Las Mañanitas: Detour de France

Usually we're in Taos in mid-June, but this year, thanks to free frequent-flyer tickets, we've decided to take a little detour to Provence and Paris, linking up with Lynne and Robert, my sister and brother-in-law, along the way.

Day 1: Leg Room
How's this for an auspicious beginning: no extra charge for being seated in United Economy Plus (normally $94/person each way), and we've got the same seats on the return trip. The extra five inches prove that size does matter. Plus, our flight attendant feels sheepish about spilling water on Steve's pants, so gives us free glasses of champagne.

At the Nice airport, we pick up our rental car--a free upgrade to a super-sized Toyota Corolla which will seat two more passengers comfortably. We drive along the Cote d'Azur to our hotel in Villefranche-sur-Mer and find that our room has been updated with all the mod-cons: flat screen TV, hardwood floors, fabulous bathroom with sea view and bowl-on-the-counter sink (impractical but tres chic). By now it's 3:30 and we walk to town to scout out the restaurants for tonight's dinner--it's the first ever arrival in France when we haven't felt jet-lagged--and return to our hotel with a split of champagne, which we sip on the terrace overlooking the harbor.

Dinner is at Le Cafe Cosmo, a moderately-priced restaurant with lovely sea views. Across the street is the Chappelle de Sainte-Marie painted inside and out by Jean Cocteau as a gift to the fishermen of Villefranche. We return to our hotel at 9:00 and collapse into bed as the sun sets over the Mediterranean.

Day 2: Dude, Where's My Cabana Boy?
After a fruitless search for a private beach with loungers and umbrellas, we buy a serviette de plage for Steve (I've brought my own beach towel) and stake out a spot on the sand. Two years ago we had a very different beach experience here, involving cute waiters, champagne and salad. Are we more jet-lagged than we think, or didn't there used to be a little cinder block snack-shack and rental chaises longues lined up three rows deep on this very patch of plage? Oh well. Steve takes a dip in the Med while I photograph an adorable French baby eating sand. My tolerance for baking in the sun sans parasol is limited, so we leave after thirty minutes.

We console ourselves with a relaxing lunch of pizza and wine in the old town, retrieve our car from the hotel, and drive to the Villa Ephrussi on Cap Ferrat. The Rothschild lady who owned this perfectly pink property loved sea views and gardens, and now we all get to see how the mega-rich lived in the early 20th century.

Later tonight, while watching TV, we come across a documentary titled La Betonnerie de la Cote d'Azur about overly-zealous entrepreneurs who've endangered the coast's beaches by building too close to the shoreline and the small group of eco-minded people who are leading a crusade against "cementization." Apparently these anti-cement folks are making slow but steady progress, and we cheer them on. After all, the beaches along the Med are among the loveliest on the planet, and who needs these ugly buildings anyway? Then the camera pans to a bulldozer smashing into a concrete monstrosity, and we realize that it's attacking our very own Snack Shack. "Wait!" we shout at the screen. "Can't you guys make an exception for our petit batiment de cinder block? It's not taking up all that much space. And what about the cute young waiters? Where will they find work if you take away their livelihood?" Discouraged, we turn off the TV, knowing that we will never again enjoy the luxury of champagne and salad on Villefranche's beach unless we bring our own pique-nique basket.

Day 3: Salade Nicoise
Nice is nice, especially now that tracks have been laid throughout the city for a new tramway. We walk from the train station to the stunning Place Massena, then weave our way to the Cours Saleya in Vieux Nice. This Monday morning an antique market fills the entire space with books, jewelry, furniture, and other bric-a-brac. We spot Matisse's one-time home at the top of the Cours, then order that famous salade at the cheerful Pizzeria du Cours:

Day 4: Daube
We say au revoir to Villefranche as we drive along the coast toward Nice. At Cagnes-sur-Mer we turn north into the hills above the coast in the direction of Vence. Our goal this morning is the Chapel of the Rosary, Matisse's masterpiece. Matisse designed everything in the chapel, from the chalice to the priest's vestments; the east and west-facing windows and the drawings on the tiled walls are delightfully simple, unmistakably Matisse. A Dominican sister gives us a detailed description of the chapel's interior, admonishing latecomers for chattering during her lecture.

We drive through the gorgeous Gorges-du-Loup, stopping along the way to tour the Confiserie Florian, a candy factory whose specialty is candied fruit. A delightful young French girl takes us on a guided tour, and we sample all sorts of goodies, from chocolate-covered violets to lavender jam and mimosa syrup. We buy almonds dipped in the most delicious mixture of honey and chocolate, as well as a bag of chocolate-covered orange peels. From there we drive to the hilltop village of Gourdon and eat lunch at La Taverne Provencal, where Steve has the best daube--France's version of beef stew--of his life. We marvel at the views from the terrace, perched 2500 feet above the valley, where we can see all the way to the Mediterranean:

Day 5: Vive le Rock and Roll
We can't check into Saint-Barthelemy (our bed and breakfast in Pernes-les-Fontaines) until late afternoon, so we pass the time at St. Remy's market, one of the biggest in Provence. Jean-Pierre, our favorite vendor, is in his usual spot selling used CDs. We recall that he and his wife take frequent trips to Las Vegas, so we we ask him if he's been there recently. He tells us that he went there last July to visit a friend who lives in a house previously owned by a member of Carlos Santana's band. As we leave his stall, he hands us his business card which shows our friend wearing a purple cowboy hat. The bottom of the card proclaims "God Bless America" against a backdrop of the American flag and a bald eagle, leading us to think we've found Steven Colbert's Provencal cousin. The most surprising feature of his card, however, is the inscription above the American flag in bright red letters: President, Jerry Lee Lewis Fan Club.

Day 6: She looks like a Nathalie
We pick up Lynne and Robert in Aix-en-Provence and follow the Route de Cezanne to the tiny village of Le Tholonet, about 3 km. out of town. Cezanne often walked to the village from Aix to paint his landscapes of Mont Sainte-Victoire and the surrounding countryside. Knowing that Robert was on a pilgrimage of sorts to follow in Cezanne's footsteps, Steve and I are hoping to find a suitable spot for a picnic with a view of the artist's mountain.

Our search leads us to the extensive grounds of the Association of Canals and Dams of Provence, behind which is a hill that looks promising. Robert sees a young lady walking toward us and rushes up to her, hoping that his limited French will suffice for the task at hand. When communication breaks down, I step in and ask her if we're on the right path. She tells me that, malheureusement, we are on private property and must go elsewhere. Then she asks if we want to hike, and I explain that our top priority is lunch, preferably in a joli endroit with a view of Mont Sainte-Victoire.

"If you'll wait just a few minutes," she says, " I'll get my car and you can follow me to a place a few kilometers from here. I'm on my lunch hour now, but this shouldn't take too long." We drive behind her along the twisting narrow road that skirts the mountain and within five minutes have arrived at the Domaine des Roches. It's immediately clear that this is the paradise we've been seeking: under the shade of tall pines are several beautiful stone-topped tables, and beyond the picnic area are trails leading to the mountain. We ask our new French friend to join us, but she politely declines, wishing us bon apetit and bonne journee. We can't believe our luck at having found such a friendly, accommodating stranger without whose help we never would have found this perfect place, graced by the spirit of Cezanne.

Our pique-nique in the pines:

On the trail to Cezanne's mountain:

Day 7: Happy Anniversary

Today is Friday, June 13, a lucky day for us because it is our 32nd anniversary. Jacqueline, the owner of our bed and breakfast, has booked a table for the four of us at the Domaine de la Camarette, a small inn and restaurant just across the road from St.-Barthelemy. She tells us it's been open less than six weeks and relies solely on word of mouth for its customers--there are no signs or advertisements of any sort. The attraction of the new place, Jacqueline adds, is the incroyable price of 28 euros for its prix-fixe menu which includes an aperitif, appetizer, main course, dessert, and unlimited wine. Since La Camarette is a working farm, nearly all the ingredients are home-grown, and the wine--not AOC, but good vin de table--comes from the vineyard that surrounds the farmhouse.

We arrive at 7:30 and are greeted by the friendly young chef. There are places set for about twenty guests, and the simple decor--a few potted plants, an old buffet, whitewashed walls--makes us feel at home. Still we are a little intimidated because the other guests (only six so far) are so quiet. We've brought our camera and want to take a picture, but we feel self-conscious until the chef's wife comes to our table and says in bubbly, perfect English, "I see it's picture time! Give me your camera and I'll take a group photo."

As she serves our aperitif--tonight it's walnut wine--she explains that the vineyard has been in her family for three generations. Her parents have paid to renovate the farmhouse and convert it into an inn, which she and her husband now manage. They are in their late twenties, enthusiastic, and totally charming; surely everyone in Pernes-les-Fontaines will want to promote their success. The chef brings our appetizer to the table and explains in English (both he and his wife studied in the US) that the item next to our three zucchini and cheese raviolis is a stuffed squash blossom. We wash it all down with bottles of rose and white wine, poured into glasses that say "Vins de pays, c'est okay!" (Regional wine, it's good!). We toast our respective marriages several times before the main course arrives (Lynne and Robert have decided to celebrate their 36 years of wedded bliss tonight, too; their November anniversary slipped between the cracks of their son's fall birthday and Thanksgiving).

By now the dining room is full and much more lively, since a party of eight French women has been seated at the table next to ours. The main course is a tian d'agneau (lamb medallion) served with polenta and haricots verts. The chef happily complies with our request for red wine, which is also produced on the estate. The lamb is unbelievably tender, and the serving is just the right size. Dessert is cleverly presented in three cups of varying sizes. Cup #1--the smallest--is filled with homemade vanilla and caramel ice cream, #2 contains a blackberry mousse, and #3 has a medley of nuts and fresh fruit. There are also four nefles on a table, a peculiar apple-like fruit that translates as "medlar." (Idiomatically, to give someone des nefles is to give him nothing at all--the French equivalent of zippity-doo-dah.)

The chef's wife offers coffee or tea at the end of the meal, but we ask for one more glass of walnut wine instead. Since Lynne and Robert graciously insist on treating us to this memorable dinner, we pay des nefles and float back to our bed and breakfast on a cloud of contentment.

The Easter sisters exchange pre-dinner bunny gifts:

Dinner at the Domaine de la Camarette:

Days 8, 9, 10: Music, History, Geography
Normally we'd eat breakfast outdoors under the willow tree, but a cold wind has been blowing these past few days and has driven everyone inside. With room for only six at the dining room table, we eat in shifts, and our hostess Jacqueline is more inclined to sit and chat.

Our first indoor breakfast features Provencal music on the CD player, mostly comic songs sung in a mixture of French and Provencal. Jacqueline translates the lyrics for those of us who don't speak Provencal , and we all have a good laugh.

The next morning, when Lynne and I admire the red and yellow dishes on Jacqueline's table, she invites us into her kitchen to show us all of her lovely pottery, which was produced in the village of Dieulefit (Dyew-le-fee). She explains that Dieulefit is "une ville juste" (a righteous village). During the German occupation, Dieulefit sheltered 2,000 Jews, communists, writers, and other subversives, all of whom would have been executed by the Nazis or sent to concentration camps. The city fathers created fake ID papers for everyone, and not a single resident revealed the secret. The town had a long history of tolerance--Catholics and Protestants had lived together peacefully for over 200 years.

Our final morning in the bed and breakfast takes a different turn. Steve and I listen politely as the two other couples--one from Nice and the other from Brussels--discuss the merits of their hometowns with Jacqueline. The Nicois couple asserts the superiority of the Cote d'Azur over Provence: "We have the mountains, the sea, and Brigitte Bardot."

Jacqueline counters that Provence has not only the mountains and the sea, but France's second largest city, Marseilles. Soon a great argument ensues, with the Belgians and the Nicois joining forces against Jacqueline, proclaiming that it is Lyon, not Marseilles, that is number two.

"Everyone knows," says monsieur le Belge, "that it's Paris-Lyon-Marseilles, NOT Paris-Marseilles-Lyon!"

"You're just thinking of the TGV!" Jacqueline responds, referring to the high-speed train route from Paris to the Mediterranean. Most people these days would use Google to settle the dispute, but Jacqueline runs to fetch her trusty LaRousse. She reads triumphantly from the mega-dictionary, noting that Marseilles edges out Lyon by a few hundred people.

"Your dictionary is mauvais!" declares monsieur le Nicois, and just when things could take a nasty turn, everyone bursts out laughing. The two couples say that Jacqueline must be a Marseillaise herself, but she assures them that she's from a "tres petit village" far from Marseilles. We all try to guess her hometown but soon give up, and finally she names it: Dieulefit.

Jacqueline and Serge's 17th century guest house, St. Barthelemy:

Days 11 and 12: Thirty Hours in Paris
Arrive 4 p.m., check into hotel, go to favorite cafe, drink kir, eat frites, observe Sorbonne students at neighboring tables, walk along Seine, cross Pont Neuf, walk to Louvre, Louvre should be open until 9:45 p.m. but is closed, cross back to Left Bank on Pont des Arts, take pictures of designer wedding dresses in shop window, go to Italian restaurant in Latin Quarter, collapse in hotel room.

Next day: Decide to wear fashionable shoes instead of sensible walking shoes, eat huge hotel breakfast, note perfect weather, walk to rue Mouffetard in Latin Quarter, put 2 euros in hat of binou-playing street musician, photograph honor guard on steps of Pantheon, return to hotel to pee, note perfect weather, take picture of Steve next to giant bronze head in Luxembourg Gardens, walk to Rodin Museum, eat huge lunch in museum garden, walk toward Eiffel Tower, fill out form to win tiny European car, pass under Eiffel Tower, note sore feet, walk to Palais de Chaillot on Right Bank, note sore feet, chat with beautiful tall black London girls, photograph selves with E. T. in background, return to Left Bank, note sore feet, board BatoBus, ride down Seine to Notre Dame, return to hotel, change into sensible shoes, return to favorite cafe, curse loud American woman at next table, drink two rounds of kir, walk tipsily though Luxembourg Gardens to Montparnasse, eat huge dinner at crepe restaurant, curse loud American man at next table, speak French during entire meal in attempt to fool loud American man, return to hotel, watch French national soccer team crash and burn, pack bags, fall fast asleep with smiles on faces.

The Pont des Arts: