  I was having quite a bit of problems breathing.  Actually, when Susan ran across to get Madame Ribo everything in my periferal vision got blury, then dark, then things closer to the middle of my field of view got blurry - and I realised I was about to pass-out so I tried to just concentrate on my breathing. It was actually hard to concentrate on my breathing when I realised that this could in fact be serious -and I could not stop thinking about our children.  I guess it’s kind of true what they say; about what you really value when you think your life may be in danger. All I could think about is that I would be leaving my children without a father when they are so young. That feeling is about the worst sense of failure, or sorrow, or deep regret that I have ever known.

When the ambulance arrived it came fully stocked with what I gather was a sort of orderly/ambulance driver, a paramedic, and a doctor. They had a mobile EKG so they quickly hooked that up to start to look for - whatever it is they look for with that thing.  Madame Ribo told them that my pressure had been constant, and they checked again, in both arms, ran two tests with the EKG and said that it did not at all appear to be my heart.  At least not a heart attack, they said it could be more ‘mechanical’ than ‘biological’ - meaning perhaps an air bubble or even a piece of cartilage was dislodged or putting pressure on my heart.  They also took blood samples etc so tests could be run as soon as we got to the hospital.  They then gave the OK to hit me with some morphine (I guess they didn’t want to until they knew what was going on with my heart). They loaded me in the ambulance, and we drove down to Grenoble.


(Susan - following the ambulance - takes time to snap a picture)

At the hospital they ran a battery of tests (more EKG, x-rays, blood work etc.) and deduced that it was some kind of severe muscle issue.  Depending on who said it (and how it gets translated) it was some sort of “strain” “issue” “pull” “popping” etc.

My discharge papers read, literally translated: “Thoracic pain probably of mechanical origin, without grave criteria”  (OK buddy - the next time you can’t breathe and morphine doesn’t numb the pain I’ll make sure I use the phrase “sans critéres de gravité” with you!)


Poster in the waiting area of the hospital.



So in some ways it is very encouraging to be told “there appears to be absolutely nothing wrong with your heart” - but to be completely honest it’s also a bit troubling to be told, “we ran a whole battery of tests, and they were all negative, so it must just be what amounts to a pulled muscle.”  So I am home, with just some pain medication, and instructions to go see our doctor in a few days to make sure that everything is OK.


(these were most of the little EKG-thingy’s)

Also you realize, especially when living in a country that is not so familiar to you, how much you need and value the kindess of friends and strangers.  From John & Anna running up to get our kids (actually beating the ambulance to our place!) and taking care of them for the day, to Cindy…who was by Susan’s side the entire day, to our neighbour who was actually calling the hospital and using her status as a doctor to get updates when Susan was unable to.  I am also incredibly thankful for living in a country where they commit massive amounts of resources to health-care, a place that believes that using the collective wealth of the nation for protecting and sustaining life is as important as also using those same resources for things such as education, roads and national defense.

I suppose it’s true that there is something about what appears to be a possible life-threatening situation to give a clearer, more accurate sense of life.  To be honest, there was just that one moment when Susan ran to get Madame Ribo that I honestly thought that it was very serious.  I guess things like that give clarity of mind, and clarity of purpose. In some ways I suppose it wouldn’t be all that bad if each day we were awakened by a potentially life-threatening event.  I imagine that we would re-prioritize each day.  More time spent speaking and listening to people we really care about, less time reading about people we don’t even know. More time actually doing things on this earth we feel are meaningful, less time figuring out how to balance our desire to climb socio-economically, without appearing to look like we’re trying to.  

I guess in the end, that’s the true irony of it all.  That we all do have potentially life-threatening events every day. There is no guarantee that I will live to see this weekend, or that you will even finish reading this.  Let’s face it, driving on the roads around our place in the winter, with a little black-ice, a blind turn, and someone racing up to get in a good day of skiing could easily end my life.  I don’t think that’s a particularly morbid thought, I think it’s just realistic. In fact, for those of us who believe in a hope for life after this life, I suppose it’s actually rather optimistic.

I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolution type proclamations, but I do hope this event will help orient this coming year to be one that is more full of things that actually count, that actually have meaning, that really help others; things that I will be able to look back on if there’s a next time that I’m in the back of an ambulance and be able to say with confidence the words that Paul, the first century follower of Jesus said when he thought he was facing the end of his earthly life:  ”I have fought the good fight. I have completed the race. I have kept the faith.”

Walk in the Woods

The other day we went for a walk on the logging road not far from us.  It was a beautiful sunny day with an almost artificially blue sky. The sun lit up the snow that was hanging on the trees all around us. The sun was starrting to set behind the mountains on the other side of the valley by the time we were heading back, but still not really cold.  We pulled the sleds for a bit, tried to dam up some creeks with snow piles, and had a great time just being out in the beautiful creation around us.