A word on driving

Americans drive.  It’s what we do.  So when I decided to take a European driving vacation, the Europeans were in awe, the Americans, not so much.  I’ve clocked over 3500 kilometers so far since June 11; that’s about 2175 miles for the metric-impaired, approximately the distance between Champaign, Illinois and Seattle, Washington, not a small distance for either side of the Atlantic.  But driving on European roads, even the big highways and toll roads, is not quite the same as driving in the U.S.  In the U.S., you can space out a bit, set ‘er on cruise, jam to your favorite tunes, and just go.  In Europe, you must always be on guard, follow strict driving rules, pay exorbitant fees for toll roads, follow local and regional customs, and read signs that are not always familiar. It's exhausting.

This one always made me wonder--"car may catch on fire?" or "traffic is so bad you might spontaneously combust?"  Actually, it's a prohibition to carry flammable liquids.  Who knew?

When crossing the border from France to Spain on the way to Barcelona, the signs are in Catalan; my tiny bit of Spanish was not terribly helpful.  The speed limit went down from 130 kph to 120, but suddenly everyone was driving 150.  Drivers in the city limits of Barcelona hit the accelerator when the crosswalk light changes to red, not when the traffic light changes to green.  German drivers on the autobahn have strict rules about passing, so you’d better not get into the passing lane unless you’re prepared to step on it.  The very furthest left lane is reserved for high-performance vehicles which are usually cruising at about 200 kph.

This toll, at 4 euros 40, was one of the cheapest

In France, the péage is the tollway, and it is expensive.  Most often, you stop and get a ticket, then drive for a few hundred kilometers and pay at a second toll station.  These tollbooths are automatic, often with no personnel present.  They do not accept U.S. credit cards, and some lanes only accept cards.  My task when approaching a tollbooth was to find the proper lane, then to make sure I had cash ready to feed the monster.  The tolls were as low as 2 euros, and as high as 35 euros.  I spent around 150 euros for my trip to the Pyrenees, Spain, and Poitiers.  The payoff is frequent rest areas, many with gas stations, restaurants, showers, restrooms, picnic area, and sometimes a little shopping area.

Another nice thing about French motorways is the signage boasting the local sites of import.  Castles in the Loire Valley, ancient walled cities (saw quite a few of these from Perpignan to Poitiers, some of the most beautiful places in France), famous wine regions, etc.  Here you see the castle of Maintenon, a lovely chateau not far from Paris.

Now that I’m back from Frankfurt, Germany (another blog post soon to follow), we’re doing some more laundry and packing up for a family trip to Brittany, a town called Locmariaquer.  And this time, I’m only too relieved to let someone else take the wheel…

Music and History

If I had to choose a theme for my stay in Poitiers, it would be music and history.  First, music; my friends Jean-Philippe and Regina are another Franco-American couple, and they are always making music of one sort or another.  They perform in an Irish group, they give Irish music workshops, they travel to music festivals, they live and breathe music.  Regina is always humming and singing around the house, and Jean-Phi plays his tin whistle or his guitar.  Here is a sample of Jean-Phi on a lazy afternoon.

I arrived on a Sunday evening after surviving a “shortcut” to Poitiers from Barcelona, taking the regular highway instead of the tollway, which added an hour or two to my trip.  After two hours on a tiny, curvy road with those who know the road well riding my tail, and my dodging small animals at every turn, the road changing speed limits every minute or two, I was ready for a drink, a little something to eat, and a bed.  Even at 11:30, my gracious hosts were happy to oblige.  A lovely dinner awaited me, and even though we were all tired, we stayed up until 2:30 chatting and drinking some gorgeous wine and eating a fruit crumble for dessert.

Monday morning we were awakened bright and early by the plumber, an appointment which my hosts had forgotten about.  Fortunately, the plumber is the son of a friend, and we all had a coffee after he did his inspection of the water heater.  He was happy to inform me there would be lots of hot water for my shower, and afterwards the three of us walked to a restaurant where we met a friend and former colleague of Regina for lunch, another American ex-pat.  After lunch was a walk through the center of Poitiers, and a couple of photos of the interior of the Palais de Justice.  

Palais de Justice

Poitiers is a fascinating town historically speaking, with one of the oldest universities in France (Rabelais and Descartes were a couple of its better-known students), dating back almost 600 years.  Joan of Arc spent a little time on trial in Poitiers.  It is the crossroads of two rivers, the Clain and the Boivre, and the city was found to be in a strategic spot since the time of the Romans.  Jean-Phi and Regina live in the old part, and their house is also quite old.  The back wall of their outbuilding abuts the Parc Blossac, a gorgeous park atop the rebuilt ramparts of old Poitiers.

The Garden

Monday dinner was started with pink champagne, foie gras (one of the most decadent foods on the planet), and finished with a sumptuous array of cheeses that Regina and I had picked up from the organic co-op. Tuesday was a busy day.  Regina had to give a make-up exam (she teaches English at the university), and we had a late lunch at home.

My niece Aude is doing an internship for her hospitality program in Poitiers, so we met her during the afternoon at a Salon de Thé for big pots of tea.  (Jean-Phi declined the invitation to what he calls “Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop;”  when we arrived, I understood what he meant, because the place certainly could have been located in Hogsmeade.  Pink, white and gold filigree dominated the décor, and the patrons were 100% female).

After tea, we made our way back to the house for a bit, then were invited to another friend’s apartment for drinks and take-out pizza.  We had to rush to get to the Irish music workshop on time, but I got a chance to learn some new melodies.  A long, leisurely walk through the calm nighttime streets of picturesque Poitiers was the perfect way to end my evening.

Wednesday morning I had to return, but not before I’d recorded the story of my friends’ surprise discovery in their front closet.  A little trap door in the floor revealed a cavern below, a cellar of old Poitiers, with vaults to support the structure and a stairway possibly leading to a former passageway, that goes down at least thirty feet.  Despite being visually impaired, Jean-Phi is a serious spelunker, and explored the space (pictured below).  

The closet

A vague idea of the depth

Thanks to Jean-Philippe and Regina for their stories, their hospitality, their music, and more wonderful memories.

Barcelona

Sleep.  That’s the one thing I haven’t gotten a lot of recently.  It seems I’ve “graduated” beyond my twenties, when I could sleep on anything anywhere (although the floors of train stations were never comfortable enough to stay asleep for longer than a few minutes at a time).  I’ve slept in lovely places this trip, and my hosts have been more than generous, so I tried to take advantage of the comfort when I could.  In Glorianes I slept in the lovely four-year-old’s cozy bedroom, decorated with alphabet art and a handsome armoire.  In Barcelona, in an old-world-charm hotel where my friend Isabel and I had a grown-up slumber party (wine on the terrace until the wee hours), the sheets were perfumed and crisp, but we were prevented from sleeping in late by the bells of the church next door starting bright and early, and reminding us of our overindulgence every 15 minutes.  In Poitiers I was in a room filled with shelves of books, in an ancient stone house with thick walls, an atmosphere I adore. I was awakened this time by a forgotten plumber’s appointment, then the next day by a true deluge; the rain then followed me all the way back to La Sarthe.  Here I was determined to turn in early when I was intercepted by a knock on the door (a call from my husband), then later by a not-so-tiny 10-year-old who crawled into bed with me.  We finally settled in and I managed to get a full night’s sleep, despite the little furnace chugging next to me who talks in his sleep.

Part 3:  Barcelona

I crossed the border into Spain midday on Friday.  The car’s pitiful air-conditioning system was no match for the bright sun bouncing off the light soil all around.  The green, rolling, verdant Pyrenees of France gave way to the Costa Brava of Spain, and I squinted despite my sunglasses.  I realized that Gertrude—as I’ve named my GPS lady—doesn’t speak Spanish very well.  Her French is weird too, but her Spanish is alarming, and I decided to tuck her away in my bag and rely on the directions of the hotel owner, Angeles.  That was a mistake.  I had a loose map of how to go to the hotel once in Barcelona, but no idea how to get from the highway in.  I continued on the highway until I stopped seeing signs for Barcelona and started seeing indications for other cities in Spain, and knew I had to get off the highway.  I followed signs that I didn’t understand, but guessed I was on the south side, trying to get to the northeast.  Finally, as I crossed town and sat at a seemingly endless number of stoplights, I bit the bullet and took out my phone.  Now I know that iPhone maps have been much maligned in the past, but I swear to you that the app has saved me from many traveling debacles, including on this trip.  I am almost tempted to splurge on a better model when I get back so that my phone can talk to me, and I don’t have to rest it on my knee while I maneuver unfamiliar signs and traffic patterns.  Fortunately, I only got honked at once, so I think I did pretty well.  Finally, obviously, I arrived at the hotel, ready for a shower and a cold drink.

Fortunately, there was a really nice shower

Floor tiles in our hotel room

After Isabel arrived that evening, we wandered in the neighborhood until we found a charming looking little tapas place.  There was a long wait for the tables outside, but we decided to sit inside at the bar.  Isa and I were catching up, admiring the décor, enjoying the wine, when the background classical music was turned up much louder.  Suddenly, like a sort of mini flash mob, a man and a woman who had been sitting at separate tables stood up and sang “O Sole Mio”.  It was magical.  Several bits of opera were sung like this at different moments of the evening.  The tapas were tasty (an artichoke dish was particularly delicious), and the wine flowed.

Conversation flowed with the wine, even after not seeing each other for 18 years

Despite little sleep, we ventured out after breakfast the next morning to visit the Sagrada Familia, the famous church envisioned by the amazing architect Antoni Gaudi.  Gaudi’s opus was begun in 1882, and was only 25% completed upon his death in 1926.  It is still not complete.  Cranes tower overhead as crowds wait in line for hours in the hot sun to see the fantastical structure.  Isa and I decided to forgo the line and instead see one of his houses the next day.  I planned then and there to return to Barcelona off-season.  

Gaudí's buildings look like they've been made for a movie set

We sauntered down Las Ramblas for a while, people-watching.  We walked over to the cathedral, a much more traditional gothic church, and climbed to the roof to see the views over Barcelona and her port.  We had a late lunch and headed back to the room for a nap.  We resurfaced in the evening and headed to El Born, a neighborhood with a lively (but not too lively, if you know what I mean) nightlife. 

Note the roof form modeled after a dragon

On Sunday we went to La Casa Batlló, a house that Gaudí completely remodeled.  Amazing.  His re-use of old pieces of broken glass and tile to make breathtaking patterns was inspiring.  Google Gaudí if you're not already familiar with him, and you'll want to see his work in person.  After the tour, hot and a little tired, I somehow managed to unearth the car from its miniscule parking space in the car park (can you say “70-point turn?”) and started my nine-hour journey from Barcelona back into France, to rainy Poitiers.

Part 2 of Glorianes

It’s too hard to write everything I want to write about my little trip-within-a-trip so far.  I could write for ages!  Where to start?  The trip down, where my churlish French lady GPS ignored my pleas and let me take an unplanned side trip to the wine country around Bordeaux?  The unbelievable price of tolls, the weird culture of rest stops, the endless vineyards and hot sun, the way the Pyrenees begin softly rolling then rise up in front of you, the smell of the loads of yellow flowers that fills the air (don’t know what they’re called, but they smell a bit like lily-of-the-valley and jasmine mixed together), the moment you see the Mediterranean and you know you’re so close….?  Do I talk about the amazing three days I spent with Lynn and her adorable family in their 600-year-old house, the fantastic dinners, the walks in the mountains to see a forgotten cathedral ruin?  Do I mention the white-knuckle drive to her small village, nine kilometers of a single-lane, no guard-rail, hairpin curve road to get to the top?  If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, then I will post several in the name of efficiency and let you imagine the rest for yourselves…

Christophe's handywork, restoring and reworking the original kitchen fireplace.  For many years, this was the only source of heat in the house.

A true "farmhouse sink"; makes you think twice before dirtying extra dishes!

The church right next door to the house.  It has two bells because one was hidden by villagers when Napoleon was using church bells to melt down for munitions.

The inside, appropriately dark and musty.  This is before we saw the snake on the floor and ran outside.

The view behind the church, adjacent to Lynn's garden.

Lunch outdoors.  Nothing better.

These little guys kept us company while we enjoyed the sun on the terrace in the afternoon.

The view over my shoulder as we climbed up to see the forgotten church ruins.  The photo also allowed me to stop and catch my breath--wow, do I need to get in shape.

Only the nave remains.  The church was part of a village of about 200 people who kept relocating up the mountain to avoid the Black Plague.

Last dinner, a white fish with saffron sauce, saffron grown by Lynn and Christophe.

The garden, early morning.

Those fabulous yellow flowers I was talking about.  They're everywhere, and the scent is almost overwhelming.

View of the house from the garden.

Lynn in her saffron field, bemoaning the endless weeding she'll have to do in the coming days.

Mountain sheep.  For Patrice.

About halfway down.  The road is quite wide at this part.

Entering the village of Rigarda/Rigardà.  The names of villages in this area are posted in French and Catalan.

I made the drive to Barcelona this afternoon, after a lovely lunch with Lynn at a bakery that used to be a convent, and a lively conversation with a 70-year-old local character who was trying desperately to figure out where we were from.  The drive to Barcelona was another adventure, of course, and this time I can't blame the GPS, since she was turned off and tucked away in my bag.  I arrived safely though, and look forward to seeing more of this beautiful city; I think I saw more of it getting to the hotel than I bargained for, though....

European Driving Adventure, Part 1: Glorianes

980 kilometers.  Unfamiliar car.  Speed limit 130 kph (80 mph).  Speed traps everywhere.  No radio.  GPS in French, not trustworthy, resulting in unplanned side trip to the lovely city of Bordeaux.  85 euros in tolls, tollbooth doesn't accept U.S. credit cards.  Last 45 minutes of journey on one-lane road winding up to 800 meters, a road often shared by sheep and low-lying clouds.  Finally arrived 10 hours later in tiny Glorianes, in my friend's 600-year-old house.  End of journey was a table in the garden with a view of mountains so close you feel you could touch them, dinner of salmon, quinoa, dill sauce, a lovely Chardonnay, and an even lovelier Rocamadour chevre on tartines with a sprinkle of balsamic vinegar.  Hosts Lynn, Christophe, and sweet little Natacha are wonderful and generous.  This morning a church visit with a snake (is there a morality story there?)  And my adventure is only starting...more stories and photos to follow.

Not for the Faint of Heart

This is Pascal, my brother-in-law, my husband’s sister’s husband.  Pascal is a butcher and caterer, and is an all-around nice guy. He and Annie own and run a gite  (a room for special events and rooms upstairs to stay overnight) and a second butcher shop. Very busy people.  

But when we visited him on Saturday, Pascal was not too busy to stop and come around the counter to give me a kiss hello, or to wait on his mother-in-law (wise man, after all).  While she gave him our order, I took the liberty of taking some photos of things one would not find in the U.S., even if we still had such things as butcher shops.

Rabbit is, after all, in season.  Here’s how it comes for us ("lapin").

And here’s how Enzo, cousin Marie-Claire’s Brittany Spaniel, has his. 

Fortunately, we had already eaten our very appetizing meal and taken a lovely walk around Marie-Claire’s farm before Enzo found his meal. My son was fascinated, and when I couldn’t suppress a shudder, he exclaimed, “that’s nature, Mom!”

Marie-Claire invited family and friends for a Sunday lunch that lasted from 1:00 p.m. until 8:30 p.m.  She also showed us the chairs she’s been upholstering, and took everyone’s blood pressure with her electronic cuff.  My husband’s family has a quirky sense of humor.

And, then, my lovely son decided to take a walk through the very wet wheat.  He was soaked to the skin.  Boys.

Today I’m getting ready for my trip to the south.  Let’s hope it’s better weather; it’s been cloudy, rainy, cold and damp here.

Breakfast in France

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  Important or not, it certainly is my favorite meal.  Yes, that’s right, more than foie gras or rôti de porc (roast pork) or tarte aux pommes (apple tart) or fromage au lait cru (raw milk cheese), I love the simple bread, butter, jam and coffee with milk that comes after a long journey and a good sleep; I add an egg for some protein.  Yesterday was a blur of flights, schlepping luggage, waiting areas, trains, waiting in line, sleeping sitting up, and unfamiliar restrooms.  Last night I managed to stay awake until the sun went down (at 11:00 p.m.) and slept like a baby until the sun was well up in the sky (at 7:00 a.m.)  The French sleep with shutters closed, but I don’t like waking up in complete darkness, so I keep mine open.  I showered and dressed, then helped my mother-in-law make coffee and set the table with bowls for coffee, knives and spoons, butter, yogurt, her homemade jam, and the bowl full of pieces of bread and sliced brioche.  The smells and sounds of breakfast, combined with the sun breaking over a fresh day, make me happy.  And jam.  Jam makes me really happy.

a huge pot of raspberry jam all to myself

My son is still asleep after 13 hours of repose.  He’s completely missed breakfast.  Maybe he’ll wake up in time for lunch. Oh, well, more jam for me....