Parting thoughts

The departures board at Charles DeGaulle airport in Paris is massive!

On my way out of Europe, I've made a few observations about the differences between Italy and France, at least as they relate to things that are important to me.

Driving: Italians must be first. They will do anything it takes to get in front of the car in front of them, even if it means passing while a large truck is coming the opposite direction. 

Italians hate to stop. They will beep and rev engines showing great displeasure, even when elderly women with hunched backs and canes take too long to cross the street. Only sissies use directional signals.

The French are polite drivers. They stop for people in crosswalks, and also for people who are not in the crosswalk. They give a friendly wave to indicate to the pedestrian that they are safe to go at their own pace. The French think Italian drivers are nuts and they are afraid to drive in Italy, or anywhere near Italy because there might be some Italians there. Score this one for France.

Coffee:

The system of ordering coffee in France is not standardized, so ordering a cafe au lait or a cappuccino will differ from one bar to the next. I find this troubling. For example: cafe au lait can come with hot milk added to the coffee, or with hot milk served on the side, or with cold milk served on the side. Cappuccino can be served with hot milk in the coffee, or can be black coffee topped with whipped cream. Yuck!

The French Press coffee maker is an awful tool and makes lousy, bitter coffee. The Italian Moka is a far superior product for making coffee. 

In Italy, when I order a cappuccino, I know exactly what I will receive, whether I am in Rome or a dinky town in Umbria. Score this one for Italy.

Wine:

Both countries are passionate about their wines and drink them often and with enthusiasm. In France, even the tiniest wine producer will have a hand-written sign at the end of the driveway indicating that they do tastings and direct sales, as long as someone is home, likely out in the garage. Wine towns have consortiums that offer tastings and sales and there are wine shops offering local products in most towns. It is easy to taste wine in France.

In Italy, in order to do a tasting, you must make a reservation in advance and pay, sometimes between 20-50€ depending on the type of experience offered. There are centralized wine tasting opportunities in many regions, but tasters can often be treated as if they are bothering the person in charge.

The French are snobbish about their wines. I was told by a French woman that if they were to bring a bottle of Italian wine to a dinner party, in France, that would be considered an insult. "No one drinks Italian wine here," I was told.

Italians just like good wine and are more likely to get excited about trying something new and different, from France or the U.S. 

Meat:

When the French cook meats, they typically saute, deglaze the pan and make a sauce to serve on top. They tend to overcook meats.

When Italians cook meat, they sprinkle it with salt and pepper, maybe rosemary, and either grill it over a wood fire or roast it. When you order a steak in Italy, it will be cooked to medium-rare perfection.

Score this one for Italy.

Outdoor markets:

Italians have devolved to selling 80% crap and 20% good-quality goods and produce. For the French, the market is where you can be assured of getting only the best quality. When products, other than foods are included, the products are usually of a higher standard, than those found in Italy.

Score this one for France.

Au revoir, until we meet again . . .

I love the look of old European train stations with their manificent glass and iron ceilings!

 . . . But after my experiences this morning, I don't know if I want to come back. I suppose I will calm down and re-think that position when I have enough distance from it.

I gave myself plenty of time to get to Bordeaux from my B&B in Eymet. It should take about 1:45 hrs to make the drive, so I left 3:15 hours early to give myself a cushion and time perhaps for a cup of coffee. So my GPS got me to the vicinity of the train station and on the road where the rental car company offices were located. I drove in the city traffic around the block a few times--all one way streets--and just could not find them. Frustrated, I pulled into a supermarket parking lot and called Europcar. I had hoped to get the local office directly, but was talking to a guy at a central dispatch office. He tried to be helpful and gave me the cross streets from Google maps.So I was off again with the new coordinates, but had absolutely no luck. Fifteen mins later, I found a parking spot near the train station, walked there,and looked for an info booth. Found one. The woman was very helpful, drew me a map and explained that I had to circle in front of the train station, take the bridge over the tracks and then the street behind the station to find the offices. Okay, I took the left to put me on the street in front of the Gare St Jean, but quickly panicked when I discovered I was driving on the trolley tracks!! OMG! I tried to find a way out of the lane, and ended up having to sneak past a group of people waiting for a bus. They parted for me like the water parted for Moses. Okay, that's a bit dramatic. I did get some really nasty faces. Okay, I was back on the street, but heading in the wrong direction. So I found a rotary, made the loop and started back on the route the info woman drew for me. Finally, I saw the signs. I parked the car and looked at the clock. I had been circling for nearly an hour. So, now I am at the station and my ticket receipt says I must use a kiosk to get my boarding card. Okay, I see the kiosks and begin the process, but when I am asked to insert the credit card I made the original purchase with, I discover the machines only take European chip cards. Fuck! Now, I look at the line to purchase tickets and it's 100 people deep. Fuck! I got in line then spotted a woman in uniform heading in my direction. I waved her down,told her my problem and she said she could help. So I got out of line, the transaction worked and I went to look at the monitor to see which track my train was on. Some good news: Track 1 is where I was standing. I asked someone where the first class cars would be and they indicated the far end of the Platform. I dragged my bags several hundred feet through the giant station and waited. The train came and I found, I thought, my coach number 3. Then I panicked when I saw that the train was going to Strasbourg, not Paris. Fuck! I found a train employee and asked him what to do. He tried to explain that the train splits in half at some point, with half going to Strasbourg, and the other end heading to CDG. So my car was all the way at the other end of the train. I had about 2 minutes to get there. I ran over some old ladies' toes with my luggage. I used my elbows to clear the way. I arrived at car 3 with seconds to spare. I was soaked in sweat and my heart was racing. So, I used every second of the extra 1.5 hours I allowed for a cushion. Au revoir, Bordeaux! It will be a damn long time before you find me in your city again. Well, okay, maybe sooner than that.

Dinner for one

For most of this week I stuck to restaurants that were close by and walkable or ate in my hotel, if only for convenience sake. Dinners in all cases were adequate, but, even in France, nothing I could really get excited about. Tonight I followed the same pattern, walking about 5-7 minutes from my B&B in Eymet, but the result was very different. And "Vive la Difference" as the French are known to say.

I wandered into the nicest restaurant in Eymet: Au Coeur d'Eymet, where I was greeted by the chef and shown to the completely empty dining room, which was elegant and lovely.

Tonight's menu, a three-course affair was explained to me by the chef, all in French, and though I did not catch every word, it all sounded pretty good. For wine, I started with a Bergerac merlot. The appetizer was a small salad, house smoked salmon in a pool of mustard sauce and two large shrimp, wrapped in crepes and quickly deep fried and served with a sauce "pistou." 

Fantastic! Since I was the sole diner, the chef came by frequently. He assumed I was British, like many of the visitors to this area, but once I told him "je suis Americaine," he was sooooo excited to have me in his place. When the entree came: pan seared fois gras atop a pan seared pork chop, topped with a sauce of mushrooms in a Chinese five-spice sauce, he told me I could not have another glass of the merlot, but I must have the Pecharmant rouge, which would  be a better pairing. He insisted. He was spot on as the spicy sauce required an equally spicy wine to seal the deal. We discussed terroir, minerality, spice,oak in both languages. It didn't matter--we both got it.

When I was done, and still the one and only diner, he asked if I'd like dessert. Non, I insisted. Saying that I would actually prefer another glass of the Pecharmant to end the night. The busboy cleared my place and returned shortly with more silverware. Then he returned with a plate of the tiniest bite-sized desserts--9 different tiny things. I happily nibbled at a couple of them until the chef returned and nearly pleaded with me to have dessert. "You must need dessert," he insisted. "I hope you are not worried about your shape," he continued as he worked at all my senses. Finally, "I made all of these myself," he said, and I knew I would be insulting him if I did not try his creation. Well, I made his night and agreed to have dessert. Wow! Fantastic!

It was actually coffee creme brulee, vanilla creme brulee, raspberry coulis topped with whipped cream and almonds, a small fruit salad, two flavors of homemade ice cream, rice pudding in a pool of caramel sauce. I had a few bites of each and that seemed to make him happy. By then we were friends. Comment vous applez vous? I asked him, remembering a little French 101. "Francois." He was checking on me every few minutes and telling me everything he knew about the U.S. He had actually visited New York and Washington DC and worked in Toronto for a bit.

When I was ready to pay my bill, he insisted I come to look at his kitchen. He showed me his smoker where he does his own smoked salmon, he showed me his patisserie station and his sautee station. When I said it was so organized and clean, he beamed from ear to ear. Then he took out his iPhone  and showed me photos of his pride and joy: his backyard beehives. Using our phones and Google translate, we discussed what type of flowers the bees get their nectar from, the different properties of his organic honey. He told me he gets 100 kilos of honey each year from his own hives. Then he ran into the kitchen and came back with a jar and a spoon. "You taste," he insisted. It was delicious. I asked him if he used his own honey in his desserts and he told me that he used no sugar at all. Only his own honey. He was so proud of it and I was so happy to be the one to validate his hard work. Sometimes good thing happen when you are all alone.

Why I come to France

It's the markets, always the markets that send me over the edge. I left my hotel this morning and strolled up to the church square to find all types of vendors in various stages of setting up their stalls. 

The fruits are always at their pinnacle of freshness. The veggies are sold still clinging to the soil that gave them life. From the tiniest radishes to the hulking courgettes, the market is where to come to see what's possible and likely if a farmer cares enough to put her best effort forward. 

I made a loop around the Excideuil market and found myself weeping. Some people do it at museums, in front of works of art. For me, food in a perfect state is a work of art. And passion. It was a good thing, really, that the soft rain was falling so I wouldn't have to explain to anyone why fresh veggies make me cry.  I continued my stroll, coming to the historic Les Halles covered market building, where only artisan producers of products the region is famous for can sell their wares. These fois gras and duck vendors have been coming to this hall for centuries. I would have paid a king's ransome at that moment for the profound pleasure of taking home a whole goose, a basket of wild mushrooms, or a fresh lobe of fois gras, to cook and savor in my own kitchen. Not to be.

But . . . 

A long car ride from Excideuil to Eymet and it was market day there too!! How fortuitous that I got a do-over and once again could sniff and ogle the tiny goat cheeses, in all stages of aging. Look at the flowers! Look at the gleaming fishes! I was on overload. So much so that I forgot where I parked my car. I convinced myself that I had parked on an east-west street, so walked up and down each one looking for a non-descript gray Toyota. Nope. I tried to retrace my steps back to where I turned off the main road. I looked at my phone to see where I took the first pictures upon entering the market square. That helped because I could see the church steeple in the pic and then lined myself up with the photo, made a 180-degree turn and . . . Voila . . . There was my car on a north-south street instead. 

Presents for me

French women take their beauty regimens very seriously and pass on their anti-aging secrets from one generation to the next. It's not hard to imagine that French beauty products are of very fine quality, smell delicious and make one's life feel more special. Over the past few years, I have discovered some French brands I like very much that are hard to come by or quite expensive in the States. Today, I went shopping for some beauty supplies to bring back home. They will be my daily reminders of the beautiful place I have been these past days.

Caudalie makes skin-care products using grapeseed oil and other parts of the grapes from Bordeaux vineyards. I bought two of their Vinosource Creme Sorbet moisturizer. From Nuxe, I purchased their hand and nail cream, which was a 2-for-1 special, important because my hands are always so dry in the winter. And from Klorane, I picked up a peony shampoo for sensitive scalps and also their famous Dry Shampoo with Nettles, which is a favorite product used by models. I have seen it mentioned in several fashion magazines. I am looking forward to trying it. Of course, the saleswoman also gave me some Caudalie samples. I left the shop feeling giddy and glad that I made a little time for me today.

Looking at houses: part two

Yesterday, I contacted a local real estate agency and told them I was in the area and wanted to see some properties. An agent named Emmanuel Petit emailed me back with a number of possibilities and I chose four houses to look at today.

Two of them were in the village of Excideuil and two were in small villages nearby. 

Both of the places in Excideuil were within 200-feet of the house I looked at this morning. In fact it was possible to see all of the houses at one time, if you stood in the right spot on the back street.

The house across the street from my original house was completely renovated. The owners surely spent a lot of money bringing the house to its present state, but what they did was to remove all the stone walls, beamed ceilings and architectural details that make these houses so special. It was without charm and just not for me.

The next house had a magnificent great room--all in stone--with soaring ceilings. I'm sure it was 400-500 years old. 

There was even a secret passageway behind a cupboard door (on the left) that led to a nearby tower. The garden was very large--a blank slate that needs a gardener to make it beautiful. 

Really interesting place, but very tiny, ugly kitchen and totally weird bathrooms--all would need complete re-dos.

In the small Village of Negrondes, which was quaint and peaceful, the house was immaculate, the garden and small barn were charming, but it was very dated with different floral wallpaper in every room, an unattractive kitchen and very old bathrooms. It did have a lot of potential for someone willing to invest a lot of time and effort. The town was darling, but way too quiet for me.

The next place, in the village of Tourtoriac, had a similar situation: old folks selling the place after living there for 50 years. It probably had not been modernized since the 1950s, but again the town was picture perfect and the garden just gorgeous. I just don't want to devote a year or more of my life to knocking down walls and either peeling off old wallpaper or paying (yikes!!) somebody else to do it. 

A serious day looking at houses: part 1

So the rain finally stopped long enough to take a nice walk this morning before my first appointment at 10 a.m with the caretaker of the first property I came to Excideuil to see. By the way, I learned that it's pronounced "Esh-eh-dwoy." Damn French!! I strolled along the commercial streets and took an inventory of shops. Here's what I counted: 2 bakeries, a butcher, a mini-market, wine shop, 4 pubs/cafes, 2 pharmacies, 2 yarn shops, laundromat,one hospital, one womans clothing, one mans clothing, 4 shoe stores, 5 hairdressers, 2 florists, an appliance store, hardware/paint, and a shop that sells cameras, computer equipment and fishing supplies. On the outskirts, a short drive away are a large garden supply and nursery, two supermarkets and a John Deere tractor dealership. That should be sufficient.

Some pix of the village:

Tina came to my hotel to pick me up. I was delighted to discover that she is British and speaks perfect English. What a relief!

She gave me a full tour of the house and then left me to my thoughts for two hours while I poked around and took lots of photos. 

Here are some of the garden:

Here are some of the house:

I decided that the house was in perfect move-in condition, but I would want to re-do all the floors on the first floor to unify them, then I want to modify the first floor half bathroom to add a shower stall and a stacked washer/dryer. The good thing is the electricity and plumbing is already in place for such a project. I would also want to upgrade the kitchen cabinets and get a full-size refrigerator. The second floor is perfect. Maybe I'd like to see a color other than white, but it's fine as is.  

The walled garden is charming, has plenty of space on the concrete patio for a table and chairs, and there are already a lot of nice plantings in place like 4 rose bushes, wisteria, irises, a fig tree, hydrangea, wigeila, bay tree, and one very large palm. There's also a large patch of spearmint (mojitos!!!) in one corner. It's such a peaceful and private spot with just enough to do to make it interesting. I think adding rectagonal box planters in terracotta on top of the knee walls surrounding the patio would be perfect for herbs, tomatoes and a few vegetables. It would also give the dining area a cozier feel.

So, Tina is wonderful! About 40 years old, three kids and a husband who's an electrician and plumber and knows all the local tradesmen. How convenient is that? We had a cup of tea together and I asked if she'd be interested in continuing to be caretaker and possibly add on responsibility for weekly cleanings if we do summer rentals. She was up for all of it. So, at least I know how I will manage everything from afar. That makes the decision easier on one front.

How do you say "dismal" in French??

No photos today--all is foggy and gray.

Oof! The weather is rotten, which is making it very uncomfortable and inconvenient for exploring small towns on foot. Every time I get out of the car for a stroll, I must wear a hat, scarf, hood, and carry an umbrella. That is, unless the wind is gusting hard enough to turn the umbrella inside out, in which case, I just deal with the wet hat.

Today was primarily a driving day as I headed south from the Loire Valley to the Dordogne region. I drove for 3 hours then stopped for lunch in the town of Sainte Yrieix-la-Perche. I like the looks of that name, but haven't a clue as to the pronounciation of the word that begins with Y. The plat du jour was a beef brochette with mashed potatoes, grilled veggies, including fennel, and a small salad topped with brie. Very good for 9.50€.

Back on the road for another half hour and I came to Excideuil. My, they sure like their X's around here. Stay tuned for the pronounciation key on that one too.

The town is livlier than Pontlevoy, and has two supermarkets, and a big garden shop on the outskirts of town as well as several shops in the village. After soaking myself walking around, I stopped at the Kitsch Kafe, which seems to be the hangout for middle aged British expats with nothing to do. The decor is cute and funky and it was nice to be greeted by a Brit and order my pot of tea in English. When I paid, the owner even gave me a loyalty card so I can get a free hot beverage after I buy 10. At least I know where to go to find some English speakers. I got a big kick out of listening to the conversations between the 5 or so Brits--it was like an episode of the Vicar of Dibley.

So I checked into my small hotel called Le Fin Chapon, which means "the last chicken."  I have a small, but comfortable room, about 10-percent larger than a monastic cell, on the top floor and a dinner reservation at 7. That means I must freshen up. more later.

Okay, back from dinner. Pleasant staff including a busboy who can't be more than 13, who wears his pants too high and looks very much like PeeWee Herman. He was practicing his five words of English on me and I was practicing my five words of French on him. This resulted in a lot of smiling and a new bond. The plat du jour was pumpkin bisque, followed by Boeuf Bourguignon. Pretty good. This is definitely a place for single business people as there were six solo diners and two couples when I was there. Good deal for the singles--just 62€ per night including breakfast and dinner.

So tomorrow I have a morning appointment to look at the house I came to see, then in the afternoon I will spend a couple of hours with a local realtor to see what else is available. 

Les Chateaux

The Loire Valley is famous for its countless chateaux. Some are just hulking gray ruins, looming over a town, while others are beautifully preserved and open to the public for tours. Prices are about 10€ per ticket wherever you go, and a visit in the off season will assure that you can have the place pretty much to yourself.

I headed out after a lovely breakfast at the patisserie down the block and my first destination was the chateau of Chenonceau. 

Known to be one of the most beautiful chateaux in the Loire, Chenonceau straddles the river Cher and allows for amazing river views from every window.

It is filled with sumptous fabrics, wallcoverings and some knockout floral arrangements in every room.

My favorite rooms were the kitchen and pantry, where the collection of shining copper cookware made me envious.

Next up was Chateau de Chaumont, which was lovely outside and had a high, commanding view of the river Loire. 

Not as pretty as Chenonceau, Chaumont has a gloomy aspect about it with bare stone walls, creaky floors. The rainy day didn't help. Outside was covered with lovely gardens and perky walkway sentinels that accompanied me around each turn. 

Chaumont is also host to the International Garden Festival, held twice a year in April and October.

I was hungry and getting tired, so I drove to the small city of Blois, also on the Loire. I found a small brasserie and ordered the plat du jour, which was cassoulet and a salad today for 9€. I also had a glass of rose' and the tab was 11€. 

Then I fought the wind and drizzle and found the chateau of Blois, which is right in the center of the historic district, up on a hill.

The chateau, in addition to featuring the stunning rooms and grand spaces of the royal family, also has a wing dedicated to architectural antiquities, like gargoyles.

Also a fine arts museum. At one point, with a full belly and a full day, I sat on a bench in the art museum and dozed off. 

After waking myself and heading back into the town, I stopped to buy a beret because it was so cold.

Here' a pic of Blois, seen from th other bank of the Loire.

Pontlevoy

The house is the tall one in the center of the photo with the red brick chimney.

It's pronounced "Pawn-leh-vwah," is what I learned from the charming Madame Frederique Girard, who happily greeted me at the house on Rue de la Cure with an armload of fresh flowers from her garden, which she proceeded to put into two vases as she chattered happily away in French about the house. 

I got a full tour of all 5 levels, including the interesting, but creepy wine cellar or "cave du vin."

Before arriving at the house, I had been driving around the area hoping to find a market, or restaurant, or bakery open, but, alas, on Sunday afternoon these sort of crazy ideas, like commerce, do not happen. So, I asked the affable Mme Girard where I might find some dinner and she got out a pen and drew me a very nice map of the center of Montrichard, about 10 minutes from here. It was only 4:00 and the restaurants do not open till 7, so I went for a walk around this cute, but sleepy little town.

Sleepy is putting it mildly! Comatose is really more descriptive. Too bad, because it's really a very pretty place. Many storefronts are empty, houses for sale. It looks as if everyone has decided to leave all at once. Mme. Girard assured me that the boulangerie would be open in the morning and that they also have very good quiche. Okay, sounds good.

The house is from the 16th century and is a cozy, two-story cottage, stuck to a four-story tower--the tallest house on the block. It has a livingroom, kitchen and dining room on the ground floor, then a very large master suite on the second floor. 

Beyond that, stacked up in the tower, are three more bedrooms, each of which has either a full or half bathroom with it. To get from one floor to the next, one must climb a narrow, ancient, wooden, winding staircase, with treads worn out from many centuries of feet. 

The house is certainly roomy enough, but for outdoor space, it has only a small terrace with rooftop views.

I love the streets in the neighborhood! The limestone facades and colorful shutters are very French and quite attractive. If only this town had a little life . . .

So, for dinner I took Mme Girard's advice and found the Centre Ville of Montrichard, where I found a cute restaurant called Procopio. The staff was friendly, the wine was good and my dinner consisted of a giant salad including duck rillettes, slices of warm ham, crostini with goat cheese and lovely, market-fresh lettuces. That was plenty by itself, but I had the duck confit and it came with some beautiful vegetables including zucchini, a roasted turnip, a piece of vegetable quiche, a roasted whole carrot and the best potato I have ever eaten. Potato? Best? Really? Seriously, this 'tater was peeled, maybe steamed or microwaved to cook the middle, then deep fried to crisp the skin. To serve it, they added a dollop of homemade, very oniony, tartar sauce. You'd have to just taste this to understand what's so good.

So now I am back at the house. It smells like I imagine a 400-year-old house would smell. Musty. Funky. Not bad really, just old. I think the darkness amplifies the mustiness. And the rain too. 

I have a feeling it will be a long night. Hopefully the ghosts have decided to leave town too. 

How all this started

It was Uzes. A small town in the Languedoc region, which I discovered by doing some research on the internet. I was looking for a village that had a busy outdoor market, very "French-looking," homes, lots of shops and restaurants and other places to see beyond the town. And here it was, in a charming rented house, last December, fully living up to all my expectations of Frenchness and quaintness with great food and a market square full of farmers selling their colorful, perfectly formed and stacked products under a flutter of umbrellas. It was in those first few moments after we arrived that I was hooked. I thought at first I was just swept up in all the promise of a romantic vacation, but no, it has become so much more than that. It's become a vision that guides my future and is with me in every decision I make.

For years I have looked at Real Estate websites, collected magazines from immos in places I've visited, watched strings of episodes of House Hunters International on TV. Always just a hobby. But now that I have discovered France and it has so thoroughly gotten under my skin, this hobby has become a full-blown obsession. 

Knowing we were coming to Europe in October, I made plans after our trip to Spain to join Linda in Tuscany for a week at language school. Then I found a potential property in the Loire Valley on the web. I saw that it was roomy, fully furnished, in a village with a market and had a large outdoor terrace. The owners, I discovered, were American, professors at Yale. I called to inquire and the answers I got sounded pretty good. I asked if I could see it.

Then a few weeks later, on the France Property Shop website I came across the cutest cottage--yellow with white shutters and a walled garden, right in the middle of a market town in the Dordogne. My heart raced. I'm sure my face flushed and I felt a rush of energy that told me I was on to something good. So I wrote to the agent and received more information and then made plans to see it.  

So now, I had made plans to see two homes in France and I had no plans to visit France. A small problem. I fixed it and told Joe what I was up to. He wasn't exactly thrilled that I would be away for another week, but he asked me what I thought his advice to me would be and I told him "You'd tell me to follow my dream." 

And that's just what I am doing.