Champagne: staying dry

I wake up to a misty wet landscape. 

 

 

 

It's more than alright -- it's grand! If I hadn't wanted a gray day on this trip up to now, I'm in a different place today. Oh, am I in a different place! I feel a year has passed since I snipped lilies at the farmette.  (Ed tells me the garden looks great even without my care. Is that a lesson for me going forward? Eh, what does he know!)

Yes, I will take a wet walk -- it's so beautiful here and who knows if and when I will next see vineyards. But, too, staying in my room, looking out, writing -- that seems pretty dreamy to me as well. I'll do both!

And here's something I have been mulling over: what happens to Ocean when I travel? People tell me I am more reflective. True enough -- I write in spurts, all day long, all the way until midnight, sometimes longer. Is that a good thing? How do readers respond to this abundance of text, of thoughts? I had shut off comments long ago (best decision ever!), so I do not know. I have never written with the purpose of increasing readership and the reverse is true as well -- I have never written with a fear of losing readers either. I check my numbers ever few months out of curiosity. I cant really explain surges (this summer!), or plateaus and honestly, I dont much care. This is the beauty of not monetizing Ocean -- my well being doesn't depend on how many people tune in. [But, I do admit that when I hear from a reader via email, I am delighted. I feel then that I am walking alongside others on this planet, even complete strangers. It's a great feeling. Thus my connection to you, however ephemeral, is indeed important.]

I always ask myself what will happen to my writing once I return and get swallowed up by all those things that fill my day. Kids, growing plants, cleaning, cooking, reading, walking with Ed, searching endlessly for good free movies in the evening with him -- hours well spent. Writing is just a small part of my day then. I wish it weren't so, but then again aren't I more alive when I am engaged, rather than just writing about being engaged?

Such luxury to have the time and space, here, in Champagne, to think about this!

Champagne. Where everything is about the bubbly drink. They put a foot pillow by the bed at night (no kidding!) with the words "have a bubbly night." I am sure there are people here who do not come for the wine (me for example, but listening in to breakfast conversations, I know there are others), but if you want to really distance yourself from bubbles and grapes grown for wine, you'd not come to this place. Me, I love it despite my new basically alcohol free phase. This is actually quite a big surprise for me: having been a lover of wines for many decades, having done wine tours and samplings, treasured special wines in my wine cooler at home, having always looked forward to my evening wine ritual and my kir vin blanc aperitif when in France, I thought I'd miss it if I quit. Shockingly, I miss the ritual, the expectation of pleasure, but not the drink itself. Frankly, I love that with 0% alcohol wines and beers, I dont have to watch myself with how much I drink. Again, it's the psychology of the thing -- I rarely want a second one. But I know I can have it and it wont matter. Funny how our thoughts shape our well being!

 

So, breakfast: predictably, it's a high class act. I dont bother with the a la carte offerings, I just stick with the buffet. There's plenty, including my beloved Bircher Muesli! I have to start making it back home, it is so very good! 

(ate every last bit of everything; okay, with the exception of the jam!)

 

Again, I look around at my breakfast compadres. At the table next to mine, there's a couple, maybe a decade younger than me. American. I like her. Every time I catch her eye she smiles. Do you know how few people do that??

 

 

 

Back in my room now, I take stock. I'd been reading up on the hotel -- they re-imagined it about seven years ago and it exudes that freshness that comes across when you put in place new ideas on how to decorate a room. 

(the bedroom has a white wall, but then the opposite one, by the bed, has vines and flowers morphing from pale cream to the yellow color of champagne.)

 

 

Sure, I could stay and read, write, do quiet things right there in that lovely room with a view, but I am just itching to go for a walk. Through the rows of grapes, but also to the forest. Champagne has beautiful woodlands. I want to walk among trees. Maybe take a forest bath... (What is that? Roughly, it's when you pause and employ all your senses to take in the forest. In fact, today I will have done so, even tasting, ever so lightly, the dew I walked on.) 

 

("But madame, it is raining lightly!" So what? You have umbrellas.) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(The forest is called "Foret Domaniale de Hautvillers")

 

 

 (from a hill, looking down at it)

 

 

I'm rarely (ever?) fearful here, in France, when walking through a forest. It feels safe. With or without people.  

 

(the one pair of hikers I saw - not necessarily from my hotel -- this is a GR trail that winds its way through the region) 

 

 

 

 

 

 (out in the vineyards again)

 

 

The hamlet of Champillon is just ahead of me. I walked through some of it yesterday. I'll walk through more today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 (The French rate their towns and villages for flower content; I wonder if you get a tax break for growing more flowers so that you can help put the place on the three star list?)

 

 

(Champagne House Autreau) 

 

 

 

 

 

(The smaller scale of  Champagne Bertrand Devavry)

A care is idling on the street just a few steps further up. This kind of car -- one that I see all too often in Champagne:

 

 

Those are the buyers. The tasters. The champagne fans. But again, it's not what the region itself is like. People live here -- though the streets are empty, probably for one of two reasons: we're still in the month of vacations, and, too, this is such a small hamlet that there isn't anywhere you'd especially want to walk to. I see no stores, no Tabac, certainly no bakery, though I haven't canvassed all the streets! But people do live and work here. And maybe stay on into their retirement.

 

 

(even the mailbox is on vacation!)

 

 

(resembling a racoon: a cat that I met yesterday and today; he is not on vacation) 

(neither is he...)

 

(no kids yet on the "school path")

 

(speaking of colorful...)

 

 A somewhat impatient Frenchman gets out of the idling car and comes up to me. In French he asks -- do you live here? On the one hand, a compliment! I look French. French women present themselves well. I passed the "not a slob test!" On the other hand -- what is he thinking? I'm with my big camera. How likely that I'm just out for a stroll with it? I admit that I do not live here. He tells me -- I just stopped to buy some champagne. They're all closed. I smile with and give him what I would call a most patronizing smile: monsieur, it's one o'clock. Lunchtime of course. Geez, even I know that!

 

(I once asked Ed if maybe we should put up a rooster weather vane, like in France...that project didn't go anywhere)

 

 

(Older houses remain, waiting for some TLC)

 

 

I am back now at the hotel. I hardly used the umbrella. Deeply satisfied, I go to my room. It is indeed lunchtime, but I'm not about to go eat at the hotel bar when I have a free sweet treat leftover from yesterday's welcome, and all the coffee I want at my disposal. And there are those mirabelles... So, lunch is "at home."  

 

 

 

Yes, I could have spent the rest of the day in my room. But, included in that lofty price of that room is access to the Spa. I'm not going to pass that up! Especially since in the late afternoon, even on this gray and somewhat drizzly day, there is no one in the large and beautiful lap pool.

 

 

There was a time when I could swim without stopping. I'd quit from boredom, never from tiredness. These days? Five laps and I'm more than done! Ed tells me later that it's like anything else: use it or lose it. Well okay, but there are too many things that should be used and not lost with age. Who has the time?

I make use also of the steam room (empty!) and the sauna (also empty!). In my Norway hotel the sauna was packed. But then, that was their habit. In Champagne you're here to visit the Houses and Caves. Of champagne.

I'm asked if I want a facial. I hesitate. Last time I had one my face puffed out from all that product. But I've read that the Spa staff in this place is extraordinarily skilled and besides, they insist that I should try their "clay mask." Clay on my face? Sounds good to me!

But I clearly do not understand the new technology and the Spa vocabulary. A clay mask here is a contraption that they put on your face -- a solid mask made perhaps of clay, plugged in, so that your face is in some way irradiated, or heated, or red lighted. I can't say that I enjoyed that portion of the facial. Five minutes of piercing light (you have to keep your eyes closed throughout, but even without that directive, I would have had them shut tight out of sheer anxiety, of the kind where I'm thinking "how soon is this going to be over, and why are my eyelids the color of fire, and am I going to get cancer from this?"). The skin specialist asked me how I wanted my face to feel or look tonight before starting in on the washing, toning, masking, massaging, and creaming of it. Ha! Madame, I could not care less how it looks tonight! I'm sure the one or two women who have smiled at me at mealtime are not doing so because of the radiance (or lack thereof) of my face. I just want it to look healthy, I tell her.

To her credit, unlike with my previous facial (five years ago), it did not look worse than before she started in on it. In fact, it did have a healthy glow to it. Maybe it is why another woman smiled at me at dinner. But probably not.

 

And yes, soon after I finished with all this (and sipped some melon vitamin concoction that they swear will be good for me, and since they function under EU standards, I know at least that it wont be bad for me), and after I explained to her why I cannot possibly buy the creams that she claimed would be better for my skin than the one I'm using (not that she dissed that one, since it is also French, and they leave you samples of it each night on the bed) -- after all this, it was time for dinner.

I again eat in the Brasserie rather than the Michelin starred place that's also located on the premises. This time it was exactly the opposite of yesterday: the appetizer (fried gambas, or large shrimp) and main course (cod) were good but not exceptional, and the dessert was really yummy.

 

 

 

I looked around me. Nearly everyone is paired up, except I do see two families -- one British with three young kids and one American with two girls.

 

 

I suppose the French would not tolerate tablets or phones at the table, but how is allowing screens different from letting kids keep themselves busy otherwise? Besides, the French have this whole training program as early as in elementary school (maybe even preschool) on how you should expect to be bored at the table, and you should smile through the worst food imaginable (according to your youthful untrained taste buds). We, on the other hand, tell kids to banter with family and friends and eat whatever suits them, with ketchup on everything if that's their pleasure. Letting them read a phone at a restaurant, or listen to some video clip? I'd do it in a heartbeat if I got peace in return, especially in France. 

 

It's rare that I leave France from a place other than Paris and so it feels unreal that tomorrow I should be traveling back home. It's not a simple retreat: I have to cab over to the train station, then catch the train to CDG Airport. From there, a late afternoon flight to Minneapolis, and finally, a very late flight home.

But that's tomorrow. Tonight, after dinner, there's this:

 

with so much love... 

 

Champagne without the bubbles?

Good morning, Paris! 

 

 

Decadent leisure. Three, nearly four days in Paris, without an agenda, without schedule. It's like stepping into a life that's not yours for a while and enjoying the freshness of it all. The absence of demands on your otherwise full life. And in Paris! Without worry about unexpected expenses (I know what each day costs, I've planned for it), unexpected surprises hitting you at every turn (travel is usually full of those). Ed would say this is the most boring vacation imaginable. I would disagree.

I do note that I've not visited a single museum while here. I've done no culturally enriching visits at all. I nearly got tickets to the David Hockney exhibit, but I hesitated. I do not like going all the way to the Fondation Louis Vuitton where his art is displayed. It takes nearly an hour to get there by a combo of metro and bus. In the alternative, it's nearly a two hour walk from my hotel. By the time I decided I should go anyway, all tickets were sold out. Good! It would have cut into my goal for this week, which is to have no goals, no imperatives, no schedules.

I'm deeply satisfied for many reasons but perhaps the most important one is that I have finally figured out how to "get away from it all" at my age. It has been at once a beautiful and frustrating journey to get to this point. What worked for me when I was younger is dubiously fitting for a woman traveling solo in her seventies. Mountain hikes in any season, alone? The altitude messes with me and feeling breathless up there in the middle of nowhere is not exactly stress-free. Discovering new cities? Good for a day and then the noise just gets to me. Small wonder that seniors choose to cruise, except that I am not a cruise person in any way, disliking boats, disliking someone else deciding for me where I should be, disliking forced socialization.

Being in Paris frees me. Someday, I'll have depleted my savings and run out of strength to make the trip, but for now, this is my place, my slice of heaven, right here at the Hotel Baume, in Paris.

Except that today I am leaving. Paris is a city and in the end, I need rural breathers. I've scoured the area around Paris pretty thoroughly and decided this time to return to one I had last visited days after 9/11, with a tour group that I had put together myself. I was their guide, their booking agent, their driver. We were saving for daughters' college expenses and having someone else pay for my travels was the only way I saw myself going to France. Talk about overly ambitious ploys! I put together two such group tours (of Americans in France) and then wisely gave up. Folly knows no bounds when you are young-ish! 

Because my destination is within a half hour speed train ride of the airport, I thought the appropriate thing to do would be to stay there (rather than slog back and forth to Paris) until my flight back home the day after tomorrow. Slog once and be done with it. Paris is not easy to get in and out of if your medium suitcase suddenly gained weight with bottles of 0%, books, honey (thank you, Bee!), and who knows what else.  

So where to today? With some trepidation, I booked a two day stay in the region of Champagne. You can see right away the problem here: with rare exceptions, I've basically given up on alcohol and though I know Moët Hennessy (a premier investor in champagne) has recently acquired a sparkling wine producer in France (it's called French Bloom and you can buy it in the US), this is not what the Champagne houses are making in the terroir of the region. Isn't going to Champagne tempting the devil?

I haven't an answer yet. The reason I booked my two nights there is that despite my turning away from drinking wine, I still do like vineyards, and especially hilly ones. There aren't many within an arm's throw of Paris, easily reachable by a TGV (train a grand vitesse).

I had additional trepidation about finding a hotel where I could spend two nights. Champagne, as a region, is easy enough to get to, but finding a sweet hotel that looks right at the vineyards is hard. In all my years of searching, I've only come across one and I discounted it because it is too big, too modern, too champagne obsessed. And yet, that's where I'm going today. It would be too expensive, but last minute rooms were just under the wire okay. And so I booked. It's a one-off. I can't see myself doing this again. Staying in France at a somewhat resorty type spa place is just not my thing. I like small and personal and filled with people who, like me, are on a budget. But still, visitors rave about this place and in all honesty, my correspondence with them has been exceptionally warm and personal. So, I am off to Champagne. Just without the bubbles.

First, of course, breakfast at the Baume.

Then I finish packing. What a chore! I'm wondering how the hell I'll be lifting this bulging suitcase on and off the train. I'd say never again except that's about as reliable a promise as Putin saying he will no longer aggress against the Ukraine and other nations.

And then I leave my suitcase downstairs with the reception (such terrific people they are; one is new, but the other two are old timers)...

(so prompt with her email responses, and always with a warm smile and a few sweet words) 

 

 

(he, too, is prompt in answering my inquiries and he positively bursts with enthusiasm when I return for another visit)

 

 

... and take a short walk to the Jardins. 

 

 

(she may not be French but she's got the French habits down pat)

(a Polish tour group... I admire them for doing this -- following a guide who speaks to them through earbuds all day long)

(a Jardins gardener... gotta love his hair!)

(to the side, two men, practicing some form of movement in the quiet of the gardens)

(further down, two women, practicing some form of movement in the quiet of the gardens)

(she noticed that the gardener's clippings still had some life in them...)

(she agreed; so did I!)

(the clippings came from this bed; the purple Heliotrope had the most intense sweet fragrance!)

I actually do have a purpose to this walk -- I saw posters of a small exhibition in the Orangerie of the park. It's of unknown (well, to me anyway) artists, and it's free, so I thought I'd pop in, given that it's a five minute walk from my hotel.

At the gallery I admire the canvases and poetry of Rolf Saint-Agnes. The artist himself is at a table, selling posters of his paintings, and one of the exhibition.

 

 

In fact, I admire his work so much that I want to purchase a poster. The one advertising the exhibition. But I know that rolled up posters without a hard tube get smashed, and anyway, I have literally not an iota of room in my suitcase. Still, I could carry the roll, no? What the heck. I buy it. He is ever the gentleman and throws in a second one for free, just to protect the first. 

 

 

 

Here we are, at the Jardins, talking a little about his art and suddenly the topic veers to where I am from and all this entails. A woman my age who is here also to see his art joins us.

 

 

It is a lengthy and painful three-way conversation. The dislike of and disappointment with what our leadership is doing right now is so strong, that I feel the reverberating current of shock, the frustration, because where America is heading has repercussions for all. 

In the end, I say -- at least you still have a vibrant democracy here in France. Both of them protest -- unfortunately, what happens in America, slowly trickles down, and happens here, in France, only with a ten or fifteen year delay. Ah, I have heard this from Poles as well. We Americans set the tone, we fuel discontent, which spreads. And again they ask -- why aren't people on the streets, every day? Remember, you have the Statue of Liberty! I can well ask why their own president is throwing compliments around as if was smitten to the core with our leadership.  We do what we can, what we think will work to get us back on track.

I continue my walk, posters in hand.

 (I think they should ask for their Statue of Liberty  gift to be returned)

 

 

(more photos of my kind of people!) 

 

 

 

And then I promptly forget my precious posters in the bathroom of the Baume. This is what a 72 year old's forgetfulness of small details looks like! 

 

(Oh but I love this place! By the way, I think the passerby's outfit is hip and lovely) 

 

 

At 12:45 I take a cab to the Gare de l'Est. This is one of Paris's more manageable stations. 

 

 

 

I love it, too, for its marble floors! So easy to push a heavy suitcase on these smooth surfaces! As I wait for the posting of the track number, I find a comfortable seat. A few paces down, a fellow traveler sits down at the piano and plays beautiful music. (French stations often have a piano with an invitation for anyone to play.) Such a glorious way to wait for a train.

Just before 2 pm, I catch the TGV for the 40 minute ride (it's 150 km/93 miles away) to Champagne-Ardenne, which is a small town just outside Epernay, and, too,  your gateway to the famous Champagne city of Reims. By the way, Reims has to be the most mispronounced city name in all of France. Go ahead, give it a try! Give up? Listen to this guy. Or, just know that it's like France in French, but without the f! 

 

 

Arrived!

 

 

 

And sure enough, at the hotel I am greeted with champagne.  Well okay, it's a small glass and it has a story behind it. I acquiesce.

 

 

 

But it's not the sip of the bubbles that makes me gawk opened mouth at what I see beyond my windows: a view  (and it's one shared by most rooms here) that is almost excessively sublime.

 

 

 

 (the village of Champillon to the left)

 

(and the vineyards; this particular field belongs to Moët)

 

 

I suppose you do have to recognize that all of Champagne -- the region, the wines, the champagne houses large and small, are about excess. In recent years I've only popped a cork from champagne bottles that were gifted to me ( a rare event!). The price of champagne is that high.  

But, though I'm sure this place is full of shopping Zuckerbergs and Musks, or their servants doing their bidding, I have to remind myself that you can't generalize. When I took my tour group to this region, we visited a very small champagne producer, whose family had been making bubbly wine for generations. The grandfather was also an artist, a dedicated stained glass window maker, and indeed his window adorns a Champagne village church. This was not at all the Moët or Dom Pérignon type of operation. So, I'll strip the place of wealth associations and enjoy it for all its beauty and yes, economic diversity of people working here.

I make myself a cup of coffee (they have a machine in the room), eat their pastry and their mirabelles...

 

 

... and go out for a walk. 

(approaching the village)

(looking back at my hotel which, from here, looks like a glorified Hampton Inn)

(well look who we have here! flying advertisements for my book!)

(vineyards, spilling into Epernay, the second big Champagne town)

(looks to me to be Pinot Noir grapes -- one of the three main varieties used in the production of champagne; there are four others, but those have lighter skins)

After walking between fields of nearly ripe grapes, I turn toward the hamlet.

People who live in these towns have simple homes. Most work in some champagne production or hospitality capacity. 

( a woman with her chicken)

 

I can't tell if this is the hamlet I visited with my group two dozen years ago. There is a church, very similar to the one I saw then, and it, has a pretty stained glass window, so maybe it is the same, but I don't really know. There are certainly many such hamlets dotting this area.

 

 

 

I turn back, noting that the French heat wave is finally passing. Tomorrow will be cool. I think everyone is thanking their stars.

 

I eat dinner at the simpler hotel restaurant. There is a gourmet place as well, but no way will I spend money on that! As it is, I feel I should sit in my room and enjoy its comforts, so that I drink in all its awesomeness.  Norway taught me that I'm good for a half-day sit -- no more than that.

My dinner? Oh, it was very, very good.

Again, a champagne is offered. Indeed, a whole catalogue of Champagnes are available. And I do agree to a glass, which I stretch over dinner and in the end dont finish! I know, it's criminal!

 

 

 

What surprised me tremendously is that this place has on the beverage menu a number of nonalcoholic wines, including Moët's newly acquired French Bloom (a sparkling wine made from Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes). I suppose if you've spent the day visiting Champagne houses and sampling their offerings, you may want to go easy on even more alcohol. I didn't try it because I was nursing my "real" champagne throughout, but I am excited about sampling it soon. Maybe tomorrow.

I was amused to see a proposed menu that claimed to be healthy. I chose all three of its courses: a beefstake tomato with some very green dressing, a poached salmon, and a raspberry dessert that looked better than it tasted.

 

 

 

 

 

As for the other diners? A mix of those for whom champagne probably drips into the kitchen sink every night and people like me, who are mildly curious but really not big spenders or for that matter drinkers.

Here are two tables near me with people who are probably my age and maybe here for something other than expensive wine purchase: 

 

 

 

 

 

The hotel leaves you treats at every turn. Caramels, fruit jellies, in addition to the mirabelles! Ha! I brought my own bag of those plums. I shall be Mirabelle-satiated by the time I leave.

Tomorrow will be the first time since Norway when we are likely to see rain. Good! Let me spend my last day doing nothing, looking out at the vineyards. (Now how likely is that...)

 

 

with love...