Woo-hoo-hoo! Three cheers for us! Or… should I say, three years for us! Guillaume and I are having an anniversary today! Yeah, yeah… boring. There’s not much amusing to say about it, so I’ll leave it at that. But it does get me onto the topic of luuurrrve…


This time two years ago we were overlooking Toulon…

I’ve been musing over this one for a while. I even cut it out and kept it, just because I found it so ludicrous. But, back in November, when I went to Venice, I spent my flight reading the Easyjet magazine from cover to cover. I’ve always been something of a fervent reader, so this comes as little surprise.

But this is the snippet that caught my attention: ‘A recent survey by holiday experts TripAdvisor found that the most romantic getaway for a weekend break was Marseilles, France. Must be all that bouillabaise [sic] being the food of love.’

Marseilles, hey? Fair enough. But bouillabaisse being the food of love? Could it contain oysters, perhaps? But then again, the French don’t regard oysters as an aphrodisiac (unlike ginger. I learnt that cultural difference the embarrassing way, being rapturous over ginger in the kitchen of Guillaume’s mother on our first meeting, all the while she’s wondering what kind of girl her son had found…)

I asked a few Marseillais friends and they confirmed my first suspicions – fish stew ain’t conducive to amour. In fact, after a bowl of bouillabaisse, you’ll only want to go to bed to sleep in off. Such was the mythological reputation of the soup too, apparently in Roman lore, Venus fed the stuff to Vulcan so that she could romp with Mars as her blacksmith husband slept.

The food of other’s love? I don’t think that’s quite the catchiest jingle…

My theory (totally unsupported, and mocked by any French person I’ve so far suggested it to), is of an intentional misspelling of bouillabaisse to emphasise the baise. For while un baiser still means ‘a kiss’, the verb baiser no longer means ‘to kiss’ (try embrasser instead!), but to make love.

Was it supposed to be a play on words for some sort of a boiling-hot screw? Who knows…


… living in Hyères, with the Mediterranean as our backyard!

I’m prepared to be about as open-minded as a traveller comes.* Sure I might have some gripes about France and Russia, but I hope it’s interpreted as all in the name of a laugh and a bit of tongue and cheek cultural insight. I’ll drink like a vodka-pickled fish or revert to teetotalism… I’ll have shoes off, shoes on, kitchen shoes, bathroom shoes, communal guest slippers… cover my arms, legs or head… not whistle indoors, refrain from blowing my nose, eat entrails… be charming, cordial, charismatic, reckless, relaxed or reverential. Anywhere I lay my head is my home. I’ll respect any cultural, religious or political atmosphere, more or less. BUT I will not live in a state of fear. I refuse to be scared just because the rest of the UK finds it profitable to maintain a level of panic. Give me France or Russia any day, I’d prefer not to be mollycoddled by the dulcet tones of reminder announcements, wrapped in a CCTV security blanket – or have my bag searched before boarding a train again.

This is where this post is going, as I had all my possessions rifled through before getting on the Eurostar back to Paris again. I didn’t realise I wasn’t allowed to have a knife/fork/spoon camping combo-set on a train. As all the contents were taken from my bag, a swab test taken (lucky I washed my backpack since lugging around all that bomb-making apparatus), and then the guy decided to make light of the situation by observing that “Ah, you like baked beans.”

Now baked beans are a bit of an in-joke between Guillaume and me. When we were travelling around in Australia, our gas cooker broke, and so we would just heat a can of beans on the engine of our van during a day’s 500km drive. Not that this was any of that guy’s business. I half muttered, half giggled an answer, tripping over my embarrassed words and fretting that I would miss my train – when really I should have tersely replied “Yes, I like black socks too, I’m glad we are now acquainted.”

I just don’t understand. I had plenty of time to stab someone with my knife/fork/spoon combo during my 48hrs in London… why would I wait until the homeward-bound last moment on the Eurostar? I was quite looking forward to getting back to Paris, but maybe the prospect of crossing the Channel makes some other Brits a bit cagey. Who knows?

Now Australians REALLY have something to be scared about!

*…but I won’t do that. There are some limits to my tolerance. I won’t smoke tobacco, drink coca-cola or put recyclables in the normal bin (or baguettes in the recycling, as some of my neighbours regularly do…)

But enough of gossip, smut and blury tabloid pictures of shot stars… Here are some of my photos! Because it looked a bit bleak in the fields surrounding Angoulême over the weekend:

I thought I’d include some of my images from the summer!

I went on a round-about roadtrip to Amsterdam the other week. Because the transport strike was still on in full-force in France, I thought I would avoid it all and arrange a rideshare. For 25€ and a five hour drive, I thought I had found the ultimate solution to my travel predicament.

Now… if I believed in omens, I would have avoided a whole lot of trouble for myself. The morning didn’t get off to a very good start. I almost thought I wouldn’t make it. There wasn’t a vélib’ rental bicycle in sight. The formerly erratic metro service had reached some consistency – in that it was consistently NOT arriving. Above ground, I found a bicycle only to have someone else rent it on the sly from under my nose. Back underground, still no metro… back to the street, where I saw a vélib’ arrive and with my elbows out I muscled on in to rent it and ride like the wind to the pick-up point. My panic was unfounded. The driver was an hour late.

When I got into the car, frozen through and trying to defrost my hands with a scalding cup of coffee offered by the driver, he revealed that we were going via Boulogne.

“Boulogne?” I queried, silently groaning on the inside, as the Bois de Boulogne was just near my travel point of origin.

“Not the Bois de Boulogne” he replied, uncannily reading my mind, “that’s what I first thought. But it’s Boulogne-sur-Mer. On the coast. Near Calais.”

Oh.

“And what time do you think we’ll arrive in Amsterdam?”

“At five, or six, let’s see how we go.”

We drove and drove across the northern French countryside, only stopping for petrol and to check out some sort of crop in a field because the driver didn’t recognise the leaves. I think it was some sort of delay-planted or growth-stunted sugar beet (if the surrounding harvests were of any indication) but the debate is still open.

By 5pm we were only just arriving to Boulogne to pick up the two desperate Australian backpackers stranded by the strike. Then – “well, as we’ve come this far” – we went to see the sea and took the 29km scenic coastal route to Calais.

And yes… I’ll admit it… it was very scenic and beautiful. I’m (grudgingly) glad to have seen it, but why couldn’t this trip have been at any other time – or just when I wasn’t in such a pressing rush to get to Amsterdam?

The story didn’t end there however (thankfully), and the ride continued arduously. Click here to have a read of the next little detour on our adventure…

I’ve just spent a few days in Venice, rekindling my love affair with the city. From the number of passers-by either speaking French or wearing Quechua-brand sports equipment (a pretty reliable gauge of French nationality), I’d say I wasn’t the only one putting my school holidays to good use…

My rain jacket holds me in good stead in Paris (I’ve even devoted a previous post to it), but it was incongruously out of place in Venice – even during the downpour of the first evening! The Italian fashion seems to favour a waist-length puffy number, more often than not fur-trimmed, in black, cream or brown. Ai-ai-ai, life is tough for fashion victims!

Venice provides the opportunity for some great photos though. The Byzantine influence on the architecture provides some great instances of Oriental aesthetics, and there are a lot of picturesque clotheslines – just like down the Adriatic Coast in Croatia! One woman decided to wash her sheets… “Good idea!” a chorus of tourists chimed, “especially when hung against cream and terracotta-coloured walls!” I counted eight cameras simultaneously whipped out on completion of the hanging. Nine, including mine, except being alone I didn’t have the option of posing in front of them like many others did!

One of the numerous breaks in my rigorous wandering routine happened to be in Piazza San Marco, where I decided to chance the “no picnicking, no sitting” rules. I was captivated by some idiot woman trying to attract some of the masses of pigeons to her empty outstretched hands. I couldn’t believe it, these are the most overfed pigeons in the world – why would they be inclined to be curious? Spend a euro and get some birdseed if you want that photo! Luckily a German couple noticed her plight and shared their seed. Thank goodness, we’d all be there for a while otherwise…

Apart from the constant diary references to some weight loss and more weight gain, I feel a little like Bridget Jones, in that Guillaume and I have just been away on our first French “mini-break.” I feel a bit silly even admitting this, but it was a good excuse to get out of Paris for the weekend for a spot chosen randomly on the SNCF train website.

Le Havre it was. The largest commune in Normandy, UNESCO world heritage site, and France’s biggest ocean port… why not? Apparently, back in the sixteenth century, it was known as Le Havre-de-Grâce (”The Harbour of Grace”), but unfortunately 85% of that former grace was bombed to smithereens in September, 1944. Trusting the reconstruction to architect Auguste Perret (who goes down in the English-translation of Le Havre history as “the father of the reinforced concrete”) was an interesting decision to say the least. Maybe his voice was just one in a post-war protest of everything represented by old-world Europe, but the city embraces, for better or worse, a new world order. It’s uncertain what this vision of the future entailed – perhaps colossal concrete Soviet structures, or wide American-style boulevards, but Le Havre has both thrown in for good measure. Everything has a dull echo of “modern”, but in a user-unfriendly shade of grey.

When we first arrived in town, we thought we had arrived in Gotham City. The bell tower of the Church of St. Joseph dominates the skyline from the coast, overshadowing even the clock tower of the town hall. On entering the church however, it was revealed to be as far from our bat cave expectations as possible. The entire church, including the hollow spire, was resplendent in stained-glass mosaics, creating a magnificent play of light. This was where all Le Havre’s colours were stored! We found it at last! Craning our necks and straining our eyes to get a better look, we even noticed a spiral staircase somewhat incongruously tacked on to the immense tower. A stairway to Heaven! No wonder Le Havre has world heritage status!

Autumn in Le Havre!

I realise that I’ve mentioned a couple of times this summer trip to the Pyrenees, but never really elaborated upon it. Guillaume and I went to a flea market in Paris last weekend, and I bought some antique postcards of Laruns (where we were camping, and, if you recall, Tour de France passed through there at the 200km mark for Stage 16, on July 25th) and Pic du Midi d’Ossau (where we spent two gruelling days walking).

The French are big on “stay at home” travelling – just check out any campsite in summer time for testament to this! But with the coastal choice of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, the Pyrenees and the Alps for more mountainous options, plus vineyards, farms and forests… well who can blame them, really?

So I thought with all the glum weather here in Paris (the sepia-tones of the postcards weren’t’ enough to shift the grey), it was time to heave out the old photo album and reminisce. Of course, things aren’t like the old days anymore, and looking at the images just requires opening a folder on the computer and electing to view it as a slideshow. How times have changed… Here are some sunny summer holiday images for you all!

I’ve definitely realised that our hiking motto (even though it was just used to covertly stop and catch one’s breath) rings clear, loud and true:

“C’est beau la France!”

If there is one recurring motif that I’ve noticed in many French homes, it would be souvenirs from Brittany – even if it’s just the one, token, statuette or piece of crockery.

Some will admit to being avid collectors of all things Bretagne, but for many others, the item is dismissed with a shrug as just being a random gift.

Of course, I read much further into it and was down-right jealous that everyone had a name bowl. Otherwise insignificant, these bowls have a standard folkloric design, with a little girl or boy in regional costume revealed at the bottom with the final sips or mouthfuls. There are two simple little handles on the side of the bowl that make it either a bowl or a cup, perfect for breakfast French-style – a huge steaming bowlful of hot chocolate to dip one’s brioche into.

Of course I had to have a name like Bettina (see September 23rd for any previous angst). I’ve only ever found a necklace with my name on it in Austria, and a mug in Germany. Not much name-kitsch to be had in English-speaking countries .

Nevertheless, we went on the quest for a “Bettina Bowl”. We scoured every tourist store in Carnac, and then, on a chance trip to Quiberon, we stumbled upon the holy grail of crockery – we found the “Bettina Bowl”! (I had a good feeling about that particular store when I noticed they also sold “Günther” and “Marlies”).

We also found (no struggle there) a Guillaume bowl, so now we have matching bowls. Are you feeling slightly nauseous yet? Don’t worry, the end result isn’t so cutesy. I just get in trouble every second morning for not checking and using the “Guillaume Bowl” for my muesli… (I’m still holding out against the French-style breakfast for some good old fashioned fibre!)