Cheese and Chocolate - A week in Switzerland!

Switzerland, the land of Toblerone and cowbells; snowy peaks and chalets; a place where people dunk chunks of bread into boiling hot pots of melted cheese ... in short, my happy place! This country is an eclectic mix of German, French and Italian influences but with a truly unique and Swiss flavour all of its own!

We spent a whirlwind week training across the amazing countryside, an incredibly easy and convenient way to see the breath-taking views and towns here. Below is a brief description of where we meandered:

Montreux – home to a famous jazz festival and perched on the far side of the gorgeous Lake Geneva. We stayed in a very old fashioned and quirky mansion which had been converted into a hotel, and visited the amazing Chillon Castle with its vivid history of conquest and kings that really brought Swiss history to life. I will never forget standing next to Gary in the fading light of the sun setting over the lake, surrounded by ducks and the lapping waters.

Luzern – a gorgeous old city with its iconic wooden and flower-adorned Chapel Bridge and Water Tower. It was here that we took another petit train to learn of the city’s past and nearly set an entire wooden fondue restaurant alight.

Zurich – a day trip here initially made us feel like we’d entered the Twilight Zone, so quiet and pristine was the city (and with no places selling food in sight!). However, we soon got our groove back quickly though and loved walking down the main Bahnhofstrasse, window-shopping and tasting the magnificent chocolate which you could buy by the gram. We strolled along the water, exploring the narrow alleys of the artists’ district and admiring the stained glass windows of Chagall.

Interlaken – arriving back here after my two previous visits was a major experience in de ja vu and I am almost sure that we stayed in the same hotel I had been in with my family nearly ten years ago. Interlaken has a smaller ‘feel’, nestled between the mountains. The Jungfrau is just a train ride away but, due to the inclement weather, we decided to take to the nearby lakes and had a wonderful ride on an old-fashioned paddle steamer which gave us incredible views of the powerful waterfalls and traditional hamlets dotting the shores.

Zermatt – a mountain wonderland in the shadow of the awe-inspiring Matterhorn, this town with its pedestrian-only centre and wooden chalet buildings gave us a very special Shabbat. We spent quite a bit of time in the Matterhorn Museum and walking through the mountain climbers’ memorial in the town cemetery – a humbling experience which chronicles the bravery and tragedy of young lives lost, as well as the power of nature.

Lucarno – perched on the edge of Lake Maggiore, we spent two days in this town and the Italian part of Switzerland (although don’t make the same mistake we did and ask where to get Swiss food, we were told very strongly that the people in this region have Italian heritage and blood). It was a great bridge to the next part of our trip, Italy, as the food, language and people were so Italian-influenced. We took a very old funicular ride up to the mountains above Locarno and visited a holy site where visions of the Virgin Mary had appeared many decades ago. The gorgeous grottos and views of the lake from this part of town were spectacular!

An Alpine Themed Exit

Onwards and literally upwards as we tackled the great French Alps with all the steely determination and skill of a Tour de France cyclist. Gary took the wheel for this part of the journey and masterfully kept his cool through the chicanes from the coast to the mountains as we began our trek towards our next destination, Switzerland.

I believe I may have been to blame for leading us off the GPS recommended path, for most of our trip from Villefranche to Briancon was along a uneven route where we scarcely saw another vehicle, besides for a loner biker or cyclist. This was some of the most hair-raising but spectacular driving we had ever seen, as the landscape changed from mountainous sheer drops and wooded hamlets below to rocky moonscape, complete with glacial lakes, as we reached a dizzying height of around 2700 meters above sea level.

We spent a wonderful Shabbat in a large self-catering ski apartment just outside the walled old city of Briancon, and marvelled at the incredible ancient fortifications in the landscape around us. We then spent our final night in France in Annecy, one of the 2014 Winter Olympic bid-cities, with its network of freezing cold but crystal clear canals and pedestrianized centre.

Dropping off the General was a traumatic experience, not least because it took us nearly an hour to find the drop off point on the French side of the Geneva Airport and we mistakenly crossed the Swiss-French border innumerable times. That old car had been good to us and in turn we had put it through its paces and showed it much of France.

3742kms travelled.

1000’s of calories consumed.

I love the traditions, the food, the language, the people, the culture but most of all the pride of France.

Au Revoir!

Now it's a party ...

We soon headed out of the Cote D’ Azur with heavy hearts, but not after one of the strangest nights in living memory.

Villefranche celebrates Bastille Day the night before on July 13th, where the decorated and brightly lit up local boats do a circuit around the harbour and throw carnations to the crowds lining the water. This was all very traditional and lovely and special to see but it had nothing on the real festivities we were to witness.

We managed to find a table at a restaurant for a drink, granted it had an amazing view from which to watch the boats, that was straight out of ‘Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares’. The frazzled and sweaty dad was rushing back and forth to and from the kitchen whilst the mother stood between clients and screamed at the disinterested daughters to set up table after table after table in the smallest spaces between already occupied chairs and tables. The daughters’ husbands/ boyfriends were working as chef and bartender respectively, but spent more time making out with their respectively partners in public than doing anything resembling work.

In the street outside the restaurant, a rather large African-American man was channelling a laryngitis ridden Barry White to the sounds of a tinny background tape whilst a local kid with exactly 2 dances was breaking dancing alongside a man in very tight white jeans in his mid-50s who was grabbing passing women and rubbing up against them to the rhythm of music. On the other side of our table was a dirty staircase leading up to a set of old apartments. On the steps outside the block, sat two ‘little people’ one on either a children’s play-guitar or a ukulele and the other on synth, who were trying to out-sing and outshine ol' Barry. They were accompanied by a little white dog (I named him Spot) who then decided to attack Gary’s chair at random intervals, and little Spot was being followed around my two little girls who then did a gymnastics routine for us.

The restaurant across from ours was in the aptly named ‘Obscure Street’, and here a drunken and particularly ragged-looking old man with a guitar was also performing, or rather weeping, into his empty beer can with hat askew.

Gary and I didn’t talk for the entire 2 hours we were there, sitting with our mouths slightly a gasp at the sights we were witnessing and, after the little people and the dog led conga-line between the tables, couldn’t help but fall about laughing at this crazy night.

I shot the sheriff

Okay I didn’t, I’m exaggerating slightly. But hopefully that title caught you by surprise, peaked your interest and will make my actual law-breaking actions detailed below pale into socially acceptable insignificance.

So there we were 2 crazy kids out on the road, French Christine on GPS and General de Gaulle. We were heading to Monaco for a day of pretending to be wealthy oil tycoons interested in purchasing a yacht the size of a small Caribbean island. I took the wheel as we left our home-base of Villefranche, keen to let the General loose on the famous Moyenne Corniche. First mistake.

The sun was warm and bright, the sky crystal clear and reflecting the sapphire colour of the sedate Mediterranean waters below. As we rounded the last curve before our destination, Gary was rendered speechless not only by the speed and agility of my driving, but by the striking Grimaldi Palace and sophisticated Monte Carlo high-rises which seem to soar out of the jagged rocks below and pierce the skies above. The contrast between the previous series of petite French fishing villages with their ancient old towns and salty cobbled streets, and the extravagant modern metropolis clinging to the cliffs was immediate and powerful.

As we drove down into the heart of Monaco, with passing cars whizzing past us on the hairpin bends at F1 speeds, I began to lose all bearings of where exactly we were and precisely where we should find a parking. Remembering a wonderful lunch by the harbour with my family on a previous visit, we decided to head to the yacht bowl and find a public garage there. With all the overhead highways, underground tunnels and one way side streets, and the fact that we had cleverly (in the interests of being authentic) set our GPS to French, Christiane was battling to give us any direction. Other vehicles on the road made it impossible to slow down and look for street signs, which seemed to also be on summer vacation, and so we began to panic as I took the same route out of the principality and then back in again for at least the third time.

It was at this point that I decided some assertive action was necessary. We were fast approaching a small circle and Christiane was motioning for us to take an off-ramp. As I swerved the car to the right, I asked Gary if I was taking the correct road. ‘I don’t think so’ was his harried reply. By this stage it was too late to turn back into the circle, and so I went with the exit. At the exact moment that my brain registered that I had just put us on the course of a very small and rapidly climbing one way road lined with solid yellow lines on either side, I heard the shrill sound of a Policeman’s whistle piercing my ears. Gary, ever cool and turning around just in time to see said cop waving his arms hysterically above his head and running after our car, screamed in nearly as high pitched a voice ‘This is a no entry point, that cop was telling us to stop!’. Already 300 meters up the road and out of earshot of the cop, I gripped the wheel and frantically looked from side to side to see if there was anyway on G-d’s green earth I could pull a U-turn. Access denied.

As the car kept climbing higher and the road showed no sign of sending us a convenient place to turn around, my stomach flipped at the cold hard realization that we were going to be in some trouble for this. The beautiful palm trees lining the path, which incidentally had an amazing view of the harbour and Monte Carlo casino, soon gave way to royal flags and ornate gates and arches. ‘Love, I think we are about to cause an international incident’. Before we knew it the road had turned in a hairpin bend and we were hurtling towards the Royal Palace. Ah. Second Mistake.

As the General peaked over the rise we were faced with an interesting sight – a fleet of shiny police cars lined up next to each other, a bus filled with government official types chatting with their leather briefcases and clipboards in hand, and a number of perturbed looking cops waving us down. Steadying my shaky hands, I slowed the car down as I unrolled my window and immediately went, against my feminist inclination, into my best helpless ‘damsel in distress’ mode. “Try not look like a terrorist” was my only advice to Gary. “Don’t worry dear, it’ll be okay” was the subdued reply. As we pulled level with the policemen I mustered up my most nonchalant tone and began blurting out ‘I’m so sorry, we are so lost, please can you help us Sir’.

“Pull over and turn off your vehicle”.

Okaaaaay, the damsel ain’t gonna fly. Cue waterworks?

I duly obeyed the orders and as I went to lean out my window to chat to the gentlemen in uniform I saw another cop jump out next to Gary’s side.

“You heard the policeman at the bottom of the road tell you to stop. Why did you not listen to him?”. I obviously had ‘bad cop’ as I could overhear Gary’s conversation next to me go more along the lines of "There are a lot of police here, we like to protect people". Funny, not feeling so safe.

My words fell over each other as I began imploring him, with just a little more than a hint of desperation, that I had heard him by the time it was too late, there was no way to turn around, it was a mistake, we didn’t mean to cause any trouble, I’m so sorry etc. etc.

“I need your driver’s license and the papers for the vehicle”. Ah. Third Mistake.

I turned back to Gary who met my gaze with a steely blank look. We were both thinking the same thing. As we motioned to my handbag on the passenger floor and pretended to rummage around a bit, I tried to remain calm. I never go anywhere back home without my driver’s license, and we had gone to the mission and cost of us both getting international drivers licenses (only valid when carried with your domestic license) so that we could both drive around. I blame the hysteria around pickpocketing in Europe for making me so paranoid about carrying my legal documents that I had very cleverly locked both of my licenses, along with Gary’s license, into the hotel safe in Villefranche.

Disobeying a police officer, going into a high security restricted zone unauthorized, driving in a foreign country without a valid domestic or international license.

I was riding dirty.

I handed the policeman Gary’s SA driver’s license and before I could explain myself he began taking down the details. Okie dokie, there’s no need to draw his attention to the immediate problem, let’s just see how this progresses. After a few questions of the type I’d seen on enough “Law and Order” episodes to know I was suspected of something, he asked why the picture on the license was of Gary and not of me and where my license was. Under his very serious glare, and with the other policeman walking around the vehicle inspecting it for anything untoward that we were trying to force into the Palace, my nervousness prevented any smooth talking and I blurted out the ridiculous truth that I did have all the correct documents but in the country next door to this one. No I didn’t have my passport with me (also in the safe) or any credit cards or other forms of identification to prove I was who I said I was (also in the safe).

Needless to say, this was the longest half hour of my life. The questions kept coming, the full extent of my absent-minded travellers stupidity was being uncompromisingly unravelled (why do we seem to lose basic mental capabilities in a foreign country?) and I believe it was only Gary’s sweet-talking to good cop and the fact that we were South African that saved a trip down to the tjoekie. Nay, we even escaped without a fine (although our details were captured and stored in some kind of database. Ask no questions).

“Do you know Durban?” he chirped. You better believe we worked that Oyster Box wedding!

“Are you on the way to visit Charlene?” As I saw that look dawn on Gary’s face, the one that had persuaded a Tunisian bouncer to give us free entry into the Nice Jazz Festival to see Seal performing live and which meant he was about to ask if an audience was at all possible, I got us the hell out of dodge.

We eventually found a parking, ironically enough directly opposite the police headquarters, and we had a wonderful day roaming the streets of Monte Carlo. Although I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was looking at us like I we were criminals, and we were very very careful not to jay-walk …

Bonnie and Clyde '11?

Okay, so I agree with what you’re thinking – that last blog post was a little too rosy, a little too perfect and you want the dirt. Well here is the sordid truth. Before I begin, I must stress that I do not normally condone breaking the democratically elected laws of a country, unless one is fighting in legitimate struggle for justice, but sometimes things just happen out on that open road …

Yes, and we still cannot for the life of us figure out how the frosty this happened; on the day we visited Cassis we set out to traverse a foreign countryside without a cent on us. Not a sausage. Although we did have beer, Gary pipes up as I type this. In our defence, we did have about 6 credit cards between us and we had used these successfully on French toll roads in the past. Anyway, on that particular day the French were having none of it. It will be a while before I forget that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as yet another harried French vehicle in the searing midday heat pulled up in the now rapidly growing queue behind us and the toll machine rudely spat out our credit card YET AGAIN onto Gary’s lap. ‘Carde payment non possible’. Hhmm, Nedbank? Non possible. Investec? Non possible. Discovery? Non possible. Realizing where this path was now going, we quickly moved to the obvious next step: piling out the car, opening all the doors (and the boot for extra dramatic effect) and searching the floor of General de Gaulle on our hands and knees searching for ANYTHING that resembled a coin.

After coming across a few empty cans, tons of maps and a bottle of jam, we also had a small handful of coins and returned to the machine where the assistant, who had by now been called out of her air-conditioned booth, needed some explaining from us. After a frantic conversation via Charades, we had eventually convinced her that yes, none of our cards would work we had in fact tried that and no sorry, we really did get onto a national freeway without having even 2 Euros 60 on us. Plying her with whatever we had, she grumpily (but granted, very generously) accepted our symbolic payment and hurriedly waved us through.

After a few mandatory high-fives and victorious fist pumps, we turned back to the car and decided that the only responsible course of action after our very lucky break would be to take the very next off-ramp, find a little town and a working ATM and withdraw some … bugger! ANOTHER FRIGGING TOLLGATE! We were now truly caught between a rock and a hard place … I wanna see you try to ‘undrive’ a road you just sped through! Of course, ‘The Enforcer' at the last stop had taken our clammy 1 Euro 10 and immediately radioed the next gate to warn them of our imminent and bankrupt arrival. As I began to strategize just how strong those boom gates could really be, the full facts dawned on us - we now owed the French state more cash and had absolutely nothing on our persons. More credit cards into the machine, more non possible and even more irate drivers behind us hooting at the idiotic tourists from the last stop holding everyone up again. At least we did the honourable thing and pretended to get out of the vehicle and search for coins. Gary then began an epic episode of sweet-talking and the tollgate assistant here, either motivated by pity for two tourists or sympathy for two idiots (maybe both) took a coin I had found lodged under the aircon and waved us through the second gate. As we high-tailed it at some speed into the distance, I did notice him man hurriedly taking down our details. I just hope we don’t get held at the airport and blacklisted …

Well, the story doesn’t quite end there. After searching the surrounds of cassis for hours in a car taking out its revenge against its drivers by simulating the greenhouse effect, we finally found a municipal parking lot outside the city which had a bus taking people into the town and back to the parking. Perfect! Not thinking twice, we hopped on. It was really and truly only once we had taken up our seats and the bus started creaking down the hill that we realized this trip would cost us 2 Euros each. More of Gary’s famous sweet-talking and an armed escort from the bus to the ATM to pay the toll and we were safely in Cassis. I have never been escorted as a suspected flight risk, but luckily our guard realized that two such incompetent people were unlikely to make a great escape and chuckled at our luck.

And then there was Monarco and my first real near arrest.

To be continued …

A Week in the French Riviera

Azure seas, azure skies - the Cote D’ Azur. Part legend, part dream, the French Riviera must be one of the most beautiful and alluring places on earth and can make even the most demure and serious of us feel like a movie star. We were lucky enough to spend 5 days there, day-tripping up and down the coast from our gorgeous base of the cliffhanging terracotta fishing village of Villefranche-Sur-Mer.

In St Tropez and Saint Maxime, we were living it up with the rich and famous along yacht lined harbours with too many passing Bentley coupes, Ferraris and Porsches to count.

Cassis is a lovely little village on the Riviera straddled by crystal blue waters on the one side and rocky vineyards on the other. In the hazy heat of a summer Sunday afternoon, we found traditional marble courtyards and gardens and sat with the locals playing boulle for some respite from the sun.

Cannes, with enough star-power to fuel a million paparazzi cameras, has a sophisticated glamour all of its own. The boulevards, the luxury shops beneath majestic hotels and the Red Carpet of the Palais de Congress, this town has retains the atmosphere of its famous film festival all year round.
Nice, the packed Promenade de Anglais lined by glitzy casinos and imposing hotels on one side and wide stretches of beach on the other. This is where we spent the night of Bastille Day, standing amongst the crowds and gazing up at some of the most intense and lingeringly beautiful fireworks I have ever seen.

Eze, the famous medieval town teetering on the brink of dizzying heights which captures the most sweeping and awe-inspiring views of the Mediterranean. The steep and unending path from the village itself down to its sister town is where Nietzsche’s daily walks gave him time to consider some of his most famous works.

Antibes and Juan les Pan, this part of the Riviera reminds me of my parents and their song ‘Where do you go to my lovely?’. Two very small villages which have all but merged into one, we stumbled upon an Israeli expat hub in Juan les Pan where we had a wonderful lunch there sitting right above the private beaches.

St Paul de Vence, the walled village on the hill where even the rocks and pathways are steeped in art and you can feel the presence of its famous inhabitants, especially Chagall, can still be felt. With incredible views of the Provencial countryside and homely galleries next to those of famous artists, as well as the local craft shops housed in the small ancient houses of its winding cobbled streets, St Paul is itself an inspiration.

We also spent the day of Bastille Day in Monarco, the principality which juts out of the merging mountains and sea in all its highrise splendour. The streets were still lined with South African flags from the wedding, so it was a really special time to walk Monte Carlo with its Grand Prix route and take pics on the Casino red carpet.

Ah, this is the life!

Shabbat amongst the 'Red Rocks' - St Raphael

Travelling in France (or anywhere in Europe for that matter) in July and August has some special challenges, particularly when it comes to accommodation availability. If, like Gary and myself, you prize spontaneity and destiny over planning, or in other words are just downright disorganized, then booking your hotel, pension or apartment after your arrival in a town during the summer high season may pose a problem or two. Aix-En will be remembered for some frantic internet searching moments, including but not limited to, trawling travel website after website for places to stay, weighing up prices in homemade spread sheets only to log back onto said website and lose the hotel, you had JUST finally decided upon, to a last minute confirmation from someone in Sweden. One of my biggest regrets in this regard was losing out on the opportunity to spend a night at the dubiously unclassified and ridiculously cheap Hotel California (C'mon, who wouldn't right?).

It was in one of these moments of blind terror that we stumbled across our accommodation for Shabbat on the Riviera, a place which drew the gliterrati in a time before the razzle dazzle of Cannes and St Tropez.

St Raphael . A mysterious and enchanting town perched just on top of the rocks under the mighty shadow of Massif de l'Esteral. This town conjours up all the glamour, coolness and sophistication of the 1920s jet set. The home of F. Scott Fitzgerald when he wrote his famous 'flapper' novel The Great Gatsby and about which he based his other masterpiece Tender Is the Night. Intertwined as it is with the bustling seaside hub of Frejus, St Raphael today is known for its natural beauty and its wealth of scuba diving and hiking trails adventure but we both loved the gorgeous old mansions in their half-tamed, half-manicured gardens facing the ocean. Driving along the Corniches which take you past Frejus and St Raphael on your way down the Riviera, you can spot isolated beach coves, some just big enough for one family to fit in.

Our hotel was in one of these isolated pockets, clinging to the rocks overlooking the waves. Unusually, the rocks in this part of the region are a deep red colour and known as the roches rouge - red rocks, so named because of the colour these rocks turn when water interacts with their iron minerals. From our balcony, where we spent most of Saturday, we felt as if we could dive into the pristine waters below and we made good use of the ladder on the small pier leading down into the salty surf.

The beauty of Provence

So the next day we ‘Sete’ off (okay, last time I’ll do that promise) and headed into the heartland of traditional Provence – Arles and Aix-En-Provence.

I must say upfront that I have an incredibly soft-spot for Provence, and it’s a place that I have travelled to many times with my family and have many special memories there. Provence, to me, is all that is France – traditional stone villages with lace-curtain windows, purple seas of lavender fields as far as the eye can see and delicious gastronomic delights and wines.

Our first stop into this cultural and historic heartland was Arles – the city which inspired the colours and light of Van Gogh. Arles is a truly beautiful place, with pristine trimmed gardens and flowerbeds everywhere one looks and gorgeous little streets, open and bright and bustling with tourists and shopkeepers and cafés. The Roman ruins in this ancient town, a Forum and a glorious Coliseum, are in wonderful condition and easily accessible in a day’s touring. We ended up finding a gorgeous creperie in a sheltered courtyard as a hideaway from the baking midday sun, and inadvertently spent our time in the courtyard of the old ‘Hospital of Arles’ right next to where the Van Gogh Museum now stands. The courtyard is the subject of one of this master’s most famous paintings and we were both moved by the beauty and light of this space - the rare gentle and gold light of Arles.

Next stop Aix-En-Provence. Much bigger, grander and more elegant than we had expected for a notorious university town, there is nothing quite like arriving in a place you’ve never been to before at 6.30pm and having the tourist officials laugh at you when you ask for accommodation advice. “This place is booked up a year in advance, even for one night, and is certainly more expensive than Paris”. Ho hum. Whilst I began to work out just exactly how we were going to repack General de Gaulle in order to fully extend the front seats overnight, my gallant husband had already found us a lovely hotel in one of suburbs of the city, Le Mozart. Triumphantly opening the curtains and waltzing onto the balcony of our room, I couldn't help but ask Gary, "Why are there so many tress right in the middle of this city?". It was then, after much looking at upside down maps and GPS directions, that we realized we had based ourselves completely outside the city limits. A bit of a walk to be sure, but up until that point we had not been happier to see a clean, safe bed.

The following day we took the petit train tour of the city of a hundred fountains, each more beautiful and intricate and meaningful than the next. We walked in the footsteps of giants such as Cezanne and Zola, and saw the sights which gave them their inspiration. The air here is just intoxicated with creativity. What a superb city and one that I could easily spend weeks, months or even years in! Despite buying a dud EuroMillions ticket there, we even adopted a breakfast café spot, just like the locals. Aix-En (pronounced ‘ex-on’ as we conveniently found out just before we left) is well worth a stopover if you are ever passing through Provence.

Ready, Sete, Go!

Think of the ultimate hot, humid, bustling port town and you have Sete. On first arrival, this town can seem like every other gritty working harbour, complete with malodorous fishing trawlers and salty seadogs outside rundown cafes and bars. However, if you dare to take a few steps back into the ancient alleyways or manage to drive out to the strips of white sandy beaches, you will discover a very different place.

The drive into Sete is itself an adventure through some of the most spectacular scenery in France –the Camargue. The home of pink flamingos, wild bulls and white horses roaming the salt pans, the Camargue is a swampy desert and hot as hell. Peering through the heat haze are isolated stalls selling fresh produce from the area – rice, salt, cheeses, wines and herbs. A road trip dreamland!

Gary and I stayed at a family-run hotel on one of Sete’s outlying beach areas. When we arrived, the quaint hotel was being manned by the owner and husband, who did the French trick of speaking to us fast and fluently in his mother tongue, knowing full well that we didn’t speak a word but hoping that by just carrying on we would at some stage get the drift. Apart from some contention over the the ‘obligatory’ breakfast for an extra seven euros each which we could not get out of, we managed to decipher the conversation and settled in.

That night, we strolled along the ancient canals in Sete proper, having drinks in the harbour overlooking the setting sun whilst a little orchestra played across from us - so special, so French!

PS although we thought that a forced breakfast would not taste that great, it was actually a wonderful memory sipping our coffee together on our private little balcony overlooking the morning waves.

Carcassonne- Of Gazpatcho and Witches' hats

Today was an interesting one. I took the driver’s seat and we headed out of Espana and into the wild, rocky and windblown countryside of Languedoc France.

After a few hours on the road, we began to worry that we would find ourselves in a potentially lethal situation we had been in many times before – caught in the desolate wasteland between lunch and dinner. In France, as in many other Western European countries, lunch time has strict hours – between 12pm and 2pm. After 2pm its siesta time and lunch for the restaurateurs themselves, so if you want more than a café, you had better leg it or pack your own!

We were not close to any little towns and decided to turn-off at an industrial park to try our luck. Squeezed in between the factories, we found a little bistro and decided to quickly grab a table and umbrella and look as if we’d been waiting there for at least 20 minutes. Sitting in the rain with my smelly and broken bag, the lovely waitress walked passed to greet us and proceeded to accidentally tip an entire bowl of fresh tomato and garlic gazpatcho into it. Yes, in every pocket, nook and cranny. Of course, paralyzed with laughter at this unbelievable turn of events, I was helpless for about half an hour, sitting there with a silly little napkin in my hand trying to mop up an entire bowl of soup. It was like trying to stop an artery haemorrhaging with a little plaster. The good news was that this incident revealed to us a ground-breaking phenomenon - bazpatcho gag, what happens when one is sitting downwind of me. Way to make friends and influence people Lan ...

Arriving in Carcassonne was not the welcome back to France we had hoped for. After a massive detour that took us 25 minutes away from the town only to drop us in the middle of nowhere (it’s a special kind of adventure when the detour road-signs run out!), we arrived at the Tourist office to be greeted (or rather grunted at) by a woman who I can only imagine has the personality to be better placed working in taxidermy rather than in tourism.

The hotel we found is definitely a humdinger. As Gary quipped upon entering the room and banging his toes on the bedside table, he has seen stables with more stars than this. The floor has unidentifiable and innumerable stains and suspicious marks on it, the walls are caked in a nondescript black dust and the bathroom is mostly taken up by the cupboard, with the bathtub being more of a pit in the ground with the broken hand-shower lying on the floor. The only saving grace is that the smell from my bag only slightly offsets the smell of the room.

The actual town of Carcassonne however, is a dream. Truly Disneyworld come to life – soaring turrets, moats, drawbridges and witches’ hat topped spires. The walled medieval town sits high and proud on a hilltop and dominates the landscape around it. The streets leading up to La Cite, as the walled town is known, make up the area of La Ville Basse - rickety, quirky and beautiful in their own right. Various parts of the La Cite's castle are used for theatre and music stages, and during the summer months especially, traditional restaurants and street perfromances are serving up all kinds of delights on every corner.

There is a special romantic atmosphere here, and Gary and I loved walking up to the huge stone walls that seemed to breath with history and take pictures of the surrounding views in the fading sunlight. As the dusk sets in, La Cite is lit up in magnificent floodlight. This incredible place was unquestionably worth the journey!

Viva La France!

'I do not seek, I find' Picasso

Sitges. Iridescent blue waters, piping hot white sand and the twisting, ever-climbing passageways between whitewashed houses with blue shutters and balconies. Across the old town, the tourist area is filled with humid nights of teeming crowds strolling along the palm-lined promenade, nightclub queues and fresh tapas served with sangria at every turn. And finally our balcony, a respite from the heat sitting above local gardens and terraces and a window into daily life in this sea-side town.

On Saturday night, a stroke of luck allows us to be a part of the town for a few hours. We sneak into the local festival, the night of San Pedro, and walk amongst the residents, watching the children compete in toy fishing competitions and win their first goldfish, old men sitting at the street bar with cold beers in hand, couples swaying together on the makeshift dance floor to the sounds of local bands playing traditional hits.
Sitges - a constant buzz of the trains going to and from Barcelona and fireworks at all hours of the day and night. Church processions practicing their street parade and drum routines along the boulevard.

And then the main attraction, Barcelona. Filled with Gaudi’s primary colours, crazed shapes and challenging structures. Snaking around the La Sagrada Familia and seeing something new, something disturbing, something enlightening with every new rotation. Dali, Goya, Picasso. The Spanish Civil War and ETA. Markets and lingering drinks at local bars. Catalonia Art Nouveau.

La buena vida.

Winding through the Pyrenees ...

Okay, I don’t want to alarm anyone but we have enough empirical evidence to conclusively confirm this. Ever since Prague, we are being followed by garbage trucks. Not just your garden variety garbage truck, but the very loud, smelly ones with a small army of quite aggressive people hanging off the sides. Yes, the kind which obviously needs to ride the pavement right next to you, sharing in your quiet romantic drink uninvited and giving you hours of near-death experiences. This will need to be monitored further.

Back to ‘Embracing the detours’. Viva Espana! After leaving the French heartland of Mirepoix, we were excited to cross over into the wild scenery of French Basque country and then into distinctive Catalonia. Barcelona is such a magnificent city – radical, imaginative, strange and proud. When I think of Barcelona, the colours and shape of Gaudi immediately fill my mind’s eye. Although we wanted to spend a full day exploring there, we decided to take a break from big cities and spend Shabbat in the coastal town of Sitges, just south of Barcelona.

But before any of this, we had to cross the imposing heights of the Pyrenees. Gary did a sterling job, winding General de Gaulle up the careering mountain passes and then back down through the narrow bends of the dirt routes we took. It was so quiet and deserted on our drive, with breath-taking views going on forever across the valleys and forests, and only punctuated once or twice by a passing mountain cyclist or an isolated home perched near one of the many streams.

In the middle of the day, when the motion sickness of the winding roads got too much for me and Gary’s eyes were beginning to cross from trying to keep our car on the single lane against rather rapidly approaching oncoming trucks, we stumbled across a gorgeous trout farm and family restaurant in the forest clearing. It was a postcard picture scene: the family home above the restaurant, the goats sauntering around the chairs and tables and the gentlemen in the kitchen literally coming out in his apron to catch a trout and serve up the plat du jour to the Hell’s Angels biker who had pulled up a table next to us.

Arriving in Spain was a rude awakening from the quiet countryside, and Sean had to be prematurely replaced with another GPS voice after losing the plot between all the Spanish tunnels, off-ramps, circles and junctions. Passing through the traffic of Barcelona led us to the beautiful whitewashed streets of Sitge.
Dos sangria por favour?

Are we in Monoprix yet?

We were on the road again. This time on our way to Toulouse, a place known for its shimmering pink and red stone buildings and thriving café culture. Situated between the Canal du Midi (which we had been following for some time on our travels, and which brings back stunning memories of barging with my family) and the River Garonne, we were looking forward to a night in this well-known French city.

Well, things don’t always work out quite as planned. It may have been the combination of heat, exhaustion and entering the city from the less than welcoming and picturesque industrial areas, but Toulouse was not what we had expected. We had to walk for miles in searing heat in between construction sites and down dingy alleys, the crowds swarming and the maps distorted, and we bumped one too many neo-Nazi skin head types with homemade swastika tattoos than was frankly necessary for a weekday afternoon. I’m sure it’s a really lovely place and that the city and us were just having an off day, but we were not gelling with Toulouse. ‘Embracing the detours’ as we have tried to do on this adventure, we decided to cut our losses and find a small town outside the city, whilst still on our route down to Spain, where we could crash for the night.

Enter Mirepoix. It was literally a random point on the map that we could find a highway to and although I keep mistakenly renaming this town after my favourite French grocery shop (J’taime Monoprix!), it really was an unforgettable experience and the other end of the scale to hustling, bustling Toulouse.

Yes, another medieval town. But with a difference! Mirepoix is literally only the size of two town blocks but the ‘old town’ is remarkably preserved and the 12th century stilted wooden buildings, with worn yet colourful carved facades, shutters and flowerboxes, is truly enchanting. It overlooks into a grassy square with the standard carousel of every French town. Completely by accident, we ended up staying in the town’s local hotspot, a quirky family-owned hotel situated right next to the old town and which overlooked a large but slightly overgrown garden that doubled as the restaurant grounds. We should have known by the listing hand-painted sign for the hotel, complete with fairies and cheesy poison ivy, that this place would be something else. Besides, it was only 56 euros!

Well, without an elevator we had to shlep our bags up two teeny tiny dark and uneven flights of stairs. The corridor leading to our room had a distinct inclination to the left and our door seemed to double, triple and quadruple lock, depending on its mood at the time. The room itself was plain and simple, although dominated by the massive wooden support beams holding up the entire establishment. The theme of the 1960s bedspread was cleverly carried through into the 1860s bathroom. Outside our room however, was the real treat. The spa, consisting of a now recalled and banned brand of coin-operated 1980s massage chair in mouldy green velvet, which loudly reverberated throughout the hotel. Yes, a gem.

Anyway, we survived the night and had a wonderful sunset and then morning walk around the town, watching it both close up and wake up in a pattern of activity, noise and colour which must have been going on unchanged throughout the centuries.

Montauban

Perfectly timing our arrival into Montauban with the peak rush hour traffic (yes, even medieval fortified towns or bastides in the south of France do have peak rush hour traffic), we had begun to wind our way down from the Atlantic coast of France and start the trek to Spain, manoeuvring through the Pyrenees.

Another day, another curb.

The drive from Bordeaux into Mountauban was a classic trip through all that is French - we passed traditional little French country homes, complete with sun-worn shutters in hues of blue, green and yellow, uneven stone walls and ancient wooden roofs. Town streets were replete with older men sitting in pavement cafes smoking cigarettes over the twentieth café of the day and their beloved newspapers, with local women walking the streets with fresh groceries for the day in hand. Each town has its own unique World War 1 and World War 2 memorials (as well as streets named after Wilson, Patton and of course, Charles de Gaulle), as well as the beautiful church spire marking the central point of the settlement.
Montauban is the second-oldest bastide in this part of France and the heart of the town is the quintessential square named Place Nationale. Surrounded by arcaded walkways in the classic pink brick of the region, we had drinks into the late sunset at one of the bars in its historic centre. We managed to find accommodation in the top luxury spa of the city (complete stroke of luck I tell you) and this amazing building, with all sides opening into a grand courtyard, was the ancient Abbey of the local order of Nuns. Being an important sight in the struggle between Catholicism and the rise of Protestantism in centuries past, a religious undertone seemed to pervade all aspects of Montauban.

Along with the haunting spiritual theme, Montauban did also seem to have more than its usual share of local ‘bums’. Every French town, no matter how small, has at least one member who roams the streets drunkenly greeting people and singing at the top of their voice or taking a nap on the pavement. (We have witnessed countless of these gentlemen disrupt the performances of stunned teenage bands busking on the sidewalk). Although most are obviously living a life of struggle, and many besides being alcoholics are suffering from serious mental health problems and fall between the social welfare cracks, they do generally have a warm and non-threatening demeanour and add, in their own distinctive way, contribute to the tapestry of town life – known by name and engaged with by all the locals.
Onwards and upwards, towards Toulouse!

La Belle au Bois Dormant

The crunching of the grey gravel under foot, the warm breeze carrying the scent of the cellar in the air, the shimmering green sea of ripe and plump vineyards in full flower. Bordeaux! What can one say about this gem of France that truly does the place justice? As beautiful as the city is (and it is the largest urban area classified by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site), its really the surrounding countryside which carries the true heart and soul of Bordeaux.

Wine has been produced in this part of the world since the 8th century, and the growing and tending of vineyards, the harvesting and distillation of wine, as well and it’s blending and bottling, are taken incredible seriously and studied and honed into a fine art which is passed down through the generations.

Our chateau for the two days, Chateau de Meyre, (more on where we stayed can be viewed on http://www.chateaumeyre.com/en/main.php) was located in the heart of the Medoc region, between the very famous vineyards of Margaux and Moulis. Medoc loosely translates into ‘middle region’ as it is situated between the sea and the river Garonne, allowing its soil to have the perfect balance of water stress and easy irrigation through the gravelly terrain. The surrounding villages and vineyards attract wine connoisseurs from all over the world, who flock to experience the delicate red wine of Medoc, and Margaux is very well known for being a leader in 1855 Classification of wines which was carried out by Napoleon the 3rd in the year the name suggests. Before we left this wonderful part of the world, we also visited a second chateau in Margaux proper, named Chateau Rauzan Gassies (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ch%C3%A2teau_Rauzan-Gassies). It’s fascinating history and illustrious winemaking heritage were really interesting to understand.

We also managed to spend a day in the town of Bordeaux itself, a perfectly laid out and pedestrianized city sitting straight on the fresh darks waters of the coast. La Belle au Bois Dormant, the Sleeping Beauty, Bordeaux really has a wealth of history juxtaposed with a vibrant student population which keeps the ancient city alive! My favourite aspect of walking the streets of Bordeaux again was the chance to learn more about Eleanor of Aquataine, a powerful woman leader who made some radical choices for her day, the late 1100s – to keep her lands over her children and marry and divorce influential kings over political strategy.

On a side note, it was in Bordeaux that we had our first real doppelganger episode on ‘Embrace the Detours’ when we met, and I tell no word of a lie here, French Gary. Yes, the sommelier and summer management intern at our Chateau gave a complimentary tour of the vineyards and cellars of Chateau Meyre and of course we jumped at the chance to learn more about one of my favourite things. Unbeknown to us, in all his full three-quarter trousers, fitted blazer, loafers and neckerchief glory, was French Gary. The splitting image, in the flesh. Needless to say, Gary and French Gary hit off something wicked. When we get our own Chateau and start making wine, we know the perfect person to oversee the whole operation!