(In 2004, Dottie
and I spent two weeks in France, including a week’s stay in a Paris apartment,
followed by a week on a barge in Burgundy.)
Part I - Bonjour Paris
Preparing
for France was serious work. The first
thing I did was browse the shelves of our local bookstores for the most current
guide books. Of course, it was necessary to learn at least some of the
language, which, to use a Yogi Berra-ism, is sort of like Spanish, only
different. Then there was the physical training part – expanding the capacity
of my stomach – which was well underway before our flight departed from San
Francisco.
Having
practiced this due diligence, Dottie and I arrived at Charles DeGaulle Airport
well conditioned for whatever our adventure might bring.
Clearing
French customs was easy and quick, as was finding a taxi to take us into the
“City of Light.”
There are
many similarities between Paris and major cities in the United States,
including the fact that the taxi drivers are not native and as unfamiliar with
the city as the average tourist. Although he didn’t appear to understand my
fractured French, our driver agreed that the street on his city map matched the
address on the card I was reading from –
Rue Guisarde in St.-Germain-des-Pres (6th Arrondissement) on the
left bank.
On this
narrow, one-block street of six-story 15th century buildings was the
fourth-floor, walk-up studio apartment that was to be our home for the
week. Owned by Mathew Mitchell and Susan
Prion, both professors at the University of San Francisco, it is perfectly
situated in one of the chicest and most visitor-friendly neighborhoods of
Paris.
Our petite,
one-block, one-way alley was home to at least a half-dozen restaurants, a
bakery and several nightclubs. When we
arrived, the taxi could only get us as close as the corner because various
trucks were parked making their morning deliveries.
The aroma
of fresh-baked bread, cigarette and diesel fumes, plus a cacophony of French
conversations shouted above the rumble of idling truck engines greeted us as we
wove our way between the vehicles, crates of produce and wine cases toward our
apartment entrance.
Our first
challenge was to find the door. Because
the ground floors of all the buildings are used for commercial purposes, the
entrances to the floors above are not always obvious. Thanks to the
instructions provided by Mathew and Susan, we managed to find it in a little
nook between the “Bar des Crime” and “Brasserie Ferdinand.”
One of
things that the guidebooks don’t tell you is that in France the ground floor is
not the first floor. So, when somebody
says that your apartment is on the fourth floor, it is actually up five
flights. When you are climbing a narrow, spiral staircase with two suitcases
after a 16-hour flight, that is an important fact. We reached our apartment at
the same time we ran out of oxygen and our rubbery legs lost their battle with
gravity.
Gasping for
breath and fumbling with the keys, we managed to open the door and stumble
inside. Because it is a studio, only a
few stumble-steps further allowed us to collapse on the bed, where we remained
until the spots disappeared from our eyes.
Recovering
sufficiently to look around, we found ourselves in a small (about 300 square
feet) space that was efficiently used and tastefully decorated. We had a decent
sized bathroom with a good shower in a bathtub.
There was a small one-person kitchen with a small half-refrigerator, two
electric burners, a coffee pot and all essential pots and utensils. There is a
small closet and a three-drawer commode, a dining table and two chairs, a bed,
an easy chair, and two large windows from which we could see the rooftops of
other buildings and the bustling street below.
The
hand-cut ancient exposed wooden beams in the ceiling gave proof to the
building’s antiquity. We opened the
windows and the sounds and smells of Paris filled the room. Our tryst with one
of the most beautiful cities in the world had begun.
Part II –
“The sirens of Paris”
Once we
recovered from carrying our bags up five flights to our friends’ studio in the
Saint-Germain des Pres district on the city’s left bank, and got our stuff put
away, we began exploring our neighborhood.
Just around
the corner was Place Saint Sulpice and its ancient cathedral. A block further
was the 60-ace park, Jardin du Luxembourg.
About six blocks in the other direction was the River Seine, Ile de la
Citi and Cathedral Notre-Dame. The Cluny Museum with its collection of Roman
and medieval art was nearby, as was the Sorbonne and the University of Paris.
We found
ourselves in what appeared to be a very young, chic, yet surprisingly upscale
neighborhood, with hundreds of interesting shops, bookstores, bistros, and
coffee bars, all bustling with activity, and very few tourists.
Except for
the employees working in the shops, the main pastime of Parisians in our area
seemed to be sitting in sidewalk cafes drinking coffee, smoking, talking and
people watching.
This has
developed into a virtual art form by the French. Sitting for an hour or more
over one cup of coffee is normal. And
while it is impolite to stare, and potentially misleading to make eye contact,
that doesn’t mean that passers by and the people at neighboring tables do not
get the once over.
At meal
times, every chair and table of every café and bistro is filled. Nobody does
brown-bag in Paris.
Tables and
chairs are so tightly packed that it is virtually impossible not to rub elbows,
overhear conversations and make incidental eye contact with one’s
neighbor-diners.
The
conversations going on around us were not a distraction. It was all French to
me. My vocabulary is limited to a few
useful words and phrases memorized from Fodor’s “French for Travelers,” the
most important one being “Bonjour Monsieur/Madame. Ou sont les toilettes?”
The
possible answers to that question include directions to some rather futuristic
looking concrete and plastic cabinets that one finds on many street corners in
Paris. These are coin-operated,
semi-automatic facilities that one enters at one’s own risk. Things you need to know include the fact that
there is a time limit. If you do not finish your business at the end of that
time, the door automatically opens, and there you are, caught with your pants
down in full view of folks walking by.
Then, if you don’t exit in time, the door closes again and locks you
in. A few seconds later the entire
inside is washed with a mist of cleansing solution. A few seconds after that you’ll hear what
sounds like a jet plane taking off and you’re hit with a blast of air intended
to dry the facilities. Finally, the door lock is released and you are allowed
to exit, hair and clothes slightly damp but thoroughly sanitized.
Travel is
always a broadening experience.
Speaking of
which, there were several “boulangerie” within a block of our apartment. These
butter, flour and sugar adorned sirens of the Paris streets sent forth aromas
of fresh-baked goods, casting spells that lured us onto delicious,
calorie-laden shoals. My expanded waistline is proof that we did not
resist.
France Part
III – Quatre croissants, s’il vous plait”
Listening
to a French lesson on a CD player and repeating the phrase back is a lot
different than speaking the language out in the “real world.” Through several
high school and college semesters, plus visits to Mexico and Spain, my confidence
with Spanish has grown over the years.
Not so with French.
It is the
only language where style counts for so much. More than a means of conversing,
it is an art form. To speak French like
a native is an impossible dream. To speak a few words of French and not sound
like an imbecile was my hope.
Before our
trip, I practiced with my Fodor’s French for Travelers and was determined to
use that French around our Parisian Left Bank neighborhood.
There was a
bakery on the corner a few doors down from our studio apartment. The aroma of fresh baked bread and other
delights wafted down out street and into our fifth floor window every day.
Our first
morning in Paris, while Dottie made coffee, I resolved to walk to the corner
and pick up some fresh croissants for breakfast. Even at eight in the morning there was a line
out the door.
Waiting, I
studied my French phrase book, noting that common courtesy requires that one
greet the clerk before making a request for goods. Under my breath I practiced.
“Bonjour Madame, Quatre croissants, si’l vous
plait.”
By the time
my turn to be waited on arrived, I had repeated the phrase several dozen times.
The clerk
looked at me and I froze.
She said
something, but my brain, tongue, ears and mouth were locked. Little gurgling
sounds emanated from my throat. Surely
the people behind me thought I was an idiot.
The
ever-patient clerk asked again, and I finally managed to blurt out a single
word, “Croissants,” then as and afterthought added, “Por favor.”
Miss
Lavers, my old high school Spanish teacher would have been proud. Unfortunately I was in France, not Spain. My
face turned crimson. I meekly held up
four fingers to indicate how many croissants I wanted.
Having lost
any ability to bring up a single word of French, I still had to struggle with
paying the bill. The clerk said
something to me, probably the cost. All
I could do was hold out my hand in which were several different denominations
of Euros. She picked out the correct amount.
I felt like a six-year-old sent on an errand by my grandmother.
Certain
that every person waiting for service had observed the entire embarrassing
episode; I avoided all eye contact as I hurried from the bakery. In retrospect,
I doubt that anyone noticed.
I must say
that my first failed attempt at using the language did not spoil our enjoyment
of the croissants. They were light,
flaky and absolutely delicious.
I resolved
not to let the incident dissuade me from trying to speak French again. If I did nothing else during the first day, I
was going to greet people properly.
“Buenos
Dias…I mean, Bonjour, Monsieur.”
Part IV –
Making new friends
Mathew and
Susan, our friends who own the apartment on Rue Guisarde, Paris, where we were
staying, recommended Robert-Charles Chemou, a Parisian native, French and
English teacher, as a great tour guide.
Prior to
leaving home, we e-mailed Robert and arranged for two half-day tours.
We met him
at the Anvers metro stop in Montmartre to begin our first tour.
Getting
around Paris via the Metro is easy, economical and fast. Montmartre was clear across town from our
apartment, but we made the trip in less than 15 minutes.
Robert-Charles
was both well informed and charming. His
English is excellent and we felt like we were strolling with a friend.
Monmartre is
a picturesque quarter of the city marked at its highest point by Sacre-Coeur
Basilica. The district was once the
haunt of Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and other famous artists. It is also where the infamous dancehall
Moulin Rouge is located, but Robert was quick to point out that its moulin
(windmill) is not an original. Unfortunately he did not consider the
bare-breasted lovelies who perform the Can-Can shows there worthy of inclusion
in our tour.
Once just a
large hillside area covered by wheat fields and rock quarries, its windmills
ground wheat and rocks through the end of the 19th century. Today
only two of the original 20 windmills remain.
Legend has
it that Montmartre (pronounced Mo mar) is an adaptation of the Latin “Mons
Martyrum,” which was inspired by the story that St. Denis, the first bishop of
Paris, was beheaded there by the Romans in AD 250, but arose to carry his
severed head about four miles north to an area now known as St. Denis.
Why he did
this, I don’t know, but after following Robert up and down this fascinating but
hilly quarter of Paris for two hours while carrying the extra weight of my fat
head, and other body parts, I think Denis earned his sainthood, or at least a
Boy Scout hiking merit badge.
Once a
producer of wine (and currently known for its wine consumption), Paris still
has a small vineyard in which some wine grapes are grown. It is located in Montmartre not far from the
Lapin Agile, a cabaret-bar that Picasso favored.
Nearby is
the Moulin du La Galette, one of the two remaining original windmills. Now privately owned, it was once part of an
open-air cabaret, made famous in a painting by Renoir. One story says that in 1814, the miller,
Debray, was strung up on its sails after vainly trying to defend against the
invading Cossacks.
The
Cossacks are also allegedly responsible for the bistros that one sees all over
Paris. Apparently the Cossack soldiers
didn’t have the luxury of taking large meals at leisure as their officers did,
so the enterprising French added quick and simple foods to their tavern
service. They’d sell the soldiers cheap
wine and fast food that could be downed in a hurry before their officers
noticed. The word “bistro” is French for
Big Mac and fries. Just kidding. It is supposedly the Russian word for ‘hurry.”
And
speaking of Big Macs, there are MacDonald’s in Paris. And the customers are not homesick Yanks
tired of crepes and foie gras, but French folk whom we have corrupted by our
fine American cuisine.
Which
brings to mind the best of our Paris experience, dining out,
Part V -
“Une table pour deux
Like the
French language itself, French cooking is an art form, a matter of pride for
every restaurateur who hangs up a sign on the streets of Paris.
On Rue
Guisarde, the narrow, one-block street on which our studio was located, there
were seven restaurants. Our favorite La
Machon de Henri, was located directly across from our apartment. Small and intimate, it was typical of hundreds
of other neighborhood dining spots in our Left Bank neighborhood.
The
afternoon before our first evening in Paris, I stepped into the La Machon de
Henri’s foyer after having spent a good hour memorizing a sentence from my
French language guidebook and requested a table for two at 8 o’clock. My accent
was so bad I probably requested eight skunks on a platter for two a.m., but the
proprietor apparently understood, because our table was ready when we arrived
at the assigned hour.
The place
was already filling up with diners, all of whom appeared to be locals. We were seated near the front, tightly packed
between an alcove-window open to the street and another small table at which
two Parisian men were seated and sharing a bottle of wine.
Although
our shoulders and knees practically touched, they continued their conversation
as though we were not there.
The
evening’s specials were hand-written on a small blackboard. Using my Fodor’s French for Travelers
guidebook, I tried to figure out what was being offered. Unfortunately every French chef has a
slightly different way of describing his offerings, and we found no clues in
our phrase book for about three quarters of the items.
Dottie
noticed what the two men next to us were eating. Through pointing and other
gestures she ordered one of the dishes, which turned out to be lamb brochette.
I
recognized one thing on the menu, boeuf Burgunione, and ordered that along with
a green salad for us both and a bottle of the house red wine,
Dottie also
noticed that one of the guys was “movie-star handsome.” Overcoming her usual
reserve, she asked him, in English, if the dish he was having was good. Rather than act annoyed at the interruption,
he replied politely in English that, yes, it was good.
“You are
Americans, yes?” his companion asked us.
“Yes,
Californians,” we replied in unison.
The ice
broken, we had a very enjoyable conversation with the two men on a wide range
of subjects. They both spoke good
English and seemed especially interested in our politics. Where we for or against President Bush? Who
did we think would win the election? They were hoping for a Kerry victory.
Our food
was fabulous. The wine and conversation
flowed on for two hours. Our dinner
companions were gracious and charming, and seemed happy to have the company.
By the
meal’s end as we bid “Au revoir,” to our new-found friends we felt well fed, at
ease and at home in our little neighborhood bistro, the owner of which also bid
us good night using our names, adding “A bientot,” - See you soon.
Part VI –
More new friends
Having
spent our second day walking all over the Left Bank, including several hours
marveling at the Impressionist collection at the Musee d’Orsay, we wanted to
relax over a bottle of wine and a quiet dinner at Brasserie Fredinand, next
door to our apartment.
Unlike the
easy, slow-pace at La Machon de Henri, across the street, the service at
Fredinand made McDonald’s look slow. We were seated next to a table occupied by
two attractive French women engaged in conversation.
Before we
could read the menu, let alone translate it, a waitress appeared and asked us
for the order. Intimidated by the pressure, I ordered a bottle of wine to buy
time while we compared our French phrase book to what was printed on the
blackboard menu. We were slightly flustered, but our neighboring diners didn’t
notice.
The woman seated
next to me would gesture with her hands as she talked to her companion across
the table. In our cramped quarters, this
inevitably resulted in her brushing my left arm with her right hand, after
which she would say “Pardon,” and continue on with her conversation.
After this
happened three or four times, Dottie caught the woman’s eye and said jokingly,
“Watch out. He’s my husband.”
The woman
looked slightly embarrassed at first, but saw that Dottie was smiling, and
laughed. Her name was Agnes. Her friend was Patricia. They both spoke English better than we spoke
French. In spite of Fredinand’s
frenetic atmosphere, we managed to have a pleasant conversation.
I guessed
that they were somewhere between 35 and 49. They were well dressed, petite,
very pretty, articulate, and thoroughly charming.
They wanted
to know what we thought of the election.
They hoped Kerry would win, and found it puzzling that Americans could
support Bush considering his handling of the war in Iraq.
Both
currently single, they live and work in Paris. They love their city and proudly
suggested sites that we should visit. The conversation flowed easily. At the
end of the meal, Patricia invited us for cocktails at her apartment the next
evening. Of course we accepted.
Patricia could
have given Martha Stewart lessons in decorating. The building, two blocks from
the Seine, was probably built in the 16th Century. Patricia had taken two studios, one on the
floor above the other, and combined them to create a spacious one-bedroom, two-story
apartment. She gave us a short tour and then shared some wonderful meats,
cheeses and wine that she had arranged for our enjoyment.
A week
later we passed through Paris on our way home and joined them for a wonderful
dinner at Agnes’ apartment not far from the Eiffel Tower. Both evenings were
special because we arrived in Paris not knowing anybody and speaking very
little French, and left having made new friends. Far more than the beauty of
the city and its many wonders, this will be what we remember and value most.
Part VII –
Storming the Bastille
On our
fifth day in Paris we stormed the Bastille led by Robert-Charles Cermou, tour
guide extraordinaire. Storming the
Bastille is much easier today than it was in the 18th Century
because the only thing left are some stones imbedded into the streets outlining
where its walls and towers stood. The
largest building in the area now is the new opera house, which looks ugly
enough to be called Bastille, but is only stormed these days by music buffs.
The French
revolution began on July 14, 1789 with the taking of the Bastille by an angry
mob, who saw it as a symbol of all that was rotten in the Bourbon dynasty. The
Bastille St. Antoine was a massive stone structure with eight tall towers and a
wide moat. Built as a fortress to guard
the city’s eastern entrance in the 14th Century, it was used almost
exclusively to house political prisoners, including the Marquis de Sade and the
“Man in the Iron Mask.”
It was here
also that the original French fry was invented by Cardinal Richelieu. His
recipe called for heretics instead of potatoes. By the time the mob stormed it
in 1879, only seven prisoners were held there.
The
Bastille was not the revolution’s only focus.
The royals were rounded up and held to answer.
King, Louis
XVI and his queen, Marie-Antoinette were kept in the palace as virtual
prisoners for several years until they were beheaded on the guillotine in front
of Place de la Concorde.
Some say
that Marie-Antoinette became the mother of political incorrectness for saying
“Let them eat cake” after being told that the people of France were starving.
Others say that is just a myth.
Robert-Charles suggests that she said “Let them eat brioche,” which is
more like a very rich dinner roll (more puffy, flaky bread than dessert). Either way, she and Louis lost their heads
along with about 2600 other French aristocrats.
After
storming all over the area formerly occupied by the Bastille, I was almost as
starved as Marie’s subjects and decided to follow her advice. The brioche, washed down with an espresso,
was delicious.
Robert took
us for a walk along Port de Plaisance de Paris-Arsenal, a canal that feeds into
the River Seine in one direction and goes underground near the site of the old
Bastille and stays underground for more than a kilometer. The canals were once
an important part of the French transportation system. Today, they are mostly home to hotel barges,
floating restaurants and recreational boats.
They are also home to fish, although I’m not sure I’d eat the ones
caught from this particular canal.
As we got
to the lock that allowed boats to pass to and from the Seine, I saw two young
men fishing. Max Dallant, 19, and
Michael Weill, 17, both students, were casting lures and hooking an occasional
perch. I noted, however, that they were
releasing the fish. Max loved fishing
and spoke English without a French accent. At first, I thought he was either
English or American and just studying in Paris. Actually, he was born and
raised in the Paris. He wants to come the U.S. so he can fish the pro circuit
with the “Bassmasters” that he has seen on television. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his
English was too good for Billy Bob and the boys.
We finished
our tour with a walk along the Seine, while Robert told us more of the city’s
rich history. It occurred to me that no
other city I have ever visited is defined and shaped by a river as much as the
Seine has Paris.
In the
Marais district, the Musee Carnavalet, Paris History Museum, has a large number
of “period rooms” in which are displayed furniture, porcelain and other
materials of different periods in the city’s history. The most fascinating items are the paintings
from each era, many of which show city life along the Seine. If the Ile de la Cite the nearby Louvre are the heart of the city,
then surely the Seine is its coronary artery, and what a beauty it is.
Part VIII –
Barging up river
By our
final day in Paris I had gotten over my shyness about speaking French. My Fodor’s “French for Travelers” book was
dog-eared and coffee-stained, and I had a notebook full of phrases that I
practiced before entering restaurants and other businesses where I was likely
to need them.
I thought I
was doing great, until our last evening, when we decided to splurge a little
and go to a restaurant more upscale than the neighborhood bistros we had been
frequenting.
We made
reservations at a very nice place just a few blocks from our apartment and
arrived at the appropriate time.
I had
resolved to conduct the entire evening’s transactions in French. Things were
going quite well until it came time for the waitress to take our order. She was a pretty young woman about the age of
our daughter Lisa. Cordial and professional, she listened attentively as I
ordered for Dottie and then myself.
At some
point in the process I saw her lips press together and her shoulders shake, as
though she stifled a cough. As I continued, the shaking of her shoulders and
the tight-lipped expression gave way to uncontrolled giggling.
“Quoi?”
(What?) I asked
“Je suis
desole.” (I’m sorry) she replied, between giggles.
Having
exhausted my French vocabulary, I switched to English. “Did I say something
wrong?”
“No, no
monsieur. I understood.” And she
repeated our order, finally walking away still breaking into an occasional
barely suppressed laugh.
To this day
I have no idea what I said in French that cracked her up. But it was probably something like “My cat
will eat your shoes, and I will wear a platter of dead squirrels with a liter
of your best floor wax.”
The meal,
nevertheless, was delicious, and we awoke the next morning ready for the next
phase of our two-week sojourn in France – a barge trip through Burgundy.
Michael, a
bright young Scotsman, who was one of six crewmembers of the barge “Luciole,” picked
up our fellow passengers, nine Americans and one New Zealander, and us at the
Hotel Regina, near the Louvre.
The
14-passenger bus he was driving would also be the means by which he’d take us
on side trips during our six-day voyage on the Canal du Nivernais and River
Yonne between the city of Auxerre (about three hours southeast of Paris) and
the small village of Clamecy. One could
drive that route in about two hours or less, but speed is not what barging is
all about.
So what is
it about? – Eating delicious food,
drinking gourmet French wine, relaxing, eating and drinking some more, a little
sight-seeing, eating and drinking, sleeping, eating and drinking, etc.
Barging has
become popular all over Europe as canals, once used to transport materials and
people from one port to another, are now mostly for recreation. Locals often rent boats, while “hotel
barges,” like Luciole are operated as mini cruise ships and booked primarily by
foreign tourists. We arranged our trip through
Ellen Sack, also known as “The Barge Lady.” You can find her website at
www.bargelady.com.
Part IX –
Locks and baguettes, with cheese
In the
centuries before there were well-fed American tourists dressed as though they
just got off the bus from Miami Beach, Paris had an abundance of well-fed and
pampered aristocrats who received most of what they consumed from the French
countryside. Everything from produce and
wine to firewood and building materials was floated to Paris via its river and
canal system which crosses the country north to south and east to west, so that
it was eventually possible to take a boat from the Atlantic to the
Mediterranean without having to sail on either ocean.
At first it
was just the rivers that were used, and in those early days, most transport was
one way. Up stream in the forest and
agricultural regions, rafts were built, goods were piled on, and then hearty
boatmen who were also good swimmers, rowed, polled and road them downstream,
through the rocks and rapids of smaller tributaries to the main stem of the
Seine and then on to Paris.
Over the
centuries canals were built alongside many of the natural rivers. These canals included locks by which barges
could navigate safely both down and up stream.
Running the rapids no longer became necessary. The commerce created by
the canals allowed regions like Burgundy to grow and prosper, and they
continued to do so until rail and road replaced waterways as the major means of
transport.
Today,
after decades of disuse and disrepair, the old canals and locks are fully
functional again, and filled with boats, but the cargo is generally people on a
holiday. The French rent their own boats
and barges for a weekend or longer and drive it themselves. Americans and Brits, however, are now being
served by a whole fleet of “Luxury Barge Hotels,” that provide “cruises” on the
canals in a host of price ranges.
In was our
good fortune to spend a week aboard the Luciole, one of the first working
barges ever converted to a luxury cruiser, and manned by a delightful young
crew of Brits whose talent in providing quality service and gourmet food was
only exceeded by their charm and enthusiasm.
The Luciole
is 100 feet long and just wide enough (17 feet) to fit through the smallest
locks. Diesel powered and fully-air-conditioned, it can handle up to 14 guests
in two single cabins and six twin-bedded ones, all with private bathrooms.
Michael
Patterson, who was to be our day trip tour guide, picked us up in Paris in the
Luciole’s small bus, and delivered us to the small village of Clamecy, a 14th
Century market town with an old church, narrow streets, stone stairways, and
interesting little shops and restaurants.
The barge
was tied alongside an old stone wharf just upstream from a lock. Its crew, led
by captain and pilot Nigel Howes, greeted us with canapés, glasses of Crement
de Bourgogne and Cassis Kir Royale as we came aboard.
Our
stateroom, while very small, was more than adequate for sleeping and changing
clothes. We would end up spending most
of our time in easy chairs on the main deck, talking to our fellow passenger
and sipping tea or fine wine, drifting along the incredibly verdant countryside
at an average speed of three or four knots.
For exercise we got out and walked the well-worn path that ran alongside
the canal, easily keeping pace with the barge.
Our meals
were taken in a glassed enclosed dining room a half deck below the main. The first evening’s menu included a starter
of vine-ripe tomato and mozzarella capresse with a parsley salsa accompanied by
the first of many fine Burgundian wines, an Auxey Duresses- Alain roy –
2000 (white burgundy). The main course
was lemon and tarragon chicken, and a medley of vegetables in a filo pastry
basket with a Savigny Les Beaune Taste Vinage red burgundy – 2001. For dessert we were served Chocolate Torte
with Raspberry Couli & Cream, and that didn’t include the cheese course.
It sounds
great, but eating like that day after day, night after night takes a great deal
of determination and lots of elasticity in the waistbands of our pants.
Part X - The
state of country estates
Barging
across the French countryside is not all about eating and drinking. We also
took side trips every day to interesting villages and estates not too far off
the Nivernais Canal on which Luciole, our barge, made its slow but steady
passage from village of Clamecy toward the city of Auxerre.
|
On our
first full day, after a gourmet breakfast that also included fresh-baked
croissants from a local bakery, Michael, our bus driver and tour guide, drove
us through the lush green Burgundian countryside on narrow, forest-lined
roads, through tiny little villages and past hillside orchards and vineyards
to the Chateau Bazoches, the home of the late Maréchal de Vauban.
Vauban, born in 1633, was considered by some historians to be the "father of military engineering." He was Louis XIV of France's most valued military engineer. He was history's greatest builder and conqueror of fortified places. Bazoches, sitting on the side of a steep hill at the head of a beautiful open meadow and framed by a dense forest was one of his last creations, and except for the lack of walls and a mote, looks very much like what we would call a castle. During his military career, he built 33 forts and fortified and strengthened 300 others all around the coasts and boarders of France. Unfortunately for him, his brilliant mind was not content with crafting military structures; he dabbled in many areas including social reform. In 1706, a year before he died, he and King Louis had a falling out. Vauban had written a book that dared to suggest solving the kingdom's financial problems by levying a new proportionate income tax, even on the aristocracy, who paid virtually no tax at the time. He was lucky not to lose his head, but he died in disgrace a year later anyway. Somehow his beautiful castle in the country was preserved and we got to walk through it and learned at least one new bit of trivia. In previous tours of old European estates, I had frequently noted how short the beds were. The feet of a person five feet tall would hang over the edge. Michael told us that the beds were short because people in those centuries slept in a sitting position, fearing to lie completely prone, lest they die in their sleep. The fully prone position was reserved for those who had passed on. Another day's tour took us through the village of Vezelay, which in the Middle Ages was a very important and sacred spot to those headed for the Crusades. It is said that some time in the ninth century the bones of Mary Magdalene were moved there from southern France, where their previous abode was being threatened by the Saracens, to the cathedral in Vezelay, making it a very important place for Christians from all over Europe. It was there in 1060 that St. Bernard began the Second Crusade. Some historians say the bones (relics) were never really there, others say that they were stolen or moved, but many still believe that they are buried there under the cathedral (probably by some of St. Bernard's big, wooly dogs.) We never got to learn the whole story of how Mary's bones actually got into France from the Holy Land in the first place, but it was clear that the belief in their existence was powerful in that time. Our bones were tired after a half-day's worth of hiking up and down the steep streets, and we were happy to return to the Luciole so the gourmet cooks could put some more fat on them. |
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Part XI –
Red or white it’s Burgundy
As the
editor of the newspaper in California’s premier wine country visiting one of
France’s premier wine regions, I was obliged to conduct serious research
comparing the wines of Burgundy with those of Sonoma Valley. However, this task proved to be far more
challenging than I imagined.
If I failed
to learn anything from this difficult assignment, it wasn’t for lack of volume.
We tasted a minimum of three wines per day (often more) for six days, and that
doesn’t count visits to winery tasting rooms where we often tasted a half dozen
at one time.
Unfortunately,
like many of the wines I tasted during that period, my short-term memory is
well-aged, and the notes I scrawled in my stained and wrinkled notebook in the
dim light of dining rooms and wine caves are more than 10 weeks old, providing
little help in recreating the experience for the edification of I-T readers.
It is all a
blur. But, to my best recollection each
dinner was a blur by the middle of the second or third course; not because of
inebriation as much as sensory overload.
Most of our
tastings were combined with gourmet food; for example, a Pouilly Fuisse- Yves
Chaley 2000 was poured to go with Roquefort Soufflés & sweet chili
sauce. A Vezelay –Domaine-St Pere 2001
was paired with a smoked chicken and mango salad, while pan-fried fois gras and
caramelized pear was matched with a Hautes Cote de Nuits 1998, and a Sea Bass
with roasted Mediterranean fennel was washed down with a
Marsanny-Mollard-Grivoy 2000. This
doesn’t include what was served with the cheese course or the dessert.
So did I
learn anything? I don’t really remember.
Here are
some overall impressions:
Forget
whatever you may think you know about the names Chablis and Burgundy as Gallo
applies them to white and red wine respectively. Burgundy is a region in which Chablis, a dry
white wine made entirely from Chardonnay grapes, and Cote de Nuits, a
delicately flavored red wine made entirely from Pinot Noir grades, are two of
several notable products.
We visited
the town of Chablis and even walked through some of their “Grand Cru” vineyards
(those are the best of the best Chardonnay vines considered to be planted in
the very best spot in the area).
Because
virtually no blending is allowed, the location of particular vineyard is everything. The ones with the best soil, the best sun
exposure, etc. will generally produce the best wine. Just below “Grand Cru”, would be “Premier.”
Vintners
may own a few rows or acres of grand cru vines, premier vines and other of
slightly lesser quality, thus they might actually produce three to six
different wines from each year’s harvest, all of them Chablis (Chardonnay) but
only made from the grapes of a specific and tightly segregated vineyard
appellation.
The bottom
line is that the quality can vary greatly not only from year to year, but from
one side of the hill to the other. The
differences were far too subtle for me to pick up, but people who can tell the
difference spend many dollars for those subtleties.
My other
general impression is that I like Sonoma Valley wines better than anything I
tasted in France, and I tasted some pricy wine.
Some of the whites were very nice, but the reds just didn’t compare with
the pinot noirs produced locally.
Class
dismissed.
Part XII –
Burgundy underground
The word
“cave,” as used in Burgundy usually
refers to a wine cellar. But Burgundy is also home to many limestone caves that
the French call “Grottes.”
It was the
limestone caves of France that inspired Jean M. Auel’s fifth novel, “Shelters
of Stone,” in which its principal characters, Ayla and her mate Jondalar, go to
live with the Zelandonii, Jondalar’s clan.
One day,
our barge stopped near the “Grottes d’Arcy-sur-Cure,” a huge complex of
limestone caves going deep into cliffs beside the river Cure and containing
cave drawings and evidence of human habitation dating back 28,000 years. These
caves were home to Neanderthals as well as the Cro-Magnons.
Being of a
quasi-Neanderthal persuasion myself, I decided to visit my ancestors.
Nobody else
was interested, but I persuaded our bus driver to drop me off at the cave
visitor’s parking lot when he took the rest of our group to a nearby village
for a market tour.
It was a
cool, drizzily morning as I purchased my pass at the cave “chalet” nestled on
the cliff side in a large grove of trees beside the small, slow-moving, River
Cure. I was the day’s first and only visitor, and thankfully the guide,
Isabelle Monnier, spoke more English than I did French.
She
explained that millions of years ago the whole region was once a warm, shallow
sea. When the sea retired, a deep layer of calcareous (chalky) rock was left,
and it was eroded and scoured for many hundreds of thousands of years. This
process created the caves.
Today the
cave entrances are from 50 to 100 feet above the riverbed and run into the
earth for several kilometers. Immediately in front of most of the openings
there are flat plateaus where it would have been possible for prehistoric
inhabitants to cook and go about their daily lives. While the caves gave them shelter from the
elements and from predatory animals, it is unlikely that they ventured in more
than the first 50 feet. The tour took me
much deeper, where it is said only the ancient shamans were allowed.
It was in
the farthest reaches of the caverns among immense stalactites and stalagmites
that I saw the first of the incredible cave paintings that have been
miraculously preserved by layers of calcium. The “Great Cave,” the only one the
public is allowed to visit, includes paintings and engravings of 20 mammoth,
three bears, one rhinoceros, a bison, a horse, and assorted other creature. It
is the generally accepted theory that the paintings were done by the shamans of
the clans.
It was an
awe-inspiring journey. Isabelle and I spoke in hushed tones as though we were
in a great cathedral and watched archaeologists carefully expose yet another
painting, possibly a cave bear, using the daintiest of dental-drills to remove
the centuries of calcium layers.
After the
tour, I walked along the river for a mile or so and met several groups of
archaeologists working at the entrance of other caves in the cliff side. The
caves are all part of a prehistoric preserve.
It was easy
to imagine primitive peoples wrapped in animal furs, sitting around fires, at
the entrances of the caves overlooking the river, caring for their children,
tanning hides, sharpening spear points and going to and from hunts for mammoth
and other large animals. Standing there I was transported back in time. I caught a glimpse of movement below me in
the trees.
“Hey, isn’t
that Ayla and Jondalar walking hand in hand down to the river for an afternoon
swim?” The scientists didn’t even look up from their work.
Knuckles
dragging, I transported myself back to the 21st century where the
tour bus was waiting.
Part XIII –
Au revoir
While the
limestone caves “Grottes d’Arcy-sur-Cure,”
where evidence of prehistoric human habitation dates back 28,000 years,
our barge trip along the Canal du Nivernais and River Yonne, also took us by
limestone caves of more recent vintage.
On our
final night on the canal we stopped near two large man-made subterranean
excavations. Both were dug deep into
high cliffs the border the river, and may have been originally underground
limestone quarries. More recently one is the home of a sparkling wine
producer. It is so large that the
parking for visitors to the wine tasting area is also underground along with
almost every other part of the winery operation. It is a huge underground factory.
The other
underground complex was closed to the public and is now some kind of mushroom
growing operation, but its unusually shaped entrance gave evidence of another
purpose. During World War II, it was an
underground factory operated by the Germans who built warplanes there. Out of
reach of Allied bombers, the entrance was constructed so the planes could be
rolled out ready to fly away following their completion.
The
beautiful and interesting sites of Burgundy that we enjoyed visiting came to an
end the next day in the city of Auxerre, a medieval town three hours drive southeast of Paris, notable
for its interesting old cathedrals and half-timber houses.
The remains
of “Charles the Bald” are buried beneath the Abbey de St-Germain, which Charles
began constructing in 859. I had no idea who Charles the Bald was, but I was
assured he was not the founder of Hair Club for Men. He was one of a line of “Carolingian” kings
of France who ruled during the eighth and ninth centuries. The line also
included Charles the Simple and Charles the Fat, who probably invented barge
cuisine.
After six
days on a steady diet of rich, gourmet food, it was time for William the Fat to
head home.
Since our
return to the Valley of the Moon, I have been asked several times if I would go
barging again. The short answer is not
until I can get into the pants I wore before the trip.
The long
answer is that barging is a relaxing, luxurious, decadent and slow way to
travel short distances with little or no effort. It was interesting, but not a
good way to meet and interact with the people of the country. Our barge-mates were mostly Americans and the
crew was British. They were charming and delightful traveling companions, but
it was not a “French experience.”
I would
have preferred staying in a village in the Burgundian countryside, rubbing
elbows with people who live there and absorbing some of the culture, while
using the freedom that a car provides to
tour interesting places at a pace that was of my own choosing.
Without a
doubt it was a first-class experience.
If you love luxury, being waited on, eating incredibly rich food, and
prefer the safety and security of a fully-escorted, soup-to-nuts cruise and
tour, then barging may be for you. Our
arrangements were made through Ellen Sack, “The Barge Lady.” Check out her
website at www.bargelady.com.
