Fourth Form of Madness

I woke this morning 40. Nothing hurt or felt different. Tried getting all birthday bluey as is my tradition but hey I’m in France eating myself into eaters anonymous staying in a picture perfect vineyard, it is hard to feel sad about that. To mark the occasion husband and I headed off for a long lunch at a local restaurant in Berry Au Bac called La Cote 108 (http://www.lacote108.com – turn the corny music off). We were really keen to try their 7 course degustation menu as we had dined there the night before and the ordinary menu had been incredible.

It was absolutely sublime. Every course was amazing and made you remember that food can be the greatest artist creation when done right. I won’t bore you with words, I have put together a nice little picture show below of the courses!

I’m off to lie on our bed and digest, us oldies need to do that after a big meal!

Annecy turned out to be a great place to crash out. I got up the second day there, all intending to read my book and perhaps do some writing by the pool. I lay back in my deck chair and looked out across the pool at my feet and the lake below. An hour and half later I found myself still looking out. I had gone into a catatonic stare, which is very relaxing. I didn’t feel bad though, I spoke to one of the American exchange students staying at the house and she said she finds herself doing the same catatonic stare when she sits out by the pool trying to write French literature term papers. Her Boston uni (umm I think she may have meant Harvard there) has an exchange program with Annecy university (or some town close). Her and a bunch of her friends from uni are all staying around Annecy with host families. She couldn’t believe her luck when she saw where she was staying and is wondering how she is going to complete her course work with a view like this.

For our last night in Annecy we drove up to the lookout where you get this amazing view of the second cleanest French lake in it’s totality. As luck would have it, there was also a Fondue restaurant at the top of the look out. Our fondue search was over. A big plate of stale bread and a huge vat of what looked like thirty blocks of melted cheese was delivered to our table along with a plate of meats and salad. Husband and I skewered up and began dipping our bread in the molten cheese, which promptly softened the bread and coated it with bubbly cheese. First piece delicious, second piece delicious, third piece might vomit as awfully rich. Regardless, we pressed on and consumed almost the whole pot of cheese. Not mentioning names, but one of us had a very upset afterwards and it was a very quick drive back down the mountain.

Then it was good-bye alps and hello…………Switzerland. That’s the good thing about travelling, some times you even surprise yourself. We were travelling along admiring the French countryside when all of a sudden up sprang border control. I thought it was another toll collection but thought otherwise when I saw the big France written on one side of the road and Switzerland, written on another side. All of a sudden we were in the Swiss line and being waved through the border. This is by far the easiest border crossing we have done. Our minds flashed back to Vietnam where on crossing out of their country they searched all our backpacks and fired twenty questions at us and we were leaving into China.

Back in Switzerland, we were very excited and I immediately broke out into a verse of my Heidi song which husband agreed never gets old. I snapped off as many photos as I could around Lake Geneva that included the red and white flag. To celebrate the occasion of a new country, we decided to stop and eat at a Swiss restaurant (motorway chain called AutoGrill hee hee) and check our Swiss bank account (go to the autoteller and get some money out hee hee). Husband purchased a swiss t-shirt to mark the occasion and also because we hadn’t done any laundry for a while and he didn’t have clean t-shirts left. Then it was on the road again in search of the French border.

There was a bit of a nervous moment as we drew into the French checkpoint. A car had been pulled to the side and there were about 3 French border police going through every item in their car. It was then I wondered if Australian’s needed visas to go into Switzerland and I was wondering how the excuse “…but the nice Swiss border control person said we could go into Switzerland” would hold up? Husband stopped the car right on the border to wait for the French border control cavity search. Then we started hearing excited shouting from behind us, it was the French border police telling us to hurry up and cross the border and stop holding up the traffic behind us. We complied and once again we were in France and it almost felt like we had never left.

Onto the Jura region and husband had a yearning to relive his farm boy years. Actually I have always fancied myself as a country gal, proving once and for all day dreams are not based on reality. Jura is beautiful farming countryside with a couple of lovely lakes, waterfalls and mountains thrown in. It is meant to be good tramping countryside, I think I would even tramp here it is so beautiful and doesn’t have snakes (must check this last point before agreeing to French tramping holiday experience). We are currently staying in a magnificent cedar and stone farmhouse called Ferme Auberge Du Rondeau. Breakfast this morning consisted of mostly products from the farm including a pot each of their natural yoghurt. I thought I was going to take one or two spoonfuls and then try and make husband eat my pot as well so as not to appear rude. No need, it was amazing and not like the natural yoghurt we get. I wolfed mine done and checked husband’s pot was empty.

Following breakfast, we drove to Arbois, mostly to checkout the surrounding countryside and to tour the home of Louis Pasture. After an hour of driving we arrived in Arbois just before lunchtime to find that the Louis Musee was closed until 2pm. Something to remember if you are ever touring the French countryside, most things close between 12 and 2pm for their lunch break. And Australia calls herself the lucky country….. 2 hour lunches that is what will be my vote decider in the next election. No problem there was a much written about restaurant, Le Balance Mets et Vins (translates as something like the perfect balance been meal and wine), that we were keen to try. All local produce especially local vinos. We thought we were having the cheaper Menu du jour but as we found at out bill time, we were experiencing the much dearer and elaborate Gastro Menu. One translation error I was very happy about.

We started with a taste of Vin Jaune (yellow wine which has been fermented for 6 years and 3 months without being disturbed). I would have left it for another few years, I swear I have drank nail polish removers less harsh than that. Next we had little mini starters in shot glasses which had something like leeks chopped and soaked in the Vin Jaune resting in a crème and topped off with a slab of pig fat. Surprisingly it was quite delicious. Next I had scallops in the best orangey cinnamon juice I have ever tasted, whilst husband enjoyed asparagus in a lovely green sauce. Husband and I then enjoyed Coq au vin with morelles (local mushrooms). Delicious although I did spare a thought for the one less rooster that would not be greeting dawn tomorrow. Then came dessert. Husband went for the reliable profiteroles, I went for dessert of the day which seriously was the best thing I have ever tasted. It was like a chocolate and mango crème slice with a scoop of rhubarb ice cream. It was whilst eating this extraordinary dessert that I decided that the best meal in the world (for me and it is open for argument) would consist of Japanese cuisine for entrée, Thai for main and French for desserts. No body can hold a candle to French pastries and I have done the research on this trip to substantiate it.

We rolled to Louis Pasteur Musee for our guided tour, in French, and for which we were the only two participants. We all had fun trying to understand each other. To be fair husband played a very useful role as translator and commented on my ability to say “wee” after everything the woman said. I like to be agreeable. Returning to the car, we found that despite husband’s best efforts, we still could not give away the camera in France. He had left the car window down on the driver’s side with the camera in the back of the car on the floor for the last three hours. Obviously the French are too honest.

We returned to the farm, where luckily we had booked in for dinner. Eating was starting to feel like an endurance sport and trust me I had gold nailed for Australia. Not letting the fact that we were still full from lunch stop us we embraced the experience and devoured 5 courses of fresh farm with matching wines. We did start with a lovely dandelion wine which was delicious. There were fresh farm meats, which made me feel instantly bad for the goats and wild boars we had seen earlier in the day. For entrée I had an amazing courgette tart with the infamous French pastry. For main husband and I shared the wild board stew and my favourite, gratin dalphinoise (potatoes and cream). Thanks to husband’s French skills we were able to negotiate our way out of the cheese course (and a possible coronary insistent) and go straight to dessert. By this time I was asking husband to look up in his phrase phone app how to say “I seriously need my stomach pumped”. Then we retired to our cedar smelling farm house room to lay on our backs and groan.

The next day it was a mammoth drive to Champagne region where we are intending to hang out for the next 4 days. We have managed to find the most wonderful B&B in a converted cellar overlooking a winery. It is just outside Epernay (you can’t image how many times we have done the Kath and Kim “Look at me look at me look at me Epernay” joke). We are going to spend this time working our way though the champagne cellars of this region. Now we are off to Epernay for dinner and to steal some wifi so we can post this blog!

Finding our way out of Grasse was as hard as finding our way in. Our GPS went a little crazy and had us turning into one way streets and turning off exits that were not there. This is all on narrow, steep medieval streets. I was officially sacked as navigator in the first 5 minutes when we left Paris to go through Normandy, however, I was looking a pretty hot ticket for navigator that day! My official title now is spotter – I spot supermarkets and the occasionally tourist attraction. I don’t stress myself too hard – I don’t really want the job of navigator. After much reversing and swearing we eventually got to Gourdon, an ideallic pre-alps village with a traditional perfumery. We wandered around the town, which seems to be a town of cats (they even have t-shirts declaring this). The perfumery was in full swing when we got there. I started smelling the wares and it wasn’t long before everything smelt the same and I needed a good lie down as my head was all giddy from the smells. The sales lady must have got sick of me pawing her merchandise cause she ended up selecting a perfume for me to try and buy. I took her suggestion on board and purchased it and left.

On we travelled in the pre-alps. The travel books weren’t calling this the alps yet but everywhere you looked there were signs saying alps this and alps that. Driving in the Alps (or pre-alps) is really beautiful. You are surrounded by scenery that Heidi would have felt at home in. The only thing is the driving is quite hard for some of it. Lots of narrow roads and trucks, not a good combination. It was easy for me, I just sat in the passenger seat and yelled supermarket or petrol station very occasionally between packets of chips, but poor husband was trying to drive the continuous maze of roads, read the sat nav and avoid crazy drivers who had decided to pass a truck and were heading straight for us in our lane. For these reasons, when we arrived at Dignes-les-Bains, the land of the hot thermal springs, we decided to stop for a night, get out our togs and sample the guaranteed soothing and relaxing effects of the thermal springs.

These springs have been around for a long time (yep I’m too lazy to get my Lonely Planet to tell you exactly how long). Doctors are still sending patients up to the springs for treatment. Even though the tourist office said they were closed, husband and I persevered and found some thermal pools that were open on the edge of town. We were given lovely blue robes which, as fashion fate would have it, matched the shade of my blue bikinis perfectly. We were also given a towel the size of a serviette and a cloth swimming cap that we were told was mandatory. As we strode into the thermal spring, which actually looked a lot like your average in door swimming pool, we were instructed to shower (they can pick a dirty Australian a mile off) and then proceed to the waters. As I slipped my bikini clad body into the pool, whilst at all times trying to keep my bum out of direct view, the delicious warm and slightly sulphury water gently engulfed my body. It turns out that bikinis might not be big in Dignes as I was the only one there in one. Everyone else was in a painfully sensible one piece. As I adjusted my red and white cloth head cap that clashed with my bathers and made me look more like a surf life saver than the sexy middle age piece of fluff that I was angling to be, I noticed that the other patrons, mostly 60 year old women, were giving my husband the sly once over. Admittedly they were eyeing off all his tattoos and it did look like they were contemplating hiding their purses, but I kept my eye on them. Sulphur can make you do strange stuff and the springs do make you feel younger. Husband discovered the underwater entertainment, if you hold your head under there is relaxing, yogic kind of music playing. I spent the rest of the time floating on my back, drifting aimlessly around the pool bumping into whoever was not quick enough to get out of my way. Afterwards over a bottle of wine, we both agreed we felt more relaxed.

We were extremely lucky to find yet another wonderful B&B. Seriously, this is my favourite way to travel now in France as you get amazing places to stay in that are individually decorated by the owners, great food and quiet surroundings. We were staying with Anne and Tuy Nguyen in the mountains of Dignes. The place was so beautiful and was traditionally French provincial from the outside. Inside our private little space was a Vietnamese heaven with a jet spray power shower. I felt like I had been transported 10 years back and now in the middle of Hanoi, the main ceiling light was that of a pink lotus bulb. It was wonderful and I have posted separately their website details on facebook. We ended up having dinner there as we have never done this at a B&B. What have we been missing out on!!! We had the most amazing three course meal which was the perfect blend between French and Vietnamese cuisine. Anne and Tuy are definitely candidates for “My Kitchen Rules” which is a really popular show over here also (I call it McDonald TV – served up with the same ingredients in every country ). Every course had a carrot or radish carving on the plate with it. Menu was starter – asparagus souffle with vietnamese style salad and king prawn, main – beef mignon with a teriyaki like sauce and dessert – banana pancakes with toffee sauce (done like banana spring rolls), red bean ice cream and a black bean shotter. We rolled out of the place the next morning not before Anne gave us one of her lavender pillows as a farewell gift.

More driving in the Alps, followed by more driving in Alps proper. Finally arrived in Annecy which is a very pretty city situated around a lake. I don’t know why but I thought this was a sleepy little town but it is a thriving tourist spot and I can see why. It is so beautiful and there are a million things to do. Hiking, rock climbing, paragliding – all of which I won’t be doing. I am quite content to sit on the deck overlooking the swimming pool and lake of our new fabulous B&B and sip white wine from the region and eat my newest find, cheeseburger chips (they really taste like a McDonald’s cheeseburger and every cell in me knows I shouldn’t like them but I can’t help myself). With this view why move?

Well as it turns out Montpellier wasn’t much chop. The tour books had talked it up a bit and I was left dealing with my over estimated anticipations about it beauty and culture. To me, and to be fair I was still getting over the stress of the near miss kidnapping experience of Paris, it looked somewhere you would send someone if you wanted them to be well versed in guerilla warfare techniques. On the other hand, we did have the best meal that we have had in the whole of France so far in Montpellier. I had duck salad to start and then duck breast for main (I’m a themes girl). My duck was amazing (both courses) and husband’s food was good too. After saying I wasn’t going to drink I ended up helping husband finish 3 smallish jugs of wine (on top of my mandatory kir that I have been having as a starting drink all around France). Needless to say we slept well that night.

In the morning we picked up the next hire car, which was surprisingly even smaller than the Ford Festiva – it was an Opel Corsica, loaded up the sat nav for Provence and started off for some more hair raising, knuckle gripping car tours of France. First stop was Pont du Gard, a very old (50 AD) water duct left behind by some kind Romans. We oohed arhed and climbed as much over the surrounding countryside that they would allow in search of the perfect picture. Then it was back in the car and on the roads to Arles. Being a bit over citys or large towns we opted to go to the tourist office and select a more provincial B&B. I am so glad we did. It was like staying in a French museum with very pretty gardens. Our room was like it had been reconstructed straight out of the 17th Century, the 17th Century with a swimming pool. The only minus (and it was very minimal was that it didn’t have wifi).

After depositing our luggage in our new stylish chambres, we drove down to the Carmague, where the white horses run free and the flamingos roam the marshes (and the old huge swimming rat or two). We visited the bird park as we were guaranteed of some pink flamingos (or big pink chickens as we have fondly come to call them do to their sound). We wondered around the park pretending to be interested in some of the very unattractive birds they house down there when we heard the squawk of our pink chickens and came across their marsh. It is rare you have a truly breath taking moment, the last one I remember was when I saw my husband for the first time (hee hee), the next was coming through the marsh clearing (after seriously psyching myself up as I was sure this was definite snake country we were treading through), and seeing the glorious pink flamingos. It was later in the day so the sun was that forgiving hue that makes everything look soft and beautiful and there they all were in the sunlight, sleeping, eating and fighting. So majestic, so peaceful even when they were trying to peck each others eyes out or get a bit of flamingo loving.

We slept until 9.45am the next morning. The lovely B&B lady had closed over the shutters and we found out that without ques such as daylight the body will continue to sleep unperturbed. We raced out to the courtyard to enjoy our complimentary B&B breakfast (that finishes at 10am) and were not disappointed. There were about 10 jams that all looked and tasted as if they might be home made, fresh croissants and bread, melon and strawberries, freshly oj and of course fresh black coffee French style! I must have taken about 50 photos of the courtyard all bathed in morning sunlight. It didn’t matter where I pointed my camera the photo looked amazing (and I am no photographer) everything was just so beautiful. The lovely french B&B lady and trusty sidekick Barloo (the dog) then gave us directions for an amazing provincial drive. Let me say at this point, there is nothing like driving in the Provence, it is so beautiful. Whilst driving it became clear to me that there had been a big karmic mistake and I was really meant to be born in the Provence. With light I have seen no where before and a perfume on the air that is so sweet it could have been only manufactured by nature, I was sure that to live here would be to really live.

We returned early afternoon to the B&B to test some bright blue swimmers I had brought earlier in the day out in the pool. The sun by this stage was rather warm and I had spent most of the day slowly roasting in the passenger seat so the cool water was welcome on my skin (even if the occasionally wasp did float by). I was overcome by the fact that I didn’t seem to care about wearing a bikini. Back home I am strictly a board shorts and bather top girl. Here I was parading about in my new bright blue string bikini with orange sparkly stars like I was the next Elle McPherson (My good friend Suzy had mentioned this strange no bikini fear factor to me from her travels but I had never unto this point experienced it myself). Mind you there were no other guests and no mirrors. Either way I owned that poolside. Then I had three glasses of Kir Royale and a big packet of blue cheese chips and I felt like I less owned that poolside. Unfortunately at that point, madam B&B lady decided to show a prospective guest through the B&B. Did’t see him again after he spied eyes the drunk Australian in her swimming cosie with blue cheese chips down her front.

That evening we drove to St Remy for dinner. St Remy is where Van Gogh voluntarily admitted himself into an asylum for a year after hacking off an ear after an evening drinking Absynthe with a friend. Looking around at the beautiful town of St Remy which is shadowed by hauntingly striking mountains, I would have gladly hacked off an ear to stay here as well. Dinner, once again was amazing with husband having the provincial fish stew and myself the lamb done with potato daphanne (lots of cream and lots of potato – mum if you are reading this stop using skinny tinny to make this dish -it’s a crime again cuisine!). All was well, as fate would have it we realised that there were three tables of Australian couples all grouped together as we could hear their accents. Then the newly arrived Aussie couple declared that they needed someone that could read English to them as they couldn’t understand the menu written in French in their best and loudest Queenslander accent. When the waiter arrived, they berated him for there being no English on the menu. The waiter didn’t miss a beat and in the only English he had spoken that night said “Why don’t you speak French?”. Have I mentioned I love the French directness and wit, it is very refreshing to be told the truth bluntly all the time. I stifled a laugh and tried not to speak English again without an American accent for the rest of the night.

With much sadness we left the beautiful B&B and heady on down the french coast, past St Tropez and Cannes. Well you can tell Cannes is on at the moment. There are about 30,000 more people than there usually are in Cannes and they have all left their cars in the turning lane along the coastline. Miles and miles of traffic and not one superstar spotted, not even a B grader. Why aren’t they out in the public where we can maul them? Cannes was to full so we continued to the perfume capital, Grasse. But not without husband firstly just about running over a Cannes policeman whilst running a give way sign on a roundabout. The policeman took one look at husband, another at the hire car and obviously thought “Another stupid tourist way to hard to process” and let us continue on. Grasse too was full and surprising unpleasant smelling for the perfume capital. Finally we made it out to Le Relais Gourmand hotel in Mousans Sartoux where we have decided to stay so as to give husband’s nerves a break after driving one to many goat trails with sheer drops off one side of 500 metres or more. After trying to give them our camera (we left in the foyer for 30 mins unattended and surprising it didn’t get stolen which I truly believe is some sort of miracle and we should be phoning the cathelic church), we fired up the laptop and checked emails. Got an email saying that my good friend had broken her ankle – Stacey if you reading this, hope you get better soon!!!!!!! We are both thinking of you and don’t get your cast off until we return and can write some rude words on it. Oh and I have some excellent yoga ankle moves for rehab (love you).

I think we are off to the alps tomorrow but for now, I am off in search of food and a vin (or maybe a starter Kir).

Do you know when you wake up and you just know it is not going to be a good day? I had one of those yesterday.

I have always wanted to see Versailles Palace since I saw a photo of it when I was 9. Finally, I was about to. We arrived at the palace gates at 8.30am. We had previously purchased our tickets online as per the travel guide recommendations. Husband and I proceeded to argue about the parking of the car, it was over the lines and I had suggested it be re-parked. It was one of those travel fights that seems so important at the time and then 5 minutes later you couldn’t give a toss about it (my friend Tanya could attest to this when we were in Spain when I told her to ..”Have back your f…… watch then” – whoops can’t even remember why we were fighting). Between fighting and breakfast it took us up to the 9am open sesame moment of the gates. By time there were quite a gathering at the gates.

Once inside the palace it was well worth the wait. It truly is beautiful. The paintings on the ceilings, the furnishings, the gardens. They give out free tour headsets so I was meandering along nicely clicking buttons and ohing and arhing at the sights and information I was hearing and pretending I was Marie Antoinette fleeing from revoluntionaries when suddenly I realised how crowded I had become and how I was getting jostled along even though the palace is quite large. They were packing her to the rafters with tourists. You couldn’t get near most displays because of large tour groups. At one point, I was standing looking at something when one of the tour guide ladies led her group right up to me and proceeded to wave her tour pointer with a pom pom on top right infront of my face and person. Another time I was doing an extreme close up of a statue of Diana the Huntress (one of my favourite goddesses) when just as I was about to push the button I saw a face that did not belong to Diana in front of my camera – a tourist that had jammed herself between me and Diana. As we were leaving the palace I saw a sight even more incredible than the palace – 100s upon 100s of tourist buses lined up in the car park (if you don’t believe me ask my husband he actually pointed it out, he might not be able to park (hee hee) but he doesn’t exaggerate).

Next we said goodbye to our trusty Ford Fiesta back in Paris and hello to the TGV at Gare de Lyon. This is where I leave my dignity at the door. We went to print out our tickets that we had previously booked back in home. After several attempts it was clear it wasn’t going to work so we needed to find a ticket booth. I spied a sign which led downstairs and had my back turned from my husband, at the same time husband said “Look there is one down those stairs over there’ and had his back turned to me. I thought we were talking about the same stairs so headed off and half way down my stairs before turning around to talk to husband and realising he wasn’t there. My mind did a back take – how did he disappear so quickly, I had just heard him talking to me. I retraced my steps and waited. No husband. My mind immediately remembered “Taken” a Liam Neeson film I had recently watched which was set in Paris and involves girls getting kidnapped and drugged and sold into the sex trade. Admittedly husband isn’t a girl and has been doing martial arts for about 20 years so that fact that this was highly unlikely to have been my husband’s fate didn’t seem to register with my brain. In my mind, he was being drugged and was half way out of the country. I started calling his name out, loudly. I am rather a reserved person but when I think a loved on is being bundled across the French/Spanish border I can become quite boisterous.

Several French people came to see if I was ok and if I needed assistance (even in my kidnapping crisis I did register that this would be a good social experiment between cultures to see which culture rendered assistance in the least time – hee hee). One particularly lovely woman gave me her mobile phone and helped me try and piece together husband’s phone number. My mind was too focussed on husband being in someone’s car boot trying to kick out the lights and go all Chuck Norris on their arse to concentrate on numbers. The poor woman must have thought I was having some mid-life existential crisis right there in Gare de Lyon particularly as I had started to semi-hyperventalate. After what seemed like hours, but husband assured me was only 10 minutes, husband appeared. Of course I immediately did what any relied person does and started yelling at husband – it must have been a very moving scene for the lovely french woman. Husband explained that he too had turned around on his set of steps to speak to me and had been surprised to see me not there. After dismissing the thought that I had been kidnapped as he reasoned no kidnapper would have been able to shift me that fast with the over stuffed backpack I had on my back, he retraced his steps to find me. I had luckily chosen the only part of the train station to stand where I wasn’t visible for the way he was looking. It wasn’t until he approached another way he saw me and my new french friends.

Afterwards, hurtling along at 300mph on the TGV and after my second mini-bottle of Rose, I was able to smile about the ordeal and agree that, granted, I had over reacted and that perhaps I need to cut down on watching action thrillers. Hopefully such like adventures do not await us in Montpellier.

We started our D-Day journey at Omaha Beach. As I looked out across the sea it was easy to image the allied troops landing and coming into the open beaches to be met by hostile fire. There was a cold wind blowing and it added to the sombre ambience of the place. I was surprised how overcome with sadness I quickly became. All those young men on both sides that died. Tragic for everyone involved.

Next we went driving in some random field along some winding goat track because the sat nav said to. It did lead us straight to the edge of the cliffs, which whilst very dangerous as they are a shear drop down, are also very beautiful. We carefully navigated our way back to the main road and back to La Pointe du Hoc, where the rangers climbed up the cliffs and took control of this pivotal German stronghold on 6 June 1944. There were 225 when they began, 90 when they were finished. Through drop point errors, discovery of their mission and hostile fire they persevered on, climbing up ropes they threw up the cliff faces. When one of them fell, another was right behind them to carrying on their plight. Standing at the top looking down the sheer cliff face, I was overcome with emotion and respect for these beings. These young men showed true courage. In the world now there is a fair amount of anti-amercian feelings being expressed but standing there looking down that cliff, I for one was very glad for the Americans and that they willingly gave us so many of their sons to help win the second world war. Truly god bless America.

After an hour of searching (I’m not the best navigator) we arrived at the American Military Cemetery at Omaha beach. White cross after white cross after white cross. In silence, we walked through the crosses and stars of david. I wondered what I would have done if I was born into that time and had a son or a husband that was going to go to France and fight a war. How did these families stand the suffering and loss?

On we drove to Mont-St-Michel, a benedictine monastery building on an island just off the mainland. As we were getting close, it suddenly appeared on the horizon. It appears to hover off the coast and is beyond beautiful. When I was in grade 3 I won a citizenship award and the prize was a wonders of the world book, Mont-St-Michel was in it. I have been keen to see it since then. As it was late afternoon we booked ourselves into LeRelais du Roy within a stone’s throw of St Michel. It is a rather comfortable converted french hotel. I can’t wait to go exploring St Michael tomorrow!

This morning we left Paris. After getting up early and cleaning up the flat (18m2 really doesn’t take that much to clean) we were greeted by Florence the flat caretaker and undoubtedly the quirkiest woman in Paris, who after giving the flat a very quick once over, declared it okay and returned our 500 euros bond. Actually the only hard thing about cleaning up the flat was making the bed in the loft. It’s actually quite hard to make a bed when you can’t stand upright.

Then it was on the Metro to Gare de Lyon to pick up the rental. My husband had been giving me pep talks all the night before about how I should be rote learning the directions from Hertz at Gare de Lyon to get us out of Paris the quickest and without killing ourselves in the process. I thought he was joking, now I wish I had listened. After negotiating our way to freedom from the underground car park we were spat out onto a busy Parisian street and I froze…………I didn’t know what street we were on, what turn we should take, my right from my left etc. Luckily husband had rented a sat nav at the last moment. Finally it started working and although we were heading in totally the wrong direction and on totally the wrong motorway it started to lead us back on track. Husband advised that I best keep quiet for a bit when I suggested that perhaps the sat nav had us on the wrong the road.

Then it came to finding Monet gardens. After several loops of a random country town, one in which we weren’t sure what side of the road we were meant to be on, the good old sat nav lead us to the beautiful gardens. There is such a peace about the place. It looks exactly like his paintings and I was tempted to hold up a bottle of lemonade and look through it to see if I could reproduce the effect of his paintings (as suggested by our friend Blair).

Then it was onto Honfleur. Finding Honfleur was easy, finding our hotel which we had booked the night before on the internet was not. We drove up and down and up and down and a little bit of round and round, until finally we found it tucked away from the main road with absolutely no signage to indicate it was there. The mood in the car was not pleasant and we carried it into reception. Poor husband had been stressed out by the driving on the wrong side, the unknown bizarre road rules and on top of that he was poorly with a sore throat. We went to our room and promptly wished we hadn’t found it. Husband described it as the most soulless room he had stayed in which is no mean feat as he is from Invercargill. It was there on in referred to as zombieland. No more booking from internet. From now on we just show up.

To calm poor husband’s shattered driving nerves we decided to treat ourselves to a seafood dinner around the port. After much reading of menus and debate we settled for Frichti e Vue Bassin. Our last night in Paris we had gone to Le Petite Marche. I then wrote a bad review on google because I thought it was bad service and very average food. However, I now know what bad service and average food is. Things started off okay with a wonderful mix of seafood for starters. Long wait but eventually main came which I thought was quite average, mussels in white wine sauce, but were served with excellent chips hee hee. We asked for wine, none came. Infact for the very longest time nothing came at all. As we watched people come and go, we were left waiting and we still had desserts and coffee to go on our meal deal. We had been sitting out the front of the restaurant but it had become to cold and we had discovered that not only had poor husband had a sore throat, but now he also had quite an upset stomach. We moved inside to get warm and hopefully for them to remember us and serve us. They were less than happy to see us. When we finally got through and paid our bill they didn’t bring us our change back. By this stage we couldn’t be bothered waiting any longer, it had almost been 3.3 hrs.

Returned to Zombieland to discover the room is freezing and no extra blankets. I had a hot shower for about an hour (whoops) and jumped into bed to write this blog using the free wifi (Zombieland has it’s perks). Poor husband is passed out next to me with his stomach making loud gurgly noises. It just isn’t a holiday until husband has had gastro. Oh hang on…. I think that was mine as well…………………………….

I have definitely been kissed by the sun today! I’ve always wanted to do a cruise on the Seine, so we embarked out today to find and do one. First stop however was the “world’s best” hot chocolate at Angelina. A big call, so we thought worth a try. As the waiter brought it over to us, I could feel my insulins level rising just looking at it. A jug of chocolate velvet that had the consistency of molten larva and a mountain of whipped cream on a plate to the side. I let my husband go first and he gave it the thumbs up . I followed and managed to make it through half a cup before my gag reflex kicked in (probably a safety mechanism in my body so I don’t OD on sugar). I let husband finish the rest whilst I tucked into the remainder of the whipped cream and tried to channel Proust who was said to have dined there in his day. I don’t know how successful I was in channelling him but I did feel like going back to our flat to bed so perhaps I did a better job than I thought.

Off we went cruising…….with 20,000 other tourists. We sat on the top of the boat as you couldn’t really see anything from below. I felt myself melting in the first five minutes as the sun was cooking but as I had suggested this activity and didn’t think it was in my best interests to whinge. As I enjoyed the many and varied sights along the Seine explained in 20 different languages, my husband started doing a combination of yogi moves next to me to relieve the pain in his back that he has been having. Feeling rather overwhelmed by his ability to do lotus pose in jeans, we disembarked and was able to purchase a wonderfully cheesy photo of us boarding the boat an hour earlier. I’ve got to admit I am enjoying some of the tourist stuff.

Off we went to the Dali Museum. Two metro lines and a delicious lunch involving a very big glass of champagne later we found ourselves climbing a very big hill in Montmartre in the cooking sun. Can’t these artists live on the flats for a change. I’m sure a lot of artistic ability can still be conjured up living in the lowlands, you don’t always need a view to create! The museum is well worth the hike and husband spent half our time there playing with the Dali Photo booth where you can have your head transposed into some of his famous paintings. I’ll be framing a few of those.

Yesterday I decided it was time to sample yoga the French way. After a quick web search I located an Iyengar studio called Himayoga (actually my husband did) in the 9th Arrondissement. We decided to walk there for a 10am class as it was such a lovely day and it is a good warm up. After a lovely walk through the sleeping streets of Paris (apparently I am the only crazy one who thinks of going to yoga on a Saturday) we arrived at the studio which at 10min to 10 was still shut with the shutters down. Encouragingly there was one student waiting so we decided to walk around the area. We walked straight into the Moulin Rouge which was kind of cool. Then we walked straight into the sleazy nightclub area and girly clubs, which at 10am were still going from the night before. I’ve got to admit I was pretty impressed by that, it reminded me of my days in London when me and my girlfriend, Tanya, used to visit nightclubs just like that. I only pray that we looked better than the people coming out of them!

We returned to the studio where quite a crowd of yoginis and yogis had gathered. That was an encouraging sign. At 1 to 10 a very chiselled, statuesque looking woman, wearing a really nice mac (in 30 degree heat mind you), sauntered down the road. She looked like a well cut young Kathleen Turner. Whilst I settled in, brought a mat and generally explained to anyone that would listen that I didn’t understand French (much to my embarrassment) everyone else set up their mats. This left me the only position available so I set my mat up beside the wall. I was then told in much French and a little English that this was the teachers spot and was promptly relocated to right infront of the class wall that was floor to ceiling windows and faced out to the street. Great the whole street was going to be getting a great view of my bum everything I basically bent over – which is in yoga is most of the class. Luckily it was also behind the only French guy in the class that looked like he could be easily in their movies. As I adjusted my top and wondering if I could relocate myself behind the huge column that stood before me, he started speaking to me in French. He must have said 5 bonjours before I realised he was talking to me. Finally I responded with a bonjour that clearly established I was Australian. After that he spoke english to me what I thought was very gracious as I was the lazy girl who had not bothered to learn French as well as my husband.

Young Kathleen Turner reappeared and what an entrance. She had on tiny little black footy shorts (tinier than any I have ever seen) and a tight top. She certainly did look like a professional dancer. Soon we were triangling, down dogging, handstanding and headstanding like it was not Saturday morning and most of the class weren’t suffering from hangovers. The French guy ended up being a wonderful temporary yoga buddy who translated all the explanatory parts that the teacher was saying Three quarters of the way through I must have committed a yoga no-no when I thought Kathleen had said savasana and I laid down gratefully and cleared my mind and let my body sink into the ground. It turns out she said halasana, I know this as I was brought round to her face hovering above mine asking if I was okay and would I care to join everyone else. French guy explained that I looked far to peaceful to disturb. I had a great time and it was a really challenging class. It was good to focus on my breathing and not let language barriers or the high level of the class disturb it’s constant rhythm. Actually I felt almost that yoga gave us all in that room one language that we could understand each other. By the time the class started chanting (something I wish we had in more Australian classes) I was joined to them in this mutual bond and felt very moved and teary as their beautiful sounds and earnest practice surrounded me.

In the afternoon, husband and I decided to go on the “tourist tour” of Paris. We caught the Metro to the Champs-Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel tower. There is a song by “Art verses Science” that goes “The Champs-Elysees is a busy street”. That song needs a re-write, it is a very very very busy street! After strolling down the Champs-Elysees the best you can when you are surrounded by more than half the world population, we paused briefly to take some photos of Arc. The traffic flowed none stop around it as we watched almost 3 near accidents. Then we walked down to the Eiffel tower where the other half of the world’s population were waiting for us. We brought an ice-cream and sat beneath a shaddy tree. I had no inclination to go up it so it was nice to sit beneath it and savour it’s many angles and depths. Then I had the great idea to walk home. Ouch. My feet and legs are still aching. Whilst we did see more of Paris and its beautiful buildings (some of which we are still trying to identify what they were) I now can’t put my foot down without a serious ache in them and my shins. Even husband was exhausted, I didn’t feel so bad when super fit husband was also done in by the walk!

We treated ourselves to a traditional Corsican meal to help relieve the aches and pains. Husband had the wild boar stew (why not when you are in Paris) and I had linguine with prawns. I think my husband was over come with the gameness of his boar but still ate it all helpfully washed down with a beer. I loved mine. It looked like a whole block of seriously orange cheese had been mixed in with the linguine which made it a tad like macaroni and cheese but I just felt like something sinfully naughty and off the scales and I found it. We hobbled home to watch the new Tron movie on the Mac. Well I tried but I fell asleep after 5 minutes!

I’m sitting here, in bed, with my head hovering dangerously close to the ceiling trying to balance my husband’s mac (I want one too now) on my oversized belly. We are post dinner and well stuffed if you will excuse the expression. Today has been a day of eating in Paris. We rose earlier (my husband two hours than me, what can I say something in the air makes me sleep over here) and went out to breakfast. After careful consideration of the menu we went with what we were originally shown at the beginning of the transaction – the standard breakfast. This consisted of an oj, half a baguette and jam/butter, a croissant and a coffee (the french sure do make good coffee, I have converted from a die hard tea drinker to a coffee drinker in one day!) I think it is fair to say that I have never had a croissant until today. It was amazing, as I tore strips of it and held it in my hand it was so light that I felt like I was holding nothing at all, and then I put it in my mouth and it melted away whilst managing to leave a comforting buttery film. I now understand the “unbearable lightless of being”.

After exiting the cafe we spied a beautiful big building and decided to go an investigate. It turned out to be the Louvre. We weren’t the only ones with the idea of visiting it today. After we watched half of the world pile out of tourist buses and into the queue we joined them mumbling to ourselves about bloody tourists until we had to concede that we were ones too. Strapped with talking tour recorders we set off on the Masterpiece tour that had us ducking and weaving some of the most heavily congested parts of the Louvre. We squeezed ourselves past masses of picture taking tourists to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa, we wedged ourselves between camera wielding Japanese tour groups to view the Venus de Milo’s milky form.

This is just an observation, but when I squeezed myself out of the crowds and stood quietly back to admire the art and also do some sneaky people watching, I was struck by the fact that most people weren’t viewing the pieces with their eyes but through the lens of a camera. I was intrigued by this. Photos are great but there is nothing like spending some time with a piece of art and seeing it through your own eyes. Seeing how the light falls on it, seeing all the cracks and imperfections, the angles that makes it look different. Seeing with your eyes the way the artist saw the piece or at least how the artist saw the world that he brought this piece into. And yet here I was watching people approach the Venus de Milo at break neck speed with a digital camera in front of the eyes pausing only briefly to knock the grandma to their right out of their way so they could get a better shot. My husband spotted a guy that must have been trying to do the Louvre in 10 minutes or less. This guy practically was sprinting through the Louvre holding up his camera to all the pictures, snapping off a shot and then running off to the next one. We, overcome by his efforts, were forced to follow him for at least two galleries so we could enjoy his stupidity. After that we couldn’t endure his pace and dropped back to enjoy the art.

We then took ourselves to lunch and wonderful husband managed to order two plate du jours and more importantly wine! It was a gorgeous hole in the wall kind of restaurant, which was packed with serious lunchers. My husband became all adventurous and ordered steak tar tar. To his credit he ate all of it even the raw egg in the middle even though it did look like just raw mince with a raw egg in the middle. After pointing randomly at the menu I ended up getting some very delicious chicken dish. Three courses and two wines is enough to be send me into a coma. I proceeded to sleep for 2 hours when we returned to the flat. After which I awoke to my husband doing this 10 min intensive exercise routine which involved him hanging for the loft’s railing doing chin ups and grunting alot. What will the neighbours think of us. After he had finished with the downstairs space, I converted into my yoga studio and did a relaxing post “I eaten way to much food” session. I now appreciate why they say never do yoga on a full stomach. Twists are not your friend when you have a citron tarte trying to digest in your gullet!

I finished my yoga session just in time for a nice stroll to Notre Dame followed by dinner! How do the french women stay thin. I spent the whole dinner watching a french rake with very nice hair devouring a three course meal including crepes for dessert. I was watching to see if she hid her food in her handbag but she appeared to eat every bite and then casually help her partner with his chocolates at coffee. Perhaps this was her one meal for the year but I have this haunting feeling that she eats like this every day. Oh to be french. Meanwhile I was cursing myself for not packing my black stretch tights which are far more forgiving than my jeans. I guess I will have to take up jogging or my husband’s intensive 10 exercise programme but I don’t fancy myself hanging from the loft railing doing chin ups!