Lost In Limoges

Merry Christmas and an Ode to Crème Brulée

2007-12-17T13:04:00.000+01:00

This is how it's done. The crisp outer shell (which crackles just so when the spoon makes contact), the smooth creamy texture inside, and that pretty plate drizzled with sauce. After buying a crème brulée set at the Montcuq market, Pierre has subjected countless poor guests to our pathetic creations-- sometimes burned, sometimes cold and full of lumps, too custardy, or too sugary. We can't figure it out. Maybe it has something to do with the Old School sugar-burner which we heat over the stove's gas flame. I think Williams-Sonoma could help us out. (Hint, hint.)

Happy Holidays. I'll be back soon with updates from the southwest of France!

The Marvels of the Millevaches

2007-12-15T13:30:00.000+01:00

Hiking across the Millevaches Plateau is like jumping back in time. (For my first encounter with this mystical, Druid-haunted place, check out this post.) The word is Occitan, and has nothing to do with a "thousand cows." Millevaches actually refers to the number of springs bubbling from the sloping pastoral landscape. In the middle of France, indeed in the middle of nowhere, this granite plateau abuts the Massif Central. Villages are sparse. You won't bump into many other folks out there, but you'll see lots of cows.

Three brothers and I set out for the last hike of the season and ended up with numb fingers and ears. We traversed fields and forest, lost out there in the cold. Though when we walked through protected hollows, where the wind was buffered, we felt toasty warm in the sunshine. Plus, chocolate-covered madeleines, a regional specialty, served as the best kind of sustenance.

Summiting a mountaintop, we stumbled upon three enormous stone crosses. So we stopped to picnic beneath them, overlooking the Lake Vassivière in the distance, despite the wind roaring across the peak. Shivering, huddled together, we appreciated the glorious vista and our ice cold wine.

Les Petits Ventres: Medieval Food Fair on the Rue de la Boucherie, Limoges

2007-12-14T10:20:00.000+01:00

The frères came to visit at the end of October, coinciding with Les Petits Ventres in Limoges. Despite the freezing temperatures and the rugby match on TV (talk about a distraction), we hit up the fabulous food festival. Convivial and jolly, the ancient fair dates back to 930 AD. All the local butchers set up stalls and grills along the Rue de la Boucherie (literally: Butcher Street) and serve up tasty local specialties like boudin aux châtaignes, tripe, and foie gras. (The trade in this quartier dates back centuries).

The half-timbered houses were twinkling with lights and the crowds packed the tiny medieval alley. We were swept along in the current of people (wine cups in hand, sloshing everywhere). Quite the street party. Manu and I ate a foie gras sandwich, I kid you not. The first and only time in my life that I've seen this delicacy slathered between two hunks of bread.

Ars, the Phare des Baleines, and Other Charms of the Île de Ré

2007-12-09T18:39:00.000+01:00

What could be better than a pot of coffee and crossaints (with lots of jam and butter) overlooking Saint-Martin's citadel and the sea? At the charming hotel La Galion, our windows opened out onto the seaside park and lighthouse, encircled by Vauban's ramparts. The mist was heavy that Monday morning, so I was so glad we had soaked up so much sun the day before.

After breakfast we walked along the water's edge, following the fortifications. From the sky, this fortress at Saint-Martin appears to be star-shaped. Vauban was the military engineer for Louis XIV, the Sun King, who constructed a string of forts along the Atlantic coast in the 17th century. France was impenetrable. Now the town of Saint-Martin, along with 13 other sites representing Vauban's work, is a candidate for admission to the UNESCO World Heritage list. (These forts run along the Charente-Maritime coast, and into Bretagne.)

Circling the island by car, we really got a sense of the lay of the land. There are some 30 kilometers of sandy beaches, the best on the southern part of the island. The northern coast is marked by mudflats, oyster farms, and salt evaporation pools. (The day before, we had biked around Loix and discovered the salt marshes and bird sanctuaries there.)

At the westernmost edge, we stopped in Ars-en-Ré, listed as one of the most beautiful villages in France, and picked up a picnic of quiche, baby pizza, and desserts galore at the boulangerie, where the line out the door was slowed by the baker's gossipy exchanges with each customer. The town is known for its bizarre church steeple (check out the photo on the official site)-- a black and white conical thing jutting into the sky. It's some 40 meters high and serves as a beacon for sailors. The smattering of whitewashed houses and tangled web of alleyways, fragrant with flowers, are utterly charming.

Dating from the 11th century, the village is surrounded by salt marshes from where workers harvested the coarse sea salt (fleur de sel). Folks still gather the salt from the Fier d'Ars marshes. It was fascinating to see the salt evaporation pools; the mountains of salt near the cooperative of small producers. The piles of salt actually look like dark pebbles.

Stomachs growling, we veered north and headed towards the island's most famous monument, the Phare des Baleines, for our picnic. The first tower built by Vauban, the Grand Phare was in operation from 1682 to 1854. The adjacent lighthouse is one of the tallest in France at 57 meters. I expected to find the crashing Atlantic surf, waves pounding against the beach, but no such luck. Saint-Martin is obviously protected-- not only by the stone fortifications but also by the natural geography of the island, which curves to the north and thus shields the coastal harbor towns from Atlantic surges. But even at the western tip, everything was still and quiet, cushioned by the mud and tidal pools. (It must have been low tide.)

Instead of heading to the top to check out the views, we hopped the high wall to get down to the beach and eat! (So maybe those famed fortifications weren't as foolproof as I thought...) The beach was deserted, except for some fishermen out on the flats. There is a specific method of fishing, native to the region, and those who pêche are adamant about protecting it. Centuries ago, jetties were painstakingly constructed, fitted with rock and nothing but rock to hold them in place. From there, the fishermen can venture out over the sea to fish. Or at low tide-- as we witnessed-- use the jetties as a way to reach the distant tidal pools.

We chatted with a fisherman about the strange sea life we observed from our perch on the jetty. The weirdest mollusk I've ever seen, with wings flapping like a sting ray, inching along the bottom, but sometimes flailing out of the water...

Pictured: The view from our hotel window; a boat tied up in the fortified maze leading from sea to the harbor at Saint-Martin; view of the wind-swept beach on the southern side of the island from the ramparts; shots of the village of Ars; the Phare des Baleines; the fishing jetty; looking back at the lighthouse; no fishing-- except for members of the local association...

La Baleine Bleue: Dinner in Saint-Martin de Ré

2007-12-08T19:07:00.000+01:00

It was such a good meal; I'm kicking myself that I don't remember every little detail! Pierre ordered the fish paired with vegetables prepared in a tagine style (those clay Moroccan pots where all the flavors simmer for hours, the aromas steeping, slow-cooked to perfection). My fish came with sautéed cèpes and a tiny pot of saffron-flavored crème brulée. In fact, the menu was brimming with choices of freshly-caught fish-- like a bountiful marketplace of the local catch.

We hadn't made reservations, just walked in. And it turned out to be one of those meals that lingers with you. So even if I forget the exact ingredients of those perfect sauces, I remember the artistic presentation, the glasses of Loire Valley wine, the big white plates against white tablecloths, and most of all, the cobble-stoned lanes along the harbor where the lights reflected in the water, the boats perfectly still (protected by Vauban's impressive reinforcements against the marauding English invaders), the air heavy with the sea.

The harbor may be perfectly picturesque during the daylight hours, but it is a million times so at night. Under shadow, with the sea fog rolling in, mysterious and romantic. We took our time strolling back to the hotel after a meal like that. (The finale? Delicious dessert with a flaming firecracker/birthday candle shooting sparks.)

PS. La Baleine Bleue's been around for 18 years and it's still serving tempting, tasty plates.

L'île de Ré

2007-12-05T10:54:00.000+01:00

I was content to wander around the port but Pierre insisted we get back in the car. La Rochelle was not the surprise! We circled past the little airport, where RyanAir now dumps thousands of pasty-white passengers for a quick dose of sun, and suddenly an enormous bridge loomed into view. This bridge is an impressive, modern construction; it seems to span out endlessly over the sea, soaring over the mud flats and brilliant blue Atlantic. On the other side? L'île de Ré.

The toll is hefty-- some EUR 16.50 in the summertime (EUR 9 in the winter)-- but it doesn't slow down the tide of tourists who venture out to this island. This long piece of land jutting out into the sea has become quite the posh summer getaway for Parisians. And apparently the traffic in the summer months is obscene. So we couldn't have picked a better time to come. A Sunday night in the middle of October-- we had our pick of the lovely hotels on the island.

St-Martin de Ré is the island's main town. Surrounded by 17th century fortifications, it's a picturesque fishing village of white-washed houses sparkling in the sun and a harbor full of wonderful workboats, sailboats, every kind of boat. You'd think we were on the Mediterranean coast. And I thought La Rochelle was nice. On L'île de Ré I was in hog heaven.

Biking is the best way to get around the island, and it couldn't be easier to rent a bike. (In fact, it's the preferred method of transportation. Check out the adorable elderly couple in the pic.) Scenic trails, a network of paved bike paths, cut in every direction. Just as quickly as we arrived and checked in our hotel, we were already on bikes, pedaling like maniacs, the sea on one side and miles of vineyards on the other.

Even while racing Pierre, I gripped the camera to snap the little hamlets as we sped by. And the burros. There is a tradition on the island to wrap up the legs of the donkeys to protect them from mosquitoes as they work. Absolutely hilarious.

We biked through small seaside towns where the traditional houses have green shutters and flower boxes full of geraniums. We noticed the mudflats where boats were stranded in low tide, the salt evaporation pools (the region is famous for its salt), the nature reserves for birds. The smell of the sea is everywhere. When we biked through fields and saw hunters camped out in camouflage, lingering at the end of the vines, Pierre obnoxiously sounded the alarm with his bicycle bell.

We paused for cokes at a café and soaked up the sunshine. Mid-October was actually hot. What a great way to spend a birthday. I didn't have time to think about the passing of the years...

At the end of the day, we pedaled back into St-Martin just in time to watch the light fade orange across the harbor's cobblestoned paths. Kids swarmed around a merry-go-round. A line snaked behind the kiosk for churros. We paused at the harbor's edge to have a kir at sunset.

Pictures: Notice the fortifications; the town of St-Martin is actually protected from both the land and sea. Also, check out the cat keeping watch outside an art gallery in St-Martin. Pierre loved the colorful paintings there.

Birthday Surprise: La Rochelle?

2007-12-03T18:18:00.000+01:00

So I celebrated a big birthday last month. Pierre, trickster that he is, stealthily set the alarm for a Sunday morning and announced (at a dreadfully early hour) that we were going somewhere, that I needed to pack my bags. Hiking boots? Ski equipment? Bathing suit? The guy was mum so I was really at a loss.

In typical Pierre fashion, he refused to tell me where we were going, even when we were all packed away in the car, the trunk bulging with too many bags. (A girl's got to be prepared!) So began my sleuth work. We headed east. Could it be Bordeaux? I waited til we passed a few helpful road signs (the French rural routes are marked not by the cardinal direction, but by the towns passed along the way). Angouleme? Cognac? Santes? Only when we were about an hour from the coast did I have a clue.

La Rochelle!

I love La Rochelle. It is one of my favorite spots on earth. Positively baking in the sun (it's got as many hours of sunlight annually as the Mediterranean coast), the city is a historic marvel of seaside fortifications built by the famed military engineer, Vauban. I like to think that this is the spot from where the French ships sailed to help the American revolutionaries.

The harbor is packed with boats, which navigate a channel between two huge towers. Temperatures were surprisingly mild for mid October so we sipped some kirs au soleil, watching the pretty people walk by on the sea-smelling harbor promenade. I can think of no place better to eat lunch.

But La Rochelle was not our final destination.

PS. I am sporting some dreadful $10 sunglasses. After a good five years, I finally managed to smash my favorite pair (but thanks, Brookie!)

Watching a Storm from Montmartre

2007-12-01T09:17:00.000+01:00

The fact is: it rains more in Paris than in the Limousin's pastures. September was marked by sunny skies and warm temperatures. How could I conveniently forget this fact? (Must be truly blinded by my intoxication for Paris.) It's drizzle-washed, a city of rain. But even so, the light is mesmerizing during a storm or rain shower.

We headed up to Sacré-Coeur just in time to see a storm roll in across the city--even more dramatic than the basilica's strange design. When lit by sunlight, Sacre-Coeur may appear like a "sculpted cloud," but under a grey sky, the storm takes center stage.

Get off at Abbesses. Huff and puff up the stairs (Montmartre is a hill after all!) and emerge into the picturesque square, marveling at the entrance to the metro station (one of the originals). If you choose to wander through the quartier's twisting alleys, avoiding the funicular and taking the back way up the hill, you'll have the distinct sense that Montmartre is a village. The bohemians may be long gone (replaced by hordes of tourists), but it's still charming.

The views from the top of Sacré-Coeur can only be rivaled by those at Belleville's park (which is perched on a hill 200 meters above sea level). Paris is spread out at your feet, an astonishing panorama. Even more so when you can watch the line of rain move across the city.

PS. Yes, it's pouring in Limoges this morning. The neighbor's cats are taking refuge on the window ledge.

Jardin du Luxembourg: Smitten with Paris Gardens

2007-11-26T18:36:00.000+01:00

Another dreary, misty day in Limoges so I'm daydreaming about sunny days in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I am always charmed by the colorful formal gardens in France. Particularly wonderful are the beds of vegetables (like purple cabbage), as appreciated for their aesthetic perfection as a rainbow of roses. When I stopped to admire some flowers, snapping photos, the dedicated gardeners even tipped their hats at us, a silent thanks for admiring their work.

Perfect swaths of green lawn... Ogle all you want, but don't touch! (Or dare spread out a blanket for sun-bathing. There are ample chairs assembled off-the-grass for your use.)

These days in Paris, folks scoot around on Vélib' bikes-- the fantastic free bicycle program that should be copied in every city worldwide. But I still swear that walking is the best way to take it all in. Wander wherever your feet take you, like a true flâneur, and you'll never know what will appear before your eyes. Like the string of clouds scooting across the sky behind the Panthéon. (Pictured)

Moments like that and I feel compelled to pluck Hemingway's dusty, ear-marked volume from the bookcase: "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

Musée Jacquemart André: A Museum Gem in Paris

2007-11-25T11:59:00.000+01:00

I had never heard of the Musée Jacquemart André. In a city bursting at the seams with museums, it's easy to overlook the smaller ones. But when we discovered this museum, I was astonished. The collection is incredible, but even more interesting is the place itself: a splendid hôtel particulier, a sumptuous private mansion built during the Second Empire. The owners, Edouard André and his wife Nélie Jacquemart (whom he first met when she painted his portrait), were passionate collectors. During the 19th century, they held elaborate society functions at this gorgeous palace located off the Boulevard Haussmann, not far from the Champs-Élysées. (Métro Miromesnil or St Philippe du Roule)

Get the audio guide. Not only does it explain the incredible art collection-- like a mini-Louvre-- but it also paints in vivid detail the life of the aristocracy of the time. You'll find major works from the French 18th century school (Fragonard, Vigée-Lebrun, Boucher), paintings from the Dutch and Flemish masters (Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Ruysdael), and an enormous collection from the Italian Renaissance. In fact, there's a museum within the museum, a private collection of Italian works (hidden away on the second floor) that Nélie was especially passionate about. She traveled the world after her husband's death, continuing to sniff out the undiscovered masterpieces.

The furnishings are as opulent as the paintings. (I snapped these photos on the sly, so they're not always in focus.) I loved the winter garden room, lit by skylights, and the dark little chamber where the gentlemen smoked cigars after dinner. The tea room is magnificent. All the well-heeled Parisians crowd the room for salads and gourmet lunches. We sipped tea--Mom chose the Chinese tea my grandmother drank-- surrounded by beautiful tapestries from Brussels. Like the fresco above the mansion's staircase, the ceiling in the tea room was painted by Tiepolo.

PS. Apparently the mansion was the background setting for the musical film Gigi!

A Pilgrimage to Sainte-Chapelle

2007-11-24T12:36:00.000+01:00

I remember when we first visited Sainte-Chapelle years ago. On a cold January day I dragged Pierre-- the hardened Parisian-- to see this tourist favorite, where he begrudgingly joined the queue outside. Pierre had managed to live for years in Paris without stepping inside the chapel. Paris is so full of these wonders, when you live there, daily life doesn't often include touring the city's treasured symbols, recognizable worldwide. Not that Pierre took it all for granted; he was just busy. (Which just goes to show-- maybe it pays to be a tourist in your own town sometimes...)

Ste-Chapelle is hidden behind the Palais de Justice (Law Courts) and all those big administrative buildings on the Ile de la Cité. And these days you must actually go through security at the Palais. We entered the lower chapel, thinking "What's the big deal?" It's gloomy, dark, and unimpressive. But what do you know? When we walked up the spiral staircase to the upper chapel, the sight took our breath away. Light floods the room (depending on the time of day and the weather), streaming through the stained glass, and I gasped.

The chapel's walls are made entirely of stained glass soaring upward to the vaulted ceilings. Vivid reds and blues soar overhead. The glass is richly detailed with biblical stories and my neck muscles started to ache, craning my neck to follow each story across the panes of glass. If the sun dips behind a cloud, the light fades momentarily and the space temporarily loses its other-worldly effect. But the moment when the sun breaks free again is startling, sacred. This upper chapel was reserved for the royals back in the day. Indeed they even had a separate entrance.

Dating from 1248, the centuries-old Sainte-Chapelle has managed to stand the test of time, still dazzling the faithful who come to pay homage. Louis IX built this exquisite space because he needed someplace special to house his sacred relics (including Christ's Crown of Thorns, purchased from Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople) shown to the common folk on Good Friday every year.

A Study in Contrasts: The Ile de la Cité

2007-11-23T09:23:00.000+01:00

You can blame Haussmann for the administrative feel to the Ile de la Cité, the larger of the two islands anchored in the Seine. The architect is viewed as both a hero and a crook; the modernizing urban planner ushered in a new era for the city in the 1860s, but he did so by ruthlessly leveling so many treasures, gutting the deteriorating medieval buildings, paving grand boulevards and erecting big blocks of buildings. But this island is the birthplace of Paris, where the tribe of Parisii settled in the 3rd century BC.

For over two thousand years, the Ile de la Cité was the base of Parisian power. After the Parisii, the Romans took over and built an ancient temple to Jupiter where Notre-Dame now stands. The island is home to the Palais de Justice and the Police Prefecture, along with Notre-Dame, the iconic masterpiece of French Gothic architecture, and the Conciergerie (where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned before going to the guillotine).

Walk the pedestrian bridge from the Ile St-Louis, an unassuming approach to the flying buttresses, gargoyles, and soaring tower of Notre-Dame. This is by far the best way to discover the cathedral. It's quieter, too, stepping through the gardens before hitting the crowds lining up to go inside.

Stroll along the Seine to the Pont des Arts, the iron bridge that connects to the Louvre (right bank) and the Institut de France (left bank). From here, the island's tip appears like the prow of a ship in the middle of the Seine. My uncle discovered the best little hotel, an economical bargain in the heart of the city, in the tranquil gardens of the Place Dauphine at this very spot.

Falling under the Spell of the Ile St-Louis

2007-11-22T09:39:00.000+01:00

There is nothing finer in the world than spending a night on the Ile St-Louis, the tiny island in the middle of the Seine just upstream from Notre Dame. No matter how many times I visit Paris, I rarely get a chance to indulge in sight-seeing and being a tourist. Back in September, we had a full week of it and I felt so lucky. The hotel rooms may have been small, crying out for a renovation, but what a fabled address: Right on the main street that runs down the length of the island, connecting to the grander Ile de la Cité by a pedestrian bridge.

Smack dab in the middle of Paris, the island is a calm quartier, its 17th century stone townhouses protected by a line of leafy trees around the island's perimeter. I could sit by the hotel window for hours, watching the street theater. The leisurely quotidien of traditional Paris. The line assembled outside the boulangerie, where the smell of baking bread wafted towards my window. The butchers arriving in white aprons to open the award-winning shop renowned for the care with which the products are displayed in the window-- even the chicken feathers are blown dry for effect.

And we could watch the constant stream of tourists who make the walk from one end of the island to the other, peering with delight into the boutique windows, checking out the flower boxes, staring at the sweet perfection of it all. There are a slew of excellent restaurants lining the street, and it's hard to imagine such epicurean abundance packed into such a small area. (Don't miss an ice cream at Berthillon, or the sinfully thick hot chocolate at Cacao et Chocolat. I picked up the bad habit of a chocolat chaud a day.)

This is the heart of Paris, both geographically and spiritually. It's easy to get seduced by the island's romance and quiet charm. Indeed, it has a village feel. Folks who live here are said to say "I'm heading into the city!" if they venture off the island (a rare occasion), crossing one of four bridges. It's not uncommon to see groups of chatting fishermen assembled under the bridges-- though I'd be hesitant to eat a fish that came from the Seine.

Pictured: One of many river perspectives. A dog keeping watch outside an island boutique. The butcher's famous shop window, where we stared in amazement at all the pretty birds and rabbits. The elegant (uniform) façade of townhouses as it appears from the Ile de la Cité. Fishermen under the bridge. Crossing the Pont de la Tournelle.

Discovering the Lot: St-Cirq Lapopie and the Caves of Pech Merle

2007-11-20T10:31:00.000+01:00

Drive west from Cahors, following the winding curves of the cliff-flanked River Lot, and you'll discover some of the most beautiful scenery in France. Hugging the river, the road passes through rock tunnels beneath the sheer limestone outcroppings. There are a smattering of villages built along the river's edge, accessible by narrow bridges.

The most spectacular of all the region's tiny medieval hamlets is St-Cirq Lapopie, perched on a cliff some 100 meters above the river. Stroll through flower-filled alleys and then brace yourself for the ascent. Cafes and artisans' shops now fill the half-timbered houses. And the gardens are magnificent. (When touring so many of these rural villages, I've been struck by the French devotion to aesthetics-- it's as if each village resident goes out of his/her way to beautify the house: planting flower boxes, guiding the rose plant to frame the front door.)

From the top of this 13th century village, the vertical drop to the River Lot is impressive, and the views, dramatic. When we visited the light was just right, bathing the fields below in a golden hue. The village has retained its charm despite the bus loads of tourists who visit. In fact, a tour bus had clogged the entire road the day we visited, as it tried to navigate a particularly narrow turn. So we opted to walk-- passing riders on horseback as we did.

Nearby (about 30 kilometers from Cahors) is the Grotte de Pech Merle, an extensive series of caverns that showcase marvelous prehistoric paintings along with the bizarre stalactites and stalagmites. Two boys discovered the caves in 1922, and we couldn't help but joke that maybe it was that pair who spent time marking up the walls. Most impressive are the footprints left behind-- a path across the mud.

Cro-Magnon people drew paintings of mammoths and polka-dotted horses in this eerie, sacred space some 16,000 years ago, and it's a marvel to behold. There are a bunch of negative human hand prints visible on the wall, like an artist's signature. It was also cool to see the bizarre tree roots hanging in the caverns, meters and meters below the earth's surface. They've marked the tree with an 'x' outside the grotte's entrance.

The Strike against the Strike

2007-11-20T09:43:00.000+01:00

Update on the massive transportation strikes: now there is a movement to "Stop la grève!" They are actually striking against the strike, carrying placards and wearing stop sign buttons through the streets of Paris. La grève is costing millions of euros, and folks-- usually sympathetic to this sacred right of labor unions-- are fed up. Vive la France! La grève-- as quintessentially French as a buttery crossaint-- is the instrument by which political protests, social protests, just about all statements are made...

Montcuq and Monopoly

2007-11-19T12:01:00.000+01:00

In September, we stayed at our friend Lucy's fabulous house and fell under the spell of the Lot, the Occitan-speaking département in southwest France. The limestone plateau is cut by the meandering River Lot, carving impressive canyons between pastures and fields of vines of the Cahors Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée. This is where pilgrims walked the ancient trail to Santiago de Compostela, passing through Cahors and within steps of Lucy's house.

Not far is the charming village of Montcuq, where the morning market lures locals and tourists alike. We browsed through bountiful displays of fruits, sausage, pots of honey... Pierre decided he couldn't live without a set of crème brûlée dishes (sold with a fire-heated iron to burn the sugar on top).

The joke among the French is that the village's name is pronounced the same as 'mon cul' or "my ass." And now this vibrant little hamlet has been put on the world map because of the media attention surrounding the special release of Monopoly France, featuring names of French cities. A vote was held on the Internet to choose the cities for the game's new version and-- what do you know?-- Montcuq nabbed the top spot. But just recently, Hasbro, the game's manufacturer, decided to replace the number 1 spot with Dunkerque.

The Villages of the Dordogne: Domme and Beynac-et-Cazenac

2007-11-18T11:50:00.000+01:00

The rural region of the Périgord, land of foie gras and truffles, is one of my favorite places to visit. And I'm not alone. In the last few decades, the Dordogne has become one of the hottest tourist destinations in France. Dotted with charming medieval hamlets and imposing chateaux, the Dordogne is also celebrated as one of the prehistoric cradles of civilization. The 14,000-years-old cave drawings in the Lascaux caves are world-famous.

From Sarlat (where we stuffed ourselves with candied walnuts and treats from the market, comme d'habitude), we drove along the river and discovered village after enchanting village-- from La Roque Gageac to the clifftop village of Domme, both members of the association of the "most beautiful villages in France." The panorama from Domme's esplanade is breathtaking. It's a good place to stop for lunch.

Next stop: Beynac-et-Cazenac, topped by a formidable 13th century castle, facing the Castlenaud fortress across the river, an English stronghold during the Hundred Years War. It's easy to see why forces battled so violently. (As one of the English women in my French class said, "France has the most beautiful terroir in the world!") It's a hefty climb to the top, but worth it. Interesting to note that Luc Besson chose to film his Joan of Arc movie, The Messenger, here in Beynac.

Pictures date from our last visit in September. Domme is featured in the top two images; Beynac, the bottom.

How Many Kisses?

2007-11-16T22:30:00.000+01:00

It seems the French are as confused as I am when it comes to figuring out the bises business. In a clever piece called "The grand game of who-kisses-who," Libération gives a tongue and cheek assessment of the (often baffling) French etiquette. The solution? A Web site whereby the readers can cast their vote for the number of kisses for each region. On the map of France, you can click your département and give your say about the proper protocol. Brilliant!

La Greve

2007-11-16T19:05:00.000+01:00

Just one word is enough to strike fear within the hearts of travelers across France. SNCF staged a massive grève on Wednesday so all trains ground to a halt, including the Paris metro. The picture says it all: the painful wait for the tramway, which was the only thing running in the city besides the new, auto-piloted metro line 14. Paris was paralyzed. Bumper-to-bumper red lights, crowds of commuters numb with cold. And when I headed to the Limoges university today, the students were also staging a strike. The halls were blocked off with piles of chairs; the walls plastered with angry literature. Next week, a different strike will keep me from class on Tuesday. Administration and teachers. It seems everybody wants to join the party.

Market Day at Sarlat

2007-11-09T11:20:00.000+01:00

My favorite destination in the Dordogne: the exquisite sandstone turrets and golden-hued alleys of Sarlat-la-Canéda. Thanks to André Malraux, Minister of Culture in the 1960s, the city was plucked from certain decay and destruction* and given a new life as a beautifully restored Medieval city. When Malraux passed a law for the preservation of France's historical monuments, Sarlat became his pet project and millions were pumped into its renovation.

Saturday is market day, where you can find all sorts of delicacies from the Perigord: foie gras, duck confit, candied walnuts. The honeycomb walls are splashed with color. Because Sarlat's tiny streets are often jam-packed with tour groups, the secret is to go in the off-season-- January for example, when the temperatures are mild but the crowds have dispersed. Plus, January is in the thick of truffle season!

*In fact much of the Dordogne was crumbling and slowly slipping away, as detailed in W.S. Merwin's beautiful book, The Lost Upland. Now Sarlat is a humming ville-ruche, and hamlets like La Roque are living museums for tourists to marvel at and appreciate. (And the Brits are back: buying up property where the 100 Years War raged centuries before.)

P.S. Check out Salon.com's "Literary Guide to the World" for an excellent synopsis of Merwin's books and the Southwest region.

Vitrines and Funny Flowers: The Charms of Cahors

2007-11-08T22:02:00.000+01:00

There's a big old fortified bridge. And a cathedral chock full of ancient frescoes, where-- if you're lucky-- you can overhear the most uplifting concert practice: trumpets and French horns and clarinets and an organ filling the soaring space. And a cave where they'll let you taste all sorts of delicious bottles of that full-boded, inky black wine for which Cahors is famous.

But a walk through the old town of Cahors, capital of the Quercy region, is mostly entertaining for what you find displayed in the shop windows. Newspaper headlines shouting, "Ce soir ou jamais!" before the France-New Zealand rugby match. Pretty crocs all in a row. Not to mention the public flower arrangements, like this funny fish (pictured) with fork poised in mid-air above it, that we found on the riverbank.

And how much is that doggie in the window?

La Rentrée

2007-11-07T18:47:00.000+01:00

The re-entry, the re-immersion, the return. That's what September is all about in France*, when everyone returns from their months-long summer vacation fired up and ready to get back to work (or hit the books). So it's fitting that I timed my own rentrée for September-- when the streets are abuzz and France hums back to life after a sleepy, sunny summer. First stop? Why the restaurant at Pont Saint-Etienne, of course, for the best desserts in town.

*besides truffle-hunting and mushroom gathering!

Au Revoir, Limoges

2007-06-13T10:17:00.000+02:00

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

2007-06-12T16:50:00.000+02:00

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

2007-06-11T13:44:00.000+02:00

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

2007-06-10T16:43:00.000+02:00

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

2007-06-10T10:45:00.000+02:00

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

2007-06-08T18:18:00.000+02:00

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

2007-06-04T21:33:00.000+02:00

"...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

2007-06-03T19:47:00.000+02:00

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)

2007-06-01T18:52:00.000+02:00

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.

A Weekend in the Loire Valley

2007-05-29T18:31:00.000+02:00

I had no idea where we were going until we turned off the highway towards Tours (Pierre spun all the way around one of those nausea-inducing highway roundabouts just for good measure, so I was left puzzling about our destination-- would it be St- Malo and Bretagne?-- as we first circled past the green signs for Tours. What a crafty ruse.) And then it hit me: we would spend a weekend in the Valley of Kings, the most opulent of French tourist destinations! Across the world, the symbol associated with la belle France is the grand, romantic chateaux rising from the vineyards around the mighty Loire River. The whole region, rich with architectural treasures, has been named an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

First stop: the Chateau of Langeais, where we sat outside the fortified ramparts, sipping cafe and munching on crossaints, my favorite pasttime. The chateau itself is not as lavish as Chambord, but is historically fascinating. It was here where Duchess Anne of Bretagne married Charles VIII in 1491, thus uniting the kingdoms. (Prior to that occasion, Brittany had been a wild, independent region, distinguished by its Celtic roots.) Inside the chateau, there's a funny wax figure exhibit explaining this important event.

The furniture is pretty cool. Stone walls are covered by Medieval tapestries; I now realize they served as much a practical purpose as an aesthetic one, keeping out the cold drafts in the winter. Over the beds, fabrics were suspended from the ceiling's thick, wooden beams. In front of the massive stone fireplace, a wooden bench could be transformed into a back warmer or foot warmer, depending on the guests' whims. (I wonder if they patented that invention.) Overall, the furnishings provide a fascinating picture of what royal life was like back in the 15th century.

Pictured: The Chateau of Langeais; the young betrothed royalty back in the 15th century; view from the upper rampart walk which wrapped around the castle (you can see the window slats where guards could hurl nasty objects at attackers-- buckets of hot oil, arrows, and the like); lunch in magical, medieval Tours.

Druids and Gauls and Knights, Oh My! :Ancient Origins in Le Rat, Limousin

2007-05-25T15:02:00.000+02:00

Before the 100 Years War, before the Romans, before the Gauls, the Druids hung out in the green hills of the Limousin, staking out hilltops, groves of trees, and other sacred natural places. And when we walked through the forest near the village of Le Rat (gotta love the name), looking for a mysterious chapel rumored to be perched on the mountain overlooking the Chandouille and Vienne valleys, I understood why these tranquil spots were so revered. Moss-covered trees created cathedral-like arches above our heads. Old stone walls marked the path, strewn with leaves.

When we reached the top of the hill, light broke through the forest and we saw a tiny stone structure in a clearing. The chapel-- now closed to visitors-- was built in the 17th century. I skimmed the information tacked to the door outside: "blah blah francais blah, DRUID blah blah." (I'll spare you my butchered translation but suffice it to say that I immediately perked up when I read the Druid history part. How cool! Like the wizard dude from the Asterix comic books who saves our hero with his mysterious, brewed concoctions. Sweet!)

All around were rock formations where rituals were performed millennia ago. A large granite cross was later erected at the tallest point. The views are breathtaking. I took a nap in the sun while little Henri jumped all over the rocks. Apparently this region is full of vestiges of ancient history; the masons of the Medieval Romanesque churches often incorporated the Druids' cross and number symbolism into the design.

PS. Nearby, there is also a stone Templars' Cross dating from the 13^th century.

Lost in the Limousin: Lac Vassiviere and the Millevaches Plateau

2007-05-24T22:45:00.000+02:00

Exploring the Millevaches Plateau is like stepping back in time: a remote, rural idyll of rolling pastures and lots of toffee-colored Limousine cows. Everything is remarkably green. Villages consist of a few modest stone houses hugging a country road; tractors are parked in the barn; an elderly couple walks hand in hand down the narrow lane. There are no major highways. Just total quiet.

"It's mythical, MW." My friends tried to explain the vision conjured in the minds of most French folks when they think about this mysterious, underpopulated plateau in central France, where many of the inhabitants live the way they've lived for centuries. Here, the rural way of life has been preserved. Geographically, the plateau hugs the western edge of the Massif Central and is marked by the higher mountainous altitudes (1,000 meters). The name itself seems appropriate; the Limousin is known for its cattle and there are easily more than a "thousand cows" roaming these parts. But get this: the word "Millevaches" is apparently Celtic in origin, and means "a thousand sources"-- as the region, known for its rivers, streams, and lakes, is the source for the Vézère, Corrèze and Vienne rivers (and provides the water supply for the Garonne region).

The landscape is beautiful: a carpet of green dotted with wildflowers, bordered by lakes, peat bogs, and dense forest. Our Parisian friends made the comparison with Quebec. Indeed, this spot is known as "the Canada of France." We picnicked by Lac de Vassivière, one of the largest lakes in Europe, where little Henri was smitten with the donkeys.

After a day in the country, we returned to Limoges, after the requisite stop at the boucherie (pictured) to choose some fresh steaks for dinner. (This is the Limousin, after all!)

Life is Like a Box of (French) Cheeses

2007-05-21T23:20:00.000+02:00

Heaven on earth is a plate of fresh, stinky cheeses from the Pyrénées, packed in a gracefully curving box by an artisan fromager in Pau, and toted by dear friends on a haul north to Limoges. The cheeses were arranged on a wooden cutting board nestled beside faux autumn leaves and a handful of walnuts. Cards on toothpicks marked each delicious cheese (melt-in-your-mouth brebis, a block of aged comté...) The fromager wrote the type of cheese beneath cute little drawings of cows, sheep, and horned goats.

Flower Fritters: Beignets de Fleurs d'Acacia in Biscarrosse

2007-05-18T13:57:00.000+02:00

I was skeptical. Thomas had seen a recipe on the Internet involving fleurs d'Acacia, the fragrant white flower blossoming across Les Landes. But it didn't take much arm-twisting to agree to cook these flowers for a special dessert-- after all, anything fried is good. On a morning run, Pierre and Thomas spied lots of fleurs d'Acacia on the grounds of a private yacht club. We had located our source, the prized ingredient.

Later that day, the boys stealthily snuck onto the property, tote bags and gardening shears in hand, while Mathieu and I waited in the car, motor running. Minutes later they returned at a full sprint (owner hot on their trail, apparently) and we sped off into the dusk.

Back in the kitchen, Pierre and Thomas prepared the beignet batter, while I separated the leaves from the flowers, careful to keep the stems intact to use when dipping. We clowned around in an assembly line of sorting, dipping, frying, and sugar-dusting, and the result was surprisingly tasty. (Thomas decided to fry up some bananas and apples as a back-up plan.) The flowers taste as sweet as they smell.

The Gigantic Dunes de Pyla Near Bordeaux

2007-05-16T12:09:00.000+02:00

Just minutes from Biscarosse, the enormous Dunes de Pyla loom over the Atlantic. The fine sandy beaches of the seaside resort of Archachon are bordered by the highest dunes in Europe. The sand is devouring the pine forest, slowly inching inland, swallowing the trees alive, as Thomas liked to say. Apparently there are some ill-positioned campsites and restaurants that are at risk of becoming covered.

We panted our way up to the top of the dune, slipping and sliding our way through the sand. The views from the top are stupendous: on one side, the ocean rolls out to the horizon; on the other, the pine forest stretches like a green carpet, far below. In the distance, dozens of colorful paragliders soared over the dunes and surf. (The way down is more fun. Pierre rolled in somersaults; Thomas's brother sprinted in giant strides; I leaped.)

On our first day, I went for a walk down the beach to check out the dunes, while the boys got all creative and constructed a massive driftwood sculpture, decorated with shells and refuse they found on the sand. We watched the sun sink to the edge of the Atlantic, the colors reflected in the sand at the edge of the sea. It was quiet here at the Bassin d'Archachon, the water was still and wave-less, but we could hear the roar of the ocean-- and see the white caps-- to the south.

The second day on the beach was devoted to fishing. We promised to bring home a cooler of freshly-caught fish for dinner. Thomas's father was skeptical and pulled his own fish from the freezer to thaw. It was a good thing, since we didn't catch a thing. Instead, as the boys rigged the rods, Pierre stepped on a dangerous poisonous fish in the shallows, buried in the sand, which shot a poison barb into his foot. We checked out a book later to identify the fish and it was a nasty-looking little beast.

Pictured: You can just make out the erosion patterns in the sand above the doomed pine trees. Like a mini-Grand Canyon.

Discovering Biscarrosse and Les Landes

2007-05-15T12:20:00.000+02:00

On a weekend visit south of Bordeaux to see Thomas and his family, we were treated to incredible meals, good cheer, and the best kind of French hospitality-- boisterous and gregarious. Thomas's brother, an avid kayaker, had just returned from a two-year stint in New Zealand and the family was happy to be together again. We were welcomed like family. As we devoured beautiful, multi-course meals (better than any restaurant), Thomas's father, a jolly, bearded fellow, graciously opened bottle after bottle from his wine cellar, aged to perfection.

Thomas's father built the house by hand: a magnificent timbered structure modeled after the historical architectural traditions of the Landes département. I'm just beginning to learn the vast differences between each of the 100 départements in France. Located within the Aquitaine region, bordered by the huge shifting sand dunes next to the Atlantic, Les Landes used to be a vast tract of marshy moors, its sandy soil impossible to cultivate. Forests of pine were planted in the 19th century to prevent erosion, and now the lowly-populated département is known for its timbering industry. Apparently the pilgrims, en route to Santiago de Compostela, used to dread the crossing of the uninhabited moors of Les Landes.

The flat landscape is unlike anything I've seen in France, dotted with desert scrub and flowering yellow bushes. The name for the département now also indicates this particular type of landscape. Even with the sandy soil, Thomas's father is able to grow a vegetable garden. He mixes kitchen compost with the sand.

Our rowdy, late-night conversations covered topics like the trendy 100 mile-diet in the States, the French election (of course), travel (Thomas's parents are adventurous voyagers), and the history of Les Landes. The département has been inhabited since paleolithic times, and Thomas's father was quite passionate about the area's archeological digs. In the nearby lakes, they have discovered artifacts, including a canoe, dating from the Iron Age. The mayor has threatened to stop the funding for this project, which-- we agreed-- is ludicrous. The early inhabitants of this region created iron tools to carve canoes, which they used to explore the coastline. Rivers used to flow directly to the sea, which have since been stopped by the enormous shifting sand dunes, eroding and spreading like the Sahara. The rivers dead-ended at these sand barriers, and lakes were formed. At the bottom of one of these lakes, where the tourists flock in the summertime, incredible artifacts spill the secrets of the ancient people who settled the land.

Pictured: Thomas spoons generous portions of fish on my plate. The platter was positively indulgent: six different kinds of fish purchased from fishermen in Bayonne, grilled and served Spanish-style.

Jour de Gloire: French Presidential Election

2007-05-14T10:43:00.000+02:00

Only in France would a polling place be located inside a chateau. Sunday, May 6 was tense with excitement (French media is not allowed to make forecasts before the polls close, so Pierre and friends were checking out the Swiss media to get the scoop before 8 p.m.) so we made an excursion into the Limousin countryside to get our minds off politics.

The nearby village of Nexon is situated on the Route of Richard the Lionheart. Back in the day, Richard I of England waged war over these lands (not to mention all of that crusading in Sicily and Cyprus.) In fact, he was killed here in the Limousin in 1199 at the castle of Chalus. Today it's privately owned by some Brits, who allow visitors to get all dolled up and feast-- Middle Ages-style. (Mutton and goblets of mead in front of a roaring fire, I imagine.)

We arrived in Nexon and headed to the magnificent chateau to check it out. Walking through the gates, we realized that the Nexon mayor's office is actually located inside the historic chateau; signs pointed the way to the voting booths. The hum of voices led us into a large room where we discovered the local politicians hard at work counting the votes. Seated around heavy, wooden tables, they manually sorted the envelopes into piles. The light from the chandeliers flickered across the Medieval tapestry on the walls.

Talmont-sur-Gironde: The Most Beautiful Villages in France

2007-05-08T17:49:00.000+02:00

Picture this: a seaside village that seems to float over the waves, a fortified church at the tip of a promontory overlooking the estuary, white-washed houses with colorfully-painted doors, cobbled lanes covered with flowers... Welcome to Talmont-sur-Gironde, 12 kilometers south of Royan in the Charente-Maritime département. Of course a charming spot like this-- where visitors like me feel compelled to fill entire memory cards with photos on a walking tour-- has earned a coveted spot as one of the Les Plus Beaux Villages de France.

For the May 1 birthday festivities, guests were organized into teams for a scavenger hunt with clues assembled all over the village. And what a fine way to explore the town. We were sent to discover the village's namesake plant, the words painted on the bottom of a miniature ship hanging from the church nave, a mysterious clue hidden in the surrounding marsh. (Poor Pierre had to wade barefoot into the mud flats.) The packet of thorough instructions/clues even sent us to buy a wooden Christmas ornament from one of the boutiques.

Our teammates, a hip bilingual couple, bounced a baby on the hip while simultaneously camouflaging a clue-- hiding it from the competition under a pile of sand in a bucket at the bottom of a well. (Hahaha. Alas, we still came in last.) Another teammate turned to me and said, "Can you believe people actually live here! In the U.S., you'd only find this in Disney World!" (On the ride over to Talmont, we had discussed-- unfortunately-- his last family trip to the U.S. Where to? Orlando!) I didn't think I had the time to wax poetic about small-town America...

Curious about the history of Talmont-sur-Gironde? A stopping point for pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Compostela, the Romanesque church Sainte-Radegonde dates from the end of the 11th century. Edward I from England later built the fortified village, this ancient bastide, around the existing church in 1284. Here, the battles of the Hundred Years War raged.

Pictured: The wind-swept cemetery, full of flowers, next to the sea. An impressive display of wine at one of the village shops.

Le Pont de Mai by the Sea: Weekend at Meschers, Gironde

2007-05-07T12:06:00.000+02:00

We celebrated the May 1st weekend at a big birthday party for Pierre's friend/mentor, Laurent, in a picturesque fishing village on the Gironde estuary just north of Bordeaux. May is one long férié in France, a string of back-to-back holiday weekends called "les ponts de Mai." (May 1, or Labor Day, fell on a Tuesday this year, hence the obvious need for Monday to be declared a holiday. Likewise, May 8-- the holiday to celebrate the Victoire of 1945-- falls on a Tuesday, inspiring most French citizens to take Monday as a vacation day, creating the "bridge" between the weekend and national holiday.)

These long weekends are characterized by spectacular feasts, plenty of sun-bathing, animated political debates, and all-around merriment. Upon our arrival on Monday, after a serious sand castle competition (our team won with a mini Egyptian pyramid, replete with a mysterious, crouching Sphinx-- aka Pierre-- who queried the birthday boy with impossible riddles), we picnicked on the sand. It was a really indulgent luncheon. Bottles of wine and local Pineau were kept cool in a small pool of fresh water at the base of the cliffs, from where springs trickled down the rock face. We ate bbq'ed mussels, salads, saucisson, quiche... (The platters of mussels were cooked right on the beach beneath flaming piles of pine needles.)

A word about Meschers: While tour buses descend upon the Médoc for tasting Bordeaux's celebrated wines, the small villages on the other side of the estuary, where the Garonne and Dordogne rivers converge and dump into the Atlantic, remain untouristed and quaint. From the beach (pictured), we could gaze across at Pauillac on the facing shore. The rock cliffs seem to soar above the sea. For centuries, people have inhabited the caves carved into these cliffs, including groups of persecuted Protestants. There is even a restaurant built into the rock at Meschers, its windows facing out onto the rising tides. And today, people still live in the cliffs! We enjoyed a boat excursion out on the water, from where we could see the windows and doors of houses opening from these cliff-walls, just inches above the rolling waves. The waterfront is distinguished by docks and colorful fishing houses typical of the region (pictured); nets are rigged at the end of the docks and suspended into the sea.

Petanque- Brazilian Style

2007-04-27T20:26:00.000+02:00

Rule Numéro 1: The game of boules should be played on a Sunday afternoon when the weather is particularly fine. Not too hot-- as that would make the competitors sluggish and worthless.

Rule Numéro 2: The match should be preceded by a lunch feast with multiple courses in the French Sunday tradition. Roast beef with garden vegetables, salad and fromage, tarte tatin... (The heavier the better.)

Rule Numéro 3: Said meal should be accompanied by copious quantities of wine, preferably a different bottle for each course. Aperitifs and digestifs are mandatory. (As is a small cup of espresso before departing for the local park and boules courts.)

Rule Numéro 4: There is no such thing as a tie. It's imperative to use a measuring device to determine who has scored closest to the cochonnet (that's the name for the little ball). Thus, the tape measure pictured at right. Though a simple stick will also suffice.

We introduced my favorite Brazilians, Maira and Bruno, to the brilliant game of Petanque on a lazy Sunday afternoon in Limoges. I believe it will become a Sunday tradition.

Wine-tasting in the Deux-Sèvres

2007-04-25T11:29:00.000+02:00

Believe it or not, there are vineyards in the Deux-Sèvres. In a country famed for its big wine-producing regions-- Rhone, the Loire, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Alsace, Languedoc, and Champagne, of course-- there are enclaves where smaller producers create tasty varietals. The Romans introduced the art of wine-making to Gaul, and the monks-- God bless 'em-- kept the tradition alive during the Middle Ages. Today small family-owned vignerons like Arnault & Fils continue the art.

One of my favorite things to do on a visit to La Chapelle Saint-Laurent is to accompany Pierre's father on one of his wine-buying missions to Arnault & Fils (Le Pressoir a Cales). Just south of Angers and the Loire Valley, not far from Bressuire in Bouillé-Loretz, Arnault & Fils has produced its wines for four generations. Appellations represented are: Anjou Blanc, Anjou Rouge, Rosé de Loire, Crémant de Loire, Cabernet d'Anjou, and Anjou Village.

The sun is shining and the fields surrounding the winery are abloom with wildflowers. Outside the family's house, a wooden mailbox has been adopted by a small nesting bird. A polite sign is tacked nearby: "Please do not deliver the mail here, as the mailbox is now occupied." We duck into the cool tasting room where the walls are plastered with ancient posters and wine paraphernalia. Pierre's father grins and we clink our glasses together in a toast. My favorite is the delicious, sweet rosé: Cabernet d'Anjou. I like the idea of buying locally. We stock up on inexpensive bottles and boxes, but I hope we'll be back soon.

Arnault & Fils Vignerons.
79290 Bouillé-Loretz
Tel: 05 49 67 04 85
Open Monday-Saturday, 9-12; 2-6 p.m.

Presidential Election in France: Ségo vs. Sarko

2007-04-23T09:29:00.000+02:00

France is buzzing with la politique. The Presidential election has generated unprecedented interest across the country-- from cosmopolitan Paris to the smallest, quaint villages. There was massive voter participation in the first round yesterday; 85-87% of France's registered voters cast ballots, a mind-boggling turn-out. Bloggers had their fingers on the pulse of the national mood (as France is a country of bloggers, with the highest per capita number of bloggers worldwide), describing the popular fixation on the race. As folks frantically sought news of the election-- through SMS, MSN messenger, blogs, traditional news sources like TV and radio, every available technology-- blogs went down because of the high levels of traffic.

Pierre's family voted ensemble in La Chapelle-Saint-Laurent. The voting system seemed simple and fool-proof. Candidates names were printed in bold letters on 12 separate pieces of paper. Each voter shuffled through the line to select the papers, ducked into a voting booth, slipped the piece of paper with their chosen candidate into an envelope, and then dropped the envelope into the ballot box after showing their official election registration card and signing the voter list.

But we noticed something strange at this small regional voting outpost: José Bové's name was missing from the stacks of votes outside the booths. Voters had a choice of only 11 of the 12 candidates. And in France, voters are not allowed to write in the names of candidates as we are in the U.S. (A safety precaution against election fraud.) I have been fascinated by the French election in comparison with the U.S. system. I have been impressed with the leveling of the playing field: the limits on campaign spending, the careful mediation of media attention, the absence of political ads on TV (what a relief to not have to suffer through a season of attack ads).

But it seemed strange that Bové's name was missing from the candidate list because-- apparently-- he didn't bother to provide the funds for it. (Note: For the photo at right, Pierre dashed out to the car to grab a Bové ballot. Each French voter receives a stack of ballots in the mail, along with literature on each candidate. The brochures are the same exact size, the same paper quality-- another example of the leveled playing field.)

France is passionate about politics. But the record numbers at the polls yesterday were not a sign of passion for a particular candidate. Indeed, news outlets were predicting a toss-up ("Anything can happen!") because of the large numbers of undecided voters. Pierre was still debating his choice minutes before he dropped his vote in the ballot box. Rather, many French citizens wanted to avoid a repeat of the embarrassing 2002 election, when Le Pen succeeded in advancing to the second round because the left's voting block was split by myriad smaller candidates. This time, many voters from the left banded together to cast their vote for the Socialist Ségolène Royal and assure that Le Pen could not advance to the next round. (Le Pen has a loyal contingent of voters. He received 10.5% of the vote yesterday.)

I've been disappointed in the NY Times coverage of the race because of their failure to talk about Bayrou, the centrist candidate, who came in third yesterday with 18.8% of the vote. For me, Bayrou has become a symbol of French dissatisfation with the traditional, competing left-right divide in politics. Bayrou, the independent with roots on the farm, offered a new, non-partisan way of governing, bridging the gap between parties.

Let the show-down begin. In two weeks, after the run-off election on May 6, France will determine its future course, perhaps with its first woman president.

Update: Electoral malfunctions are not limited to the grand state of Florida. It turns out that La Chapelle Saint-Laurent's votes were disqualified because of the mix-up with Bové's ballots. C'est dommage.

Cafeteria Food and Other Reasons to Learn French in France

2007-04-20T16:47:00.000+02:00

Cafeterias everywhere get a bad rap. It's always easy to crack jokes about institutionalized food, even in the world's gastronomic capital. (Pictured: Gabriel, my Brazilian friend, pokes fun of his half-empty tray-- displaying the only edible menu options: water and bread.) But for EUR 2,75, who's complaining? At the dining hall at the University of Limoges, lunch is quite a civilized affair. One must choose a salad, main course, fromage, and dessert, accompanied by a bread roll, of course. If you happen to turn your nose up at the day's plat (sting ray, anyone?), there's always the pizza and fries option. The cafeteria is civilized even when it's packed with hungry students jostling for a place in line; murmurs of "Pardon" or "Oh no, after you," thread the conversation.

Learning French in France has many advantages, cultural and linguistic immersion being the most obvious. But right up there on the list is price. Like the ridiculously inexpensive lunch, a full year of language classes at the University of Limoges is about EUR 500. For 16 hours a week, two full semesters.

What's on at the Palais de Tokyo, Paris

2007-04-18T10:49:00.000+02:00

For a fun, wholly amusing diversion in Paris, head over to the Palais de Tokyo to check out Michel Blazy's thought-provoking new exhibit "Post Patman." Running until May 6, 2007, the show is described as "an exhibition born out of organic proliferation." You can't even imagine. Mix chocolate, dog biscuits, sugar, oranges, carrots, and all sorts of everyday organic matter and what do you get? Mildew, mushrooms, decrepit rot, the pungent stink of quick degeneration, with lots of buzzing flies...

A few weeks ago, we checked out the Palais de Tokyo on a rainy Saturday. I walked in the exhibit room and was baffled. I noticed little birds nibbling on what looked like a mountain of spun sugar. As they ate, their feet would get stuck in the sticky yellow substance. Were the birds part of the exhibit? How on earth did they get inside the room? To my left, a moss-covered fish tank. To my right, more birds pecked crumbs from a skeleton made of dog biscuits. And in front of me, an orange wall was sprouting mushrooms.

The metamorphoses are slow, but over the lifetime of the exhibit seem quite rapid. Everyday processes take on a different meaning in the context of the exhibit space. I found myself craning my neck for a closer examination. Those shriveled black things are actually carrots? And as I leaned in for a better look, I noticed the patterns within the slimy mess. Degeneration, like so many biological processes, may seem random, but there is really order within the chaos. The artist had painted the orange wall with a liquid mix of food and kitchen supplies in a pattern of triangles and diamonds-- as if to call our attention to this concept of order.

Look closely (examining the little army of mushrooms sticking out perpendicular from the wall) and the smallest pieces of matter seem to follow an orderly pattern. Which gets you thinking about the shapes of molecules and atoms and the tiniest particles of matter and... I digress. You get the picture. It's all about the rhyme and reason behind apparent chaos.

Our favorite part of the exhibit was the green recycling bins filled with shaving cream. Each morning, the museum staff would launch the experiment: mixing chemicals to ignite the foam to bubble and expand. Each green bin represented a different phase in the growth of the mass-- before it eventually toppled over and hit the floor. (You can see our friend Fred in the background, arms crossed in front of him, mesmerized by the show.)

P.S. The chairs are the Palais de Tokyo are pretty cool too. And comfortable. With the free WIFI, you could easily camp out here for an entire day.

Spring Fever in France

2007-04-16T20:42:00.000+02:00

By far the best time to visit France? Right about now. Sunshine-filled days are complemented by cool breezes and cloudless blue skies. The parks in Limoges are packed with petanque-playing gentlemen, families checking out the duck ponds, and couples basking au soleil.

The French have it right. Spring is a time to be outside and celebrate the flowers and thawed (at long last) temperatures. It seems the entire month of May is one long holiday. And if you play it right, you can plan all sorts of four-day weekends. See, this year the first of May (the fête du travail) and the 8th of May (the férié celebrating the end of WWII) happen to fall on Tuesday. So most folks are living it up with back-to-back four day weekends, what's called les ponts de Mai. (The "bridge" being the extra day between the weekend and the holiday.)

Blue wildflowers are blossoming recklessly across the patio. In fact, the flowers are everywhere. Check out the pic. Over the Easter weekend, Manu and I biked the voie verte in the Deux-Sèvres (a new bike path along the ancient railway line connecting Bressuire and Parthenay) to Damien's farm. Pictured at right: the proud, young farmer checking out his herd (and the newly-purchased Limousine bull).

Easter= A Year in Limoges

2007-04-14T17:58:00.000+02:00

On my return from the university, I switch buses at Place d'Aine. The bus stop is conveniently located smack dab in front of a specialty chocolate store. So I usually have about 10 minutes to drool in front of the window display. Easter means the vitrine is stacked with chocolate chickens, real egg shells filled with chocolate, and whole armies of marzipan animals. Especially tempting are the larger sized eggs wrapped in colorful ribbon. When you untie the bow, the two perfect halves fall apart to reveal a treasure of smaller eggs and chocolate fish inside. Too beautiful (and pricey) to eat.

I snap out of my chocolate-coated reverie to realize: It's been a year since we moved to Limoges!

Nicolas Hulot and the Pacte Écologique

2007-04-12T09:00:00.000+02:00

France is abuzz with l'élection présidentielle. (For a break-down of all 12 candidates, from the bigot Le Pen to McDonald's-smashing José Bové, check out Why Travel To France.) A few weeks ago in Paris, we headed to the Zenith, in the beautiful Parc de la Villette (19th arrondissement), to hear Nicolas Hulot talk about his Pacte écologique. The environmentalist superstar, famous for his televised nature show Ushuaïa, has insisted that the future French president prioritize environmental issues and mandate a program of action.

The Zenith was packed for this free event (attendees were required to register over the Internet and print the corresponding email as the entrance "ticket"). As to be expected, Hulot dazzled the audience. Folks leapt to their feet after he spoke, clapping wildly. The only let-down was the recital of a poem by an Hulot fan-- well-intentioned, but poorly-conceived-- in the vein of "I Have A Dream."

Outside, we noticed the trees wrapped in various colors-- a symbol that environmentalism is not just a movement for the "Greens."

Don't Miss in Paris: Musée National du Moyen Age

2007-04-06T15:47:00.000+02:00

I found a sublime hideaway in the heart of the Latin Quarter. So what if the gift shop was packed with tourists from Espagne? (Yes, tourist season is upon us in the nation's capital.) Blvd St Germain may be crawling with visitors but the small museum is still blissfully tranquil.

The setting is magical. Housed in the 15th century Cluny Abbey, the musée was built on the site of Gallo-Roman baths dating from the 3rd century. Descend into the chilly basement frigidarium, and the cavernous space-- dimly lit and lined with statues and artifacts from the site-- will guarantee goose bumps pocking the spine.

Outside, the beautiful medieval garden recalls the landscape of the Middle Ages: there is a ménagier, or kitchen garden, with vegetables perfect for hearty winter stews, traditional medecines garden planted with nine herbs, and a contemporary sculpture positioned in the middle of the terrace. Commissioned in 2000, La Forêt de la Licorne is named for the spectacular tapestries on display in the museum. Collectively called La Dame à la Licorne, the series of six colorful wall hangings each depict one of the different senses. (The photo below is dark, but I'm guessing the pictured tapestry is all about "touch.")

Inside, the architectural details are stunning (check out the ceiling of the chapel, at right). And I thoroughly enjoyed the collections: manuscripts, armor, stained glass windows, religious sculptures and paintings. But the most fascinating of all are the objects from everyday life: the hefty metal keys are still used across France to this day. (Whenever I go for a jog, I must deal with stashing the enormous, awkward house-key, a small archaic vestige of a culture filled with many.)

A Capricious Spring in France

2007-04-05T09:06:00.000+02:00

I actually got sunburned on Tuesday. Jogging through the park, sun high in the sky, I found myself smiling at the perfect spring temperatures. Older couples strolled arm in arm, gentlemen gathered for games of chess and boules, a father and son fished in the pond. I saw a hedgehog nosing through the flowers and stopped running just to grin at the little guy.

But yesterday I almost got frostbite waiting for the bus. I kid you not. Foolishly, I assumed a fleece was sufficient for a mild spring day in France, and ended up begging for a down parka and serious gloves. The flowers are as confused as I am. The strawberries are already flowering in the garden, tulips and daffodils ablooming. Alas.

Vesunna Musée Gallo-Romain, Périgueux: The Coolest Museum in France?

2007-03-27T21:59:00.000+02:00

The best part of any visit to Périgueux, the capital city of the Dordogne département, is the Vesunna Museum. Designed by the celebrated architect Jean Nouvel to showcase the ruins of a Roman residence dating from the 1st century, this place will take your breath away. Head to the southern part of the city, near the ancient Roman ramparts, stroll over a bridge and you'll come face to face with an enormous circular temple, the Tour de Vésone. Continue through gardens and pleasant landscaping, gaping at the monstrous Tour, and then you'll discover Nouvel's brilliant contemporary building.

Voila, one of the finest museums in a country famed for them. Tall glass walls are built around the very foundations of a miraculously preserved Roman villa, dating back millennia to the days when Périgueux was called Vesunna. (In the first century, this ancient city was the most celebrated in all of Aquitaine.) It is possible to walk around the museum's glass walls and peer inside to the incredible archeological finds. You'll find another spectacular view from a balcony inside the museum.

From a series of wood walkways that traverse the site, you can see the Roman heating/cooling systems, incredibly colorful wall murals, even a water pump. Not to mention the exhibits of jewelry, plates and cooking utensils, and other neat finds. On my visit, I couldn't stop raving about the place (poor Pierre). Through the glass, you see across thousands of years, and-- as Jean Nouvel intended-- you find yourself admiring the advanced civilization the Romans left behind, comparing it to our own.

The French Presidential Election

2007-03-25T16:02:00.000+02:00

Since last September, I've been a keen observer of the 2007 presidential election campaigns, in part because Pierre's political blog, Présidentielles 2007: demandez le programme!, has necessitated my immersion in la politique, but also because of the obvious comparisons with the current presidential campaigns on the other side of the pond. There are a lot of lessons to be learned: caps on spending, limited campaign duration, equal media attention for each candidate, etc. It's more of a level playing field, it seems. (Of course it's also been fun to watch the beautiful Ségolène Royal, the first female contender, and all the media frenzy that's surrounded her campaign.)

Stephen Clarke's recent op-ed piece in the New York Times, "No Sex, Please, We're French," is an interesting take on the race and the sudden rise to prominence of the third candidate, François Bayrou:

Most of all, he is something that even urban voters see as quintessentially French — a farmer. His official Web site shows him pitchforking hay on the family farm, and he was recently quoted in the weekly Le Point as saying: "My friends and I aren't the jet set. We're the tractor set."
One should not underestimate the strength of this rustic image in the national psyche. If you gave an average Frenchman the choice between a reforming president who would plug the country's huge deficit and a good cheese, he would probably opt for the cheese.
This is why in France, candidates not only kiss babies, they kiss cows. Politicians flocked into the recent Agriculture Fair in Paris to be photographed embracing livestock. And no one looked more convincing in the clinch with a four-legged, hairy friend than Mr. Bayrou.
His rise in the polls seems to prove that, despite what they say, the French are upset by upheaval, revolted by revolt. They want things to stay the way they have always been. Even Louis XVI was able to provoke his subjects into guillotining him only because he tried to flee the country, thus making himself look a traitor. If he had stayed in Paris and hugged a few prize bulls, France would probably still be a monarchy.

For another point-of-view, check out SuperFrenchie's critique.

A Day in Périgueux

2007-03-24T11:30:00.000+01:00

Périgueux is pleasant even on a non-market day. Dating from Roman times, the city is built on a hill overlooking the River Isle. It boasts a beautiful Medieval quartier, Roman ruins, and stunning cathedral that resembles a domed mosque. (The cathedral is impossibly ornate-- almost tacky-- with five domes. Apparently, the restoration process was overseen by Abadie, of Paris' Sacré Coeur fame.) Whenever I wander through the tiny alleys, I marvel at the shiny white limestone which is threaded through the cobble stone streets. (You can just make it out in the photo.)

These alleys are lined with ancient houses and boutiques so beautiful that I always feel compelled to buy something, no matter how impractical. There is a fromagerie with murals of the campagne painted on the walls, chocolate stores with elegant window displays, and wine shops brimming with crystal and tempting bottles. And of course there is foie gras everywhere you turn.

(The photo at right depicts a random wall painting I found while walking through the city. Looks like drunken Medieval debauchery to me.)

Périgueux and the Marché de Gras

2007-03-23T16:53:00.000+01:00

Before winter's end, I was obsessed with checking out the truffle market in the city of Périgueux, the capital of the Dordogne. The region is known for its marvelous confits, foie gras, and enormous black truffles, and the place to go for all these tasty treats is the Marché de Gras. (Somehow the English translation-- fat market-- doesn't quite sound so appealing.) One fine Saturday morning in February, we set out from Limoges and arrived on the place St-Louis just in time to wander through the market, eying the strange goose parts (and tasting the artisanal walnut oil). I watched a pretty vendor attend to her customers one-handed, as she hugged a little toy dog with her other arm. I was so mesmerized, in fact, that I missed the glorious bounty of truffles that she had carefully arranged next to her jars of homemade paté on the table. Alas, I missed my chance to see the last precious mushrooms of the season.

(The market pictured in the photo is just as fun to explore. Located on place de la Clautre, the fruit and vegetable market sprawls across the square beneath the beautiful domed cathedral.)

In Which I am Berated for Avoiding Paté

2007-03-22T12:06:00.000+01:00

At an apero last weekend, as small plates of canapés and cheese puffs circled the table, glasses of Bordeaux clinked together, I distinctly heard, over the clamor, a chiding, painfully anti-American remark: "Why is she not trying the homemade paté? She must only eat McDo." Woe is me for taking French at the university! Now these comments can no longer roll over my ears as indecipherable phrases, the pleasant musical cadence of French. I can actually understand the critical comments and stereotype-stained judgments! I bristled-- forget any dietary concerns, (make-believe) allergies I may have to prevent me from indulging in French delicacies-- and I started to prepare my tirade (in French) about the glories of Alice Waters and California cuisine. But then Pierre leapt to my defense. I never thought I'd see the day. The Frenchman actually loves American restaurants and simply went off about them.

Borsalino at the Place des Vosges, Paris

2007-03-22T11:43:00.000+01:00

The Marais: the bustling quartier in the heart of historic Paris, where my feet somehow magically lead me when wandering around the city. In a city steeped in history, the Marais district stands out for its fashionable pre-Revolution townhouses, tiny alleys lined with oh-so-pretty boutiques and restaurants, and lively nightlife. Here, the Place des Vosges, the oldest public square of its kind in Paris, is a lovely spot comprised of 36 symmetrical houses with pink brick and slate roofs, surrounding a large lawn and fountain. Inaugurated as place Royale in 1612, Henry IV built the square to celebrate the wedding between his son, Louis XIII, and Ann of Austria. The area-- originally a "marsh"-- has now been transformed into the most fashionable area of Paris.

Wander over here on a Sunday and catch a glimpse of a fantastic group of musicians, called Borsalino. Playing upbeat, Django-esque tunes with a smile, Borsalino attracts quite a crowd.

P.S. A quick search on Flickr shows that these talented musicians have been wowing audiences at the Place des Vosges for quite some time now.

Breakfast in America (in Paris)

2007-03-20T20:23:00.000+01:00

Craving pancakes, eggs, hash browns, bottomless cups of coffee, and the ever-elusive-- en France-- bacon strips? Head to Breakfast in America in the Marais where Grand Slams are served in a retro-diner atmosphere. You can even score blueberries with your short stack. The best part of all? Smiling, American waitresses politely, attentively serve heaping plates in a flurry of Franglish. And that, my dear reader, is truly rare in Paris.

PS. There's another location across the Seine.

Why Go to the Louvre

2007-03-19T21:12:00.000+01:00

I used to avoid the Louvre. When in Paris-- I'd tell myself-- at all costs, don't venture down the escalator inside of that marvelous glass pyramid into the museum's depths. The world's most fabulous art collection, the most visited museum on the planet, it's too daunting... Instead, why not just soak in the views from outside? Pause in front of the fountains, snap photos of the impressive architecture, but don't, whatever you do, stress yourself out by attempting to navigate the sprawling galleries. It would be overwhelming. And all for a small glimpse of the Venus de Milo or Gericault's The Raft of the Medusa.

Oh, how wrong I was. The Louvre is not to be missed. In fact, I could camp out there for days on end and be blissfully happy. But the best time to go is the winter. Temperatures have been mild, and yet, there are no lines, no summer hordes. (And there's even nighttime admission on Fridays!) The Louvre's most famous painting, the Mona Lisa, is yours for the viewing. You can stand and gape to your heart's content with nary an elbow-pushing tourist in sight.

The building alone is worth the trip. Ornately carved ceilings, windows overlooking the Seine, royal furnishings. Head underground to the very foundations of the former-palace and discover another mysterious world: centuries of history unearthed, the medieval fortifications and foundations. It's spooky and cool.

And when you tire of walking through an art history lesson (the collection spans the ages of Western Civilization), there's always the mummies...

Related Articles:
Gridskipper, "Louvre to Louvre You Baby"

Exploring the Dordogne: La Roque Gageac

2007-03-18T10:50:00.000+01:00

Not far from Sarlat-La-Canéda-- the Medieval sandstone city described as the Perigord's "most beautiful city, a jewel of preservation" (Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong)-- the smaller hamlet of La Roque Gageac will take your breath away. Perched dramatically in the cliffs above the River Dordogne, the tan houses seem to blend in with the sandstone. In fact, many of the houses are built into the sheer rock face, incorporating the cliff into their construction.

The Fort Troglodyte, which dates from Medieval times, commands an excellent position above the winding river. There is a narrow footpath leading up the hill into the town, from where you can peer into gardens and marvel at the village's construction. The views of the Dordogne aren't too shabby either.

Chalucet: The Limousin's Awesome Medieval Fortress

2007-01-29T23:00:00.000+01:00

Just minutes south of Limoges, jutting dramatically from the green countryside, the ruins of Châlucet make for an awesome day-trip. Situated high on a hilltop, the 13th century castle is visible for miles around. It is an impressive structure, a formidable display of power dating from the war-plagued Moyen Age (of which I've become a bit obsessed).

We climbed the steep hill for a closer inspection. The views are absolutely spectacular; the fortress overlooks pastures, moss-draped woodlands, and a fast-moving river-- a landscape quite typical of this beautiful region. The restoration efforts have been diligent and careful, as is the custom in France when it comes to national heritage. The front wall of the castle has been masterfully preserved; back in the day, the clever architects created a facade that appeared to be layers of thick turreted walls. An optical illusion of fortifications (where there weren't).

Take a look at the crumbling tower (pictured). Inside, you can see the ruins of a spiral staircase, its stones seemingly suspended in air as they curve upward towards the sky.

The Medieval Bridge in Cahors

2007-01-25T22:55:00.000+01:00

New Year's Day. Nothing could be finer than witnessing the mist rising from the River Lot around the tall towers of the Pont Valentré. Quite the sight to behold. Cahors, capital of the Quercy region south of Limoges, is surrounded on three sides by the bending river, a protected peninsula of sorts. Its fabulous, fortified Medieval bridge stands in testament to the bellicose days of old.

So what if it was raining. And all the town's restaurants were closed for the holiday. (I managed to scrounge up some cheese and semi-stale bread for a makeshift picnic.) I was in history-nerd full form, scoping out the small cross-like slats in the stone parapets and imagining the town's defenders shooting flaming arrows (and worse) from above.

And then I forced us to walk the extra 300 meters to the Fontaine des Chartreux, the 2,000-year old fountain which is a pathetic example of Gallo-Roman glory if there ever was one. (Apparently, that dirty pool used to be the spot for worship of Divona, and archaeologists have uncovered a bunch of Roman coins that were tossed in the water as offerings back during the time of Christ.) The pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela passes above in the green hills, overlooking the town and its 14th century bridge.

The Churches of Toulouse: Eglise des Jacobins

2007-01-24T17:17:00.000+01:00

The churches of Toulouse are fascinating. There's the Cathedral St-Etienne, near Paul's apartment, where you can see layers of history in the architecture. Romanesque meets Gothic in the most bizarre collision of styles. It all began in the 12th century with the vast nave and choir, and was added to over the centuries, concluding with the finishing touch: the northern entrance built in 1929. (According to the informational posterboards mounted at the door, the church's destiny was really decided with the 13th century plan to realign the cathedral along a different axis. Never happened. Now the two, distinct parts of the cathedral are linked with some Gothic vaults.)

But amongst all the beautiful churches of Toulouse, L'eglise des Jacobins takes the cake. From the outside, the red brick seems to glow in the sunshine. Tour groups frantically snap photos of the 13th century belfry, towering into the sky. I don't think I'd ever seen a red church before. Step through the immense wooden door and the grandeur of the interior will take your breath away. Crane your neck towards the ceiling, where the tall columns gracefully, effortlessly bend to create the vaulted ceiling. Here is where Thomas Aquinas is buried. I stopped to look at the altar-- the theologian, and head of the Dominican order, died in 1274-- and remembered studying him in Professor Peter Gomes' religion class at Harvard. As I stood and stared and recalled the Summa Theologiae, I was overwhelmed by history, and struck by how this sense of history, and deep understanding of it, pervades every aspect of French culture.

The stained-glass windows were extraordinary. The colored light danced on the wall in beautiful mosaics.

Toulouse: La Ville Rose

2007-01-23T21:28:00.000+01:00

Ahh, Toulouse. The marvelous, oh-so-lively pink city, buzzing with bars, cafes, and gastronomic restaurants. (And let's not forget Airbus and all the high-tech industry.) Packed with cultural delights and historical treasures, Toulouse is architecturally exciting too, its ubiquitous red brick a seeming anomaly compared with the other regions of France I've explored. The fourth largest city in France retains a beautiful historical center. From the place du Capitole, the sprawling main square where the city hall stands proud, the Vieux Quartier lures with its narrow alleys lined with red brick buildings. I was mesmerized by the old, wooden doors-- some painted brightly, in vivid contrast with the rosy brick-- and couldn't stop taking pictures.

We explored the Sunday morning market, called Saint-Auben, near where the Canal du Midi snakes through the city. (Clothes, organic honey, jewelry, produce, wines, jars of confiture, ceramics...) Hadley and I guzzled perfect cups of cafe creme, while Pierre hurried off to find a bouche de Noel before all the patisseries closed for New Year's celebrations. (He prepared us a true Reveillon feast that evening.) Followed by another mandatory market stop at Les Halles Victor Hugo, where we gaped at the meat displays, indulged in some cheeses, and stopped for a pre-lunch break at a bar, where we stood with the regulars and sipped little glasses of white wine.

I was disturbed by the contemporary art at Les Abattoirs, the museum housed in a former slaughterhouse. The space is elegant, exhibiting no trace of its former life, but the installations were a bit odd: the legs of a horse (without the body) poised in mid stride, the tops painted in gorey red, upon which fake snow rained from the ceiling. Hmmmmm. I think I would've preferred a return to the Musee Des Augustins, the extraordinary collection of Roman statues and Rubens paintings, situated in a former Augustine monastery. (We visited it a few years ago.) But the walk along the River Garonne to get to the contemporary art museum was perfect. A beautiful day, the city's red brick aflame in the afternoon light.

Then we wandered the alleys some more. We stumbled upon the Hotel D'Assezat-- an enormous, private mansion dating from the 16th century, now converted into a museum. The courtyard is simply exquisite, with ornate columns and, of course, beautiful, big, wood doors.

Pau's Blvd des Pyrenees

2007-01-21T11:57:00.000+01:00

Later in the day, we stopped in Pau to pick up my friend Hadley at the train station. After a stressful run to Leclerc (where the crowds anticipating the New Year's Day supermarket closure, stockpiled provisions as if expecting a blizzard or natural disaster), we retreated to the stylish Blvd des Pyrenees just in time for sunset. We took the funicular up the hill and then enjoyed a promenade along the famous boulevard, from where the views of the snow-capped mountains are spectacular. As the sun melted pink across the sky, we sipped noisettes and people-watched at a cafe.

Cirque de Gavarnie: Walking in the Pyrenees

2007-01-20T16:08:00.000+01:00

On December 30 we drove south to the isolated villages around Gavarnie near the Spanish border. As we climbed the winding (and stomach-turning) roads, the views were heartstopppingly beautiful: the rugged peaks of the Pyrenees, waterfalls tumbling from cliffs, small villages nestled in valleys amidst all that grandeur. Evidence of serious landslides and avalanches was everywhere. Huge boulders were strewn across pastures, as if pebbles thrown by giants. At one point on this treacherous road, there is a high-tech motion sensor which can detect even the slightest motion from the cliffs above. (Within seconds, it triggers a red light signal on the road.)

Just on the other side of the mountains is Spain's Parque Nacional de Ordesa where we hiked last summer. Monte Perdido, quite characteristically, was hidden from view. The hiking here, at Cirque de Gavernie, is some of the best in the world. I hope to return this summer for some days exploring the exquisite park that straddles the international border.

We walked along a stream (the swift current edged with ice) and then enjoyed a picnic in the sunshine. Cheese, bread, and single-sized portions of gateau basque, purchased from the bakery in Cauterets. Not a cloud in the sky, and when the blasts of wind calmed, it was actually quite warm.

The Berlingots of Cauterets

2007-01-19T17:24:00.000+01:00

Every evening in Cauterets, the streets are abuzz with skiiers returned from a day on the slopes. There is a jovial air as folks meander from boulangerie to cave to patisserie to charcuterie, lining up to secure the night's provisions. (Adjacent to the covered market, Le Saloir is generous with their cheese tastings. The shopkeeper offers tempting morsels of the finest mountain cheeses from a very serious-- and sharp-- blade of a knife.)

But the most fun of all is the candy-making demonstration at the berlingots boutiques. These rainbow-colored hard candies, called berlingots, date from the 19th century, and have now become a Cauterets specialty. For over a century, les curistes have come to take the waters at Cauterets, and though a day at the thermal baths proved quite soothing, the sulphur taste lingered unpleasantly in the mouth (and resulted in serious bad breath).

A villager crafted a special, flavorful candy which overpowered "le gout particulier de l'eau soufree" and the rest was history. Now the town is full of artisan shops which delight kids with a berlingot-making demonstration every evening. (Though they're a bit stingy with the free samples.) The hot, gooey candle is squeezed from a tube and snipped, with scissors, into bit size pieces of every imaginable flavor (though cassis and blueberry seem to be the all-time favorites).

Ski the Pyrenees in Cauterets

2007-01-18T20:15:00.000+01:00

Fringed by the tall, snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees, the French village of Cauterets is a perfectly picturesque resort destination, famed for its seasonal recreational activities. In the winter, Cauterets is almost always shrouded in a thick blanket of snow, and entices skiers and snowboarders of all levels to hit the slopes carved from the surrounding mountains. This year's scant snowfall has compelled most French ski resorts in the Pyrenees to close-- with the exception of Cauterets, of course. So, during the week after Christmas, the crowds flocked. And despite the artifical snow-making at night, we still had to dodge the rocks and rough patches on our descent down the mountain. (The town's proximity to some of the best hiking trails in France (the National Park of the Pyrenees straddles the Franco-Spanish border and boasts a wealth of natural beauty) ensures plenty of summertime visitors as well.)

I fell in love with Cauterets. The days were warm and full of sunshine as we walked around the village and discovered artisanal boutiques, caves stuffed with bottles of Madiran and Jurancon, Le Pavillon des Abeilles (organic honey and soaps galore!), and fragrant boulangeries. A river flows through town, and you can hear its swift current (and white water rapids) from your window at night. Above, the white-capped Pyrenees loom. I recalled a town in western Sichuan, China, modeled after a European ski resort village, and Cauterets could be the exact stereotype of how it should be.

There is a fast-moving gondola that carries you up, up, up from the village to the resort's base in the mountains. It moves at an incredible speed; on my way back down, the French ladies with whom I shared the gondola gasped and covered their eyes as we dropped over the precipices. From the highest chair-lift, the views are absolutely stunning. We stopped to eat a picnic, skis and snowboards discarded in the snow, overlooking the surrounding peaks and valley below. The sun was warm on my face as I stuffed myself with good cheese and I couldn't have been happier.

We indulged ourselves with a day at Les Thermes, the Roman style bath complex fed by hot springs. (The naturally-warm water may reek of rotten eggs, but the jet pools and showers are divine.) My favorite treatment was a shower with jets, where the bath assistant-- armed with two scary-looking hoses-- aimed the fierce flow of water at my body in the ultimate massage.

We sipped chocolat chaud at a cozy bar with warm, wood paneling; a small toy train followed a track around the ceiling. At the small covered market, I drooled over perfect wedges of local cheese, homemade blueberry torte, and seasoned charcuterie. (I made the rounds every evening. I promised just to look, but then ended up buying a new sliver of cheese or sausage to try each night.)

A Pilgrimage to Lourdes

2007-01-16T20:56:00.000+01:00

Regardless of your faith, it's impossible not to feel moved when visiting the beautiful town of Lourdes, one of the world's most important pilgrimage sites. Every year, five million visitors make the journey here, some seeking miraculous cures from the spring's waters. (The Catholic Church has only confirmed a handful of cases as full-fledged miracles.)

In 1858 the tiny village of Lourdes was catapulted into fame when Bernadette Soubirous, a 14-year old peasant girl, saw the Virgin Mary in 18 separate appearances in a remote grotto. On the 9th appearance, Bernadette was told to drink at a fountain, where none was present. She scratched the ground and discovered a spring beneath rock and clay, which bubbles to this day. It was during the 16th vision when Our Lady of Lourdes identified herself as the "Immaculate Conception," words that later proved to the town priests and the Catholic Church that the illiterate Bernadette had indeed witnessed true, supernatural, and divine apparitions.

We visited on the day after Christmas. The town was quiet, mysterious, and still. In the summer months, mobs of people flood the three religious complexes; one is actually an underground church capable of seating 20,000 folks. The rock in Bernadette's cave is worn smooth by the millions of hands which have touched it.

Winter Wonderland

2007-01-15T11:26:00.000+01:00

On December 23, we drove north from Limoges to Partheney, in the Deux-Sevres departement. I've driven this road countless times, and the landscape is quite familiar: rolling green hills punctuated with small villages (each with their medieval church, of course). I can pinpoint all the landmarks along the way, including exactly when the nuclear reactors will loom into view. But on this trip, these familiar landscapes were breathtakingly beautiful and I kept gasping with delight. Arm extended out the window, I couldn't stop taking pictures.

The fields were dusted with white frost, and the trees were encased in a dazzling sheath of ice. It looked like snow, but the skies were blue and we hadn't seen any real weather change in weeks. And for a few fleeting days, we experienced real winter. Cold, biting wind, greyish skies, a world painted in white. Now the days are spring-like and warm and for the first time in my life, I'm actually wishing for another taste of the winter we lost too soon.

Colorful Christmas Kitsch in Limoges

2007-01-11T19:50:00.000+01:00

Limoges really got dolled up this year for the holidays. Not just garlands of twinkling lights and the ubiquitous Pere Noel dolls seen dangling from upper-storey windows all across France. But a wildly entertaining citywide display of artistic animals, fashioned from colorful lights.

In centre ville, a slew of these critters are positioned around the Place Denis Dussoubs. Outside my favorite local brewery, a strange marmot-squirrel hybrid is perched on a giant log. Opposite the traffic circle, an enormous bear faces the oncoming cars. The elephant stands proudly with trunk in a salute. There's even a giraffe... all lit in bright white lights.

But the best part of all has to be the giant, feathered peacock a-glittering above the fountain on Place Carnot. Draped in green and blue lights, this big bird is quite a sight. Apparently, the peacock is a source of great pride for the residents of Limoges. And I can understand why. I can't stop giggling/smiling every time I walk by it.

We will be graced with this good kitsch for another few weeks, I'm sure. Everyone's too tied up with Les Soldes (the semi-annual sales which spawns French frenzy and makes the US post-Thanksgiving Black Friday look tame) to bother bugging the city about their removal. But I already miss the Christmas shop windows, as beautiful in their design (and as welcome a sight) as wrapped presents under the tree.

Made In Moldova

2006-12-21T20:42:00.000+01:00

I've been bemoaning the fact that I'm stuck in France until I'm granted my carte de sejour. Limoges is cold and grey; the weather I've been warned about has descended at long last. And it's here to stay. So if the travel bug itches, I'm trapped-- horror of horrors-- in the grand hexagonal boundary of the French State. But all joking aside... I found out that one of my friends in class is from Moldova-- that tiny, ill-fated nation without even access to the Black Sea, where factories produce those fancy tablecloths, for example, sold in the high-end kitchen stores like Williams-Sonoma-- and she is seeking political asylum in France. She bought a fake visa to get the hell outta dodge, was detained at the airport, and now may be granted papers in 10 (count 'em, 10!) years. That means she can't leave France, she can't see her friends and family, for ten years.

Halloween Foie Gras

2006-11-09T20:19:00.000+01:00

Apparently Limoges used to be the Halloween capital of France. Not so this year, when the streets were silent and still. I had even made a special trip to Champion to buy bonbons for the occasion, but nary a knock on the door. So Pierre and I ate Snickers with our aperitif, while carving a baby pumpkin. The garden produced a few massive pumpkins this Fall, but Pierre was stingy (great soup material!) so I was left with the pathetic runt. Then we headed over to Vincent and Marielle's for dinner. (Pierre donned his gangsta rapper costume from last year, and all I had was a black/purple wig). Our friends greeted us wearing silk suits from Vietnam, and we dined on foie gras (and more bonbons for dessert).

In Halloween discussions with Parisian friends, they puzzle at the commercial aspect of it: candy, costumes, decorations, to buy, buy, buy. And when I defended Halloween as a hilarious, fun, non-religious, pagan extravaganza, we discovered the impasse. Most French holidays are religious, while the United States celebrates secular, all-inclusive shindigs like Halloween and Thanksgiving. In fact, All Souls Day is a huge deal here-- akin to El Dia de los Muertos in El Salvador-- and most families take a week's vacation. So when I went to Champion on my Snickers mission, the check-out lines snaked down the aisles (I'd never seen the place so packed) because folks were stocking up before the store closed for the holiday.

The grey, Fall streets come alive with color during All Saints Day. Beautiful bouquets and potted plants of autumnal reds, browns, bright yellows, and deep orange. The floral shops are mobbed, because the French buy flowers to decorate the gravestones and celebrate the lives of the departed. The cemetary is still awash with color, the tombs polished and gleaming after their annual cleaning.

Sahara Sand Storms

2006-11-07T22:22:00.000+01:00

A few weeks ago, after a rainstorm, we noticed a strange layer of rust-colored dirt all over the car. Swipe your finger through it, smear the rain-splattered drops, and the thick grit dissolved like orange kool-aid. The neighbor informed us that heavy winds brought Sahara sand across the Mediterranean and deposited it in Limoges. I hate to think what the winds would do if there was a mishap with one of the nearby nuclear reactors.

Toxic Mushrooms

2006-10-30T17:59:00.000+01:00

Autumn in France means one thing: champignons. City-dwellers take to the hills in search of the most elusive of delicate, tasty mushrooms. (Lessons from my French class back this up. The photocopied documents illustrate "a day in France: September 15" with an image of a family scrambling around on hands and knees, digging through the forest, to fill a basket with mushrooms.) At the Saturday morning market, the lines at the mushroom man's display have been phenomenal.

Our generous neighbors brought us kilos and kilos of earthy-smelling cepes, along with baskets of chestnuts. I was a little nervous about the poison potential, but they were just delicious sauteed with a little butter in an omelette. But sure enough, recent news broadcasts have sounded an alarm all across the southwest: champignons toxiques have led to a few deaths this year. Thus the importance of taking your gathered booty to the local pharmacy, where the pharmacists have been trained to identify the potentially hazardous mushrooms.

Heat Wave

2006-10-29T18:36:00.000+01:00

It was hot today. So hot that we had to compete with at least 5 other groups of Sunday Petanque players (on a small little dirt plot in the park). The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, Spring was in the air... But wait. It's almost Halloween! I think the birds and bees and trees are as confused as I am. A few trees are sporting their crimson and yellow fall foliage, but our roses are in full bloom. And the pepper plants continue to produce like crazy.

I've been anxiously awaiting the winter, dreading its onset. In fact, I might be a little obsessed. When touring the chateaux of the French countryside, or quaint little villages, instead of marveling at the construction or the stupendous views, I shiver to myself-- even on the hottest of summer days-- imagining how utterly freezing it must be to endure the cold, cold, bitter cold winter inside a stone fortress, which entraps the cold inside. And the French just love to build in stone.

(The photo isn't France, but it is very French: the Caribbean isle of Guadeloupe.)

PS. We recently watched Al Gore's film, An Inconvenient Truth, about global warming. Days like today, though blissful for Petanque, are also a big cause for concern.

Finger-Numbing, Toe-Tingling, Nose-Running: Welcome to Limoges, the Coldest Spot in France

2006-10-19T21:18:00.000+02:00

I had a realization tonight watching Le Grand Journal. As the lovely meteo lady recited the weather forecast, I noticed-- with horror-- the quickly-falling temperatures across the hexagon of the great French state. But then I realized something even more horrific. Limoges was actually depicted on the map-- a small point with the temperature in centigrade plotted on the green-- as the single, coldest place in the entire country. There it was. And numbers don't lie. In the dead center of France (slightly SW), the miserably low (hovering near the single digits) temperature was the lowest of the low, a cocooned valley of arctic froid surrounded by warmer, sunnier climes.

Turenne: The Most Beautiful Villages in France

2006-10-13T20:55:00.000+02:00

Not far from Limoges, in the southern tip of the Corrèze department, there is a plethora of beautiful, charming, and often overlooked villages. Turenne is one of them. Wind along a lovely country road, through the rolling green hills dotted with tiny hamlets and grazing Limousine cattle, and the town of Turenne suddenly emerges in all of its majesty-- perched on a steep bluff high above the pastures below. The hilltop Château de Turenne holds a commanding view of the surrounding verdant countryside, the rooftops, and the town's enormous 17th century church. Pierre and I huffed and puffed our way up the hill, and then climbed the slippery, steep, winding stairs to the top of the tour César at the hilltop Château de Turenne to take in the panoramic views.

Historically, the powerful viscounts of Turenne controlled much of the surrounding region for a thousand years starting in 1000. Back in the day, the tour was used to send signals-- with fire and smoke-- across the Medieval landscape to villages we could barely discern on the horizon. The carefully manicured gardens within the Château were gorgeous from the birds' eye view.

Turenne is one of Les Plus Beaux Villages de France, an organization started by the mayor of Collonges-la-Rouge in 1982 to preserve, renovate, and promote the most beautiful villages in France, as many were hollow shells of their former selves, on the verge of being lost, after a massive rural exodus in the 20th century. (Indeed, when we visited our friends Fab and Audrey in the Pyrenees last winter, we witnessed an altogether vanishing way of life: country customs and habits of the elderly villagefolk who still-- for example-- collected their water in buckets from the river.)

The association was a brilliant marketing plan, as Les Plus Beaux Villages has since become a well-known organization by which visitors discover the gorgeous, tiny hamlets of France, many of which are off-the-beaten-path and away from the well-worn tourist circuit.

Ramadan in Limoges

2006-10-11T19:18:00.000+02:00

The holy month of Ramadan is upon us-- a time of prayers, reflection, and most importantly, fasting. Muslims don't eat from sun-up to sun-down. The brave Turks in my French class, clad in adorable tweed suits, answer the teacher's questions enthusiastically and with a smile. I know I'd be griping to myself about my growling belly (that needs to be fed every three hours before the low-bloodsugar-bad-mood sets in).

But a little lesser known fact about Ramadan is the food: dainty, delicious pastries, dripping with honey and sweet goodness, shared by family and friends after sunset. Pierre and I have discovered the pastry shop, a nondescript hole-in-the-wall (without a name) that becomes quite the hang-out in the waning daylight hours. The selection of treats is vast; there's quite a spread. Baklava, almond cake, crispy fried dough oozing honey, flaky bite-sized morsels dusted with pistachio flakes. Mmmmm.

The sweet shopkeeper slowly, slowly places the selected items on a tray, and then slowly, slowly transfers them into a box, which he ties carefully with a pink ribbon. Watching his movements, I think about all the hungry stomachs, feasting eyes, patiently waiting their turn. (I'm glad we've been the last in line on our last couple visits. I'd feel guilty getting my pastries before someone who's fasted all day.)

Check out Pierre's videos in the shop

Adam Gopnik on Alice Waters; My Organic French Garden

2006-10-09T21:31:00.000+02:00

I have thoroughly enjoyed Adam Gopnik's Paris to the Moon, the New Yorker writer's account of his expat days in France. Among the brilliant essays, Gopnik's piece on Alice Waters visiting Paris really hit a chord for me-- as a bridge between beloved San Francisco and France, haute cuisine and organic, the neighborhood market in Limoges and Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market by the bay, the shared sentiment that eating a fine organically-grown meal (where you know where all the ingredients come from), lingering for hours with good friends and conversation, is a "soul-nourishing experience."

To quote Alice (as quoted in Paris to the Moon):

The sensual pleasure of eating beautiful food from the garden brings with it the moral satisfaction of doing the right thing for the planet and yourself.

And I must say our little plot of garden has become such a source of pleasure for me. To think that I was so scornful last spring, admiring Pierre for his industrious "hobby" (as I then called it)-- weeding, seeding, planting, watering, pruning. There's nothing better than walking outside and picking a handful of spinach leaves, cherry tomatoes, and a cucumber fresh off the vine for a salad. (Eggplant, squash, tomatoes, cabbage, salad, peppers, cucumbers, zucchini, leeks....) Eating well and knowing exactly where that good produce comes from. I'm a lucky lady.

Limoges: The Basketball Capital of France

2006-10-07T22:25:00.000+02:00

Limoges is famed for its b-ball. Who knew that the French porcelain capital had such bragging rights? Historically, the Limoges teams have ranked right up there with the world's best. Back in the day, our neighbor played basketball here in Limoges and toured in the US. Tonight we went to see my Malian friend, Djene, play some serious basket with Limoges ABC, the professional women's team. They tore it up and the fans went wild, including the band of cute guys pounding away on their drums. The best part for me was watching their cool moves (and the American game I grew up with) with a French soundtrack.

The Unemployed Professional: Moi Thierry F. Chomeur Professionnel

2006-10-07T18:31:00.000+02:00

The French don't need the Americans to tell them about the flaws in their social system. They are already well aware. We saw on the news recently a report about Thierry F., a self-described "unemployed professional" who just wrote a book about his experience of collecting sizeable benefits from various bureaucratic agencies for 24 years. He manipulated the system, and found all the sneaky ways to capitalize on its generosity, even though he's perfectly capable of working.

Likewise, there have been reports in the news about people making bundles by reselling free French medicine for sizable profits. There's a whole black market out there.

On the one hand, I believe that there are con-artist parasites everywhere in the world, and it's better to have a system where the sick are cared for, the unemployed provided for, than have people fall through the cracks and live hungry on the streets. On the other hand, recent reports indicate that this is a widespread phenomenon in France, and not just a few isolated crooks who are profiting. The French have come to expect the big State apparatus to care for them (taxes are enormous, after all!), and some actively look for hand-outs and ways to benefit from the system.

Petanque Is Fun

2006-10-05T22:41:00.000+02:00

Now I know why the crowds of old men gather daily in the park-- even under the greyest of skies-- to play round after round of boules. Now I also understand why it always reeks of urine in the bushes nearby. After a perfectly French Sunday lunch (Pierre's perfect courses of aperitif with mystery-meat pate, roast beef with vegetables from the garden, cheese, homemade plum tart, wine, wine, and another bottle of wine ) with Vincent and Marielle, we partook in the perfectly-French pasttime of Sunday afternoon petanque. Rolling balls repetitively across the dirt for hours? I had my doubts. But boy, was it fun. Especially after three bottles of wine. The gentlemen in their cute, little caps-- all smiles, but all serious as they use sticks to carefully measure and determine the winning ball-- also imbibed plenty of tasty French vine (judging from their frequent disappearances into the bushes).

Image Via Petanque Postcards

Les Francophonies en Limousin

2006-10-03T22:12:00.000+02:00

So maybe the grand metropolis of Limoges needs some help with its bus system (and bumper-to-Renault-bumper traffic), but it sure does lure some cool artists for festivals. Les Francophonies en Limousin, the 23rd annual festival in Limoges ongoing from September 26 to October 8 this year, has wowed a packed Opera House with powerful African music, brilliant dance, and theater performances nightly. Pierre and I heard Senegalese Toure Kunda tear it up on stage with an ensemble of incredible musicians. He spoke some moving words about changing the way we think about migration, and the crossing of borders. The vibrant energy of it got the crowd to their feet. Incredibly uplifting. We also saw the dance performace Un champ de forces, with four dancers each from Asia, Africa, and Europe: for Pierre it conjured ideas of man/civilization vs. nature, while I got all pensive about colonialization and the relationship between the continents. I think the choreographer was going for a dischordant, Stravinsky Rite of Spring thing.

Cacao et Chocolat: The Best Thing About The Marais

2006-10-01T23:15:00.000+02:00

The sun shines in Paris and all's right with the world. I got to go to Paris last week for some meetings (oh did I count my lucky blessings) and spent all of Wednesday on my feet, in little tiny high heels, because it was too beautiful to take the stinky, crowded, pushy Metro and Paris is a city to be walked. Blisters the size of large (over-ripe and fermenting) plums? Didn't phase me. And of course my feet always take me-- past Hemingways haunts and the looming hulk of overphotographed Notre Dame-- to the winding alleys of the Marais. Oh how I love the Marais, recently highlighted in the NYT Style Travel Magazine on Sofia Coppola's shopping spree. But where I can only window shop and gape in wonder at the beautiful things in the pricey boutiques, I can indulge my heart out at Cacao et Chocolat, perhaps the best chocolate store on the planet. In fact, at this very moment I am trying my best to resist sampling another concoction from the beautiful little box that I purchased there. The box is a rich blue, and opens to the inscription:

Ici, le chocolat vous dévoile toutes ses saveurs… et vous inite à tous ses secrets.

Upon the dainty treasures is laid a tiny booklet-- with explanations of delicacies like the Teocali (ganache au chocolat noir amer) and the Quetzel (with a dash of Tequila and lemon). The store is all about celebrating the American/Aztec/Pre-Columbian tradition of chocolate making, where cocoa was deemed a sacred food.

Peanuts and Port

2006-09-29T22:51:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-28T22:17:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-21T20:59:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-20T20:35:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-19T22:27:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-17T18:32:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-14T22:48:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-13T20:56:00.000+02:00

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)

2006-09-10T16:32:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-08T18:25:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-08T11:37:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-06T22:08:00.000+02:00

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

2006-09-06T19:20:00.000+02:00

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.

Wild Blueberry Picking in the Mountains of the Limousin

2006-08-08T09:38:00.000+02:00

On our Saturday visit to the distillery, the brewmaster mentioned that she was expecting a batch of blueberries from a local grower, as it's now the season for the fruit. Our ears perked up. Blueberry season?! Back at the house, I leafed through our hiking book and found a drawing of "la myrtille sauvage" which grow at an altitude of 800 meters on the northern exposure of Les Monedieres, small mountains to the south of Limoges.

And so we set out at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning. Compared to the cow pastures and meadows around Limoges, the landscape in the Correze, near Tulle, is completely different: the mountains loomed blue, covered in pines and evergreen forest. At the summit (911 meters), the wind tore across the shrubs. The only other sound was a loud (uncannily so) buzz of bees zipping from blackberry bush to bush. From the highest point in the region, the view is heartstoppingly gorgeous.

It was cold on the mountain and we wrapped in fleeces and began the search for the elusive blueberry bush. The temperature reminded me of cool mornings in Maine. We walked a loop around the summit, underneath towering evergreens, and finally stumbled upon a patch of bushes with big, plump berries. Aha! We noticed that the leaves turn red as the berries mature. We fell on our hands and knees, giddy with excitement, and plucked those tiny berries until our hands and teeth were stained blue. After an hour and 15 minutes, we had picked at least 2 kilos. Then we set out on a 3+ hour hike.

The hike-- Le Cirque de Freysselines-- is 11 kilometers through rapidly changing terrain: from the wind-swept summit, descending into timbered forest, the trees covered in moss, through fields and small villages, past a lake (and much warmer temperatures in the valley), and then back up along the slopes covered in beautiful pink blossoms and low brush. We even saw a herrison (hedgehog).

Back at the top of the mountain, adventurers were hang-gliding, families were scouting for blueberries, and we realized we had beaten the crowds that morning. When we arrived earlier, the mountain belonged to us. We also realized that most of the area was fenced off as private blueberry farms. An older woman put a finger to her lips as she sneakily picked a few blueberries on the roadside.

Near the car, a man had set up shop selling blueberry confiture and honey, and we bought some honeycomb, which is the most divine thing I have ever eaten (though the beeswax can get caught in your teeth), especially with goat cheese.

The Artisanal Distillery in Limoges

2006-08-07T18:45:00.000+02:00

Saturday was one of those perfect days of cool breezes and ample sunshine that reminds me of San Francisco. We stopped at the boulangerie for steaming hot crossaints, the cheese and fruit vendors at Les Halles, and a chocolate boutique. The real purpose of the outing, however, besides all this blissful browsing and loitering downtown, was to find the distillery.

We went in pursuit of this mysterious artisanal distillery after we sank our teeth into some speciality chocolates that oozed peche liqueur. A gift from Pierre's brother, Manu, a few weeks ago. They were wrapped in shiny foil, gilded with the name of the local distillery.

Towards the train station, in a run-down building with a small plaque outside, we found it. The elderly lady behind the cash register showed us the laboratory where they concocted the delicious speciality liqueurs, heating blueberries or cassis over a flame until the essence was refined into a small glass container. I felt like I was in some alchemist's shop from the Middle Ages.

The walls were lined with beautiful bottles with colorful, Victorian labels, and we sampled the lot of them. The specialty drink in the Limousin is Liqueur de Chataigne (with chestnut extract) but I'm a sucker for cassis, because of my favorite evening kir.