Au Revoir, Limoges

Just when I was getting a hang of that bisou business (two kisses or three? left cheek first or right?), I am grabbing a dawn train from Limoges Bénédictins and departing la belle France for the summer. Parting shot: the ancient Pont Saint-Etienne, crossed by pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela. I splurged on one last meal at the restaurant on the other side of the riverbank, housed in a Medieval, half-timbered building. Highlight of the meal? Le Vésuve-- beef carpaccio assembled over a glass cone, a delicious red volcano. I'll be back in September...

A Pit Stop at Roquefort

On our return from Nîmes, we planned a lunch time stop at the small village of Roquefort, home to the king of cheese, the cheese fit for kings. (Forget the cafeterias along the auto-route. I suffered through that on the drive south. Though I must say-- the French version of the NJ Turnpike Clara Barton rest stop is a highly civilized affair. Three-course meal with cheese, goblet of house wine.) Situated 25 kilometers south of Millau, the village is surrounded by high plateaus, deep gorges, and grassy meadows.

It was cold there in the higher altitudes of the Massif Central mountains. The nearby Millau Viaduct, its delicate steel pillars soaring 340 meters above the Tarn Valley, is the tallest road bridge in the world. We grabbed our jackets and raced through the steep, narrow streets looking for the Papillon caves. The air was pungent, reeking of cheese. Mmmmm.

I loved the tour at Papillon because of the video screening where they contrasted Papillon's original cheese-making methods, back in the 1930's, with today's process. The Old School images-- husband and wife teams hauling carts of cheese, sprinkled with salt-- were fantastic. But we were disappointed not to see the anticipated bounty of Roquefort, white wheels of cheese packed away on shelves, maturing in the caves. Apparently, the presence of so many visitors disturbs the process. How exactly does the metamorphosis take place, from ewe's milk into the royal deliciousness that is Roquefort?

Legend has it that a Larzac shepherd forgot some sheep's milk curd on a slice of rye bread in one of the region's caves. When he came back weeks later, he found the cheese was covered with mould. (And I wonder how he decided to pop the thing in his mouth?!) The blue-green mould is actually very special mushroom spores, now called "penicillium roqueforti." Not the same thing as the antibiotic, our tour guide assured us. Furthermore, our faithful leader explained, good luck trying this experiment at home. The unique conditions of the Roquefort caves are conducive to growing this specific mould.

Deep within the Montagne du Combalou, the underground labyrinth of caves is perfectly ventilated by long faults called "fleurines," which channel air from inside and out and maintain constant humidity and temperature. Today in the Papillon Roquefort cellars, the famous "penicillium roqueforti" is cultivated on loaves of rye bread baked in a wood burning oven. Then, in the shade of the ripening cellars, the curd from the Lacaune ewes is sprinkled with the mould. This is the beginning of the famous Roquefort cheese. It then takes at least 90 days to mature. This particular cheese production is limited to the "Rayon de Roquefort;" whole, unprocessed sheep's milk from some 750,000 ewes of the Lacaune breed is collected throughout the counties of Aveyron, Tarn, Lozère, Gard, Hérault, and Aude. It was in 1411 when Charles VI granted exclusive Roquefort cheese-making rights to the village. And in 1666, the Parliament of Toulouse issued a decree to prosecute the merchants selling counterfeit Roquefort. Today, Roquefort has the status of AOP by the E.U. (Appellation of Protected Origin).

Somewhere deep within the cellar labyrinth, I lost a flip flop on one of the flights of steps. This prompted the entire crew of tourists to poke around in the cool damp dark, searching for my stinky shoe. Hilarious. The best part of the tour was the tasting, of course. Papillon's brochure states, "Your papillae will fly away during the free sample of our Roquefort at the end of the tour." Pierre and I snuck back for seconds. Back at home, we fashioned a Roquefort dinner one night: a baguette slathered with pieces of the organic Roquefort we purchased at the cave, accompanied by glasses of chilled, sweet Montbazillac wine. I always thought Roquefort should be paired with red, but not so! counseled our tour guide.

Petanque with the Pros

Sunday afternoon in the south of France wouldn't be complete without a game of Petanque. Marielle's family-- those darling southern gents-- taught us a thing or two about the game. Serious players, her father and uncle have clearly mastered the sport, even if the court's terrain happens to be a sloping, gravel road where small rocks and holes create impossible obstacles. After our taureau feast, we headed uphill to the top of the driveway and chose our 5-person teams. (I was one of two girls.)



Overlooking the Cypress trees and olive groves, bathed in afternoon light, the view from the road was stupendous. Pictured at right: Marielle's uncle demonstrates proper Petanque position. On numerous occasions, he ruthlessly nailed the boules in the first place spot.

The Corrida at Nimes: Bull Fights in the South of France

I watched six bulls meet their demise under the scorching Mediterranean sun. During the Féria de Pentecôte, we went to Les Arènes for a Sunday morning corrida (bullfight)-- the colorful and controversial custom that endures in the south of France. As we approached the amphitheater, the streets were packed with people wearing wide-brimmed sun hats, handkerchiefs tied at their necks.

The Roman amphitheater is enormous, bleached a skeletal white in the sun. Built around AD 100 to seat 24,000 people, the arena is still used today for all sorts of events, bullfights included. The line snaked out of the entrance gate. We bought our tickets ($17) just in the nick of time and then raced up the steep stairs (I lost track of the number of flights) just before the show started-- in all its pomp and circumstance. The passageways are dark, the stone carved with graffiti. From the top of the amphitheater, we could see across Nîmes to the Jardins de la Fontaine and all the Roman monuments, including the Tour Magne.

Marielle was a superb hostess, providing detailed explanations of the ceremony and its cultural traditions. (Most of her family was there to attend-- including her lovely grandmother.) The spectacle is a tragedy of three acts in which the matador and bull engage in a kind of dance before the inevitable killing of the bull. It's quite ritualized. First, everyone involved in the corrida enters the ring to salute the President, parading in front of the crowds of spectators. The costumes are flamboyant and bright. Two dudes on horseback ride across the ring and ask for the key to the door of the pen where the bulls are kept waiting (this is a symbolic gesture). Next, a man walks out in the ring with a placard revealing the name of the matador who was to fight. (We watched three matadors-- each allotted two bulls.) The diehard fans know the reputation and history of each of the matadors, but we had to flip through the morning paper to get the scoop.

When the bull enters the ring, three men with large pink capes goad the taureau in circles. Two picadors on horseback, their steeds protected with yellow armor, are stationed outside of one of two circles sketched on the stadium floor. Armed with lances, they prick the bull between the shoulder blades when he runs into them. Blood poured down the back of the bull in steady currents. Lastly, before the matador works his magic, two banderilleros must stick a pair of sharp sword-like objects into the animal. These men run like crazy across the ring and thrust the two colorful banderillas into the bull's spine, before escaping to the side of the amphitheater.

And then the matador, perfectly attired, steps in the ring and a murmur sweeps across the crowd. The bull charges, the matador maneuvers just out of harm's way. There is a graceful confidence to his movements. Flaring his red cape, the matador forces the bull to the left, to the right. It seems like man and beast almost touch, they are so close. If it's particularly pretty, the President will request the musicians to play uplifting melodies to accompany the scene. At other times, a trumpet will sound a penalty when the matador has taken too long to kill the bull. The matador must force the bull into the perfect position in order to thrust the sword deep into his back and heart.

The bulls are bred to be aggressive (a specific type of animal in Spain) but the first one to hit the ring was so weak, it was painful to watch. Walking, instead of running. He tripped over his own front feet, tumbling forward in a somersault. Watching the blood spurt out of his mouth, staining the dust, I thought about the gladiator combat that took place in the same amphitheater, thousands of years ago. (Of course I also thought about that most famous of bull-fight aficionados, Hemingway. What does it say about a man if one of his great passions is this blood sport.) When the picadors ran out to assist the matador, surrounding the bull and pushing a knife into his brain, I had to turn away. Throughout the two-hour spectacle, I read the entire Sunday edition of Le Monde, cover to cover. A first for me.

But there was a moment when the matador performed perfectly and he was given the two ears and the tail of the bull-- quite a rare occurrence. My heart pounding, I could feel the emotion in the ring, the crowds of spectators going wild, waving white handkerchiefs and throwing objects into the ring in appreciation of his feat. The matador walked a slow circuit, picking up hats and clothes with a deep, proud bow and throwing them back to the crowd.

Guess what we ate for lunch? That's right. Stewed taureau. Back at Marielle's grandmother's house, seated on the terrace under the Cypress trees, we enjoyed a long, lingering meal with bowls of olives and Pastis to start. I hate to say it, but the meat was delicious.

PS. Our tickets were printed with a beautiful painting by Yash Godebski. To see the colorful corrida paintings, click on "Tableaux," then "Theme," then "Taureaux."

The Pont du Gard Near Nimes

Warning: More ecstatic descriptions of ancient Roman ruins to follow. Just 21 kilometers from Nîmes, the Pont du Gard stands as the exquisite monument to the Romans’s technical prowess. The 49 perfect arches of the aqueduct dwarf the rocky gorges and swift currents of the River Gardon. Built in AD 38 to carry water from a spring near Uzès to Nîmes, the Pont du Gard is a UNESCO World Heritage Site (which means it's packed with tourists). In fact, it's one of the most visited sites in the world.

The Augustan capital of Nîmes required 20,000 cubic meters of water per day, and this water crossed the river at a height of 48 meters. There is a 50-km network of aqueducts and canals linking the urban center with the water source (vestiges of parts of the aqueduct are visible along the route, but the Pont is the best-preserved part of the water system). Construction required 14 years, 50,000 tonnes of stone, and a thousand workers.


It's a quick (and pretty) drive from Nîmes, passing vineyards, green fields stained with red poppies, and stone walls stretching as far as the eye can see. These white stone walls are distinctive of the region, meandering along zig-zagged property lines to fence in the herds of sheep. We also noticed domed stone huts, like igloos, tucked in corners beneath olive groves. (Storage places for grain, hide-outs for shepherds? No-one knows...) For millennia, this Mediterranean landscape has been molded by its inhabitants. The river gorges are awesome (despite the nasty hair-pin turns on the country roads).


At the Pont, daring kids dove off the rocks beneath the arches. A pedestrian bridge has been built side-by-side with the aqueduct-- actually touching it. When Pierre last visited this monument as a kid, visitors were allowed to walk across the top of the aqueduct. This time around, we climbed the hill on the right bank to check out the top. Scaling the cliffs and winding through beautiful scenery, the hiking trails provide excellent vistas.

On the return, we decided to stop and check out the charming city of Uzès, where the Duché (with flag fluttering in the wind) towers over the narrow little streets. We stumbled upon an outdoor market-- aromatic with spices and Provencal soap-- and I was in heaven. The Place aux Herbes is one of the prettiest outdoor squares I've ever seen.

Pictured: Views from both upstream and downstream; the top of the aqueduct, high above the treetops; I get all contemplative about the Romans's brilliance; the leafy Place in Uzès where I stocked up on soap and lusted after colorful marzipan candies in the coolest candy shop I've ever seen (my own kind of paradise); spices and hats in the market.

The Feria at Nimes

I know where I'll be next winter. Forget the drab, grey days in the Limousin. I'm heading down south to the Mediterranean-splashed turf that bakes in the sun for 300 days out of the year. Specifically, to the Roman city of Nîmes, where my friend Marielle hosted her 30th birthday party over the Pentecôte weekend (the fourth, and final, Pont de Mai, oh how I love the long weekends: Viva La France!) The tourism brochure says of Nîmes: This is the real South. And that's what I like to hear. Nîmes straddles the frontier between the Languedoc region and Provence, so it's the best of both worlds: a mélange of robust Languedoc spirit and Provençal serenity.

Here, the light is exceptional. The inspiring landscape is illuminated by this intense daylight: tall Cypress trees tower over groves of olives, their leaves radiant in the sun. The air is scented with herbs: thyme, rosemary, lavender. This city is often called the "French Rome" which is just another reason why I'm totally smitten.

First founded by Emperor Augustus, the Roman city blossomed until it was overrun by Vandals in the 5th century. The amphitheater, perfectly preserved, is still used for sporting and cultural events today (more on that later). Nîmes is also known as the birthplace of jeans. The denim fabric (get it: de Nîmes) was first made here in the 18th century; Levi Strauss immigrated to California and set up shop. Voila! The ultimate American symbol has its roots in France.

But the best thing about Nîmes: the weeklong féria, where the streets are packed with musicians and Flamenco dancers, and revelers sip little cups of pastis (only Ricard) against the backdrop of centuries-old monuments. Olé! We walked down the main boulevard toward Les Arènes, lined with trees, where colorful banners floated overhead, listening to Spanish guitar riffs. Arriving in a main square, I looked up to see the Maison Carrée and it took my breath away. The rectangular Roman Temple dates from AD 5. The photo says it all.

PS. Designer extraordinaire Philippe Starck designed the metallic medallions which are embedded in the sidewalks around the city, depicting the symbol of Nîmes: the palm and the crocodile. This ancient reference alludes to the conquest of Cleopatra's Egypt by the armies of Caesar (which apparently camped out in the hills around Nîmes upon their return from battle).

Chambord: The Big Daddy of Loire Valley Chateaux

"...we departed thence amaz'd, nay, open-mouth'd..."
--Girolamo Lippomano, Venetian ambassador, 1577

You can get an idea of the scale of Chambord-- the sheer, massive enormity of this castle-- by checking out the picture at right. Driving up the road in the rain, we spotted the castle that has dazzled visitors since the 1500's. Through a gap in the trees (the surrounding area is a 54 square kilometer hunting preserve, larger than Inner Paris), we gaped at the first glimpse of Chambord. "Impressive" doesn't even cut it.

Inspired from his battle victories in Italy, 25-year old François I decided to build the chateau to end all chateaux in the year 1519. It is the singular example of the Renaissance chateau. While off warring over Milan, the king was impressed by Italy's Renaissance architecture and decided to incorporate innovative design features into the stronghold's plan: loggias, terrace, pilaster and horizontal mouldings decorating the facades.

François intended for Chambord to be a hunting lodge, but I guess ambition got the best of him. Ready for the stats? The dimensions are: 156 meters long, 56 meters high, 77 staircases, 282 fireplaces (not little ones, either), and 426 rooms. There is a harmonious symmetry to the feudal ground plan: the central keep is flanked by four large towers, two wings, and an exterior walled curtain.

It was tough to drag myself out of the audiovisual room; I was tempted to watch the 15 minute film on repeat because it uses neat computer-generated imagery to explain the castle's long construction. But the famous double helix staircase beckoned. In the center of the keep, the double spiral staircase links the castle's three floors, winding around a central axis. On the way up, Pierre took one side and I took the other so that we could wave at each other through the interior windows. What is so impressive about these two concentric spiral flights of stairs is that they never cross. It's like a mindtrick-- you never meet the person coming down. Leonardo da Vinci is credited with the genius design.

The place is so vast that signs are placed prominently throughout the stone halls, directing visitors to the chapel, the king's chambers, the Comte de Chambord museum, and other points of interest. (The prized treasures from the Louvre museum-- including the Mona Lisa-- were hidden in the chapel during World War II.) It's like a maze of opulent royal apartments. The furnishings were extraordinary; you really get a sense of what life must have been like at Chambord (though François only deigned stay here for some 72 days out of his 35 year-reign-- I guess he was too busy off fighting the infidels). Above all, I got the sense that the place was miserably cold in the winter. Fireplaces dwarfed the royal beds in size, and apparently inhabitants were often tempted to move to smaller, more comfortable apartments in the winter (lowered ceilings meant it was easier to heat the place). I also noticed an enormous ceramic stove imported from Poland on prominent display.

Ceilings are decorated with intricate carvings which combine François's monogram (the letter F) with his emblem of a salamander emerging from flames. Oddly enough, the slimy little lizard was considered a mythical animal able to survive on fire; hence François's motto: Nutrisco et extinguo (I feed and I extinguish).

From the rooftop terrace, amidst the towers, domes and chimneys which "create a strange fairy-tale village in the air," we could gaze out across the estate's wilderness tracts. We overheard a couple, getting ready to tie the knot, organize the nuptial festivities with the Chambord staff. Fireworks, feasts, the works. I think I'd prefer a more convivial spot.

Check out the official site for some gorgeous, professional pictures with a blue-sky background.

Of Hard-partying Kings and Charming Weekend Markets: Chateau of Amboise, Loire Valley

Talk about a strategic position. The rocky outcropping overlooking the Loire River has been an ideal observation post since Neolithic times. The Celts first fortified the spot and it just got grander over the epochs. Apparently Amboise was the historic meeting place in the year 503 for Clovis, King of the Franks, and Alaric, King of the Visigoths. In the 15th century the stronghold fell into the hands of the French kings, who got busy expanding the castle. Throughout the Renaissance, French royalty flocked here. Today, the majestic Chateau of Amboise looms over the river valley, visible for miles.

The history of the royal inhabitants is too complicated to divulge (I'll spare you the long-winded story of Louis who begat Charles who begat François who begat Henri), but suffice it to say that the roster of famous guests includes Leonardo da Vinci, who was invited to the court by his patron, François I, in 1516, lived at Le Clos Lucé, and then died here just a few years later on May 2, 1519. His tomb is found in the Saint-Hubert chapel on-site. (This is also the site of the brutal repression of a Huguenot uprising in 1560, when the streets reeked with the stench of some 1,200 hanging corpses.)

Apparently François I was known to have raging parties here. Hence the Chateau's tourism brochures tout his quotation (which captures the opulence of the era): "car tel est notre bon plaisir..."

"Because such is our pleasure..."


We didn't bother going inside. I was too enchanted by the perfect little town nestled beneath the fortified chateau, abloom with flowers. Strolling along the southern bank of the Loire, we stumbled upon a fantastic weekend market, where Pierre bought some flowers for the garden. Afterwards, we met some friends for an aperitif in a cozy little bar, and learned about the chateau's awesome Tour des Cavaliers-- where horsemen could actually ride to the top of the tower by means of a huge spiral ramp. (Pierre's buddy, and former roommate in Paris, Benjamin, grew up in these parts...)

Checking out the Wine at Montlouis sur Loire (and a humble little chateau called Chenonceau)

The Loire Valley is wine country, and though we were sedated in an afternoon stupor (serious food coma after lunch), we decided to stop at the famous wine caves at Montlouis, just minutes from Tours. For years, the wine caves (French word for cellars) have existed as caves, quite literally, carved from the tall, white cliffs on the banks of the Loire river. My photo doesn't do the place justice. Check out the website here.

Montlouis has been an AOC (Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée) since 1938. We stopped at the Espace des Producteurs to taste the wines. Here 25 different wine-growers have created a co-op cellar. The place is fantastic. Visitors are allowed to wander freely through the maze-like tunnels, where two million bottles of wine mature in the cold, damp dark. We followed a path deep into the cliffs, descending steps down into the earth, where bottles were piled against the chalky rock walls. Along this self-guided tour, the winery folks have tacked signs explaining the wine-making process.

The effervescent wines, like Champagne, are exciting and bubbly-- but sweeter. Perfect for an aperitif or even dessert. And the Chenins are likewise tasty, what the winery calls the vins tranquilles (aka No bubbles!)

Oh, yeah. And then we stopped by Chenonceau in the late afternoon, two hours before closing time, when we figured the tourist hoards would have disappeared. (It was the weekend of Ascension, after all, and the French families love to hit the road and go exploring.) The chateau is the quintessential turreted French castle, positioned smack dab in the middle of a river, spanning the currents, so you can literally cross the river by walking the length of the interior halls. During the First World War, these halls served as a hospital for injured soldiers.


We pushed through the crowds, admiring the rich period furnishings. Simply put, Chenonceau is magnificent. From the chateau windows, we could look down and see fish swimming in the river below. Aerial armies of swallows swooped down from the roof, where little mud nests were built beneath the castle's turrets.

Outside, the park spans 70 hectares and is magical. We strolled thorough the gardens and admired the landscaping-- quite painstaking. We ended up spending a lot of time in the vegetable garden and nursery, fascinated by the gardening techniques employed in seeding and cultivating the baby plants. Apparently, the floral decorations in the spring and summer require 130,000 new plants to be nurtured.

PS. Pierre and I were amazed at how many of the Loire Valley chateaux are privately owned, Chenonceau included.