Lake Annecy

Morning Thoughts

In my most hectic days back home, I would turn my thoughts to this: soon I will have a day by the lake where there will be nothing before me but time. No calls, no unrelenting emails, no piles of paper, no fields of weeds. No dust in not so hidden corners, no scattered toys, dirty plates in places where there shouldn't be dirty plates. None of the things that necessarily fill our days. Just peace, with nothing pulling at me from anywhere.

I thought about this as I got up before sunrise and strolled along the lake to take it all in -- the mountains, the absolutely translucent water, the flowers, not unlike mine back home, minus the weeds.

I thought about this too at breakfast. No effort to land a croissant on my plate...

... with perhaps a wild blueberry clafoutis (wild Savoie blueberry clafoutis!), and a slice of Jean Sulpice (the chef guy) pain perdu (French toast) on the side. Because the gods deemed that I should try a real pain perdu while in France and someone brought it to my table and said -- for you. And a poached egg with mushrooms, coming up!

I look around. Older couples mostly. All French this morning. Or maybe it's that the French, like me, get up early. A woman has brought her dog -- not unusual, this is France, they like their dogs. But hers is extra special and she keeps him in a bag with a cushion, behind her on the seat so that he can feel the comfort of her body against his small torso.

Me, I am so relaxed, I could float out of my chair and float to my room, or to the garden, or out on the lake, floating, being carried by no thoughts, no churning thoughts, nothing but the will to find peace.

The Hike

My idea of a spa-like day though is not to sit but to log in a solid walk. I've visited many interesting places and stayed in many nicely situated hotels in my life and I have found that it's not a given that there would be hiking possibilities. Out the door hiking. The kind you can do at a moment's notice, without bother, without the need to get in a car to get you to the starting point. While planning this trip, therefore, top on my list of essentials was that there would be a path that would lead out the door and into the wild yonder.

The desk clerk is all prepared for the likes of me. She hands me a printout of a trail map, showing me the path that starts by the lake and climbs up the rock, the one that I see out my window early in the morning.

I should have taken note. You cannot see a trail up that rock, but it's there. And it is steep.

Initially, I'm not worried about the climb. I'm more worried about the narrow ledge I have to navigate, dropping off into the lake, a nice clear lake, but the lake nonetheless, where I do not want to fall into, with my camera and my small slung bag. When did I become so averse to drop-off ledges? (Answer: since childhood. It's in Like a Swallow!)

Nice view back toward the Auberge and the mountains though. I'll give it that.

And then starts the climb. At first I'm the eager beaver. I love the mountains, Ed and I hike all the time after all. And the desk clerk said it's easy. (I forget that she is French. The French think pedaling a bike in the Alps is easy too. Never listen to the French on this!)

But I have this new knee and I haven't really climbed a mountain or a steep rock since before Covid, and there was a warning sign at the bottom about having the right shoes for this, and I have okay shoes, but not the right shoes at all, and get this: I forgot my hiking pole! It's there, in my suitcase, packed for this day, for this very hike! (I also forgot water, but this is okay because it's not hot and I'm told within a couple of hours the trail will plunge me back into civilization.) 

It's slippery! Slabs of stone, tree roots, fallen leaves -- a vicious combination. I pick up a stick, about two thirds the size I need, but it will do. I need something!

And up that rock,  to my left, I have again a drop into the lake. I think about whether the few saplings will catch a fall. Maybe, but maybe not. And if I fall, aren't I glad the desk clerk knows where I went! Or does she? When I dont show up for dinner, they will go to my room and find my hiking stick and say to themselves -- she mustn't have gone on that hike because of course she would have taken her hiking stick. Probably went for a dip in the lake and drowned, oh well, let's notify the family and ask them if they wish to have her belongings sent back home. Along with the hiking pole of course.

But eventually, this precipitous narrow trail joins a major hiking route. My knee performed! I survived! (Because of course, we always survive the dangers that are all in our head.)

This is when I start thinking again about how beautiful this spot is! The forest is full of birds and I take out my app, wondering if it will identify these European warblers. It does! Great Tit, Eurasian Nuthatch, Short-toed Treecreeper (!), European Robin. A hello to you from our farmette robins!

Eventually I reach a clearing and a plateau of stone and the views are incredible. 

I've forgotten the slippery climb already. All is beautiful, all is wonderfully calm. Well, until a group of French hikers comes up the wide trail, though being French, they probably could have done the narrow slippery one as well. And they're seniors too! But with hiking poles, lucky guys.

The next 90 minutes are indeed just fine. Easy even.  Some ups and downs, twists and turns, but all clearly signposted so that even a child could find her way. Or a 70 year old without a walking stick.

When I come out onto a meadow, an Alpine meadow no less, I again wonder why horrible weeds do not take over these lovely expanses of grass (and likely spring flowers). I'm sure no one has exerted any effort over these meadows and yet they thrive. And behind them -- mountains. Stunning mountains. Not the high snow covered peaks further east, but mountains nonetheless. Because yes, that is what give the Haute Savoie its character, its history: the mountains.

(Do you see the gliders? No? Look closer!)

What goes up must come down, but now I am on a paved path so this is merely an exercise of keeping that fake knee steady so that it works in harmony with the other leg. No problem! 

Within a short while, I am in the village of Talloires.

It is tempting to pause here -- for water, coffee, for one of these:

But it's just a few minutes after noon (the whole hike took under three hours). Too early to eat again. And so I descend some more until I reach the Auberge.

The Spa

Now is not the time to sit down. There are better ways to grow limp: for example, wouldn't it be a fine time to visit the pool? To teach my fake knee how to behave in water again?

This is what I do then. 

And because the water is warm, and because I have been working on my ballet moves back home, it proves to be fairly easy to get back into a swimming mode. A few laps and I feel like I'm back in circulation.

The pool has a few of those accoutrements that keep hotel guests happy. This includes a sauna and, too, a place where you can have your face slapped around with all kinds of tonics to improve circulation, but really to make you think that you are improving circulation. In any case, I do go to the sauna room, because it has such a lovely fragrance, and it reminds me of the summer I spent on a Finnish farm, helping out, and after all work was done, us kids (well, I was 20, but still...) would run down to their sauna hut to sit as long as we could stand it (the Finnish kids could stand it a lot longer than I could!). These days, I prefer to take my minutes in a sauna without the plunge into a cold lake afterwards. And afterwards, I again feel as limp as an overcooked spaghetti noodle, and it is wonderful.

Before having my face slapped around, I go out to the Auberge garden where someone brings me exactly what I want: a wild blueberry tart (this one made by Jean Sulpice himself, or more likely one of his underlings). With a cappuccino. It was supposed to be cloudy and cool but it's actually sunny and warm and I am so relaxed that even if I picked up the newspaper and read much of the front page stuff on it, I wouldn't bristle.

My face gets its psychological boost. I'm showered, I'm refreshed, I closed my watch rings. The day did its magic on me. 

The Evening

Once again I eat at the hotel, this time in the breakfast room, which in the evening they call the Marius Bar. It has light meal items and this suits me just fine because, well, breakfast was huge and I no longer need  such copious amounts of food, even if I do scale mountains and do laps in the pool. (Truthfully, there were not more than a dozen laps.)

(lake fish with pumpkin and a salad)

And so ends my day of total exhale (well, except for the pant up that mountain). 

Tomorrow, I will go to Annecy, which I have learned is pronounced An'cy. Who knew?!

with peace and love...

to Annecy

Good morning, Paris! Good morning, city that believes croissants and baguettes are important to one's well being! Good morning to all you French people who cannot go through the day without saying bonjour (good morning) a thousand times over!

At this time of the year, Paris mornings are dark. Sunrise is just short of 8 a.m. (Madison's sun rises a whole hour earlier today.) Even though I am leisurely about getting up, about showering, about packing up my bag, I step outside for a pre breakfast walk in the gray light of predawn.

Of course, I walk to the park.

I love this time best here. You see the runners and the handful that cut through to get to work, but mostly you see empty spaces. 

Autumn is definitely felt in a park with so many chestnuts. Nonetheless, the gardens will maintain the flower beds for a long time. Something will be planted in them, in fact, even in the winter (this tells you how mild Parisian winters are as compared to those in south-central Wisconsin!)

Alright, time fro breakfast back at the hotel.

I leave this curious and culture rich city today. At around noon, I have a train, a super fast TGV that will take me all the way to the southeast of France. To the edge of the Haute Savoie -- that mountainous region that I've grow to love. To its regional capital -- Annecy.

I've wanted to see this town for a while now, but it's so out of the way, and definitely a hefty trip even on TGV trains. Not many cities are worth that kind of effort. I've long abandoned a love of urban crawling in favor of something more gentle. But I found a place to stay a bit out of the city. On Lake Annecy. It offers the tranquility I'm looking for on this trip, at the same time that it's a short ride over to the old town for when I do want to explore city streets. (It's called Auberge du Pere Bise -- a  family-run hotel and restaurant standing at the lake's edge for 120 years.)

To see Annecy, it would have been easier to fly into Geneva -- a mere 22 miles south of it. (By comparison, Paris is 350 miles north of Annecy.) But I'm not a fan of that kind of a trip. When it's an option, I do want to take a train over an airplane. And flying into Switzerland taints the trip with flavors of another country. In flying into Paris, I'm keeping it all French.

The train to Annecy leaves from the Gare de Lyon. Feeling ambitious, I decide to walk to it. I've done it before -- google gives it a bit under an hour. But google didn't drag a suitcase and wear a backpack when it ran its estimates. It takes me well over an hour. 

(French men have have conversational skills that come from years of practice...)

And I should have remembered -- it's not an especially pretty walk in that there is a lot of traffic along the major circuit. Still, with a 3.5 hour train ride before me, I like the idea of morning movement. 

And eventually, I pass the Jardin des Plates and that's always interesting, though a little less so toward the end of the blooming season. Still, lovely tree lined avenues!

And now it's time to cross the river...

(finally! Gare de Lyon...)

At the station I pick up a cup of coffee (at Starbucks! I almost asked them if they made Pumpkin Spice Lattes -- but was afraid that they would understand me to mean that I wanted one and there is not a whole lot more on their beverage list that appeals to me less). And now it's time to board the train.

The ride of course is smooth. Very fast initially, slowing down as we reach the more mountainous region of the country. On time. Pleasant. And now I am in the Haute Savoie Department (this is the place where both Morzine (February 2022) and Chamonix (February 2023) are located).

Let me tell you just a little about Annecy. Sometimes called the Venice of the Alps, the town is picturesque, sitting at a point where the river meets two canals. It's green, big on flowers, big on sport. The history of it is complicated and perhaps I'll come back to it when I actually do go into town. For now, think of it as a mid-sized French town (population about 125 000) with Medieval roots and a stunning landscape of water and mountains bordering it on all sides.

I arrive at the train station at 4:30 and cab over to the hotel. 

(on the approach, from cab window)

Too late to study bus schedules. I just want to get to my room. This one.

Trying to save money, I took a room with a "partial" lake view -- meaning you can see some water out the window!

No matter. You just need to walk the hotel grounds, or sit on the terrace to enjoy the fuller view.

I felt the water of this lake -- the cleanest in France, they say. It's actually warm(ish). Not warm enough for me though! This paddler is in a full wetsuit!

I do want to swim though. I need to get my fake knee to work well in water. I deliberately chose a place with a warm pool. Indoors! 

I can't be ambitious today. Call it a soft arrival! I want to smell the air and walk the shoreline for a few minutes and then retire.

(Looking back at the 120 year old hotel...)

I go up the hill to the village (Talloirs) center.

There seems to be a party going on in the main square. All the villagers come out for it. I ask if it's a wedding, but they say no, it's Amelie's birthday! (Is she famous, or are the villagers merely that friendly? I ask at the hotel desk -- who's Amelie?? They tell me -- she runs the Tabac (newspaper) store. Everyone knows her...)

Love, pouring in... so beautiful to watch...

All my dinners are scheduled to be eaten here, at the hotel. I'm staying for four nights and I plan to switch between the two casual eateries at the Auberge. The owners are actually very much involved with refined French cooking -- the chef of the most well known and loved restaurant here has two Michelin stars for it  (Le Restaurant Jean Sulpice), right on the premises of the Auberge. But since I am alone, eating that kind of a meal is simply a waste of money. I want to stay with simpler foods. Today, for example, I eat at the much more casual Le 1903.

One thing you learn very quickly when you try to save on restaurants in French hotels is that the kitchen in the "lesser place" is still run by the same leader who oversees the two-starred Michelin place (that's fancier/way more expensive). At the 1903, the waiter's reaction to my choice of appetizer (crayfish, swimming in a delicious sauce)  was -- oh, that's the chef's most well known dish! Well now, am I really eating in a lesser place?

That crayfish appetizer was indeed fabulous. When I moved on to the fish (from Lake Annecy), I thought perhaps there was a pattern here: the fish was lovely, but it was the sauce that stole the thunder. Remember when French cooking first came to town here, in the United States? We believed then that its value lay in the sauces. Tonight's meal surely lent support to that...

(the bread was also superb: made here, with natural yeast.)

Time to go to sleep. I haven't caught up yer from the lost night over the Atlantic! And tomorrow has to be a full day. Even if it's a "full of nothing day." Somehow nothing in travel is always richly rewarding.

And love...

a day in Paris

When I imagine my travels, when I place myself in different destinations and try to feel if it's a good idea to go there, whether it's a good fit for a particular journey, I do always start with Paris. Should my travels include this city that I once thought of as my most sacred escape destination? This time I was certain that I should. The last few visits to the city were with family, the younger one in July, my older granddaughter in March, and last year, I spent my Parisian days with friends from Poland. Each of these trips was of course magnificent and special, but I take in Paris differently when I am there with someone else. I worry about my fellow travelers. I look at the streets through their eyes. I want to share this city in the best way I can. I lose myself in their experiences, not in my Paris.

 I thought this time, alone, I'd start with a day of just Paris. 

My flight from Detroit was fine. I suppose diminished a little by my reading an article (thanks, NYTimes for the timing!) on the bed bug infestation in Paris. Hotels are the least of the problem. The little bugs apparently are everywhere -- subways, movie houses, you name it! The city is geared toward eradicating the menace before next summer's Olympic Games but that doesn't do me any favors this week. So, mental note: do what I do in New York: check the mattresses for telltale signs! Scan the car seats in the trains. Be vigilant! Or, ignore the whole todo and cross your fingers that you'll be lucky. I choose that option!

We land in a very wet city, but looking at the radar maps, this may well be the only wet hour of my trip. And in any case, it really doesn't matter. It's just me, and I dont mind rain. 

For the first time since Covid struck, I go back to riding the train from the airport. No more taxis! There's the price difference, but too, trains are infinitely more interesting than cab rides. The traffic problems in this city are horrible and you spend way too much time just counting the minutes until you can finally leave that confined space and breathe in some real city air. On the commuter train, you can people watch. I do a lot of it today. The train passes through the east "suburbs," known to be enclaves of an immigrant population. When you stay, as I do, close to the Luxembourg Gardens, you almost believe that Paris is mostly a white city. It's not. France does not collect census data on race, but it does ask about your country of birth. In the last decade, close to 20% of people living in the Paris metropolitan area were born outside of France. Most came from Northern Africa. There's also a sizable group of ethnic Chinese and a very small percentage from southern Europe. All these are surely among the people I see getting on and off the train as I ride into the city. And I think about their lives here and whether they've achieved success, whether they feel French or, like the Parisian baker who won the prize for the best baguette this year (he happens to be from Sri Lanka), whether they still feel strong ties to their home country.

The ride goes by very quickly. And I alight at the Luxembourg stop and come out to face the Gardens. And all I can do is smile.

I'm staying in my favorite room in my beloved Hotel Baume. WIth that simple view that I've grown so fond of over the years.

When I was in Paris in July with the young family, I couldn't get the connecting rooms we needed and so I had to look elsewhere. I found another hotel -- one with an additional star even (they rate everything in this country!), and it was very nice -- but I missed the Baume. I missed the team of people I've grown to know and love. (After a Covid era break, bisous (cheek smooches) are back!) I missed my view, I missed the pleasure of being on this quiet street so close to the park, so close to everything that's familiar. So, good as it was to try another place just once, I am back to the Baume and I bet I wont ever stray again!

I'm hungry! But let's not overdo the meals here. It's way too easy to eat big bready breakfasts, to stop for a delicious lunch and then to take in a full dinner. That's a lot of food. I must go easy at first. Still, I'm hungry! And I'm heading in the direction of Cafe La Varenne. Indeed, it's on my way! Shouldn't I stop at this most favorite lunch place? Of course I should. The perfect snack -- a plate of 3 ripe French cheeses, with a little salad on the side.

(chocolate shopping at corner chocolate store, just because it's nice to pop one at bedtime!)

(this is the true giveaway of my nonFrenchness: I have never owned a pair of shoes that looks anything like any of these)

(selfie, to prove I'm really here!)

In the late afternoon, I have tickets for a special exhibition at the Musee d'Orsay. Paintings from the last two months of Van Gogh's life. Moving to Auvers (near Paris), from the horrors of his years in Arles and the asylum at St. Remi, Van Gogh was looking to stay close to Dr. Gachet (friend, depression doctor, art collector) and to his brother. In these two months, he painted some seventy canvases, forty of which are compiled at the Orsay. 

At the Musee d'Orsay, being farsighted pays. If you buy tickets early in the game, before the exhibition has landed, you can pick an hour of entry and this will allow you then to budge all lines. 

Yes, this exhibition draws crowds, especially French people but not only. Still, it is so superb, that you hardly notice the onlookers. You are drawn to the text that describes the painting and the circumstances behind it...

(Dr Gachet)

(reminds me that the Worldwide Dairy Expo is in progress in Madison and I am missing it!)

(dive into this painting: pretend you're there!)

It is almost overwhelming! Such tender beauty and such turmoil!

(this is believed to be his last painting, done in the morning of the day Van Gogh committed suicide; tree roots...)

(But really, perhaps this one is the one that really gets to you...)

If you dont leave choked up, then you're made of sterner stuff than I am.

(So long as I'm at the Orsay, I peek in at the fifth floor Impressionists. This will be the one time in my life when I will ignore Monet. I am so focused on Van Gogh that everything else seems, well, almost too charming.)

(a Van Gogh in the d'Orsay that comes from an earlier era : two years before his death. A "starry night" at Alrles, just before Van Gogh was hospitalized)

(at the Orsay, if you find a window onto the city, you'll have yourself a really good view)

After I leave, I walk along the Seine...

... and I think about passion and talent and mental health. And I think about how museums create an opportunity to get really close to magnificent art. And how we, the humble populace are so appreciative of this raw talent! Think how many people have studied the paintings of Van Gogh and continue to crowd around his artwork!

[Being a person with a camera, I can hardly grumble at others with their phone cameras, but I was amused today to see how many raised their phones to snap everything in sight. It used to be that you couldn't take pictures at all in special exhibitions. Then the rule was you could take pics but you couldn't use flash. These days, it's free rein! The only downside with all these phone cameras is that they require a really close approach to the artwork, so that the people with these phones are always blocking your viewing pleasure. Still, they want to examine these paintings again when they get home. Who can blame them?!]

(Walking back, I encounter countless scenes such as this one, with Parisians doing what they do best...)

Evening: I booked a dinner at a restaurant that's totally new for me and a bit more particular than what I normally would choose for a solo meal. La Table de Colette. I dont know how I heard of it, possibly from my hotel people, but everything about the place touched my curiosity: the emphasis on the local vegetable garden of a farm by the sea, the eco-emphasis on everything -- from green appliances, to seed saving and notes on carbon footprints of the items on the menu, the fact that the chef is a woman (still a rarity in France) -- Josselin Marie.

It's an excellent meal. You must choose one of two fixed priced settings: a five course one, or a seven course one. I went with the fiver. There were bits of a fish accompanying one of the courses, but otherwise, it was totally vegetable based. I loved two of the dishes totally: the pumpkin soup (photo below) and the cassis cake.

 

It's very late and I am very tired by the time I return to my room by the Odeon Theater. Tomorrow I leave, but tonight I feel so very full of Paris.