It was about 2:30 a.m. Thursday as Peggy and I were cleaning up after a rockin’ eclipse party, when I realized I had probably witnessed my last total solar eclipse.

The next such event visible from France won’t be until Sept. 3, 2081, some 55 years from now.

And I’m good with that.

Counting last night, I have seen six eclipses, three of them total eclipses. All of them either with close friends or colleagues. This week’s event was one of the best for bringing friends both old and new and from near and far together.

Our group included transplants and ex-pats from New Zealand, Switzerland, Norway, the States, Great Britain, Australia (including a large turnout from Tasmania), and of course our host country - France.

It might have been the heat, which remains blistering even today, but after the sun was eclipsed and it was dark no one seemed anxious to come back down to planet earth. So, we watched the Perseid meteor shower. Some viewers lay on the grass and counted shooting stars. Others stayed close to the wine table. Cold rose, both bubbly and flat, were in great demand.

By midnight our band of eclipse/meteor watchers had canceled their morning obligations, and we were in for the long run. Long after the eclipse was over, we were watching Perseid’s shooting stars. By the time the “showers” began to let up the sky was beginning to light up and I noticed the lights at the winemaking “chateau” down the road were just coming on. It was a new day.

I took it as a sign to head to bed as did our international star gazing team.

It was a night (and morning) to remember.

PART II – A Brush with Death

Frequent readers of “A Sideways Glance” will recall that our good friend Eric Greager was attacked by a 12-foot-long crocodile while on a diving trip in Mexico in March. Eric was taking a short swim along the beach right in front of their resort when the croc struck.

(See A Sideways Glance – April 25, 2026)

Eric and his wife Gail recently visited us in Pellegrue and I am very pleased to report that Eric – a decades long distance runner and Iron Man contestant - is doing great.

Severely injured when the croc bit into his right arm and pulled him under water. Eric punched the beast as best he could while one-armed and underwater.

In a move Eric says he will never understand but will always be grateful for, the croc turned him loose.

“I have no idea why,” Eric said. “Maybe he thought I was too much trouble.”

Quick work by lifeguards and beach goers saved his life and surgeons in a small Mexican hospital saved his arm.

“The people who helped me out were just terrific,” he said. “They really did save my life. It was close.”

When I picked him up at the Bordeaux airport two weeks ago, I was not sure what to expect.

I should not have worried. His spirit is great. He has some limited movement in his right arm and shoulder which did not prevent him from helping harvest the first of this season’s grape crop at Chateau Feely earlier this week.

Everywhere we went people wanted to know what happened. Eric always offers to tell the short-hand version but once he gets started, listeners want to hear more.

There will need to be some follow up surgery on that damaged right arm and shoulder, but he is already enjoying “light” workouts, and I expect we will see a complete recovery by the one year anniversary of the attack.

Meanwhile, what has become of that croc?

As of press-time he was nowhere to be seen.

Part III – Bringing in the Crop

Hot weather, little rain and general anxiety have pushed harvests in the vineyards up by weeks in some cases.

But despite the heat stressed vines and smaller grapes, Caro Feely of Chateau Feely, is expecting a very decent vintage.

Earlier this week, a group of volunteers (me included) joined Caro and her husband Sean in picking the first batch of semillon grapes at Chateau Feely. They passed my taste test.

“It could be a fabulous vintage, but we can’t really say until we get further into the harvest,” Caro said.

Time will tell. But like many crops, grapes are adjusting to new environmental conditions and to the undeniable impact of climate change.

Still, it all comes down to taste. If buyers like the final product, it’s all good!

One thing is for certain; I now have new respect for vineyard workers. Those grapes don’t just jump off the vines and into the buckets. It takes work - hot weather or cool.

So stay tuned and keep a glass handy!

It was the banging window shutter that woke me. Then a vaguely familiar and still frightening odor caused me to bolt upright in bed.

Still more asleep than awake, I was carried back to Oct. 20, 1991when the Oakland Hills fire in California exploded into a conflagration that before it was over would claim 25 lives, including an Oakland police officer, and destroy 3,200 homes.

It would also change forever how fires in high density and hilly terrain would be fought.

But I was not interested in history that beautiful morning.

I was managing editor of the then Hayward Daily Review newspaper. It was my job to manage the news team that would keep the public informed about what was happening.

And for those readers whose lives would be forever changed – and there were tens of thousands of them – where they could find shelter and help in the weeks and months to follow.

But that was 1991. Sadly, climate change was being discussed but little was actually being done as today’s blazes indicate.

As I bolted down the rickety shutter I looked out not at a lush, green, densely populated hillside in Oakland but rather a large swath of grape vines and corn stalks which surround our current home outside Bordeaux, France.

With a grim smile I whispered baseball great Yogi Berra’s famous observation: “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

I’ll be honest, this spring and summer have had me wondering just a little bit about our decision to leave cool, fog-shrouded San Franciso for Pellegrue – a tiny ancient hillside village 50 miles from Bordeaux and the fires currently threatening much of southwest France.

Like the Oakland fire, this monster of a blaze, which has not yet been offically named, has moved with frightening speed destroying hundreds of homes and outbuildings in just a few days.

Small villages, some hundreds of years old like Le Porge, have been heavily damaged.

Evacuation centers near Bordeaux have been doing a brisk business as “les gendarmes” ordered those in the immediate path of the fire to get out.

Evacuations now total nearly a half million people and still the fire burns.

France, no stranger to devastating wildfires, has a well-trained and well-equipped fire service. But like Oakland in 1991, a blaze this huge takes on a life of its own.

When the fire has burned itself out there will be a day of reckoning. This fire “came out of nowhere” say government officials, fire experts and commentators.

No. It was a predictable as dawn.

Bordeaux and the region around it, known globally for its robust red wines, has been baking in near 100-degree temperatures since mid-June.

And for the last three years it has been hotter and the heat has come sooner than at any time in history. In fact, the last week of June featured the hottest three days in France ever recorded.

It’s a draining, relentless heat that offers little respite even in the hours just before dawn.

It’s also a lethal heat. More than 20,000 deaths have been recorded as “heat related” in just the last few weeks.

Why is this happening – these fast moving, well fueled, hot burning fires that were very rare just a few years ago?

Some climate experts point, in part, to the large tracts of pine trees the French government planted 100 years ago as part of an effort to reclaim marsh land in the Bordeaux region. Well it turns out pine burns very well once it gets lit.

And the death toll can be attributed in part to a French tradition that is likely to change.

The French reluctance to install air conditioning is no surprise to the country’s summer visitors. French villages and cities are particularly hard-pressed when it comes to air conditioning. The traditional French attitude is that there are not that many really hot days in the average summer.

Define average.

The use of stone for homes, offices, train stations, you name it, does not help. While sturdy and attractive, stone holds in the heat. When it is 100 degrees for the 4^th day in a row, you do not want to hold in heat.

If my conversation at our new boulangerie this morning (where you can see a few of my photos on display) is any indication, AC will be coming into more homes and offices soon.

“It’s just too hot without it,” said one patron who planned to take her fresh croissant and coffee home and enjoy them while sitting in her pool. “Normally I would stay here and catch up on the news. Maybe tomorrow.”

Not tomorrow. The annoyingly precise French weather service is calling for smokey skies and 95 degrees. Cooler temps are forecast for early next week – but still in the high 80s.

And yes, for our Florida readers, it’s a dry heat.

Firefighters, using every tool in the book including some learned more than 30 years ago in the Oakland Hills fire, battle three familiar foes: heat, wind and drought.

I realize now that the Oakland fire was a warning, a very harsh warning perhaps, but a warning.

Today’s Bordeaux fire feels more like a changing climate event which has captured all the worst nightmares of climate change and leaves us wondering what region will be next?

UPDATE on Eric Greager

“A Sideways Glace” readers will remember the post about my friend Eric who was attacked by a crocodile while on a diving trip to Mexico. It was a very close call as Eric nearly lost his right arm. I am pleased to report that Eric is feeling much better – so much so that he and his wife Gail will be visiting us in Pellegrue next week. Standby for a full report.

France’s national holiday – le Quatorize Juillet – will certainly be celebrated On July 14^th but even that will be with “peu enthousiaste” (little enthusiasm) observers say.

Like many Americans, the French are greatly concerned about Trump’s war with Iran, rising gasoline prices, ($10 a gallon is feared) electricity shortages, political upheaval, environmental damage and now the heat.

Oh, the heat!

The latest heatwave of the century has weakened in the last few days with temps dropping into the high 80s. But in a day or two temperatures are expected to begin climbing – again – into the low 100s, Fahrenheit.

“It is entirely plausible that we will see fresh surges of scorching air moving from the Sahara toward France,” meteorologist Regis Crepet told Le Figaro.

France has already experienced two major “climate events” this summer. Temperatures in the 106 Fahrenheit to 108 Fahrenheit (41-42 centigrade) range have stressed vines and vineyard workers.

“This heat is not good,” said Caro Feely, owner of Chateau Feely, an organic, bio-diverse winery in Saussignac. “Rain is very welcome as it is going to cool things and provide much needed water.”

Feely also suggests a somewhat controversial step wine lovers might consider as temperatures pass the century mark.

“Please put ice blocks (cubes) in your wine. A bit of extra water in your wine is great for hydration. And when it is this hot, we need to keep our wine cool.”

The current heatwave (called “la canicule”) is the most severe ever recorded and it’s only early July. More than 1,000 deaths have been attributed to the high temperatures so far, a figure that is sure to go up, a lot.

Air conditioning is still fairly rare in France and the centuries old stone, tile and brick structures tend to hold the heat long after the sun has gone down.

Growers say it is too early to know what impact the hot weather - coming this early - will have on the vintage.

Despite the headlines the early heat has produced, it’s the weather in late July and August that will ultimately determine the quality of the vintage.

It’s what comes next that matters.

Too much rain and there is the threat of disease. Too little and the vines shut down and stop growing.

Climatologists globally are making essentially the same point.

What France is experiencing – as well as the U.S. with record heat forecast for many parts of the nation over this holiday weekend – is not just a wave.

It is a re-invention of climate. And it has only just begun.

So, just as it is far too soon to know the quality of this year’s harvest, it’s far too soon to know the outcome of November’s midterm elections.

One thing is for certain, however. While temperatures will have cooled by autumn, emotions will be running as hot as any July 4^th fireworks show.

Stay tuned.

Meanwhile:

Happy Fourth of July or Joyeuse Fete Nationale - as the case might be!

Listen to some of its words:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’

The document is of course the Declaration of Independence.

The little blue book? My U.S. Passport.

It was while writing a post on my recent visit to the U.S. and the ubiquity of facial recognition that I recalled the passport’s artwork and inspirational verses.

Not political, not futuristic. Not aggressive. But rather softer, more creative and more focused on the nation’s higher calling.

Even as the physical passport is, in effect, demoted by Facial Recognition, its presence will remain significant.

The passport represents freedom that can be held in your hand.

The freedom to wander through new territory, to build new relationships, to reach beyond familiar borders.

It sounds corny but to me a passport represents the desire to “come in peace.”

We know now that facial recognition will get travelers through airports quicker.

But the dream of America is best expressed in simple words carefully selected and printed in a common yet vitally important document.

“We have a great dream. It started way back in 1776, and God grant that America will be true to her dream,” said the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Facial Recognition monitors will be hard for travelers to avoid. And the technology is truly remarkable.

But so is the inspirational prose printed on the pages of their passports that is not to be overlooked.

Here are a few examples. The words are familiar and haunting:

“Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and success of liberty.” - John F. Kennedy

“The principle of free governments adheres to the American soil. It is bedded in it, immovable as its mountains.” – Daniel Webster

And my personal favorite:

“The cause of freedom is not the cause of a race or a sect, a party or a class – it is the cause of humankind, the very birthright of humanity.” – Anna Julia Cooper

Travel well.

The heavily armed U.S. Customs and Border Protection officer greeted me with a hearty “Welcome back, Mr. Wynne” as I exited the jetway at San Francisco International Airport earlier this month.

I have traveled in and out of many international airports over the years and SFO is by far my favorite. And not just because I consider it my home airport.

But this personal greeting after an 11-hour flight from Paris was completely unexpected.

Due to my willingness to sit just outside the plane’s galley I was the first one off the packed 777 “Dreamliner.”

“Go left,” the officer who greeted me said. “Show my colleague your passport and then pick up your bags.”

I must have looked surprised or at least confused because she caught my eye and quietly said “facial recognition” as if that explained everything. Which in a way I guess it did. I was through baggage claim in minutes and on my way.

I was returning to the states for the first time in nearly a year to check in with doctors, family and friends after retiring to France three years ago.

It also happened to be my birthday, and I was craving some decent Mexican food – something that is hard to find in rural France. I figured I could not be denied my cuisine of choice on my birthday.

The trip had a full agenda. Medical checkups with doctors I had known for years in San Francisco. A visit with our son in Los Angeles.

And the highlight, our granddaughter’s graduation from high school in St. Louis, MO. Lila is off to the University of Colorado in the fall (Go Buffs).

Her younger brothers were also graduating – Greyson from middle school and Jack from fifth grade.

With all these big changes, I wanted to be there just to ensure that all went smoothly.

And it did - despite my “help.”

But throughout my cross-country travels and visits I could not shake my encounter with “Border Protection” and its new technology. It had impressed me – in a weird, scary kind of way.

Yes, I knew facial recognition systems had improved dramatically in the last few years. Probably in the last few months. Probably as I write this.

In the early days of facial recognition (like last year) you still needed your passport handy because the systems were known to just shut down.

Now FR (as they call it in the biz) worked most all the time. And it was getting better every week.

The European Union, with many borders to secure, has begun an all-out effort to replace the familiar passport stamp with a biometric database.

Delays for UK and European travelers are dreadful right now during the changeover but that won’t last much longer. Besides, there is no turning back.

Eventually travelers will move toward what is being called “One ID”, where your face becomes your boarding pass, your passport, even your wallet. In many ways it will replace your “phone.”

I will miss the stamp, however. There was a certain finality to its thump.

If you traveled a lot, it provided you with a handy reminder of where you were and when. No doubt facial recognition will offer an app providing the same information, but it won’t be the same.

At the end of the day, anything that reliably knocks off time spent at the airport will be well received by the traveling public.

But until then, I’m keeping my passport at the ready.

Call me old fashioned but I can never remember my passport going “off line” just as I was trying to get on board a flight.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This tribute to my mother first ran in the Seattle Times newspaper on Mother’s Day, 2019. I re-run it here as a tribute to moms everywhere. Happy Mother’s Day.

My mother’s last breath came peacefully as I read to her one of her favorite passages from Thornton Wilder’s “The Woman of Andros.”

“On the sea the helmsman suffered the downpour, and on the high pastures the shepherd turned and drew his cloak closer about him …”

Her soft, steady breathing suddenly gave way to a long exhale and then quiet.

There was no death rattle as the hospice nurse had warned. She simply breathed out as if to say she had touched, smelled, heard and seen enough and was gone.

Her doctors — when recommending we move Mom to “comfort care” — had said she would live only for a few more hours breathing unaided.

I sensed they were probably wrong. At 89, covered with hospital blankets and with tubes running here and there, it was hard to tell how tough Mom was. But I knew.

With Mom still silent, I set Wilder down and after checking for a heartbeat, kissed her goodbye and walked out into the hallway to summon the nurse to verify the obvious.

Like many women of her generation, Mom had been nursed by the Great Depression, honed by World War II, and seasoned by the radical changes of the 1960s.

A brutal war had provided Mom and her contemporaries with opportunities not just out of the home — but out of the secretarial pool and ultimately, for Mom at least, out of the country.

Discrimination and harassment - unfair and unrelenting for women even today - would hound Mom all her life. But she was also determined to grab any opportunities that came her way.

The firstborn child of Irish and German immigrants, my mother — Millie to all who knew her — grew up poor in New York City. Her father, just 16 when Mom was born, shoveled coal into furnaces to heat the city’s public schools — a good job during the Depression. Her mother, just 17, made intricate crochet pieces to sell to New York’s fashion houses.

Faded black-and-white photos of Mom and her siblings from the 1920s looked like something out of a Dorothea Lange Farm Security Administration retrospective. They showed children with smudged faces, haunted eyes, gaunt bodies and expressions of near hopelessness.

But the photos turned out to be scenes from a moment in time.

Even though my mother rarely crossed the Hudson River as a child, as a young adult her New York moxie, wanderlust and secretarial skills would take her to the Middle East where in the 1940s and 1950s she would work for what was then the Arabian American Oil Company.

By “exaggerating” her age (applicants had to be 21, Mom was 19) Mom was soon hired, received her “ship out” date and began to pack her bags.

It was left to an enterprising local newspaper reporter to break the news to the family. When the reporter called Mom’s home for a comment about her dramatic career change, my grandmother asked: “She did what?” And finally asked: “Where’s Saudi Arabia?”

And with that, Mom was off. Most all of every check went back to the old neighborhood to help her family make ends meet.

Tall, blue-eyed women were a rarity in The Kingdom at the time (probably still are), and Mom soon caught the eye of a World War II veteran with a freshly minted engineering degree from Stanford who was working to extract Saudi Arabian crude to help satiate the world’s postwar thirst for energy.

Eventually the two would tire of sandstorms and isolation and make their way to the Great Pacific Northwest where they would raise a family — three girls and a boy. They both would retire after spending decades building commercial airliners for Boeing. She would be greatly distressed by Boeing’s current troubles.

She saw education as the great equalizer. With an education anything was possible, she often said.

And Mom loved good writing. It was a love that came to her naturally. Her mother, who never had a day of formal schooling in her life, somehow became an avid fan of Louis L’Amour dime-store Westerns.

In her final days, Mom could not speak or even gesture. But I had a pretty good idea of how she’d like to spend her remaining time.

And so, her last days were filled with Wilder, whose almost poetic prose I knew would appeal to her, and with two Northwesterners — Ivan Doig and Norman Maclean. The poems, and pain, of Maya Angelou and Jane Hirshfield rounded out our reading list.

After growing up in the concrete canyons of New York, it was the vast deserts of Arabia and the green forests and snow-capped peaks of the Cascade and Olympic mountains that came to fascinate Mom. It seemed only right that the words of the writers who so beautifully captured those wild, untouched open spaces and big skies would bring her peace in her final hours.

Today will be my eighth Mother’s Day without Mom.

When the mood strikes, I’ll pull Maclean’s “A River Runs Through It” off the shelf and read a few of her favorite passages aloud.

I’m pretty sure she’d like that.

Bob Wynne is a retired public relations executive. Previously he was an editor and reporter in the San Francisco Bay Area and Washington State. A graduate of the University of Washington, he now lives in Pellegrue, France.

My good friend of 50 years, Eric Greager was very nearly back to shore when he was hit and kicked hard in the back. He didn’t know it then, but his life had just changed forever.

“I had checked all around before I started my swim,” he said from his hospital bed in the beach town of Cozumel, Mexico. “I knew there was nothing out there – nothing human at least.”

Eric, 72, a well-respected personal trainer and elite triathlete from Washington state (and frequent visitor to Pellegrue near Bordeaux) would need every bit of his decades of conditioning, strength and courage to survive the next 10 minutes.

“I turned around half expecting to see a diver or another swimmer I had not noticed,” he said. “Instead, I looked terror right in the eye – two eyes really.”

As Eric turned around the 10-foot-long crocodile struck again clamping down on his right arm, giving Eric an “evil smile.”

“I knew I was in trouble,” Eric said. “In fact, I can’t believe I survived to tell you the story.”

I don’t know that croc, but I know Eric. If anyone could survive such a terrible attack it would be him, one of the original Iron Man contestants.

Eric and his wife Gail – both experienced divers - had just arrived in Cozumel after 15 hours of travel and Eric had decided to go for a refreshing swim before dinner.

The swimming beach was clearly marked with buoys in front of the resort.

The two had reservations for a dive boat the next morning and planned to explore the waters around Cozumel which they knew well.

But plans can change.

The croc struck suddenly and silently. After giving Eric what amounted to a warning bump the croc lunged, clamping down hard on his right arm.

“This thing has a brain the size of a peanut,” Eric recalled thinking. “But to feel the muscular power it has is amazing. I knew I was in trouble.”

Fighting off panic, Eric went to work hitting the croc with his left hand, clubbing, clawing, trying to hit it in the eye – whatever he could do to get loose of the croc’s vise-like grip.

“He was trying to take me down to the bottom,” Eric said. “I was kicking and screaming and hammering him in the head. I could feel my arm being damaged.”

And then the croc stopped his attack. “It just came to a dead stop” Eric said.

After a moment the croc came after Eric again but without the same vigor. A few moments later the croc released Eric’s arm and drifted away.

“I don’t know if he decided I was too much trouble, too obnoxious or what.”

Badly injured and bleeding profusely, he knew the croc was still out there. And he knew he was also in shark territory.

Not wanting to become the victim with the worst luck ever, he started to pull myself along the swim buoy line toward shore shouting for help.

Eventually other swimmers saw the blood in the water and Eric struggling and came to his aid. A lifeguard attached a tourniquet before Eric had even reach shore, one of three that would eventually slow the bleeding and save Eric’s life.

“It sounds funny to say it,’ Eric said, “but I am the luckiest guy alive. I survived.”

Survived, but at some cost.

Once back on shore, Eric had to endure a bumpy, painful ambulance ride to the tiny hospital where a quickly assembled team of doctors – went to work.

Eric emerged from surgery six hours later only to ask a very scary question – “did I lose my arm?”

Tendons were torn. Arteries were severed. Ligaments were crushed. Bones were badly bruised. But the arm was saved.

The doctors did a fabulous job, Eric said while also praising Gail’s herculean efforts get him the care he needed.

“Gail was a superstar,” Eric said. “And I can’t say enough about the care and support we received (in Mexico and back home in Washington state.”)

“I know we both think often about how close to pure tragedy this could have ended if all the right things had not happened,” Gail said. “We have been so overwhelmed with encouragement and that really helps.”

Eric will need months of rehabilitation, but doctors expect him to regain much of the use of his arm. I think you can count on it.

The doctors, all of them, have urged Eric to take it slow. Nerves and soft tissue take a long time to heal and Eric’s daily rugged workout – which surely helped save him down in Mexico – will need to be dialed back at least for now.

Eric has nothing but praise and thanks for the beach goers who jumped into bloody waters to help him to shore. The lifeguard, doctors, nurses and other medical staff were “just fantastic.”

“I had the chance to thank everyone who helped out,” Eric said. “I am forever grateful.

“I do have one big take away,” he said. “And that is how kind people are,” he said. “No one asked about political affiliations. No one asked where I was from.

“They all just wanted to help. I owe them my life.”

RUSS YARROW

APRIL 18

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Food is always sustenance, often pleasurable, and sometimes something much more. Food is, of course essential. “First we eat, then we do everything else,” said M.F.K. Fisher. But the experience of food — its origin, how it’s prepared and served, where and with whom it’s consumed — can sometimes achieve the level of art and create a memory that will last a lifetime. I can think of several peak food occasions — a Dover sole in Bangkok, a perfect filet mignon and martini in Charleston, a grilled Calabrese at Top Dog on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley, California. We stumbled into another peak experience this week in St. Emilion.

We’d come to Bordeaux to see old friends, Bob and Peggy, who had moved there from San Francisco three years ago. They went all in — sold their ninth-story townhouse overlooking San Francisco Bay and bought a 230-year-old farmhouse overlooking acres of vineyards in Pellegrue, a French village in the Gironde district, about 40 miles west of Bordeaux. It’s remote, but idyllic. There, they’ve built a life. Bob works on his photography and his excellent Substack, “A Sideways Glance,” about life in rural France. Peggy has continued her therapy practice while also taking a deep dive into local culture in the form of language and food.

We arrived by train early in the evening and within an hour, after a cocktail or two, we were feasting on a bowl of beef bourguignon. It was like slipping on a glove; we felt like we’d been there for years.

Bob and Peggy had worked up a simple itinerary for our two days with them — lazy mornings, long lunches, a winery tour and dinner back at the house. Our first lunch was in Saint-Émilion at a spot that neither had been to before, Château Troplong Mondot. It sits on one of the highest points of the area, offering panoramic views over the surrounding vineyards and toward the Dordogne Valley. The château is old, the remodeled restaurant inside is austere and modern. We tucked in, admired the view, and made an easy decision about lunch, ordering the five-course, prix fixe option.

On the way, Peggy had educated us on the culture of le déjeuner in France, where meals are seen as essential moments of pleasure, social connection, and balance rather than mere fuel. Lunch remains one of the most important meals of the day, often more substantial than dinner, and is treated with respect—even on busy weekdays.

Still, we were unprepared for the experience that would overtake us for the next 3-1/2 hours.

The dining room’s team took over. We were served a couple of amuse-bouche and ordered a bottle of wine, a relatively modest Chardonnay from Bourgogne. Each course was more spectacular than the last — from a frothy, foamy concoction topped with fresh herbs and tiny flowers to a glistening orb of white chocolate with hints of basil. In between, there were two revelations. First, a dish of filleted sea bream on a bed of parsnip pockets stuffed with earthy, sweet fillings. The presentation was exquisite, the flavors beguiling. Second was a dish of pollock wrapped in asparagus carpaccio and bathed in three sauces, each distinct and complementary. The fish had a deep flavor and texture like air.

In between each of these dishes was a salad made with 40 ingredients, including mustard seeds for a “little crunch,” as our server told us (he kept up a running commentary throughout the lunch, by turns humorous and informative). The 40 ingredients, by the way, could’ve been a mosh pit, but instead played like a symphony, all distinct flavors heightened by a collage of bright colors all the way through. Precision, flavor and simplicity was the leitmotif of the meal.

Meanwhile, the 20-mile view of the Dordogne spread out before us. We were utterly charmed as we watched three plow horses work their way through the vines of the château. French farmers place a growing emphasis on permaculture. The day after our lunch, we spent time with Bob and Peggy’s friend Carol Feely, an Australian transplant who nurtures a 35-acre biodynamic vineyard. She was rapturous about the recent appearance of wild orchids growing between the vines as a sign of the resiliency and health of the soil. Sitting in the dining room and watching the plow horses we witnessed a moment when a necessity of the past — literal horsepower — served a contemporary respect for avant-garde farming techniques. Somehow, it made the food taste even better.

We were disciplined, and stretched a single bottle of wine between the four of us over the full lunch. We let our discipline crack a little, however, when we worked our way through three or four different deserts — small portions, to be sure, but rich and intense, all presented as museum pieces, perfectly structured. By this time, our rapture was so intense that it barely bothered me when Peggy and Mary ordered cheese plates. I’m not a cheese man, but in this setting, smelling the stinky odors of blue and Brie was almost pleasurable. OK, well interesting at least.

By then it was nearly 4 p.m. I couldn’t recall a longer lunch in my lifetime and yet it seemed as if no time had passed at all.

“Food can be very transformational, and it can be more than just about a dish,” said Alice Waters. “That’s what happened to me when I first went to France. I fell in love.” As were we, four friends at the table, in love with the food, the terroir, and each other.

© 2026 Russ Yarrow
548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104
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The Bordeaux region was in the midst of a serious heat wave with temperatures in the low 100s for weeks and no sign of breaking.

The grape growers were not happy. Their fruit was nearly ready for harvesting but current temperatures made that as hard on the crop as on the workers.

I had just crossed over the last, long lingering hill and was rolling down into the village of Pellegrue.

Hungry after a full day of poking around Roman baths and other ruins looking for photos suitable for framing and I was “pret pour le diner.”

I knew our vegetable garden was loaded with tomatoes, lettuce and such but a salad - no matter how fresh - did not seem the solution.

As I rounded the last long turn leading into Pellegrue I saw in the distance a black and orange kiosk flashing slowly as if suffering in the heat as well.

As I drew closer, I realized that my “what’s there to eat?” question had been answered.

Literally overnight a “Just Queen” pizza kiosk had been installed across the street from the Credit Agricole Bank ATM.

I had a new favorite corner in a town with two of my favorite things, cash and pizza!

Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I thought the vending machine was genius, especially in rural France where food options are very limited after 7 p.m.

The town has no restaurant, no fast-food joints. After the grocery closes you are pretty well stuck with those hunger pangs ‘til morning.

As I rolled up on the Just Queen kiosk, I saw that it was at least plugged in. Good sign. But did it make pizza or just promises?

A big touchscreen responded to my touch and lit up with my pizza choices which were quite extensive.

In fact, the wide range of options were numerous to the point of suspicion. Margarita, sausage, veggie and of course everyone’s favorite – pepperoni.

But my suspicions were unfounded.

The order (all by touchscreen) and the payment were smooth and easily understood.

With a piping hot pepperoni and a nice-looking margarita propped up on the passenger seat, I headed home for the shade, a cold beer and a Just Queen pie.

I will be honest; I have had better pizza. But what the machine had produced in just three minutes had was not bad. Not bad at all.

I saw Just Queen as a great addition to our town, and I could not wait to spread the word. The last thing I wanted was for the kiosk to be pulled up and carted away due to lack of interest.

Little did I know that mismanagement and something called “market conditions” (mismanagement by another term?) would undo any good my cheerleading might provide.

Because a week later I was once again hungry and hot and dying for a pie and a brew.

So I pulled up to the Just Queen kiosk that just last week had saved the day.

Something wasn’t right.

The touch screen was black. A few pokes, prods and pushes did nothing to rouse the sleeping giant (sorry, I am re-reading “At Dawn We Slept”) and a solid shoulder slam was useless, but painful.

My technology expertise exhausted, I concluded that the machine had been a big hit and had simply run out of pizzas.

It happens.

So I jumped back in the car and headed down the road to Les Leves-et-Thoumeyragues. (The biggest name for the smallest town I have ever seen.)

Same deal. All black. No pizza for me.

Being optimistic (and stubborn) I headed next to Duras, which has terrific castle.

Black screen, no pie. Like a draw bridge opening, I was beginning to see a pattern.

I gave it another week and went through the same routine. The clerks manning the registers in the stores nearest the kiosks were just as confused as I.

Who would put out the machines, fill them initially, make sure they worked only to disappear into the Garonne night?

It’s complicated. Our local kiosk has changed hands several times since I started tracking. Liquidated and then liquidated again, it now officially belongs to a regional court in Dijon.

The original Just Queen owners in the region are long gone, leaving behind about 1,000 kiosks and 400 workers jobless.

The unused kiosks spread throughout the Bordeaux region are another highly visible example of what is happening in rural France.

More people are moving out than are moving in. Rural-flight. A few pizza machines are not going to change that trend.

But, as strange as it sounds, it might be the beginning of something.

After stopping today at the ATM, I walked across the street to check out the lurking Just Queen kiosk.

It’s condition was unchanged.

Two teenage boys walking by offered the obvious: “La Machine est morte…peut-etre au printemps.”

Perhaps in the Spring indeed.

No, seriously, it was.

The Entre Deux Mers (Between Two Tides) region east of Bordeaux was being whipped about and flooded by Storm Nils.

Winds, heavy rain, flooding – you name it – were washing away what remained of our elegant French limestone gravel driveway.

As well as whole sections of France.

Storm Nils had already claimed several lives – mostly due to traffic accidents and falling trees.

A million French were without power. France’s electric grid provider Enedis had 3,000 personnel working to repair downed power lines.

But it all takes time. Enedis customers in some regions were without power for 10 days. We were without power for 45 hours. Seemed longer.

At first it was an adventure.

I could watch the Olympics on my laptop and keep up with the news, power updates and family activities on my phone.

Candles gave the house a warm, cozy feel. Except for that damn howling.

But eventually the power on all my “devices” ran out. And the whole “battling the elements” vibe began to grow weary.

Peggy was in the States doing some skiing and checking on the kids and grandkids. Criss crossing the country.

My sister Patty was hunkered down in Paris taking an intensive month-long French class for beginners.

(Editors Note - Seethe A Sideways Glance post: “In Search of France and New Beginnings – You can’t flunk a beginner, it’s just not done”)

I was on my own.

Until there came a knock at the front door, barely audible over the wind, rain and two-hundred-year-old creaking house.

The heavy plank front door got away from me as I opened it, throwing me back into the wall as Samuel Renaux and his partner Christine struggled to pull me free.

It had been months since we had seen each other. They are our carpenters/roofers and had patched up this old house in a dozen places.

When Samuel was a kid he played in the fields and vineyards that still surround the house.

They are old school, true artisans not unlike Scott Walker and his partner Fi Dybbroe who did the initial re-hab of the house. When Scott and Fi started work four years ago it was a very weathered property with dirt floors in places!

A lot of progress had been made. But more was still to be done as this nasty string of storms proved.

“I’m worried about that section of the roof we did not finish in the fall,” Samuel said as we were pelted by the rain. “This wind is too strong. It won’t hold.”

Sure enough, pieces of broken tile were coming off the roof and dangerously crashing to the ground. Rain was already getting in.

Tile roofs are meant to survive for decades – even centuries. That’s why you see so many of them in big cities and tiny villages all through Europe.

Plus, they look cool on a warm summer evening turning rosy red as the sun dips below the horizon.

Their one weak spot is wind.

If it is strong enough, and Storm Niles’ winds hit 110 mph with Storm Pedro following up quickly, the tiles can be literally lifted off the roof, damaging and even destroying it.

That is what we were facing on this brutal night.

Our roof is three stories high. Samuel and Christine had to tie down their ladder, which the wind was doing its best to knock down with them on it.

They scampered up to the roof, hoisted up fresh tiles and quickly patched a 10-foot-wide gap. Storm Nils had been pushed back for now.

I handed out towels and thanked and re-thanked Samuel and Christine for stepping in to help on such a night, repairing a section of roof they had never even worked on in the first place!

They will forever be on our Christmas card list, something I am sure they will cherish!

The whole power out thing follows a pattern.

The first 10 hours you just make the best of it, light some candles, build a fire, cozy up at home. Who wants to go out anyway?

But after 40 hours you just want the lights and the heat and the internet to work. Is that so much to ask?

Eventually the storms moved on, the wind just seemed to blow itself out.

The sky cleared and the stars – meekly at first and then with real determination – brilliantly showed themselves as if to say this dark and stormy night is rapidly becoming just another night.

It has been said that I was not a serious student.

My mother (who started working at 16 and never had the chance to go to high school) assured me that if I did not apply myself, I would wind up parking cars for a living. Sixteen-year-old me thought that sounded kinda cool.

My academic career was checkered to be sure.

It took me six years at the University of Washington (Go Dawgs!) to earn my four-year degree.

And that only because of a girl.

I had a 2.2 GPA. (For those of you more familiar with European academic scores, 2.2 is pathetic.) Let’s just say Stanford was not tripping over Harvard to offer me a scholarship.

After I met Peggy, however, things changed. Grades improved and I even managed to get into the U-Dub’s prestigious Journalism school.

I learned what professor’s “office hours” were and that I had to attend. I re-took many classes, this time actually attending. And I grabbed whatever story assignments I could as a stringer for Seattle’s then flourishing newspapers to get extra credit.

I will let you in on a little-known academic secret.

There are actually two dean’s lists.

One many of you are familiar with. The student gets a nice letter from the dean, maybe even lunch. The honor goes on the student’s academic record. Life is good.

The other list is more - and this will sound odd - elite. The student “gets” to meet with the dean every Monday, usually at 8 a.m., to discuss “academic strategy.”

Mine was to not flunk out.

Between the dean, who turned out to be a pretty nice guy and Peggy, I managed to wildly improve my academic standing and graduate with a few honors.

Fast forward 50 years to today. In a way I am back on the dean’s list.

Peggy and I are living in rural France. Love it. But in order to really benefit from and thoroughly enjoy the experience we need to speak decent French and understand a little “tradition francaise” – French culture.

Take restaurants. A long, boozy lunch in a small, often family run establishment is a treat worth the long journey.

“These people know how to do lunch,” said a friend who has been enjoying the French culinary experience for 30 years. “There is nothing else quite like it.”

But a little local knowledge and French vocabulary can turn a decent lunch into a “wow, that was great” experience.

Par exemple - le menu.

Typically, hand-written on a portable chalk board which is moved from table to table, le menu is key.

It features the chef’s recommendations for the day which in a nod to French humor, is also called “Le Menu.”

You can get whatever you want a la carte off the chalk board.

But “Le Menu” usually includes an entree (starter), le plat (main course) and dessert (not to be overlooked.) Usually, the selection is limited to one or two choices, but the quality is first-rate.

Cheese is optional and coffee should only be ordered after desert.

I may be off on this, but I think choosing “Le Menu” is also a subtle compliment to the chef. You are putting yourself in his/her hands.

At any rate, I might be magna cum laude at lunch, but I was still failing pre-French 101.

So, we rented a small apartment in Bordeaux and went back to school enrolling in France’s well-respected Alliances Francaise intensive language school.

Well, Peggy did.

The French are proud of their language. They are not going to let just anybody into their schools. First you must take a test. A placement test.

Peggy passed and was placed in an intermediate class of 10 other overachievers.

I got a note from the dean. To borrow a line from Yankees great Yogi Berra - it was déjà vu all over again.

I had flunked the placement test. Unfortunately, there was no place for me.

I was being given the heave ho from AF -one of France’s primo language schools.

“But I’m a beginner,” I protested in excellent English. “You can’t flunk me. You can’t flunk a beginner. It’s just not done.”

Well apparently, it is done.

The dean, called a director in France, was sympathetic but what could she do?

“You don’t know any French,” she said. “Maybe you can come back in March.”

I’m not really sure what March had to do with anything. Maybe it was a “pre-beginner” class? But what’s a pre- beginner?

Not to get too tied up in linguistics, but you’re either a beginner – or you’re not. Non?

Life in France is funny. Monday I was out – there was nothing that could be done. C’est domage.

But by Tuesday, the director had softened her position. And Peggy had an idea.

(Remember an apartment near the school in Bordeaux had already been paid for. Something had to be done.)

Could Bob enroll in one-on-one sessions for a few weeks just to get a little “head start” toward becoming a beginner, she asked the director.

“Oui, c’est possible, we can try.” she allowed.

I would be taking intensive beginner French for a pre-beginner hoping to become a real beginner. Let us begin.

My instructor Linda, a native Bordelaise, has accepted her new assignment with enthusiasm. I think I can safely say that after an exhausting two weeks of one-on-one classes I am on track toward becoming a beginner, a real beginner.

Perhaps Winston Churchill, a fan of France who spoke French reasonably well, said it best during a dark stretch of World War II.

“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

A cold, windy darkness has spread throughout the Bordeaux wine region in recent weeks. It is not necessarily bad news for grape growers – although working in the icy fields is very “tres inconfortable.”

For the vines, the cold weather in early winter is actually good news.

“The cold is good,” said Caro Feely, owner of Chateau Feely in Saussignac. “The vines need to go below zero (32 degrees) in winter as it helps kill unwanted things so we start with a clean slate. We are happy even if the heating bills are a bit high.”

A major storm rumbled into the Bordeaux region last night bringing with it high winds (130 mph) cold and causing damage to vineyards and roadways.

As I sit looking out over acres of vineyards being tossed about by the high winds, another storm appears to be forming in the east. This one promises to be colder - possibly as low as 25 degrees.

Which means it is time to visit the barn and bring in some more firewood.

But before I do, I want to leave you with a few photos of winter in Pellegrue. The warmer weather is coming. But not just yet.

He’s not likely to spend any time in jail. Ever.

For reasons I do not fully (or even partially) understand, in America the assumption is a sitting or former president can do no wrong and therefore can’t be prosecuted in federal court.

Now if Trump were President of France, it would be a different story.

But even then, it’s not like the French are marching dozens of their fallen politicians off to the hoosegow.

In fact, only once in the last 200 plus years has a French head of state actually spent a night (in this case 20 nights) in jail.

And that was just a couple of months ago.

Of course, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette famously ran into a “spot of bother” with the French legal system.

But theirs was a different era and the guillotine is no longer a punishment option.

As far as France’s actual jail bird president, the true Francophiles out there might recall the name Nicolas Sarkozy.

He was a popular national leader when he first came on the political scene in the mid-70s.

A conservative modernizer rather than a “burn baby burn” type, he served as President of France from 2007 to 2012 and remained a force on the French right long after leaving office.

In recent years, Sarkozy, 70, has been convicted in multiple cases including corruption, bribery and influence peddling.

One that really hurt and actually put him behind bars earlier this year were conspiracy charges that he and his cronies received as much as 50 million euros from Libyan sources to help fund his 2007 political campaign.

For this and other offences Sarkozy was sentenced in September to five years in prison plus a five-year ban on holding public office.

He was immediately booked into Paris’ notorious La Sante prison where he was held for three weeks before being sent home under strict judicial supervision or “controle judiciaire.”

A former French President behind bars and not just for a few hours but for weeks. Unheard of. La Sante is no Elysee Palace.

His appeal will begin March 16, 2026.

Which brings us back to Trump.

Many legal experts are convinced that for a variety of reasons Trump (whether in office or out) will never spend a single night in jail despite multiple prosecutions and convictions in various courts.

Here is a reminder of some of Trump’s legal entanglements. Most were put aside or dismissed after he was elected.

- The so-called New York “hush money” conviction on 34 felony counts for falsifying business records

- The Jan. 6^th federal election subversion case

- The federal classified documents case

- The Georgia election interference case

So, what does it all mean for these two men – one who lost his grip on power a dozen years ago and is fighting now mostly for his name and the other desperately trying to grab as much power as possible before things unravel?

For Sarkozy it means trying to salvage his image, his reputation, his legacy.

No easy job but not impossible. The French are more tolerant and patient than Americans. They will give him, at least, the courtesy of listening.

Many of Trump’s problems are more self-generated. For example, insisting that food and housing prices are coming down when in actuality they are going up.

So, while Trump faces no chance of jail time, he could become even more unpopular and less effective making him a prisoner if not in the big house then a prisoner of sorts in a newly remodeled White House.

If you were a turkey, you might consider relocating to France – especially come late November.

That’s because while the French enjoy all kinds of odd meats, poultry and various game treats, they pretty much leave turkey alone.

So much so that I was assured the big (and noisy) fella pictured above would not be making an appearance on anyone’s dining room table come Thanksgiving.

That’s right, the nation that prides itself on innovative, extremely fresh, unusual and rich gourmet dining draws the line at turkey – white meat and dark.

So while horse (still common but less so) rabbit, pig’s feet, and other lesser known “treats” like cervelle (brains), tripe (stomach), tete de veau (calf’s head), and offal (a mish-mash of liver, kidneys, heart, tongue and “other”) are still served on occasion it is with a bit less enthusiasm and to a shrinking clientele.

But when it comes to the big bird make no mistake. Turkey, along with gravy, green beans, stuffing, more gravy, mashed potatoes and a variety of salads, pies and berries, remains a truly American tradition.

Which is not to say it is celebrated only by Americans.

Au contraire, as we say here in the Entre-Deux-Mers region of Bordeaux.

Our table this year will include Brits, Australians, New Zealanders, Norwegians, French, and a few Americans to ensure legitimacy and that certain rules are followed.

For example, drumsticks are put aside for lunch the day after Thanksgiving. Gravy can be re-heated. Eating the skin is gauche, pecan pie is preferred over pumpkin pie. (This one is disputed vigorously in our home, but pecan is the go-to.)

And of course, leftover turkey is best served cold with mayo and a dash of salt. In a perfect world of course.

In addition to questions about the food, I expect someone to ask just what are Americans celebrating on Thanksgiving?

The event began as a harvest feast/celebration shared by English Pilgrims and the native Wampanoag people in 1621 at Plymouth, MA, after a long hard winter.

Days of “thanksgiving” were celebrated at various times over the following decades.

In 1863 during the Civil War President Abraham Lincoln declared that a national Thanksgiving Day be celebrated each November. In 1941 Congress officially set the date as the fourth Thursday in November.

But the turkey. How did the turkey become central to Thanksgiving celebrations?

The best explanation I could find was also the simplest – it just seemed to fit.

The wild turkey was native to North America. It was large enough to feed a crowd and not something people ate every day, so it felt special.

Over time Thanksgiving and turkey went together like Christmas and tree.

The two are now forever joined. As is the Friday after Thanksgiving – Black Friday.

Black Friday was first used by police in Philadelphia (among other cities) in the 1960s to describe the bad traffic, crowds and general chaos the day after Thanksgiving as shoppers and celebrants came downtown.

Later it was spun to reassure retailers it was the day their books would go from “in the red” to “in the black.”

French stores are loaded with Black Friday sales items and have been for weeks.

Black Friday has since gone global and is generally regarded as the world’s busiest shopping day of the year.

So, even if the turkey hasn’t taken off globally, it has carved out a home for itself on millions of America tables. That’s something for which we can all be thankful.

Wishing you all the very best for Thanksgiving - whether you are a turkey lover - or not!

Flashing blue and red lights lined Sunset Blvd as 18,000 cops in a city of 7.5 million cars tried to keep order. It was 20 minutes after the Los Angeles Dodgers defeated the Toronto Blue Jays in an historic and frankly terrific seven-game World Series.

(Full Disclosure – I am a San Francisco Giants fan, but the G-Men were nowhere to be found in Chavez Ravine on this cool November evening. As a result, I had thrown my support behind the Canadians - who never deserved such trashy Trump treatment.)

I had left a quiet corner of France a few weeks before to catch up with kids, grandkids and friends strewn across the U.S.

I was also doing a little pulse taking. LA was my final stop.

After that last out, LA was thumping. The cops had things well in hand and Trump, thankfully, had shifted his focus to yet another manufactured distraction which I can’t remember.

But at least there were no U.S. Marines on the streets of the City of Angels this night.

Los Angeles has long fascinated me despite my proud San Francisco roots because of its sheer size geographically and the diversity of its residents. Actually, the diversity of everything about it.

And let’s face it, the weather doesn’t hurt.

Talk about the best of times and the worst of times. LA has ‘em.

During an hourlong ride in the comfort of an Uber SUV (it is LA after all) it’s possible to see the good, the bad and the ugly of 2025 America.

From Watts – which did explode in the sticky hot summer of 1965 and really did require the help of the California National Guard to re-establish order - to the final out of this year’s Series in Elysian Park, LA has long commanded the spotlight.

It was, after all, where Trump dispatched the National Guard and U.S. Marines three months ago despite demands by the Mayor of LA (Karen Bass) and a surprisingly determined Governor of California (Gavin Newsom) to stay away.

LA was one of four cities we recently visited after spending nearly three years in France.

Peggy and I started off with a tour of New York City, a bar-mitzvah gift for our 14-year-old grandson Greyson. He was entranced.

Pizza by the slice all night long. Who cares if the sign said $1 a slice even though the bill worked out to more like $3.50 a slice? It was excellent street vendor New York pizza (with Fanta.)

But there was more. Motorized bikes to rent and ride through Central Park and, thanks to our connected son, court-side seats at Madison Square Garden to see the Knicks defeat the Hornets 113 to 108.

Pizza was followed up with a visit the next day to a terrific sushi restaurant on the West Side, the New York City Public Library, the magnificent Statue of Liberty, the still gleaming Empire State Building, a ride in real yellow cabs, and the New York City Football Club playing the Seattle Sounders at Mets Stadium. The NYCFC lost but their fans made a terrific showing.

The airports may be battling serious flight delays for lack of air traffic controllers, but Greyson and I safely slipped back to his home in St. Louis – a conservative leaning city that Trump has so far left alone.

Later I continued to San Francisco for some medical appointments (all good) and finally on to Los Angeles to close out the Series and to visit our son who was managing a new job, a new apartment and a new 97” TV monitor.

The best way I can describe Los Angeles during my visit was a calm joyfulness – with an edge.

The troops, for the most part, have returned to their homes or are back on base.

There is a lingering anxiety in the air, but the car washes are open, Home Depot parking lots are filled with ratty contractor pickups, not unmarked blacked-out SUVs or shiny “Mobile Command Centers.”

Considering the World Series victory, the results of the “off-year election”, the terrific autumn weather and the fantastic “Jaws: The Exhibition” exhibition showing at the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures, I would have expected more grid-lock traffic, bad behavior, testy Starbucks customers, full restaurants, cancelled flights and shuttered car washes as workers flee ICE agents.

All that could return of course.

But for now, my pulse reading shows LA is more tinsel town than tear gas, more world class entertainment than chaos.

Still, the country faces a no-joke political crisis and leadership that is either just not up to the task or just plain does not care.

Meanwhile, anxious Americans wait and watch for the next scene to unfold.

It was the age of wisdom; it was the age of foolishness.”

French President Emmanuel Macron should be forgiven if he begins to believe Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was writing about him in his classic novel “A Tale of Two Cities.”

Because Macron has known the best of times, and the worst of times, during his eight years in office.

It was Macron who guided France through the 2024 Paris Olympics, achieving the country’s best performance (64 medals) since 1900. The best of times.

The games were generally considered a success with cost overruns, civil disturbances and other disruptions kept to a minimum while the global spotlight shined on France.

But Macron has also had to deal with the “foolishness.”

For example, his own foolishness when he called for snap - or immediate - elections in the summer of 2024. The worst of times.

The result is the divided and ineffectual government France has today.

Power is divided among three parties – the left wing New Popular Front, Macron’s centrist “Ensemble” coalition and the far-right National Rally.

None of the parties hold enough seats to govern alone.

And no two parties are willing to work together or to even form an ad hoc coalition.

The Prime Minister position, important in France’s government, has been a revolving door of late with the last PM surviving just 24 hours only to be reappointed by Macron the next day.

The situation is largely of Macron’s own doing. He managed to ram through pension reform in 2023 raising the national retirement age from 62 to 64.

Confident in his popularity and his ability to create a working government he then called for the snap election to speed the formation of a new government.

It was a bridge too far.

The voters cast their ballots for today’s tri-party configuration, and the outcome has been near chaos.

“The result? The result is we have no government,” a notoire in the Bordeaux region told me.

(A notoire is an important local official who, among other things must approve real estate sales and other administrative functions.)

“You have Trump. We don’t know what he will do - but he will do something,” said a carpenter based in Pellegrue, also in the Bordeaux region. The carpenter said he initially supported Macron but that support is now “tres fragile.”

“Confidence is a good thing,” he said. “But not too much confidence. You can’t get ahead of those who vote for you.”

When first elected President in 2017 at 39, Macron was the youngest person to ever hold the job. He had strong support among France’s notoriously feckless citizens.

That support has slid a long way.

Now, in some ways, Macron may be coming full circle, shedding the “worst of times” Dickens writes about for at least a shot at redemption.

The Elysee Palace today announced that Monday Macron would travel to Sharm El-Sheikh, Egypt to participate in inking in the details for the just announced Gaza War Peace Plan brokered largely by Trump associates.

France, under Macron and despite its current political disarray, is still a diplomatic force in the Middle East and beyond.

French diplomats under Macron’s direction have mediated peace efforts in Lebanon, Sudan, Ukraine and Russia and have long been involved in peace efforts in Palestine, Israel and the larger Middle East region.

Success, of course has been elusive, but Macron would certainly not be the first politician to try and fail. And in the Middle East you can get points just for trying.

Any success just might help Macron get France “unstuck” on the domestic level.

It would be the first step toward “the best of times.”

Tomorrow Peggy and I will celebrate our 49^th wedding anniversary.

I know the big dog of anniversaries is the 50^th but I wanted to take advantage of these quiet hours during an off year to, dare I say it, reflect.

Plus, we remain big 49er fans, and I feel good about this year.

Now I can sense some of you former newspaper editors, TV directors and corporate big shots out there already leaning toward the “delete” key. I beg your indulgence for just two minutes.

Not so long when you consider we’re going back five decades here.

Peggy and I met on a street corner in Paris while still students at the University of Washington – Go Dawgs!

While we grew up on opposite ends of Lake Washington just outside Seattle, we did not know each other. That would change.

We got along well from Day One. The hometown connection definitely helped.

Between us we had enough francs (the Euro was just a dream in 1975) for a beer and a plate of haricots verts (green beans).

After a couple of hours of watching us nurse our beer and beans the bartender took pity and “bought” us a second round.

But the damage was done. The beans coming out of this gin joint bar/kitchen were excellent and I knew then that France was different.

It was during those university years that we totally fell in love with France although it would be 10 years before we could afford a return visit.

During that decade Morgan and Taylor came along – two of the greatest humans in the world. They weren’t planned in the traditional sense but they sure livened things up.

When we started out, I worked for a local and very active daily newspaper. This was the Watergate era and while the pay was not great, newspapering was challenging and often fun. “Fake news” thankfully was not a thing yet. And flat out lying was not an acceptable strategy.

But the opportunities were few for Peggy who wanted to get her graduate degree, so we turned our attention to greener pastures and a larger, more urban environment.

We moved to San Francisco where I wound up editing a group of newspapers involved in a feisty old-time newspaper war. It was intense, to say the least with editors – including myself – coming and going.

Somehow during my promotions and firings and hirings, Peggy quietly and efficiently managed to earn her master’s degree in psychology. She would soon open a small practice which would grow – a lot – over time.

There are moments in every relationship. One of the biggies for me was watching Peggy cross the University of San Francisco stage to receive her degree.

Morgan and Taylor, still very young, saw it too. We swelled with pride and cheered our approval. The kids had spent many an evening with babysitters while Peggy attended night classes and I was working on the morning edition.

It was nice to see it all pay off.

Eventually I moved from newspapering to corporate communications. The more regular hours were nice, the work challenging.

We managed to slip in several more visits to France and began making loose plans for “the move.”

A terrific son-in-law and three fantastic grandchildren - the oldest will be graduating from high school this spring – made us realize we would need a larger “ Maison Francais” than we had expected.

Cutting our worldly possessions down to four quite large suitcases we found and moved into a 250-year-old farmhouse on two acres in rural France last year.

We’re surrounded by vineyards, corn fields and sun flowers (tournesols.)

Tractor engines have replaced the sound of Muni buses. Although I must admit I do miss the sound of the glass recyclers every Thursday at 2 a.m.

There is still much to be done on several fronts.

We need to get our ancient red tile leaky roof fixed. We still want to visit the polar bears in the Arctic. And I still must improve my tortured French.

But all those things can wait.

Tomorrow we’ll take a break and visit one of France’s “Les Plus Beaux Villages” where I’ll buy Peggy her own beer. But for old times’ sake, we’ll still share the plate of haricots verts.

Joyeux anniversaire!

EDITOR’S NOTE: Many of you have asked how I am doing after falling off my bike (loser!) and breaking two ribs. It still hurts like hell, to tell the truth, but I do feel better that you asked. My sister Patty and good buddies Jim and Merrill, who have experience with such things, say it will be six weeks – no less, but no more. My “ami de combat” Dennis suggested “A Sideways Glance” while cycling is probably best avoided. Sage advice all round.

CORRECTION: Fano Island, where I took my tumble, is actually off the western coast of Denmark.

I knew it was going to hurt while I was still in the air. I hadn’t seen the small, grass covered strip of curb and now I was about to pay for my inattention.

The tumble off my rental bicycle hurt more than I had expected. It knocked the breath out of me.

And I did not like the distinctive cracking sound I heard when I hit the ground.

Immediately three or four Danish cyclists who had been resting on a bench nearby rushed over to assist me.

One, a doctor, wanted to know if I had blacked out. I had not I assured him as I lay on the ground waiting for my breathing to even out.

I am sure my reply probably confused him – how else could such a small curb cause such a dramatic fall?

An excellent question I have thought about a lot over the last two weeks.

We were on the nearly idyllic island of Fano off the eastern coast of Denmark. We have visited it many times before.

It’s where Peggy’s family is from and if you like the beach, it has miles and miles of it as well as paved bicycle paths, seafood restaurants, ice cream stands and a well-staffed medical center.

There are thatched roof houses in tiny villages. Along with massive WWII concrete bunkers along the shore left behind by the German Army which was convinced the Allies would return to Europe via Denmark’s beaches.

The bunkers have mostly disappeared now, covered by beach sand over the last 80 years. The only Germans on Fano today are tourists with peaceful intentions.

After a few minutes of lying on the ground, I thought I should try and move.

As I began wiggling about my new friends sprang into action and about four of them hoisted me up off the ground and to my feet. A surprisingly strong group.

You think weird thoughts when you are shaken and in pain.

I remember thinking I hope Trump forgets his idiotic and frankly embarrassing plot to invade the Danish territory of Greenland,

Why?

Because these people are really nice. Which in Trump’s odd little world probably makes them “suckers.”

But also, because they are focused, organized and determined. And while they have probably not thought too much about Greenland since the Cold War, they certainly are not going to agree to just surrender it to Trump.

After I got a bit more stable on my feet, Peggy and I slowly walked into town and had a little lunch. I spent most of the meal rubbing my sore ribs. And as clouds began to gather we decided to head back to our rented house, about a 45-minute bike ride away.

Despite my concerns, (read fear) the trip was uneventful. I was very cautious, the last thing on my agenda was a second fall.

Once back at the house, I took a hot shower and carved out a spot for myself on the couch. It was to be my home for the next week.

After a few hours of dozing and watching re-runs of the Danish Olympic Woman’s handball team (they won the bronze medal) reality began to set in.

My ribs hurt. Really hurt.

Moving even just a bit, was more than I wanted to contemplate.

Lying down was not happening, and I spent the afternoon and the first night alternating between re-runs of the handball team’s exploits - and watching the lights glittering on what must have been a hydroelectric plant in the Wadden Sea just north of Fano.

By morning I was convinced I had the worst case of damaged ribs ever and would die at any time.

After moaning for a few hours, I decided to call my doctor in the states and – after a bit of back and forth she recommended I see a local doctor just to be sure my rib’s weren’t threatening my lungs or any other organs.

Going to the doctor required getting off the couch, and as I tried to stand I realized that I had not really thought this plan through.

I won’t lie to you – I am not a good patient.

After much groaning and maneuvering Peggy got me down the stairs of our ultra-modern all glass and bleached wood house to the car and off we went at about 25 miles an hour - which seemed awfully fast – to the island’s medical center, also modern with lots of glass - and importantly - no stairs!

The receptionist seemed to have been briefed that I was coming. There was a chair waiting but really no wait.

The doctor, I would learn, grew up in Iceland and went to medical school in Copenhagen where she fell in love with Denmark and never left.

Apparently, accidents involving mature men falling off bicycles on Fano are not unusual.

After a thorough exam which included checking my blood pressure, lungs, pupils, heart and my recent back surgery she turned and stood right in front of me.

“Mr. Wynne, she said, “I am afraid this is going to hurt - a lot - but I need to know if your ribs are broken.”

“A lot” did not quite cover it.

The doctor managed to find and confirm the breaks within about 30 very long seconds of manipulation.

“There are two breaks,” she said which sounded about right. “I am afraid they are going to hurt for five or six weeks. Just try not to move.”

We both chuckled (yes, it hurt) at the don’t move comment but I got the message.

It’s been a bit more than two weeks so far and the ribs are feeling better. Pain killers help somewhat as does sitting still.

Coughing, loud talking, gesturing are all to be avoided. But sneezing, sneezing is the absolute worst.

As far as bike riding goes – we’ll leave that alone for now – it hurts just to think about it.

It came as the first rays of light brightened the night sky. An almost imperceptible change in the direction of the wind gave way to a cool breeze that took hold as acres of vineyards emerged from the darkness.

A cooling trend settled in as field workers laboring under tractor-mounted spotlights began harvesting purple grapes that only last week were a dull green.

By the time the sun was above the horizon farmers throughout the Bordeaux wine region realized the obvious. The stifling August heat wave of 2025 had lost its grip. Cooler, harvest-friendly conditions had arrived.

The previous two weeks of 100 degree (38 degree Celsius) plus temperatures and dead still air had the desired effect.

Editor’s Note - Please see “The Long Hot Summer,” - A Sideways Glance, Aug. 14, 2025 and “A Timeless Waltz Between Weather and Vine,” A Sideways Glance, July 26, 2025.

Light and spotty rain fall had caused some anxiety but overall conditions for an excellent harvest had held up.

But not without complications.

Many wineries reported earlier than usual harvests due to the heat.

Chateau Carbonnieux near Graves on the left bank of the Garonne River started harvesting its grapes on Aug. 19^th – nearly a full month earlier than usual.

Growing grapes in extreme hot weather takes a watchful eye.

Growers must tend to their vineyards and eventually pick their crop very early in the day – which generally means under flood lights in the middle of the night.

(Our house is surrounded by vines belonging to three different wineries and tractor traffic was heavy on all three fields starting at 4 a.m.)

Canopy management is important. Done largely by hand, leaf cover is trimmed to create a canopy of leaves around the grape clusters to protect the precious berries from sunburn.

It is slow work requiring care. It means nearly every cluster of grapes spread over a large vineyard is touched by human hands.

On occasion growers will harvest the grapes from one part of a vineyard then return a week later to pick the remainder and blend the two to get the proper sugar content and flavor.

Again, labor intensive. Something to remember when you check prices at the market.

Once picked the rush begins to get the grapes to a processing center (often referred to in the Garonne region as chateaus) where the actual wine production gets underway.

Generally, the just picked grape clusters – still warm from the sun – are strewn across sorting tables where leaves, stems and dirt are removed.

The grapes are destemmed and crushed to break the skins and release the grape juice.

Now the grapes start to look like something that resembles wine!

The skins and grape juice go into vats for one to four weeks and are allowed to ferment.

Next the liquid is pumped into tanks or oak barrels or both and allowed to settle for six, 12 or even 18 months before being “clarified” which is when all other solids, dead yeast cells and other stuff is removed, and the remaining mixture becomes “clear.”

Clear and ready to be aged in bottles or barrels for as long as the winemaker deems necessary before it’s ready.

The quality of this year’s harvest is expected to be quite good after a couple of lackluster years and the especially hot weather.

That’s the good news. But there is troubling news as well.

French wines – as well as all European Union produced wines and spirits – face a new 15 percent U.S. import tariff forced on growers by the Trump administration. No exemptions.

It’s a tax the growers say will fall to consumers – adding about $20 to the price of a high-quality bottle of wine.

It of course remains to be seen how the market will react to higher prices and in some cases limited availability.

But the intense heat of August promises a memorable vintage making the long days (or short nights) and extra labor well worth it.

Bon vin, bon temps!

The thing you notice first when you walk out the door is the quiet.

It’s as if the entire valley has decided to take a “petite sieste” along the banks of the Dordogne River as its green, muddy water slowly (and silently) flows to the Atlantic.

But then the oven-like heat hits you square in the chest taking your breath away and reminding you this is August in the Cotes de Bordeaux region, a huge agricultural zone which produces about two percent of the world’s wine.

Here summer is serious business.

A lot of sunshine is required to bring the grape crop to fruition in time for this year’s harvest – something that is just weeks away.

But this week it has been too hot to work in the vineyards – too hot for the workers, too hot for the vines, too hot for the huge tractors that crawl through the fields trimming the precious plants.

The intense heat is forecast for at least another 10 days.

“It’s always a balance with the weather and every summer it is too hot, too cold, too windy…always something,” said a guide at the Chateau La Gaffeliere. “It is almost enough to make us forget about Trump and his threat of huge tariffs.”

This year the heat has been special.

By heat, I mean temperatures in the 100 degrees to 105 degrees Fahrenheit range. (That’s a toasty 38 degrees Celsius to 40.5 degrees Celsius for you metric types.)

In some regions of France temperatures of 43 degrees Celsius (109 degrees Fahrenheit) have been recorded. Whoa!

Air conditioning, especially in the Entre-Deux-Mers region of the greater Bordeaux wine region, is still pretty rare.

Warehouses, production facilities and distribution areas are often concrete pads covered with metal roofs. Open walls allow in any breeze there might be to pass through.

The chateaus at many wineries are more lavish affairs meant to appeal to tourists. If not air conditioned, at least they are well shaded and ventilated.

Fewer than 25 percent of the homes in the region have AC. When it gets hot windows and shutters are opened wide at dawn and shuttered tight by late morning.

Here in the rural Pellegrue region, about an hour drive over farm roads from Bordeaux, many of the old stone houses have been modernized.

Respecting the power of the summer sun and holding the cool of the centuries in their thick walls, the 200-year-old homes are generally preserved and are able to provide shelter for another 200 years.

Bottom line, the summer of 2025 has been extraordinarily hot with prolonged dangerous heat, the effects of climate change on obvious display.

The danger to the vines ranges from heat stress to overly accelerated ripening which causes an imbalance in sugar, acid, and flavor - for which Bordeaux wines are famous.

And the Chateau La Gaffeliere guide’s concern about Trump and his tariffs is shared in every winery in the region.

Right now, U.S. tariffs on French wines are 20 percent. But threats of increases to 200 percent have been floated by the White House.

That would effectively shut down French wine exports to the U.S., currently a $3 billion business that benefits both countries and we don’t want that.

Because let’s face it, with August temperatures baking the perfect rows of vines and showing no signs of moderating, we really don’t want to run out of chilled rose if we can possibly help it.

A votre sante.