Alsace



The canal surrounding Strasbourg's old town

After yesterday's long travel day from Nice, we're now in Strasbourg and spent today wandering it's pleasant pedestrian streets. It suddenly feels like fall, and now that we're in an area where the weather is cooler, the interiors are cosier. We've visited some of our first winstubs (local restaurant/bars), sampling as much of the local fare as we can handle.

While the regional specialities are delicious, Alsacian food is not exactly light. We're trying to pace ourselves but being terribly unsuccessful.  A few of the flavours we've tried so far today have included savory onion tart, foie gras, smoked sausage, pretzels, and struesel. And a quince & plum tart. Plus some local sweets (fruit jellies and marzipan confections).  And of course, some of the local Alsacian wine (although apparently the beer here is good too: a Kronenberg brewery is just down the road).

The cuisine highlight, however, has been introducing Scott to tarte flambee - somewhat similar to pizza but so very, very different. I first tried a tarte flambee during my post-university travels, and have never forgotten - a paper thin crust topped with a light sour cream, chopped onions and ham or bacon. But it manages to defy reproduction based solely on my unadequate description, so I've never really had it properly since. After sampling a few, Scott is in on the game, and we're ready to give it a go when we get home.



Not the most attractive example, but a photo of tarte flambee:
this one with the addition of local Munster cheese

We're back at the hotel and Scott's swearing behind me as he wrestles down a giant map. Tomorrow, we're going to rent another car and tackle French roads once more, this time along the Alsacian wine route, filled with medieval towns and, word has it, vineyards.

A vacation from our vacation

The Cote d'Azur is lovely. But.

It isn't the quiet, sleepy kind of coastline we're used to. As an antidote to the hustle, we packed our bags and moved, about 25 kilometres to the east, and a couple more kilometres to the north. Here, on a hill overlooking the coast, yet a million miles away from the crowds and the chaos, we have spent the last three days at a charming chambre d'hote, or B&B, called Porte d'Attache.

It's a villa located equidistance from Antibe and Cannes, which we reached by rental car from Nice. Partly because we've been charmed by the villa (and it's congenial owners, and it's sunny pool...) and partly because we're terrified when driving the French road system, we haven't ventured far - but have perhaps enjoyed ourselves the most of our vacation thus far (except for the whole aforementioned driving part).

We've spent most of the last two days beside the pool, occasionally plunging into it's cool waters. (we use the widely accepted explanation of "We're Canadian," to anyone everyone expressing surprise at our decision to swim when the day is 'just' 25 C)

Occasionally we leave to stock up on supplies at the Antibes market, or share a light dinner by the port at Cannes -- but mostly, we just soak up the rays and read Agatha Christie novels. It's been a couple of perfect days for the end of summer.

Tomorrow we leave behind the sun and the sea and head north. The last chapter of our vacation will be in Alsace; a region on the German border, boasting a rich history (like all of France) and really good wine (like all of France). Plus sausage. A perfect recipe, we hope!

A villa and it's gardens

From our hotel room, we can see across the Villefranche harbour to St. Jean Cap Ferrat, home to the rich - the kind that don’t need to be famous. On the peninsula is a beautiful villa with extensive gardens, commissioned by Beatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild and bequeathed to a public trust when she died in 1934: as such is now open to the public. As today dawned beautifully and as the villa is within eyesight, we decided to walk over to pay a visit.



Hamming it up at Villa Ephrussi

Now normally I’m not much of a garden person. But these! Amazing. Lush and green and fragrant, filled with interconnecting paths that lead from one theme to another (Italian, Exotic, Provencal, French…) we wandered for over an hour, finally ending back at the villa. The villa is also open to the public and filled with Ephrussi’s art collection, but the rooms preserved with her over-the-top antiques furniture left me sneezing. 

The path around St Jean Cap Ferrat

After a pleasant light lunch on the villa’s patio, we started homeward. But curiosity lead us further down Cap Ferrat, and one turn lead to another, leading to another… until we had walked for over an hour along the narrow path that lines the waterfront, to the lighthouse at the far end. It was a gorgeous walk, but now we were a long way from our hotel (and it’s beckoning pool). Eventually finding a staircase that lead to up the road, we cut back across the peninsula’s spine, past well-concealed villas hidden by hedges and high gates.

Just as we arrived back in Villefranche sur Mer late afternoon, an otherwise blue sky was suddenly obscured by a giant thundercloud. My pool time suddenly seemed less appealing, so Scott’s request jumped the priority queue: ice cream, which we savoured at a cafe in the village square.

The thundercloud, after a few threatening rumbles, has since moved on, and the sun is back on the harbour. I think it’s now time for a swim.

After a week of spectacular weather, we awoke to overcast skies.  Time then, for more exploration. Villefranche sur Mer is a tiny fishing village less than 10 kilometres from Nice, charming yet touristy - largely due to the many cruise ships that make this small harbour a port-of-call (four have anchored since we arrived yesterday). We boarded the train to Monaco-Monte Carlo, about 20 minutes away, joining throngs of cruise ship passengers headed the same direction.

If you want to see where the rich let it all hang out, this is it. The Monaco harbour was absolutely stacked with shiny luxury boats – a large commercial yacht convention was in town and international brokers and leasers were out showing their best.

Momentarily distracted by the dazzle, we couldn’t lose sight of the reason we had come to Monaco: lunch. We retreated up the hill and into the Cafe de Paris, adjacent to the Casino Monte Carlo, with a history dating back over more than 100 years. The exuberant interior from the 1930s is a natural draw for tourists but the room is also popular with regulars, and we had much amusement watching locals trade pleasantries with the staff.

We returned to Villefranche mid-afternoon and, despite the bruised-looking sky, I was determined to spend time by the pool (the weather is still fairly warm, even without sunshine). Scott and I trouped out to the pool deck and had the space completely to ourselves.



waiting for rain?

Later, after the cruise ship passengers had all returned to their boats and the village had resumed its quieter feel, we made the short walk down to the crescent of restaurants that line the harbour. A few light sprinkles on our way warned of rain, and just as we chose a restaurant, the skies opened up into a full, drenching shower. We sat alone outside among dozens of empty tables, listening to rain fall on the canvas cover, eating plates of fish and mussels – relaxed and content.

Farewell, Paris

We wrapped up our week in Paris with a final day of exploring the sites, starting close to home. At the end of our street, just a few block away, was Centre George Pompidou - the modern art museum housed in a shockingly modern building, dropped at the centre of a medieval neighbourhood. 

To encourage my enjoyment of a little art and culture, Scott promised me lunch at George, the fancy restaurant at the top of the Pompidou. Good thing he did, because the first temporary exhibition was far enough from my taste that I might have left to find another patisserie instead. 60’s artist Arman was on display, who had an eye-rollingly egoistical penchant of smashing pianos and burning furniture. Yikes: maybe avant-garde 50 years ago, but now it just seemed like a self-absorbed cliché.  Anyway, I relaxed once we reached the permanent collections with ‘safe’ bets like Matisse and Picasso, plus other artists who were alternatingly interesting and irritating.

Later that day, we gave Paris a proper goodbye with a champagne tasting, set on a cruise along the Seine.

Over a whirlwind hour, our guide/sommelier of our small group of 20 could barely keep up with the commentary of both the scenery and the flavours; “Here we have a dry champagne made in the brut methode, you can taste a bit of pomme verte! Over there, you have the Musee d’Orsay! And the Louvre! And Notre Dame!” -waving a champagne bottle the whole while.

Suitably happy, we disembarked below the Eiffel Tower and wandered into the posh neighbourhood sandwiched between the tower and Les Invalides, an area we had stayed in before. We followed our own footsteps from years before, arguing about which restaurant we had previously visited – and stopping at the one I was sure we had visited, with a view of the one Scott was certain we had.

We’ve now traded Paris for Villefranche sur Mer, just outside Nice (happily, a general strike across France didn’t interrupt our travels). Over the next couple days, we may explore the Cote d’Azur a little bit: then again, we may just stay by the pool.

Faire le shopping (see also: retail therapy)

This is a city with some pretty over-the-top excesses. Architecture that looks like gilded pastries, pastries that look like expensive jewels, and jewels that look like, well, a million euros. And I've spotted plenty of simple leather handbags that I know full well cost more than some cars.

Along with plenty of window shopping, Scott and I have found some small luxuries to bring home: a scarf for him, a dress for me, and a visit to the classic Parisienne parfumerie, Annick Goutal, to try some of the scents that can't easily be found at home.

After our little spending spree, it was time to recover with a drink. What better way to continue with the rococo theme than with a rejuvenating visit to the famed patisserie, Laduree? At their location just off Place Madaleine, the tea room was created in 1862, and is another over-the-top Paris room with a frescoed ceiling and gilded mirrors.

Later, we decided to introduce a little smoke-and-mirrors to the idea that Paris is all money, all the time. It's time to visit the tiny Musee de Contrefaction - the fakes museum. It's run by the manufacturer's union who, unsurprisingly, warn darkly of the dangers of counterfeit goods. There are the expected luxury items(handbags and watches), the 'why bother' items (Bic pens and Lea & Perrins sauce), the strange (rose bushes) and then the downright dangerous stuff (booze, car parts, viagra...) Overall, though, my favourite had to be the (one of many) takes on Dom Perignon:

Cafe Culture

After hours of wandering the streets of this vast metropolis, one's feet are bound to be sore. But luckily, there's an easy cure. One of the best activities in Paris is to simply sit down and soak up the atmosphere. Almost every corner has a local cafe - choose a seat, order a drink and watch the world go by.

Yesterday I took Scott on a  long walk, slightly off the beaten path, to the Canal St Martin neighbourhood (remember Amelie, skipping stones? There.) Unfortunately my sense of place was slightly off and I ended up walking Scott down a pretty sketch stretch of street first. I told Scott it was a taste of the 'real' Paris and he said if that was the case, he prefered the fake. We got back on the metro at Belleville (bringing reminders of another French movie, Triplets of Belleville), reversed two stops and started again, this time turning hard left at the right place.

Our adventure was perfect for a Sunday, when most shops (and museums) were closed and many Parisiennes had also chosen the Canal for a sunny excursion (there was even a couple guys fishing tho' God only knows what lives in that murky water). After a wander that included stops for cafes and boutiques, we ended at Parc de la Villette, a kind of exhibition grounds (think PNE or CNE) where I found Scott a much-requested ice cream.

Le fooding

We're in Paris for a week, and settling in as if it were home. Our little apartment is outfitted with a kitchen and, while I wasn't sure we would use it for more than making coffee, it's lovely to have the space and tools on hand. About a 5 minute walk away is a bustling and tempting market street (Rue Montorgueil) which is quickly becoming our evening source of sustenance, filled with restaurants, cafe/bars, butchers, bakers, chocolatiers and other gastronomic temptations.

The food in Paris, as you would expect, is ridiculously beautiful and temping. And on vacation, inappropriate food choices are temporarily called 'indulging.' We've been indulging a lot.

Yesterday, for example, we stopped for a mid-morning breakfast at a trendy cafe, not far from the Jardin Luxembourg (my favourite park in Paris, save for the desperate-looking runners limping and shuffling past on a Saturday morning. The French never were good at le fitness). Anyway, this particular 'bakery-cafe' had standard breakfast fare. We ordered the Brioche Ancienne, which was a full loaf of the most amazing buttery rich bread I've ever had - accompanied by more butter and jam plus two cups of thick, rich drinking chocolate (plus a pain au chocolate for Scott). Delicious.

But none of this is the inappropriate of which I speak. THAT came when I topped off this already filling breakfast with a giant, saucer-sized maracron aux frambroises - rasberries and chantilly cream sandwiched between two almond meringues. For breakfast.

We cancelled our lunch plans and didn't eat again until late evening, when we again abandoned restaurants for simpler fare at 'home' and the classic combination of bread, cheese and wine.

I'm determinedly using my lousy French to engage shopkeepers in conversation, which is how I chose these three cheeses, as a riff on a theme. All chevre, we have here the science experiement that results when the same kind of cheese is forgotten for varying periods of time. From left, frais ('fresh,' probably with a charcoal rind), demi-sec (semi-dry... I'm guessing about a month old), and sec (dry, looking unholy and uglier than any unrefridgerated food should be).

Despite appearances, all were fairly mild - and delicious. Scott prefered the fresh and softer version and I liked the old mouldy hockey puck the best.

Paris in the Fall

It's early Saturday morning and Scott and I are in the midst of  the fits and starts of mild jet-lag, which strikes at its worst at 4am, coincidentally just around the time drunk Parisiennes are wandering home singing.

We're happily ensconced for the week in a petit apartment (tres petit, and at the top of three rickety flights of stairs), equidistant from Les Halles and the surrounding pedestrian market streets; and Le Marais, one of Paris' oldest neighbourhoods with a small-scale medieval layout, deep and varied history and fantastic shopping :)

Yesterday, our first full day in the City of Light, we chose to be all cultural-like and headed for the Musee Carnavalet in the Marais, a museum devoted to the history of Paris. It's a charming museum located in two old mansions (or 'hotels'), with a collection chock-full of revolutionary oil paintings of death and destruction. Luckily, there's also some beautiful manicured courtyards, some cool 18th century signage and quirky street-scene dioramas which keep the session from getting too bleak.

Later, we took in more planned culture of a different kind: a wine tasting, held a few blocks from the Louvre in an underground wine cellar professed to be constructed on the orders of one of the King Louis - XIV or XV, not sure which. Later on, they took out the wine and locked up prisoners there (Paris does have some bleak history, I'll give you that).

But onto the wines: on a whirlwind tour of this country's vineyards, we tasted and noisily slurped from six different regions (Champagne, Sancerre, Burgundy, Bordeaux, Rhone and one other I can't remember after five glasses.) Our chatty guide, a Montreal-born sommelier and winemaker, was charming and knowledgeable and I think we even learned a few things.

We emerged from the underground cavern into an early evening, and wandered across the courtyards of the Louvre towards a quiet sunset. And then remembered that it was the day of our 5th anniversary. Spent perfectly.

Vacances

School's back in... but we're heading out! It's our turn for vacation, and Scott and I are headed to France, on an itinerary that will take us from Paris to Nice to Strasbourg.

September is my favourite month in general, but also my favourite month for vacation: there are fewer tourist crowds to compete with, the weather's still clear, and city life has picked up again.

I've planned a few activities for our trip, but Scott's keeping me on the straight-and-narrow by ensuring we mostly take care of two primary vacation goals: wandering aimlessly, and sitting still. I think I can get on board with that.

Fondo Fondue

This past Saturday was the inaugural GranFondo bike race between Vancouver and Whistler. Close to four thousand bicyclists strapped on their helmets and rode 122 kilometres of more-up-than-down along the Sea-to-Sky highway, until now a route too narrow and winding to consider such an event.

Our friends Nicola, Lisa and Darren all completed the route in a very respectable 5 to 6 hour timeframe, while James and his team, the "Fun Hogs," won first prize in their category for finishing in a jaw-dropping 3 hours 41 minutes. Here's James and family at the finish line:

Scott and I, failing to possess the lungs and legs that such an endeavor requires, lent out our services as support staff: shuttling vehicles between points, cheering on riders at the finish line, and fixing up a hearty dinner for a circle of finishers.

For dinner, a little bit of protein and alliteration was in order and so Scott conceived of the first annual "Fondo Fondue." Cheese, bread, meat and veggies, good wine and good company gave us much to celebrate.

Mountain Adventures

Looking down into Taylor basin, originally uploaded by Janamel.

This past weekend Scott and I joined a group of friends for a getaway to a beautiful lakeside log cabin at the edge of perhaps one of the most overlooked set of mountains in British Columbia, the South Chilcoltins.

Relatively quick access into alpine territory and miles and miles of singletrack trail is the draw here. We spent a day climbing by mountainbike into the Spruce Lake Protected Area, and traversing across ridgetops before descending into wildflower meadows. Mild temperatures and clear weather made the climbs less arduous and the views more spectacular.

Spectacular, but still really hard work. Towards the end of our 10 (!) hour day, spent pushing our bikes as much as on them, we lost the descent trail as the terrain melded high meadow with treeline. For over an hour, we followed light paths which led to nowhere, only to return to a higher point to try again.

Finally, we found a trail that was most certainly the right path, only to find that a winter avalanche had knocked over dozens of trees and blocked the trail. No wonder it was so disused above! We struggled through a few hundred meters of thick bush before reaching the clear trail below. Finally, we could continue through the ups and downs of the marked trail.

I'm not in the shape I should be, and exhaustion hit me before the others. The descent was a bit of an exercise in frustration, but eventually (and much to my relief) we came to the end. The day was well worth the effort, though, and I have a renewed commitment to spend more time on my bike, with rewards like days like these.