Fontainebleau!

[fair disclosure: a very long post!]

In the early morning, it emerges - out of darkness, this place of French royalty. Again I have music in my head. All morning long. It seems so fitting! Listen along, if you want (Ton Koopman's J.S. Bach and the Magnificat).

Out my morning window:






Breakfast. Timing it so that I'm done by 9:30.






Cross the street and I am there.






Through the gates...






It turns out I'm not the first, but the second. The group before me is Russian and they want to inspect everything, so it's easy to pass them.






And to have the entire Fontainebleau Chateau to myself. (Are you playing the music?!)



(did the womenfolk sit and chat here?)



It is the only chateau to have been inhabited by all of France's kings -- from the 12th century until the 19th. Such magnificence! Really, such lavish opulence! No more words. Just look:
















(she slept here)






(his throne)






(he slept here)






(the chapel)



And the gardens -- always beautiful, I'm sure, but for me, winter is such a good match -- that somewhat somber complement to the seriousness of this whole enterprise!

































(the entirety)



And look how stunning their winter selection of blooms is (we couldn't do this in Wisconsin, but here, these will survive even a stiff frost):






That's my morning.

At noon, I have an appointment at "La Petite Reine." I walk briskly...


 


...past tempting shops (they are serious about their pastries here!)...






...to the little store where there is a velo (a bike) waiting for me. I'm renting a bike: it's the only way I can imagine seeing the Fontainebleau Forest -- such a vast place, with so many trails!

Madame smiles when I sheepishly ask for a helmet. I'm sure she's thinking -- these Americans! They want to protect themselves from everything! (I do not bother saying that I crashed some ten years ago and the helmet saved my head.)

It's a mountain bike and I'm a bit surprised at that. The terrain here is flat, no? Off I go! I have a destination -- through the woods and into the next village -- Barbizon. Have you heard of it? It was once a hot spot for painters: the preimpressionists lived and painted there ("the Barbizon School") and the Impressionist giants came to visit as well.

It's cool outside, but not too bad. Maybe low forties. I do miss my gloves, but otherwise, pedaling is a good way to forget about winter. And just as promised, there is an occasional wisp of blue sky. The rains stayed mainly on the southern plains!

Forest photos. Of course.






The path to Barbizon is supposed to be easy and not too long -- maybe half a dozen miles.

I lose it instantly. I don't know why. It's their fault!

I'm huffing on sandy terrain that seems pretty steep to me. I almost have to get off and push.

But after several turns and guesses, eventually I hit gold -- a nicely paved path and one that miraculously leads in the direction of the painters' village.

No, this landscape is not flat. Not at all! Take a look:





So beautiful!






On a good trail, it's manageable, even for me. (On one incline, I pass some hikers and as I puff my way to the top, they shout out the familiar encouragement here -- courage! courage! It reminds me of the days Ed and I biked through Provence many years back. Courage! Allez, allez! Go!) 






Finally in Barbizon.





I locate the place where I want to pause for a late lunch -- La Creperie Barjole.

I eat in the overflow outdoor space, but it's shielded and well heated. The French share my feelings about heat and AC: in the winter, their spaces are warm, in the summer, they are never over-cooled.

I order a galette (a savory buckwheat crepe) with cheese, tomato and an egg and it is just exactly what I need.






At the table across from me, madame and monsieur finish a somewhat more copious lunch, one likely to be their main meal. They are from these parts and they watch me with mild amusement because I am so enthusiastic about everything that is brought to my table. (I am just really happy that I found my way here in the end.) As they finish their last cheese course, monsieur leans back and starts humming. And then the hum becomes a song and madame joins in, recalling some melody that they shared.






He smiles, I smile, she smiles. And then, oddly, he hums "Tom Dooley." I comment -- une chanson Americane. He admits it. I sing along. And so here we are in Barbizon, eating lunch and singing an Appalachian ballad. He asks me about the lyrics but before I struggle to recall them all, she reminds him that they can find it on the Internet later.

I finish a dessert crepe -- with a favorite combination of mine: honey and lemon.

And then their grown daughter (I'm guessing here) shows up and they fuss over her and I finish my noisette (macchiato in America) and get back to the task of returning to Fontainebleau.

The sun peaks out with greater certainty now and I am sure I will get to town before dusk.






Which is a good thing.






In Fontainebleau again, where there is a weekend, preholiday buzz in the air.






Evening.

Let's talk about some contrasts. But before we go there, let's get in the mood. I walk toward the center of town. My hotel proprietors suggested two places for dinner -- informal ones (you only have to look at me to know that's what I want). I want to check the menus. Oh, wait! A store is open! With delicacies! Let me look inside.

Would madame like a glass of champagne? Say what? Have I stumbled upon some opening night of something? No? Well then sure!

I must now make a purchase. No problem! These!






I walk out, continuing my search for the two eateries. One them should be right here. Hmmm...

[insert title: know when to make a joke:]

Excuse me Monsieur, do you know where I can find the Hotel Napoleon? There's a restaurant right next to it...
Yes, of course. But... do you have a car?
(worried) No....
Good! It's 20 meters up the street!

[..and when not to make a joke:]

Settling in with the menu now at the Grand Cafe. The proprietor comes over. Do you know what you want?
Is your homemade foie gras good?
(boom!) Madame. It is not. (pause. sigh.) If you want, you can get some cheese and crackers next door. Here, we cook.

I order the foie gras and scallops, each prepared perfectly.

And now -- would you like to return to a very controversial Ocean topic, from way back in... October? Okay! Let's talk about French children and food!

Enter a family. Two young kids and parents. Locals. They didn't dress up. The little girl (maybe 9 yrs old) is in a pink sweat shirt that says New York City Gym. New York (and variants thereof ) is the most popular shirt logo in Europe. Everything is New York this and New York that.

The kids don't even sit down. they go straight to the bathroom to wash their hands. They know the drill.

The proprietor, the same one who would not stoop low enough to address my questioning of his foie gras asks the little girl if she will be drinking wine. She smiles daintily and says no. He asks -- sure? She smiles again and shakes her head. He whisks her wine glass away.

The whole family (the boy is maybe 6) is preoccupied with the menu. The dad teaches the boy to read a word. They go back to menu studying. They order.

So what do you think? The kids picked the frogs legs? The grilled endive? The veal kidney? No! They chose hamburgers and french fries! We have so corrupted the French palate! Oh, but wait! Did I tell you about the table with the beautiful young women?






Three out of four also chose hamburgers and French fires!





It's the food of the young. None of the "past 30" crowd around me is ordering hamburgers and fries.

And speaking of the juxtaposition between young and not young -- here's an older mother and adult son. They are not having fun. At all. Perhaps he told her he wont be home for lunch tomorrow and she is processing.






The  family with the two little kids joins pinkies and recites some funny words together before diving into the food. I like that! It's special! It's their own! It reminds each and everyone that they are together and that life, or at least the next half hour of life, surely is good.





And it is. It really is.

The full moon shines brightly over Fontainebleau tonight. I hope it does over you as well.

Onwards!

I am happy to know that, at 61, I have not lost my ability to foolishly immerse myself in my surroundings and therefore lose track of time, leading to that famous from younger years run across town to make a vital train connection. (I blame not having a watch: I'm trying to be modern and rely on my cell phone for the time, but I tell you, it's not the same. You don't glance at your cell phone nearly as often.) People may brag about running marathons and triathlons and decathlons, I hereby will brag about this lesser accomplishment: I ran down the whole main drag of Avignon, from Palace de Papes all the way to the train station in 12 minutes flat and that's with suitcase and open umbrella. And no, Ed, cheapest is not always best: my umbrella, purchased some time ago for its lightness and its very base price, furled right into a tulip shape and nicely collected water the whole distance long.

I made it.

Now, Avignon is south of Orange which is puzzling, given that I'm actually heading north. Here's the awkward situation: like nearly every time I am in France, I have hit upon a rail strike. One that commences today and lasts until Sunday. Meaning exactly when I need the trains most.

Rail strikes are so common here that they are quite well organized. The schedule of cancelled trains is posted 24 hours in advance (if you know to check -- this is tricky for foreign visitors who often do not know there is a strike and thus show up for a train that is no longer running), giving people time to adjust. But I have learned the hard way that one must be prepared for anything and so I booked a four uncancelled train connection (four trains! on the first day of a strike!) with ample layovers in case of delays.

The trip begins, of course, in Orange. Madame brings me my breakfast and I notice that the bad croissant has been replaced with a good pain au chocolat, so I am exiting on a high note. (No, I do not think she reads Ocean.)






I leave with plenty of time to walk leisurely to the station, sidestepping a little to get that one last glance at the town which raised such ambiguities within me. (BTW, it's not the first time I left a place regarded as beautiful earlier because I had had enough. Lyon and Rouen come to mind. It's all about the vibe, the connection that, for whatever reason, I fail to make.)

There is no market today. If you want oranges, you can get them here, for example.






Orange is one of those towns where the river literally runs through it, or, more accurately, underneath portions of it. In December, it all looks rather gloomy, but I suppose in better times, this might be pretty.






And finally, here's my B&B, kind of ragged at the edges inside (I recommend not sitting on the couch should you stay there). Maybe you'd like to buy it? Here's their phone number:





Alright: my first train is to Avignon. I gave myself an hour there and this is where I really get distracted. I'm sort of fond of this town because it has good associations for me. (Well, actually the last time I was here I was with Ed and we had left the window open in our B&B room and many mosquitoes used the opportunity to visit, but on the upside, I took one of my favorite photos of him ever -- there was still a bit of a youthful toddle-along-with-Nina quality to him and so the memories remain good.)

This time, I just want to walk the main street and let the spirit of this rather splendid Provencal town sink in. There is a Christmas market and a quality one at that. Empty of course, because of the rain and the hour of the day.











And finally, I am at the Palace de Papes -- or the square at its base. A wet square but not less beautiful for it. The photo is of a wintry cold and wet restaurant to the side...






I drag my suitcase along the cobbled walk, up, up, toward the gardens and this is where it strikes me that I really ought to check my cell phone clock.

Ooops.

Well, you know that I made it -- for the brief ride on train number 2: to Avignon-TGV -- a train station a bit away from the city, where you catch the fast trains that will zip you in 2.5 hours to Paris.

Again I have an hour's pause (at Avignon-TGV) and I am delighted to find a cafe (with a very orange theme even as I am no longer in Orange).





My speedy train comes on time and as usual, it is amazingly comfortable and exquisitely smooth and quiet and no, I will not go off on a rant about the loss of the fast rail service that almost came to Wisconsin (even as I completely agree with our former mayor who recently wrote a compelling piece about how much money we lost in giving up on that project because some politicians strategically leaked the word "boondoggle" into the general public and, without people doing the math, it stuck) but I am terribly saddened by it. End of rant.

Here's a photo of the woman next to me who was knitting furiously a gift for her (adult) daughter. I'm so stressed about this -- she says. I'll never finish it for the holidays. (For me, an older French woman knitting just conjures up memories of reading A Tale of Two Cities.)






I am not staying in Paris. That comes on Sunday. Here's my only photo from the 20 minutes I spend at the Gare de Lyon (train station). I'm guessing he's stretching after a long train ride.






I have two nights before I'm to be in Paris and I want something new, but just in this area, as this region, curiously enough, is the one small spot on the map that doesn't show rain for today and tomorrow.

So I pick Fontainbleau. And this is now the fourth and last train segment -- taking me southeast of Paris (a 45 minute ride, keeping me still within the commune of Paris) to a small town that likely owes its existence and survival to the Fontainbleau Chateau.

I've never been here. Like so many others, I've done the obligatory treks to Versailles, which, I suppose, is the grandest of all chateaus. But here's why I always wanted to visit its lesser cousin: Fontainbleau is arguably as splendid (I mean, you can only be overwhelmed so much by royal oppulance) and it draws 10 times fewer visitors (I got this statistic from the internet). So imagine how beautiful it will be to visit it in the calmest month, when even in the highest season it is said to be uncrowded.

Too, Fontainbleau has what I have so wanted to explore -- the great Fontainbleau forest. More on this later. Right now, I'll just say that I arrived, I hopped on the bus from the station to my hotel (yes, a real 16 room hotel and a special one at that, made affordable only because Madame the proprietor was so nice when I called last night and begged). It's the old Londres (it's been in the same family for three generations)...

 


....and it is right outside the gate of the chateau. A little room...






 ...but when I pull back the curtain, I can see a grand view:





Later, much later, I go out in search of Bistrot 9 -- a recommended by my hosts spot for dinner. I see that I'm in a different world here! The streets are decked out and there's piped Christmas music. It's the first time this year that I have heard Christmas music.  Noel, Noel, born is the king...

I look around me. Lights. A merry-go-round. That, at least, is French.





I watch a young couple make funny faces at their child perched on one of the animals. Is it that kids love merry-go-rounds because at the end of each round, they'll see their beloved mommy or daddy again?

The Bistrot is superb -- duck breast with peppercorns, braised endive - yum! But of course, these aren't Provencal dishes. I feel the break with the south: I'm  really back in the reaches of this great big city that is Paris. It's not that the people eating here on this cold December night are from Paris. No, by the kisses they disperse in all directions, I can tell that they are from here. On the other hand, I surely sense that Paris is but a breath away. I tuck in my scarf against the wind outside . Yep, I'm in the north now.

searching for Orange

In the middle of the night, I decided to move on to another village. By morning, I changed my mind.

It's not that I woke up loving Orange and given the weather prognosis for the next several days, it would be tough to expect a total turnaround. Too, the B&B is a bit unusual: in having my breakfasts and dinners taken up to my rooms up on the top floor, I feel a bit like exiled royalty: never to see a soul, but living comfortably up there in the garret. 

And so long as I'm in my "let's find fault with everything" mode, I should add that if there is a croissant that is not excellent in all of France -- it is the one from the Orange bakery that madame brought up for my morning meal.






But please know how trivial all of this is! The room is warm and quiet, the shower is hot and strong. The baguette is crispy, the leftover clementines from last night's supper -- divine.

More importantly, I'm thrilled to be on a trip! I just really love all minutes that make up a day of travel. And when I return to the farmette and think back to my trips, the ones that bring forth the greatest smile are the ones where things hadn't followed a predictable and glorious path. I've recalled fondly my last trip to Europe with my daughter -- that's the December trip where raging blizzards kept striking central Europe and we were stranded first in Paris, then in Berlin, then in Paris again. Flights were cancelled for days and days and it was sheer luck that got us back home for the holidays. Brilliant memories!

Now, too, I love the juxtaposition -- my insanely grand day in Arles followed by a kaput afternoon in Orange. When things are too smooth, you lapse into a dream like euphoria and one day runs into the next and there are no distinguishing features. Orange gave me the gift of providing a distinguishing feature.


Okay, time to go out. I understand that there will be showers today (and rain and wind tomorrow!) so I pack an umbrella. But I am enthused about searching out the orange colors in this place (as a euphemism for something that rises above my first impressions here, and too just plain old orange colors).

And predictably I find them.

It happens to be the big market day of the week. The crowds that were missing yesterday fill the snaking streets. Let me put up just a few photos. Yay for orange! Or, rather, let's give the town credit -- yay for Orange!



(Orange also happens to be the name of France's largest cellphone service)




(a loyal resident)





(most of his fish have a touch of orange)





(I rest my case)












After the market I make my way to the greatest treasure Orange has to offer -- the theater from the period of the Roman Empire (and it is also the best preserved Roman theater in western Europe). It being December, I have to wake up the ticket agent. Admission is expensive. I ask if I am eligible for the discount given to the "unemployed." She answers -- no. I go in. For most of my visit, I have the entire place to myself.






At the time of antiquity, the theater could house audiences of more than 9000. Today it is, of course (nearly) empty and you might think this to be a touch sad -- such a vast expanse, so devoid of humanity. And I would agree. On the other hand, there is a thread of sadness that connects us to our past and so what better way to feel the weight of history than to lose yourself in the vast emptiness of this theater.






Afterwards,  I climb the summit (if you can call it that) just behind -- it's Orange's highest point and it offers some good views, though really not great ones on this day where the hills and mountains to the east are entirely shrouded in clouds. So let's look to the west instead.






Back to town and more people photos for you. I have to admit that I remind myself just a little of the character in an excellent documentary I watched on the flight over -- Finding Vivian Maier. I can't help feeling a link to the subject of the film: Ms. Maier was a nanny (as was I once) and she was committed to photographing everything and everyone in her daily outings (I'm not so robust in my picture taking, but I do always carry my camera). She was also a little deranged (and I hope I am not as off balance as she appeared), but she was brilliant and bold (I am actually neither) and I try to remember her boldness as I want so much to snap it all in my rambling through town.













(no orange, but oh so sweet!)













My walk takes me to one last sight that I want to see here -- the Arc de Triomphe, Orange style. It dates back to the 1st century and I think it must look especially brilliant in the typical Provencal sunshine, but we have none today so you get the full effect of the gray skies by admiring it in murky brown.






And now it's time for lunch. Nothing big, mind you -- I do have my evening meal back in the attic. I miss having some secret small restaurants, recommended to me by innkeepers. My Orange innkeepers keep to themselves and the folder they leave in the room has listings of teas I can purchase from them and wines I can find in local wineries and children's activities in the area, but nothing in terms of eating out. So I go by the looks, the popularity index, and the menus posted, and that actually works well enough. I find La Cantina -- a sort of cave like eatery that has good prices and a good list of specials and I'm neither the first nor last diner, but instead I am one of many and that's a good thing.

I order an artichoke salad and berries with chantilly cream...






...and both are quite good, but I especially enjoy watching others around me. They're all French, of course, because even the most diehard off-season travelers (the Japanese) know not to come to Orange in December, because it probably is a lot lovelier in spring or summer months (I'm giving it the benefit of the doubt here). The French, as you know, have this bizarre (or at least very extreme) adoration of food and what's wonderful is that they do not hide it! They're proud of it! Their food arrives, the conversations cease. I watch this at a table of twelve -- 8 women and 4 men and the silence that falls over the group is profound. One person mumbles "c'est tres bon" (it is very good), but I am sure no one hears her.

To me, the idea that you should flaunt what you love and not what others expect you to love is very appealing and so I watch and smile and one person at another table thinks I am in that same enraptured state of food adoration because she smiles back and whispers -- good, no? I nod my head and bow down a little to show proper deference to what I have just consumed.

And then I go home. It started raining during the lunch hour.


 


I search out madame the innkeeper and tell her that I will be leaving tomorrow. I explain why (let's just say the weather) and she is more or less agreeable. I go upstairs and take out my computer and search out the one small area in France that does not have rain in the next two days and then I go to the train station and buy my tickets for it.

Where to? Well now, you could check the weather maps of France if you're that curious. Or, just check back on Ocean tomorrow!



(the last orange of Orange)