Minou, a prince of a cat, who occupied Sharon's apartment and who charmed me instantly.
Montpellier, de 9 juillet à 12 juillet:
The dorm room was even less than one expected, in terms of size at least. Our room was designed for two people--two people who really, really like each other, since the bed was barely wider than a single and had just one long pillow. The LAW and I managed, but those conference attendees who'd reserved rooms with colleagues were a bit alarmed ("My God," said one, "I like my colleague, but the bed is too small for even just me to fit in. If we share, I'd roll over and kill her."). The bathroom, as another colleague put it, was one of those "ass-in, front-out" affairs, manufactured in one piece. At any moment in the bathroom, one was in constant simultaneous contact with the toilet, the sink, and the shower curtain. "Stupid, stupid bathroom," I took to saying.
N.B.: Yes, I know that hotel rooms (and dorm rooms, and apartments) are generally much smaller in Europe, at least in my price range. I'm just saying--this was an extreme in spatial economy.
After that, and after going to the mostly deserted Place de la Comédie, where we stumbled upon a young woman pissing in a planter outside the Opera, watched a number of drunk/crazy men play in the fountain and follow female passers-by across the square, and were assaulted by insistent accordion players and their tambourine-holding, begging-for-change accompanists, I found myself channeling Bette Davis in Beyond the Forest: What a dump.
As we discovered more of the city, my opinion changed, and it turned out to be a good week. First, for the food: we ate twice at the same restaurant asiatique with its charming waiter, electric green and pink cocktails maison complete with a speared lychee as a garnish, the spring rolls (rouleaux de printemps), etc.; twice at the same Italian place, the Café Délice, with its ravioli with gorgonzola, or its gnocchi in Roquefort (and always a pichet de vin rouge); and once at this fabulous hole-in-the-wall named Le Tomate.
The "fabulous" here is the fish soup--I wish we'd had time to go back a second time just for the soup:the bouillabaise Languedoc, saffron-scented, tomato-based, served in a cheap steel tureen and with a bowl of shaved parmesan, a bowl of rouille, and a pile of giant croutons. How to eat: No, no, don't dump it all together and shovel it in your mouth; take a crouton, plop some rouille on top, add some parmesan--then drop the thing into your bowl of soup, where you'll leave it until the crouton softens. Then shovel it in your mouth.
The second reason to like Montpellier: the company. We had a lot of fun with Sharon. More on all of that later.
Carcassonne is proud of its ancient history of outsider-ness, its very embodiment of the Occitaine (from which came the "Aquitaine") against the Gaul, the langue d'oc (Languedoc) of southern France against the langue d'oil of Paris (and therein, the southern "yes"--oc--against the northern "yes"--oui). From that last example, you can probably guess who won the official language war. Of course, the Pope launching the Albigensian crusade in the 13th century to wipe out southern resistance to Parisian rule helped ...
I think that the Occitaine's still a little pissed about that.
