St. Ulrich castle near Ribeauville’

Alsace

In June we climbed around castle ruins and explored the Maginot Line, touring below and picnicking above, on our way to Maurice’s plein-air watercolor course in Alsace.  While Maurice and the other artistes set up their easels in charming settings along the Route du Vin d’Alsace, I got to know the half-timbered villages on my own before setting off through vineyards or up mountains with my hiking poles and camera.  Amid painting and hiking we also saw Romanesque churches, concerts, World War 2 cemeteries and, in the wine village of Riquewihr, a parade of wordless and jaw-droppingly flamboyant masqueraders.  Stork nests seemed to be on every high roof and we could see the baby birds practicing their wing-flapping.  I chatted in my rusty French with locals–the grocer, the pastry shop owner, the grape pruner.  One day our group went to Strasbourg, the engaging city where you round a final corner and there is the cathedral, right smack dab at the end of the block, its soaring lines of lacey stone snapping back your head, lifting your eyes and drawing out your breath.  At a nearby restaurant we learned to make tarte flambee, an Alsatian pizza-like dish originally made by peasants in communal ovens with the week’s leftovers; now it is typically topped with creme fraiche, onions and lardons (one of those European meats that pretend to be bacon).  When his classes were over, Maurice let himself be persuaded to accompany me on a hike along a mountain ridge from one castle ruin to another; even though it was farther than we thought plus we accidentally took the long route, the castle on the other end, patched up and with an admission charge, was a delightful find with wall-walks overlooking the countryside, piped-in medieval music and Nutella waffles for refreshment.  One evening we went to a fete de la musique in Bennwihr, a village almost completely destroyed in the Battle of the Colmar Pocket in December 1944; the bell tower of its new church was built of rubble from the town’s houses.  The tiny music fest featured a huge grill, a giant barrel where wine was sold, a patisserie table, an oompah band and traditional dancers who looked like they were having tons of fun.  We were quite obviously the only foreigners there–probably the only people from out of town.  It was definitely authentic.  “Every time I see you you’re smiling,” Jerry told me one day. Alsace was so lovely and we were so blessed; why wasn’t everyone smiling? Keep reading

the Alhambra, Granada

Spain

In April we had another Spanish adventure, this time accompanied by our old friends Bob and Gwen, where, amid fragrant orange trees and dark cork forests and thousands of patchwork hills of olive trees, we were once again awash in olive oil and rioja.  In Andujar Maurice fought the law and the law won, a parking misunderstanding to the tune of three euros.  Trying to drive to our Granada hotel, we barged into the city’s do-not-enter-unless-you-want-a-ticket zone…several times…the three passengers each bombarding the driver with their own set of agitated instructions, eventually forcing the poor driver to navigate a pedestrian-only lane by the stream, thus requiring shoppers and strollers to splat themselves against the wall as we barreled by; we finally parked and took a taxi to the hotel (which is what Maurice wanted to do in the first place).  Another day we drove high into the mountains, then climbed a rocky trail higher still for a look at primitive paintings made of soot, iron oxide and animal fat in the Pileta Cave, lantern lit and very insecure of footing (so you know it was great fun).  Then cheerio!–we ducked into Gibraltar, a little spot of England on the Med, with fish and chips, red telephone boxes and the department store Marks and Spencer, purveyors of my favorite chocolate bourbon biscuits.  We took a taxi tour around the Rock, and at one of the stops a large macaque monkey unexpectedly jumped on my head.  Did you catch that?  A large monkey.  On my head.  I’m not sure why the Spanish want this place back.  That evening I took an extra swig of the post-prandial, pour-it-yourself homemade hooch the restaurateur plopped down gratis on our table. Our military space-available trip home on a C5A was the most comfortable flight we’ve had in decades; not only was there legroom but so few passengers were aboard that everyone could lie down on a row of seats for a snooze. Keep reading

It was one of the places we went that wasn’t crawling with souvenir sellers or encrusted with gilt.  Tabgha it was called, derived from the Greek for “seven springs.”  Maurice had sent me to Israel with my friend Pat for her trip of a lifetime.  We were walking down a pathway in a park-like setting that ended at a little church on the left perched on a big chunk of black rock.  To the right under a shady tree was a circular seating area of concrete benches around an altar where we shared communion. Beyond was the rocky shore of Kineret, the deep blue Sea of Galilee.  Our wonderful guide George told us a lot of things happened here.  It was where Jesus called his first disciples (Luke 5:1-11).  It was the “solitary place” of Mark 6 when Jesus fed the 5,000 (v. 30-44); archeology reveals no evidence ever of human settlement here, so it has always been a “solitary place.”   Here was where Peter made the dangerous statement that Jesus was “the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:13-20).  But what really touched my heart was when George pointed out this was where, after the resurrection, Jesus cooked breakfast for the disciples when they had given up and gone back to fishing (John 21:1-14).  Right here on the rocky shore Jesus had brought bread and set about fixing breakfast.  But first he climbed up on the slab of rock that was right next to us.  The sea here was a good fishing place; six of the seven nearby springs emptied in these waters.  One of the springs was quite warm so fish were likely to gather there.  But the waters were never still and it was uncertain exactly where the fish would be.  Sometimes fishermen would hire someone to stand up on the rock, see where the fish congregated and point the fishermen in the right direction.  But the disciples had no money, and no fish spotter and, though they fished all night, no fish.  So Jesus climbed on the rocky outcrop, located the school of fish and called out, “Friends, haven’t you any fish? Throw your net on the right side.”  The disciples eventually recognized Jesus, brought in a big haul and found breakfast ready.  Right here.  They settled somewhere right on this rock with Jesus.  It was the ordinary stuff of life, really, hard work and fatigue and breakfast.  The rocky shore probably doesn’t look much different now than it did 2000 years ago.  There was the morning sun and the splash of water; there were the same people from the day before.  The disciples had just what I have right now, ordinary responsibilities, everyday blessings.  Right here on this rock they had Jesus.  And I have Jesus, and I am here on this rock where he sat on the shore of the sea.  Suddenly time does not matter.  He is here and I am here.  I am part of Jesus’ body, as his disciples were.  By his Spirit we are all one in Christ and seated together around the throne. Hallelujah!  May you meet the living Lord Jesus where the springs bubble with life and the waters are warm.  May you meet him in solitary places where there are no fish.  May you meet him in the manger under the star this Epiphany season.  Gloria in excelsis Deo!

Tabgha, by the Sea of Galilee Keep reading