Spanish Brides

When I started this blog I never expected to be writing about brides and weddings.  Those of you who have been following the blog will know that we encountered a number of brides in Paris.  Well in Spain they abound ! It may just be that in Granada we were staying near one of the popular churches and we were there over the weekend but we saw, oh, about six weddings.  Spain is a Catholic country and Franco made church weddings compulsory, so that may explain the fashion for the big wedding. I do like a mantilla - the Spanish lace trailing from the headdress and these were popular among the brides.    Quite pricey - I spied some for 300+ euro, but a local told me the really good ones are closer to 1000 euros and are family treasures.

We became quite the critics in the end, judging dresses, hair, shoes: all pretty good.  But the guests provided the real joy - boy can the Spaniards frock up !  Perhaps a little OTT for my taste, especially the matrons. Frilly dresses are still alive and well in Spain, especially for the young teenaged girl, and the little children are gloriously turned out.  In our travels we have noticed the children's clothes shops and you can certainly spend big money on clothes for babies and toddlers.  The children seem to attend these formal events, and we have also seen them out late at night with their families, so they probably have more cause to have 'formal' clothes than the tackers at home.  Just on the topic of kids being everywhere, we ducked into a shoe shop (for Tom - not me) and in the corner was the baby play ring with a young chap inside.  Antonio, the shop keeper's son, was playing happily and obviously comes into the shop while mum is at work.  And yes, he was dressed very nicely in blue pantaloons and a soft blue knitted jumper - very 1950s.

A Grnadian Brides arrives at the church

Pre-wedding celebrations

Weddings appear to be big business in Spain - but bucks and hens jaunts seem to be even bigger.  Saturday afternoon seems to the time for these and we saw plenty as we walked around Granada.  Our first thought at seeing a group of young men dressed in identical tee-shirts and drinking and chanting loudly was a football crowd, until we saw the guy dressed in the nappy.  He was not the only prospective groom donning fancy dress for the occasion, we had a chap in cheekily short gold lame shorts, some Vikings and even a matador.  The one constant across all the groups was the tee-shirt listing names on the back, the groom's mates I guess, and with a photo of the groom on the front.  The Australian tradition of the end of year footy trip comes to mind.

The groom celebrating his impending nuptials

The hens were not to be outdone either.  Flamenco costumes were popular for the hens and they were as vocal as the blokes as they caroused the bars of Granada.

The hens party

Granada - Loved It

I heard great things about Granada from other people who have been here and it has lived up to expectations.  Apart from a gorgeous and intriguing old town, Granada has provided two new pairs of shoes, unfortunately they are for Tom.  I have yet to purchase any shoes.

Spanish food

We have moved on from tapas to ordering full dishes of food.  A highlight for me was a lunch dish of broad beans and smoked bacon with jamon, healthy and tasty.  The beans had been cooked in the smoked bacon and the lovely smokey taste came through the beans.

At breakfast we were treated to plates of jamon, manchego cheese, brine cured cheese and other delicacies.  Alistair was disappointed to hear that although faced with this dazzling choice of food I was having yoghurt and muesli.  But I did check out two intriguing breakfast spreads, asparagus marmalade and carrot marmalade.  Ok - not sure I would try asparagus marmalade again.  It was sweet but just a bit weird.  Carrot marmalade, again sweet, but unremarkable.  Similarly, gazpacho which I tried at dinner that night - glad I have tried it, but will not waste another meal eating cold soup.

For all those food porn fans Tom's bull's tail stew will be a highlight (see below). 

Bull's Tail

Real Capilla and mad Joanna

Isabella and Ferdinand are interred in this chapel in Granada, the name of which makes it sound like a football team.  Real is Spanish for royal and you see it everywhere, it is not only used for Real Madrid FC.  Being a little bit fascinated by Isabella as I am we decided to check out this chapel and I was extra excited because not only are Issie and Ferdy here, but also her daughter, Mad Joanna, and son-in-law Phillip the Handsome - a sort of two couples for one deal.  

Churches are difficult for me when touring, I am quite happy to do the ones with historical significance, but being a fervent non-believer I am uncomfortable with the idolatry of Catholic churches.  And in Spain they certainly enjoy their idolatry.  The inside of this chapel was supposed to be more simple than most - looked pretty over the top to me - but at least you could see the beautiful base of the Gothic structure and the smooth linear stone vaults.  I am a bit of a fan of Gothic.  

The Gothic Cathedral

The royal tombs are the usual marble effigies, but up very high so you cannot see the carved faces -which is very disappointing as I wanted to see what all the fuss was about with Phillip the Handsome (now that I am an afficiando of Spanish men).  Firstly let me put this family into perspective for you. You have heard of Isabella and Ferdinand; the Catholic Monarchs, joined Castille and Aragon when they married, Christopher Colombus and the Inquisition (remember Monty Python).  I would have to admit that the Inquisition was probably not Isabella's finest moment, but apart from that she was pretty admirable.  Well they had a number of daughters, and like many royal couples no surviving sons.  What is it with royals and sons - I had no trouble. For those of you with little Spanish history but some English history (or have seen The Tudors) their youngest daughter, Katherine, was the  first wife of Henry IIIV of England, Katherine of Aragon (no sons there either !). 

But it is mad Joanna who is the best family story.  Joanna was married to early to Phillip of Burgundy.  He was considered a dish, so was nicknamed the Handsome.  I have checked him out on google and not so sure about the handsome.  Anyway, Joanna was happy enough and she was besotted with him.  So besotted that when he died young she refused to believe it. It is now thought she developed severe melancholia or an inherited schizophrenia, but at the time she was just labelled mad -  acquiring the Spanish monicker, Juana la Loca.  She is reputed to have refused to let them bury Phillip's body and to have carted the embalmed remains around with her for 19 years.  She inherited the kingdom of Castille when her mother died (but not Aragon as women could not inherit in that kingdom), however her son locked her up in a convent on the basis of her illness and took control of the kingdom.  Bastard.

Buskers

You come across buskers everywhere in big cities  In France there was everything from the obligatory human statues to string quartets.  In Spain however, at least in the south, it is generally Classical/Flamenco guitars which dominate.  

There have been some statues too.  In the cathedral square in Granada was a beautiful angel, and down won of the side streets a stereotypical warrior of Islam, a fearsome caricature with a turban and giant scimitar, who bowed majestically when I dropped  a Euro in his hat.  

The Angel

But in every side street it seems, you come across guitarists.  One was playing a piece I had learned myself many years ago as a student of classical guitar.  Others are more traditional flamenco either half singing/half shouting themselves or accompanied by another.  At nights in some of the Tapas bars I am told this can also be accompanied by dancing - but we were never wake long enough to see this ourselves.  

We dined at the top of the Albaycin - the old muslim quarter of Granada - last night.  The square in front of the church of San Nicholas was full of people.  Many are tourists, but there are many locals too, or Spanish on tour themselves.  They are here for the beautiful views of El Alhambra, but there is also, of course, a guitarist accompanying a singer to entertain and make a few Euro.  His standard is the Gypsy Kings number, Bombalaya.  Not strictly flamenco, but well know by tourist and Grenadian alike, and very popular.  

On the terrace of our restaurant with the same beautiful view of El Alhambra, we could still hear the strains in the distance.  The restaurant has provided its own entertainment though, in the form of a very accomplished guitarist who played more modern, but flamenco influenced guitar, along the lines of Paco Pena.  Music as an accompaniment to food is common.  Earlier, in one of the  squares near the Cathedral we had also come across a duet of bass and another instrument like a stringed xylophone, entertaining the patrons in one restaurant and a guitarist/singer in another.

Busker near the Cathedral

Entertainers in one of the restaurants

Around the Plaza Nuevo ('new' because it has only been here since Ferdinand and Isabella 'freed' the city from the Moors back in 1492) there is different street theatre - groups of men (and women) strangely  dressed - some with tea-shirts with a portrait photo on them, who we think are there to celebrate a friends impending nuptials.  There is raucous singing as they move through the streets which increases in volume when they meet another like-minded group.

Saturday night in Granada is very entertaining!

Alhambra

El Alhambra from hte Albaycin

I have seen a number of palaces and fortresses in my time, Windsor, Versailles, the great crusader castle Al Karak in Jordan, the Red Fort in Delhi and the great Rajastani walled cities, of which Jaipur is the biggest, but I am not sure that any compare with the Alhambra, which for me is up there with Petra.  Built by the Muslim sultans of Granada high over what is now the current city it is an impressive complex of palace, fortification and courtyards with lavish pleasure gardens, pools and water fountains.  The original walled city included a medina, where the city inhabitants lived, and large cultivated areas for food production.  It is massive, but it is not just its size that makes it so impressive, it is the sheer beauty.  The Moors certainly knew how to live - the gardens are perfectly hedged and planted with an abundance of flowering and scented plants, including roses to rival Flemington.

The gardens of Generalife in the Alhambra

This is the palace that Isabella and Ferdinand won from Sultan Boabdil and, unfortunately they immediately set about 'christianising' the place, with their grandson, Emperor Charles V, later building a travesty of a huge Baroque palace in the middle of the complex.  Fortunately the Moorish architecture and gardens still dominate and make this a very special place.  We had dinner last night (for my birthday, and thank you for the cards and messages) at a restaurant that overlooks the palace and it is even more beautiful lit up at night.  Tim and Alistair - you may recall a similar experience dining in Rajasthan overlooking the glorious Jaiselmir palace.

A pool in the main palace complex

Anyway, words will not do Alhambra justice, so I will let Tom take over with pictures.

Carving in  an Archway

Detail of a door

El Alhambra from the Peridor San Nicholas in the Albaycin at evening

Tapas and Pomegranates

We have arrived in Granada and my first impression is mixed.  The drive from the airport is through the suburbs, and it is unattractive high rise residential and showing the signs of the economic slow down in Spain.  But, on the positives, there is our taxi driver.  I have decided that not all Spanish men are hot, but when they are, they are very hot.

On the drive to our hotel as we enter the old city I am warming to Granada.  By the time we arrive at our hotel I am sold, and when the taxi driver drops us and points up the alley to our hotel and we drag our cases up the cobbled lane I am in love.

A typical Granadera[?]

Hotel Casa Del Capitel Nazari - even the name is romantic

Our hotel is a converted Renaissance palace in the medieval district of Granada, and it must be of genuine interest because a walking tour guide brought his tour into the inner courtyard this morning as we were having breakfast to extol the virtues of the building to his audience.  All in Spanish, which is a shame as I could have recounted it all to you now - but needless to say it is gorgeous. And despite its age and stone walls it has excellent wifi!

Granada was the last stronghold of the Moors in Spain.  Isbella and Ferdinand took the city in 1492 after a 10 year seige.  The then Sultan agreed to vacate the city on the promise that the Muslims could continue to live in the city unmolested and free to practice their religion.  Well, we all know what happened to that promise.  In fact we are staying very close to the Plaza Nueva where many of the Inquistion burnings took place.

El Alhambra from the Albaycin

Tapas

Having arrived early evening we did not plan an adventous night so headed to the hotel bar for tapas.  Red wine for Tom and a Clara for me - beer with lemonade!  Why is beer with lemonade so accepted in Europe and laughed at back home.  Leonie - we need to move to Europe !  We ordered a plate of jamon tapas to snack on.  Drinks arrive - all good.  Then out comes a plate with bread and a claggy looking thing on top, but the waitress has rushed away before we can query it.  We ponder for a bit and then call her back, with much menu pointing and gesturing.  But of course we are the stupid foreigners and this plate is the gratis tapas that comes with our drinks.  The paid tapas comes later.  And the claggy stuff was a fantastic patata frittata - my new favourite food.  I am learning to cook that when I get home.  So we wander around for a bit - stuffed with potato and ham and not really feeling like a real dinner and we opt for ice cream instead.  Bliss!

Friday is our first full day in Granada and we fill it with a visit to the Alhambra - but that is a another story and probably one best told by the 100+ photos Tom took.  So watch out for that blog.

Why Pomegranates ?

Granada is the Spanish word for pomegranate - hence the word Grenadine (French) for that lovely red syrup.  They grow everywhere here and it is the city's heraldic symbol.  They do not seem to be in season yet and I have not seen any available for eating or on the menus.  Guess I will just have to come back to Granada in pomegranate season.

A statue in Granada near the Cathedral

Here is a link to all our photos: https://plus.google.com/photos/108452355031701881537/albums?banner=pwa. You may need so sign up to goole+ to see them. 

Au Revoir France & Hola Espana

Today we leave France and the family travels come to an end.  Gemma has been safely deposited at Quimper train station to catch the 6.32am train to Paris where she catches up with friends for a few days and then they all travel onto Berlin and other exotic destinations in Europe.  Tom and I are taken to Brest airport to get a flight to Barcelona and from there connecting flight to Granda. And tomorrow, Lesley, Jeff and John fly to London to start the English and Irish legs of their journey.

Mont San Michel

I can't believe it has only been 12 days since we landed in Paris. We have done so much it seems an age ago. We have had a ball ! At the end of each day I often ask everyone to name the 'best thing' of each day, and of course no one can limit their response to just one thing.  We have had the best time and I cannot believe how charming and helpful everyone we have encountered has been.  But most of all the hospitality we have received from Tom's French/Australian cousin and his French family has been overwhelming and we cannot thank them enough for their warm welcome.

Breakfast at our B&B in the french countryside

For me the highlight is probably the food. Every meal has been exceptionally good, and my new favourite flavour is cassis, blackcurrant.  We got some cassis jam in Paris on our first day and since then we have been hooked on all things cassis, especially in ice cream.

Strawberries & meringues in strawberry liqueur on the dock at Concarneau 

As I finish this instalment of the blog France is behind us and we are Granada airport where it is a pleasant 32 degrees.  I am already in love with Spain, not least because our transfer in Barcelona gave us the opportunity to enjoy a beer in the open air courtyard bar.  How good is that !

Picking Blackberries

Not, no another blog about food, this time about our road trip around northern Brittany and Normandy.  We headed off from our base on the south coast of Brittany on the Monday after the wedding.  Maurice, as we have named our six seater Chevrolet, set off us early (only two hours behind schedule setting out on day one) for our ambitious driving tour taking in Mont St Michel, Dinan, Bayeuax, the Normandy landing beaches and St Malo, returning via the rose hued granite north coast.  Impossible in three days I hear you say - well, not if you only stop 15 minutes at each place.  When I ran through our plan with my work colleague Michael he warned me that such a punishing schedule was near impossible.  He was pretty right. 1500 kilometres in three days -what a massive trip.

The highlight of a road trip is the scenery, and France does scenery in spades.  Stone villages, winding roads and gorgeous narrow lanes - all superb.  That is until a tractor comes bearing down at you from the other side of the road and Maurice has to be veered into the verge, or worse, up against the stone village house walls. 

Downtown Dinan

What we notice is the lack of fences: farms and paddocks are defined by hedgerows, if at all.  Fences only exist to contain the animals.  This means that we have a great view of the crops that grow right up to the road side.  Jeff is obsessed by the acres of corn that we have seen growing everywhere.  We attempt to identify the green crops, and anything that is unfamiliar I decree to be salsify.  Not because it looks like salsify, just that that is the most pretentious vegetable I can think of.  Apple trees are everywhere, all gardens seems to have multiple apple trees.  Cider is the big industry up this way and we tried out the local brew.  Not sure I will be doing that again.  It may be better than the cider at home but as far as I am concerned it is still undrinkable.  

But my absolute fave are the blackberries.  They grow wild here and are common, meaning that I can regularly drive in and grab a handful to munch on.  They do not spray them here so they are edible, well, at least that is what I am telling my travelling companions, and as no one has been sick as yet I must be right.  Having tried the roadside blackberries I have been venturing a bit farther afield and tryong other roadside berries, but only when Lesley is not looking cause she get's cross with my wanton risk taking.  I have found that the wild rose hips taste quite nice.

Picking Blackberries

Moules Frites

I love mussells, and I have been hanging out for this quintessential French snack since our arrival, but the timing has just not been right and I have not het found the right opportunity to indulge.  Moule Frites is mussells and chips - fantastic. We have arrived at the mouth of the Caen canal, where it meets the beach and found a hut on the foreshore. Beautiful day, beautiful setting and we are looking for lunch.  All the stars were aligned and I I enjoyed a magnificent plate of moule frites, sur la plague.

Notre Dames

Jeff is very taken by the old churches, especially the Gothic ones, which he labels Notre Dames.  As we enter every village he eagerly looks out for the church and if he denotes it a Notre Dame he is happy, if not he is dejected and hoping to be fulfilled at the next village.  One of the more impressive Notre Dames we have seen was a splendid Gothic Knights of Malta cathedral in Villedieu Poeles.  We were heading home from Normandy after another big day and looking for a village for dinner.  Tom chose Villedieu Poeles from the map, thinking that the 'village of the poets' sounded rather quaint.  I was a bit tired from a long day, but even to me village of the poets did not sound quite right, but I was not up to arguing.  So we headed off, all chatting about how lovely this place must be to called the village of the poets.  After a bit I decided to check it - having twigged that the French for poet, is, poet. True enough, Poeles did not mean poet, but frying pan.  Yes we were heading into the village of the frying pans !  Unfortunately, Maurice (the car) had a mishap in the frying pan village, Tom took on a fast Renault and his rather ambitious gear change caused Maurice to go into a meltdown.  Not to, worry.  We pushed it off the road, and in true Gallic style, left it and went off to find something to eat.

Not much was open but we found a creperie: we have been enjoying this Breton staple.  The savoury version is made from buckwheat flour and can be filled with an endless variety of ham, cheese, mushrooms, sausages etc....  Still incredulous about the village name I asked Madame, que's que c'est Poeles.  Madame did not have the Enlish word, but her mime of cooking in a pan was unmistakable.  She showed us a brochure about the town, although there is no local copper source the place has become a centre for that lovely copper cookware that is synomous with France - hence the name.  Even better, the brochure forewarned us of the big copper ware festival to be held there in 2016, we are the next trip already !  And Maurice, by the time be got back our faithful six seater had recovered and got us home (must make sure Hertz are not reading the blog).

Eating Crepes

The Wedding

You may recall we came on this trip to attend a wedding.  Tom's cousin has lived in France for many years and his daughter, Pauline is marrying childhood sweetheart Simon.  The wedding was to be the typical French ceremonies of civil wedding at the town hall, followed by a mass at the village church and finally the reception.  All this I was prepared for - the rest I was not.  And I could probably fill a dozen blogs on the events of the day, but for I will give you the ceremony.

Travelling from so far for the event we had to carefully plan what to wear.  At first I thought a wedding in France would be very chic and I was planning a full on outfit - think Spring racing carnival.  Then some research indicated that French weddings can be less formal, but that research was mostly from American blogs, and as I had no idea what American weddings were like, knowing that French weddings were less formal than their weddings was not much of a yardstick for measuring.  There was much debate if the men needed suits and ties.  Anyway, this is just a rather long way of getting to the point that for the first part of the day all I did was gawk at what everyone else was wearing and I am pleased to say that we fitted in nicely.  While some of the locals were less formal, many where very elegantly dressed.  But I was a bit disappointed in the French shoes, the best shoes were on the Australians.  

A Frenchman only needs one good leg to drive a tractor

The arrival of the groom and his friends was unconventional, as you can see.  There was also a car decked out in an Australian and a Breton flag, adorned with blow up kangaroos on the back. 

Pauline & Simon at the Mairie for the civilceremony 

The civil ceremony was held in a smallish room, certianly not enough to accommodate the 240 guests, so many spilled our into the foyer.  The Mairie himself could not have been more arcetypal - so Gallic and adorned with the tricolor sash and rosette.  After a quick greeting to the trallevers in English the ceremony was in French, so we have no idea what went on, but I did get the references to fidelitie and amour.

Next we headed off for the religious ceremony.  The church was 17th century and gorgeous, of course.  Even better was the bar over the road where we enjoyed a quick ale before the ceremony.  Gemma and I have discovered a new beer - Desperados. It is flavoured with Tequila and is slightly sweet - just a like a shandy in a bottle ! Excellent, will be looking out for that a home.  But the church bells are ringing, so off to the church. Another French language ceremony.  What struck me were the children, unlike Australia the kids are welcome at weddings.  And no one was concerned at them chatting, crying and playing.  And we all laughed merrily when the little flowergirl, in her big moment, dropped the rings.  The other delightful part of the ceremony that was delightful was the singing, and I do not mean hymns.  The music was provided by an electonic keyboard and she as joined by her sister who was an excellent chanteuse.  And then we had an acoustic guitar and solo singer, yet another song about armour.  And then a solo soprano - just superb.

More bell ringing (I felt like I was in a Mid Sommer Murder) and then the official parts of the day were over.  Next - the reception.  But that is another story all together.

Chappelle De Drenec

Maurice

The wedding party

Parlez en Francais

Are the French rude ?

There are such divergent views on French rudeness, and in particular Parisian rudeness.  Experiences are so different.  In preparation I decided to brush up my high school French with a CAE class, which was quite fun, but we all sat in terror as the teacher looked around the room, all of us hoping and praying she would pick someone else to speak.  I found that I could string quite comprehensible sentences together, but as soon as someone spoke to me in French I was lost.  Any deviation from the carefully scripted response I had made in my head left me floundering and speechless.  I tried to practice on French speaking Eline, but she found my pronunciation so poor that she could not understand what I was saying. 

So I arrived in Paris keen to give it a go, but with little vocab and almost no grammar.  The one thing that stuck in my head from listening to my language tapes on the train on the way to work each day was ecoutez et repetez.  So, if I ever have to tell anyone to listen and repeat then I am good. 

Food is the easiest entree for me to language, so our first morning found me off to the boulangerie to buy bread for breakfast.  Une bagette s'il vous plait.  Hey - this is easy.  And as long as you give them a big enough Euro note to cover the cost then it really doesn't matter that you find French numbering incomprehensible and have no idea what price was just reeled off to you in rapid fire French.  My favourites as the ones who let you babble on in French as you select items, but then politely show you the amount on the cash register, knowing that you will never understand if they tell you the price. 

I am pleased to report that we encountered no rudeness in Paris.  In fact most shopkeepers and waiters were very pleasant and patient with the faltering French.  Even most of the bored security staff at the various tourist sites were courteous.  And as we entered Monet's house at Giverny we were even treated to a performance at the ticket box by the attendant who ascertained our nationality from our guide and then spouted out in a perfect strine accent - good'ay mate.  Even I, who would normally recoil in horror from the stereotypical Australian reference, burst into uncontrolled laughter.

Monet's Garden at Giverny

And out here in remote Finestere, which literally means the end of the world, everyone has been kind.  From the Carrefour check out lady who laughed off my mistaking a 10 cent for a 20 cent coin and then attempting to argue with her, to the old lady who chatted to us and showed us the fresh fish as we sat on the ancient walls in Concarneau munching on meringues and strawberries dipped in strawberry liquer. 

Happy Birthday Alistair

Felicitations !

Today is Alistair's 22nd birthday and like the awful parents that we are we are thousands of miles away in France and not where we should be, celebrating with him at home.

He was pretty chuffed though when we rang him to sing Happy Birthday, en famile.  It was midnight here, so a decent 8:00am in Australia, and while he was gracious, he was pretty keen to get back to sleep.

Hopefully by now he has found his gift - three huge boxes hidden in my wardrobe and under  our bed containing his new keyboards, thanks to Lesley for the loan of Sarah's keyboard which has re-kindled his interest in music.  

Today is the wedding day in France - the reason for our trip.  The weather is a pleasant 20 degrees, which while not hot means that at least I will not freeze in my dress.  What a waste it was fake tanning the legs before leaving Australia.  I wanted to make sure my lily white legs did not scare the locals when we landed in the northern hemisphere, but no need to have worried, I am yet to get out of jeans.  Today will be the first day my legs have seen the light of day, and by now the fake tan has all faded so they are going to be white anyway.

Look out for the wedding post - as we have been instructed to attend wearing moustaches expect some interesting photos.

More Paris Observations

French Women Are Not Fat

Yes, it is true, there are no fat people to be seen in Paris.

Well that may be a sweeping statement, but generally there is a dearth of that obesity that we see in Melbourne.  I am shocked to find that Australia is rated something like fourth in the world for obesity.  While obesity is on the rise in France, the number of over weight people has doubled in 20 years, the country remains one of the 'thinnest' in Europe.

Why is this so ?  I have read about the French Paradox - the theory that the French eat well, but remain thin because they only eat small portions of very good food.  The rise in obesity is attributed to a change in the French diet and the wider consumption of American style food and eating.

I have some additional theories about this subject.  One is stairs !  I never appreciated before how very flat Melbourne is.  Having just navigated the metro and transferred to the regional train station, lugging my heavy suitcase up and down six sets of stairs, four escalators, one travelator and numerous subways, I have a new appreciation for the trials of living in an ancient city.  The metro is underground and there are very few elevators so there is no option but to trudge up and down the stairs.  And then there are the apartments.  We have been living on the third floor and the lift in our building is a modern addition wedged in between the old stairway, and as a consequence is tiny.  Really tiny. Three person tiny (or for fat Australians, probably only two person tiny).

Stairs to our local Metro (some of the stations are showing their age)

My next observation that owning a car in Paris is a luxury unaffordable by many, so people have no option but to walk and metro everywhere. They buy their shopping and drag it home - no driving the SUV up to the shops to pick up the forgotten carton of milk.

And then there are the French kitchens - just ridiculous.  Granted our apartment is a tourist rental and you would not expect it to be well provisioned but it is a fairly standard representation of a Parisian kitchen; a tiny fridge (ie: a bar fridge), two induction hot plates, and, sharing the only other power point, a kettle, toaster and microwave.  No oven. So when I decided to take on the challenge and cook dinner one night I had to factor in the limited facilities.

Typical French woman cooking

So what to cook under these conditions, for six hungry Australians in search of a healthy meal.  Of course, ratatouille, what else.  So off went Tom and I to do the shopping.  Our destination was Rue Monteguril - check it out at this link.  Tres Bon!  Spoilt for choice Tom and I found ourselves in a passionate argument outside the patisserie about which cake to buy.  For goodness sake, as if it mattered, was there going to be much difference between the splendour of the chocolate gateaux from the tarte au frambois or any of the other delicacies? After the obligatory beer on the pavement and watching the world go by, it was back to the apartment to cook.  Despite the trying cooking conditions we enjoyed three courses with some French wine sourced by brother-in-lay Jeff. Entree, melon (deliciously sweet) with smoked ham and chevre.  I now have all the family hooked on chevre, the tasty goats cheese that is so popular here.  The ratatouille followed and was served with veal and basil sausages and bread.  Oh - French bread - where to start extolling the virtues of French bread.  It has less preservatives than Australian bread and I am told that means I can eat so much more of it before blowing up into a gluten balloon.  

All this with tarte to follow !  The French do not generally make cakes or tarts - bit hard without an oven - so I did not feel guilty about buying the raspberry tart.  And for Gemma we picked up the little piggy!

Bon appetit.

Gemma with Cochon and a French tart

Le Metro

We had a really busy day on Monday which ended at the Arc De Triomphe, Napoleons famous neo-classical folly.  It was the Melbourne version of Paris with rain, sun, cloud and wind alternating throughout the day.  Highlights were the Nympheas at the Orangerie, greenhouse turned gallery of impressionists.  The Nympheas are a collection of Monet's room sized works all depicting his beloved lily ponds at Giverny (the subject of Wednesday's day tour).  They are breathtaking, and backed up by a great collection of his contemporaries, particularly Renoir, Gaugin, Durain and Cezanne.  Coming out of the  Orangerie we were hit by the first of a series of rain showers that punctuated our afternoon and evening.  We took refuge in a small cafe in the Tuileries gardens where the highlight for Joanne was her Desperados beer, which is flavoured with Tecquila and (she says) tasted sweet like a shandy.

Le Louvre from the Tuileries

We started the day with a visit to Montmartre.  This was our first taste of the underground - Le Metro - and it was a revelation!  Whilst it is showing its age and is not bright and sparkly, i.e. a little tired looking, in regard to its central function, delivering people to destinations all over Paris, it shines.  The tickets are a little small and easy to lose, but you only have to use then to get on, not to get off.  The trains are reasonably modern and clean, although there is a variety of vintages, but most importantly they are plentiful.   If your train pulls out just as you arrive on the platform you know that another will be there in 3 minutes or so.  Whilst they do get crowded at times, we haven't not been able to get on one yet, and if it is too crowded you can always just wait for another.  In short, Le Metro is what we Melbournians deserve as a train system.  

Sacre Coeur 

After visiting Sacre Coeur and a wander around Montmartre pursued by portrait artists, we hopped onto the Metro to head off to the Louvre,  and after a quick entrance by-passing the long queue waiting to purchase tickets thanks to our Paris Pass, The Louvre is truly a daunting prospect so we decided to not even attempt to see too much but select only a few areas we were interested in.    So we forsook the well worn path to the smiling lady to visit the restored apartments of Napoleon III on the fist floor of the Richelieu wing, and the re-discovered foundations of the original Chateau, deep underneath the current palace, dating back to the 12th century.  Fine art was limited to a stroll through the new sculpture exhibition in the recently roofed courtyards in the same wing, and some of the medieval iconographic paintings.  

After a brief respite we headed off to the Arc about 7:00 pm, hoping to catch the sunset from the top.  Again the Metro showed its worth.  No matter where you want to go there is always a station nearby and a route to get to your destination 'sur le Metro'. 

Paris Observations

Asian Brides

It was Sunday in Paris and we were doing the open deck bus tour of the city.  Luckily it was not raining, well at least not all the time.  It has not been a warm September in Paris and it has been necessary for me to visit Galleries Lafayette to pick up a cashmere jumper.  From the top deck of the bus I could see a bride having her photograph taken with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop.   However, to my disappointment, Tom pointed out that it was a commercial photo shoot.  I guess the lack of a groom should have been a dead give away.

The bus then took us around the corner for the alternative view of the Eiffel Tower, and you have to ask why; the tower is a perfect symmetry and the view is exactly the same from all sides.  I noticed a throng of well wishes surrounding a real bride being photographed in the gardens.  And then another, and yet another.  Gemma counted seven brides no less, and all of them Asian.  That explained the traffic jam we were caught up in, beemers, mercs and long, long stretch limos everywhere. Most of them decked out in gaudy flowers, with the most elegant of them adorned in just simple red and gold ribbons.  

It turns out that Paris is the favourite destination for pre-wedding photos for brides from China, Japan, Taiwan and Indonesia.  And yes, I did say 'pre-wedding' photos! Apparently, romantic Paris is the place to come to photograph your special day.  Except it is not your special day, just your special photograph day. It was not just the brides & grooms, we are talking attendants, parents, relatives and little kids, all dressed to kill.  The brides were all gorgeous of course, and possessed that special magic that brides have of not feeling the cold, despite the flimsy, sleeveless, strapless wedding gowns.

The chauffeur driven, luxury European cars pulled up to let off their well healed, (literally), occupants at the gardens in the same spot where many gypsies sat by the road side with all their possessions.  The contrast between the lavish wealth of the new world and the poverty of the old could not have been more stark.  Near the gypsy group a row of luggage sat waiting on the pavement, presumably the luggage of tour group ready to be loaded onto the bus.  Except when we got closer the luggage turned out to be rows of plastic carry bags, not the cases of cashed-up tourists.  All this was being looked over by a number of gentlemen of Eastern European appearance. The immigration officer in me could not help but think that this was some sort of itinerant worker collection point.

A quick google search reveals that Romanian and Bulgarian criminal groups have moved into Paris to organise illegal workers and operate pick pocket gangs preying on tourists.  The French authorities take this very seriously and occasionally round up large groups and deport the illegals.  Many itinerant people sleep on the streets and the young African man asleep in our street this morning was taken away by the police.  Beggars are common, and many sit on the pavement with their faces down - this is to avoid detection and possible deportation.

The police are everywhere.  We noticed four soldiers in full camouflage gear and serious guns at the Arc de Triumphe and there was some thought that this may have been some sort of terrorist deterrence, but apparently the military are also used to control and deter criminal gangs.  Of course all this just compounds the anti-foreigner sentiment the French are prone to and adds to the rise of nationalism.  As an Australian I found this 'show of strength' very disconcerting.  And I am also unconvinced that soldiers who wear berets can really be  taken seriously as killing machines !!!!

Coffee

Ok, call me  a coffee snob but there is no place on earth like Melbourne for coffee.  Let me add some  qualifications.  I am not an espresso drinker, so automatically disqualify myself as an officianado.  In Italy, I am told, the espresso is great, but if you want a milk coffee i.e. cappuccino, latte etc. you are stuck with a fairly ordinary cappuccino with an indeterminate froth and the latte does not exist!  Also, I like to savour my coffee but the Italians skol their espresso and go,  They don't even sit down!

Of course I agree some Melbournians take it too far.  I work in the Melbourne CBD, and there must be about ten cafes within 200 metres of our building which serve passable coffee, including one located in the foyer of the building, and at least two who serve very good coffee.   Yet some of my work mates walk a block and a half (i.e. half a kilometre) to go to a cafe that serves THE BEST coffee!  Needless to say the place is full of hipsters and bankers (sorry, my typing skills are pretty poor, so you have to forgive the occasional typo), and you have to wait ten minutes for your coffee, which makes the morning coffee run about half an hour!  And you still have to drink it when you get back to your desk.

Making Crepes in the Trocadero

We are of course in Paris, and well, it ain't Melbourne, at least where coffee is concerned.  The cappuccino comes with whipped cream (although it also has chocky sprinkles, so they are trying), the latte is really a flat white and there is no such thing as latte art.  There is a profusion of Starbucks, which are a bit more like home but, of course, this is American coffee.  It comes in a bucket (the smallest size is a 'tall' and the large is like a milk shake) with a range of flavours, none of which are actually coffee!  OK, I exaggerate, but my tall latte only tasted marginally like coffee as it was drowned in milk.  Next time I will see if they do a double shot, which  should  make it normal strength.  Seriously, I can make better coffee in my own kitchen on my $200 Sunbeam!  

Of course our luxurious accommodation does come with coffee making facilities, in the form of a dripolator.  Your know, one of those things that you useed to have back in the 80's that you fill with water and put coffee in the dispenser in a filter and the water boils and drips through the coffee into the natty glass jug.  Well, in the absence of anything else it does make decent coffee so we have been using it  every morning.  It is amazing what compromises you make to feed your adictions!  So at the  risk of sounding like a whinging Pom on holiday on the Costa del Sol "OOh Gerald, it isn't like it is at home, is it?", I am really missing Melbourne coffee.

Arrived Paris

Being a seasoned immigration officer and Francophone, as we line up in the non-European passports queue (ie: the Americans and all the other scum queue) I am practicing my best French phrases for the formidable French entry officials, only to find myself 'stamped-in' before I even mumble out my first bonjour.

As we drive from the airport to central Paris (why am I the only one to wonder if the driver is legal ? Why can't immigration officers ever relax ?) we are all playing it cool. We have that world, weary traveller discussion about how freeways and majors roads look the same the whole world over - you know the one, the bored 'I could be anywhere in the world' . But then, peeping into view, between outer suburban Parisian tenements, comes Sacre Couer, atop Montmarte. What a contrast, here one minute I am educating (some would say preaching to) Tom's niece Gemma about urban poverty and disenfranchisement in 21c Paris, and then this iconic symbol of bohemian, sophisticated France steals my thunder.  Soon that, as we skirt the central Parisian arrondissements on the ring road route the Effiel Tower pops into view.  The excitement builds as we gaze over glorious lead roofed apartment buildings and then, as the Arc de Triumph comes into view and we realise that our route is going to take us around the famous roundabout we are almost squealing with delight.  By the time we hit the famous cobblestones of the Champs Élysées we are frenetic and any sembalence of the sophisticated traveler is entirely gone. We are smitten. 

L'apartement

We are then dumped in central Paris, to await our landlady. This has always been the dubious part of the arrangement, meeting the landlady in a corner cafe and handing over squillions of Euros in cash!  No, we did not use an agent for this booking, but everything on TripAdvisor is the gospel truth (isn't it?).  

Success, she finds us.  Hard to miss I guess, six Australians standing on a street corner with luggage.  I am 'bonjouring' every passerby in what I hope is a chic Parisian manner, but I am most disappointed to find that most are Aussie tourists.  Our story now takes a bizarre turn when we discover our landlady  is not French Marie, but is in fact Balinese Ari - well, the phone connections are not great.  Ari has been living in Paris for three years (again the immigration officer in me is curious), and prior to that was selling sarongs on a Balinese beach to none other than my sister-in-law, Lesley.  Well,  turns out that Ari and Lesley are old mates and they reminisce old times as we settle in.  I muse that Ari probably uses that line on all Australians and one-in-three it probably turns out to work, but she does actually seems genuine.  The world is getting such a small place.

Luckily Tom and I have been warning everyone the apartment is quirky - it turns out to be an apt description.  Well, it is hard to find something in central Paris for six people, comprising two couples and two singles.  All I wanted was an apartment with casement windows and wrought iron balustrading and the apartment offers that is spades.  The tatty furniture, well that just adds to the charm. 

So time to break out the Cointreau (thanks to DXB duty free), le fromage and the canard pâté and toast our arrival. We follow this up with dinner and for our first evening in Paris my companions choose a local bistro and they order pizza, pasta and kebabs. You just can't take the Melbourne out of some people.

Our companions finished the day with a night trip to the Eiffel Tower, but as an avowed sufferer of vertigo I forgo the tower and head home to bed; so exhausted that the pounding bass rhythms from the nightclub downstairs are no impediment to a sound night's sleep.