I decided to add an introduction to this journal after Rhonda created a blog for it on the web. I wanted to add a few notes before she published it. This journal happened quite by accident. Before the trip began I knew Rhonda and I were sailing into uncharted territory, at least for us. We had never been to Europe, and only a handful of foreign countries that were more or less just cruise destinations. We had never experienced the type of immersion into a foreign culture we were in for. Cancun is too Americanized to really be considered a foreign culture. While sitting at dinner the first day I was reflecting on all that had happened during that very long day. I resolved at that moment to write my impressions and observation down so I wouldn’t forget them. I wanted to record the details that really define the texture of a place. As I wrote over the first few days I found the best way to do what I intended was to write in a narrative form and thus give structure to my observations. I would read the day’s entry to Rhonda so she could interject anything I had forgotten. We eventually got to the point where I was dictating my thoughts and she was typing. That was a nice way to kill two birds with one stone. As Rhonda became involved she thought the journal would be a good way to share our trip with others. It was at that point I knew I would have an audience other than myself for this tome.
I have reread this journal and attempted to edit it so I don’t have any confusing tense shifts. I wrote as if describing the day’s events to someone as they happen. I didn’t want to write in the past tense as it would have limited some of the literary devices I could have used. Except for a few edits, everything was written in France the evening after it happened, or the following morning. I haven’t gone back to fluff up the text or make it sound better. What I wrote is what I wrote before this was intended to be shared. I hope you enjoy reading about our adventure.
Day One and a Half - November 13th into 14th, 2009
Our trip actually begins on Friday the 13th. Mom and Dad drop us off at the O’Hare international terminal at about 2 o’clock in the afternoon. This is our first flight out of terminal 5 at O’Hare, and it is somewhat exciting. The cultural diversity present in the terminal is a startling difference from the domestic terminals. We need to be at the gate for boarding an hour ahead of our 4:35pm flight. The best we can figure is that there are so many people to board onto the 747-400 we are flying that it takes a lot of extra time. We are at the terminal far enough ahead of our departure that we have a couple of drinks at the Parades Lounge. They are expensive rounds, but we are on vacation.
We get into the wrong seats to begin with, but that gets straightened out quickly. Rhonda was thinking of our return flight when she pointed out where we were sitting. We have seats in the middle section on the aisle. We are in the last row of this section, so our seats don’t lean back quite as far as the rest. At least no one is behind us kicking our seat. After sitting, Rhonda catches a flight attendant and asks if they will take euros and/or dollars for alcoholic drink purchases. The attendant asks me if Rhonda has been nice today. I reply, “To me she has been.” The attendant states that Rhonda’s drinks will be free. She then goes on to say that we bought the ticket, so the drinks are on them. Rhonda now loves KLM and the Dutch. A little free wine will help her get to sleep.
We are pleased to be served two meals during the seven hour and ten minute flight. Dinner is hot, and delivered after flying through about half an hour of pretty rough turbulence over Canada. Rhonda manages to get to sleep after the meal, but I can’t. I watch the Pixar movie Up. The movie finishes, and the cabin is pretty quiet. We are flying past the southeast tip of Greenland when I finally manage to nod off for a couple of hours. We both wake for breakfast. It is being served as we start to fly over England. It is thankfully light and I am more interested in the fluids as I am feeling very dry. We land in Amsterdam on time and without incident.
We have a couple of hour layover in Amsterdam. That is time enough for a little souvenir shopping. Evan and Dustin come easy. Even something for Mom pops out, but we can’t find anything suitable for Cory or Bob in the time allowed. We have to head for the gate. When we get there I notice there are no jets at the gates. The arrangement is very odd in the Amsterdam airport. All of the jets in terminal B are parked in rows out on the tarmac. The gate has a ramp that leads you down to ground level where you board a bus that drives you out to your jet. It looks like a blown up version of an aircraft carrier. After we get on the plane the rain starts to come.
The rain is pouring by the time we take off. Our seats are in the last row next to the engine, but at least we are together. We didn’t have the opportunity to select our seats ahead of time for the short legs of our flights. We were able to pick these two open seats when we picked up our boarding pass in Amsterdam. The flight to Nice is very bumpy a lot of the way there. I sleep fitfully. The best moment of the flight comes when we are flying over the Swiss Alps. The mountain tops are reaching up out of the clouds. I have seen mountains in clouds before, but never from above, and never with so much of the mountain sticking out. There is a break in the clouds and I can make out a very high elevation skiing village and the accompanying slopes. All of the mountains are completely snow covered. When we land in Nice two and a half hours after taking off the cloud cover is breaking and we get a view of the Mediterranean.
The Nice airport is pleasant, and we find our way to the baggage claim easily. Rhonda is tickled by the automatic doors and gates at the exit from the secure area. After a bit of worry about our bags making the connection in Holland, we see all three. Getting the car is easy at the Hertz counter, and soon we are standing in front of our Volkswagen Polo. Only one of the big suitcases will fit in the hatchback. Thus mine will take the ride in the back seat. I don’t want to go anywhere and park with the suitcase so out in the open, so I decide we should proceed directly to the resort. Getting out of the airport takes me a couple of tries as I missed the correct exit on one of the roundabouts. I am trying to get used to driving a stick again while learning to negotiate, with Rhonda’s help, the French road signs. Riding up the A8 expressway towards Cannes I pass what looks like a tollbooth in the eastbound lanes. Sure enough we are on a tollway and the booth is coming up. We can’t tell what the amount we need to pay is. I pull into a lane I think has an attendant, but there is just a machine taking bills and coins. After Rhonda scrambles to get a five euro note I can feed into the machine, she notices the toll is 2,80. Pretty steep for such a short ride. Thankfully the toll taking machine gives change and you don’t need exact coinage. Getting to the resort involves another missed turn, but we finally arrive at Le Club Mougins.
The terrain here is extremely hilly. The resort sets on the side of one of those hills. We have arrived three hours too early to check in. We knew this, so we pick up a map and a few directions at the reception desk and head out to see what we can see. We stroll down to a small business area below the hill. There we find the boulangerie I had spotted earlier on the drive in. We purchase some sort of bread product stuffed with a tomato sauce and three different cheeses. We get a Lipton iced tea, of all things, and sit outside to take our small repast. Rhonda starts collecting pigeons when she feeds one that she feels sorry for because it is missing most of its left foot. While sitting at a table outside I notice the almost constant stream of people popping in to purchase a baguette or two. They must be getting bread for the evening meal. After a while we set off again to browse the Cave du Vin up the block a little bit. We find it is closed until evening so we head further down the hill a little further to visit the super market we plan to get supplies at. We have a good time exploring the differences and similarities to our own markets. Without buying anything we head back to the resort.
It is still too early to check in, so we ask the waitress in the restaurant if we can have a couple of glasses of wine and a table. We are tired from the long day and just want to sit, play cards and sip a little wine. She says it will be fine. They have closed for lunch, and won’t open again until 18h30, but we can have a table for the afternoon. After playing cribbage for a bit, a fellow come out from the kitchen and inquires with us about the game. We get into a nice conversation with him and find out he owns the restaurant with his wife, who we thought was just a waitress. We learn that they have just taken over the restaurant three weeks ago. For the past several years they have been working in Ireland. Before that they worked on a cruise line, where they met. He, Cedric, is from the Bordeaux region. Angieszka, his wife, is from Poland. They are very nice and we decide to return here for dinner.
In the meantime we have noticed someone else checking in, so we finish the game and do so ourselves. We get room 415, which is a two bedroom suite. The rooms are nice, if a bit quirky. The light switches are all rockers and most are backwards from what you think they should be. You press down to turn the light on. The first time I went to the bathroom was a bit of a trick too. The toilet has what looks like a button on the top that you would think you should push to make it flush, like Mom and Dad’s toilet at home. You have to pull up on what turned out to be a knob instead of a button to get it to flush. This faked me out for a bit. Like Vincent said, “It’s the little differences.” There are closets and mirrors everywhere, but very few electrical outlets.
After getting unpacked we decide to drive down to the grocery to stock up for the week. We are foiled by a one-way loop and a dead-end before we make it down. Driving in these narrow, confusing streets is going to be a challenge this week. Shopping for groceries is a treat in itself. We can’t find some things we would expect, like crackers and oatmeal, and run across others that draw smiles and chuckles. The milk and eggs are not refrigerated. The milk seems to all be kept in odd sealed cartons like what Rhonda gets chicken stock in at home. The wine is all French, and some of it surprisingly inexpensive. The store does not provide bags to its customers. You have to bring your own or purchase reusable bags while there. The cashiers are all sitting down, and their cash drawer in imbedded in the counter with a lid that pops up when opened. We don’t see the credit card reader, or even anyone paying with a credit card until we start getting rung up. That is a relief, as we didn’t want to burn through a chunk of our cash on this trip to the store. We get some cheeses and breakfast items, plus three bottles of wine.
We head down to dinner about 19h00. There is only one other couple in the restaurant when we arrive. That changes shortly after we sit, and the restaurant fills. We notice that all of the other couples are older than us, with the majority speaking English. Cedric and Agnieszka are running their behinds off as things get busy. They probably couldn’t handle much more than the dozen or so table they have. There are about ten tables seated this evening. We drink the house wine which is a Vin de Pays that is similar to a Beaujolais Nouveau. Beouf Bourgignon is the special, which we both have. Rhonda starts with a soup made from a squash that tastes like chestnuts. It is really good. Dinner is well done and has a nice easy pace. We start to fade as I am eating my crème brulee and we head up to bed.
Day Two – Sunday November 15th, 2009
Rhonda gets up early after we zonked out last evening. We both fell asleep very quickly. Rhonda made coffee, which had its own challenges because the filter is shaped like a cone and doesn’t drain very quickly. We learn later that we weren’t using the carafe correctly and it was holding back the coffee with an anti-drip mechanism. Also, the coffee temperature from the maker is not very hot. The only news she can understand on the television is on the BBC. They intersperse news with other programs. As we eat some breakfast we watch cartoon in French, Italian and German, French entertainment news, and other assorted oddities. The cassis jelly goes well on the bread we purchased last night. I think the milk has an odd taste, but Rhonda claims we just aren’t used to the fat content.
Rhonda picks up some maps from the reception desk. With those in hand we head out for the day. First we drive up to the old town of Mougins. We don’t have any issues finding a parking area, and we walk up the rest of the way. Auto access to the old town is restricted to residents. The weather is overcast with the sun trying to peek out every now and then. The old town is very charming. It almost doesn’t feel real, more like a country in Disneyland or Epcot. This is real though, almost 1000 years old real. We wander the streets up in the old town until we reach the center and the high point. In the center is the church, of course. The bells are tolling, calling the faithful to service. The bells go on for several minutes as we continue on our way. Rhonda makes friends with one of the many cats wandering around the old city center. As we come back up a street towards the fountain, we hear the organ from the church. We then realize that we on the backside of the church, and the windows above us are open. The streets are narrow and uneven. The doors mostly have knobs in the middle of the door. There are lots of flower boxes and clothes hanging from windows.
We begin to look for a place to get something to drink. We finally settle on the Le Fontenoy, right next to the main fountain. We order a couple of hot teas and sit under an olive tree by the street. We watch the shops begin to open and the church folk go by. There is a particularly cute little girl that comes to the area with her father. She is barely walking and just babbles when she talks. I take the opportunity to snap a photo when I get the chance. Whilst paying for tea Rhonda picks up a post card that has a description of Mougins in French. This is what clues us in to the age of the place. After finishing tea we stroll back down to the car to plot a course to Cannes.
The drive to Cannes is quite an adventure. I miss the turn for the main road down, and we start to wander the windy side roads, trying to head south towards the Mediterranean. We stop on a height over looking the city of Cannes. The stop comes after I drive by the turnout and pull a u-turn on the steep hill. After taking a video we look at the map and try to select a route down to Palm Beach, not the one in Florida. It is on a small peninsula names Pointe de la Croisette. The roads down are twisting and narrow. Rhonda white knuckles it once again, but we arrive by the shore safely. We park along the Criosette, a main drag through Cannes.
Our first stop after getting out of the car is the public toilet. It costs 0,50 euros to get in. The door slides open automatically and the space inside is large enough for both Rhonda and I. We enter and use the facilities, but find no way to flush. Reading the wall we find it states that the toilet will clean and dry itself upon our exit. It also claims a twenty minute time limit. We go to wash our hands, but the automatic sink doesn’t work. As we exit, there is a couple waiting outside trying to figure out how to get in. The door slides shut behind us, and they have to wait for several minutes before the booth lets them in. We hope it is taking that time to clean up what we left behind.
We walk around the peninsula and stroll up the eastern side. We find a small restaurant, Pomme D’Api that is open and full of locals. We stop by and grab a table outside. The weather is too nice to sit inside. The meal is passable, but not remarkable. The hostess and waitress have problems with English, and we have problems with their French. Lunch finishes successfully, and we head out to stroll up the beach. Rhonda picks up a few shells, and I find a few jellyfish washed up. Rhonda takes off her shoes and wades into the Mediterranean, just to say she has. After she rinses off her feet and puts her shoes back on, we notice a lot of people heading into the casino. They are wearing dresses and coats which seems too much for the rather run down looking Palm Beach casino. We had tried to enter the casino earlier to dine there, but after a halting exchange with the fellow watching the door we learn we can’t come in because we both don’t have our IDs with us.
After getting back to the car we try planning a route to the heart of town. It doesn’t work. After driving around for a bit we finally circle around enough times to land in a parking ramp under the street that I passed in the wrong lane twice. The underground parking facility is immaculate. The floor look freshly painted, and the scent is very pleasant. It is a far cry from the Grant lots in downtown Chicago. We walk along the promenade and amongst the stalls for an art and antique show. We shop for a while at a booth with a good deal of pages from old magazine and papers. We look for an antique map of Provence, but can’t find one. We move along and come to a bunch of bocce courts. We stop to watch for a while. They are playing on packed dirt courses with metal balls smaller than our wooden ones. They are very good, even the small boys. They throw balls very accurately, and are very aggressive with knocking opposing balls out of the way. I don’t dare to challenge any of them.
After strolling the streets for a while looking for a public toilet, we decide to grab a table and get a glass of wine. We can then use the restaurant’s restroom. We arrive back near the bocce courts at Le Grand Café. We get table for two, which Rhonda asks for in French. We sit outside right along the path and order a bottle of Rose de Provence. They don’t sell by the full bottle, so we gets what looks like a 500ml bottle that has been filled from a larger container. We sit for quite a while amusing ourselves with the passers by. After ordering the second half liter of wine, we get a cheese plate. It comes with brie, roquefort, chevre, and a Swiss. There is bread, butter and a small salad served with it. The bread is wonderful, as is all the bread here in France. The cheeses are delightful, and we sit and nibble for quite a while as night falls. The parade of people continues, and Rhonda laments not bringing her boots with her. Every female seems to be wearing boots. We also notice the amount of black being worn. It seems everyone has at least one piece of black clothing on. Rhonda spots a cute little boy who is the match for the girl we spotted earlier in old Mougins. We get a third half liter of rose and call the boys. It is a wonderful evening doing what we always said we would do when in France. I notice the restaurant is advertising for a special Beaujolais Nouveau dinner and we make reservations in half French, half English.
The drive back to the resort is uneventful. Rhonda noted that I am in full command of the car now, and the map really wasn’t needed. We are now sitting in the living room drinking more Rose de Provence while I update this journal. I am not sure what we are doing tomorrow, but it should be another adventure. It seems that is going to be the theme for this trip, “Let’s have an adventure.”
Day Three – Monday November 16th, 2009
Rhonda was up really early again today. I rolled out of bed around eight. We had thought about going towards Chateauneuf-du-Pape today, but by the time we are done with breakfast and showers, it is nearing eleven. While Rhonda is showering, I have my breakfast and watch Object of My Affection in French. We decide we will have to get an earlier start tomorrow. Despite that, we inquire at the receptionist to find out where Chauvet Cave is, as neither one of us can remember the town it is next to. The receptionist has no clue, so Rhonda looks it up on her phone. She finds it is on the other side of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Instead of heading west we embark towards Saint Paul de Vence with the plan to wander east towards Italy. As you will see, we never make it.
The drive to Saint Paul is challenging. We start toward Grasse, thinking we can connect with a road on the map. There is no intersection with the road we want, so we have to head south to find another way east. We are trying to avoid the tolls on A8, and take various two lanes roads towards Cagnes sur Mer. After a few tries we get headed north towards Saint Paul. As we climb some narrow and steep road we can see the medieval village atop a hill to our right. The road winds around the edges of the hills until we get to the north entrance to the walled city.
There is a underground parking ramp a couple of blocks north of the old city gates. After parking on level -2, we grab the cameras and head into the old Saint Paul. The wall around the city is complete and still intact, making it look very much like the fortress it used to be. The entrance is a narrow tunnel leading up into the town. Cars are only allowed on the outside circuit immediately with in the wall. Everywhere else is for foot traffic only. The streets/lanes are very narrow. They are all covered with cobblestones with nice patterns in a few of the intersections. The shops are all art galleries and small restaurants. Saint Paul has that in common with Mougins. There are a few other assorted shops and a hotel. Stumbling by the hotel quite by accident, Rhonda reads the rate chart and finds that a room with a balcony in peak season is 850 Euro. Too expensive for our pocketbook. The views from the walls to the valley and the Mediterranean are magnificent.
After strolling, exploring and taking a bunch of pictures, we went to find a place to get a drink. We settled on The Hostellerie de la Fontaine, next to the fountain in the middle of town. The dining area is a terrace outside overlooking the main fountain. We select a table right along the wall.
We order a demi of a local rose. We also try to order a meat and cheese tray to share, but sharing isn’t allowed in this place. Thus Rhonda gets some guacamole with chicken. We think the prohibition on sharing is a little odd, but go with the flow. When our snack and wine arrives, it turns out to be lunch proper. I have four cheeses and five meats on my tray. This comes with bread and a salad. Rhonda’s plate is full of seven pieces of toasted bread piled with guacamole, chicken, pesto, tomato and onion. As if that weren’t enough, there was a small green salad, beat salad, and a chick pea salad. We are very glad we don’t have anywhere to go and can take our time. The view of the small square from our height overlooking it is very nice. The foot traffic below us picks up a bit and a school group comes by. The weather is perfect, so we slowly begin to nibble away. We find that my cheeses are very strong in flavor and odor. The worst smelling of the bunch is a soft muenster that looks like a spoiled brie. It is tough to take on the first bite, but is grows on you. The cured meats are all very good.
Partway through the meal a couple of very old gentlemen are seated at the table right next to ours. We both notice that they speak English amongst themselves, but have a command of French. After a bit of chit-chat, all four of us return to our meals. Later, after they are done with their plat principals, Rhonda mentions a show she saw on the History Channel about the Kensington Stone that was found in Minnesota. She has overheard some of the earlier conversation and thought this would be related. She was right. As we find out, the gentlemen next to me is Tim Wallace-Murphy, and the other is Gerard Leduc. Tim has written more than a dozen books about the Knights Templar and related subjects. Gerard is writing a book and is consulting Tim. Gerard lives in Quebec province while Tim lives in nearby Vence. Tim is originally from Ireland. Tim regales us about the poor opinion he has of American historians and coffee. He tells us about several voyages made to the American continent prior to Columbus, including two by the Romans. Rhonda can’t stop staring at their eyebrows, which look like they have never been trimmed and hang down over their eyes. At least she is looking at their eyes as they talk. Tim provides us some titles of books that cover the subjects he has been talking about, and they permit us to capture a photo. They depart, and we finish the wine we have left. It was a protracted and informative lunch.
After our very long lunch we begin to work our way out of town. Along the way we pass the church, which I notice is open. We step inside and are very impressed. Things are very quiet and very old. We can’t discover just how old it is, or the proper name. We later find a bill posted by the door stating the service times which has the name of the church on it. It is a nice detour on our way out of town. When we get back to the car it is nearly three o’clock. We decide to drive down to Monaco via the highway along to Mediterranean, again to avoid tolls, but also to see the towns along the coast.
The drive is fairly straight forward as far as the roads go. We get through Nice, which is much larger than both of us realized. After cresting a hill on the eastern side of Nice, I pull over to shoot a little video of the coast from the heights. Shortly after getting back into the car and onto the road, I see a sign for Beaulieu sur Mer. I take a quick right. I recognize the name as the place where Dirty Rotten Scoundrels was filmed. The drive down to the town is on narrow and steep switch-backs. Rhonda holds on like she is on a roller coaster. Once down in the town, I just follow my nose, but we wind up heading east and away from the downtown areas they must have filmed in. I have a fleeting thought about doubling back, but I continue onward. We pass through Eze, which is similar to Beaulieu in that they are both perched on a mountainside that abuts the Mediterranean. The sky begins to look threatening and night is falling. It is dark by the time we reach Monte Carlo.
After circling a few times we find a parking garage in downtown area. We get out and begin to stroll through the downtown area near the harbor. There is not too much going on other than the carnival on the shore. We walk out along the multiple piers and looks and the massive yachts tied up there. Most are from London, Georgetown in Cayman, and Monaco. Most are ridiculously huge. One of our favorites is a two masted number with a blue hull. Pacing it off along the edge of the harbor I estimated the length of this one at 150 feet. We wonder how much money we are looking at amongst these dozen and dozens of yachts. On our way back to the car after a long stroll, we pass a Lotus dealership. There is a lot of money floating around this town.
Once back in the car we try for Antibes hoping to find the absinthe bar Frank had mentioned. It is only 18h30, but it is dark and there is nothing to see as we drive along the Mediterranean shore. The scooters and motorcycles are pissing Rhonda off as they wind their way through traffic ignoring all propriety and traffic laws. They drive between cars, on sidewalks, and blow through red lights. We are unable to find the bar in Antibes due to not knowing the name and not being able to find the market in the old part of town it is supposed to be next to. We resolve to return to our room so we can get an earlier start on the next day. We enjoy just a little wine and cheese for dinner while checking the internet and updating this journal. While on the internet we discover that the Chauvet Cave is not open to the public. Disappointing, but we still have plenty planned for tomorrow.
Day Four – Tuesday November 17th, 2009
Rhonda got up early again. She is sleeping well, but not as long as she would like. She has me up a little while after seven and offers to make omelets. She uses brie and a little cured meat in mine, and brie and gouda in hers. They are both very good. The coffee turns out well, and the toast fills in the corners, as a hobbit would say. We select our route to Chateaneuf-du-Pape over breakfast. We are well on the road by 8:30.
We drive the A8 expressway all the way to Aix-en-Provence. This costs us thirteen euros in tolls. The landscape resembles Pennsylvania. Rugged, tree covered mountains. Towards Aix-en-Provence the landscape flattens a bit, and vineyards begin to pop up. At Aix-en-Provence we turn north toward Avignon on A7. This is another toll/expressway that sucks up five more euros. The terrain begins to look a little more like the southwest of the US. Very dry and rocky with sparser vegetation that includes cacti. We take what we suppose to be the right exit off of A7 on the north side of Avignon. There are immediately three roundabouts in succession that I have to drive through. None mention Chateauneuf-du-Pape in their signage and I blindly choose those roads that I think send me north and west. At the first chance I pull over into the parking lot of a store so we can get our bearings. By happy coincidence, I have selected the correct roads. We have one town to go through, Sorgues, before reaching Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Shortly we are on the west side of Sorgues and can see the ruins of the new castle of the Pope up on top of an approaching hill.
We head towards the center of town, trying to make our way to the ruins. In town we spot a sign noting the way to the Chateau with the historical marker symbol. We get to a point below the ruins with nothing but hillside between us and them. There are several cars parked in the area, and the only place I can find to park is up on the curb, similar to a few other cars. We get out, happy to have the two and a half hour drive done. We pack up the cameras and my miniatures and head up the hill. There is a path, but it is rough. We get the feeling that this isn’t the normal route, despite the cars parked below. When we reach the top of the steep hill, we see a parking lot. There is a road coming up through another part of town leading to it. Oh well, we can leave the car where it is and walk about town until we are done.
Once at the castle ruins, I break out my miniatures and snap several photographs from different sides and angles. I am trying to get a shot that I can send to Privateer Press and get published in their Beast About Town feature in No Quarter. Rhonda and I spend some time exploring the ruins and Rhonda picks up a couple of stones as keepsakes. She calls them free souvenirs. After heading down into town we wander about and notice the wide range of vineyards with tasting room and cellars in the town. The town itself is old and situated on the side of the hill just below the castle ruins. As we begin to wander we pass by a public WC. We both need to avail ourselves of it and head inside. To Rhonda’s dismay the stalls contain nothing more then a depression in the floor that drains to who knows where with a couple of raised places for your feet. In order for her to be able to use this facility she would have to remove her pants. She decides she can wait.
As we stroll down one street I notice that the door to Domaine du Banneret is open. We approach to go in, but a wiry haired dog gives us a growl and stands in the way. The old gentlemen who just came out of the door turns back and shushes the dog and calls it by name. He comes up to us and asks if we would like to come in. The door is large and leads into a literal cavern. Once in the entryway we see there are more doors leading directly forward into a darkened inner chamber, and a open way to the right leading to a carved out area housing piles of bottles of wine. The gentleman asks if we would like to taste some wine. We ascent, of course. We ask if he speaks English, and he replies “Badly.” I tell him, in French, that my French is bad. An old lady who is probably his wife stops her activity of labeling bottles in the next room to greet us. The gentleman, we never learn his name, offers a taste of his latest vintage of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. It is wonderful. He shows us his storage cellar where the lady is working. There are several alcoves where lots of bottles of each vintage are stacked up with a sign up over the alcove noting the year. There are fewer bottles of the vintages older than 2003, and those are stored on shelves. He also shows us his aging barrels, which are in the formerly darkened room. It is a large cavern with barrels stacked all over. I ask where in the area his grapes come from, and he explains graciously. We have a pleasant encounter, and they demonstrate the labeling process. We ask if he distributes in the US, and he shows us the places where he does. There is none in the Chicago area, but there is an importer in Des Moines he uses. I mention my brother lives there, and he gives me a back label for a bottle that has the name of the importer. This is something I will have to put David on. We purchase a bottle of the latest vintage for 26 euros. Rhonda became friendly with the dog and asks to wash her hands before we depart. The gentleman shows her to a closet to the left of the main door where she can. As I stand in the entryway I see the water she is using run out across the floor in a small channel in the stone floor. Ancient plumbing I guess. Enheartened by this encounter, we head back out into town.
Rhonda thought she noticed a sign for one of the vineyards I had selected to visit on our drive into town. We begin walking around town looking for the cellar of Domain de Pegau. As we walk by other open doors we note that the cellars are really cellars. They are all carved out of the rock of the hill with steps up to the street level with a door. We find Domaine de Pegau and enter. There is an English looking couple speaking to another old fellow in the back of the cellar. The cellar has a pleasant old wood and wine smell. After a bit, the host pours a couple of glasses and hands them to Rhonda and the other woman. As we begin to sip the gentleman makes a comment to his wife in English, and we strike up a conversation. The whole five way exchange is quite amusing. The host only speaks French and a bit of Spanish. Rhonda has some broken Spanish, and I some poor French. The other woman speaks French and English well. I never hear the other male guest speak anything other than English. We learn the other couple resides in Greece. They have brought their motor home up by ferry and highway to be in France. This was a three day trip for them. They are stocking up on wine and purchasing wooden windows and doors. The gent explains that the wine in Greece is terrible, and all of the wood used in home building in Greece is pine. He refurbishes homes, and is looking for hardwood elements to complete his current project. The wine is good, but a little too expensive for us and the other couple. We all depart without purchasing anything and wish each other good hunting.
Rhonda and I began looking for a place to sit and have a drink and small lunch. We settle on La Mere Germaine, right next to the fountain in the middle of town. We are sat on the terrace with a view of the valley below. We are setting a pattern I enjoy of eating meals outside. Rhonda notices the plates being served to and consumed by the neighboring table. She then pulls a very French move and orders the same dish, which is the plat du jour. She has had her plates gawked at and duplicated by nearby patrons each of the previous two days. I order just a plateau du fromage, which seems to put the waitress/hostess off a bit. We have a couple of glasses of a 2007 vintage of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. It is very good. Our Greek friend had mentioned that the 2007 vintage is expected to produce some of the best Chateauneuf-du-Papes ever. Lunch is taken at an easy pace. After our main courses, we both order coffee and I get the apple tart. The waitress has next to no English, but we manage to communicate our intents throughout the meal fairly well. This is our first experience with French coffee, and we are both very pleasantly surprised. It is strong, but not bitter at all. We wrap up our meal an hour and a half or more after we started. The French are always in a hurry to get somewhere, but once there they take their time. We don’t mind, and meals cannot to be had in a rush in France anyway. The pace is very easy in all restaurants and shops.
After lunch we walk back to the car to find a winery north of town a little bit. By happy chance we are parked on the road we want, and embark on the journey. We find Chateau Mont-Redon without any problem at all. The tasting room is empty, except for us. The hostess has a fair grasp of English, and we proceed to try a few vintages of their Chateauneuf-du-Pape. They have a white version which you just don’t see in the US. All are good, but the 2003 rouge is our favorite. We purchase two of it, and one of the white. Afterwards we head back into town. I am determined to get the name off of the label of the wine we had at lunch and find a place to buy it. We park on the street near the restaurant and I go in to inquire. After my French is put to the test, I get what I came for. The name, Elizabeth Chambellan, and the sketchy directions to where in town I can get it. We start walking “up the steps and to the left” as directed. We find some shuttered shops, but no Elizabeth Chambellan. After circling around to the fountain where we started, Rhonda says I should ask one of the locals. At hand are two old ladies that look like they are waiting for a bus. I ask in my best French where I can find Elizabeth Chambellan. I strike out as they only speak Spanish. Rhonda steps up and puts her Spanglish to work. She finds out that they are locals, but don’t know where to find Elizabeth Chambellan. They suggest we cross the street and consult the map in front of the closed tourist information center. Thanks are given and we head over.
Whilst standing in front of the map looking for the correct name, Rhonda notices that our Greek friends are there too. We strike up a conversation again. Neither of us has seen what the other is looking for. They had heard of a wine store that sells all of the local vineyards’ wines for the same prices you can get them at the vineyard for. We all set off in the same general direction on the prowl. Up the hill a piece, they wave to us from off to the right. They have found the store they were looking for hidden around a corner. We join them inside. Luckily the store has Elizabeth Chambellan 2007. We purchase a couple of bottles, say our good byes and walk back down the hill to the car.
By this time it is nearing three in the afternoon. We resolve to head back east without use of the expressways and their toll taking machines. A little way out of town we pass a chocolate factory. After we quick u-turn we make our way back to it. They have dark chocolates infused with Chateauneuf-du-Pape brandy. We must acquire some of those. Back on the road I resolve to get some gas around Avignon. This proves a little tricky and very expensive. The first station I try doesn’t have an attendant and pumps won’t take our credit cards. I drive on and we eventually find a place that is open and has an attendant on duty. After working out the math, we discover the cost of the fuel is nearly six dollars a gallon. It takes us seventy-two dollars to fill the tank. The two lane highways are pleasant to drive. They are all tree lined and the scenery is much nicer than the expressway. Traffic moves fairly well until everyone gets stuck behind a slow driver, similar to getting behind a tractor in Iowa. It is starting to get dark as we get back into Aix-en-Provence. We decide to suck it up and pay the tolls so we can get back before it is too late.
While on the road we decide to try for the Absinthe Bar in Antibes again. This time I have the advantage of having looked at the city map in the morning, but unfortunately I didn’t bring it with us. The battery in the iPod speakers has died, so we resort to French radio. Rhonda finds a station called Nostalgi playing some oldies. Every once in a while an American song will make it into the play list. What is even funnier is when an American song being covered by a French group is played. The station is amusing and we roll along. The ride is long in the dark, but at least we are making good time. We get into Antibes about 19h30 and begin looking for the old market the bar is next to. We circle a square that looks too new to me, so I begin searching for the old part of town. I notice a sign pointing to the port, and wind my way in that direction. After much circling and searching I finally find it. We circle a bit more looking for a parking place, and get one out by the port.
The old part of town is mostly narrow streets that only pedestrians are allowed on. There are lots of people out visiting the bars and restaurants. We find a map of the old town on the wall and locate the marche provencal and point our feet in that direction. After a little walking we make it and find the Absinthe Bar, which is its proper name. It closed fifteen minutes before we arrived. We are both somewhat hungry by this point, so we start looking for a restaurant. I notice an Indian place and we go in. It is small and personal. There are French, British, and American patrons. The waiter in Indian, but speaks English. The situation is entertaining. We don’t know what to think of a French Indian restaurant, but the food is excellent. After a relaxing meal we stroll back to the car. The drive back to our resort from Antibes is easy. Rhonda turns in as soon as we arrive.
Day Five – Wednesday November 18th, 2009
Rhonda gets me up at 7:15. We both shower and clean up. Rhonda spends some extra time shaving her legs because she plans on wearing a skirt in Monte Carlo. We put on our traveling clothes and pack a change of dressier items for Monte Carlo. We had thought that we would breakfast in the resort’s restaurant this morning, but realized too late it is closed on Wednesdays. We want to grab something quick so we can get on the road. We make a short stop at the boulangerie we visited on our first day to get some croissants and brioche. They do not sell coffee to go there, so we purchase just water. Rhonda says we should venture up to the McDonald’s north of town. Rhonda runs in to get two coffees. She hopes for café americain, but they only have French. She gets two larges with milk which are the size of an American small. It is the strong French variety which we both add sugar to. It is good, but the caffeine rush gets to be too much for Rhonda down the road a piece.
Our plan is to visit Italy today. We decide to pay the tolls on the A8 to get there quickly. We will then spend our time working our way back along the coastal road. Our destination is Sanremo. It is the third town into Italy on the map and the largest close to the border. The trip up the A8 is very scenic. The mountains are steep and packed in close. The expressway passes through many tunnels and over many viaducts. Several of the viaducts are frighteningly high. In many places you go directly from tunnel to viaduct to tunnel again as the expressway cuts a path through the mountains. We frequently see the snow capped peaks of the French Alps off to the northeast. Shortly after crossing the Italian border we exit the expressway towards Ventimiglio. The decent is steep and winding, but we make it down to sea level and the local highway. The area’s flora consists of an unusual mix of palm trees, cacti, and flowering vines which cling to the retaining wall along the roads. Traffic through the coastal towns is thick and slow. The sidewalks are full and the town is bustling. This is a stark difference from the sleepy medieval villages we have been visiting. The scooter and motorcycle traffic has picked up significantly. The Italian scooter drivers are no less crazy than the French, and you seem to be swarmed at times with scooters on every side of the car. After driving through a few towns we make it to Sanremo and head for a parking area near the central beach.
As we leave the parking area on foot I am amused by as couple of signs I see. The first depicts a dog with a pile of poo behind him and a big red slash through the whole affair. The second is a cartoonish looking drawing of a big foot coming down on a hapless flower. The third figure in the sign is a small boy the size of the flower pushing against the shoe. We first walk back to take pictures of an Orthodox church we drove by when parking. After snapping a couple of photos we begin strolling eastward. By happy chance we are headed toward the old center of town. There are lots of people out in the streets doing their shopping. Many of the streets are very narrow and do not allow cars. They are lined with shops which are mostly open. This appears to be the residents’ shopping district. The inhabitants of this city seem to favor dogs. They are everywhere and folks take their canines into the shops with them. European towns seem to be either cat towns or dog towns. We never see much of a mix. We notice the shops are all small and do just one thing each. A shop will sell shoes or hosiery or shirts or coats, but not all things together. The same is true of hard goods. We enter what looks like a deli. It is cramped and has several unusual items in the display cases. There are many cured pig legs hanging from the ceiling which almost don’t look real. They are prosciutto. We head back out into the street and see an open stall on a corner with baskets and boxes full of dried fruits, nuts, herbs, and dry pasta. We stumble across a very old looking church. After reading a sign next to it, we discover that it is the oldest place of worship in Sanremo. It was originally constructed by the Romans and was rebuilt in the 13th century by the Catholics.
Rhonda has been told by her coworker Maryanne that the gelato in Italy is not to be missed. We begin looking for a place to pick up a cone. Many of the shops have begun to close for the afternoon. Rhonda recalls that Suzanne had warned her about this. We are fortunate to find gelatoria open and purchase a serving of hazelnut gelato. It is very soft, smooth, and sweet. There are lots of nuts and they provide an extra wafer to help eat the gelato with. The shopkeeper perched a large scoop on top of a small cone that looks as if it is ready to fall over. As we stroll eating our gelato we pass by the Italian version of a pet supply store. I stop us with the idea to get an Italian squeaker for Gimli. We finish our cone and head inside. We find a nice spiky yellow number for 1,46 euro. Gimli will be pleased with his sqeakerino. We make our way down toward the sea shore hoping to find more tourist oriented shops to get some standard souvenirs. We find there is not much open on the shore. So we walk along the beach to our car. The sun is very warm but the wind is cool. As we pass by a stall on the beach there are four women who appear to be in their 60’s sunbathing in the lee of the wind where the sun can keep them warm. One is topless, which she probably shouldn’t be. We get back to the car and decide to drive to Ventimiglia to try for souvenirs there and get some lunch.
The traffic seems to have lightened up a bit as we head west. Once in the center of town we find a parking lot near the train station. Rhonda had noticed some outside cafés as we drove through town which we make our way toward. The one she had spotted is full, meaning it is good. But knowing how long meals take we look for alternatives. In our wanderings we pass by a liquor store/ grocery. We purchase some perishables as souvenirs for the family and continue looking for a place to have lunch. We settle on Ristorante Impero, a pizzeria on a side street with outside seating within a clear plastic enclosure. As we are being seated we note that there is a small table in the center of the outside dining area which holds a slab of prosciutto along with a basket of bread and a bowl of what looks like seafood salad. After being seated our Italian waitress, who speaks very little English, brings us a plate with two appetizers made of the small table’s contents. Our French maitre’d has a better grasp of English and tells us, amongst other things, that the barman is German and the chef is Cuban. The multicultural aspect of Europe is everywhere. We decide to dine in clichés. We start with Limoncello as an aperitif. We order the local rose and bottled water to drink. Our meal will be a shared plate of mushroom pasta and a shared margherita pizza. The only thing missing will be the tiramisu. We have doubts we can get through what we have ordered and we will later find we are right. However, before our food comes we each use the restroom and wash up. The restroom is the typical European style. There is one common area with sinks and towels and several shared stalls. While waiting for our food we gaze around the restaurant. We note a water bowl labeled as a “Dog Bar” next to the wall where the sidewalk passes through the dining area. As we watch the passersby we note that everyone has at least one black element of clothing as in France. After the pasta course the waitress brings by an oil can. We ask what it is for and she explains it is for topping the Pizza if we desire. We think this very odd. We wind up taking almost all of the pizza with us for dinner this evening as the pasta has done its work in filling us up.
We walk back towards the car and let our lunch start to settle. Once at the car we change into our Monte Carlo clothes. There are a few people around, but this is Europe and no one seems to care. We make the trip to Monaco in fairly short order. The weather is beginning to glower but it is still warm, at least to us. Rhonda is in a knee length sleeveless dress and I in a shirt and tie. Everyone walking the streets is in coats and scarves. We must have looked very odd walking about coatless, but we were comfortable. We have a problem trying to get money out of the ATM. We talk to our bank, but they don’t have a ready solution. We enter the Grand Casino which has been featured in several movies. There is a ten euro fee to enter the main gaming areas. The interior that we can visit is beautiful but it reminds me of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. We decide not to pay the fee and walk over to the “low rent” casino Café Paris next door. We have no luck with the ATM machine there either. We later will get a call from our bank explaining they were in fact having system problems that prevented our withdrawals. Rhonda does manage to come up with some cash, and we make our donation to the economy of Monaco. The residents of Monaco are not allowed to gamble in their own casinos, so we do the work for them. Since we are not asked for a passport at the door, we figure we must not look anything like a Monacan. The Grand Casino was our only planned stop here since we were in Monaco a couple of nights ago. We therefore head back to the car for the drive to Antibes. On the way out of town, we notice the Christmas decorations over the streets of Monaco. Most of the towns we have visited have had their Christmas decorations up, but not lit. Monaco shows its ritzy side again by having chandeliers as part of their street decorations instead of a normal strings of lights and snowflakes.
I get lucky at the first A8 toll booth. I have pulled into a lane that only accepts coins and not bills. The only coins I have add up to the 2,20 I need to get on. With cars honking behind me, I wonder what I would do if I hadn’t found the other 10 cent piece. The trip to Port Vieux in Antibes is much easier this time, since we know where we are going. We arrive about an hour ahead of the Absinthe Bar’s closing time. When we get there we find a small shop with a smaller tasting counter. There are a few patrons crammed in and many interesting items scattered about. This is not what we had expected. The hostess notices our quizzical looks and asks Rhonda if she is looking for the bar. We learn that it is below our feet. We come to find out that the actual bar opens when the shop closes, and the bar remains open until midnight. Therefore the bar itself was open when we were looking for it the previous night. It only has a small door on the street and stairs steeply curving down to a cellar, making it easy to miss. The bar is quaint and cramped. There are two other tables of patrons, who are all French. We tell the host, Dan, that we know Frank Ferru, and Frank had recommended that we come by. Dan seems a bit puzzled and goes off to get our drinks. After he converses with the other table for a while he returns with our drinks and asks if this is my first absinthe. I tell him it is not, because our friend Frank has opened an absinthe bar in the US. Dan’s face now lightens with comprehension. Through some halting talk he recalls Frank and explains that he knows his parents, who live in Antibes, better then the son. This breaks the ice, and we are happy Dan doesn’t think us crazy Americans. The drinks are good but we feel a little left out as Dan converses at length with his French patrons regarding the history of absinthe and the bar in which we are sitting. Dan does stop to speak with us again and highlights a couple of items. He explains that the round booth is actually a 2000 year old Roman well. He also points out that the exposed stone archway that makes up half of the ceiling and walls was built in the 9th century. Dan returns to his French guests and we resolved to head back to the resort to have our pizza and wine, of which we have plenty.
Day Six – Thursday November 19th, 2009 (Beaujolais Nouveau)
After a couple of bottles of wine last night we both sleep in a little bit. Rhonda throws on some clothes and walks down to the boulangerie to get a couple of pastries for breakfast. I hear the door open as she comes back and muster myself to get out of bed. We enjoy a leisurely breakfast, and then set to work catching this journal up to date. Our plan for the day is to stay close to Cannes, as that is where we have reservations for dinner tonight to celebrate the Beaujolais Nouveau. We have spent much of the last two days on the road and look forward to a more relaxed pace today.
It is nearing eleven o’clock before we are ready to head out the door. Our first challenge of the day is figuring out where we are headed. We want to see some of the Roman ruins in the south of France. We also have a restaurant recommendation from Frank that we want to follow through with. We chat with the receptionist for a while and get a map of Nice. She points out some places to go in Nice and looks up the restaurant Frank has recommended in order to get the address. We locate it on the map, but the listing in her guidebook indicates it is pretty pricey. The receptionist highlights an area on the Nice map that some ruins are located in for us. Armed with a plan we depart.
We drive the highway up to Nice in order to save some money on tolls. The trip goes fairly smoothly, but takes longer, as we expected. We find our way to the market area easily and get parked underground. As we walk up to street level we notice a wide lane lined with awnings down its middle. Restaurants and a few shops line the sides. There are work crews hosing off the area and sweeping up. We guess that we have just missed the morning market as much of what they are hosing off is foodstuffs. We stroll towards where the restaurant is supposed to be to have a look. We find it down the lane a ways. The menu bears out what the guide book said, it is pretty expensive. We won’t be dining at Le Petite Maison. We stroll around and do a little souvenirs shopping for the family. As we make our way back to the flower market, which hasn’t closed its stalls, we stop at The Restaurante des Fleurs. We sit out on the street and order some Beaujolais Nouveau. Lunch takes a couple of hours, even though we don’t have a lot to eat. Again, things are slow paced in French restaurants. Towards the end of the meal Rhonda begins talking with a French gentleman at a near table. We all talk about travel and some of the nicer places he has visited. He confirms what we had heard earlier, that you don’t want to visit Venice in summer. I notice that he has many of the same mannerism when speaking that our friend Frank does. The conversation wraps up and we head back out into the street.
We stop back to make some purchases at a shop we had visited earlier. We stroll around the area and notice the decidedly Italian looks of portions of the town center. We decide to head back to the car to try and find the ruins we had noted in the morning. Traffic is heavy, as is it getting close to rush hour by this time. We drive through some really nice squares and see some lovely architecture. As we get close to where the ruins are supposed to be we finally see a sign for them. This leads us no where. We can’t find the ruins, and are now caught in Nice rush hour traffic at 17h10. We abort the mission and begin making our way towards Cannes. The trip takes a long time through all of the rush hour traffic. Rush hour in Nice is not much different from rush hour in Chicago. Only the motorcycles and scooter seem to make headway times.
We get into Cannes ahead of our reservation and do some more shopping. The stores that were closed on our last visit are open now, though not for long. Everything is similar to Italy with regard to the shops. I see one store I had never expected see. It sells pajamas, and that is all. After strolling for a while we make our way to Le Grand Café. After sitting we are asked by three different waiters, in fairly quick succession, if we want to order. We explain to each time that we are not ready to eat and just want some wine. The short fellow in a hat finally gets the message and just brings us two glasses of wine and a complimentary plate of slices of cured meat and olives. The wait staff are all wearing plaid shirts and there are hay bales stacked by the front door. Rhonda stops one of them and inquires why. He says that it is for the Beaujolais Nouveau celebration. This still doesn’t make sense to us until he refers to the Beaujolais as farmer wine. Our curiosity sated we watch the crowd in the restaurant build a little and the passers by on the promenade. We are somewhat surprised at how little activity there is. A different waiter stops by when our glasses are near empty and I tell him, “Demi, Beaujolais.” This he understands and brings us a half liter of the Beaujolais. We continue to drink, talk, and observe when three waiters descend on the table next to ours. They each have an empty plate and a platter with a whole, including head and tail, cooked fish on it. Rhonda asks one of them what it is, and he tells her it is sea bass. Each waiter proceeds to de-bone their respective fishes with only a spoon and a knife. It is a noisy flurry of activity, and they are very serious in their endeavor. The heavy Italian trio in the corner who ordered the fish are promptly served. Some time later we eventually decide to order a bruschetta with mushrooms followed by a cheese plate. Rhonda catches the attention of the short waiter with the hat and says, “OK.” He gleefully says “OK” in reply and trots to get his pad. We place our order making sure to get it across to him that we want to share each course. After about three hours we decide it’s time to go. Rhonda wants acquire one of the straw hats that the wait staff have in the restaurant. She is eventually referred to Gerome, the “boss”. He tells her she can have one for ten euros. When a different waiter comes to ring up the check tableside she tries to bargain with him for the hat as if in Mexico. He is apologetic but does not yield.
Here are some general observations we have made regarding French restaurants that we discussed over dinner. Firstly, you can never really know who your waiter or waitress is. They do not work for tips, so they don’t always work a single table from soup to nuts. This can be convenient for the diner because you can hail anyone passing by to get you something. Bread is always served, but never with butter. We have also noticed the large portions of food that are served. We have wondered how the French can eat all that food and still stay so thin. They don’t leave anything behind on their plates. In every restaurant we have been, we have not seen any food go back to the kitchen except for our own. They do not take any of the empty plates from a table until every person at that table has finished the course they are on. The concept of sharing plates also seems foreign to the French. In fact, the restaurant in Saint Paul didn’t allow it. At one particular restaurant Rhonda noticed the “changing table” in the bathroom. It was literally a wooden table hinged to the wall, and without any safety devices. Also, the highchairs used by the French are the type we at home would only see in an antique store. They are small and wooden with a lifted tray which has some beads on an embedded rod for the baby to play with. We have already mentioned the communal nature of the restrooms which is efficient but awkward to the American. Lastly, when paying by credit card they bring a WiFi device to the table to complete the transaction. Your card never leaves your site and the customer’s receipt is printed first and handed back with the card.
Day Seven – Friday November 20th, 2009
This morning we are both up by seven thirty. I am the one to walk down to the boulangerie to get breakfast. I manage the entire exchange in the boulangerie in French, which is pleasing. Rhonda and I sit and catch this journal up. We spend a little time on line to check on how much wine we can bring back into the US. We also try to locate some Roman ruins near where we are going today. With all of the pre-work done, we get on the road much earlier than yesterday.
We hit the two lane highways heading for Les Arcs sur Argent. The original intent is to get through the day without looking at a map. This doesn’t last too much beyond Grasse. The drive is pleasant and very fall like, with parts of the terrain looking a lot like Kentucky. The weather is sunny and cool. We wind along the road listening to Nostalgi on the radio and enjoying the scenery. The kilometer markers along the road are small tombstone shaped objects that look like the illustrations on the cards in Mille Bornes. Rhonda also notes that she hasn’t seen any road kill the entire week. Either the drivers have good reflexes, the animals are smart, or the scavengers are fast. Regardless, it does seem a bit strange. The tank begins to run a little low near Draguignan, which we call Dragontown since we can’t pronounce it properly. We pick up some drinks and chips along with a half of a tank of gas and get back on the road. The further away from the coast we get the fewer people we meet who speak English. We note a few old town centers sitting up on the hills overlooking the valley we are driving through near Dragontown. They appear similar to Mougins, Saint Paul and the other town centers we have seen. We wonder about what life was like when those old town centers were not surrounded by all of the new structures outside their walls. We have the point of view of the peasants who would have been working the fields and paying their tithes to the nobility on the hill. Things have certainly changed over the centuries. Now all of the money is in the valley with the vineyards where we are driving.
After winding our way through Dragontown we blunder into Les Arcs sur Argent. We follow the signs to the medieval village. There is no place to park where the drivable road ends, so we find what looks like a safe place along a main street in the center of town where other cars are parked. We hike up into the ancient city of the Templars. This medieval village is much different than the other two we visited in that it does not sit as high and is not filled with art galleries and restaurants. Other than the hotel in the chateau in the top, everything else is residences. I wonder what it would be like to grow up in a 500 year old house and take for granted all of the history around you. The medieval village is much smaller then Saint Paul or even Mougins. After wandering for a bit we make our way back down to the town square. We want to get some lunch and try a restaurant on the square. Our first pick is hosting a large English tour group that is dining on steak and kidney pie. They therefore do not have anything to offer us other then what the tour group is eating. We are not interested. There another café down the block but it looks rather empty and unappealing. We return to Motta Yvon which is closest to the fountain at the foot of the medieval village. This seems fitting as most of the meals we’ve eaten have been outside in cafes close to fountains. There seems to be no shortage of fountains in old French towns.
As we peruse the menu, which mostly consist of pizzas and hamburgers (sandwiches), Rhonda laughs at their interpretation of American hamburgers. One of the funniest items is how they translate ground beef as “hacked beef”. The hamburgers have names like Chicago, New York, and Philadelphia. The fish sandwich is called the Hamburger Miami and the chicken sandwich is the Hamburger Kentucky. The descriptions of the sandwiches don’t always match the city they are named for. I remark how a demi of wine cost only five euros, while a Coke will cost you three and a half euros. The staff at Motta Yvon knows only a few English words. Ordering is a little more challenging than some of the places we have been. Both the waitress and we are patient and the order is placed successfully. The food arrives before the wine and water, but that is quickly rectified and we begin another leisurely meal. We take note of the other patrons and notice even here in the more rural areas that the French affinity for wearing black is present. The food is good but once again there is a lot of it. My pizza is thin enough that is it not too much for me. Rhonda is not so lucky with her Hamburger Kentucky and frites (fries). She thinks of a way to say the food is good but she is done in French. This goes over well with the waitress and draws a smile.
After a little stroll through the square we get back to the car. Rhonda spots something on the windshield that turns out to be a parking ticket. We can’t understand why we received the ticket which we really don’t have any way of paying. We put it in with the rest of the souvenirs and head on our way. We have no clear destination at this point. I see a sign for Toulon and recognize it from Les Miserable and turn that direction. Somewhere in my travel south I lose the path to Toulon and wind up heading to Frejus. As we get into Frejus we both see what looks like Roman ruins off to the left. This is a happy coincidence. Getting to them is not so easy. We begin following signs to The Roman Theatre, thinking that is what we saw. We wind up on the east side of town underneath a Roman aqueduct instead. I hop out and snag a couple of pictures. Then we begin to back track. We zero in on the Roman Theater and discover it is not what we had thought, but it is a nice find none the less.
The outdoor theater is in a residential district so we park in the street and cross to the ruins. The city has built modern stands above the ruins. This is a nice blend of new and old and a way to make the theater serve its original purpose once again. The gate onto the grounds is open and the ticket office appears shuttered. We proceed inside and begin to explore. As I mount the top of the new stands to get a better angle for my shot, I hear an angry voice coming from below. There is a man crossing the grounds and hollering. I motion that I can not hear him and begin descending the steps and follow him to where he is walking. When we arrive at the ticket office the fellow angrily explains that we need tickets to be on the grounds. He points to a sign saying that he had stepped away temporarily, and I tell him my French is bad and didn’t understand the sign. I take the admission price out of my pocket and hand it over, which calms him down quite a bit. He hands us an English language pamphlet and a couple of passes. The pamphlet has a map with the location of the other ruins around town, so that is very helpful. We proceed back into the outdoor theatre and continue our exploration. It is remarkable to be walking on the same stones that the Romans who built this place did in the first century A.D. Rhonda finds some snail shells among the ruins and claims her 2 euros worth. This is better than taking some of the actual ruins themselves. After a while we decide it was time to leave and try to find the amphitheatre on the other side of town.
We find the amphitheatre easily, but finding a way into it appears to be the tricky part. We pull into a deserted lot of what appears to be the backside of the whole affair and decide to try and find a way to the front. After several missed turns and back trackings we finally park on the street in front of the gate. There is construction going on inside the Amphitheater. There is a large crane in the center of the amphitheatre and construction fencing all the way around it. It appears as if the city is making the same conversion they did with the Roman Theatre. The gate onto the grounds is open and the ticket office is definitely closed. The hours listed show it open until 17h00 and it is only 16h30 now. We proceed in and begin to look around. A pair of Frenchmen enter behind us so we feel better about being inside. The amphitheater is much more impressive then the Roman Theater. The amphitheatre is a complete oval with two levels and is built in the style of the great coliseum in Rome. The concourse and upper levels are still intact and we find several banners explaining the work being done on the hanging on the walls of the concourse. We walk back to the foot of the large staircase that leads to the top. I notice that the car that was park nearby has moved just outside of the gate. I am worried that they are closing up. Rhonda loiters in the area to prevent us from getting locked in as I quickly ascend the steps to take a video from the second level. Sure enough the fellow in the car is closing up for the night. Rhonda delays him and calls to me and we make a quick exit.
We still have one souvenir to find to do so we head toward Cannes. We have noticed throughout the week that there is a decided lack of souvenir shops in France. This is very nice in that it doesn’t make the cities seem like Wisconsin Dells. It does make purchasing gifts for those back at home tricky. We figure Cannes is the best chance to finish our work. I hop onto the A8 to save time and get us to downtown Cannes as quickly as possible. Downtown Cannes is bustling with activity so we are not too late. The small streets lined with shops are all alive which we have not seen yet. Our previous visits had occurred later in the evening after the shops had closed. The stores are similar to those in Italy in that they each specialize in one type of item each and we have a hard time finding what we are looking for. After a great deal of walking we call the job done and sit on a bench next to the bocce courts to decide what to do next. The courts are nearly empty and there are few people on the promenade.
After a bit Rhonda leads us back up the street a block or two to The Marina Café. We grab a table next to the walkway and order a bottle of wine and some escargot. Rhonda has remembered that she wanted to try escargot in France and she hasn’t yet. They are served in the shells which make eating them a little challenging. They are good, but not as good as the ones the Petite Creperie makes. We watch the last of the shoppers passing by and wonder at the emptiness of the restaurants in the area. Like retail stores and Christmas they must rely heavily on the seasonal crowds to make it though the year. Our small snack is a nice way to finish the week. All we have left before us is packing and a long flight.
Day Eight – Saturday November 21st, 2009
We are both up with the alarm at five. We get ourselves together and Rhonda heads down to checkout while I get everything loaded into the car. She has to wake the desk clerk up so he can check us out. We are out and on the road by 5h35. The roads are empty and the drive is quick. There is no one in the Hertz office to greet us when we get there. The office says it opens at six, but there are only people inside cleaning up. I notice a man with a Hertz jacket matching keys to cars in the lot. He lets me know where I can leave the car and we walk into the terminal. It is pretty much deserted as well. The check in is quick and security is a breeze. We have a seat and get a croissant, juice and coffee for breakfast. The gate fills up a little as we wait, but this is obviously the only flight going out this early this morning.
The flight up to Paris is smooth. The skies over the French Alps are clear and we have a great view of the mountains. They are very rugged looking and majestic. As we come in to Paris things are hazy. We see the Eiffel Tower at a distance, but it is not very clear. Our only remaining worry is the quick connecting we have in Paris. This doesn’t turn out to be much of a problem though. We have a ways to walk and a trip to make through security, but everything goes quickly. We get directly into the boarding line as we get to the gate. The wait to get on the plane is long, but we are there and we will be able to make the flight. Rhonda is impressed by individual screens on the seat backs of the plane. You can use the screen to watch a variety of movies, TV shows, play video games, or watch the status of our flight. You can also view the exterior camera of the plane on the screen. The only thing we are apprehensive about is the large group of a couple of dozen of German students that get on last. They are high school aged and are talking loudly and incessantly. They are obviously excited, but we are hoping to get some sleep on this flight. They do calm down after a bit and sleep through the middle of flight themselves. Shortly after the flight gets underway Rhonda watches the movie The Ugly Truth while I am reading. She is laughing out loud and told me I should watch it as well. I start the movie during dinner. Rhonda nods off after the meal and I after I get done with the show. We both get a few hours of sleep, but not much more. The closer the flight gets to Chicago the more awake and excited the student group gets. We land safely and even a few minutes ahead of schedule.
Home Again
The trip has been a wonderful adventure. We had a very short list of things to see, so our pace was relaxed. I very much enjoyed this as it allowed us to soak up the culture and get the feel of the towns we visited. If we were in a rush to see the next site and stay on a tour schedule, I don’t think we would have had the same experience. Granted, a tour may have allowed us to see more sights and be better informed about what we saw, but I don’t think I would have liked the pace. Rhonda and I both enjoy people watching, and that takes time. Time our loose schedule allowed. We definitely have it in mind to visit Europe again, as this has been a most enjoyable and rewarding experience.
