The interval of silence that has passed between my last post and this was not caused by my retreat to a Carthusian convent, though the thought has often appealed to me.
No, we skipped out to Orleans — the old, not the new — for the Festival de Loire, a five-day traditional-boat festival on the cobblystoned banks of the river.
Every two years, the City of Orleans puts on this fiesta, with stands and food and games for the children and demonstrations of crafts and lots of stuff for sale (like cases of the local wine, to pick an example at random). It is a massive undertaking, and what with logistics and cost I can see why they need a year to recover.
Here is what I can tell you about Orleans, from what I remember:
It’s the first city that Joan of Arc liberated from the English stranglehold, after a hideous siege, in 14something; it was the capital of France for a long time, before (fill in King Name here) decided he liked Paris better; the historic center is beautiful and extremely clean; the cathedral is really high, and I can say that because I stopped counting the stone steps on the way to the pinnacle after about 852; the local dish is andouillette (an-doo-ee-YET), an alarming sausage-like creation composed of the internal organs of either pig or calf.
If I’d ever gotten downwind of chitlings I might have been prepared for this, and I have to admit I’ve never tried haggis, which conceivably could be even more alarming. But as for andouillette, the odor alone is enough, as it approaches your face, for you to think again about biting into it. (Actually, you don’t have to think about it at all. The mouth shuts without any prompting.) It’s something like the aroma of a slaughterhouse in summer which has never been inspected or cleaned. Apologies to people who love andouillette or haggis.
I did in fact read up briefly on this extraordinary invention, just to see if I was being needlessly finicky. After all, I love tripe, and I have consumed brains and kidneys and pig’s feet, so how bad could this be? “It has a strong distinctive odor related to its intestinal origins and components” — my source tactfully puts it — “and is stronger in scent when the colon is used.” I rest my case.
On other hand, I discovered real smoked herring (not the salty little pieces of herring-jerky known as kippered herrings in England), which is now my new favorite thing and which I don’t imagine ever eating again, short of a trip to the Netherlands or some Viking country. Lino says it used to be very common in Venice; small gobbets went very well with polenta.
We went to Orleans to represent Venice, the guest of honor for the 2013 edition of this mega-fest, bringing four Venetian boats and 20+ Venetian rowers from the Settemari club and Arzana‘, a smaller organization dedicated to the conservation of old boats. We are members of the latter, though there are several people who belong to both.
Our duties consisted of rowing the boats up and down the stretch of river fronting the one-kilometer (half-mile) stretch of festival stands and hordes. We did this for a while in the morning, and another while in the afternoon. We were there to look beautiful and fascinating, and so that’s what we did. Between eating and drinking, that is. And climbing the cathedral.
Now we’re all back to the most beautiful city in the world, where our absence wasn’t noticed, and neither is our presence, usually. Still, if I had to choose between Venice and Orleans, my choice is clear. It’s true that Orleans has a phenomenally efficient and clean tram system. But we have the vaporettos, which are administered by highly-paid people who obey the instructions transmitted by alien beings through the fillings in their teeth.
So I’m sticking with Venice. What’s mere efficiency compared to that?
We took a few hours to visit the cathedral of the Holy Cross (photo: Andrew Lih, Wikipedia).
Here are two clips Voce036[1]Voce035[1]recorded on my cell phone; remember we were all floating down the river, so this is not studio quality. It was sort of superlative-moment-in-ordinary-life quality.
Erla…what a fabuous post…I can even smell the smoke from the luncheon grills.
OMG andouillette…the odor-memory still lingers from my last encounter.
The top of the cathedral looks scary as hell….no railing?? Whooohoooo…..vertigo city!
The high water marks…1866…exactly a hundred years before the terrible flooding of 1966.
I feel as if I were there…thank you so much for taking the time to write these fabulous posts!!
I just have to tell you the surprise I had this week…I opened my old copy of The Collected Venice….I had bookmarked one of my favorite articles….and lo and behold…..it was an article that you had written in 1995 for National Geographic – More than a Dream: Venice.
BRAVA!!
You have encountered andouillette, and lived to tell the tale? Did you actually eat it? Tell me as much as you think I can stand, which probably isn’t much, frankly. As for the vertigo at the top of the cathedral — one of the things I like about Italy and some other places I’ve been in Europe is that they aren’t obsessed with the protection-at-all-costs mania that we have in the US. If you’ve voluntarily gotten yourself into certain places, you ought to be prepared to deal with it. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s great not to be persecuted with signs telling me what to look out for and what not to do and how not to do it.
Thanks for the compliment on the story. It was an important event in my life, as you can deduce.
Erla, this was indeed a stellar post! You wax poetic even outside the confines of the Republic. But did you get to the Giogiole festa on Lio Piccolo? (I didn’t – my loyalties being with the demonstrators at the Ospedale last Sunday….)
This is the first I’ve ever heard of the Giuggiole Festival on Lio Piccolo. I’ve never been to Lio Piccolo in my life, but I could be convinced. It will now have to be next year. In any case, it’s bound to be easier to get to than Arqua’ Petrarca, grrrr.
There’s not much left for me to say after the glowing comments above!
But, like Linda, but even without encountering them in the flesh (thank goodness), I can absolutely imagine the smell of those andouillette things. It might be the years I spent on a farm, and the not so fond memories of the pig pen ….
Thank you muchly for the vivid account of your time away from the Ancient and Wet city!
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Erla…what a fabuous post…I can even smell the smoke from the luncheon grills.
OMG andouillette…the odor-memory still lingers from my last encounter.
The top of the cathedral looks scary as hell….no railing?? Whooohoooo…..vertigo city!
The high water marks…1866…exactly a hundred years before the terrible flooding of 1966.
I feel as if I were there…thank you so much for taking the time to write these fabulous posts!!
I just have to tell you the surprise I had this week…I opened my old copy of The Collected Venice….I had bookmarked one of my favorite articles….and lo and behold…..it was an article that you had written in 1995 for National Geographic – More than a Dream: Venice.
BRAVA!!
You have encountered andouillette, and lived to tell the tale? Did you actually eat it? Tell me as much as you think I can stand, which probably isn’t much, frankly. As for the vertigo at the top of the cathedral — one of the things I like about Italy and some other places I’ve been in Europe is that they aren’t obsessed with the protection-at-all-costs mania that we have in the US. If you’ve voluntarily gotten yourself into certain places, you ought to be prepared to deal with it. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s great not to be persecuted with signs telling me what to look out for and what not to do and how not to do it.
Thanks for the compliment on the story. It was an important event in my life, as you can deduce.
Erla, this was indeed a stellar post! You wax poetic even outside the confines of the Republic. But did you get to the Giogiole festa on Lio Piccolo? (I didn’t – my loyalties being with the demonstrators at the Ospedale last Sunday….)
This is the first I’ve ever heard of the Giuggiole Festival on Lio Piccolo. I’ve never been to Lio Piccolo in my life, but I could be convinced. It will now have to be next year. In any case, it’s bound to be easier to get to than Arqua’ Petrarca, grrrr.
There’s not much left for me to say after the glowing comments above!
But, like Linda, but even without encountering them in the flesh (thank goodness), I can absolutely imagine the smell of those andouillette things. It might be the years I spent on a farm, and the not so fond memories of the pig pen ….
Thank you muchly for the vivid account of your time away from the Ancient and Wet city!