Provence Redux

When I was in France as a young woman of 22, there was a popular song which contained the words “Paris n’est pas la France” (Paris isn’t France). The idea was that if you go to Paris, and think you have visited France, you have not had the entire experience. Building on that concept, I can say “Avignon n’est pas Provence.”

Traveling to Avignon is something many tourists do, as the city is one of the main historical and tourist sites of Provence. The university program of which my daughter was a part organized a field trip for the kids, which took them to Avignon. However, they never made it past the most widely publicized sites into what I would consider the Real Provence.

By Real Provence, I mean the part that is off the beaten track – the Provence of small villages surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. When you are in a large city like Nice, Avignon, or Marseille, where the residents are accustomed to dealing with high volumes of tourists, and especially if you are an Anglophone who is attempting to speak French, the inhabitants tend to respond to you in English, both as a courtesy and as a time-saving device. In the back roads and villages of Provence, the conversation, however, continues en français.

The Provençal territory the closest to my heart is that bit of land around my dear village of Le Barroux – the landscape dominated by le Mont Ventoux or les Dentelles de Montmiraille. This is the area that Sarah and I visited the day after our stay in Le Barroux.

We rose early in the morning, and after breakfast at Les Géraniums, headed toward Vaison-la-Romaine. Vaison has two parts, a lower city, on one side of the Ouvèze River which consists of excavated Roman ruins; and an upper city, which consists in large part of a preserved Medieval upper town.

Our visit concentrated on the Roman ruins. These included part of a preserved aqueduct; house foundations, a statue of Tiberius, and some wonderfully preserved mosaics.

We left Vaison, and headed for a couple of local villages known for their fine wines. The first was Gigondas. Before sampling their wines, we climbed to the top of the town, where there was a stairway ascending to a lovely 14th century church. Along the way was a collection of local sculpture. At the top, we asked (in French) a woman if she would take a picture of the two of us, with the valley in the background. She responded by asking if we would please just speak English, because she was Swedish, and spoke not a word of French (quelle surprise!) From the area in front of the church, we could see les Dentelles de Montmiraille.

After talking to a lady in the main part of the village, and selecting a couple of bottles of the local vintage, we then went to Beaumes de Venise. During my own stay in Le Barroux, the local wine cooperative was located in Beaumes. Sarah and I arrived in this lovely village at about lunch time, and decided to eat at the café in the middle of town. We ordered the house rosé, which was wonderful. Our objective in this village was to purchase some bottles of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, which is a desert wine I recalled as being synonymous with "nectar of the gods". Our waiter suggested that we go to a wine shop across the main plaza in town, which would open after the lunch-time siesta, and was run, he said, by “un vieillard très sympathique” or a very nice old man.

Having a little time to kill, we first found a public toilet. This was a common sort of public facility which, after each use would automatically seal itself and hose its own interior down with a combination of water and disinfectant. From a public health standpoint, this was commendable, but from a practical standpoint a bit disconcerting, since it left the floor and the commode wet and a little slippery. Having taken care of The Necessary, we then wandered about the local streets admiring the beauty of the village.

At about 2:00, we ventured back to the wine shop, to find the vieillard in residence. He was indeed a very nice gentleman, who was curious about Sarah and her studies in Nice, as well as my own history with Provence. After a chat with him, we completed our purchases, and reluctantly started on our way back to Nice.

Le Barroux

I have procrastinated months in writing down my thoughts of my visit to my old village in Provence. There is almost a reluctance to do so, as if by putting the words down, I will bring to an end the almost dreamlike experience of revisiting the spot on this earth that is the most beautiful. For over 30 years, I have remembered this place, and talked about it to almost everyone who knows me. The small village on the Provençal hill, topped by a castle. So many times I have dreamed of it, and spoken to others, that it had taken on the unreal quality of a legend.

There have been many times in my life when I fondly remembered a place or experience as being idyllic and perfect, only to return and find it tawdry and lackluster. I halfway expected a repeat performance upon visiting Le Barroux. Certainly the village would be in disrepair, with half-ruined stone buildings, and the reek of rotten food in the alleyways.

In order to get to Le Barroux from Avignon, one must go through Carpentras. I had remembered it as being fairly straightforward. However, we circled the town helplessly for 3 or 4 times, trying to find either the center of town, or the road that led out of town, towards Le Barroux. In the first case, I had intended to stop the car, and give Sarah a look at the middle of Carpentras, which allegedly (and in memory) holds a wonderful marketplace, as well as a large church which used to have the status of a cathedral. Not to mention a synagogue (the area has historically had a large Jewish population). However, the center of town was impenetrable, and the streets around the outside were indecipherable. Finally we admitted defeat, and made our way toward Le Barroux, in a cold sweat.

The countryside was wonderful, as we drove through a plain filled with grapevines and olive groves, and once we had cleared the surroundings of Carpentras, we met very few other vehicles. I saw a sign for Le Barroux when we were about two kilometers out, then suddenly coming around a curve about one kilometer away from the village, we caught our first glimpse of it. It was an apparition from a fairy tale; a song from a medieval troubadour. Sarah’s first reaction was very gratifying. She insisted that we stop the car that very moment, so that she could get out and take multiple pictures.

We made our way up the hill and to Les Geraniums, where we had our hotel reservation. Checking in and stowing our bags hurriedly, we were set on making the most of what was left of the afternoon to explore the village.

We walked up the street past the house where my friend Marie-Ange had lived, toward the church, and the plaza in the middle of town. We met no one in the streets, and all the houses were shuttered. It was as if we were the only ones in town, save the guests at the hotel. The plaza was as I had remembered it, with the same fountain at which I had taken a picture of Gretl (the little girl I had looked after while I had been there in 1974). Gretl must be a woman of almost 40 now, and I certainly hope that she turned out better than the girl she had been. I snapped a shot of Sarah sitting at the fountain. That particular little girl had turned out well.

The church in the middle of town (Saint Jean Baptiste) was closed up, but I related to Sarah the story that I had heard – that inside the church was a tunnel that led down the hill, to an obscure location, which had been used during WWII by the Resistance, to escape the Germans.

Just off of the plaza was a street that held two houses of note to me. One had been the “upper house” where we had lived briefly. Ann, the American professor for whom I had worked, had created a furor in the town by painting the door with a deep red lacquer. Heaven knows what the color denoted to the people of the town at that time – perhaps a house of prostitution? Then – and now – all the doors in town were a dark brown, and the shutters were subdued shades of powder blue, violet, and off-white.

At the end of the street, on the corner, was the house I remembered as belonging to one Cristophe. He earned his livelihood by producing arts and crafts, which he sold to the tourists. Rumor had it that he was an escapee from a mental institution in Switzerland, who had taken refuge in this remote area of France. His affliction had been lycanthropy, which means that he thought he was a werewolf. I was never sure what happened to him during full moons, but I had a tendency to avoid taking solitary walks at night when I lived there.

The way to the castle was from that street. Walking through the beautiful maze of houses, I was in a dreamlike state, because everything was exactly as it had been years ago. The only thing that told me for sure I wasn’t dreaming was the fact that I was out of breath from walking up and down the streets of the town. There are no horizontal surfaces in Le Barroux, save the Place in the middle of town, as all the streets run up to the castle.

When we finally made it to the castle, we were at the chapel – Chapelle Nôtre Dame la Brune – which holds a noted black Madonna. The signage outside explains that there are about 20 black Madonnas in southern France, and their origin is rooted in Celtic tradition, and Greco-Roman mythology. Although the advent of Christianity in the region transformed these ladies into the Virgin Mary, previously these figures had represented fertility. When the Protestants (Huguenots) took Le Barroux in the 1500s, they cast the figure into the flames. But miraculously, she did not burn.

Walking around the chapel, we finally came to the overlook in front of the castle. This was where I had spent many hours looking down over the Plaine du Comtat in the evenings. It was a rare evening that I did not make my pilgrimage to the Castle, where I would look over the Plaine, up to Mt. Ventoux. Oftentimes I would feel just a bit homesick for my family back in the states, as it was the first time I had been away from home.

The rooftops of the village are the typical tile, which looks like it has been made from half of a clay pipe. Although the tiles are flared at bit, not perfectly cylindrical. Legend has it that the first of these tiles were molded on the thigh of a young woman. Oh, la la! Isn’t it just like the French to have a story like that?

Although on a fine, hot day, it is hard to believe that the severely cold wind known as the Mistral exists, it does wreak havoc on the countryside. Periodically it will blow from the north (off of the Alps), and rumor has it that it always blows in multiples of three days. During the time that I spent in Provence years ago, I found this to be true. Because of the Mistral, many free-standing houses to not have windows on the north side, especially if they are “mas de campagne,” or country houses, standing alone in the fields. Here in the village, it was not that much of a concern, but many roofs had stones on the tiles along the edges, to keep them from being blown away by the wind.

After spending some time exploring the castle and its surroundings, we made our way back down to the hotel to change for dinner. Les Geraniums, in changing management, had also morphed into a high-class restaurant. Previously, it had been a little inn, with a bar/restaurant that catered to the locals. The paysans would wander in after a day in the fields for their glass of pastis before going home for dinner. Now it draws its clientele from the surrounding countryside. It has an excellent wine list, and serves a very fine cuisine.

After dinner, we called it a night, and promised ourselves to explore the rest of the town the following morning, before proceeding to our other stops in the region. I fell asleep that night with a sense of closure, because I had come home. After years of talking to my family and friends about this marvelous place, I had at last managed to show it to one daughter, who had shared my sense of awe.

Provence

After a couple of days of being shown the sights of Nice by Sarah, and then a day or so on my own to explore, I was ready for what in my mind was the main event of my trip – our two-day excursion to Provence.

When I was younger, and just out of college, I had the opportunity to live in Provence for seven months. A professor of mine had a friend who was going there on a Fellowship to write a book about Chaucer. This professor had an 8-year-old daughter who needed looking after and tutoring, so that was my ticket to France, so to speak. I had a three-month stint in that job, followed by picking grapes for a month for a local farmer, followed by yet another job as an au pair for a French family. The first four months I lived in a little village in the Vaucluse called Le Barroux, and my job as an au pair relocated me to Avignon.

Sarah and I left her apartment early in the morning, taking the bus to the airport to pick up our rental car. The drive west from Nice was uneventful and pleasant, taking us away from the coastline, and palm trees of the resort area into the austere and rocky countryside.

NOTE: I have to mention here that traveling by car in France, on toll roads is not cheap! Gasoline is expensive (about $10 per gallon), and traveling on the Autoroute du Sud between Nice and Avignon probably cost us a total of about 20 Euros (approximately $30) one way. At least they drive on the right side of the road, unlike our white-knuckle experiences of the previous summer in Scotland!

We got off the autoroute in Avignon, and headed for the train station, because I had heard that there was free parking there. We didn’t find the free parking lot, but it was inexpensive enough. I wanted to make my way into the city via the route I remembered - the Rue de la République (does any French town NOT have a street by this name?) – which ends at the Place de l’Horloge (Plaza of the Clock). I remembered this place from 30+ years ago as being very open, and surrounded by restaurants. It was still full of wonderful restaurants, but all of them had covered seating in front of the restaurants as well, which gave an appearance of clutter to the Plaza.

Sarah and I found one that offered regional food at a decent price, so we passed an hour or so having a nice lunch, and watching other tourists walk by. Then we proceeded on to the Palais des Papes.

The Palais, of course, hadn’t changed in the 34 years since I had been there. Come to think of it, it probably hasn’t changed since the 14th century. The grounds of the nearby park had added a little snack pavilion, which detracted from the overall atmosphere, as divinity’s nod to tourism. From the nearby overlook, there is a view of the Rhône River, from whence one can see the Pont St. Bénézet, the famous bridge that has been immortalized in the children’s song. This was a familiar view; when I worked here au pair, I used to bring the children there. Looking across the river, one can see Villeneuve-les-Avignon, and the tower that used to be the endpoint of the Pont St. Bénézet before most of the bridge was swept away by the swift current of the Rhône. There is also a ruined castle, which from my perspective still looked very romantic – it was hard to tell that it was a ruin from that distance.

I had one other objective while in Avignon – to take a walk past the building where I had lived for three months while working au pair. The building is a protected historic building (The Hotel de Crillon).

Since the endpoint of our day’s journey was Le Barroux, we headed back to our car, took one last admiring glance at the walls of the old city, drove a couple of times in a circle to orient ourselves (the technique of carrier pigeons), and headed off toward Carpentras, and thence to Le Barroux.

Nice

Note: the following series of notes were written after my visit to France in the spring of 2008, during my daughter's semester abroad.

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Since Nice was our center of operations, I got to know it pretty well – at least the parts of it that were close to Sarah’s apartment. Sarah lives on Boulevard Gambetta, which is one of the larger streets running from the Promenade des Anglais, into town. The “Prom” is kind of like a boardwalk (but not made of boards), and it runs along the beach (or Baie des Anges – the Bay of Angels). People are not only promenading, but there are cyclists, joggers, and in-line skaters, who use a designated painted lane.

At intervals, there is a covered area with seats, where you can sit and look at the ocean, or the people on the beach. The beach is somewhat different from what we in the States expect, as it is covered with pebbles – not sand.

But back to the “Prom”… Jogging may be somewhat new in France. There are lots of people jogging, but not very many of them look like they know what they are doing. In terms of exercise, they are getting a lot of bang for the buck, but they are either running in a very awkward fashion, or are wearing clothing that no self-respecting jogger in the States would wear (such as cargo shorts). On the other hand, put a French person on a bicycle, and they look as if they were born there.

One of my favorite places to walk was the Rue de France. This is a street that runs parallel to the beach, but about a block in. If you follow it east, you will encounter many shops and cafes, and finally the “Zone Pietonne,” or Pedestrian Zone, which is a section of the street that has been blocked off from traffic. Eventually, Rue de France ends at Place Massena, which is a very large plaza. The new tram line runs through it, and on either side of the tram line is a row of about a dozen poles, each one topped with a statue of a man, which are lit at night. The color of the light shifts gradually through the spectrum.

Nice was founded in about 350 BC by the Greeks, who named the city after the goddess Nikaia, the goddess of victory (as in Nike sportswear).

Nice has gone back and forth between various political entities, and hasn’t always been a part of France. Italy is only about 30 minutes away by train, and there is a lot of Italian influence in the architecture of Nice.

Nice also has some of the best ice cream (gelato, actually) that I have ever tasted. If you ever go there, check out Fenocchio’s (not to be confused with Pinocchio’s, which is a chain).

At the east end of the Baie des Anges is a large hill or mountain (depending on your perspective), that is called the Colline du Chateau. I’m not sure of the history of it, so I won’t even attempt to relate it, but going to the top of the Colline du Chateau gives a wonderful view of the entire Baie des Anges. It is an ideal place to have one’s picture taken, to prove that one has indeed been to Nice, because there is a vantage point where the Baie des Anges is in the background. I went up to the Chateau by myself one day, while Sarah was in class. She and all her young friends had hiked up to the top on foot. I discovered some little tourist trains on the Eastern end of the Promenade des Anglais, and for 4 Euros, rode to the top. Call me a cheater. On the way to the Colline du Chateau, the train wound through Vieux Nice.

7/21/07 – Edinburgh

Saturday dawned gray and it didn’t take long to start raining. We got the all-day bus pass, thinking we might want to ride into town, and out a couple of times. The bus dropped us on Princes Street, and we navigated by viewing the castle. Between the visible and distinctive spires and domes of castles and churches, plus my picture map, we did pretty well keeping ourselves oriented.

We went down into the castle gardens, and made our way over to a volleyball game that was going on, in a sand court. The group was none other than the Scottish Volleyball Association, and it was a playoff between a couple of co-ed teams. Eric took some pictures, because our eldest daughter had told us to find her a hot Scotsman. One that could play volleyball, we felt, would suit even better.

We worked our way around the castle, which is built high upon cliffs. During “the ’45,” the Scots chased the English as far as Edinburgh, where Cumberland holed up in the castle, so in a way, that fortress (and Charles Stuart’s greed) was the downfall of the Scotts.

Finding ourselves at the top of “The Royal Mile,” we started working our way through the shops. There is a lot of schlocky stuff in those shops, as well as some nice things, and we didn’t make it all the way down to Holyrood House, because our agenda was to try and navigate laterally to the Grassmarket, an area which had been recommended by Brown.

We did see a couple of pipers on the Royal Mile, which made my day. I would very much have liked to see a whole troop of them, but alas, it was not to be.

We cut over to the Grassmarket by way of the Cowsgate. The Grassmarket is a nice kind of plaza, filled with pubs. One of them was called Maggie Dickson’s. The Grassmarket has been a market area for centuries, but also was a place of execution (by hanging). Maggie was hanged for her part in a murder, and then revived when she was accidentally dropped after being taken down. She recovered fully, living our her life with the moniker of “Half-Hangit Maggie.”

The place we chose for lunch was “The Last Drop,” which, contrary to what one might think, doesn’t allude to drink, but the noose. The signs in the pub said that it still maintains its original layout and décor. At the end of lunch (haggis, with neeps and tatties), Steph stated that she had had enough sightseeing in the rain, and would go back to the hotel at the earliest opportunity. We got a recommendation from our waitress for a pub where local musicians come every night to play. It was called Sandy Bell’s.

We wandered down a couple more streets in Eric’s quest to find wind-up toys, but never found one. And it was pretty miserable in the rain, so after visiting one final schlock store in a mall, we got Steph headed back toward the bus, and attempted to find a pub with live music.

It seemed that Sandy Bell’s was about the only one, but it was a long walk from where we were, so we took a cab. It was a £5 well spent, being a short drive, but it would have been a long, wet walk for two already soggy people.

Sandy Bell’s was the highlight of our visit to Edinburgh. Another one of a kind place, it only serves drinks and “crisps” – no food. When we came in, a trio was playing, seated at a table near the back – a fiddle, mandolin, and bass. But as they were playing, a man wearing a kilt and carrying a guitar came in and struck up a conversation with another gentleman at the bar.

“Ye’re lookin’ fine today.”
“Aye, ye should try it sometime.”
“Och, ma legs’re too skinny.”

Eric asked the man in the kilt if he could take my picture with him, and the response was sure, and that he could take as many others as he wanted, while they were playing.

Brian (the kilt-wearing man) ended up playing with John (the fiddler) and Freddy, who had been playing bass with the previous group. We got to talk with them a lot, and found that only one of them (John) plays music professionally, and he travels around the world with it. His group has played at Wolf Trap before, and was coming back to the States that fall. We gave him our contact info, in hopes that we would hear from him.

We stayed there for quite a while, listening and visiting, having a couple of the local brews, and then buying the band a round, before finally leaving.

It was a long walk back to Prince’s Street and a late night, but time and effort well spent. We felt that we had ended our trip to Scotland on a good note (no pun intended).

7/20/07 – En Route to Edinburgh

There is not much to be said for Friday – just a lot of driving. We navigated through Inverness like champs, and the open road was no challenge. We stopped briefly at the same Highlands Welcome Center we had visited on the way up, where we took advantage of the cheap Internet connection to shoot off a quick email to assure everyone we were still alive. For one usually as connected via cyberspace and cell phone as myself, it has been strange (and wonderful) to suddenly drop off the face of the earth.

Hitting Edinburgh was a bad, bad experience, since we had not done our homework in regard to the location of our hotel. Since it was located on Glasgow Road, we thought “How difficult could that be to find?” Talk about famous last words! With Eric in a lather, we ended up in Leith (the port area). We strolled into the Holiday Inn and threw ourselves on the mercy of the people at the front desk. After navigating through Edinburgh with their directions, we found out that Glasgow Road was none other than the M8 – the very same road we had taken out of Glasgow at the beginning of our Scottish visit.

Eric and I had thought we would take the bus (£1) into town to check it out, but ran into a technical problem involving the outlets by our beds, which had a wacky configuration. It was kind of like a European plug, plus a ground, and no adaptor we had would fit it. The front desk finally scrounged an extension cord from the electrician, which solved our problem, as we stretched it across the room.

By the time this was over, the wind was out of our sails, and we just went to the bar for a drink, and retired.

7/19/07 – Oot and Aboot

Thursday was a low-key day for everyone to do whatever they wanted to do locally. None of us was up to making another long expedition to west coast isles. I had had a few tartan scarves put aside for the girls at Campbell’s tartan shop in Beauly. This shop, which was an absolutely beautiful storefront, was run by two sisters, and their brother, all named Fraser. Although the two ladies were quite charming, our host laughingly described them as looking like “two storks in tartan.” Ms. Fraser the younger helped me find three scarves in MacDonald (McBride), in three different versions of the plaid – dress, everyday, and the ancient colors and after making a few other purchases, we left. I have to observe that not only is the shop beautiful, but the ladies working there made us feel very welcome, and were happy to answer all our questions about Scottish dress and custom.

After we left the shop, Eric asked me if I wouldn’t like a sweater. So we turned back around and Ms. Fraser again helped us. Although everyone who knows me, knows how I hate winter, this lovely sweater will certainly make it easier for me to bear the approach of cold weather this year.

Eric and I then went out to Loch Ness and Urquhart Castle again. We saw a very good film at the Loch Ness Center about all the scientific research that has been done. In short, there are dozens of things that could happen on the Ness, which would look like body parts of a large creature surfacing. That being said, the presence of such a creature has not been totally ruled out, and therein lies the mystique.

After a final trip to the Castle, we headed back to Knockbain Schoolhouse. Fred and Page took the group out to a local inn for dinner, then we came back for our “wee dram” and turned in, knowing that we had to make an early start for Edinburgh the following morning.

7/18/07 – Skye, and Other High Places

Wednesday was the day that we went to Skye. When we got to Kyle of Localsh, where the bridge to Skye is located, we stopped for lunch, and I had my first encounter with haggis (plus black pudding). The shop actually gave us a small sample to taste, while we were trying to make up our minds, but I was the only one with the moxie to actually order it.

Skye was breathtaking, but that was only partially due to the scenery. The rest of it was due to one-lane roads on steep hillsides (munros), with oncoming traffic, while driving on the left-hand side of the road. At one point, we had to dodge a very aggressive bus, which was NOT going to yield right of way. We drove out to a beautiful point of land by a farmhouse, and stopped the car, to let our heads stop spinning, while we took in the scenery of the “Five Sisters” and Cuillin Hills. Spectacular scenery notwithstanding, we were relieved to eventually be back on two-way roads.

On the way back, we stopped to get pictures of Eilan Donan, a very romantic-looking castle with an ancient bridge; and also a lighthouse close to Skye. Not to mention a whiskey-tasting, which was “verra” educational.

That evening, it was the Long/Markgraf contingent’s turn to cook. In addition, Margaret’s cousin Dean and her friend Bill had arrived, so we found ourselves cooking chicken divan by memory, with somewhat weird ingredients, for perfect strangers. No pressure!

7/17/07 – Culloden and Standing Stones – Oh, Boy!

Tuesday was the day I had been waiting for. We had an optimistic forecast of “intermittently sunny” and our itinerary included two sites I had been looking forward to seeing – Culloden and standing stones. Our first stop was Culloden, which is the site of the battle which ended the Jacobite Uprising of 1745. We watched a short informational film, before venturing out onto the battlefield. The film gave a good summary of the conditions building up to the battle, and also the events immediately afterward. I had been unaware of the fact that Charles Stuart (otherwise known as “Bonnie Prince Charlie”) could probably have kept hold of Scotland, if he hadn’t gotten greedy and attempted to capture England as well. To the Scots, this war was much like our Civil War, and at the end of it, the old ways of the Scottish clans were destroyed.

We ventured out to the battlefield, first visiting a old croft that had been converted into a British command post. Then onto the battlefield itself, a bleak moor with a commemorative cairn in the middle, and two lines of stones, representing the fallen on both sides – brother against brother. I walked down the row of clan markers, and took pictures of those for Fraser and Cameron, not seeing any MacDonald or Farquharson (my own clan affiliations). Most other clans were represented by markers for “Mixed Clans.”

We then traveled to the Clava Cairns, which range in age from 6,000 – 1,000 BC. There are three large cairns (which are gravesites), each surrounded by a ring of 12 standing stones. There is one newer (1,000 BC) cairn that is not as big, and doesn’t have a full complement of standing stones. Although they have fenced the site in, one of the standing stones is still outside the fence, and I had to wonder why.

After that, we went to Cawdor Castle, the setting for Shakespeare’s MacBeth. We had lunch sitting in the courtyard of the castle, and I had one of those moments of “Gee, here I am in Scotland, in a castle!” The castle is only open to the public during the tourist season, but during the winter, the mistress of the castle is in residence (from October through March).

It has some lovely gardens, including a nature walk in back of the castle, with a peat-water stream running through it, and a labyrinth maze. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get into the labyrinth, but I could imagine them losing a few tourists from time to time.

After that, we made a quick trip to Ft. George. Although it was recommended to take 1 ½ hours to see it, we dashed through in 1 hour. The fort is set down into the ground, and is almost invisible until you are right on top of it, and it bristles with cannons. The purpose of the fort was to keep down the savage natives, after “the ’45.” As soon as it was built, it was obvious that it was unneeded, as the heads of clans, and other notorious trouble-makers had been executed, imprisoned, or exiled.

7/16/07 – A Pissy Day, or The Rain in Tain

The following day, it was raining (or as Margaret would say, “pissing”), and it continued all day.

A note on Scottish weather: this is not the place you want to go on vacation, if you want to work on your tan. It rains a lot, and is overcast most of the time. It is still wonderfully beautiful, and when the sun breaks out, it is like the Blessing of God.

Our first stop was to a glass-blower’s shop in Tain, called “Glass Storm.” It is owned by a young couple who have been making glass objets d’art together for 15 years. Brown informed us later that they have just announced their engagement. Brodie gave us a nice demonstration of glassblowing, followed by lots of questions, and then we all browsed the glass shop. After making our purchases, we went on our way.

Our next stop was Ballone Castle, which stood atop a spit of land close to Portmahomack, on the North Sea. It looked for all the world like something from MacBeth, with the wind-blown rain, and whitecaps on the water. An acquaintance of Brown’s has already refurbished the inside of the castle, and was just finishing the outside, so we had permission to walk around. Considering the rain, and now bitter cold, I didn’t stay out of the car for too long.

Next we stopped for lunch at a shop that produces plaid products (but not the traditional clan tartans). They had everything from carpets to hot water bottle covers. In addition, they produce ceramics with plaid patterns, as well as other patterns. We felt that most things were prohibitively expensive, albeit beautiful.

We then went out to look at two examples of Pictish standing crosses. The first was standing where it had been found, on a small hummock on the side of a road. Especially considering the weather, the presentation was unsatisfactory. It was difficult to get a good view of it, because it was surrounded with plexiglass, and the combination of rain and scratched plexi made it difficult to view, although it certainly protected the stone itself.

By the time we got to the second standing cross, the rain had stopped. This was at an old church in a town called Nigg. I was thrilled to see some familiar names in the charming graveyard outside the church. I saw Fraser, Cameron, and McKenzie, on the stones as we walked into the church.

We passed through the sanctuary of the church, and saw a beautiful stained glass window portraying the white Highland Rose. The cross we sought was behind the altar of the church, in a sunken room. The top and bottom of the cross had been broken off from each other, and repaired with a section of blank concrete. We could, however, see the pattern clearly, and I liked the presentation more than the enclosed one we had seen previously.

Brown said that they had recently located an additional piece of the cross and were now in a quandary about how to incorporate it. The new discovery indicated that the estimation of the width of the missing piece was off; also, it raises the question of whether to break the concrete back off (risking further damage to the cross) to include the new piece. But it is not the only missing part, so they are leaving it alone for the time being.

We returned to Knockbain Schoolhouse, to a trout dinner, and a “wee dram” afterward, by the fire before retiring, with the promise of better weather on the morrow.

7/15/07 – On to Scotland

We had an early wake-up call this morning, because we had a pickup from the air-bus, for our 7:30 flight to Scotland. Because of the larger number of people leaving the hotel early, they opened up the dining room for breakfast.

I know that two days is not really enough time to see a country, but I felt that we had gotten a good taste of this one, and was anxious to be getting to Scotland.

Flying in over Scotland was a thrill, seeing the highlands spread out. Unusual, also, because there was so little cloud cover that we could see the country as we prepared to land. Our route took us directly over the highlands, with a view of munros and firths.

The trip was fairly uncomplicated, although we had a little debacle at the Glasgow airport in regard to a car rental, so we had to re-rent another car, at about twice the cost.

Our trip north was uneventful, except for Eric having to quickly learn how to drive on the left – very confusing, when every instinct urges you to drive on the right! The hardest part was getting out of Glasgow, and onto the M3, which involved navigating at least three roundabouts.

Driving into the highlands was awe-inspiring, especially since the bare hills were almost completely vacant of human life. I had expected a drive through picturesque villages, but those were on side exits from the major north-south highway.

The drive through Inverness was hair-raising, as we went through five roundabouts, following Brown’s (our friend) instructions, making a couple of premature turns, but always finding our way again fairly easily. We had the further complication of additional traffic from an Elton John concert which was to take place that evening.

The atmosphere changed from urban and stressful to rural and bucolic as soon as we got out of the last roundabout, and we were soon at Knockbain Schoolhouse. Brown was waiting for us at the gate, and gave us a quick tour of the property.

This would probably be a good point for a footnote about the Reverend and Mrs. Brown Morton III, and Knockbain Schoolhouse. Brown is a professor of architectural conservation at Mary Washington, and during the course of his career has worked on projects worldwide. He is also an Episcopal minister. Margaret Brown is a native of the UK and a journalist, currently working for Leesburg Today, although she also does some freelance work. Margaret’s family used to own a large estate in the Inverness area, where she had spent her holidays since childhood. They acquired the Knockbain Schoolhouse when they were looking for a new place of residence in the Inverness area. Although they weren’t inclined to consider purchasing a redundant schoolhouse (Brown had seen too many of them in the past), this one captured them, and the rest is history. Their house overlooks the Beauly Firth, which is just around the corner from Loch Ness, and is connected to it at Inverness, which is its inlet. In short, their home is to the west of Loch Ness.

We made our way up the very steep hillside in the back of the house, to a vantage point from which we could see across the Beauly Firth to the Black Isle. The entire scene was lit golden by the late afternoon sun. I thought, “I’m home. I want to stay here forever.”

After a wonderful dinner of two different kinds of shepherd’s pie, we had a strategy session for the next day, and then went to bed. Brown said that the rule of the house in regard to expeditions is, “All may, some will, none must.”

7/14/07 – The “Lowlands”

The agenda for the day was an expedition to see a geyser and a waterfall. I was glad we opted for one of the shorter tour options, which totaled 5.5 hours, according to the literature. On the way out, the tour guide explained a lot about the history and geology of the country. We went past a couple of volcanic flows, the most recent about 1,000 years old. From the look of them, I realized that the Blue Lagoon must be sitting in a volcanic flow.

When we got to the “lowlands,” there was a lot of geothermal activity that was visible, in terms of vents. They categorize the geothermal activity as “high” (above 200 degrees C, which is not usable for heating), and “low.” I could see steam rising across the low areas and the hills. Sometimes a hot spring will turn up in someone’s yard, or even under their house, which must make for some interesting quandaries with your homeowner’s insurance. A few people have managed to convert these to make hot tubs out of them.

Iceland was settled in about the 9th century by a Norse pioneer, Ingólfur Arnarson, who when he saw land, asked for a sign from Odin whether he should settle there. He eventually went back to Norway, and brought the first settlers back to Iceland. Due to a 300-year separation from Norway, the language has evolved to a point where they can’t communicate with each other anymore, so Icelandic became its own language.

Our first stop was a crater. It was not formed by an eruption (i.e., nothing that spewed lava or ash), but a subsidence. The last thing we were told before we got off the bus was to stay on the path. So naturally, everyone got off the path, to have a better look and take pictures. At one point, I had to walk away from Eric, who was in the loose gravel at the edge of the crater.

As we traveled we saw many small horses. Iceland has its own breed of horse, which was brought by the original settlers. It is now a pure breed, and the Icelanders love them – horseback riding is one of their favorite pastimes. They have very strict laws and won’t import other breeds of horse, although they have exported the Icelandic horse throughout the world. They are known for their gentle temperament, and their five gaits – one of them is a smooth, fast gait, like that of the Tennessee walker.

There were lots of little vacation houses, about 1 hour out from Rekjavik. These average about 30 square meters – just big enough for a couple of beds and a kitchenette. The point is to get away from the city and close to the horses and other outdoor activities.

The next stop was the geyser. Apparently, this was different from the one featured on the tour last year. Geysers are born and they die spontaneously. We walked past the old one, still boiling and bubbling, but without enough steam to erupt, as if in need of the geothermal form of Viagra.

The current geyser goes off every 5-7 minutes, and is surrounded by other vents and bubbling pools. Areas of danger are roped off with warning signs, stating that the water is 100 degrees C (i.e., boiling). I observed a group of young French men as they stopped by one of these pools. One of them stuck his fingers in, taking them out quickly, and with a yelp.

The cycle of a geyser eruption is from still water, to small bubbles, then the water raises and lowers in the vent a few times, like a person preparing to sneeze. When the geyser erupts, it is accompanied by a rumble and a whoosh. This geyser went up about 30 meters in the air, getting some people wet in the process. Some people made a game of seeing how close they could get to the eruption without getting wet.

After standing by and watching the geyser erupt, I walked around the field a bit. There was steam rising, and one could catch an occasional whiff of sulfur.

Then we moved on to the waterfall. I can’t remember the name of the lady who saved this national treasure. She was born and raised on a farm next to the “Golden Fall,” within sight of the “Long Glacier.” When there was talk of converting the falls into a hydroelectric plant, she started campaigning vigorously to save them. She walked all the way to Reykjavík (which for us had just been 1½ hours by bus) to make her appeal to the government. She even threatened to throw herself into the falls. Eventually she won. Who could resist such determination? Looking at the falls, it is inconceivable to think of such a place being converted into something industrial, and Iceland is now very glad that they have retained this place of natural beauty and power.

Walking up the hill, one could see both the falls and the glacier. There were little cairn-like piles of rocks, which had been put there by visitors. Although I’m not sure of their exact significance, I thought I had read of such a thing being done to honor a person or a place. Accordingly, I added my own rock to one of the piles before going back down the hill.

We found out from our guide that while we were there, the President of Iceland had come by to visit the Falls. Apparently, he travels all around the country with only his driver, and no security detail, and all his people know him by sight.

Returning to our hotel, we ventured out once more for dinner at the Sea Baron and then made it an early night, as we would be getting up at 4:00 to catch our bus to the airport.

7/13/07 – Rekjavik

At least I think that’s today’s date, as our flight was overnight. I’m writing this first diary entry while sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Cabin, which although it is very clean and utilitarian, is not a Marriott. The house sound system is tuned to a radio station playing something that sounds like Willie Nelson singing country music, but in Icelandic. Go figure. When Eric and Stephanie join me, we are going to try and figure out how to get to the Rekjavik harbor for a night out on the town.

As far as the trip, all I can say is that making a long flight in the eastern direction is the pits. After 6.5 hours in economy class, we had lost all sense of personal space, and were glad to get off the plane.

The expedition to the Blue Lagoon, was scheduled immediately after our arrival in Rekjavik, and before check-in at our hotel, and this was a surprise to me, but worked out for the best. At the time, I was feeling a bit put-out, because if I had known, I would have shaved my legs. I was consoled by the thought that I was in Europe. Besides, I didn’t expect anyone to be interested in my legs.

The Blue Lagoon, contrary to the expectations of anyone who has seen the movie of the same name, is at the site of a geothermal vent whose heat is harvested for energy, and then the leftover, still-very-hot water is dumped into the lagoon. Publicity photography notwithstanding, the water is more green than blue. There are a few inlets where the water is piped in, and where you can see steam rising. Although the water is at least tepid throughout the Lagoon, the temperature rises sharply when approaching one of the inlets.

There are a lot of minerals in the water, and it tastes slightly salty, although I wouldn’t recommend getting it in your mouth. Floating is very easy – all you have to do is take your feet off the bottom and you naturally start floating on your back. There are pots of the white silt, which you can put on your face. (They charge a lot of money for the stuff in gift shops.) Picture hoards of white-masked women, floating blissfully on their backs in greenish, tepid water, and there you have it.

The landscape around the Blue Lagoon is somewhat like the surface of the moon – piles of tumbled volcanic rock. The terrain would not be easy to walk across, if one were inclined to take a hike. In places where there are lava fields (like around the B.L.), rocks are piled up, and reminded me of Mordor (“The Lord of the Rings” movies). I wondered if Peter Jackson (or more to the point, J.R.R. Tolkein) had gotten those visual images from Iceland.

A short bus ride later, we were at the Hotel Cabin. Our room was very small, with twin beds, and a shower that was barely big enough to turn around in. Our main challenge was having any room for our luggage. They did serve a free breakfast buffet, and the hotel is only about a mile’s walk from the harbor and downtown.

We took a rather long, scenic walk to the harbor, in search of a restaurant Stephanie had read about in the Washington Post. Its name translates as “The Sea Baron.” Until its popularization by the Post (and The New York Times), it was just a local favorite. We had some wonderful lobster soup and seafood kabob. Eric and Stephanie had salmon and I had mink whale, which, if we had not known otherwise, I would have taken for beef.

The Holy of Holies

Many of my first memories have to do with my "other home", the small Methodist church that was three doors down and across the street from my house. Each Sunday morning, we would dress in our best clothes, and meander in a family clump down the sidewalk. I still remember trying to avoid tripping on one particularly uneven crack in the sidewalk. I would bet money that it is still there.

The feeling that I had standing in the middle of the church, surrounded by tall, hymn-singing adults was probably akin to the aura of exaltation the architects of Gothic cathedrals were trying to achieve. My young spirit would reach upward. The voices around me sounded like they were echoed from the vaults of heaven. When sitting by my father, I would lay my head against his chest and feel his bass voice rumble through his chest. The women, decked out in their best clothes, oftentimes topped by gorgeous hats, complete with veils, looked like they could give any angel a run for his money in the "glory" department.

When I was four years old, everything looked tall. I would look up at the grownups who towered beside me, despite the fact that I was usually standing on the pew itself. Beyond their heads, the ceiling was an infinite distance away; God must live somewhere up there, I thought (the church was, after all, his house), listening patiently to our prayers and hymns. He was either there, or behind the red velvet curtain in the front of the sanctuary. The Glory of Heaven streamed through the stained glass windows and when the congregation would respond to the invocation of the minister by singing "The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him," I had a real feeling of holiness.

Other images persist in my memory – listening to the pastor thunder out a sermon that made the light fixtures rock; sitting in the front row with a friend after serving as candle-lighters; vacation Bible School; church picnics and pot-lucks; funerals; weddings; christenings; joy and sorrow.

The members of the Zeigler United Methodist Church put up with my foibles and failures, and cheered my successes over the years. The church had the unique honor of hearing my first attempts to perform music in front of other people besides my family, as I got up at the age of 7 and sang the alto part of a duet with my classmate Donna; and played a Christmas special at our annual Christmas pageant. They watched as I sat, sweaty-palmed and white-knuckled at a revival one summer, and then rushed forward to the altar in response to the evangelist's invitation. They never criticized as I went through the rocky years of my teens, assuming that God would speak to my heart. Once, in a moment of desperation, after an argument with my parents, I ran away, but only got as far as Jean's house. Jean was a member of the church, and is still a close friend of my mother's. She sat and listened as I spewed forth anger; then she asked if she could call my parents. But she never criticized my feelings. I stayed at her house for a long time that evening.

The church took up a collection for me when I went to France after college graduation; and gave me a party when I returned, where they could look at my
pictures and listen to my stories.

Over the years, many of them have gone on to their reward. But when I sit in the sanctuary of that little church on a Sunday morning, they are still very much with me. The sanctuary has shrunk to the size of a cracker box; the people are stooped and gray. None of the ladies wear fancy hats to church any more. But one thing hasn't changed - they still know how to love. In fact, they have gotten even better at it; or perhaps I have gotten better at appreciating it. It doesn't matter how unexpectedly I return. I know that part of who I am is because of the way I was loved.

None of the Zeigler Methodists (except perhaps the pastor) excels in the finer points of theology. But they can tell you all about love -- the love between God and man; and how it is authenticated by our love for one another. Better than that, they show it to you every time you walk through the doors of the church.

Even though they get shorter every time I go home to visit, each one of them is still a spiritual giant.

Baggage

Baggage is one of the most annoying things in the world. The word can be defined in several ways.

1. A prostitute or disreputable woman
2. Things that encumber one’s freedom, progress, development, or adaptability; impediments
3. A pain in the butt when it doesn’t arrive with my daughter when she comes back from Greece

We take baggage with us when we go on trips, because there are certain items that we need, and certain other items that we think we need. Depending on where we are going, and how long we are going to stay there, that list may get rather long.

A case in point is a recent Caribbean cruise. One would think that going to the Caribbean (“don’t worry, be happy”), all you would need would be shorts, teeshirts, flip-flops, and sunscreen. Not so, if you are cruising on a luxury ocean liner. With three formal occasions on board ship, and a dress code of “business casual” at minimum, the luggage got quite involved. We had a panicked thought as we were dropping our baggage off at BWI, what happens if we arrive at Fort Lauderdale, and our baggage doesn’t?

Fortunately, our bags arrived, and although Cunard didn’t have us on their list to be transported to the ship, that was soon rectified. We did hear of one case where a teenager didn’t receive her luggage, and had to make do wearing the clothing of other family members, until her luggage could catch up with her in Barbados, at our first port of call.

A few years ago, my daughter Meghann arrived home from a 3-month-long sojourn in Greece, just two days prior to Christmas. One of her suitcases, which had Christmas presents, several pairs of shoes, some very expensive makeup, and her entire DVD collection of “Sex in the City,” didn’t show up at Dulles Airport when she did. She filled out a baggage claim, and we expected the bag to be delivered to us the following day, or the day after, allowing for the holiday travel rush. But no dice.

The day after Christmas, I started making phone calls, and the missing baggage, became baggage in the sense of Definition #2 above. Although I had the claim number, the British Airways phone tree put me in an interminable loop, from which I could only escape by hanging up the phone. I stopped dialing any option about “missing baggage” and started selecting the ones for live agents (option 5, option 3). I would always reach a fairly sympathetic person, who would hem and haw over the contents of my service ticket as they read it on their computer screen, and then every time I would hear something different.

“It is on the truck to be delivered.”
“Let me take your phone number, because I need to do some research, and then I will call you back.”
“Let me put another trace on it… and then someone will call you back.”
“I can’t tell where it is, but you need to call the baggage claims office at the airport, and their number is…”

Finally after a few different promises of a phone call, and a few fruitless attempts to get someone in the baggage claims office to pick up their phone, I was desperate. I called one last time, practically in tears. The agent on the phone assured me that she was just a booking agent, and couldn’t do a thing to help me. As a matter of fact, I needed to call the baggage claims office, and gave me the numbers again. I heatedly told her that I was very, very upset, and British Airways was not giving me what I would consider very good customer service. At that point, the only thing she did was offer me the customer service fax number, if I wanted to file a complaint. But no effort was made to give me any real help.

She had become a baggage in the sense of Definition #1.

Finally, I drove to the airport, which is an hour from my home, because I had no other means of getting any answers about Meghann’s baggage, which had now become my own baggage in an emotional sense.

There were two ladies working in the baggage claims office. Working hectically, I might add. They said they had not been answering their phone because they were too busy. I advised them that this policy had obliged me to drive an hour to the airport to ask about the missing luggage in person, and they apologized about that, but said that their priority was in taking care of the 200 pieces of luggage that were only now arriving in the airport from the Christmas rush.

Apparently, Meghann’s suitcase had been located in Athens, which was a relief. But one must ask, how did one suitcase get loaded onto the plane, and the other one not? Also, what is the lame excuse in the 21st century for a business office not having voicemail? With the abundance of starving college students available during Christmas break, why not hire one at minimum wage, to answer the phones, and otherwise help them between phone calls. This is definitely a management shortcoming!

One must ask what type of individual would work in a baggage claims office as a profession. Whatever they are being paid, it is not enough. I have had various jobs where I had contact with the public, and I can tell you, the public is not very pleasant when they have lost their baggage! That office does not have any happy people coming in their door. I was ready to hurdle the counter in a murderous rage, myself.

I think that the ascetics were onto something when they eschewed material possessions. It must have been easy for them to pack for a trip. All they needed were their sandals and a robe, and what they could carry in one small bag. They would probably not have any problem at all getting through security, and would not even have to check luggage.

They just would never cut the dress code on the Queen Mary 2.

Living for the Lord

Just when I think I’m comfortable with my own level of spirituality, I meet old friends who make me question what the heck I’m doing. They don’t state it that way, of course. They are just being their old sweet selves, but the fact that they seem so certain about what they believe, and they seem so much the same as they ever were makes me question my own ever-present questioning state of mind.

I have just come out of a period of deep spiritual distress. I was unsure about many things regarding my own spirituality, and whether I could even continue to call myself a Christian . That is “Christian” in the sense of being a rather garden-variety conservative Christian.

Several of my views on the basic precepts of what I would consider traditional Christianity have changed. One of them is the idea of heaven and hell. The first question is, do they exist? My eventual conclusion was: yes, and no.

Does the self continue in some form after this life is over? I do believe in some kind of afterlife, although what that is like is something I have a difficult time conceptualizing. The first reason I believe that there is an afterlife is that it would be intolerable for me to believe that this life is all there is, and that I will not see those that I love on the “other side.” Secondly, the strength of my own self awareness convinces me that something of myself must continue, even after this physical body stops to function.

This is all very subjective, I know.

Heaven and hell, and their existence? After a lifetime of attending churches that believe in a literal hell, and much painful deliberation, I believe that a loving God, whom I believe I know well, wouldn’t send his beloved creations to hell. I have been exposed to a very diverse cross-section of the human race, and many people who are not Christians, but who are members of other faiths. These are very devout and morally good people. For them, the way to God is not through Jesus, as it is for me. I believe that they still have a relationship with God, and they are pursuing righteousness in the way that they have been taught. That does not equal a one-way ticket to hell. Does hell exist? It may, but I don’t think that I know anyone who is going there.

My spiritual journey so far has resulted in my finally ending up as a member of a very non-judgmental church, that lets people be themselves spiritually, within the context of “belief in Christ as your savior.” It doesn’t try to tell them whether or not women should be in the ministry, or whether it is a sin to be gay. In short, it doesn’t take any other socio-political stands, because that is not the business of the church. And I very much agree with this position. I’m comfortable to be a plain old Christian in this church, and believe what I have come to believe.

On to the next part of my conundrum: those people I have encountered recently from my past spiritual existence who have said things that have again made me question myself.

The most recent was when Sarah and I were having a mother-daughter date on Boxing Day. We were killing time in Barnes and Noble, waiting to go to a movie, when I recognized someone from one of our old churches. I can only characterize our time at this church as an “okay” time. We were transitioning, via a merge, into a new church, and our beloved pastor was backing away from his former ministry, and going on to the next phase of what he felt God was calling him to.

Debbie and her husband, Steve, had four children, starting at about the age of our youngest. When I said hi to her in B&N, at first Debbie didn’t even remember me, which was in itself a strange thing. But even stranger was her way of asking how we were doing? “Still living for the Lord?” she asked. Now, that set me back on my heels. I know that Sarah was feeling the same way. Living for the Lord. My outward response was, “Sure!” but my inward one was “WTF! Who else would I be living for?“ What did Debbie expect? For us to say that we were shameless backsliders, who no longer believed?

Living for the Lord. What is it exactly? I think that is something we each have to decide for ourselves. She may have thought she knew what it was… and maybe she did know what it was, for herself. I think I know what it is for myself. But chances are (and I would be willing to bet on this!) that we would not have the same answer.

This chance meeting notwithstanding, Debbie was not, and is not a close friend. She is merely someone who attended the same church as I did a number of years ago, and with whom I had very little interaction. So I could care less about her opinion of me. However, on New Year’s Eve, Eric and I got together with some old and dear friends of ours, people we have known since we have been married -- approximately 30 years. The opinion of such people in regard to my spirituality is something else -- something I would pay attention to.

Our spiritual conversation during the evening was in two parts, and the topics were:
• Evangelism as the most important calling of a Christian
• The theology of the pastor of one of our couples (who used to be our pastor), and their searching for something else, in the way of a church affiliation.

I will start with the question of evangelism. The person who brought this subject up had been reading works on the life of D.L. Moody, who stated that evangelism was the most important thing that any Christian should do. D.L. Moody would share his faith with at least one person each day. He made a point of going out on the streets and seeking people to talk to about their salvation. It was said that if he was ready to go to bed, and realized that he hadn’t had one such conversation in the course of his day, he would immediately go out onto the streets, find someone, and have that conversation. And by extension, stated my friend, all of us should live this way.

I think that D.L. Moody was a wonderful person. He certainly had an impact on the spirituality of our country in his time. However, is evangelism the calling of every Christian? And if you aren’t out on the streets handing out tracts, or knocking on doors to share the gospel in some way, are you a failure as a Christian? In other words, do we all have this calling, and should it always be done the same way, by overtly looking for openings to share our faith?

My answer to this last question would be no, and no. I don’t think that I have the calling of an evangelist. I do think that I’m called to live my Christian life with integrity, and that I should be prepared to share what I believe with others, if and when the subject arises. And it has been my experience that if you are an open and transparent person, the subject will arise.

Everyone who knows me knows that I’m a churchgoer. I don’t hide that fact, and I sometimes go out of my way to make people aware of it. It is their decision what to do with that knowledge. If they want to engage me in conversation, they may. I believe in a kind of lifestyle evangelism. That doesn’t mean living my life in a holier-than-thou way, but in living it with a joyful integrity. People can smell insincerity and hypocrisy from a mile away, and for me to force myself into the Evangelism Explosion mold would not only endanger my job, but it would also be very fake.

The second topic was one that I look forward to exploring more with the other friends who brought it up. They have been so fully committed to the churches they have attended, that it must be a new experience altogether for them to explore a totally different expression of spirituality. They are reading books about it, and I don’t know what else they are doing, but it will be an interesting journey to watch.

And that is just it. It is a journey for all of us, and a very individual one at that.