from Paris: going home

There is a new love of the outdoors in France. Cafés, bars, restaurants have spent more on heating lamps and other warming paraphernalia.



People are filling every inch of sitting space out on the sidewalk. Cigarette butts are littering the curbside all evening long.

And inside? Sure, still crowded. It’s France, after all – people have to eat. But there is a huge change, a perceptible difference: as of January 1st, every eating and drinking establishment is smoke free.

If Paris felt alive and bustling before, now, more than ever, it is a January madness out there. A wonderful sea of faces, a friendliness and joviality, spilling out along the city streets.





I’m heading home today. Seems that we could use some of those blankets in Wisconsin. And the heating lamps. And furs and prtable radiators and woolies.

Still, it’s home. I’m hoping that my heating system is up and running.

from Paris

So what would you do if you only had one day in Paris before returning home? (To a place where the forecast forebodes a high of 1 degree F on the day after your return?)

Toward evening, after a full day, even by my standards, I say to Ed – let’s get back. It’s getting cold. It is, after all, in the 40s, and there’s a misty drizzle of sorts. Not great for more walking. And we did walk. In fact, I say, as we get on the metro – we have twelve stops before we get back to our hotel stop.

Twelve stops? He asks. Did we really walk that far? Stops. Let me count them. We stopped first for breakfast, then at a store where you looked at clothes, then for an apple tart, then to look at the Thinker, then at the market, then at the Eiffel Tower, then across the river from the Eiffel Tower to look at the view back, then at another clothes store, then at the café for lunch, then at that Monet Museum. That’s only ten stops.

Than man thinks of unique ways. But, let it be his way. I wont post all ten – you don’t want to see me examining with longing the clothes at Maje or Et Vous and you certainly don’t want to see me yet again eating a chocolate croissant at Les Editeurs, where I nearly always have breakfast when I am in this city and nearly always post a picture of it. But the rest? Stroll along if you wish, after a brief introduction to Paris, recounting yesterday’s late arrival.

So, yesterday: we arrive. We’re cheap. No taxi for us, no. We want to walk to the Metro that will take us directly to our hotel area. Walk. With bottles of wine rattling around in Ed’s tote bag and in my suitcase. So we walk. From Gare de Lyons, across the bridge, to Gare d’Austerlitz. A mere nothing if you are unencumbered.

Pause for quick photo – there, in the distance is the familiar.





In the evening, we go back to a place I haven’t been to for years. It’s tiny, it’s good, it’s modestly priced and it has and always has had an appetizer that I love: endive tatin.





Okay, now let’s get on to Ed’s recollections of our stops today (with a couple of freebies – photos in transit from one stop to the next). Nothing extraordinary, or especially insightful, mind you. Paris for me is beautiful in the most prosaic, predictable places and happenings. It’s what I look for when I come here.

No. 3 for an apple tart on Rue du Bac.





No. 4 at the Rodin Museum




(after)




No. 5 at the market on Rue Cler (serious about cheese)





No. 6 at the Eiffel Tower. Because it’s on the way. And because it’s the Eiffel Tower.




(after: the boat, the car on the boat, and the metro above ground)




No. 7 on the other side of the river, looking back at the Eiffel Tower.




No. 9 for lunch. He told me to ask for ketchup. I obliged, but explained to the waiter that it was for him.




(after)





No. 10 at the Marmottan Museum – with all those Monets.





There you have it. A day in Paris.

from Cassis, France: the everyday

Nino’s staff is already prepping lunch when we go to the dining room for breakfast. They leave us thermoses filled with coffee and hot chocolate and nod to our request for soft boiled eggs. We’re part of the morning wall-paper in their large work space.

The sun is out, of course, with a light dusting of cloud cover. The air is fresh, damp from yesterday’s rain (they’re still talking about it). Outside, the small cars roll up to the restaurants with deliveries. A cook turns heads of lettuce, inspects them, buys the whole lot. Sacks of baguettes rest on a chair.





I think I should always vacation over a restaurant. Working in one is too strenuous. Watching others fuss about food is deeply gratifying.

We set out again to find the wineries. With maps and instructions now. How tough can this be?

We pass by the port where a fisherman is selling sea urchins. I ask him how early he pulls in each morning. Sunrise, he says. What, six? He laughs. More like eight. Okay, I’ll watch for you tomorrow – I tell myself. Maybe.






Finally. We come to the first vineyard and Domaine on my list – Domaine Bagnol. It’s closed. Bummer. I thought I heard “open until noon.” It’s nowhere near that. And the next one is far. Double bummer.

We walk along the highway. How pathetic is that! But, we are car free and proud of it, so now we have to share space with speeding, belching motors.

After being rattled by trucks and cars, we approach the Domaine Fontcreuse. Truly an Ah! moment. It’s lovely here. I taste, I buy, just before Madame closes shop for lunch.
















The vineyard is mostly on the northern slope of the cliffs. Just below the mixed forest. So tempting to climb up and take it all in from above! And why not. Ed hides the box of wines in bushes and we climb up through wet branches, bramble and firs, in every conceivable shade of green, up a slippery, muddy trail until Ed tells me to give up. The summit is far, the climb is ridiculously hard.

I can’t I can’t – I say this now to express my desire to continue. He shrugs and waves me on. My boots are a mess, but it hardly matters. I should write here now that I was rewarded for my efforts with the most spectacular view, but life is not like that. I shout down “you were right!” to Ed and retreat.

Still, the forest scamper was worth it. I tell Ed – “inhale deeply!” “Why?” – he asks. “It’s good for you!” And I believe this. The scenery is pretty, but it is the fragrance here, in the forest, that makes your heart dance.

Through a combination of back lanes and some trespassing, we find a gentler way back to Cassis and even manage to locate someone at the first winery, where I purchase six, yes six bottles in radiant jubilation, just before their gates close for the day.





We pause for a snack at our favorite café – the little one, where you can spend many pleasant hours watching monsieur and madame fuss with coffees and chocolats while their dog keeps tabs on who is in, who is out.





Time, too, for one more trip to the pastry shop. A fraises des bois tart. Perfect.





And the circle is complete. We’re almost back at Nino’s. The port is dazzling in the evening light. Do you notice this if you live here?





At dinner, I pick all things local: a fish soup, a grilled scorpion (“the only Mediterranean fish on the menu!”), a crème brulée.













In the room above the restaurant, I think about making the various train connections to Paris the next day and I listen to the wind. It is wild again. Roaring in from the sea this time. I get up before dawn to watch the fishing boats come in, but I know there will be no boats to see. The waves are brutal.










It’s market day in Cassis and I go to the square to watch the sellers unload. My biggest envy may well be that they have this glorious market twice a week, year round.



















At Nino’s I pull Ed out of sleep so that we can have our last breakfast before the train takes us west, then north. Oh, and one more stroll. Just one more. We have time. You have to see the market and the pounding surf! – I say to him.


We watch moms take their little ones to the market and (mostly) men congregate at cafés, and I think this is the Cassis of everyday France.










When I asked Ed to come back with me for a return trip to France after the semester, he said – when you travel here, it’s like the same trip, over and over. But the regions – each time they’re different! New corners to explore! New hiking trails!

But he is right, to a degree. There is definitely a pattern. And predictability. And to a person who feels herself to be displaced and suspended, this is a welcome feeling.

We shake hands with Nino. We’ll see you again? I say this wistfully. We’ll always be here, he says. Yes, exactly. How wonderful.

from Cassis, France: make sure you point out that you lost your way and could find neither the wineries nor the b&b!

My occasional traveling companion tells me to note this on Ocean and what better way to highlight it than to put his directive in the subject line!


Well, it rained.





I knew it would and so we moved slowly all morning long. Nino’s was on break and no one wanted to come in just to fix us breakfast, so we headed to a café in the heart of Cassis, where we ate the biggest pain au chocolat ever. And watched locals come in, take an espresso and demonstrate great incredulity that it should rain.





After, I worked and Ed rested. It’s not unusual for us to find ourselves proceeding in this way.

And of course, when you are physically inactive, lunch is a welcome diversion. We head for a place right by Nino’s and find more than a dozen tables occupied by chomping French men and women. We joined them in one big national chomp, fondly referred to as le grand dejeuner francais. Ed and I both have salads, but we’re talking salads that spill over in their abundance. Mine, with seafood, is superb.





The plan for the afternoon is to search out the magnificent Cassis wineries. I have a terrific map listing them all, but you really need a car to get near most and, the drizzle notwithstanding, we are bent on walking. (I also want to check out a b&b for future visits. Nino’s room is beautiful, but he knows how to charge for this pristine oasis with views to die for. Especially in high season.)

I find neither the b&b nor the wineries, so in that sense, Ed is completely correct: we spent the better part of the afternoon being utterly lost in the stunning but wet Cassis countryside.

Yes, of course, I do locate the vineyards. And they are lovely.











I find gnarled vines to be graciously beautiful, sometimes reminding me of sage thinkers, sometimes, in their younger stage, of so many acrobats and dancers.












But as is often the case, the wineries and caves are away from the fields. Our country walk is invigorating, the garrigues (those fantastic stunted oak forests, interspersed with dense rosemary, lavender and thyme bushes – a combination found only in the limestone soils of this area of France) are fragrant in their wet state, but we come back tired and empty handed.


In the evening, we return to our lunch place for dinner. It is Monday, a common restaurant closure day and at any rate, we are by now without imagination.

Next to our table I hear, for the first time since coming to Cassis, spoken English. The couple is welcomed and kissed by the owners and staff, a curiously affectionate gesture, given that the couple appears to be absolutely loony. And I’m not just focusing on his pajama bottoms. They are indisputably the town eccentrics. Or rich and famous. Or both.

As the evening winds down, the dog of one of the French diners gets up, wanders a little, and lifts his leg. No one notices. Should I tattle? Of course. Monsieur, excusez moi, mais le chien a fait un petit pee-pee.

Ah oui. The waiter removes himself and discreetly brings back a bucket.

It is late. And still new people come in. A very wet threesome, obviously after a day at sea. Would you like a table on the verandah? No no! As far from the outside as possible!

The door opens and closes constantly. This is only the second week of the complete ban on smoking in bars and restaurants and I feel like I am in a new world, especially when in the tight quarters of small cafés. And amazingly, the smokers are observing the new law. They go outside. Waiters, proprietors and clients, pacing the quay, taking a few puffs then returning to their place.

A piece (three pieces actually) of cake and I’m satisfied. Body and soul, fully recovered.

from Cassis, France: Sunday frolic

If yesterday’s ramble put the lyrics of Blowin’ in the Wind in my head, today, I was thinking how catchy Ella is, especially in one little ditty about clean hair*.

As my occasional traveling companion Ed and I sit on a cliff top contemplating what has to be one of the loveliest tracks of limestone jutting out of azure waters…




…I say, in a moment of pure rapture:

Isn’t this the best traveling moment?
To which the ever non-rhapsodic gentleman responds: it’s okay, it’s pretty enough...
What could be better ? – I ask incredulously.
Adventuring, he tells me.
Thinking that yesterday’s brush with mortality qualified, I prod him to give me an example.
Maybe hitchhiking in South America? Or taking a little tiny sailboat down along the coast of Honduras, sleeping on the beach – he answers.

* If you laugh at different comics,
If you root for different teams,
Waste no time, weep no more,
Show him what the door is for…
I’m gonna wash that man right out of my tangled-by-le-mistral hair…

A reflective moment there, on a limestone ledge, as I bite into my baguette with cheese and tomato, thinking who could not place France at the top of a list of best places to visit?

Still, songs are one thing and life is another and so we pack up the baguette wrappings and trudge forward.


But let me go back to the beginning of the day. Because it is Sunday and I am in France. And no one knows better how to take the day off after a long(ish) week of work than the French.

I step outside and I am enthralled. The sun is brilliant, the air is calm and everyone, everyone is pouring out to the port of Cassis, greeting friends with kisses for the new year. Humanity convenes and expresses joy at being alive.

(Nino is not so appreciative. Must be the Italian blood in him. Give me American work ethic anytime, he tells me. I want to keep my restaurant open this evening, but I can’t. I have to give my staff time off. Restauranteurs, thank God, can employ someone 42 hours a week, not the standard 35, but after that, it’s double pay! And, in addition to all the calendar holidays, I have to give them five weeks vacation!)

In the late morning, the cafes are packed and the restaurants are setting tables outside. It may be January, it definitely is a cool day by their standards (it is in the mid fifties and they are bundled as if it were a Wisconsin deep freeze), but it is Sunday, by God, a day for family and friends and food. A day to be outside.




Still, a calm (nonwindy) day is one to be used wisely. After yesterday’s encounter with le mistral, I’m thinking we should grab this day by its gentle strings and head out toward les Calanques.

They’re not fjords, really. But they look like them: narrow inlets of water carved into the limestone by raging sea waters. A six hour hiking trail weaves its way up and down and all around so that you can get the perfect views.

(Signs everywhere warn that proper hiking shoes are “obligatoire!” and so I leave my snazzy French-like boots at Nino’s.)

We set out. And still I am tempted to stay put and do nothing. At the little town beach, the protective back wall keeps the air so toasty warm that a number of people are sunbathing in all forms of undress.





A January moment on the beach… Bliss…

But, I am certain that idle sunning is not Ed’s thing, so we trudge on.

The three Calanques are indeed stunning. The first, de Port-Miou, is used to moor sailboats. An old quarry (limestone, used, they say, for the building the Suez Canal) but now a protected natural site, it snakes for a while and then deadends at the edge of Cassis.





The second, de Port Pin, is especially coveted by families, out for a day in the country. An hour’s hike and you can unload your picnic right at the water’s edge while the kids let the water wet their toes.


















The third, d’en Vau, is the toughest to get to. With dramatic vertical cliffs dropping precipitously into the waters of the sea it can scare the daylights out of people like me, who cannot stand being close to slippery edges. So you get one photo. And just barely that.







It is hard to remember that even here, at the edge of Provence, it is winter. The bees are finding the rosemary buds without a problem, as if we were in the middle of August.





But the shorter day gives it away. By four, the sun is very low. The boats are returning to their resting stations. It's time to head back.





Back at the port, no one is ready to call it a day. The waiters balance trays of hot drinks, beer and wine...





...the conversation is even louder after a day well spent.


Most restaurants, like Nino's, are closed for the evening. Nearly everyone eats their big meal at midday. But there are those, like us, who have spent the day out in the country, who now want a dinner of simple, hearty Provencal foods. In Cassis, it's impossible not to eat well. And the wine... ah, the wine! A rosé and white wine lover's paradise. As I said, how can you not love France?