Peanuts and Port

What could be better than salty, crunchy peanuts washed down with a glass of purple Port? Pierre and I have acquired the habit of indulging in a nightly aperitif before dinner (which gets pushed later and later as we snack, snack, and snack some more; our now-bulging bellies do protesteth, but the pre-dinner wine soothes after long days of work).

A word about the aperitif in all its Frenchness: this could be my favorite custom really. The ritualized ceremony of it. When dining with friends or family, I can predict the exact sequence of the aperitif, to a tee. Little cups of snacks, chips, cheese straws, and plates of sliced saucisson and charcuterie are placed next to tiny little glasses. Bottles of liquor, wine, and-- if in the campagne-- homemade flavored liqueurs are placed on the same table and/or bar. After the host pours for his guests the drinks of choice, glasses are clinked together and eyes must lock (of course it's bad form, and rotten bad luck, to toast without making eye contact).

Image Via Wikipedia

L'Auberge Limousine

So I got lost in Limoges, quite literally, on the way to my first class. Who knew that the city is such a vast, sprawling metropolis (with its very own beltway lined with lackluster 70's style highrises)? And the well-meaning Frenchies that I queried on the street really had no clue about the location of the Fac des Lettres, and sent me on a wild goose chase, circling kilometers, during which I decided that grey Limoges is for the birds (and I mean the grimey pigeon variety). Bus no. 14 only goes by my stop once every hour? And who's heard of a town without helpful taxis?

But then I started class. And now the cat's out of the bag. I've discovered the best deal, worldwide, for learning French. My teachers are awesome (super-energetic, patient, kind). And, I've got five- count 'em 5!- of them for different subjects like Expression Orale, Phonetiques, and even Storytelling. Pierre and I did the math and it's a total steal what I'm paying per hour. Plus, it's like my own little L'Auberge Espagnole, except my class covers almost all the continents, instead of just Europe (the film does a good job of stereo-typing the roommates to represent each of the EU member states). Cute older gentlemen from Turkey, a shy brother and sister duo from Poland, a basketball player from Mali (whom I've already bored to tears talking about Malian music, my dictionary clutched in hand), a gay Colombian dancer hottie, my chic friend from China, Madagascar, Czech Republic, Brazil... The list goes on and on (potential friends for MW!)

And the only common denominator: French. We've got to speak French. How rad.

Nuits de Nacre: Accordion Festival in Tulle, Limousin

In a dazzling display of French feminism in action: the title/theme of this year's accordion festival in Tulle: "Quand la femme porte les bretelles" (When the women wear the straps). And true to form, the women rocked it.

First up: the sexy, bewitching Claire Lise, who emerged on stage surrounded by an entourage of doting (and fabulously talented) male musicians, and performed original French cabaret songs with whimsy, theater, and a lot of flair. She was hilarious, and just belted out the tunes. What an actress. The audience was captivated. Worth every penny of the admission price. Of course I had to track her down in the street and gush about the music. (Plus, she's blonde. Sisterhood, unite!) She is larger than life on stage, and so I was surprised by her tiny stature on the street. Apparently she's performed in DC at the Kennedy Center and at the Paris on the Potomac festival. I'd love to see her again in Paris.


All throughout the day, musicians performed in the streets, including a gentleman who parked himself on the pedestrian bridge (pictured) and drew a large crowd-- you could feel the bridge cables straining with the weight.

A group of middle-aged lady rockers called Les Poulettes, set up right next to Le Poulet restaurant (which served delicious grilled chicken in take-away cartons for the occasion), drew an animated crowd. And they performed right in front of a lingerie shop, where a manequin in a scant negligee was brightly lit-- of all the ironic juxtapositions.


And the most fun: a teenage band who played in the outside foyer of an apartment complex (poor residents): the adorable, curly-haired accordion player tapped his foot wildly while he just pulled apart that instrument-- he was accompanied by trumpet, clarinet, and drums. The crowd was just eating it up. (What'd I tell you about the accordion's cool factor with young folks?)

The Maugein Accordion Factory in Tulle

France is the accordion capital of the world, and the small riverside town of Tulle in the Limousin is the accordion capital of France. Sure, stereotypes abound; the accordion conjures images of 70's style dudes with wavy locks (or dreadful toupees) and glittering jackets embracing flashy, metallic accordions (painted with flowery script) that are larger than the standard piano. And the music. I won't even go there. (But here's where I make the argument that the accordion is tres cool.) In France today, the accordion is wildly popular-- I kid you not-- especially among the youth.

Yes, Pierre is learning to play the thing. And my ears can get tired of the same three screeching songs that sound like the braying of a burro. (The neighbor has kindly hinted that Pierre can easily enroll in the music academy downtown.) But-- because of Pierre-- I've also heard enough classical accordion and folk songs that I now recognize the merits of this complicated instrument.

We went to Tulle last weekend for the annual accordion festival, Nuits de Nacre. As part of the day full of music and entertainment, we took a tour of the renowned Maugein accordion factory, which all groupies and die-hard fans know is the only spot in La Belle France where the entire accordion-- from the wood outside to the tiniest tiny little spring inside-- can be produced at once. And this is no small task. We went from room to room (MW stifling yawns as Pierre snapped two memory cards full of photos/videos) inspecting the entire process. And I must say I developed a lot of respect for these craftsmen.

Get this: the accordions are comprised of 4,000- 8,000 parts (!) The most impressive instrument requires 200 intensive hours of labor, and costs a staggering EUR 9,000.

Here's Looking At You, Kid

See Casablanca again. VHS it, rent it, DVD it, download it. Just see it. I was down in the dumps last week-- agonizing writer's block and all that-- and decided to close the laptop, walk down the street to Izmir Kebab, splurge on greasy take-out, and watch Casablanca. There's nothing that can break the moody blues like Casablanca. I couldn't wipe the nerdy grin off my face the entire film. I felt pangs of patriotism when the folks at Rick's galliantly sang La Marseillaise (I'll save talking about the myth of The Resistance for another day) and even bigger pangs for the wonder (and propaganda) of old Hollywood. Viva, Les Etats-Unis!

The Mighty Race Limousine: The National Limousine Cow Show in Limoges

The great Limousine, its enormous brown bulk spotted in green pastures across the Limousin, is the source of much pride for residents and restauranteurs alike. (Just check out the large billboard on the A20 highway outside Limoges as proof: the cow's massive outline sketched on the sign, courtesy of some local Culture/Heritage department.)

Last weekend we stopped by the National Limousine Show in Limoges, where breeding cows were auctioned off for staggering amounts (try $10,000, and more), the huge cows sweated and munched hay in the heat, and adorable farmers-- all dressed alike in jeans, white button-downs, and blue ties (the cow's image at the bottom)-- affectionately brushed and fussed over their animals before leading them in a parade around the ring, their fine bones and musculature on display for thousands of spectators. All waited with bated breath for the judges' announcement of the 2006 Miss Limousine.

I learned some alarming things: 1. the rings in the cows' noses are the only ways to control these massive beasts. I watched one cow lick the blood from the inside of his newly-pierced nose with a very-long tongue and pitied it. But imagine the difficulty of maneuvering them; most of these cows weigh TONS. 2. the French do eat horsemeat (we overheard a conversation about the fate of a certain race of horse, also on display in the ring. I'll leave it at that.)

Pau and the Pyrenees

I can see why Pierre had such a grand old time at University. Pau is the coolest university town, an elegant and cosmopolitan city nestled in the gentle sloping foothills of the Pyrenees. It's blessed with proximity to both the Atlantic coast (for swims on la frontera at Hendaye) and the ski resorts in the surrounding mountains. Along the grand blvd des Pyrenees, the rugged mountain peaks emerge majestically through mist and cloud. Indeed the palm-lined promenade, packed with cafes and trendy bars, seems more reminiscent of Nice than the quiet neighboring villages of France's Southwest. The mayor's had some controversial projects up his sleeve, modernizing the city with some sleek new outdoor malls, and so this vibrant university town, long favored by travelers and wintering Brits for its mild climate and sweeping vistas, has now been transformed into a modern and stylish urban center.

But the best thing about Pau is the lovely Celine, and her man Frank, who hosted us in their awesome new flat (complete with hot tub on a flower-covered deck). We ate a late-night dinner at a local brasserie packed with gregarious patrons til the wee hours. More Spanish than French, really. Though the food was decidedly French: divine steaks slathered in roquefort and/or bearnaise sauce, accompanied by baskets of piping hot fries. Mmmm. I couldn't resist the Ile Flottante for dessert. Followed by some after-dinner drinks at a lively neighborhood bar.

Jurançon Wine Country vs. La Rioja, Spain

La Rioja is legendary and after tasting a particularly tasty Rioja wine at a restaurant outside Bilbao, I wanted to check it out. I was in for a shock. The wine route-- winding through near-desert landscapes and Moorish-influenced sandstone towns-- is unlike any other wine country I've visited. It seems a starved landscape-- parched fields and tracks thirsting for rain and towns craving funds from the European Union. Indeed, the contrast between the lavish wineries and the surrounding towns-- the money and the poverty-- was stark. The wineries seem to be all industrial powerhouse producers (first started with Franco): big modern warehouses with fancy fountains and presentation, but lacking the personal touch. We must've stopped at six bodegas without being able to taste a sip, or speak a word with the wine-makers.

It was crazy to see the Dinastia Vivanco bodega and museum of wine. The building's construction (dripping with money)-- the infinity pool blending with the distant fields of grapes, the sculpture of a hand clutching grapes-- seemed incongruous with its surroundings.

I'm at a loss to understand why celebrity architect Frank Gehry-- whose titanium, glass, and limestone masterpiece of the Guggenheim Bilbao has transformed the city into an artistic and cultural mecca-- has taken an interest in La Rioja and designed a five-star hotel reminiscent of the Guggenheim smack in the middle of these desert vineyards. Are the high-rollers going to troop in from Bilbao via helicopter? It's slated to open in October but they've got a lot of work cut out for them. The main titanium building is completed (I bought wine there), but the rooms are still under construction.

Though I must stay I do like the wines. Riojas are categorized by their age, so a Crianza is aged at least three years (one in oak), Reserva is a more carefully selected wine (aged the same amount of time), Gran Reserva is the best, an excellent harvest aged at least two years in oak and three in the bottle. Significantly, these wines spend a lot of their time in American oak barrels. (The French think this is cheating. La Rioja wants to target the American buyer, thus the oakey taste and the three-tier age classifications. The French just make their wine, as they've always done, and then look for the buyer. Selling is almost secondary.)

Contrast this with the Jurançon Wine Country, near Pau. Across the border in France, just on the other side of the majestic Pyrenees peaks, the grass is green and the hills are verdant. The landscape is remarkably different. The Pyrenees must catch all of the rainfall from the Atlantic and shield Spain from that water; the same mountains on the Spanish side of the border are composed of chalk and rock. Here, small family growers create a specialty white wine with late harvest grapes: a sweet and perfectly delicious treat. We stopped at a small vineyard where the grandfather talked with us for over an hour; his son now ran the place and applied the elder's special techniques: grass was allowed to grow beneath the vines. I tasted the 2005 wine from the barrel and it was divine.

Hiking the Basque Coast: San Seb to Hondarribia (Almost)

Though Lonely Planet advises doing the hike in two days, we dreamed big, anticipating a 10 hour hike when we set out in the gray, early morning light, before most of San Sebastien was awake. We had the big, indoor market to ourselves, stocking up on sweet figs and peaches, fresh bread, and bottles of water.


From the maritime walkway in San Sebastien, we hiked a narrow footpath along a steep cliff, looking back at the city covered in cloud and fog, the ocean crashing into rocks beneath us. The terrain traverses pine forests (filled with blooming hydrangeas), the rubble of old military forts (look-out points and watchtowers from the Spanish-American war?), grassy hills covered in wildflowers, and craggy cliffs overlooking incredible seascapes. The contrast between these incredible natural landscapes (to our west) and the Basque industrial port towns (to our east) was striking.

After three hours, we descended stairs into the port city of Pasai San Pedro where we boarded a boat-taxi to take us across the channel to Pasai Donibane, a small and picturesque fishing/ship-building town. This spot is definitely worth a visit, full of history, friendly townsfolk, and beautiful waterfront houses, draped with fluttering Basque flags. We stocked up on snacks from one of two shops in the village. We walked by Victor Hugo's house; apparently the guy camped out here and wrote Alps and Pyrenees.

As we continued the hike, we passed a crazy man waving an umbrella and screaming about Santiago de Compostela. Or maybe he was warning us about the weather-- the gloomy grey clouds had not lifted after we walked through rainshowers-- but we paid him no heed. We walked along the ridge-crest, following red and white trailmarkers, and large wooden signs for the pilgrimage route of Camino de Santiago de Compostela, past a few watchtowers and herds of sheep, their shit everywhere.

The wind screamed across the mountaintop. The fog descended. Suddenly the sky opened and we were in the middle of a dark, raging storm, the hail pounding us and the wind almost blowing us off the mountain. It was impossible to see even 10 meters in front of us. We had to shout over the noise, and make the decision to turn around and head back to Pasaia. Slipping through the mud, totally drenched despite our rainjackets, we walked back two hours in the rain where we collapsed in a cafe and warmed our icy fingers with cups of hot chocolate and cafe con leche before boarding a bus back to San Seb. What an adventure.

Living It Up In San Sebastien, Spain

The beautiful Basque city of San Sebastien—its sweeping beaches facing the dramatic Atlantic surf—is a glorious combination of natural landscapes and urban treasures. Green mountaintops (one crowned by an enormous statue of Jesus, reminiscent of Rio de Janeiro) look down upon an awesome crescent of boat-dotted harbors and grand boulevards with tall art nouveau architecture.


The narrow alleys of the Parte Vieja are lined with tapas bars, where neighbors gather for dinner, conversation, and revelry well after 9 pm. This, by far, is the best aspect of Basque culture: the communal social spirit of late-night nibbles and small plates. And it's heaven for foodies: sampling multiple tasty morsels (from roquefort filled fritters to sardines).



When it was cloudy and overcast, we opted to play poker over a few brews overlooking a square plastered with Basque separatist slogans. (Though ETA's put down their arms, the Separatist movement is alive and well. We gaped at the protests and spectacles: masked folks parading through the nighttime streets and overturning trash dumpsters in a busy thoroughfare.) Kristin taught the ladies Texas Hold'em.


A word about San Seb (as the squads of philandering, drunk, Anglo youths have so affectionately dubbed it): the world-famous nightlife means booty-hunting pub crawls (til the wee hours) are the norm. In August, anyway, when the hordes of backpackers descend upon the city, don't expect much sleep if you are staying in the Parte Vieja. Echoing voices bounce off the alley's tall buildings and into the Pension's corridors and guestrooms. Best to carpe noctem and retire at dawn.

The Best of French Basque Country: St-Jean de Luz

Where Biarritz is flashy and grand, St-Jean is a colorful and casual Basque fishing port, though still brimming with gorgeous boutiques on the pedestrian rue Gambetta and surrounded by pretty beaches. When I return to the Pays Basque (I don't want to miss the Fete de Bayonne or the chocolate festival!), it will be for a holiday at this heavenly town, where the colorfully-shuttered Basque houses stand tall above the river, small alleyways, and oceanside promenade.


Groggy from a late night on the town in Biarritz, we savored delicious cafe au lait and hot chocolate at a cute cafe, then strolled the streets, and shopped the outrageously expensive boutiques. (EUR 15 for a sliver of organic, homemade soap, anyone?) The Basque church Eglise St-Jean Baptiste is awesome; this is the spot where Louis XIV and Maria Terese of Spain were married in the 17th century. The sun peeked from the clouds for all of 10 minutes, what a tease. Then we headed south towards the Spanish border.

Desperately Seeking Chocolate: Bayonne's Famous Pralines

The capital of Le Pays Basque is a charming, traditional town just 8 km to the west of Biarritz. So when the sun fails to show at the beach, head to Bayonne and lose yourself in the quaint, cultured streets. Where Biarritz is more flashy and refined, Bayonne retains its Basqueness: tall shuttered buildings hugging the riverbank, Euskara slogans spray-painted on walls, winding, ancient alleys where artisans have kept shop for centuries, and 17th century ramparts circling the old city center. And along with the thick, flavorful pieces of Jambon de Bayonne, beloved all over France, this town is celebrated for its chocolate.


We sought out the chocolate factory Puyodebat, next to the cathedral, and indulged in enormous nougat-filled pralines, slabs of dark chocolate-bark, and luscious ganache. I hear there's a big Chocolate Festival in May. Count me in.

Limoges vs. Biarritz

A certain seaside resort town, crawling with the rich and fashionable (and squads of drunk youth), where a medium coke will set you back EUR 7,90, dark clouds hover and the sun fails to show, the surf championships are hidden in mysterious-sounding locales (like Ile Biarritz), the architecture is decidedly new and unFrench, and the fun bars and restaurants are camoflaged somewhere off Rue de Vieux Port...


Or the charms of the Roman-Medieval city of Limoges (with a Champion within walking distance, and at least two franchises of Paul)?

At least Limoges has public restrooms aplenty. In the Atlantic coastal towns it seems preference is given to mutts, with carefully marked WChien signs-- I'm not kidding-- in the gardens and squares. (And nary a public restroom for people in sight.)

All joking aside, when the sun is shining, you can't beat Biarritz for some fun in the sun just 10 minutes from the border with Spain (and far from the crowds mobbing the Cote d'Azur). Though the history and culture of the Basque Country are better showcased in the neighboring towns of Bayonne and St. Jean de Luz, Biarritz is Europe's surf capital, and surfers flock from all over the world to catch these waves. It is also a mecca for fashionable high-rollers ever since Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie vacationed here in the 19th century (and constructed the enormous and elegant Palace looming over the beach, now a luxury hotel).

The best part of Biarritz for me was a reunion with friends, of course! We raided the night market and enjoyed a scrumptious picnic of six different cheeses, specialty breads, fruits, apple tart, and wine, and talked politics on the hotel's garden terrace. Mmmm.