The Bal de Bernache

According to Wiki, "Bernache is grape juice at the beginning of its fermentation process." Despite it being sour grapes, it is a very popular drink in this region of France, however it is only available from about October through November. I don't think it a coincidence that this coincides with the wrap-up of the grape harvest. My theory is wine producers were too excited to wait for their wine to be ready for celebrating a good crop, so they started drinking sour grape juice and found it had a certain hard cider-like appeal. Et voila, Bernache was born. Which of course eventually led to more celebrating (this is France after all) and now an annual event called the Bal de Bernache occurs around the end of every October here in Cravant. Signs appeared all over town (meaning the 5 or 6 light posts on the main thoroughfare and a sign posted randomly on a back road) and we even received a flyer in our mailbox one day. With promotion of that magnitude, how could we miss it?

But seeing how "promotion" does not equal "information," the only things we knew were that on Saturday, October 15th there was a dance of fermented grape juice with a DJ at the Salle de fete in Cravant. Not being entirely sure what to expect and whether we should really go, I asked the moms around the school yard if it was a "family-friendly" event. The assured me it was tres sympa for the kids, something they were sure to enjoy.

I think they define that differently than I do.

On the morning of the event we drove by Cravant's "party building" hoping for a sign with more info. Instead, we found some men working on setting up. So I asked what time the event started and one of them smiled oddly, shrugged and replied "some time around 8pm." For this information-hungry, planning-OCD freak, that just was not specific enough. But that's par for the course around here.

Despite our kids' bedtime also occurring "around 8pm," we gave all the French mom's the benefit of the doubt and piled into the car at said hour only to arrive to a virtually empty parking lot. Eyebrows raised, we sent David inside to scope it out, and to get a more accurate assessment of the guaranteed "kid-friendliness." He reported back that of the dozen or so people inside, none were children and most were older men who appeared to have spent the day taste-testing the Bernache.

After we drove the kids back home and settled them into their beds, Janell and I returned to the Bal in hopes the additional hour had livened things up a bit. It had started to. For the next hour and a half more and more people arrived (without children) and some great dance music was played - salsas and swing - but no one danced. I guess the Bernache hadn't taken affect yet. Around 10:30pm I drove Janell back to the house and it was David's turn. I anticipated we'd be able to get some good dancing in and was excited to have the floor to ourselves. But as luck would have it, when we got back, the party had taken on new energy. The terrific dance music had transformed to mindless pulsations and the floor was packed. The bigger surprise however was not the sudden shift in audience participation. It was in who made up this lively bunch. A half-dozen or so of Bo and Vivi's school mates, taking a break from running around like track stars, abruptly stopped in front of us to demand, "Ou sont Bohdan et Vivienne? Ils vont venir?" I politely shouted over the music that Bo and Vivi were in bed. They looked puzzled, shrugged and went back to their races. It was roughly 11pm.

The highlight of the evening was an event I am not certain I will successfully capture in text. It was perhaps one of the most hilarious scenes I've ever witnessed at a party, and is apparently, a "tradition" of sorts in this country. I've included a random video clip below which I found on You Tube - consider it a visual to aid in your understanding. After an announcement was made, people began to sit on the floor, one in front of the other, legs forming a "V" with their stomachs fairly close to the next person's back. A man stood at the front of one line, a shapely young woman at the other, both facing the centipede-like lines of inebriated people. Once the song began, the "leaders" (the two standing) began to direct their lines in waving their hands up in the air - first to the right, then to left, then back, then forward. It was very choreographed, going with the music just like steps in a line dance. To our complete and utter SHOCK, all of the sudden the woman lowered her hands, and while the line of bodies continued to wave their hands forward and back, she literally DOVE into the line and proceeded to be passed in a crowd-surfing like manner over the heads of the line. David's and my jaws dropped to the floor. By the time we got over the shock, the man followed suit down his line and we completely lost it. I had always thought crowd surfing was done on your back - so my surprise doubled as I watched teenage boys and men of all ages thoroughly enjoy handling the woman and all her glory as she made her way down the line.

Just when we thought it couldn't get funnier, a very large man - think Amazon - over 6 feet and at least 275 lbs, who could barely walk for the amount of Bernache in his system, decided he wanted to play, too. But of course, sitting in the line waving his hands around wasn't sufficient. He nosed his way in front of the leader. Expressions of terror swept through his line, which consisted of men and women of every age, size and strength. Before you can say "Sacre Bleu!" this man catapulted himself into the line with the grace of a rhinoceros. It was like watching someone jump on an inflated balloon. One minute there was a line of people sitting there, the next minute a little futon of flesh underneath a neanderthal. I almost peed myself from laughing so hard. I imagine a few people woke up the next day wondering how exactly they managed to acquire so many bruises.

David and I decided to call it quits shortly after that. I mean, really, what could top choreographed body-surfing? We waved goodbye to the bleary-eyed buddies of our own children and headed for home, so grateful Bo & Vivi were sound asleep. At 12:30am, I'm pretty sure we were the first ones to leave.

The Arrival of Snow

If I look out my window just right this morning, past the stone buildings and above the rows of grapevines, I'm back home. The trees are covered in a soft blanket of white, the horizon line obscured by the sweeping brushstrokes of soft baby blues and muted grays. It's snowing!

This being the second day this week in which we have enjoyed a glimpse of home, I thought it a good day to write about snow in the Loire Valley and it's amazing impact. Despite the optical illusion, it is proof positive we are NOT in New Hampshire anymore.

Monday morning we awoke to blue skies above with ominous-looking, heavy gray masses off in the distance. We arrived at Vivi's bus stop in time to be informed that the bus was not running today. I immediately assumed it had engine trouble or the driver was sick or something of that nature. But as it turned out, nature itself was to be blame. "It might snow today," the bus monitor explained. David and I gazed up into the sun-bright sky, looked at one another with our eyebrows raised and incredulous grins before turning to her for clarification. "Whenever it is 'Code Orange' the buses don't run," she explained. "It won't run tonight either. And if it does snow, come to school early to get your daughter."

Ummmm 'Code Orange' because theirs a chance of snow? Oookaay. We shuddered to think of the crisis a "Code Red"would indicate.

We walked Bo up to his school and were surprised to find the makings for a one-room schoolhouse with children of all ages playing in the courtyard. Apparently, parents drop their kids off at the guardarie ('before/after school program') without consideration for what happens if the buses fail to transport their children to the appropriate school. I wondered if I should offer to take a car-load of kids over to Panzoult with Vivi, but the American fear-of-lawsuit mind overruled that option. Off to Panzoult we drove alone, sunbeams more blinding than any blizzard could be.

At Vivi's school the same multi-aged mixture greeted us. The courtyard looked an awful lot like a couple of homeschool families had gathered for the day. I chuckled as I imagined how the teachers were going to muddle through. As I left, I called out to Vivi's teacher, "See you tomorrow for English." She looked at me oddly, then quickly retorted,

"Oh, no. Probably not. It is going to snow today. There will only be a couple children here tomorrow. You better call first." With a shrug and a shake of my head, I donned my much-needed sunglasses and headed for home, not quite comprehending how snow today meant no school tomorrow.

An hour later it was snowing flakes the size of silver-dollars, suggesting once again that New England simply stole and translated the phrase "If you don't like the weather, wait an hour" from it's original french. It snowed for the next 10 hours, accumulating to roughly 3-4inches of perfect snowman-making material.

Around 10am I begun to worry if they would close the schools and if so, how would I find out? David and I were scheduled to attend our weekly French luncheon and I was worried we would miss the phone call. Not knowing what to do, I reached out to our pastor (the go-to for any need, right?) to find out what to expect for the rest of the day. He assured me that if the kids were already safely at school, I should leave them be and retrieve them at the normal time.

Therefore, we trudged through the snow to our French luncheon, pleasantly surprised by the group assembled. But, still worried the schools would want us to get the kids early, we didn't stay for lunch, only to return home to an empty voice mail box and silent phone. Thus, at our regularly scheduled pick-up time, we arrived at Vivi's school to discover her and only one other lonely student remained. Oops. We apologized to la maitress who graciously understood, after all, "la neige est notre habitude." Yes, for sure, we are very accustomed to driving in the snow, but we do clear the roads, which is impossible for our small village here. Much like our Southern neighbors back home (I assume), the arrival of snow here is "une catastrophe." Indeed, by the end of the day on Monday, the roads had developed tire-sized tracks with a rails of snow in between, closely resembling the much-loved Antique Car Ride at Storyland. Not to worry though, we decided against letting the kids drive.

But did I mention it was breathtakingly beautiful?