Don't be surprised when we attract attention said Sue, They don't see a lot of gweilos in this part of Hong Kong. We sat at a table nearest to a kitchen and ordered noodles for three. An eager lady from the adjacent stall came over and offered translation services. Despite her offer, we had no need as Sue is fluent in beginner Cantonese. Tea in a steaming jug with a Fosters logo was plonked on the table. I don't know about you two, but I need a beer, I injected, ordering a tallie of Tsingtao. Better get two!
We were on the third floor of the Sham Shui Po market, near the end of the MTR* Tsuen Wan line on Kowloon. Below us, Chinese women were selecting live chickens for tonight's meal. Rows of cages holding economically priced birds quivered in anticipation. Once selected, the dealer held the chook up for inspection. Watch this! said Sue, Sometimes the purchaser will stick her finger up the chickens bum to see whether there is an unlaid egg inside before rejecting it. Not this time! Satisfied, the woman paid for the mid-priced $85** selection and was handed a numbered blue tag. A similar tag was attached to the bird's wing and its' neck was slit! Come back shortly and your bird will be plucked. No chance, indicated the anxious purchaser, You might swap chickens on me. I'll wait!
Presented with the bill for $65, I noted the beer cost $40. Bargain! As we left the largest restaurant***, two inquisitive young women came across and asked us where we were from. Replying Australia, one of them said to Kim You use chopsticks better than me!
Descending an odorous lift we headed off for a textile market Sue had once visited. I know it's under the overpass, she said hopefully. Heading off towards the distant overpass, we passed by a roadside stall selling bras. No knickers, only bras! Despite numerous sorties down teeming streets and through the jade market, we were stumped. Can I have another Wet One?, please Sue, I pleaded dispensing with the sodden one in my hand. That's your last, She responded. There's a mailman, Sue gasped, He's sure to know where it is!
Passing the Precious Blood Hospital for the third time, we had to admit that mailman doesn't know his postal codes or what's inside them!. I think it's down here. Success! Plunging into the market, we squeezed through stalls overflowing with rolls of fabrics and fasteners. Electric fans stirred the air as we marvelled at the fortitude of young couples searching for that elusive wedding textile. Do you think they sell Wet Ones?
Searching unsuccessfully for a street sign that approximated Sue's map and directions to the MTR, we came upon shop after shop selling swatches. Not watches, but swatches of fabric. Thousands of them, No millions! Maybe I can find some paisley, I pondered, my mind set on getting some shirts made before we left. Look there's a sign pointing to the MTR station. Unfortunately it was on the other side of a busy road divided by pedestrian preventing barriers. Despite our close proximity to the historical Sham Shui Po police station, we made a dash for it, squeezing through the equally historic barrier.
Our train for Central was leaving in one minute indicated the sign as we approached the doors. It looks a bit crowded, Let's wait for the next one. It will be along in another minute. The MTR has just topped my Top 5 Metros!
*MTR Mass Transit Railway
**All amounts are in HK dollars, currently 8 to the Aussie
*** So called because the size of its license plate. This type of restaurant is called dai pai dong literally meaning restaurant with a big license plate!
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Como
No, You don't want to go to Varesi, Lake Como is a much better choice. Mildred and George were seasoned travellers, having been to Australia eleven times. We loved Canberra, they assured us as they rose from their breakfast table. Como it is then!
Via Milan's metro, we arrived at Centrale. Two tickets to Lake Como Pour favoure, we asked the lady. Non, non, Upstairs, upstairs! Of course you can't get to Como by metro, we knew that much, but we didn't know you couldn't get tickets downstairs. Approaching the long line of Italians seeking tickets for regional and international destinations, I noticed a number of people were obtaining bigliettos from automatic machines nearby. Make sure you get return tickets, Diane had advised us, You may not be able to get tickets back to Milan from Como. A helpful local pressed the buttons for me as I looked on somewhat bewildered. Put notes in there. Some people are quite enterprising. All you have to do is stand around the Stazzione until a bewildered tourist turns up, and you help him for the gratuity of the price of a cup of coffee. Gratize mille!
In Italian railway stations you may not smoke within the halls and restaurants, however, once you have reached the platform, feel free to light up. Arriving and departing passengers gasp with relief upon reaching Area Fumatori! With the prospect of a 45 minute trip ahead of them, half a dozen desperates on platform 14 were intently dragging on sustaining fags.
Our 16 service to Como, terminating in Zurich, ran north through industrial suburbs followed by ascending forested lands beginning to change colour. Arriving, we walked through parks to Piazza Volta where we had views of the lake. A multicultural line of prospective passengers inspected the pricelist for the ferryride as we made our way towards the boat ~ Fifteen euros for a return trip to Bellagio. Seems reasonable. No, that fare is old, sixty euros for two return, and you will have to wait for the next service in one hour. I checked to see if his name was Benito. Even with the favourable exchange rate, seventy one dollars for a ferry ride is a bit steep!. Bellagio's elegant lakeside promenades and cafes will have to miss out on our patronage.
Fuming, we sat at a nearby cafe and replotted our day. Despite an occasional whiff of the nearby drains, we enjoyed a round of drinks as we watched vessels pass by George Clooney's nifty wooden hulled motorboat. Being too early for lunch, we passed on the cafe's menu and set off in the direction of the funicular, rated by Trip Advisor as the third most desirable of Como's attractions. The shade of the funicular terminal was welcoming as we paid our fare of five euros for the seven minute service running eighteen hours a day. Modern air-conditioned funicular cars run up the kilometre long track to Brunate, where the population swells in summer with tourists renting accommodation with views over Lake Como, some 500 metres below.
Alighting into the summer heat, we wandered about the mountain piazza that includes a funicular museum displaying previous steam and electrical driven mechanisms. Both of which would have fascinated Alessandro Volta who lived in Brunate for a short period. We thought Como would be cooler than Milano, but it is just as uncomfortable with an extremely humid atmosphere. Lunchtime had arrived and we took a table at a cafe with views across the lake and heavily populated surrounding mountain communes. The menu offered a range of local dishes including fresh lake carp, however I remained true to my quest to sample every pasta Italy has to offer, and settled for a truffle and porcini ravioli.
Beautiful children's boutiques and a 300 year old apothecary caught our attention as we made our way back towards the stazzione. Travel tip: For some reason (luxury tax?), pharmaceuticals and health products in Italy are poisonously expensive with deodorants costing 10 euros, Neurophen 8 euros and sunblock 14. I advise you to buy adequate supplies before you leave. Buses to Belaggio were filling as we entered the railway station bar where an icy round of Aperol and Prosecca cocktails refreshed us while we cooled our heels waiting for the 18.17 service back to Milano Centrale.
As the express bus to Malpensa Airport passed close to Porta Garibaldi, we noticed that windows that had earlier proclaimed Soldi ~ Discount 50% now featured New Collection 2013! The ride to Malpensa was swift with the crowded bus entertained by an elderly passenger who treated us all to his mobile conversation with his brickie. Snow capped mountains could be seen in the distance as the bus entered the autostrada gates to the airport. Nearby, fields of corn were ripe for harvesting in the record summer heat.
Via Milan's metro, we arrived at Centrale. Two tickets to Lake Como Pour favoure, we asked the lady. Non, non, Upstairs, upstairs! Of course you can't get to Como by metro, we knew that much, but we didn't know you couldn't get tickets downstairs. Approaching the long line of Italians seeking tickets for regional and international destinations, I noticed a number of people were obtaining bigliettos from automatic machines nearby. Make sure you get return tickets, Diane had advised us, You may not be able to get tickets back to Milan from Como. A helpful local pressed the buttons for me as I looked on somewhat bewildered. Put notes in there. Some people are quite enterprising. All you have to do is stand around the Stazzione until a bewildered tourist turns up, and you help him for the gratuity of the price of a cup of coffee. Gratize mille!
In Italian railway stations you may not smoke within the halls and restaurants, however, once you have reached the platform, feel free to light up. Arriving and departing passengers gasp with relief upon reaching Area Fumatori! With the prospect of a 45 minute trip ahead of them, half a dozen desperates on platform 14 were intently dragging on sustaining fags.
Our 16 service to Como, terminating in Zurich, ran north through industrial suburbs followed by ascending forested lands beginning to change colour. Arriving, we walked through parks to Piazza Volta where we had views of the lake. A multicultural line of prospective passengers inspected the pricelist for the ferryride as we made our way towards the boat ~ Fifteen euros for a return trip to Bellagio. Seems reasonable. No, that fare is old, sixty euros for two return, and you will have to wait for the next service in one hour. I checked to see if his name was Benito. Even with the favourable exchange rate, seventy one dollars for a ferry ride is a bit steep!. Bellagio's elegant lakeside promenades and cafes will have to miss out on our patronage.
Fuming, we sat at a nearby cafe and replotted our day. Despite an occasional whiff of the nearby drains, we enjoyed a round of drinks as we watched vessels pass by George Clooney's nifty wooden hulled motorboat. Being too early for lunch, we passed on the cafe's menu and set off in the direction of the funicular, rated by Trip Advisor as the third most desirable of Como's attractions. The shade of the funicular terminal was welcoming as we paid our fare of five euros for the seven minute service running eighteen hours a day. Modern air-conditioned funicular cars run up the kilometre long track to Brunate, where the population swells in summer with tourists renting accommodation with views over Lake Como, some 500 metres below.
Alighting into the summer heat, we wandered about the mountain piazza that includes a funicular museum displaying previous steam and electrical driven mechanisms. Both of which would have fascinated Alessandro Volta who lived in Brunate for a short period. We thought Como would be cooler than Milano, but it is just as uncomfortable with an extremely humid atmosphere. Lunchtime had arrived and we took a table at a cafe with views across the lake and heavily populated surrounding mountain communes. The menu offered a range of local dishes including fresh lake carp, however I remained true to my quest to sample every pasta Italy has to offer, and settled for a truffle and porcini ravioli.
Beautiful children's boutiques and a 300 year old apothecary caught our attention as we made our way back towards the stazzione. Travel tip: For some reason (luxury tax?), pharmaceuticals and health products in Italy are poisonously expensive with deodorants costing 10 euros, Neurophen 8 euros and sunblock 14. I advise you to buy adequate supplies before you leave. Buses to Belaggio were filling as we entered the railway station bar where an icy round of Aperol and Prosecca cocktails refreshed us while we cooled our heels waiting for the 18.17 service back to Milano Centrale.
As the express bus to Malpensa Airport passed close to Porta Garibaldi, we noticed that windows that had earlier proclaimed Soldi ~ Discount 50% now featured New Collection 2013! The ride to Malpensa was swift with the crowded bus entertained by an elderly passenger who treated us all to his mobile conversation with his brickie. Snow capped mountains could be seen in the distance as the bus entered the autostrada gates to the airport. Nearby, fields of corn were ripe for harvesting in the record summer heat.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Milano
The door to our first class compartment slid open: Bigliettos, per favoure! The elderly women opposite ostentatiously removed an envelope embossed with Hotel Ritz from her bag. Withdrawing her ticket, she handed it to the conductor. Her message was clear ~ despite hard times some of us still have standards. We were ninety minutes from Milan, Italy's industrial, commercial and financial heart.
Our destination, Milano Centrale, modelled after Washington's Union Station, has had an interesting past. Due to an Italian economic crisis during WWI, construction proceeded very slowly, and the project, simple initially, kept changing becoming more and more complex and majestic. When Benito Mussolini became Prime Minister, he decided the station would represent the power of the fascist regime with a facade 200 metres wide and a vault 72 metres high. Today Centrale has no definite architectural style, but is a blend of many different schools including Art Deco, and is adorned with numerous sculptures. It dominates Piazza Duca d’Aosta, has 24 platforms and each day about 330,000 passengers use the station. Kim and I were but two that Giovedi.
Finding the way to your accommodation in a new city is a dilemma. It can be achieved by taxi, by public transport or by walking unfamiliar streets in search of an unseen building. Having previously opted for the latter in Lucca and Monterosso, in a Milan summer air-conditioned taxi was the only option. Sure you may be taken on a route far from direct, costing mucho euros, however this has not been our experience with fares including luggage averaging 10 euros. We soon entered the cool Zurigo Hotel located close to the city centre with the Doumo a ten minute walk away and the nearest metro station even closer.
Our first impression of Milan was not auspicious, with closed shops and deserted evening streets, however it was summer holidays. Feeling peckish, we enquired of somewhere nearby to eat. The concierge immediately produced a card promoting the nearby Manhattan ~ maybe it's a family favourite of his, maybe not. Tiring, we opted for his suggestion that surprisingly proved reasonable value and was not a complete tourist trap. A table of Japanese wearing bibs illustrated with crustacea prints were laughing uncomfortably as we left.
A great nights sleep was followed by breakfast taken in a section of a streetside coffee bar ~ a somewhat meagre offering compared to those previously enjoyed in Lucca and Cinque Terra. We slowly ambled up Via Mazzini in the direction of Piazza del Duomo past closed shops and mens' clubs promising a good time, if not now. Crowds of tourists had converged on the Piazza, photographing everything that moved. A guide put down his flag and commenced handing out entry passes to a bunch of American baby-boomers resplendent in their matching white runners and tour polo shirts. Long lines snaked towards the Gothic bronze doors of the cathedral where guards ensured decorum of dress was maintained. Not that that worried the depiction of San Bartolomeo Flayed, who carried his skin!
Seeking respite from the sun, Kim and I walked across the Piazza to Milans' ornate Neo-Renaissance shopping arcade Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. Inaugurated in 1877, it is a haven for visitors attracted to its stylish shops, cafes and restaurants. The crowded galleria floor is in the shape of a cross with an octagonal centre adorned with mosaics focussed on the crest of the House of Savoy. The massive glass dome and arcade roofs permit sunshine to illuminate the prestige stores of Prada, Louise Vuitton and Yves St Laurent. One can only imagine the fee McDonalds paid to gain their prominent position. Directly beneath the dome, a Franciscan friar assisted a couple of youngsters take an uninterrupted photo of the crest by engaging a couple of patrolling carabineri in conversation. Give James a ring, he will be finished work by now said Kim as we sought shade in front of AC Milans' fans shop. Can't talk Dad, We're at the footy and the Raiders are up twelve nil.
Wandering outside, we bought some more postcards and walked over to an impressive statue of Leonardo da Vinci surmounting a quartet of lesser genii. A vintage tram advertising Shrek the Musical rumbled past Teatro alla Scala in harmony with our stomachs. Walking up Via Dante post some retail therapy, we noticed police cars parked outside bistro Caffe Milano. If it's good enough for Carabineri.......... Risotto slightly al dente, that's how they do it, with vongole and tiny squid secreted within tomato-kissed waves of arborio grains. Yum, yum! We finished with sambuccas of the freshest variety housed in Krosno glasses, the perfect accompaniment to coffee and dolci. Departing, it would appear our waiter is hoping for a call from La Scala, serenading late-lunchers like us.
Hauling bags of soldes booty (up to 60% off), we headed in the direction of Corso Italia and our room at the Zurigo. Outwitting an orange tram en route to Fontana, we plunged into the air conditioned interior of Milan's cavernous Zara store. Laden down, I trailed Kim through various departments, conscious of the diminishing effect of my eau de cologne. I may have mentioned it's very hot! Respite was reached in our hotel room, more than adequate with a bath with shower. Cable tele, however, was again a mishmash of Italian gameshows, business channels and Republican Fox News. Trying on her two new pairs of shoes, Kim suggested a light dinner would suffice.
At the Football English Pub, you could order pints of Guinness and Tennants in addition to a selection of pizzas named after footballers. The Becker, Lineker and Pele looked promising but I couldn't go past the Osgood, named after Chelseas' dribbling genius of the 70's ~ most pizza parlours call it the Caprese. Lombardian walls were decorated with English memorabilia shipped in by the container load including banners, scarves and mud encrusted football boots. Obviously quarantine restrictions don't apply to the beautiful game. We sat at a table near a framed display of the 1973 home match between traditional rivals Derby County and Leeds United. Alongside the program cover and team lineups was a black and white cobwebbed Derby clacker signed by wee Archie Gemmill.
Streetlights illuminated the classic portals of Touring Club Italiano as we rounded the corner of Corso Italia leading to our hotel. Not making plans, but we may visit Como tomorrow. It's probably cooler by the lake.
Our destination, Milano Centrale, modelled after Washington's Union Station, has had an interesting past. Due to an Italian economic crisis during WWI, construction proceeded very slowly, and the project, simple initially, kept changing becoming more and more complex and majestic. When Benito Mussolini became Prime Minister, he decided the station would represent the power of the fascist regime with a facade 200 metres wide and a vault 72 metres high. Today Centrale has no definite architectural style, but is a blend of many different schools including Art Deco, and is adorned with numerous sculptures. It dominates Piazza Duca d’Aosta, has 24 platforms and each day about 330,000 passengers use the station. Kim and I were but two that Giovedi.
Finding the way to your accommodation in a new city is a dilemma. It can be achieved by taxi, by public transport or by walking unfamiliar streets in search of an unseen building. Having previously opted for the latter in Lucca and Monterosso, in a Milan summer air-conditioned taxi was the only option. Sure you may be taken on a route far from direct, costing mucho euros, however this has not been our experience with fares including luggage averaging 10 euros. We soon entered the cool Zurigo Hotel located close to the city centre with the Doumo a ten minute walk away and the nearest metro station even closer.
Our first impression of Milan was not auspicious, with closed shops and deserted evening streets, however it was summer holidays. Feeling peckish, we enquired of somewhere nearby to eat. The concierge immediately produced a card promoting the nearby Manhattan ~ maybe it's a family favourite of his, maybe not. Tiring, we opted for his suggestion that surprisingly proved reasonable value and was not a complete tourist trap. A table of Japanese wearing bibs illustrated with crustacea prints were laughing uncomfortably as we left.
A great nights sleep was followed by breakfast taken in a section of a streetside coffee bar ~ a somewhat meagre offering compared to those previously enjoyed in Lucca and Cinque Terra. We slowly ambled up Via Mazzini in the direction of Piazza del Duomo past closed shops and mens' clubs promising a good time, if not now. Crowds of tourists had converged on the Piazza, photographing everything that moved. A guide put down his flag and commenced handing out entry passes to a bunch of American baby-boomers resplendent in their matching white runners and tour polo shirts. Long lines snaked towards the Gothic bronze doors of the cathedral where guards ensured decorum of dress was maintained. Not that that worried the depiction of San Bartolomeo Flayed, who carried his skin!
Seeking respite from the sun, Kim and I walked across the Piazza to Milans' ornate Neo-Renaissance shopping arcade Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. Inaugurated in 1877, it is a haven for visitors attracted to its stylish shops, cafes and restaurants. The crowded galleria floor is in the shape of a cross with an octagonal centre adorned with mosaics focussed on the crest of the House of Savoy. The massive glass dome and arcade roofs permit sunshine to illuminate the prestige stores of Prada, Louise Vuitton and Yves St Laurent. One can only imagine the fee McDonalds paid to gain their prominent position. Directly beneath the dome, a Franciscan friar assisted a couple of youngsters take an uninterrupted photo of the crest by engaging a couple of patrolling carabineri in conversation. Give James a ring, he will be finished work by now said Kim as we sought shade in front of AC Milans' fans shop. Can't talk Dad, We're at the footy and the Raiders are up twelve nil.
Wandering outside, we bought some more postcards and walked over to an impressive statue of Leonardo da Vinci surmounting a quartet of lesser genii. A vintage tram advertising Shrek the Musical rumbled past Teatro alla Scala in harmony with our stomachs. Walking up Via Dante post some retail therapy, we noticed police cars parked outside bistro Caffe Milano. If it's good enough for Carabineri.......... Risotto slightly al dente, that's how they do it, with vongole and tiny squid secreted within tomato-kissed waves of arborio grains. Yum, yum! We finished with sambuccas of the freshest variety housed in Krosno glasses, the perfect accompaniment to coffee and dolci. Departing, it would appear our waiter is hoping for a call from La Scala, serenading late-lunchers like us.
Hauling bags of soldes booty (up to 60% off), we headed in the direction of Corso Italia and our room at the Zurigo. Outwitting an orange tram en route to Fontana, we plunged into the air conditioned interior of Milan's cavernous Zara store. Laden down, I trailed Kim through various departments, conscious of the diminishing effect of my eau de cologne. I may have mentioned it's very hot! Respite was reached in our hotel room, more than adequate with a bath with shower. Cable tele, however, was again a mishmash of Italian gameshows, business channels and Republican Fox News. Trying on her two new pairs of shoes, Kim suggested a light dinner would suffice.
At the Football English Pub, you could order pints of Guinness and Tennants in addition to a selection of pizzas named after footballers. The Becker, Lineker and Pele looked promising but I couldn't go past the Osgood, named after Chelseas' dribbling genius of the 70's ~ most pizza parlours call it the Caprese. Lombardian walls were decorated with English memorabilia shipped in by the container load including banners, scarves and mud encrusted football boots. Obviously quarantine restrictions don't apply to the beautiful game. We sat at a table near a framed display of the 1973 home match between traditional rivals Derby County and Leeds United. Alongside the program cover and team lineups was a black and white cobwebbed Derby clacker signed by wee Archie Gemmill.
Streetlights illuminated the classic portals of Touring Club Italiano as we rounded the corner of Corso Italia leading to our hotel. Not making plans, but we may visit Como tomorrow. It's probably cooler by the lake.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Cinque Terra 2
Tanned Italians, lobster-tinted Anglo-Saxons, private beaches and tawdry glitz. It would be easy to poke fun at the the Italian Riviera if that was all you saw, but the real Cinque Terra is a diverse and supportive community. Beyond the khaki-clad photographer with omnipresent zoom lens, the bands of young holiday makers posing on fisherman's boats, the silly hats and the ridiculous t-shirt slogans in sequins ~ "Individuality Cult 2nd XV" ~ are real people.
The young smiling Franciscan friar dispensing pastoral care with his roped robes and mobile phone, the apprentice campanologist playing scales on the church bells, the baker delivering fresh pastries by trolley, this is what we discovered. You would be hard pressed to realise it but a mere 8 months prior to our visit, torrential rains caused a river of mud to surge through Monterosso inundating stores, houses and hotels. In a tragedy similar to the Canberra firestorm, four people died. Rebuilding the town will take a long time, however this will be a doddle for a resilient people used to adversity delivered over many centuries.
Visiting a freshly tiled and repainted art gallery on Via Roma, we noticed a book titled Monterosso ~ 25 October 2011. Opening it we came across a photograph of our host Baccho, provider of The Best Table in Monterosso, up to his gum booted knees in mud. Smiling broadly, he and his co-worker were sweeping debris off the paving directly outside the studio. One in, all in!.
The young smiling Franciscan friar dispensing pastoral care with his roped robes and mobile phone, the apprentice campanologist playing scales on the church bells, the baker delivering fresh pastries by trolley, this is what we discovered. You would be hard pressed to realise it but a mere 8 months prior to our visit, torrential rains caused a river of mud to surge through Monterosso inundating stores, houses and hotels. In a tragedy similar to the Canberra firestorm, four people died. Rebuilding the town will take a long time, however this will be a doddle for a resilient people used to adversity delivered over many centuries.
Visiting a freshly tiled and repainted art gallery on Via Roma, we noticed a book titled Monterosso ~ 25 October 2011. Opening it we came across a photograph of our host Baccho, provider of The Best Table in Monterosso, up to his gum booted knees in mud. Smiling broadly, he and his co-worker were sweeping debris off the paving directly outside the studio. One in, all in!.
Cinque Terra
The view from Bar Gio on Monterosso's Via Fegina is spectacular ~ over the striped umbrellas of Stella Marina, shrouded mountains of the five lands cascade into the sea. Impossible terraces line the precipices above houses threatening to topple into the Ligurian at any moment.
At adjacent La Pinette private beach, impossibly brown bodies in bikinis and budgie smugglers lay on hired lettini (sunbeds) under hired ombrelloni (umbrellas). The daily charge of €27 gives you access to the dusty confines of the bagni (beach) and stony shore. If you don't pay, you should take your worthless carcass three metres beyond the enclosure, and install your towel, umbrella and beach toys on the dusty, stoney public beach. Same water, but your stones have not been raked!
Monterosso, our home for three nights, is the most northern of the five towns and villages that form the Cinque Terra, and the largest. Our abode, Hotel Pasquale, is located just beyond the tunnel that bisects Monterosso and incorporates the rocky hillside that defines the town. Our bar fridge sits within a crevice in the stony foundations that anchor the hotel. By the time we had dragged our bags the 800 metre incline from the station we were dripping, and we welcomed the cool confines of Pasquale and our as yet unmade room. "Just give us a few minutes and two beach towels and we will be out of your way" we assured our receptionist.
Feeling refreshed after a dip in the soupy sea, and a minute under the public shower, we adjourned to Bar Ristorante "Il Casello" above the beach. Owner Baccho welcomed us despite my soaked boardies and rash vest, pointing us to chairs near the outside bar. A refreshing cold drink or two later we booked "the best table in Monterosso" for dinner at 7.30. Mussels by the bucket, stuffed mussels and fresh fish with no mussels were taken at TBT overlooking a setting sun followed by a moonlit beach. Fabulous!
The long hot train journey from Lucca via Pisa was beginning to take its toll and we headed back towards the hotel after promising we would return to Il Casello. Despite the hour it would be a shame not to take advantage of the warm night and a cooling gelato was just the other side of the tunnel. The private beaches were being groomed for tomorrow as we joined hundreds of now clothed holiday makers out for a stroll and a piccolo ice.
Forsaking the draw of Monterosso's ombrelloni, we climbed aboard the good ship Euro2 for the round trip to Porto Venere via Vernazza, Manarola and Riomaggiore. Corniglia, between Vernazza and Manarola cannot be accessed by boat and with the temperature pushing 40 degrees access via the walking track was out of the question. Disembarking at Riomaggiore, I took a quick dip from the boat ramp in the beautiful water of the small harbour. Who needs beaches?. This is the real Cinque Terra! We gained a table at Trattoria La Scofliera and ordered calamari from the menu featuring "cucina tipica". The passing parade alone was worth the cost of lunch.
Following lunch our voyage continued to Porto Venere where the real action was occurring. Hundreds of young sunworshippers were stretched out on the hot rocks disporting themselves in even briefer costumes than their elders. This season's bikini bottom features cheeks in abandon and abundance. Hard to believe this is a god fearing nation. Above the towns' ancient battlements seagulls were wheeling about hovering on thermal updrafts just feet away from us. Below, adolescent boys were diving from rocky outcrops hoping to impress adoring girlfriends. We took Camparis at the bar nearest the dock as we waited for our departure time. Large family groups streamed towards the ship as 5.00pm approached. If there is one thing Italy is not short of it is babies. Eurocrisis. What eurocrisis?
At adjacent La Pinette private beach, impossibly brown bodies in bikinis and budgie smugglers lay on hired lettini (sunbeds) under hired ombrelloni (umbrellas). The daily charge of €27 gives you access to the dusty confines of the bagni (beach) and stony shore. If you don't pay, you should take your worthless carcass three metres beyond the enclosure, and install your towel, umbrella and beach toys on the dusty, stoney public beach. Same water, but your stones have not been raked!
Monterosso, our home for three nights, is the most northern of the five towns and villages that form the Cinque Terra, and the largest. Our abode, Hotel Pasquale, is located just beyond the tunnel that bisects Monterosso and incorporates the rocky hillside that defines the town. Our bar fridge sits within a crevice in the stony foundations that anchor the hotel. By the time we had dragged our bags the 800 metre incline from the station we were dripping, and we welcomed the cool confines of Pasquale and our as yet unmade room. "Just give us a few minutes and two beach towels and we will be out of your way" we assured our receptionist.
Feeling refreshed after a dip in the soupy sea, and a minute under the public shower, we adjourned to Bar Ristorante "Il Casello" above the beach. Owner Baccho welcomed us despite my soaked boardies and rash vest, pointing us to chairs near the outside bar. A refreshing cold drink or two later we booked "the best table in Monterosso" for dinner at 7.30. Mussels by the bucket, stuffed mussels and fresh fish with no mussels were taken at TBT overlooking a setting sun followed by a moonlit beach. Fabulous!
The long hot train journey from Lucca via Pisa was beginning to take its toll and we headed back towards the hotel after promising we would return to Il Casello. Despite the hour it would be a shame not to take advantage of the warm night and a cooling gelato was just the other side of the tunnel. The private beaches were being groomed for tomorrow as we joined hundreds of now clothed holiday makers out for a stroll and a piccolo ice.
Forsaking the draw of Monterosso's ombrelloni, we climbed aboard the good ship Euro2 for the round trip to Porto Venere via Vernazza, Manarola and Riomaggiore. Corniglia, between Vernazza and Manarola cannot be accessed by boat and with the temperature pushing 40 degrees access via the walking track was out of the question. Disembarking at Riomaggiore, I took a quick dip from the boat ramp in the beautiful water of the small harbour. Who needs beaches?. This is the real Cinque Terra! We gained a table at Trattoria La Scofliera and ordered calamari from the menu featuring "cucina tipica". The passing parade alone was worth the cost of lunch.
Following lunch our voyage continued to Porto Venere where the real action was occurring. Hundreds of young sunworshippers were stretched out on the hot rocks disporting themselves in even briefer costumes than their elders. This season's bikini bottom features cheeks in abandon and abundance. Hard to believe this is a god fearing nation. Above the towns' ancient battlements seagulls were wheeling about hovering on thermal updrafts just feet away from us. Below, adolescent boys were diving from rocky outcrops hoping to impress adoring girlfriends. We took Camparis at the bar nearest the dock as we waited for our departure time. Large family groups streamed towards the ship as 5.00pm approached. If there is one thing Italy is not short of it is babies. Eurocrisis. What eurocrisis?
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Lucca
If there's one word for Lucca, it would be stylish!. Well dressed citizens occupy restaurant tables eating Tortelli Lucchesi al Ragu Di Chianina, and waving to their passing compadres. Via Fillungo, lined with smart boutiques, is making a brave attempt to introduce this year's Autumn fashions despite temperatures that remain in the high thirties. Mohair against skin? Unthinkable!
We are ensconced in San Luca Palace Hotel, a four star establishment with Byzantine drapes, whisper quiet air conditioning and windows that shut out all but the loudest bicycle bells. Passing cars are limited, allowing Luccans to peddle along balancing babies in baskets while conversing loudly on mobiles. I'm sure some old residents don't require phones as unassisted they can readily be heard in the next piazza. The atmosphere is a pleasant blend of cigars, coffee, garlic and leather. We have booked into the Palace for two nights, but five would have been optimum. Despite lengthy and careful planning, future Italian itineraries will include longer city sojourns.
The European Summer is a great time to escape Canberra's wintry blast, but be warned, travelling by TrenItalia will find you dragging heavy luggage up stairs and onto rail carriages in heatwave conditions. Your Eurail pass may state 1st class, but many trips will be undertaken in regional trains where air conditioning is a myth and blasts of hot wind enter through open windows. Our fortnight long holiday in Cortona ended inauspiciously with the overnight theft of our hire car resulting in we few, we happy band of six catching the 9.21 regional service from Terontola to Firenze. A 35 minute delay had us arriving just as the day's maximum was upgraded to 40+! See you outside the Duomo at 12.15! Long lines at the Uffizi and continued sales throughout Florence put paid to that plan. Kim and I texted Chris wishing them all the best for their trip home, however a misread departure board at S. Maria Novella gave us ample time for a fond farewell. See you in Australie!
We ate dinner in Lucca's Piazza del Palazzo Dipinto under the watchful gaze of a lifesize Giacomo Puccini before returning home to catch some tele. Whoops! Mr Bunga Bunga himself, Silvio Berlusconi, is responsible for some of the worst television ever broadcast ~ Saturday Night Live Italian Style. He should be locked up forever for what he foisted on us: elevator shoe enhanced Italian hosts trading machine-gun repartee with underdressed blondes who introduced "funnymen" and superannuated crooners. We decided an early night was required.
Bliss! Superheated water and an English Breakfast tea bag. Eggs for breakfast and off to the Lucca antique markets for a stroll. Reproductions of old master depictions of Madonna e bambino sat incongruently alongside facades of Il Duce. While Kim purchased earrings from an elegant Cameroon trader, I photographed a trio of dress making dummies au natural. As I perused a stall selling old Italian magazines, an arm hugged my leg just above the knee. A similarly dressed Dutch father laughed as he led a mortified young Hans away.
The temperature was swiftly passing 35 degrees as we took a table at shady Enoteca Calasto for elevenses. Calasto's English proprietor Carole told us they only sourced local produce and wine, and organic when possible. An early lunch seemed the smart thing to do as only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Tortelli Lucchesi for me accompanied by a piccolo bottle of a local beer Le Magnifiche Di Petrognola that uses spelt wheat. Beggars and flower sellers approached patrons as we dined.
Warning Bill Robinson! Warning! My iPhone had gone into meltdown in the soaring temperature and shut down. Sticking closely to the shady side of the street we made our way back through alleys and piazzas past hardy traders to Via San Paolino and our hotel. No sense in getting heat stroke. Buonasera time had arrived by the time we emerged rehydrated and refreshed.
Locals were filling bottles with water from la fontane on Via Della Fratta and small children were running about as evening fell. Despite feasting royally, the extra walking, retracing steps in search of that elusive trattoria seen earlier, meant kilos fall away. Breaking our non-breakable rule ~ never eat at a restaurant next to a hotel ~ crowded tables and the smell of roasting meat induced us to Alberg La Luna. Slabs of Bistecca Florentina sizzled on hot plates at most tables as we ordered our primi. You can't have too many porcinin we decided with Kim selecting Terrina Pecorino e Funghi Porcini and Souffle Di Funghi Porcini Su for Giovanni. Light and delicious! Passing on la Florentina, Kim enjoyed a secondi of Scallopinia al Vino Bianco coated in a sauce of lemon and white wine. My massive pork chop Bistecchina Di Maiale alla Griglia was the tastiest I have ever eaten. Side dishes of haricot beans and patate as accompaniments.
A waiter hovered by "Caffe?, Dolci? Hmmmmmmm..... My Fast Talk Italian states: "Italy is a caffeine-addict's dream with more ways of making the humble brew than you can shake a spoon at". Caffe americano (long and black), caffe ristretto ( short, black and super strong), cappuccino (considered a morning drink) or even caffe alla valdostana (with grappa, lemon peel and spices). No grazie! I responded. Maybe later.
Our towels had been replaced for the second time and our beds were turned down when we returned. That's service!
We are ensconced in San Luca Palace Hotel, a four star establishment with Byzantine drapes, whisper quiet air conditioning and windows that shut out all but the loudest bicycle bells. Passing cars are limited, allowing Luccans to peddle along balancing babies in baskets while conversing loudly on mobiles. I'm sure some old residents don't require phones as unassisted they can readily be heard in the next piazza. The atmosphere is a pleasant blend of cigars, coffee, garlic and leather. We have booked into the Palace for two nights, but five would have been optimum. Despite lengthy and careful planning, future Italian itineraries will include longer city sojourns.
The European Summer is a great time to escape Canberra's wintry blast, but be warned, travelling by TrenItalia will find you dragging heavy luggage up stairs and onto rail carriages in heatwave conditions. Your Eurail pass may state 1st class, but many trips will be undertaken in regional trains where air conditioning is a myth and blasts of hot wind enter through open windows. Our fortnight long holiday in Cortona ended inauspiciously with the overnight theft of our hire car resulting in we few, we happy band of six catching the 9.21 regional service from Terontola to Firenze. A 35 minute delay had us arriving just as the day's maximum was upgraded to 40+! See you outside the Duomo at 12.15! Long lines at the Uffizi and continued sales throughout Florence put paid to that plan. Kim and I texted Chris wishing them all the best for their trip home, however a misread departure board at S. Maria Novella gave us ample time for a fond farewell. See you in Australie!
We ate dinner in Lucca's Piazza del Palazzo Dipinto under the watchful gaze of a lifesize Giacomo Puccini before returning home to catch some tele. Whoops! Mr Bunga Bunga himself, Silvio Berlusconi, is responsible for some of the worst television ever broadcast ~ Saturday Night Live Italian Style. He should be locked up forever for what he foisted on us: elevator shoe enhanced Italian hosts trading machine-gun repartee with underdressed blondes who introduced "funnymen" and superannuated crooners. We decided an early night was required.
Bliss! Superheated water and an English Breakfast tea bag. Eggs for breakfast and off to the Lucca antique markets for a stroll. Reproductions of old master depictions of Madonna e bambino sat incongruently alongside facades of Il Duce. While Kim purchased earrings from an elegant Cameroon trader, I photographed a trio of dress making dummies au natural. As I perused a stall selling old Italian magazines, an arm hugged my leg just above the knee. A similarly dressed Dutch father laughed as he led a mortified young Hans away.
The temperature was swiftly passing 35 degrees as we took a table at shady Enoteca Calasto for elevenses. Calasto's English proprietor Carole told us they only sourced local produce and wine, and organic when possible. An early lunch seemed the smart thing to do as only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Tortelli Lucchesi for me accompanied by a piccolo bottle of a local beer Le Magnifiche Di Petrognola that uses spelt wheat. Beggars and flower sellers approached patrons as we dined.
Warning Bill Robinson! Warning! My iPhone had gone into meltdown in the soaring temperature and shut down. Sticking closely to the shady side of the street we made our way back through alleys and piazzas past hardy traders to Via San Paolino and our hotel. No sense in getting heat stroke. Buonasera time had arrived by the time we emerged rehydrated and refreshed.
Locals were filling bottles with water from la fontane on Via Della Fratta and small children were running about as evening fell. Despite feasting royally, the extra walking, retracing steps in search of that elusive trattoria seen earlier, meant kilos fall away. Breaking our non-breakable rule ~ never eat at a restaurant next to a hotel ~ crowded tables and the smell of roasting meat induced us to Alberg La Luna. Slabs of Bistecca Florentina sizzled on hot plates at most tables as we ordered our primi. You can't have too many porcinin we decided with Kim selecting Terrina Pecorino e Funghi Porcini and Souffle Di Funghi Porcini Su for Giovanni. Light and delicious! Passing on la Florentina, Kim enjoyed a secondi of Scallopinia al Vino Bianco coated in a sauce of lemon and white wine. My massive pork chop Bistecchina Di Maiale alla Griglia was the tastiest I have ever eaten. Side dishes of haricot beans and patate as accompaniments.
A waiter hovered by "Caffe?, Dolci? Hmmmmmmm..... My Fast Talk Italian states: "Italy is a caffeine-addict's dream with more ways of making the humble brew than you can shake a spoon at". Caffe americano (long and black), caffe ristretto ( short, black and super strong), cappuccino (considered a morning drink) or even caffe alla valdostana (with grappa, lemon peel and spices). No grazie! I responded. Maybe later.
Our towels had been replaced for the second time and our beds were turned down when we returned. That's service!
Friday, August 17, 2012
Hill towns of Tuscany and Umbria
A trailer packed high with winter firewood, towed by a blue tractor, swayed as it stopped opposite Andry's Bar. We squeezed by, narrowly avoiding an oncoming Alfa, and headed down strada secondaria 442 to Terontola. Ah Terontola!, home of the nearest stazzione and the most inquisitive Italian males. Paulette and Rowanne had attracted their full attention as they waited unaccompanied for the train to Firenze.
Chris piloted the Peugeot past the factory prominently displaying a range of outdoor pizza ovens. Two stories, tiled roofs with chimneys, storage spaces for fuel, an annex for your doggy. You want it, we got it! An adjacent field ploughed for next season's crop was chocolate brown with clods of clay the size of footballs. Despite these fascinating facts, there is not a lot you can say about Terontola, but it is the gateway to many of the hill towns of Central Italy.
Lago Trasimeno, Italy's largest lake, could be glimpsed through larch trees as we bounced along a bridge on our autostrada to Perugia. In Corcinavo, Hotel El Patio had uninterrupted views over an industrial zone. Nearing Perugia, we noted that Assisi was only 25km further on as we exited the motorway to Perugia via Madonna Alma. OK, GPS Jane, do your thing! Now Chris is not a person I normally associate with profanity, but a series of steep hillside diversions and requests to make authorised u-turns when possible, had him riled. Finally "Eureka, it's Europa! (car park)" cooled things down. A series of underground escalators buried in the medieval city of Augusta Perusia delivered us to Piazza Italia.
Perugia has an "interesting" history that is rife with internicine nastiness and incest. The Baglioni and Oddi families waged secret vendettas with each other and had an uncanny knack of backing the loser in wars with the Emperor Augustus and Pope Paul III. Following an unsuccessful assassination attempt on a papal legate, in revenge for his uncle's murder at the hands of the pontiff, Pope Paul came down hard on the last surviving Baglioni. In addition to the imposition of taxes, the Pope had all Perugia's nuns line up to kiss his feet, an experience he reported left him "very greatly edified".
A slow trawl through Galleria Nazionale's extensive collection of Umbrian portraits of Madonna and child is hard work, as the subject matter dictated by Papal edict was limited. You can have Madonna and child alone, Madonna and child with angels, Madonna and child with saints, and Madonna and child with acolytes. We had to wait until Gallery 35 before the first bare breast appeared! A swift visit to Perugia's duomo, described by Frommers as "pretty disappointing", and a circuit of Fontana Maggiore completed our visit. Twice more round the block before we shut Jane down and resorted to the road signs indicating Firenze and home.
Or so we thought! Nearing Il Lago we switched Jane back on for directions for the shortest trip home. Bad move! We now know where the road round the mountain goes. Following a circuitous route over the range, we spotted a partially obscured sign indicating Cortona. Familiar roadside warnings indicating Winter snow levels confirmed we were near home.
Another day, another hill village. Utilising yesterday's magical mystery tour route, we set off for Castilione del Lago, momentarily stopping at Lisciano Niccone for some happy-snaps of Il lago prior to commencing our descent. Circuiting the lake, we encountered an oncoming stream of vehicles transporting families home from Ferere Agosto celebrations. Located on the border of Tuscany and Umbria, Castiglione del Lago sits atop a hilltop that included formidable, if temporary, defence for the Duchy of Perugia in a 7th century siege by Lombardic Tuscany. The ruins of the nearly impregnable pentagon shaped Rocca del Leone were the site for tonight's Rassegna Internazionale Del Folklore, an event completing a festival of entertainment. Remnants of the previous night's performance featuring prog rock tribute bands were scattered about.
Enotecas offering salami and wine tastings were stuffed with the ingredients required in the preparation of Umbrian and Tuscan tipica cuisine. Salami di cinghiali, risotto romantico, dried porcini and Cojoni Di mulo were available in bulk. Enoteca Il Granio Del Lago specialised in truffles and offered cheese with truffles, salami with truffles, truffle flavoured salt and even grappa with truffles! Must try that, maybe next time. Departing, we passed by Chiesa Santa Maria Maddelena where the front portal featured classical Roman columns and the pastoral message board. Confession and Mass schedules competed for space with details of the next pelleginaggios to Lourdes and to Giovanni Paulo II's birthplace in Polonia. Occupying equal billing were details of next week's beach triathlon and this week's lottery results! It's a broad church in Umbria.
Chris piloted the Peugeot past the factory prominently displaying a range of outdoor pizza ovens. Two stories, tiled roofs with chimneys, storage spaces for fuel, an annex for your doggy. You want it, we got it! An adjacent field ploughed for next season's crop was chocolate brown with clods of clay the size of footballs. Despite these fascinating facts, there is not a lot you can say about Terontola, but it is the gateway to many of the hill towns of Central Italy.
Lago Trasimeno, Italy's largest lake, could be glimpsed through larch trees as we bounced along a bridge on our autostrada to Perugia. In Corcinavo, Hotel El Patio had uninterrupted views over an industrial zone. Nearing Perugia, we noted that Assisi was only 25km further on as we exited the motorway to Perugia via Madonna Alma. OK, GPS Jane, do your thing! Now Chris is not a person I normally associate with profanity, but a series of steep hillside diversions and requests to make authorised u-turns when possible, had him riled. Finally "Eureka, it's Europa! (car park)" cooled things down. A series of underground escalators buried in the medieval city of Augusta Perusia delivered us to Piazza Italia.
Perugia has an "interesting" history that is rife with internicine nastiness and incest. The Baglioni and Oddi families waged secret vendettas with each other and had an uncanny knack of backing the loser in wars with the Emperor Augustus and Pope Paul III. Following an unsuccessful assassination attempt on a papal legate, in revenge for his uncle's murder at the hands of the pontiff, Pope Paul came down hard on the last surviving Baglioni. In addition to the imposition of taxes, the Pope had all Perugia's nuns line up to kiss his feet, an experience he reported left him "very greatly edified".
A slow trawl through Galleria Nazionale's extensive collection of Umbrian portraits of Madonna and child is hard work, as the subject matter dictated by Papal edict was limited. You can have Madonna and child alone, Madonna and child with angels, Madonna and child with saints, and Madonna and child with acolytes. We had to wait until Gallery 35 before the first bare breast appeared! A swift visit to Perugia's duomo, described by Frommers as "pretty disappointing", and a circuit of Fontana Maggiore completed our visit. Twice more round the block before we shut Jane down and resorted to the road signs indicating Firenze and home.
Or so we thought! Nearing Il Lago we switched Jane back on for directions for the shortest trip home. Bad move! We now know where the road round the mountain goes. Following a circuitous route over the range, we spotted a partially obscured sign indicating Cortona. Familiar roadside warnings indicating Winter snow levels confirmed we were near home.
Another day, another hill village. Utilising yesterday's magical mystery tour route, we set off for Castilione del Lago, momentarily stopping at Lisciano Niccone for some happy-snaps of Il lago prior to commencing our descent. Circuiting the lake, we encountered an oncoming stream of vehicles transporting families home from Ferere Agosto celebrations. Located on the border of Tuscany and Umbria, Castiglione del Lago sits atop a hilltop that included formidable, if temporary, defence for the Duchy of Perugia in a 7th century siege by Lombardic Tuscany. The ruins of the nearly impregnable pentagon shaped Rocca del Leone were the site for tonight's Rassegna Internazionale Del Folklore, an event completing a festival of entertainment. Remnants of the previous night's performance featuring prog rock tribute bands were scattered about.
Enotecas offering salami and wine tastings were stuffed with the ingredients required in the preparation of Umbrian and Tuscan tipica cuisine. Salami di cinghiali, risotto romantico, dried porcini and Cojoni Di mulo were available in bulk. Enoteca Il Granio Del Lago specialised in truffles and offered cheese with truffles, salami with truffles, truffle flavoured salt and even grappa with truffles! Must try that, maybe next time. Departing, we passed by Chiesa Santa Maria Maddelena where the front portal featured classical Roman columns and the pastoral message board. Confession and Mass schedules competed for space with details of the next pelleginaggios to Lourdes and to Giovanni Paulo II's birthplace in Polonia. Occupying equal billing were details of next week's beach triathlon and this week's lottery results! It's a broad church in Umbria.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Sotto il Sole Toscana*
*Warning: This blog contains food porn
Entering la citta from Porta Bifora Etrusca, we were confronted by the 1:3 gradient of the stone paved Via Ghibellina. Calves stinging, we sought respite at a wooden tri-level dining platform opposite Ristorante la Bucaccia www.labucaccia.it. Topping up our glasses of Vegna Toscana chardonnay, we perused the menu while gazing down at Val Di Chiana and it's fields of sunflowers and tobacco. Featuring cucina tipica locale, a shared appetiser of salamis was taken as primi piatti before our secondis of pasta arrived.
Remembering previous Italian culinary adventures, I had created a bucket list featuring gnocchi con saffron e walnut and risotto verde prior to leaving home. Given timing and location (Venice and Siena), I remain hopeful of partaking of these dream dishes prior to leaving Tuscany. Any future list will include today's Pranzo pastas. Kim's pappardelle with a wild boar ragu was, in my humble opinion, only slightly pipped by my primi pitti of the house speciality of Il Bucaccia: Thick home-made ribbons of pale potato pasta coated by a creamy sauce of Pecorino cheese and pink peppercorns. Yum, yum! Why do we never see these dishes in Australian restaurants?. Two spoons per favore for "Il nostril gelato ~ Our ice cream". Gelato con I nostri cantucci fresci e Vinsanto, translated as Ice cream with almond biscuits and sweet wine, accompanied by espressos and sambuccas finished us off.
Buongiorno flows into buongiorno when you are in Toscana, broken only by supermercato shopping, swimming and cliff-hugging descents to Camuccia. I know I should include rest, but I didn't come to Southern Europe to sleep. An overnight trip to Venice for Chris, Paulette and Rowanne left Kim and I with the Peugeot 3008 and an unplanned day. Parking in the shade, we entered Cortona by a lesser incline and headed for Via Nazionale where Kim wanted to exchange some leather goods and I could get a haircut.
Tasks completed, we sat at an outdoor table opposite Bar Stucia for a heart-starter. Our pinot grigios arrived accompanied by a plate of mixed appetisers. Thoughtful, and typical of what we have become accustomed to in Italy. Three young men sat at the table adjacent and ordered lunch. Sipping ice-dewed mojitos, they proceeded to greet every other passerby: Ciao Roberto!, Ciao!. Handshakes, backslaps and good natured multi-directional conversation flowed. A waiter approached, attached a circular chrome shelf to their table and placed a basket of bread in it. Ingenious when space is at a premium!
"Scuzzi, uno rose e uno mojito per favore! When in Rome.... Our drinks soon arrived accompanied by another plate of appetisers ~ different, but equally delicious. That's lunch taken care of! Next door, the boys ceased ciao-ing as each received plates presenting two enormous basket-meshed prawns. At nearby Bar 500, two tanned twenty-something's picked desultory at their insalata melon e prosciutto as they checked out the competition performing their passeggiata. Rococco sunglasses threaten to slip their flowing tresses as their heads followed the action.
"Vorrei il conte, per favore", I asked and handed over the €21 to cover our drinks. Appetisers, no charge!
Entering la citta from Porta Bifora Etrusca, we were confronted by the 1:3 gradient of the stone paved Via Ghibellina. Calves stinging, we sought respite at a wooden tri-level dining platform opposite Ristorante la Bucaccia www.labucaccia.it. Topping up our glasses of Vegna Toscana chardonnay, we perused the menu while gazing down at Val Di Chiana and it's fields of sunflowers and tobacco. Featuring cucina tipica locale, a shared appetiser of salamis was taken as primi piatti before our secondis of pasta arrived.
Remembering previous Italian culinary adventures, I had created a bucket list featuring gnocchi con saffron e walnut and risotto verde prior to leaving home. Given timing and location (Venice and Siena), I remain hopeful of partaking of these dream dishes prior to leaving Tuscany. Any future list will include today's Pranzo pastas. Kim's pappardelle with a wild boar ragu was, in my humble opinion, only slightly pipped by my primi pitti of the house speciality of Il Bucaccia: Thick home-made ribbons of pale potato pasta coated by a creamy sauce of Pecorino cheese and pink peppercorns. Yum, yum! Why do we never see these dishes in Australian restaurants?. Two spoons per favore for "Il nostril gelato ~ Our ice cream". Gelato con I nostri cantucci fresci e Vinsanto, translated as Ice cream with almond biscuits and sweet wine, accompanied by espressos and sambuccas finished us off.
Buongiorno flows into buongiorno when you are in Toscana, broken only by supermercato shopping, swimming and cliff-hugging descents to Camuccia. I know I should include rest, but I didn't come to Southern Europe to sleep. An overnight trip to Venice for Chris, Paulette and Rowanne left Kim and I with the Peugeot 3008 and an unplanned day. Parking in the shade, we entered Cortona by a lesser incline and headed for Via Nazionale where Kim wanted to exchange some leather goods and I could get a haircut.
Tasks completed, we sat at an outdoor table opposite Bar Stucia for a heart-starter. Our pinot grigios arrived accompanied by a plate of mixed appetisers. Thoughtful, and typical of what we have become accustomed to in Italy. Three young men sat at the table adjacent and ordered lunch. Sipping ice-dewed mojitos, they proceeded to greet every other passerby: Ciao Roberto!, Ciao!. Handshakes, backslaps and good natured multi-directional conversation flowed. A waiter approached, attached a circular chrome shelf to their table and placed a basket of bread in it. Ingenious when space is at a premium!
"Scuzzi, uno rose e uno mojito per favore! When in Rome.... Our drinks soon arrived accompanied by another plate of appetisers ~ different, but equally delicious. That's lunch taken care of! Next door, the boys ceased ciao-ing as each received plates presenting two enormous basket-meshed prawns. At nearby Bar 500, two tanned twenty-something's picked desultory at their insalata melon e prosciutto as they checked out the competition performing their passeggiata. Rococco sunglasses threaten to slip their flowing tresses as their heads followed the action.
"Vorrei il conte, per favore", I asked and handed over the €21 to cover our drinks. Appetisers, no charge!
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Joy de vivre and La dolce vita
Hi! How's it going out there in the real world?
From what we have heard, winter's icy blasts continue and worrywarts still whinge about the Olympics and the economy. If this is true, I can recommend escaping to the Northern summer. To illustrate, Siena yesterday was hot, crowded and full of happy people eating gelato and rehydrating with frizzante. If anyone was having a whinge, they were either doing so in another language, or were elsewhere. The cafes around Il Campo were filled with holidaying Italians and foreigners enjoying lunch and views across the square. Arrangements are being made for next week's Palio with scarred wooden barriers erected to mark the racecourse.
Which Contrada (neighbourhood) will survive the three laps and have their colours carried to victory? Will the priest's blessing of the horse in church be successful, and will the blessed horse defecate during the blessing ~ a sign of good luck! Which mascot will be painted on the winning Palio (banner)? Will it be the porcupine, unicorn or wolf? Tune in again next week for the results. Either way, it will be a helterskelter affair with mercenary jockeys tumbling from barebacks at every treacherous turn!
A month has now passed since we arrived in Paris, and it would seem appropriate to reminisce on Joy de vivre and La dolce vita. The weather is perfect, if hot. Nectarines are ripe and juicy, and dining French children are very well behaved ~ due apparently to the watered-down wine served from an early age. Local wines are excellent and great value, however Camilla refuses to drink any rose cheaper than €3 a bottle! Umbrian and Tuscan vino is light and a perfect accompaniment for Insalata Caprese and Vitello Tonnana. Mustard is plentiful in French supermaches, but sparse in Italian mercados ~ cuisines so closely located, but so different. Food is seasonal and with good reason, it is all so delicious. Oh yeah, have I mentioned the Aussie was €0.86 at last count and going up?
Shops close at midday and reopen at 3.00pm; even our local boozer Andry's Bar closes for lunch. Community bottle banks are filled to overflowing but no one ever seems drunk. Racial stereotypes remain with Mancunians complaining about Londoners, and American retirees discuss golf and the stock market instead of the wonderful view from Plaza Garibaldi. Suede loafers are everywhere and Belgians seem to have assumed the mantle of Europe's hikers with their backpacks, saddles and socks. Women are respected, with no discrimination accepted.
Houses are ancient, or made to appear so, with European plumbing a complete mystery. Lombardy cypresses are sillouetted against ochre hills and beaches from the Cote d'Azure to the Ligurian Sea are stony, dusty and populated by fat northern European men in speedos ~ sorry about that!. Although we ate like master chefs at La Table d'Emilie in Marseillan, Marseillan Plage resembled The Entrance with go-karts and dodge-ems.
Our houses at Seillans and Montanare both come with cats and dogs and Italian bees are on steroids. Each day is greeted with a wispy cloud streaked morning and evenings close with thanks we are high above the heat haze of the valleys below. Dinner is invariably taken at 10.00pm.
From what we have heard, winter's icy blasts continue and worrywarts still whinge about the Olympics and the economy. If this is true, I can recommend escaping to the Northern summer. To illustrate, Siena yesterday was hot, crowded and full of happy people eating gelato and rehydrating with frizzante. If anyone was having a whinge, they were either doing so in another language, or were elsewhere. The cafes around Il Campo were filled with holidaying Italians and foreigners enjoying lunch and views across the square. Arrangements are being made for next week's Palio with scarred wooden barriers erected to mark the racecourse.
Which Contrada (neighbourhood) will survive the three laps and have their colours carried to victory? Will the priest's blessing of the horse in church be successful, and will the blessed horse defecate during the blessing ~ a sign of good luck! Which mascot will be painted on the winning Palio (banner)? Will it be the porcupine, unicorn or wolf? Tune in again next week for the results. Either way, it will be a helterskelter affair with mercenary jockeys tumbling from barebacks at every treacherous turn!
A month has now passed since we arrived in Paris, and it would seem appropriate to reminisce on Joy de vivre and La dolce vita. The weather is perfect, if hot. Nectarines are ripe and juicy, and dining French children are very well behaved ~ due apparently to the watered-down wine served from an early age. Local wines are excellent and great value, however Camilla refuses to drink any rose cheaper than €3 a bottle! Umbrian and Tuscan vino is light and a perfect accompaniment for Insalata Caprese and Vitello Tonnana. Mustard is plentiful in French supermaches, but sparse in Italian mercados ~ cuisines so closely located, but so different. Food is seasonal and with good reason, it is all so delicious. Oh yeah, have I mentioned the Aussie was €0.86 at last count and going up?
Shops close at midday and reopen at 3.00pm; even our local boozer Andry's Bar closes for lunch. Community bottle banks are filled to overflowing but no one ever seems drunk. Racial stereotypes remain with Mancunians complaining about Londoners, and American retirees discuss golf and the stock market instead of the wonderful view from Plaza Garibaldi. Suede loafers are everywhere and Belgians seem to have assumed the mantle of Europe's hikers with their backpacks, saddles and socks. Women are respected, with no discrimination accepted.
Houses are ancient, or made to appear so, with European plumbing a complete mystery. Lombardy cypresses are sillouetted against ochre hills and beaches from the Cote d'Azure to the Ligurian Sea are stony, dusty and populated by fat northern European men in speedos ~ sorry about that!. Although we ate like master chefs at La Table d'Emilie in Marseillan, Marseillan Plage resembled The Entrance with go-karts and dodge-ems.
Our houses at Seillans and Montanare both come with cats and dogs and Italian bees are on steroids. Each day is greeted with a wispy cloud streaked morning and evenings close with thanks we are high above the heat haze of the valleys below. Dinner is invariably taken at 10.00pm.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Cortona Festivali
The August heat haze has obscured our hilltop view of the Tuscan countryside, and a long line of vehicles has obscured our chances of parking near an entrance to Citta Di Cortona. Italians are enjoying their summer break Feria d'Agosto, and have arrived like invading hordes to attend the final night of the initial Cortona Mix Festival. Chris directed me with great care as we parallel-parked the Peugeot 3008 at the end of a long line of vehicles disgorging visitors. Hopefully, the automatic hand brake will hold, for a closer encounter with the stone "base medioevali" does not bear thinking about.
The Mix Music Festival promises a multinational smorgasbord of performers and cultural gems, and has been our option since about lunchtime. The primo alternate was the 35th staging of Sagra Del Cinghiale (Festival of the Wild Boar) where boar prosciutto, ragu and biftecca would be on offer. A Serat Danzante (night of dancing) was also promised. A languid lunch, followed by a bottle of limoncello, meant we would not make the commencement time of 7.30 and so opted for the Mix. As it turned out we would have had difficulty making the closing.
Entering la Citta via Porta Colonia, we walked up Via Dardano towards the festival's lights and sounds, that could just be heard over the rumbling of our stomachs. Agreeing more food was a good option, we turned down Vicolo Mancini towards Ristorante L.B.D.O. La cuchina of La Bottega dell'Oste was still cooking and the outdoor tables were vacant. Rowanne explained our plight and we were soon examining the menu. Three pastas and two bistecca for primi secondi (no primi piatti), with accompanying vegetables "contorni" plus acquas naturale and frizzante. A spirited discussion of a past book club selection appeared to puzzle the young American couple at the adjacent table, but we were past caring, for even a whispered conversation would have reverberated in those patinaed walls. Ominously, the Festival had gone quiet ~ had we left our run too late?.
Satisfied, we walked towards Piazza Signorelli where the enthusiastic reception of a presumably popular artist could be heard. Taking up a position just beyond a braid be-decked comando compagnia of the carbineri, we had a great view of the stage where multi-levels of musicians were performing. A young guitar-strumming male sang as the multi cultural ensemble took directions from two conductors. Sporting papal headwear, a flute-weaving director cavorted like Jethro Tull. We almost expected him to stand on one leg. The other, clad in white Arabic robes, enthusiastically urged the creation of a mosh pit but to no avail. A full woodwind section, supported by brass, timpani, more guitarists and a percussionist with bodhran played a selection of pieces guaranteed to please the holidaying invaders. An interesting final composition incorporating Dick Dale's Miserlou accompanied us as we made our way back towards the car and the road home.
Limoni and pistaccio ices from Gelatoria Snoopy sweetened our departure.
The Mix Music Festival promises a multinational smorgasbord of performers and cultural gems, and has been our option since about lunchtime. The primo alternate was the 35th staging of Sagra Del Cinghiale (Festival of the Wild Boar) where boar prosciutto, ragu and biftecca would be on offer. A Serat Danzante (night of dancing) was also promised. A languid lunch, followed by a bottle of limoncello, meant we would not make the commencement time of 7.30 and so opted for the Mix. As it turned out we would have had difficulty making the closing.
Entering la Citta via Porta Colonia, we walked up Via Dardano towards the festival's lights and sounds, that could just be heard over the rumbling of our stomachs. Agreeing more food was a good option, we turned down Vicolo Mancini towards Ristorante L.B.D.O. La cuchina of La Bottega dell'Oste was still cooking and the outdoor tables were vacant. Rowanne explained our plight and we were soon examining the menu. Three pastas and two bistecca for primi secondi (no primi piatti), with accompanying vegetables "contorni" plus acquas naturale and frizzante. A spirited discussion of a past book club selection appeared to puzzle the young American couple at the adjacent table, but we were past caring, for even a whispered conversation would have reverberated in those patinaed walls. Ominously, the Festival had gone quiet ~ had we left our run too late?.
Satisfied, we walked towards Piazza Signorelli where the enthusiastic reception of a presumably popular artist could be heard. Taking up a position just beyond a braid be-decked comando compagnia of the carbineri, we had a great view of the stage where multi-levels of musicians were performing. A young guitar-strumming male sang as the multi cultural ensemble took directions from two conductors. Sporting papal headwear, a flute-weaving director cavorted like Jethro Tull. We almost expected him to stand on one leg. The other, clad in white Arabic robes, enthusiastically urged the creation of a mosh pit but to no avail. A full woodwind section, supported by brass, timpani, more guitarists and a percussionist with bodhran played a selection of pieces guaranteed to please the holidaying invaders. An interesting final composition incorporating Dick Dale's Miserlou accompanied us as we made our way back towards the car and the road home.
Limoni and pistaccio ices from Gelatoria Snoopy sweetened our departure.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Out to Grasse
My preconceived idea of Grasse (salons staffed by slim waisted, nattily dressed, French gays proferring perfume), was shattered as soon as we turned down Rue Jean Oseda. Sure, there were wall to wall perfumeries selling scents, savons and essences, but there was something else I couldn't put my finger on, something else in the air. Camilla, Sue and Kim stepped up into the packed perfumery, too packed for me as I headed outside into the shade to wait. An ice cream stall was doing good business and soon I was slurping on my new favorite glacé - lemon meringue pie!
A lunch had been enjoyed earlier in Fayence at L'Auberge Fleures where mine host was tres disappointed we did not partake of three courses with wine. A lemon meringue glacé taken at leisure was just about right. Ascending Rue Admiral de Grasse, we dipped in and out of boutiques with Kim buying jewelery, Camilla searching for that elusive orange based perfume and Sue offering advice. The tourist-filled Le petite Train De Grasse in miniature yellow ran counterclockwise to our path. A plaque dedicated to Amiral De Grasse, un "Heros de Independance Americaine" was attached to the wall above. Faded ochre and juane walls enclosing paved paths promised allure just around the bend below.
As we walked down Rue des Fabreries, passing shops and artists studios, we noticed Grasse had definite Moorish influences. That's what I had been sensing and was confirmed when an ice-cream induced thirst thrust me into a tiny Algerian convenience store. Inside, a jellaba wearing customer was debating the quality of a box of figs. The proprietor, surrounded by his family, were assuring the providence of said produce to the grizzled ancient. A ginger moggie slinked around legume filled hessian sacks.
The last bus to Seillans was scheduled to depart at ten past six. Feigning olefactory overload, I left the girls to their shopping and headed up Rue de l'Oratorians where the facade of the 17th Century Eglise de l'Oratoire was undergoing restoration. The well preserved medieval facade was home to the Oratorians from 1632 and featured Gothic portals and windows. I was feeling a touch medieval myself by now.
Reaching Place de Aires, I observed a force of policemen carrying out rego checks and writing parking tickets. Now this was the strangest thing I had seen since arriving in France! It is a Frenchman's God given right, nay purpose, to achieve the most imaginative parking possible ~ perched on the sidewalk, shoehorned into alleys and parked directly on pedestrian crossings, filling a space with one's voiteur is de riguere.
A long afternoon's shopping takes it out of you and we eagerly approached the 3001 bus and it's comfy seats. Offering to purchase the tickets, I approached the front door and stood in line. Sue giggled as I was confronted by an eye-level view of the short-clad posteriors of three young girls - shorts are being worn very short in Grasse this year! Our driver, sporting a cut-off denim jacket and grown-out Mohawk, prised the €12 from my sweating palm and smirked "Merci, Monsieur". Joan (as in Jett), eased her Varlib steed out of the station onto Allee du 8 Mai 1945 and thence into Avenue onze Novembre for the bumper to bumper crawl downhill. Descending, we passed Les Offeres Historique Citroen specialising in 2CV's. We passed through neighbourhoods that reinforced our Moorish sightings. Billboards plastered the bus stop at La Roq announcing Dr Feelgood were appearing on Friday. I wonder who was replacing Lee Brilleux following his unfortunate demise at the hands of the rock'n roll lifestyle?
High-rise apartment blocks clinging precariously to the rocky hillside, were located adjacent to Clinique Vetinai where only well-groomed pets were treated for ailments. Nearby, the verdant plant coverage contrasted pleasingly with the faded pink stucco of Stade RC Grasse. Joan throttled back through the gears to slow our ride through the leafy neighbourhoods of Peyminaid and the village's heart of coiffures, boulangeries and Agence Immobiliers. Around about this time I began to wonder whether another remake of The Italian Job was being cast for Joan was doing a sterling job auditioning for the part of the bus driver.
As we approached Ville de Montaroux, the street narrowed and a Peugeot Jumpy earned its name as it and Le bus got rather intimate! In passing, I believe the relationship only got as far as the promise to exchange coats of paint at some future point. I'm considering writing to the Conseil General du Var to congratulate him on Joan's engagement. Above her head a selection of eight red glass breaking implements (issue de devours) hung like notches on her belt. Passing Callian, I was close enough to Le Terrace to order a pastis. We were inclined to ask Joan if she issued implements to purchase travel snacks! Rounding a curve, a castle on the skyline completed the evening vista. And all for €3 each!
"Tres formidable!" I called out as we exited at L'arrette Seillans.
A lunch had been enjoyed earlier in Fayence at L'Auberge Fleures where mine host was tres disappointed we did not partake of three courses with wine. A lemon meringue glacé taken at leisure was just about right. Ascending Rue Admiral de Grasse, we dipped in and out of boutiques with Kim buying jewelery, Camilla searching for that elusive orange based perfume and Sue offering advice. The tourist-filled Le petite Train De Grasse in miniature yellow ran counterclockwise to our path. A plaque dedicated to Amiral De Grasse, un "Heros de Independance Americaine" was attached to the wall above. Faded ochre and juane walls enclosing paved paths promised allure just around the bend below.
As we walked down Rue des Fabreries, passing shops and artists studios, we noticed Grasse had definite Moorish influences. That's what I had been sensing and was confirmed when an ice-cream induced thirst thrust me into a tiny Algerian convenience store. Inside, a jellaba wearing customer was debating the quality of a box of figs. The proprietor, surrounded by his family, were assuring the providence of said produce to the grizzled ancient. A ginger moggie slinked around legume filled hessian sacks.
The last bus to Seillans was scheduled to depart at ten past six. Feigning olefactory overload, I left the girls to their shopping and headed up Rue de l'Oratorians where the facade of the 17th Century Eglise de l'Oratoire was undergoing restoration. The well preserved medieval facade was home to the Oratorians from 1632 and featured Gothic portals and windows. I was feeling a touch medieval myself by now.
Reaching Place de Aires, I observed a force of policemen carrying out rego checks and writing parking tickets. Now this was the strangest thing I had seen since arriving in France! It is a Frenchman's God given right, nay purpose, to achieve the most imaginative parking possible ~ perched on the sidewalk, shoehorned into alleys and parked directly on pedestrian crossings, filling a space with one's voiteur is de riguere.
A long afternoon's shopping takes it out of you and we eagerly approached the 3001 bus and it's comfy seats. Offering to purchase the tickets, I approached the front door and stood in line. Sue giggled as I was confronted by an eye-level view of the short-clad posteriors of three young girls - shorts are being worn very short in Grasse this year! Our driver, sporting a cut-off denim jacket and grown-out Mohawk, prised the €12 from my sweating palm and smirked "Merci, Monsieur". Joan (as in Jett), eased her Varlib steed out of the station onto Allee du 8 Mai 1945 and thence into Avenue onze Novembre for the bumper to bumper crawl downhill. Descending, we passed Les Offeres Historique Citroen specialising in 2CV's. We passed through neighbourhoods that reinforced our Moorish sightings. Billboards plastered the bus stop at La Roq announcing Dr Feelgood were appearing on Friday. I wonder who was replacing Lee Brilleux following his unfortunate demise at the hands of the rock'n roll lifestyle?
High-rise apartment blocks clinging precariously to the rocky hillside, were located adjacent to Clinique Vetinai where only well-groomed pets were treated for ailments. Nearby, the verdant plant coverage contrasted pleasingly with the faded pink stucco of Stade RC Grasse. Joan throttled back through the gears to slow our ride through the leafy neighbourhoods of Peyminaid and the village's heart of coiffures, boulangeries and Agence Immobiliers. Around about this time I began to wonder whether another remake of The Italian Job was being cast for Joan was doing a sterling job auditioning for the part of the bus driver.
As we approached Ville de Montaroux, the street narrowed and a Peugeot Jumpy earned its name as it and Le bus got rather intimate! In passing, I believe the relationship only got as far as the promise to exchange coats of paint at some future point. I'm considering writing to the Conseil General du Var to congratulate him on Joan's engagement. Above her head a selection of eight red glass breaking implements (issue de devours) hung like notches on her belt. Passing Callian, I was close enough to Le Terrace to order a pastis. We were inclined to ask Joan if she issued implements to purchase travel snacks! Rounding a curve, a castle on the skyline completed the evening vista. And all for €3 each!
"Tres formidable!" I called out as we exited at L'arrette Seillans.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Le Frere Dodgy
The Seillans Sunday markets were announced by the bells of St Leger. "Bong" x 8!" Superb antiques and object d'art handed down from generation to generation were being displayed on hand woven tapestries, just not in Seillans!
Orange plastic light fittings (incomplete) stood alongside dust encrusted leather covered water bottles. Pith and metal GI helmets lay on a canvas sheet next to a dubious officer's cap (Vichy?) and assorted pieces of uniform in leather and webbing. Very handy if you were going to fight WWII again. A selection of dodgy vinyl ep's featuring long forgotten French chanteuses (any Germaine Montero fans out there?) were on offer along with the Braveheart soundtrack LP.
The purveyors of these treasures were a motley, if mildly enthustiastic mob. Anyone expecting Gallic bartering and expressive hand and face gestures will need to return next week. The increasing heat and sublime setting with view over the Var Valley would make most treasure hunters quite soporific. However, there were bargains to be had including a small ceramic flowered teapot and a first edition, second impression of Jessica Mitford's "Hons and Rebels". Without wishing to haggle, I handed over €20 to cover the hardback's €8 price tag. Now, maybe it was the sun, or perhaps he hadn't previously seen a note of such denomination, but change of €2 provoked my response. Opening the book, I pointed at the price and indicated I had given him twenty. He responded "Je desolee, Monsieur!" and gave me another ten euros. A bargain is a bargain only if the right price is attained.
A cobwebbed wind-up turntable of uncertain vintage would probably be the dream find of anyone interested in Steampunk memorabilia, but where would you get replacement needles? A table covered in mismatched crockery and pastis glasses was guarded by a box of discarded Action figures all struggling to escape their cardboard prison. Although a particularly fierce lime vinyl covered gorilla roared his terrible roar, my money was on an ersatz Voltran, Master of the Universe!
Living directly opposite Seillans entertainment complex i.e the car park/boule court has its advantages. It is therefore probably churlish of me to complain, but whose permission was sought to stage the annual two day St Cyr et St Leger fete? Certainly not moi! Having spent innumerable hours filling the coffers of Vinci, France's private enterprise toll extractors, we did not deserve to return home from the Languedoc to find all the car parking spaces taken by out-of-town merrymakers. Nursing a bowl of spaghetti topped by Paulette's superb tomato sauce, I walked up the stairs to be assaulted by the caterwauling of a Provençal Tom Jones. Backed by a massive karaoke system Le Tom and his female backing duo reached into the depths of karaoke hell and assaulted my finely wrought appreciation of modern music.
Interestingly garbed merry makers rocked, rolled and tangoed to Hound Dog, Johnny B Goode and a selection of presumably Johnny Halliday's hits! Whoever sang these songs le roc was obviously well known as the rollicking crowd of French baby boomers sang loudly along! Curfew? What curfew? A pair of Municipal police guarded Stade Seillans ensuring nobody left, or slept, before the appointed closing time of very late o'clock!
Orange plastic light fittings (incomplete) stood alongside dust encrusted leather covered water bottles. Pith and metal GI helmets lay on a canvas sheet next to a dubious officer's cap (Vichy?) and assorted pieces of uniform in leather and webbing. Very handy if you were going to fight WWII again. A selection of dodgy vinyl ep's featuring long forgotten French chanteuses (any Germaine Montero fans out there?) were on offer along with the Braveheart soundtrack LP.
The purveyors of these treasures were a motley, if mildly enthustiastic mob. Anyone expecting Gallic bartering and expressive hand and face gestures will need to return next week. The increasing heat and sublime setting with view over the Var Valley would make most treasure hunters quite soporific. However, there were bargains to be had including a small ceramic flowered teapot and a first edition, second impression of Jessica Mitford's "Hons and Rebels". Without wishing to haggle, I handed over €20 to cover the hardback's €8 price tag. Now, maybe it was the sun, or perhaps he hadn't previously seen a note of such denomination, but change of €2 provoked my response. Opening the book, I pointed at the price and indicated I had given him twenty. He responded "Je desolee, Monsieur!" and gave me another ten euros. A bargain is a bargain only if the right price is attained.
A cobwebbed wind-up turntable of uncertain vintage would probably be the dream find of anyone interested in Steampunk memorabilia, but where would you get replacement needles? A table covered in mismatched crockery and pastis glasses was guarded by a box of discarded Action figures all struggling to escape their cardboard prison. Although a particularly fierce lime vinyl covered gorilla roared his terrible roar, my money was on an ersatz Voltran, Master of the Universe!
Living directly opposite Seillans entertainment complex i.e the car park/boule court has its advantages. It is therefore probably churlish of me to complain, but whose permission was sought to stage the annual two day St Cyr et St Leger fete? Certainly not moi! Having spent innumerable hours filling the coffers of Vinci, France's private enterprise toll extractors, we did not deserve to return home from the Languedoc to find all the car parking spaces taken by out-of-town merrymakers. Nursing a bowl of spaghetti topped by Paulette's superb tomato sauce, I walked up the stairs to be assaulted by the caterwauling of a Provençal Tom Jones. Backed by a massive karaoke system Le Tom and his female backing duo reached into the depths of karaoke hell and assaulted my finely wrought appreciation of modern music.
Interestingly garbed merry makers rocked, rolled and tangoed to Hound Dog, Johnny B Goode and a selection of presumably Johnny Halliday's hits! Whoever sang these songs le roc was obviously well known as the rollicking crowd of French baby boomers sang loudly along! Curfew? What curfew? A pair of Municipal police guarded Stade Seillans ensuring nobody left, or slept, before the appointed closing time of very late o'clock!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Ca vault le voyage
Jane wished us Bon voyage as we left Seillans and headed west. Three hours later a general exclamation rent the air. Soon after crossing the mighty Rhone, we had reached the Languedoc!. Le Languedoc, 750km from Paris and the region responsible for a third of France's wine. Trucks domiciled in Spain became more frequent and overhead road signs indicated Montpellier, Toulouse and Barcelona. Bisecting Nimes, the A9 led to the tollgates where a convention of Danish and Geman Banditos noisily converged. A hitchhiker morosely held up a sign "Toulouse SVP".
Is it a supermarche?, Is it an ultra marche? No!, it was IKEA Montpellier, the size of le Stade, bluer than was thought possible, and one of the few flat surfaces not covered in graffiti: Le tagger francaise is more prominent than peages and pain!
At Sete, mouth of Le Canal du Midi, a 360 degree deviation plus a crossed out sign resulted in an exploration of Sete's zone industrielle prior to a bamboo lined trip to Marseillan. Camilla parked the Zafire and we exited in search of a bar. This is fantastique, exclaimed Kim. It has all the features of St Tropez without the bling and awful people. We grabbed a table at Cafe Camille and ordered local wines, beer and Noilly Prat cocktails. A series of motor boats executed three point turns opposite our chairs on Quai Antonin Gross, dislodging guests and crew in search of Camille's refreshments. Local artists were setting up displays as we made our way back to Boulevard Lamarting and Petit Hotel.
Gloriously discreet, ancient stone stairs spiral up to a contemporary open plan living space and outside terrace. Birgit seated us under canvas and offered local Marseillan rose accompanied by pistachios and delicious German sausage nibbles. Dinner is scheduled for eight, so we had better finish up and get ready. Tonight' degustation dinner at Emilie's is highly anticipated!.
Is it a supermarche?, Is it an ultra marche? No!, it was IKEA Montpellier, the size of le Stade, bluer than was thought possible, and one of the few flat surfaces not covered in graffiti: Le tagger francaise is more prominent than peages and pain!
At Sete, mouth of Le Canal du Midi, a 360 degree deviation plus a crossed out sign resulted in an exploration of Sete's zone industrielle prior to a bamboo lined trip to Marseillan. Camilla parked the Zafire and we exited in search of a bar. This is fantastique, exclaimed Kim. It has all the features of St Tropez without the bling and awful people. We grabbed a table at Cafe Camille and ordered local wines, beer and Noilly Prat cocktails. A series of motor boats executed three point turns opposite our chairs on Quai Antonin Gross, dislodging guests and crew in search of Camille's refreshments. Local artists were setting up displays as we made our way back to Boulevard Lamarting and Petit Hotel.
Gloriously discreet, ancient stone stairs spiral up to a contemporary open plan living space and outside terrace. Birgit seated us under canvas and offered local Marseillan rose accompanied by pistachios and delicious German sausage nibbles. Dinner is scheduled for eight, so we had better finish up and get ready. Tonight' degustation dinner at Emilie's is highly anticipated!.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
An Apt Encounter
Despite Bradley Wiggins' victory, Le Tour continues with our jaunt to Apt spliced by colourful knots of breakaway cyclists. Camilla drove courteously allowing only one Frenchman the opportunity to lean on his horn. Once we had passed through the ticket issuing tollgates, three lanes of the A8 permitted frequent passing at 130 kph but no chance of a bladder-emptying pastoral pi pi!. Acre after acre of vineyards line the expressway leading us to the magnificent silvery ridge of Montagne Ste-Victoire and the exiting tollgates.
We have now seen everything!. The approach to the A8 tollgates prior to Aix en Provence offered drivers 30 lanes to transgress every EU road rule. Laughing uproariously we permitted Renault Dusters, Picassos, Scenics and Twingoes to brazenly flit from lane to lane seeking minute advantages of one car space in their quest to get rolling again. A memorable encounter was the parting of the waves to allow a Peugeot 307 towing a caravan to pass from left to right directly into the path of an oncoming 18 wheeler!
Australia's tollgates allow drivers to throw the toll into a basket. The French, however, require coins to be force fed into slots. Sure enough, the driver of the Fiat Punto two cars ahead drops his change and has to retrieve it. This proves too much for a bantam Frenchman who exits his car, some spaces behind us, and struts up to investigate the delay. By the time he arrives the Punto has left and hastens back to his car and finds others have filled the space ahead of him. It was the best €9.20 spent thus far!
Apt Farmer's Markets are closing promptly at midday as we arrive at the appointed place, but not before bread and cheese are bought. We occupy outside seats at Saint John's Pub where wifi and beer are on tap along with restorative rose. Reconnection with the world outside Provence is established. With the exception of wine purchasing and an encounter with a truckload of baa-ing sheep, absolutely nothing eventful happens on the trip back.
We have now seen everything!. The approach to the A8 tollgates prior to Aix en Provence offered drivers 30 lanes to transgress every EU road rule. Laughing uproariously we permitted Renault Dusters, Picassos, Scenics and Twingoes to brazenly flit from lane to lane seeking minute advantages of one car space in their quest to get rolling again. A memorable encounter was the parting of the waves to allow a Peugeot 307 towing a caravan to pass from left to right directly into the path of an oncoming 18 wheeler!
Australia's tollgates allow drivers to throw the toll into a basket. The French, however, require coins to be force fed into slots. Sure enough, the driver of the Fiat Punto two cars ahead drops his change and has to retrieve it. This proves too much for a bantam Frenchman who exits his car, some spaces behind us, and struts up to investigate the delay. By the time he arrives the Punto has left and hastens back to his car and finds others have filled the space ahead of him. It was the best €9.20 spent thus far!
Apt Farmer's Markets are closing promptly at midday as we arrive at the appointed place, but not before bread and cheese are bought. We occupy outside seats at Saint John's Pub where wifi and beer are on tap along with restorative rose. Reconnection with the world outside Provence is established. With the exception of wine purchasing and an encounter with a truckload of baa-ing sheep, absolutely nothing eventful happens on the trip back.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Have we gone to heaven?
The pace of Paris has been left behind with our TGV transportation to Provence. As arranged, Chris and Paulette arrived at rue Vaucanson just prior to the agreed 9.30 am by taxi. The driver helped us load our luggage and offered me the keys as I attempted to enter the front left hand seat! Squeeze, fakie, foot down past Le bus, squeeze again, around the rondelle and we were shutting down someone's space at Gare de Lyon. I now know why French F1 champions are thin on the ground - their reversing mirrors have been ripped off!
Post dejeanuer (an alarmingly delicious SNCF salad), we arrived at Gare de Canne, and miracle of miracles, the escalators were working! The mountain of luggage was lodged against the railing and the instruction "look after that" saw Chris and I set off along the shady side of rue d'Antibes in search of Avis, Camilla and our people mover. Memories of Canne were frightenly brought back to life as we dodged over-tanned, ultra blinged waves of white Gucci, Dior and Dolce & Gabanna. The large Eastern European type (of which there are many) wearing a singlet and multiple gold chains emerged from the Louis Vouitton shop with a "classy" Russian blond, and really set the tone with his finger up his nose!
Chris' driving skills came to the fore despite Paulette's manipulation of GPS Jane, who directs in yards (handy that!), and the amazed, if worried, look on the face of the passing gendarme. We arrived at the beautiful Seillans described by Lonely Planet as "an irresistibly pretty, typical Provencal village with cobbled lanes coiling to its crown and a village only the stone hearted will be able to resist". Multiple bedrooms, bathrooms, sitting rooms and a pool will be enjoyed to the utmost. We continue to pinch ourselves that we are actually here.
Due to our late arrival, we were unable to find a place to eat in Seillans and manouevred Jane's chariot down the mountain to Fayence in search of vittels. We passed on the pub's kebabs and were soon shown to our table at L'Assiette de Florette. Le premiere waitress good naturedly took our unfocussed orders (Salmon salade et frittes, Camilla?), and began fulfilling our dreams.
Now, I could wax lyrically about Kim and Chris' poisson de jour, Paulette's whole sole and Camilla's carpaccio de salmon, but that would be distracting you (dear reader) from my dinner - Le Speciale! Six of the best huites de mer (5 if you discount the one Kim ate), six crevettes, six unidentified crustacea and half a lobster unadorned, save for a mere-ly decorative salade covering the sole shaped plate. Le waitress premier set the scene with Le plate separate presenting home made mayo, dressing Le shallot, home baked bread and butter a Le gauche. An array of implements seldom seen since the first heart transplant completed Le plan de Guerre. I turned the plate around to position the prawns to the fore, thought better of it and reversed my procedure to bring the oysters to Le position prominent.
Bastards! While I was having the time of my life slurping oysters, stripping prawns of shell and cracking lobster, my dining companions had consumed the second bottle of Rose, and I thought they were well brought up!
Post dejeanuer (an alarmingly delicious SNCF salad), we arrived at Gare de Canne, and miracle of miracles, the escalators were working! The mountain of luggage was lodged against the railing and the instruction "look after that" saw Chris and I set off along the shady side of rue d'Antibes in search of Avis, Camilla and our people mover. Memories of Canne were frightenly brought back to life as we dodged over-tanned, ultra blinged waves of white Gucci, Dior and Dolce & Gabanna. The large Eastern European type (of which there are many) wearing a singlet and multiple gold chains emerged from the Louis Vouitton shop with a "classy" Russian blond, and really set the tone with his finger up his nose!
Chris' driving skills came to the fore despite Paulette's manipulation of GPS Jane, who directs in yards (handy that!), and the amazed, if worried, look on the face of the passing gendarme. We arrived at the beautiful Seillans described by Lonely Planet as "an irresistibly pretty, typical Provencal village with cobbled lanes coiling to its crown and a village only the stone hearted will be able to resist". Multiple bedrooms, bathrooms, sitting rooms and a pool will be enjoyed to the utmost. We continue to pinch ourselves that we are actually here.
Due to our late arrival, we were unable to find a place to eat in Seillans and manouevred Jane's chariot down the mountain to Fayence in search of vittels. We passed on the pub's kebabs and were soon shown to our table at L'Assiette de Florette. Le premiere waitress good naturedly took our unfocussed orders (Salmon salade et frittes, Camilla?), and began fulfilling our dreams.
Now, I could wax lyrically about Kim and Chris' poisson de jour, Paulette's whole sole and Camilla's carpaccio de salmon, but that would be distracting you (dear reader) from my dinner - Le Speciale! Six of the best huites de mer (5 if you discount the one Kim ate), six crevettes, six unidentified crustacea and half a lobster unadorned, save for a mere-ly decorative salade covering the sole shaped plate. Le waitress premier set the scene with Le plate separate presenting home made mayo, dressing Le shallot, home baked bread and butter a Le gauche. An array of implements seldom seen since the first heart transplant completed Le plan de Guerre. I turned the plate around to position the prawns to the fore, thought better of it and reversed my procedure to bring the oysters to Le position prominent.
Bastards! While I was having the time of my life slurping oysters, stripping prawns of shell and cracking lobster, my dining companions had consumed the second bottle of Rose, and I thought they were well brought up!
Friday, July 20, 2012
Steampunks are go!
Many of the buildings in the Marais are quite anonymous, with their oblique facades causing adjacent attractions to appear more appealing. The National Archives' dull flat monolithic bulk contrasts vividly with Les Terrace brasserie opposite and its vivid clientele; and no matter how many hip and gay hotspots are located nearby, most of the utility offices scattered throughout the 5th arrondisement are positively ugly!
Appearances therefore can be deceiving and is probably the reason we had failed to venture across Rue Vaucanson to visit our neighbourly museum the Musee des Arts et Métiers and Conservatoire National des Artes et Métiers. We had noticed people eating lunch in Square du George Morin around a miniature Statue of Liberty and some colourful installations, but had been seduced by our local Cafe des Artes et Métiers on the opposite corner. What a surprising pleasure we had coming!
Founded in 1794 by L'Abbe Gregoire, the CNAM houses an extensive collection of technological innovations that we now take for granted. For example the worlds first television invented by Barthelemy (good old Barty!), and the first successful communications satelite Telstar (cue Heinz and The Tornedos ~ da, dada, da dada dada, da dadada, da dattada etc). You want Steampunk? You got it in spades at CNAM.
A soundtrack of the heaviest metal would barely rate against the din some of these babies must have produced. CNAM looks like it is curated by Motorhead's Lemmy!
Mirrored surfaces, brass constructions, intricate copper filigree, glass blown into every form, wooden housings and swinging pendulums ~ Difference engines of every industrial era! Kim was in her element identifying the advancements made in dictaphones and typewriters: "The first Apple computer!, I remember when my employers Wood, Fussell & Co bought a copy called an Apricot - it was a real lemon!". "Look!, there's Edison's phonograph ~ Now you're talking.". Steam trains, bi-planes, vacuum cleaners and Tupperware. It's all here, although the Doctor's Tardis would be a nice addition.
Such a wonderful experience requires a souvenir, other than the 246 photos captured on my iPhone, so we ventured to the Musee's giftshop to buy a few knicknacks. "Je suis desolee, Monsieur, the credit card machine is inoperable, and we can only sell to you if you have ze correct change". That's progress for you.
Appearances therefore can be deceiving and is probably the reason we had failed to venture across Rue Vaucanson to visit our neighbourly museum the Musee des Arts et Métiers and Conservatoire National des Artes et Métiers. We had noticed people eating lunch in Square du George Morin around a miniature Statue of Liberty and some colourful installations, but had been seduced by our local Cafe des Artes et Métiers on the opposite corner. What a surprising pleasure we had coming!
Founded in 1794 by L'Abbe Gregoire, the CNAM houses an extensive collection of technological innovations that we now take for granted. For example the worlds first television invented by Barthelemy (good old Barty!), and the first successful communications satelite Telstar (cue Heinz and The Tornedos ~ da, dada, da dada dada, da dadada, da dattada etc). You want Steampunk? You got it in spades at CNAM.
A soundtrack of the heaviest metal would barely rate against the din some of these babies must have produced. CNAM looks like it is curated by Motorhead's Lemmy!
Mirrored surfaces, brass constructions, intricate copper filigree, glass blown into every form, wooden housings and swinging pendulums ~ Difference engines of every industrial era! Kim was in her element identifying the advancements made in dictaphones and typewriters: "The first Apple computer!, I remember when my employers Wood, Fussell & Co bought a copy called an Apricot - it was a real lemon!". "Look!, there's Edison's phonograph ~ Now you're talking.". Steam trains, bi-planes, vacuum cleaners and Tupperware. It's all here, although the Doctor's Tardis would be a nice addition.
Such a wonderful experience requires a souvenir, other than the 246 photos captured on my iPhone, so we ventured to the Musee's giftshop to buy a few knicknacks. "Je suis desolee, Monsieur, the credit card machine is inoperable, and we can only sell to you if you have ze correct change". That's progress for you.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Bonaparte's Retreat
Be assured, Paris has its attractions - great food, beautiful women, multinational fascinating crowds,intriguing ways to get lost. All very fine, but what we needed post-overload was A Day In The Country.
Versailles and its crowds sounded too much for us, so we opted for the bucolic attractions of Fontainbleu, 55kms into the country. As the train departed from Gare de Lyon, we took the opportunity to investigate the platform required later in the week when we would be departing for the Cote d'Azure ~ did I mention we would be spending the next two weeks flitting about Cannes and Nice? Excuse me if I forgot to mention that!
A comical interplay preceded our departure where a helpful Creole woman and Kim both attempted to give each other directions to le Gare's Lyon and Nord. Both knew where they were but were under the misapprehension the other didn't.
According to the guidebook, the trip to Fontainbleu took just over an hour, which made it inconceivable we thought we needed to alight at Le Roi Bois when stairs labelled "Fontainbleu" caught our eye. Squeezing between a gaggle of prams we hopped off the train onto the station and back onto Le tren when it became apparent this exit simply led from one side of the tracks to the other. Le Gare de Fontainbleu was the next station! An afternoon appreciating the attractions of Le Roi Bois (coiffeurs, super marches) etc was not quiet what we had in mind.
Hello, here we are at Gare de Fontainbleu and it's not taken more than 30 minutes! It soon became apparent where the other 30 minutes would be spent - on the bus!!. It was initially comical (there's that word again!), how many old and young, black and white, hot and bothered passengers could be squeezed onto "Le Special". We began to dread every slowing of the bus as more and more and more of humanity hopped on. The black dude located just under my armpit was mopping his shaven head with his hanky as the temperature rose to almost unbearable levels, when suddenly we were there!
Now there are a lot of things you could say about the French, but the acceptance of poor quality food and service is not one of them. In many global tourist traps, you would need to queue for crappy fast food and surly service, but the town surrounding Fontainbleu provided a plethora of cafes, bistros and brasseries offering fantastic food. We were seated at La Grande faster than you can say Jacquie Robinson, perusing extensive menus and drinking Languedoc rose. Salade Caesar appealed and while Kim ate her au natural, mine was enhanced by crevetts and coquilles.
"I don't care if we don't visit the gardens of Fontainbleu, I'm happy to stay here all afternoon!". I had to agree, it was a great option. Surrounded by happy satisfied families, beautiful women, intriguing men and attentive waiters is not a bad way to waste an afternoon. A double decker carousel featuring a flying pig pumped out a jolly tune, accompanied by the global sound of clattering skateboards as the towns youth unsuccessfully attempted reverse Ollie's.
Knowing we would kick ourselves if we didn't visit the attractions of Fontainbleu, we ambled over to the entrance gates following a shared dessert of Tarte Tatin accompanied by a scoop of vanilla. No charge! Just wander on through. Verdant lawns surrounded ancient trees and the Chateau Royalle and the knobbliest paving stones possible - we are glad we have stout footwear. Holiday makers inexpertly rowed round and round Le lac artificial as a groundsman began his never ending task of keeping the lawns mown ~ a job similar to that of painting the Harbour Bridge.
You can Google Fontainbleu for websites that will state: Fontainbleu is a name that is famous in the entire world, a magical name that evokes for some a forest, for others a chateau, a name that still shines from its royal history. For me it evokes a time when Kings ruled and serfs knew their place. I almost felt sorry for the thousand of staff, courtesans and craftsmen who must have had a tough time of it come Le Revolution!.
Versailles and its crowds sounded too much for us, so we opted for the bucolic attractions of Fontainbleu, 55kms into the country. As the train departed from Gare de Lyon, we took the opportunity to investigate the platform required later in the week when we would be departing for the Cote d'Azure ~ did I mention we would be spending the next two weeks flitting about Cannes and Nice? Excuse me if I forgot to mention that!
A comical interplay preceded our departure where a helpful Creole woman and Kim both attempted to give each other directions to le Gare's Lyon and Nord. Both knew where they were but were under the misapprehension the other didn't.
According to the guidebook, the trip to Fontainbleu took just over an hour, which made it inconceivable we thought we needed to alight at Le Roi Bois when stairs labelled "Fontainbleu" caught our eye. Squeezing between a gaggle of prams we hopped off the train onto the station and back onto Le tren when it became apparent this exit simply led from one side of the tracks to the other. Le Gare de Fontainbleu was the next station! An afternoon appreciating the attractions of Le Roi Bois (coiffeurs, super marches) etc was not quiet what we had in mind.
Hello, here we are at Gare de Fontainbleu and it's not taken more than 30 minutes! It soon became apparent where the other 30 minutes would be spent - on the bus!!. It was initially comical (there's that word again!), how many old and young, black and white, hot and bothered passengers could be squeezed onto "Le Special". We began to dread every slowing of the bus as more and more and more of humanity hopped on. The black dude located just under my armpit was mopping his shaven head with his hanky as the temperature rose to almost unbearable levels, when suddenly we were there!
Now there are a lot of things you could say about the French, but the acceptance of poor quality food and service is not one of them. In many global tourist traps, you would need to queue for crappy fast food and surly service, but the town surrounding Fontainbleu provided a plethora of cafes, bistros and brasseries offering fantastic food. We were seated at La Grande faster than you can say Jacquie Robinson, perusing extensive menus and drinking Languedoc rose. Salade Caesar appealed and while Kim ate her au natural, mine was enhanced by crevetts and coquilles.
"I don't care if we don't visit the gardens of Fontainbleu, I'm happy to stay here all afternoon!". I had to agree, it was a great option. Surrounded by happy satisfied families, beautiful women, intriguing men and attentive waiters is not a bad way to waste an afternoon. A double decker carousel featuring a flying pig pumped out a jolly tune, accompanied by the global sound of clattering skateboards as the towns youth unsuccessfully attempted reverse Ollie's.
Knowing we would kick ourselves if we didn't visit the attractions of Fontainbleu, we ambled over to the entrance gates following a shared dessert of Tarte Tatin accompanied by a scoop of vanilla. No charge! Just wander on through. Verdant lawns surrounded ancient trees and the Chateau Royalle and the knobbliest paving stones possible - we are glad we have stout footwear. Holiday makers inexpertly rowed round and round Le lac artificial as a groundsman began his never ending task of keeping the lawns mown ~ a job similar to that of painting the Harbour Bridge.
You can Google Fontainbleu for websites that will state: Fontainbleu is a name that is famous in the entire world, a magical name that evokes for some a forest, for others a chateau, a name that still shines from its royal history. For me it evokes a time when Kings ruled and serfs knew their place. I almost felt sorry for the thousand of staff, courtesans and craftsmen who must have had a tough time of it come Le Revolution!.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
The mean streets of Le Marais
Following a hectic morning train-hopping, a restful afternoon is required. That pesky old European sun kept a rolling around. A leisurely lavage and careful attention to sartorial detail is required prior to stepping out into la evening Francais! Aimlessly wandering the Jewish quarter (refer to the websight 52 Suburbs for Paris), Kim and I came upon Le Archives National and La Terrace Des Archives located on the corner of Rue des Handrie and Rue Des Archives (natch!).
A varied clientelle of young and old occupied tables under canvas with our nearest neighbour reading Camus' "La Chute". Air kisses floated away as nearby bicyclists nonchalantly manouvered through motorised traffic. Unencumbered children skipped rope while their parents sipped aperitif in tall glasses. Non-smoking is optional. Continental nuances abound, and ours were enhanced by the sight of a passing denim clad female toting a cello and ear-encompassing headphones. Bopping to Yo Yo Ma no doubt!
According to the useful tome "On Foot Guides ~ Paris Walks" provided by Diane and Alex (many thanks!), "The fascinating and distinctly different district of Le Marais rose from marshland (marais) in the 17th century to become crammed with beautiful mansions occupied by royalty and nobility. It's demise during the Revolution was inevitable and swift, and it wasn't until the 1960s that attention again turned to ruined pre-Revolutionary architecture and restoration began. Today it is buzzing: several of its hotels have become prestigious museums, and a young crowd hang out in the cafes and browse in the fashion shops."
Never a truer word was written, for the crowded cafe-lined Rue de Bretagne could make one feel quite ancient, if that sort of sensation floats your boat. It was all too apparent that this was happy hour and far too early to imagine dining. A minuscule market place serviced by produce counters was, however, providing a range of appetising dishes to customers perched at outdoor benches. We were looking for something quite different and continued our stroll along Rue de Young et Beautiful, before pausing and unsuccessfully trying to imagine somewhere in Australia that could match this.
Turning right down Rue De Turenne, we sat at a brasserie between multi-national tables and for some five minutes unsuccessfully waited for waiters. Despite our parched and withered visages, not a refreshment was to be had, but the time was not wasted for the passing parade and ancient neighborhood made it memorable. Cafe Des Musees cornered by rue du Parc Royal beckoned, and despite not having a booking, we were seated near the bar cum kitchen between tables of French and American women. Whilst the French shared conversation, I began to wonder when the woman to my right was going to pause for breath and her meal. Her companion amiably listened and smiled as the domination of conversation continued.
Perusing the menu we both alighted on the second entree option Mushrooms stuffed with snails!. Forget about choosing differing entrees to share, this was not going to happen. White hot ramekins garlicky and steaming were soon disappearing with the sauce sopped up by bread. "This makes up for all those occasions on which I missed out on the garlic prawns" sighed Kim. No chance of allergies with these escargot. The main courses of boeuf and agneau stood no chance of competing and were consumed with a very drinkable Rhone.
€95 later a tired but satisfied pair wended their way home to Rue Vaucanson only rarely retracing their steps.
A varied clientelle of young and old occupied tables under canvas with our nearest neighbour reading Camus' "La Chute". Air kisses floated away as nearby bicyclists nonchalantly manouvered through motorised traffic. Unencumbered children skipped rope while their parents sipped aperitif in tall glasses. Non-smoking is optional. Continental nuances abound, and ours were enhanced by the sight of a passing denim clad female toting a cello and ear-encompassing headphones. Bopping to Yo Yo Ma no doubt!
According to the useful tome "On Foot Guides ~ Paris Walks" provided by Diane and Alex (many thanks!), "The fascinating and distinctly different district of Le Marais rose from marshland (marais) in the 17th century to become crammed with beautiful mansions occupied by royalty and nobility. It's demise during the Revolution was inevitable and swift, and it wasn't until the 1960s that attention again turned to ruined pre-Revolutionary architecture and restoration began. Today it is buzzing: several of its hotels have become prestigious museums, and a young crowd hang out in the cafes and browse in the fashion shops."
Never a truer word was written, for the crowded cafe-lined Rue de Bretagne could make one feel quite ancient, if that sort of sensation floats your boat. It was all too apparent that this was happy hour and far too early to imagine dining. A minuscule market place serviced by produce counters was, however, providing a range of appetising dishes to customers perched at outdoor benches. We were looking for something quite different and continued our stroll along Rue de Young et Beautiful, before pausing and unsuccessfully trying to imagine somewhere in Australia that could match this.
Turning right down Rue De Turenne, we sat at a brasserie between multi-national tables and for some five minutes unsuccessfully waited for waiters. Despite our parched and withered visages, not a refreshment was to be had, but the time was not wasted for the passing parade and ancient neighborhood made it memorable. Cafe Des Musees cornered by rue du Parc Royal beckoned, and despite not having a booking, we were seated near the bar cum kitchen between tables of French and American women. Whilst the French shared conversation, I began to wonder when the woman to my right was going to pause for breath and her meal. Her companion amiably listened and smiled as the domination of conversation continued.
Perusing the menu we both alighted on the second entree option Mushrooms stuffed with snails!. Forget about choosing differing entrees to share, this was not going to happen. White hot ramekins garlicky and steaming were soon disappearing with the sauce sopped up by bread. "This makes up for all those occasions on which I missed out on the garlic prawns" sighed Kim. No chance of allergies with these escargot. The main courses of boeuf and agneau stood no chance of competing and were consumed with a very drinkable Rhone.
€95 later a tired but satisfied pair wended their way home to Rue Vaucanson only rarely retracing their steps.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
An early morning stroll
Is it my time clock, or the incessant hours of sunshine? Whatever, my time abed has been minimal - I think I have had more quality shut eye dozing in front of the transmission of Le Tour than under Le doona! This explains why I was pounding the pavement at some ungodly hour while Kim remained asleep. As long as she gets an early morning cuppa de the (or two!), I am free to do some unencumbered streetwalking (or is that Rue roaming?) around Le Marais.
Up Rue de Turbigo past sleepy-eyed labourers and beggars, along Avenue de la Republic's broken footpaths guarded by heavily armoured soldiers in khaki and Council de Paris maintenance staff in non-fluro overalls, and down a side street to where the hell am I???. It is no use asking anyone for directions as my driving hours spent listening to "Teach Yourself French in One Day" has proved worthless beyond seeking directions for le rue principal, to which a respondee would reply "Which one?. No matter, my innate sense of direction will safely guide me back to the bosom of my family, I hope.
Ah!, Rue de Temple, that sounds familiar. Two women sharing a small dog (Does you doggy bite?), have entered the warmly lit Le Square brasserie on the corner of Le Square. Right! Here we go "Je suis Australian, and I am lost". Andre, for that is his name, laughs and replies "In Paris?, zat is impossible!". Could you please tell me how to get to Le Arts et Metiers?, I ask, in an outrageous Aussie accent. "Of course" replies Andre, "It is 500 metres au droite". No probs!!! We discuss intricate cricket rulings (true!) and his lack of passion for Le Tour ~ "My parents made me watch all my childhood" while I consumed a cafe au lait and he served the ladies with un croissant chocolat. I believe chocolate is anathema to dogs but little Sid Vicious did not seem perturbed to be fed such poison.
"Com bien pour Le cafe?" I enquired. €1.60 Andre replied, because you are standing at the bar, it is cheaper than sitting down. Directions and a further insight into cafe culture, zat makes my stroll so worthwhile!
Up Rue de Turbigo past sleepy-eyed labourers and beggars, along Avenue de la Republic's broken footpaths guarded by heavily armoured soldiers in khaki and Council de Paris maintenance staff in non-fluro overalls, and down a side street to where the hell am I???. It is no use asking anyone for directions as my driving hours spent listening to "Teach Yourself French in One Day" has proved worthless beyond seeking directions for le rue principal, to which a respondee would reply "Which one?. No matter, my innate sense of direction will safely guide me back to the bosom of my family, I hope.
Ah!, Rue de Temple, that sounds familiar. Two women sharing a small dog (Does you doggy bite?), have entered the warmly lit Le Square brasserie on the corner of Le Square. Right! Here we go "Je suis Australian, and I am lost". Andre, for that is his name, laughs and replies "In Paris?, zat is impossible!". Could you please tell me how to get to Le Arts et Metiers?, I ask, in an outrageous Aussie accent. "Of course" replies Andre, "It is 500 metres au droite". No probs!!! We discuss intricate cricket rulings (true!) and his lack of passion for Le Tour ~ "My parents made me watch all my childhood" while I consumed a cafe au lait and he served the ladies with un croissant chocolat. I believe chocolate is anathema to dogs but little Sid Vicious did not seem perturbed to be fed such poison.
"Com bien pour Le cafe?" I enquired. €1.60 Andre replied, because you are standing at the bar, it is cheaper than sitting down. Directions and a further insight into cafe culture, zat makes my stroll so worthwhile!
Monday, July 16, 2012
Brasserie Leonard & the Fashion Stakes
One day in and we are yet to form a working understanding of Parisian cafe culture and what is acceptable customer behaviour in The Marais. However, by keeping an observant eye, I have seen a wrinkled pensioner, sporting a crumpled trilby, deftly adding a simultaneous dual-sachet sugar hit to his espresso followed by a slurp of hot water. Does this represent adding value?, or is that just the way he takes it? With espresso at €2.5 and cafe au lait €5, I can see cash-strapped OAPs getting cannier.
Our 5th floor apartment at 4 Rue Vaucanson is a pearler, centrally located within The Marais and serviced by Carrefour next door and the Cafe des Artes et Metiers a further 25 metres away. Our balcony, accessed through three sets of French doors, looks onto Rue Conte which is terminated by Brasserie Leonard but a spit away! Last night's salad dinner was taken at Leonard at a kerbside table next to a pair of paunchy Russian henchmen in garish Olympic track suits and non-designer stubble. Between cups of coffee, they took turns answering smoke-wreathed mobile phones with cheesy ringtones.
Daylight is in ample supply, so we did not feel cheated leaving this morning at 11.00am. Home-prepared petite dejeurner (semi-simple) and Kim's emailing occupied the early hours and was undertaken in our freshly painted sunny chic 18th Century apartment. Deciding to set off for the Seine via Blvd Beaubourg was un bon idee as we soon found ourselves revisiting the Pompidou Centre and it's colorful exterior escalators, lifts and massive ducts. On Sunday Beaubourg was teeming with a panoply of Parisians returned from Bastille Day visits, today the streets around Les Halle's and George P's legacy were relatively quiet.
As Kim's Elk necklace was receiving admiring glances from well dressed women, we knew we had met the mark in the fashion stakes. It is not so much a competition, as a requirement! Intricately folded scarves are being worn with t-shirts by all ages these early Summer days and couleurs are vivid. Every shop front screams "Soldes!!" and "discounted by 50-80%". A particular battle is taking place in Rue St Martin where sneaker wars are being waged ~ Vans are retailing for €65 & Converse for €45-€50. The lower prices are succeeding with Chucks on most feet!
Ah, fashion..... A pity it hasn't reached Russia!.
Our 5th floor apartment at 4 Rue Vaucanson is a pearler, centrally located within The Marais and serviced by Carrefour next door and the Cafe des Artes et Metiers a further 25 metres away. Our balcony, accessed through three sets of French doors, looks onto Rue Conte which is terminated by Brasserie Leonard but a spit away! Last night's salad dinner was taken at Leonard at a kerbside table next to a pair of paunchy Russian henchmen in garish Olympic track suits and non-designer stubble. Between cups of coffee, they took turns answering smoke-wreathed mobile phones with cheesy ringtones.
Daylight is in ample supply, so we did not feel cheated leaving this morning at 11.00am. Home-prepared petite dejeurner (semi-simple) and Kim's emailing occupied the early hours and was undertaken in our freshly painted sunny chic 18th Century apartment. Deciding to set off for the Seine via Blvd Beaubourg was un bon idee as we soon found ourselves revisiting the Pompidou Centre and it's colorful exterior escalators, lifts and massive ducts. On Sunday Beaubourg was teeming with a panoply of Parisians returned from Bastille Day visits, today the streets around Les Halle's and George P's legacy were relatively quiet.
As Kim's Elk necklace was receiving admiring glances from well dressed women, we knew we had met the mark in the fashion stakes. It is not so much a competition, as a requirement! Intricately folded scarves are being worn with t-shirts by all ages these early Summer days and couleurs are vivid. Every shop front screams "Soldes!!" and "discounted by 50-80%". A particular battle is taking place in Rue St Martin where sneaker wars are being waged ~ Vans are retailing for €65 & Converse for €45-€50. The lower prices are succeeding with Chucks on most feet!
Ah, fashion..... A pity it hasn't reached Russia!.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Bonjour from Cafe les Arts et Metiers
Bonjour from Paris!
It is 8.30am Sunday and we are currently sitting at Cafe des Arts et Métiers in the Marais wiping the remnant crumbs off our lap of the la petit dejeuners, both complet et simple. You wouldn't think that after more than 24 hours of travel, plus an early Saturday morning start, we could contemplate yet more food, but we have.
A second coffee is being consumed whilst awaiting our contact for our apartment in Rue Vaucanson. Cafe des Arts et Metiers is making a strong argument for our local cafe for the time we are here. Just ask for John et Kim.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Bonjour mes amis! It is that time of the decade again where Paris beckons and the blogosphere once again is enhanced by long and lurid tales of our continental adventures.
We arrive the morning after Bastille Day and will be conspicuous as the only Parisians not drunk or hungover. Hopefully our accommodation contacts will arrive on time.
Au revoir
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