The Amorous Adventures of Pif

Romance is in the air. That, and rain. When it really starts coming down, we head for the local cafe, which is t he hub of the village, as Peter Mayle has predicted. And, as predicted, the cafe is bustling, filled with tourists hiding from the sudden downpour. The menu listed ice cream and booze, so we got both.

At the table near us, a romantic dog interlude was unfolding. Pif, a spaniel belonging to a local man, and looking shockingly like his owner, had sniffed out a mysterious lady, an exotic beige stranger, who was resting on the cafe floor while her owner sipped cafe au lait and dried off.

Unable to contain his enthusiastic admiration, Pif kept trying to inch closer, to properly introduce himself, while the tourist in question appeared more interested in a quick nap and the occasional dropped cookie crumb. Pif's owner kept trying to contain his charge, but it was a losing battle. Finally, as the other clients thinned out, the beige beauty's owner allowed for a rendez vous.

Pif approached joyfully and some energetic sniffing began. Things seemed to be looking up. But then...being the flighty lady of leisure that she clearly was, the babe decided that mingling with the locals was not on the day's agenda. Truning her well-formed tail to Pif, she went back to snoozing under the table. Pif looked defeated, and returned to his table, still glancing sadly in her direction. What had he done wrong? Where had he come short? It was the same thing endless singles ask themselves during last call on a Saturday night.

But who could blame Pif, who was just a representative for his nation's love of romance? As the rain petered out to a drizzle, our waiter, and English-speaking French man who had spent ten years in New York, convinced us to return to Bonnieux next summer. He would help us find a place to stay at a reasonable rent. He also was willing to provide other services – “If your husband can’t come,” he told me, “I’ll teach you French.”

Ooh-la-la.

10 Signs to Your Hotelier That You’re Not Leaving, Like You Said You Would…

10. You’ve invested in a very detailed local map (#113, if you’re interested).
9. You’ve stopped going “out” to lunch.
8. You’ve bought your own food and are storing it in the hotel’s fridge.
7. You now know your way around the hotel’s kitchen, and no longer need the staff’s assistance.
6. You’ve asked where you can do laundry.
5. Your hotelier suggests sights for you to see. You seem more interested in staying put.
4. Your bags are getting “too heavy” to carry.
3. You offer your hotelier wine, hoping for an invitation to the family lunch in return.
2. The hotelier is now offering you his private stash of wine.
1. You’re in Provence. You’ve taken a good look around you and realized you probably can’t do better.

Way Off the Beaten Path

After a months-long online obsession with a home furnishings store, I was thrilled to discover that the European boutique had a branch in Paris. It was decided that a visit was requisite, no matter what lengths we had to go to, to get there.

I checked a map (one of my other obsessions), and proceeded to convince Bree that it wasn’t that far. Totally walkable. In retrospect, it can probably be said that while my map reading skills are good, the “distance –gauging” isn’t, how shall we say, quite up to snuff.

An hour after we departed for our short jaunt, Bree and I were trudging, sweaty, tired, map in hand, down a boulevard. Long gone was the patter of multiple languages. No cameras snapping pictures of the sights. This was where the Parisians actually live and work.

In an alleyway that looked like a city planner’s afterthought we found my mecca for domestic decorating: Emery et Cie. The store was as lovely as I’d imagined it. Rows of glazed tiles in a rainbow of colors line the walls; intricate wrought iron chandeliers light the path between whimsical furniture. Imagine a settee with a back and arms shaped like branches, or iron cabinet pulls coiled like snails. Rows of paint jars provide for endless color combinations, while hand-printed wallpaper and hand knotted one-of-a-kind rugs complete the look of each showroom. And while they’re not giving their goods away (in fact, we determined it would probably be cheaper for us to relocate and live at the store than to get all the items I wanted), we emerged victorious with shopping bag in hand.

Hot, cranky, but holding our prized possessions, we took the Metro back to the hotel.

Starbucks Should Have Coffee Like This

Image by Zoonabar

This morning we met a couple over breakfast. They were moneyed Americans. The type who live in exclusive communities, drive exclusive cars and stay at exclusive luxury boutique hotels. In “normal” life, it is unlikely that we would have crossed paths, let alone struck up a conversation. But here, in the bowls of world travel, to hear words in a familiar tongue can make instant friends of incidental neighbors.

They were on their return trip from Marrakesh, where their son-in-law is building a golf course in the desert. I try to imagine what this course would look like – an oasis of green amid yellow-white powder. I trust sand traps would be a given obstacle. If your ball went out of bounds, would you have to dig it out of a sand dune? But I digress…

Their assessment of Morocco was such: dusty. A place with inedible food, where even the Arabs speak French. Worth taking a look-see, perhaps, but with a three-day limit on the adventure. I’m not sure what caused such disdain for a country we’ve heard so many wonderful things about. Maybe the boutique hotels weren’t quite a luxurious as they’d have liked. Or the shopping didn’t interest them. Or maybe they were just ready to return to more familiar ground.

Somewhere with less sand and more cafes. “Starbucks should have coffee like this,” mused the wife, sipping her café crème. “But I wonder what they would call it.”

Pi pi a Paris

4/23 - We arrived in Paris via the Eurostar Chunnel Train.



The journey itself was fairly standard, the Chunnel a long, dark tunnel. I"m not sure what I expected, lights, fanfare, a flashing "You are Now in France" sign? We did make two observations: that northern French countryside is quite similar to English countryside, thou I still maintain that French grass is a darker green;




and while Bree never got to view English sheep, he did get some cows and horses along the way.

Paris, itself, is stunning - buildings are old, intricately decorated. We are staying in the Latin Quarter, a maze of tiny, cobblestoned streets with cafes every fifty feet.



As soon as we settled in (i.e., threw our luggage on our hotel room floor), we took off to walk the Seine and see Notre Dame. Both are truly breathtaking.





We even managed to get a tour of the towers of Notre Dame, the last of the day. Sadly, the Hunchback had a day off, but we got photos of some incredible gargoyles.





We had our first pastis, and a waiter who kidded with us, despite the language barrier...



At dinnertime, we settled in to a quaint restaurant. The meal was spectacular, the ambiance great. All was going well until Bree decided to use the restroom. He should have known. Peter Mayle has devoted pages to this contraption that passes for a toilet in France. You are basicly given a spot to stand, and a hole to aim for. But, my friends, that is far from the "traumatizing" part. You see, the flushing mechanism simply floods the entire area with water. Hope you're a high stepper or quick jumper-out-of-the-way...


Image by grünes Fiet

Beyond sights, beyond language, it was the fantasticly shocking way we knew we weren't in Kansas any more!

Rugby Strategy, And the Price of Beer

Image by eymon



Some time between toast and poached eggs, we learned that our hotel proprietor, Dave Davies, is an ex-rugby player. And not just some "I play on weekends with the chaps" variety. A genunie, bonafide rugby player who, as he himself claims, would be a millionaire if he had been playing today.

But he wasn't. Instead, he represented the London Welsh Rugby Club in the 1970s, back when they were still decent. More than decent, actually. One of the top teams, that had developed an innovative new play strategy. So how does a team innovate? In Britain it seems to revolve around alcohol.

You see, back in the days when everyone simply kicked the ball (and for those of you who aren't up on rugby rules, don't worry - neither are we), the captain challenged his teammates to run the ball in. Whoever failed to do so would be buying pints for the rest of the team. Pints costing what they did, and rugby players drinking as they did, this was quite a costly proposition. As no one wanted to be left footing the bill, the team pulled together, running the ball. Which proved quite successful.

And thus, a team strategy was born. The London Welsh went on to some quite successful seasons. Back when they were decent. In the good old days.

London’s Fetish

Image by How can I recycle this' photostream

In America, one thinks of the English as the prim and proper sort, always dressing appropriately, sipping tea, and generally exuding what we like to refer to as “class.” However, in our three days in London we have discovered the Brits’ dirty little secret. A fetish so prevalent that evidence of it litters the streets. It is a city-wide obsession with…gloves.

We have been unable to discover the use of these articles, but discarded gloves of various types and varieties could be found everywhere we went. Under fences (or was that a human hand?), in streets, and by trash bins, we saw work gloves, plastic baggie gloves, and latex gloves (these inspired the most alarm). We saw a policeman preparing to deal with a man on the South Bank donning some bright blue rubber gloves. What was he planning to do that gloves were a necessity? One shudders to think.

One question has been answered in the process though. The Smiths’ song, “Hand In Glove” makes much more sense now.

Pretty Bubbles

One rarely thinks of bubbles when contemplating football. Either variety – American or “the real kind,” as the Europeans would have us believe. However, call out a West Ham United fan on this, and you risk dismemberment, or worse.

You see, the Hammers, with their uniform of burgundy and blue, emblazoned with a bold gold castle and crossed hammers, have chosen a somewhat curious fight song. It is a sight to behold a crowd, 30,000 strong, belting out “Pretty Bubbles” at the top of their lungs as their squad takes the field. Sure, there is some spirited clapping at the end, but being an outsider to the scene made me think that as songs go, their choice did not inspire the fear in the enemy it was meant to.

That said, a football match in England is an amazing experience. The entire stadium shimmers in burgundy and blue. Every seat is filled. The excitement is palpable as the players take the pitch, rising steadily as the match begins. Singing, chanting, screaming. Even a trio of streakers take the field, running a victorious lap before being hauled off by myriad of police and security. Every attempt on goal has the side closest to it rising to their feet, leaning forward, breath bated, waiting to scream out in case of success, or groan in the event of failure.

West Ham United is in a precarious position. Second from the bottom in the England Premiership, the team risks being relegated to a lower league. Therefore, every match is a must-win situation. Fortunately for the Hammers, Everton’s star player goes down in the first few minutes of the match, thanks in part to a not-so-subtle shove from one of the West Ham players. The referee punishes West Ham for this stunt the rest of the match, failing to notice when one of the Everton players blatantly kicks the goalie and finding six minutes of stoppage time at the end of the match. Nevertheless, with Everton’s star down for the count, West Ham gains the momentum, and finishes with a 1-0 victory.



During half-time, a rousing rendition of the team song breaks out in the concourse. I am pressed up against a wall, waiting for Bree, surrounded by about 1,000 rowdy fans swigging beer and singing. “Don’t you support us?” says a short, cap-wearing man near me. There is only one right answer. “Then why aren’t you singing our song?” he demands. It is a challenge, and the wrong response could get me in trouble. Think fast, think fast. “I’m shy,” I babble, hoping for the best. “No need to be shy around me girl,” he leers. Pretty bubbles, indeed.

Melons

Image by 2725

4/19 – 4/20/07
Let’s go back a little in time.

The scene: a small kitchen, where a young man and woman scramble through dishes and lunch on their way out the door.

She, soaping and rinsing, he spoon feeding (ok, fork feeding) pieces of melon to her at high speeds. Will the melon be eaten, freeing the container it was in to be washed in time? Or will she have to stop down and dry for a bit, while the feeding frenzy continues. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat melon again,” she says, gulping down the last piece.

Fast… Forward…

The scene: a large, inter-continental airplane. A young man and woman are seated in a row, five across, waiting for the arrival of their much-anticipated airline dinner. Their last meal, if you will, and bearing all the similarities to prison food that the name implies.

The flight attendant arrives, carrying not one, but two vegetarian meals. She takes hers gratefully. She did special order it after all, and hopes that whatever is on the tray is more edible than the homogenous, identically shaped pieces of chicken her neighboring travelers are munching on.

He, on the other hand, is waiting for his homogenous meal. Therefore, when the flight attendant brings him a dinner, utterly unidentifiable as any food group of this earth, he is less than pleased. “But I don’t want a vegetarian meal,” he pleads. The flight attendant won’t hear of it. There are only so many meals and so many people. And the fact that one of his own neighbors requests and is denied a vegetarian meal, just as the young man is offering to give up his, makes no difference. Leaving the young man only to munch sulkily on the melon slices that came with it.

Time Lapse…

Time has passed. Day has turned to night and to day again. Sun replaced darkness, and little over 30 miles separate the Boeing 777 and London. It is now April 20th, and bleary-eyed passengers are woken to the promise of croissants. Again, the quest fro turning Bree vegetarian perseveres, and we both find ourselves with special meals. By now he’s learned better than to argue.

On the plate? Juice, a bagel-like substance and, yes, a small container of melon.

Roger Daltry and the John Wayne of Italian Spaghetti Westerns

4/19 - We arrived at the airport 3 hours before our flight- plenty of time to check in, request a change of seats (which we were denied, in no uncertain terms), and kick back a few drinks at the airport bar, watching the ever-changing cast of transient drinkers, tying one on before their flight.

Standing in the check-in line, we were chatted up by Robert Woods (http://www.myspace.com/actorrobertwoods – of course), who was on his way to Rome to host the Torino Film Festival. It turns out, Mr. Woods, now 70 and looking not a day over 60, was at one point quite a star on the Italian Western circuit. Perhaps even the John Wayne of his time – we were clearly in the presence of greatness.

Spry, fit, funny and ever the showman, Robert entertained us with stories of travel in the days of yore, the freedoms an American once enjoyed both abroad and at home, and smoking doobies to relax before a flight.

So passed the first few official moments of our trip – proof that talking to your neighboring travelers leads to far more interesting revelations than keeping to yourself. A reminder that travel is as much about the people you meet as the places you visit.

Moments later, going through security, we caught a glimpse of Robert chatting up another young traveler. The same engaging panache, the same storytelling prowess shone from him as he entertained the guy in line and, mostly himself. He was done with us, the whore – but we were happy for the moments he allotted to us. Such is the power exuded by good actors.

Still, fate was not completely done with us. As we prepared to board the plane, we caught a glimpse of what we are 99.9% sure was The Who’s Roger Daltry and his entourage, readying themselves for first class. Only going from LA to London… Our journey has truly begun.

Where Art Thou, Chester Row?

Riding the Piccadilly Line from Heathrow into central London, we met a lonely Italian suitcase. Whether it had decided to extend its vacation, or simply wanted to see London without its rightful owners (perhaps they were slowing it down), the blue valise was riding the tube alone. We were going to strike up an acquaintance, but our stop came, and the travel bag continued on its own path.



We arrived at the Lime Tree Hotel checked in, and set out to explore London right away. The weather, unusually sunny and warm, seemed to be on our side. Our first sightseeing stop was the self-proclaimed, award winning Cornish Pasty Shoppe. Two pasties later, we were off to Buckingham Palace.



It was pretty. It was grand. And very regal. The guards stood very still. We saw evidence of the passage of some royal horses.



I was a wimp for not wanting to run past the guard with the fully loaded AK-47 or even take a picture of him. What a sissy.

Walking down through Westminster, we stopped at the Westminster Cathedral. The mosaics inside were stunning, and no photo could capture the grand scale of the church. Still, we tried. We both lit candles and went on – so much to see!





Walking past Parliament and Big Ben, we headed up Whitehall, where Bree made up for my cowardice by taking a photo of the AK-47 wielding guard at Tony Blair’s “crib,” aka 10 Downing Street.





After our first English pint at the Red Lion,





we crossed Westminster Bridge to the London Eye, a ginormous Ferris-wheel-like contraption that was built for the Millennium celebration. The ride offers spectacular views of the Thames and surrounding sighs.















Jet lag and lack of sleep were catching up to us, and we dragged back to the Lime Tree to get ready for dinner. After checking with the front desk, we decided to check out the Duke of Wellington Pub, for some English food. It was literally around the corner. A 5-minute walk, if that. I checked the map. I noted the directions. I left the map at the hotel…

Forty-five minutes later, after we had walked the better part of our neighborhood, and seen what may have been a dead body (or a glove, we’re still not sure) we gave up. Chester Row DID NOT EXIST. We settled into the restaurant next door to our hotel.

The next morning we checked our map. We had been walking up and down the wrong street.

Looking Sideways

As we prepare for leaving on a jet plane, it's easy to lose sight of the beauties of the journey by getting caught up in the details of travel: how much currency should we exchange? do I need the bathing suit? are the adapter and the converter one item, or two distinct implements? are there ATMs in Bonnieux?

My husband and I travel quite often, and have become experts in packing for intra-continental trips. In fact, its rare that we are packing prior to 2am the night before we leave. Yet Europe has rendered me somewhat of a befuddled fool. So to avoid the temptation to descend into panic, or to pack every item of clothing and electronics I own, I will look back on a trip we took last month, and see if it can give me inspiration.

It was a trip of a manageable size - a weekend, specifically - when my husband, his father and the dog - it a word, our entire local family - took off for Santa Barbara. It was a birthday trip for my father-in-law, who had lived there years earlier, but had never explored the wine region of the Central Coast. So weekend bags and dog bed in hand (or in trunk, technically speaking), we hit the road up the coast.





The weather was gorgeous - perfect for enjoying the beauty that is the San Ysidro Valley, and all the vineous bounty it has to offer.

We started off, going winery to winery, Sideways style. Well, minus the debauchery and womanizing.

After sampling some local wares, we settled down for a pre-packed picnic, overlooking a valley. The sun shone, a hawk flew by, my dog got himself a girlfriend (ok, so maybe there was some womanizing). We were, as my FIL said, "In God's country."





As the day drew to a close, we stopped at an ostrich farm. Drunk from the beauty, the heat and, well, the drink, we descended on the fields of ostriches, grazing blissfully as the sun sank behind them. Robert (the FIL) somehow talked the attendant into letting all of us, including the dog - who was now a "labrador mix," not a pit bull - out back to feed the giant birds.






It only lasted a few minutes, but looking back on the trip, I think not to the planning, not to the packing, not even to the wine. But to the image of a 60+-year-old man, laughing blissfully, as he feeds ostriches for the first time in his life.