Bluette Matthey's Blog, page 3
September 15, 2016
Lest We Forget
I visited the Museum of the French Resistance and Deportation yesterday in Besançon, France while gathering research for my next Hardy Durkin novel, to be set in the Franche-Comte region of eastern France.
The Franche-Comte was an area of active resistance against the conquest of Nazi Germany during WWII, and the epicenter of this resistance was Besançon.
The museum, founded in 1971 by a concentration camp survivor, is quartered in the Citadel, a wonderfully preserved military defense designed by master military engineer Vauban. The massive fort sits atop one of Besançon’s seven hills, overlooking the entire city and its surroundings.
Much has been said and written about the French patriots who, poorly armed, barely trained, and often living in deprivation, carried out sting operations of all shapes and sizes against the brutal Nazi regime who lacked for nothing. Rag-tag groups of men and women lived as outcasts in their own country, hunted by the hated Milice (French militia) and the Germans, determined to fight the evil which had engulfed them.
The Museum of the French Resistance and Deportation is superb in its content and organization, and brings the plight of the Free French into focus as an historical narrative, as well as introducing, on a human level, those who were betrayed, tortured, and killed by the enemy. The original documents, photographs, and texts used make a stunning presentation of this dark period in history.
The portion of the exhibit dedicated to the extermination of the Jewish people and other minorities targeted for deportation and extinction is overwhelming. I found myself looking through the many photographs and displays and stopped, reminding myself that they were all people who had once hoped, dreamed, and loved. Men. Women. Children. It was soul crushing.
Exiting the museum, across the courtyard, stands a simple memorial to the more than one hundred resistance fighters who were executed by firing squad in the Citadel during the Occupation. The four upright wooden beams are stark reminders of the sacrifice these freedom fighters paid in the defense of their country and the cause of Justice. They helped rid the world of one of the greatest threats to our humanity.
The Franche-Comte was an area of active resistance against the conquest of Nazi Germany during WWII, and the epicenter of this resistance was Besançon.
The museum, founded in 1971 by a concentration camp survivor, is quartered in the Citadel, a wonderfully preserved military defense designed by master military engineer Vauban. The massive fort sits atop one of Besançon’s seven hills, overlooking the entire city and its surroundings.
Much has been said and written about the French patriots who, poorly armed, barely trained, and often living in deprivation, carried out sting operations of all shapes and sizes against the brutal Nazi regime who lacked for nothing. Rag-tag groups of men and women lived as outcasts in their own country, hunted by the hated Milice (French militia) and the Germans, determined to fight the evil which had engulfed them.
The Museum of the French Resistance and Deportation is superb in its content and organization, and brings the plight of the Free French into focus as an historical narrative, as well as introducing, on a human level, those who were betrayed, tortured, and killed by the enemy. The original documents, photographs, and texts used make a stunning presentation of this dark period in history.
The portion of the exhibit dedicated to the extermination of the Jewish people and other minorities targeted for deportation and extinction is overwhelming. I found myself looking through the many photographs and displays and stopped, reminding myself that they were all people who had once hoped, dreamed, and loved. Men. Women. Children. It was soul crushing.
Exiting the museum, across the courtyard, stands a simple memorial to the more than one hundred resistance fighters who were executed by firing squad in the Citadel during the Occupation. The four upright wooden beams are stark reminders of the sacrifice these freedom fighters paid in the defense of their country and the cause of Justice. They helped rid the world of one of the greatest threats to our humanity.
September 6, 2016
A Walker's Paradise
An amazing phenomenon in Switzerland is the number and location of hiking trails available for everyone to use. This Alpine country is a paradise for hikers, walkers, climbers, and bicyclers. Carefully marked trails (yellow for hiking, orange for bicycling) ranging from easy footpaths to more difficult climbs are woven all throughout the country, often following trails used long ago for trade and smuggling.
You can tell how serious Switzerland is about hiking when you consider that there are approximately 44, 740 miles of roads in Switzerland and slightly over 37,000 miles of uniformly marked hiking trails. The trails lead through magnificent forests with the ever-present towering pines, over rolling green hills, mountains, and through pasture and farm land. I often find myself trekking next to grazing cows, the bells on their necks tingling a harmony, being diligent to avoid the cow pies.
The Swiss are avid hikers and walkers. Any day in any location you’re bound to run across others out for a stroll. On weekends the pastures and hills can become quite busy with families out for a picnic and walk, couples unwinding together in the glorious mountain air, or the dedicated trekker or bicycler keeping fit.
This can only work because of the respect the public has for the lands they traverse and the people, i.e. the farmers, who host them. Stiles are provided to assist in mounting fences, or gates are handily marked for hikers use. The hikers, in return, never harass the livestock and always close the gates behind them.
There are no thieves, rapists, or murderers stalking the trails. No litter. None. Only the simple pleasure of being in one of the most beautiful countries on earth, out for a short ramble or an excursion, often with a remote auberge (an inn) waiting to refresh you on the other end.
You can tell how serious Switzerland is about hiking when you consider that there are approximately 44, 740 miles of roads in Switzerland and slightly over 37,000 miles of uniformly marked hiking trails. The trails lead through magnificent forests with the ever-present towering pines, over rolling green hills, mountains, and through pasture and farm land. I often find myself trekking next to grazing cows, the bells on their necks tingling a harmony, being diligent to avoid the cow pies.
The Swiss are avid hikers and walkers. Any day in any location you’re bound to run across others out for a stroll. On weekends the pastures and hills can become quite busy with families out for a picnic and walk, couples unwinding together in the glorious mountain air, or the dedicated trekker or bicycler keeping fit.
This can only work because of the respect the public has for the lands they traverse and the people, i.e. the farmers, who host them. Stiles are provided to assist in mounting fences, or gates are handily marked for hikers use. The hikers, in return, never harass the livestock and always close the gates behind them.
There are no thieves, rapists, or murderers stalking the trails. No litter. None. Only the simple pleasure of being in one of the most beautiful countries on earth, out for a short ramble or an excursion, often with a remote auberge (an inn) waiting to refresh you on the other end.
August 18, 2016
Picturesque Appenzell, Switzerland
We recently stopped in Appenzell, Switzerland, on our way back from a visit to Germany’s Black Forest. Appenzell is a picturesque town in the German-speaking area of northeastern Switzerland in Canton Appenzell.
Appenzell is surrounded by Alpine meadows, rolling green hills, and the ever-present Alps. It is a setting straight out of Heidi, with crystalline rivers and crisp, fresh mountain air. Litter-free, clean, and Swiss-proper, Appenzell’s beautifully painted, fresco-decorated buildings in the town house restaurants, shops, boutiques, and a range of businesses.
If you are a macaroni-and-cheese aficionado, the Restaurant Traube sets the gold standard using, of course, Appenzeller cheese. Appenzell is also appreciated in Switzerland for the beer it brews. Five generations of the Locher family continue to craft a variety of Appenzeller Biers, made exceptional by the pure spring water from the region.
I think my favorite thing about Appenzell is the Landsgemeinde, the cantonal assembly held every last Sunday in April in the town square. This oldest form of direct democracy is held in only two cantons in Switzerland. Participation in the assembly is mandatory (a financial penalty applies) for eligible citizens over the age of twenty, and the non-secret voting is determined by majority rule.
The Landsgemeinde in Appenzell can be used to implement laws, decide government issues, and modify the canton’s constitution. A recent issue was whether or not to allow German hikers to trek the canton’s hiking trails in the nude. Voting is done by raising the right hand, though in earlier times the men voted by raising their swords. Women in Appenzell were awarded the right to participate in the yearly assembly beginning in 1991.
P.S. They also have a cow parade in town in the fall to celebrate moving the cows from the high pastures. The bovines are groomed, festooned with flowers and enormous (huge!) cowbells are strapped to their necks on embroidered leather straps.
Appenzell is surrounded by Alpine meadows, rolling green hills, and the ever-present Alps. It is a setting straight out of Heidi, with crystalline rivers and crisp, fresh mountain air. Litter-free, clean, and Swiss-proper, Appenzell’s beautifully painted, fresco-decorated buildings in the town house restaurants, shops, boutiques, and a range of businesses.
If you are a macaroni-and-cheese aficionado, the Restaurant Traube sets the gold standard using, of course, Appenzeller cheese. Appenzell is also appreciated in Switzerland for the beer it brews. Five generations of the Locher family continue to craft a variety of Appenzeller Biers, made exceptional by the pure spring water from the region.
I think my favorite thing about Appenzell is the Landsgemeinde, the cantonal assembly held every last Sunday in April in the town square. This oldest form of direct democracy is held in only two cantons in Switzerland. Participation in the assembly is mandatory (a financial penalty applies) for eligible citizens over the age of twenty, and the non-secret voting is determined by majority rule.
The Landsgemeinde in Appenzell can be used to implement laws, decide government issues, and modify the canton’s constitution. A recent issue was whether or not to allow German hikers to trek the canton’s hiking trails in the nude. Voting is done by raising the right hand, though in earlier times the men voted by raising their swords. Women in Appenzell were awarded the right to participate in the yearly assembly beginning in 1991.
P.S. They also have a cow parade in town in the fall to celebrate moving the cows from the high pastures. The bovines are groomed, festooned with flowers and enormous (huge!) cowbells are strapped to their necks on embroidered leather straps.
July 2, 2016
The Forgotten Roma
Roma play a large role in my latest book, Dalmatian Traffick, so my destination is the Roma relocation camp on Podgorica’s eastern side, near Montenegro’s largest rubbish dump site. Konik, as the neighborhood is called, has been a real black eye to Montenegro in particular and Europe in general for the shabby treatment of the gypsy population displaced from Kosovo as a result of the Balkan war in the late 1990’s.
The dwellings are poorly built and the infrastructure substandard, making many of the buildings barely usable. The Roma, more than two thousands of them, live in tents, containers, barracks, and sub-standard housing. A fire in 2012 destroyed Konik’s housing and the population was forced to live in tents. A flood several months later ruined the few, donated possessions of the residents. They have been told apartments will be built for them, but it is another promise that has not materialized.
A greasy looking man in his late forties is sitting in the gaping entrance to a container dwelling, working on a piece of broken equipment. It appears the building serves as a workshop and home combined; it truth, it looks like a filthy shack. The outlying area is cluttered with car parts and assorted odds and ends. Further on, I notice one house whose front porch roof is entirely supported by a row of approximately ten, five-inch-in-diameter tree trunks with the bark still intact. It sags slightly on one end.
The Roma in Konik live in suspension: they have no rights as citizens and are not allowed to work formally. The jobs available to them are at the bottom of the work food chain and they are easily exploited. The lack of legal recognition is also a deterrent to access to the educational system, but Montenegro is making efforts to integrate Roma children into non-Roma schools. The UN and other international organizations have stepped in to help the displaced Roma obtain documentation which allow them the status of foreigner, but the soaring unemployment rate (well above 50%), prostitution, drug use, and high crime rate make Konik a place of despair and hopelessness.
Many young men and boys just wander the streets. In an open, paved area near a cluster of garbage dumpsters a group of teenaged boys are shooting some hoops in a game of street ball. I stick out like a sore thumb driving through the area and don’t dawdle for fear I’ll attract unwanted attention. They give me questioning, dark looks. It’s time to go.
Rush hour is just beginning as I head out of town, driving along a wide boulevard fronted by parks, hotels, banks, and upscale businesses. A pleasant drive. As the traffic light changes and I accelerate through the intersection I see movement in my periphery and turn in time to see a horse-drawn wagon shooting out of a narrow side street off to my right. The contraption is driven by a Roma boy wearing a battered trilby jammed down on his head, brandishing a whip. He pulls hard on the reins to keep from blind siding me, and the small horse shies, almost landing on its haunches. Two smaller boys, eyes a-popping, are hanging on to the wagon for dear life. It is a near-miss with another culture from another time.
I pull through the intersection, wondering if it really happened. Then I remember the ‘boar crossing, 800 meters’ road sign and know that I’ve just had a uniquely Montenegrin moment.
The dwellings are poorly built and the infrastructure substandard, making many of the buildings barely usable. The Roma, more than two thousands of them, live in tents, containers, barracks, and sub-standard housing. A fire in 2012 destroyed Konik’s housing and the population was forced to live in tents. A flood several months later ruined the few, donated possessions of the residents. They have been told apartments will be built for them, but it is another promise that has not materialized.
A greasy looking man in his late forties is sitting in the gaping entrance to a container dwelling, working on a piece of broken equipment. It appears the building serves as a workshop and home combined; it truth, it looks like a filthy shack. The outlying area is cluttered with car parts and assorted odds and ends. Further on, I notice one house whose front porch roof is entirely supported by a row of approximately ten, five-inch-in-diameter tree trunks with the bark still intact. It sags slightly on one end.
The Roma in Konik live in suspension: they have no rights as citizens and are not allowed to work formally. The jobs available to them are at the bottom of the work food chain and they are easily exploited. The lack of legal recognition is also a deterrent to access to the educational system, but Montenegro is making efforts to integrate Roma children into non-Roma schools. The UN and other international organizations have stepped in to help the displaced Roma obtain documentation which allow them the status of foreigner, but the soaring unemployment rate (well above 50%), prostitution, drug use, and high crime rate make Konik a place of despair and hopelessness.
Many young men and boys just wander the streets. In an open, paved area near a cluster of garbage dumpsters a group of teenaged boys are shooting some hoops in a game of street ball. I stick out like a sore thumb driving through the area and don’t dawdle for fear I’ll attract unwanted attention. They give me questioning, dark looks. It’s time to go.
Rush hour is just beginning as I head out of town, driving along a wide boulevard fronted by parks, hotels, banks, and upscale businesses. A pleasant drive. As the traffic light changes and I accelerate through the intersection I see movement in my periphery and turn in time to see a horse-drawn wagon shooting out of a narrow side street off to my right. The contraption is driven by a Roma boy wearing a battered trilby jammed down on his head, brandishing a whip. He pulls hard on the reins to keep from blind siding me, and the small horse shies, almost landing on its haunches. Two smaller boys, eyes a-popping, are hanging on to the wagon for dear life. It is a near-miss with another culture from another time.
I pull through the intersection, wondering if it really happened. Then I remember the ‘boar crossing, 800 meters’ road sign and know that I’ve just had a uniquely Montenegrin moment.
February 5, 2016
From Le Locle, Switzerland
We just moved our family of three cats and one honest dog to Le Locle, Switzerland, birthplace of my maternal grandmother. Though not nearly as picturesque a Swiss village as, say Appenzell, Le Locle is where watchmaking was born and the town does, indeed, run like a clock.
Every day I spend in my newly-adopted home I find something at which to marvel. The tiniest children (they come up to my thigh!) walk to school by themselves, even managing to cross the streets safely. This is a society that doesn't seem to breed predators and psychopaths, and reinforces my belief in mankind's human-ness.
The Swiss are a people of rules and collective social responsibility; this translates to a society that functions on a low, pleasant hum. Things are simply done right here, and it's a balm to jangled nerves that have been over-assaulted by collective incompetence elsewhere.
My next Hardy Durkin mystery is set in the Engadine Valley in Switzerland (think St. Moritz and Pontresina), so moving here, in addition to returning to my roots, was a practical decision.
"Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno" ...this is the Swiss motto ... and the citizens take it very seriously. (So did the three musketeers).
Every day I spend in my newly-adopted home I find something at which to marvel. The tiniest children (they come up to my thigh!) walk to school by themselves, even managing to cross the streets safely. This is a society that doesn't seem to breed predators and psychopaths, and reinforces my belief in mankind's human-ness.
The Swiss are a people of rules and collective social responsibility; this translates to a society that functions on a low, pleasant hum. Things are simply done right here, and it's a balm to jangled nerves that have been over-assaulted by collective incompetence elsewhere.
My next Hardy Durkin mystery is set in the Engadine Valley in Switzerland (think St. Moritz and Pontresina), so moving here, in addition to returning to my roots, was a practical decision.
"Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno" ...this is the Swiss motto ... and the citizens take it very seriously. (So did the three musketeers).
September 15, 2015
Black Forest Reckoning
My latest Hardy Durkin travel mystery, Black Forest Reckoning, is now on virtual tour with Pump Up Your Book.
Outfitter Hardy Durkin and company are visiting the Black Forest area of Germany, staying in the guest wing of a local castle, Schloss Haeflin. In the midst of hiking the Black Forest, enjoying all things Swabian, and spending a day in Baden-Baden, the hikers find themselves at ground zero for coeds disappearing from the nearby University of Freiburg and foul play is suspected. Unresolved personal issues of several members of the group threaten the tour’s cohesion, and Hardy discovers the Baron, who owns the schloss, has stolen someone’s identity as well as his fortune. Ever the sleuth, Hardy untangles the web of deceit, madness, and murder in ‘The Black Forest Reckoning’.
Outfitter Hardy Durkin and company are visiting the Black Forest area of Germany, staying in the guest wing of a local castle, Schloss Haeflin. In the midst of hiking the Black Forest, enjoying all things Swabian, and spending a day in Baden-Baden, the hikers find themselves at ground zero for coeds disappearing from the nearby University of Freiburg and foul play is suspected. Unresolved personal issues of several members of the group threaten the tour’s cohesion, and Hardy discovers the Baron, who owns the schloss, has stolen someone’s identity as well as his fortune. Ever the sleuth, Hardy untangles the web of deceit, madness, and murder in ‘The Black Forest Reckoning’.
July 13, 2015
Charlotte Observer Interview
Bluette Matthey was recently interviewed by the Charlotte Observer's travel writer, John Bordsen. Read this latest interview, "The Plot Thickens for Area Travel-Mystery Writer."
http://www.charlotteobserver.com/livi...
http://www.charlotteobserver.com/livi...
February 25, 2015
Trek the Transhumance in Abruzzo
The tiny (population 50ish) fortified hill town of Castrovalva, Italy is perched on a knife-edge mountain overlooking the Sagittarius Gorge in Anversa degli Abruzzi. Made famous by M.C. Escher's lithograph in 1930, the village has changed little since it was built in the Middle Ages. For sure, there is electricity and running water, and the road has definitely been widened, but it over flows with old-world charm.
Castrovalva is situated on an off-shoot of a Transhumance route, a narrow, pre-Roman trail used to move flocks of sheep spending their summers pasturing the mountains of Abruzzo in the warm months to the more-southern region of Puglia during winter. Although the trails are used less for sheep these days they make great hiking trails in a world of wild, spectacular beauty.
So, join outfitter Hardy Durkin on a trek through Anversa degli Abruzzi. Visit Abruzzo's rich heritage, enjoy the butterflies, try some juniper-smoked ricotta, and have a good read: Abruzzo Intrigue. Bluette Matthey.com
Castrovalva is situated on an off-shoot of a Transhumance route, a narrow, pre-Roman trail used to move flocks of sheep spending their summers pasturing the mountains of Abruzzo in the warm months to the more-southern region of Puglia during winter. Although the trails are used less for sheep these days they make great hiking trails in a world of wild, spectacular beauty.
So, join outfitter Hardy Durkin on a trek through Anversa degli Abruzzi. Visit Abruzzo's rich heritage, enjoy the butterflies, try some juniper-smoked ricotta, and have a good read: Abruzzo Intrigue. Bluette Matthey.com
February 11, 2015
Corsican Justice Interview
I recently did an interview with The Authors Show on my first travel mystery, Corsican Justice. The interview is streaming all day today, 11 February, at the following link:
http://www.wnbnetworkwest.com/WnbAuth...
http://www.wnbnetworkwest.com/WnbAuth...
January 29, 2015
Quintessential Sulmona
During my recent stay in Sulmona, Italy, I enjoyed the daily promenade that takes place in its historic center on the north side of Piazza Garibaldi. La Passeggiata, that most-Italian, everyday ritual that undulates along pedestrianized Corso Ovidio, Sulmona’s main shopping street, is the social tradition of connecting with one’s friends and neighbors after work before heading home for the evening meal. There is no hustle-bustle; the speed is amble. It is a time to see and be seen, especially if one is young and single.
It’s the third week of October and the autumn dusk draws the last warmth from the sun, clinging to the end of summer before plunging into the colder weather forecast for the next few days. Sulmona’s citizens make the most of the balmy respite, and strollers fill the street while others sit on the sidelines in cafes sipping wine or savoring a coffee. Children run and play without fear, darting in and out of the small groups that gather, then disperse and move on. Small dogs go nuts barking at big dogs. People window shop, catch up on the latest news, share gossip, and eat gelato. Lots of gelato!
Two immaculately dressed policemen in their dark blue uniforms, all trimmed in white with white-topped hats, belts, bags, and gloves, are standing in the midst of the procession listening respectfully and fondly to two old men espousing on the subject of who knows what for at least fifteen minutes. The policemen smile and nod pleasantly to passers-by. A white-haired grandpa walks his bike down the street with his small grandson sitting astride it, singing to him in Italian. A young mother proudly pushes a perambulator while her infant slumbers. Two elderly women walk with their arms around each other, as much for affection as for support. They nod and smile and 'Buona Sera' me. There is no generation gap evident here, no ‘us versus them’; it is simply US.
Life doesn’t get much better.
It’s the third week of October and the autumn dusk draws the last warmth from the sun, clinging to the end of summer before plunging into the colder weather forecast for the next few days. Sulmona’s citizens make the most of the balmy respite, and strollers fill the street while others sit on the sidelines in cafes sipping wine or savoring a coffee. Children run and play without fear, darting in and out of the small groups that gather, then disperse and move on. Small dogs go nuts barking at big dogs. People window shop, catch up on the latest news, share gossip, and eat gelato. Lots of gelato!
Two immaculately dressed policemen in their dark blue uniforms, all trimmed in white with white-topped hats, belts, bags, and gloves, are standing in the midst of the procession listening respectfully and fondly to two old men espousing on the subject of who knows what for at least fifteen minutes. The policemen smile and nod pleasantly to passers-by. A white-haired grandpa walks his bike down the street with his small grandson sitting astride it, singing to him in Italian. A young mother proudly pushes a perambulator while her infant slumbers. Two elderly women walk with their arms around each other, as much for affection as for support. They nod and smile and 'Buona Sera' me. There is no generation gap evident here, no ‘us versus them’; it is simply US.
Life doesn’t get much better.
