from le Bourget du Lac: choices

MORNING AND, AS IT TURNS OUT, AFTERNOON

Une petite promenade – that’s French for a little walk, no? I asked at the restaurant what my options were in the area. Everywhere I look I see beautiful hills, forests, mountains. Une petite promenade is definitely in order.

Delphine, the wife of the chef here at Atmospheres (the name of the restaurant above which I am sleeping these days), suggested the forest behind their little chalet. I found the path. Uphill, to be sure, but where there are mountains there will be inclines. Up I go.

It is clear that the French are better at marking trails than the Italians. It is also clear that I should have read something about the terrain, the gradations of difficulty, the options before me.

Ten minutes into the hike, my petite promenade turned nasty. You know you are in trouble when you grab for anything -- holly bushes, berry canes, anything, just to keep upright.

I felt defeated after the first hour. Still, there was only forest around me. Surely I should not turn back until I reach something. It would be a personal failing to kill myself for nothing, not even a view. Around me, there was forest. And more forest.

Yes, occasionally, glancing back I would see this:



looking up



to the side


And on the ground, every once in a while I would spot these:











Mostly, though, there were trees. And me, clinging to them.

Two hours into the ascent and I am at the stage of exhaustion where I am questioning everything about my life: why do I blog? Why am I doing this? Why did not bring water?
Because it was to be une petite promenade, I had neglected to take water or provisions of any sort.

I wondered how it was that the French managed these inclines. Of course, they are fanatics here when it comes to le sport. They bike on these roads, reaching the same elevation as I did (1200 m) without so much as a sigh. And then they crazily coast down again.





When I firmly believed that I could walk no more, that I would have to hitch a ride down some paved road, even if it meant sitting in the lap of a crazed cyclist, I came across the only other hikers on this mountain – a family, with two little girls, aged perhaps 5 and 8. They had parked their car halfway up the mountain (smart French -- why kill yourself early on) and were on the trail just ahead.





Two little girls, happy as anything, sauntering ahead, occasionally asking a parent for a square of chocolate.

When they finally paused for a snack, I had to pass them. But two steps later, my sanity returned. I had been hiking up this damn mountain for more than three hours. There is no summit in sight. I am tired, hungry, thirsty and I haven’t a single square of chocolate in my pocket. Time to turn back.

In passing la famille, I was hailed over for a brief forest chat. And saints that they were, without question, without comment, they took out their huge bottle of mineral water and handed it to me. Politely, I only took ten sips.

They were used to the mountains, they told me. Their daughters often went climbing with them. They were here on holiday (it’s a national day of no work, perhaps the tenth one this month), doing what the French do best: taking time off. The usual question came forth – where am I from, Germany perhaps? Sigh… it is not the first time. For some reason I look German to the French. I rushed to correct them. Ah, an American. Hiking without water, without a bar of chocolate. Hmmm.

I was grateful I was not wearing my denim skirt.

Refreshed, I sauntered down and spent my last bits of energy in search of food and water down by the lake, in the little village of Le Bourget du Lac.

Unfortunately, I had come down too late. Restaurants were closed in their post-lunch rest period. Stores were shut tight. National day of rest means that people want to get down to the business of resting asap.

Still, I am in France. No one will ever starve in this country. In the next village (yes, another hour of walking) I found a tabac-newspaper-bar place that also had food.





It was off to the side of town and it had a smattering of locals, sipping their afternoon espresso or wine and it was happy to prepare a regional salad for me: the Salade Savoyarde. Magnificent! Lettuce, tomatoes, nuts, eggs, olives, gruyer cheese and freshly grilled tiny strips of bacon. Followed by fromage blanc with homemade fig jam. This late afternoon random meal was better than food served in heaven, of that I am sure.




After that, even the hike back to my restaurant-with-rooms seemed a breeze. Total amount of time spent on la petite promenade (including the half hour at the tabac-bar): eight hours.

EVENING

Alain and Delphine run the restaurant, Atmospheres, in the hills of the Savoie together. I can’t tell their age – they are younger than me, but then so is 75% of the world’s population. Last year, they converted the second floor of their chalet to four stunning little guest rooms. They live just above, on the third floor.





I traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles to stay here and to sample Alain’s food. I did not get his name off of some Michelin list of superstars. Instead, I have a treasured book that I randomly picked up on one of my previous trips to France and in it I have a listing of the author’s favorite country eating places. Hundreds of them, all around France.

Atmospheres is completely unpretentious (no one dresses up, there is no fine china or silver, they do not decant the red wines), but it is a serious eating place.

Watching the French select things from the menu is a story in itself. They take forever. They discuss the possibilities. They consult. I am on my third course and they still have their noses in the menu (which, btw, is always short, since freshness is de rigeur here).

As so often in these places, I opt for the tasting menu. There are no choices to be made: the chef presents, in this case, ten small courses that show off his talent.

I’ll say this much: of all the wonderful country restaurants in France, this is perhaps my all time favorite. Everything about it is stunning. I sit at my table looking out over the lake and mountains and I watch the two young waiters along with Delphine deftly attend to the needs of the diners at the ten tables and I think they have perfected it – the art of presenting food. There is no room for improvement.

Go ahead, travel here if you must. I admit, it is a rare find. The brand new rooms above the dining room sparkle, the bathrooms glisten, the price is geared to a French budget, not a foreign one (a room, a sumptuous breakfast for two, wont cross 100 Euros). But don’t tell your friends and neighbors. Atmospheres is a French gem. I don’t want to run into the likes of me (the foreign tourist) next time I’m here.



predinner nibbles



frothy carrot soup, young peas, onion broth with reblechon mousse



shrimp on artichoke and tomato confit



lake fish, diced peache, asparagus



foie gras, grapefruit sauce



veal on grilled polenta strips and mushrooms



Savoie cheeses



wrapped in mango



100 per cent chocolate



postdinner nibles

from Le Bourget du Lac: why here, why now...

I’m riding the train again – my second day of train travel. I feel myself to be completely immersed in the rail system of Europe. I paused only for an hour in Milan. I would have said that it was 59 minutes too long, it being Milan, but I did pull my suitcase around until I found a bakery and so yes, it was worth it, just for this:





I have a four hour segment now on a rapid train (TGV) through the Alps over to France. Why there? I am waiting for my apartment to become available (a three week rental, beginning Saturday) and I have three days to kill. Somewhere. I need peace and quiet – to take brisk walks and to get a huge amount of work done. A restaurant in a beautiful country setting, where the proprietor rents out a couple of rooms for people who eat too much and can’t move afterwards seems perfect.

The problem is I arrive on a day the restaurant is closed. Who knew. In anticipation of this, I used my pause in Milan not only to pig out on pastries, but to do shopping for dinner foods. Yes, this detour into Milan's food network did cause me to almost miss the train. Still, I had to carefully consider all my choices : bread and cheese, veggies, fruits and wine. It all added to a little under 5 Euros. You can imagine the quality of the wine – it comes in a box. The last time I drank boxed wine I was 22, a grad student and didn’t know any better. But popping a cork given that I misplaced my handy travel corkscrew seemed daunting and so I opted for a milk carton (with a nice and secure screw top) only without the milk. I’ll report on the quality of the wine later.

Or, I may not report anything. The restauranteur’s wife, with the promising name of Delphine (so French, no?) promised that there is Internet at their place, but I have heard that before and it is hardly ever true. Big hotels have Internet. Little restaurants in the middle of nowhere by a lake near the Alps do not.

UPDATE: Sure enough, the Internet here has been down for days. I am borrowing the restaurant phone line to dial up. Meaning, I am keeping the reservations from pouring in. I am such a difficult guest. But the setting, oh, the setting! Out on my little terrace, before me, the lake (France’s largest natural lake, I am told – but what does that even mean? I know they’re into organic everything here, but a lake?). If I turn sideways, I see this:



into the morning sun


The challenge will be not only to continue to raid their phone line for Internet access, but to get any work done given the sunny skies and countless opportunities for hikes.

Fortified by a breakfast of warm cakes and fresh berries, I think I'll start with a hike. To get my mind primed for work. Yeah, I need to get into the work groove. I'll find my groove up in the mountains. Off I go.

from Venice–Mestre: with guilt

I am a seven minute train ride away from Venice proper, I have a morning to kill before my train to Milan and yet I am avoiding Venice, as if she were some horrible irritant, someone you wish would not show up for a dinner date.

So what’s wrong with Venice? Or is it me?

It’s me. I adore Venice. I forgive her the crowds, the pigeons (and that’s saying a lot), I forgive her the junk stores. I just find her demanding and I am not willing at this moment to give all that she would demand of me: patience, money, attention – I haven’t any to spare.

I had stayed in Mestre once before. I was thirteen and my parents had wanted to see Venice. They thought, correctly, that it would be cheaper to stay in this industrial suburb. Our little hotel turned out to be mainly a house of ill-repute and we all got terrible rashes from what appeared to be an infestation of bedbugs. Three years later, still poor and still wanting to see Venice, we returned, this time to sleep in a tent on the beaches of the Lido. After that, my mother proclaimed that Venice wasn’t worth it. As usual, I disagreed.

And yet, here I am, minutes away and turning my back to her. The guilt, oh the guilt.

True, it is raining…

*****************

The train pulled in late from Zagreb last night. Mestre was, of course, somber and gloomy. It is to be expected. My hotel is decent – I chose it because it has a small garden. Really, no other reason. If you are going to stay in an inexpensive place in Mestre, you may as well look out on greenery.

One notable thing about it is that it is not especially close to the commercial hub of the city and so I settle on eating at the hotel restaurant. There aren’t many places in this country that will serve a bad bowl of pasta.

I enter the dining room and it is loud! No wonder – at one end some two dozen men are seated at a long table. They are not drunk, but they are happy. Boisterous. Animated.

My waiter apologizes for their noise, but I wave away his concerns. How could anyone complain about sharing a dining space with these guys – their love of the moment is so palpable! I ask what the occasion is and he tells me they are local taxi drivers. They come to his dining room once a year to eat dinner together.

It is late and the dining room is now empty except for the cab drivers, myself and, way across the room, a young family. She is calming a baby, he is making sure the son is eating properly.





The baby falls asleep and the father takes the son out for a while. I watch the mother. She is oblivious to the taxi drivers. Simply dressed, with a look of hard work about her, she is, I think, beautiful. Her dark hair spills on her back, her face has the look of shyness. She is lost, in her world, dreaming. What of?

Her husband and son come back and she visibly shakes herself loose from her thoughts. She looks at me across the room. We smile the complicit smile passed between mothers the world over. You have beautiful children, it says. I know, is the response.

She whispers something to her boy. He turns around and looks at me. He asks his parents permission to leave the table. They nod. He pushes his chair, gets up and comes over. With a grin, he leans his elbows on my table.
My Italian permits me to find out that he is Matteo. He is all of five. Yes, they are here on vacation.

Permesso, let me light your candle. He takes mine and goes to the waiter. He asks for a light. The waiter obliges, the little candle picks up the flame, but on the walk over, it goes out again. Back goes Matteo, the waiter lights it again – as if there was nothing odd about a little boy looking to light the candle of a signora, sitting alone at a table, eating her pasta con frutti di mare.

The mother comes over now. Her smile increases her loveliness tenfold. Where am I from, she wants to know. America. Matteo, she is American! Does this have special meaning to a little boy? Do they talk about it? Do they have relatives there?

And you, I ask, where are you from? Calabria. Oh, the south! I love the south! I just was in Sicily.

It is late. The father has left with the baby and she now moves her boy toward the door. Matteo takes her hand. I wave to him, he waves back. The cab drivers are still eating, still laughing. I retreat to my room, upstairs, the one that overlooks a few green trees.



Mestre dinner

from Zagreb: departures

And so my adored Croats in my family (I’m a phony – I only hold on to a Croatian name) are returning home today. They take with them their laughter, companionship, irreverence, affection. How fair is that?

I can’t even think of being here without them and so I, too, am heading out. Back on the trains today, with a quick overnight in Italy and then, more trains tomorrow, putting me (I hope) in a little village by a lake in western France.

A special bow here, on Ocean to (my) daughters. Thank you. As always, you’re the very best. Even if you do insist on scaling mountains in flip flops, eating cherry strudel after every lunch and bringing a second copy of Zadie Smith’s newest book, just to show me that you read faster than I do.



one last aperitif: campari and soda with a shot of o.j.
...to the natural wonders of croatia




daughters

From Dubrovnik: a day of rest

A day of ice cream, pretty dresses and church for some, of kicking the ball around, of conversations.



hungry for a roll?




after a wedding




the reward for sitting still




women talk, cat sleeps




a boy, a ball, a message on the wall


A Sunday here should feel different than, say, a Sunday in Marsala or Zagreb. Dubrovnik is a tourist destination. Tourism does not rest on this day, it speeds up and explodes, only to recede again at dusk, as day trippers return to their buses, their ships, their more distant hotels. The city becomes quiet only then, much to the chagrin of the restauraneurs, who survey their empty tables and wonder why, somehow, they have missed out on the madness.

We succumb to the pressure to do not much of anything on this last full day in the city. Breakfast, outside again, on a windy but dappled by sunlight terrace, lasts almost two hours. A stroll through town and it is time to think about lunch (pizza, thin crust, delicate sauce, sizzling cheese. Delicious).

Cappuccino follows and then, of course, a siesta, because one little cappuccino is not going to fight off the overwhelming desire to rest in the afternoon. Out on the terrace. With something to read.

It had been determined early on that we should scale Dubrovnik’s wall just before it closes in the evening. Empty now, against a receding sun and very very beautiful.




one last look, toward the setting sun




the main street grows quieter


Then a double and very protracted Summer Festival aperitif and a walk to the designated favorite eating place, Mediterano.



tables hugging the cathedral wall


Mario is there – our waiter from earlier in the week. He is surprised to see us again.

The inevitable question is asked – where are we from? This always astonishes me, because I think, to these English speaking Croats, it must be so obvious. The big A, emblazoned on our foreheads.

But there is always the registered surprise when we respond with the A word.

So far! You have traveled so far to be here?

And even greater surprise that we should choose to do the entire family vacation in Dubrovnik, that we are not boat people, here for a day or two and on to the next port and the next; that instead, we are here and only here, this is it – designated UNESCO city, designated Camic vacation spot.

Are you the owner of this place, Mario?
No, my pal Marinko is. He is the cook. You have made his day by being here again. But you know, we work together. I do not work for him, we are friends. Only we are so new and we worry about how it will turn out.




the cook and the waiter


And what reassurance can I offer? None. Mario, Marinko, you have a winner here. Your seafood is so sublime that you should not worry! I will tell everyone to come and eat here. I will make you famous!

I, of course, can say none of this. We talk about the fish of the Adriatic, about the difference between octopus, squid and calamari, we drink the Dalmatian wine, we thank them profoundly and we leave.

From Dubrovnik: opinions vary

A planned day trip to the islands morphed into a hop over the border to Bosnia, which in the end turned into not Bosnia at all, but a long trip down south to Montenegro. Or, more accurately, Serbia-Montenegro, since they are now one, at least until the referendum today, when Montenegrins are voting (one hopes with ballots only; the European press is watching for signs of violence) on whether they are to become a separate nation-state. It’s going to be a close one.

My mistake was to ask for advice. Croats have opinions and they have this tendency to not budge. Ask for a table in the sun and you will get one in the shade with an explanation of why it is better there. If you persist with your request, they will persist with theirs and in the end, guess who will outlast the other?

When the seas became rough on Saturday, we gave up on the islands idea. A village in Bosnia seemed intriguing.

Not to the hotel desk clerk, whom I asked for advice on how to get there.

Don’t take the bus. Unreliable. Don’t go there anyway. There is nothing there!

Before the conversation ended he had connected me with his friend Veljko, who drives a car and takes people places and knows Montenegro very well.

Their coast is beautiful, Veljko tells me. But they don’t like to work. The joke is, if a Montenegrin is getting up, it must be noon! Without Dubrovnik sending them a few tourists, they would have nothing. I don’t know how they will manage as a separate nation. But we get along with them. We share the sea, we speak the same language. Still, they are poor. You will see.

And we do see. You cross the complicated border and you notice the potholes. You notice other things as well: little commerce, simple homes, simple lives.









But it is better here, in Montenegro, than in Bosnia. In Bosnia, there are no street signs, no traffic lights. You come to a sign saying “Atena 900 km” and that will be it. There will not be another sign.

He takes us to Budva, halfway down the Montenegrin coast. I do not think any overseas travelers come to Budva.
But Serbs come here! It is their playground!

A walled town, washed by the waves of the Adriatic, it is, like Dubrovnik (though a miniature version of it), a UNESCO protected site.












I remind Veljko that, sadly, UNESCO’s designation did nothing to protect Dubrovnik during the siege.

Yes, my family’s house was hit seven times, but Dubrovnik houses are solid!
How did you manage all those months, without food?
My mother stocked up when she sensed that war was coming. We had some supplies reach us once a week. But it was dangerous to go get them. If you stood in line, you were a visible target for the Serbs.

Do Croats get along with the Serbs now?
Mostly. The bad guys, Slobodan Milosevic (nc: himself a Montenegrin Serb), they’re gone. It was crazy then! My brother was in the Yugoslav army when the war started. So they asked him to shoot his own people! He left for Germany and never came back.

And you stayed in Dubrovnik?
Yes, I am starting my own touring business next year.
(I am guessing he plans to put Montenegro on the tourist map.)
I have a wife, a little girl. Her name is Ira.
Is that a popular name here?
Actually, in Dubrovnik, they like to name girls Dube, short for Dubrovka and boys Vlaho, after the patron saint.
(I suppose I might feel the same fierce loyalty to my home town had it experienced all that Dubrovnik did.)
My mother worked in tourism before she retired. You know, there used to be 55 hotels in the Dubrovnik area before the war. Now 35 have reopened. It is still slow.

We drive further south, along the coastal road to Sventi Stefan, another tiny former fishing village, walled, jutting out into the sea.








leading up to Sveti Stefan




village close-up



Sveti Stefan close-up


We pass olive trees on steep mountain terraces.
Do you make olive oil here?
Yes and in Croatia too! My father-in-law makes olive oil. I will bring you some to the hotel before you leave.

And there lies that Croat hidden friendliness. You look at a face and you think: serious, reserved. And yet, by the time you finish the day, they are telling you about family squabbles and life’s dreams.


The trip south messed with our regular afternoon eating habits and so we targeted this evening for a great big Adriatic indulgence. You could not ask for better seafood. You really could not.



asparagus, mussels, olive oil



grilled octopus salad with warm chicory



risotto with shrimp and zucchini



crispy sea bass with capers and candied lemon



pear, calvados and amaretto souffle and rum raisin ice cream

from Dubrovnik: all in a day

There is nothing large about this city except for Mount Srd at one end and the Adriatic at the other.

The miniscule daily market has small-time growers bringing maybe several dozen eggs, a bunch of roses and a few bottles of home-infused grappa to unload. Only a couple will fill the table with mounds of fresh fruits or veggies.











I buy a very small, recycled olive jar filled now with grappa. Not because I am especially fond of the stuff, but because there is a certain home spun beauty to it: the combination of herbs, a flower, a bay leaf swimming in this reused container. So much of what I find beautiful about life in these parts is like that: simple, artful, shared, understood.



grappa and figs


It has been decided that Saturday, the day the cruise ships come in, is the day to leave Dubrovnik during daylight hours. But on Friday, we still loiter.

We visit the market.
We visit the cathedral.
We visit the Sponza Palace.
We visit Rector’s Palace.
We visit the old synagogue, the only one in Europe that remained open during the entire Second World War.
And in one of these sites, we visit the room dedicated to the memory of the several hundred who died during the ‘91-‘92 siege of Dubrovnik.

And so it is no surprise that in the afternoon, I want time out.

I want to climb the mountain that shelters Dubrovnik. Sure, I remember the warnings about landmines. But I also read the poignant accounts of mothers scaling the summit daily to pray for their sons whose lives were lost on these hills. And I hear there is a path. And if you stick to the path, you are safe.

I twist daughters’ arms and we set off.

It takes no time at all for me to get lost. One path becomes a dead end. Another leads to a seemingly deserted house with chained dogs growling the minute I come within 100 meters of them.

But if you know there is a path, you will find it. That is my new motto. Indeed, it takes only half a dozen queries and we are on it again, heading up, up through the pine forests and then above the tree line, up, up, past thirteen crosses in memory of the war heroes…




…up up past blooming brush and flowers and rocky stones, until, looking down, we have the city, wrapped by its wall, the same wall that gave magnificent views before but now looks like a little thimble, nothing more. And the sea and the islands, from the quiet of a mountaintop.



looking sout, toward the walled city



looking north, toward the islands


And then it is but a roll and a stumble back to town.

Dinner is absolutely stellar. Mushrooms stuffed with seafood, covered with melted local cheese, prawns with polenta, prepared in the Dalmatian style and of course, ice cream filled crepes.














It is late and we head to the Franciscans. A quartet is playing to a handful of visitors. The Beethoven piece brings me to tears. By the time they finish with a Schubert and a Rossini, I am one wet noodle. Small markets, large mountains, the quiet of a summit, the clear notes of a flute, all pulling at your emotions, so that it becomes about your own life, reconsidered against the drama of this little town on the coast of the Adriatic.