Champagne Weekend
Last weekend was a mix of champagne tasting and more usual tourist activities.
The ChampagneOur champagne tasting was supposed to commence with a visit to the winery of Harlan Père et Fils, whence we had ordered last fall a number of bottles. It seems we are only to enjoy their champagne and not their hospitality. We found the winery, and believed we were expected even though we hadn't managed to make a final appointment; yet when we knocked on the door, no one answered. This would not have been so puzzling were it not possible to see someone sitting at a desk through the partially-frosted glass of the door.
We moved on, and randomly pulled in at another winery instead. There are thousands of wineries so naturally most are quite small operations, not set up to formally host tourists. In this case we found the proprietor behind the house in a small swimming pool with her children. She obligingly wrapped a towel around herself, gave us a tour of the operation and offered us a taste of their wine. We bought three bottles, partly to be polite, but also because it had a nice, unusually fruity, flavour.
We hit our tasting stride the next day, in Epernay, where we went for a tour at a much larger operation,
Mercier. The founder, Eugène Mercier, had a flair for publicity, and it clearly has not been lost by his inheritors. They have an elaborate set-up to offer tours to visitors, with a grand reception area, gift shops and tour buses in the parking lot. It started with a short film, then they loaded us in a laser-guided tram that drove itself through the
caves, attended by only the plummy British tour guide. Part of the lore of the place involves a car race that took place in the
caves; I was skeptical until I saw the size and extent.
Traditional and modern riddling apparatus, at Mercier
We happened upon another tasting at the tourist office in the centre of Epernay. One offering was quite forgettable, but the other was sufficiently interesting that we arranged to visit that winery the following day.
This giant cultivating hand passed above us on the Piper Heidsieck tourFirst thing the following day we visited another grand operation, Piper Heidsieck, in Reims. They also had a Disneyland ride in their
caves, this one having individual cars that followed a track through a Pirates-of-the-Caribbean style ride, with gigantic grapes illustrating the stages of wine-making, and Hollywood dioramas to highlight the prestige of their champagne, all commentary playing from a speaker in the seats. It was quite a hoot, although not really very informative. The tasting at the end was good, and we came away with a couple of bottles.
Tasting at Piper Heidsieck
We squeezed in another random tasting, with a more conventionally clad hostess. The wine was worth adding another couple of bottles to the growing stash in the trunk. But the most interesting tour we had, after all the hype and flash at the large
chateaux, was at our final stop, at the winery whose wares we'd encountered at the tourist office tasting. We had a little difficulty finding it, partly because there was a bike race going through the village that diverted traffic (on the other hand, that made it easy to find people of whom to ask directions). Once we did, we were welcomed and given a tour of their much smaller
caves, with the proprietor himself explaining what he did at each step. He even showed us a diagram he used to determine how far to turn the bottles, a system he said had been developed by his grandfather. He claims it takes him half an hour per day to
riddle four thousand bottles (which he does for a month five times a year, for his total output of 20,000 bottles per year). We got all kinds of details that really pulled together the understanding of champagne-making that we'd learned in generalities elsewhere (and not to mention having a bit of a French lesson).
Being TouristsWe left on Friday morning and spent that night in the city of Troyes, which has an old centre that was charmingly medieval. These towns (Rouen was another example) don't feel like museums, but real living cities. There may be a few more antique shops and restaurants than you'd otherwise find, but the 400-year-old half-timbered buildings are as likely to house a bank or a travel agency.
In the morning we did a thorough tour of the
Maison de l'Outil et de la Pensée Ouvrière, a staggering collection of hand tools spanning centuries, and which manages to focus on the philosophy of being a craftsman almost as much as the implements of the trades.
Displays of hammers and trowels. Click to enlarge; that they're all different is part of the point
The church of St. Pantaléon contained some interesting glass (which yielded a few dogs for J).
From Troyes we drove to Epernay for lunch, then after some meandering on secondary roads, to Reims. A much larger city than either of the other two, it feels genuinely urban rather than being a local industry or market town.
The cathedral,
Notre-Dame de Reims, is where French sovereigns were crowned for many years. The following morning we walked through it. It had some impressive glass, although much had been lost in the first world war. Some had been replaced, including by one that featured scenes of champagne production, including the experimenting Dom Perignon, and another more religious one by Chagall.
Before we got back on the champagne trail again, we spent an hour at a unique little museum, devoted to the
German surrender in World War II. The map room in Eisenhower's headquarters was where the event took place and it has been preserved in honour.
Near Troyes and again on the way home, Janet's unparalleled shopping instincts honed in on a couple of outlet malls of a sort that I didn't think existed in Europe. But other than the language and the currency we could have been back home.
Next we'll do it all over again, in Bordeaux.
Volleyball de Plage
B and I went downtown this afternoon to roam around
BHV's hardware section. Janet has been re-reading Adam Gopnik's
Paris to the Moon, and she recently read me this, very resonant to us, passage about BHV:
BHV - the Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville, the City Hall Bazaar - is always called by its initials (bay-aish-vay), and it is an old store, one of the great nineteenth-century department stores on the Right Bank that are the children of the Galeries Lafayette. As I say, it is on the rue de Rivoli; in fact that famous Robert Doisneau photograph of the two lovers kissing is set on the rue de Rivoli just outside BHV. This is doubly ironic: first, because the narrow strip of the rue de Rivoli in front of BHV is about the last place in the world that you would want to share a passionate kiss - it would be a bit like kissing at the entrance to the BMT near Macy's - and of course, it explains why they did it anyway. They are not sundered lovers but a young couple who have managed to buy an electric oven and emerged alive. Anyone who has spent time at BHV knows they are kissing not from an onset of passion but from gratitude at having gotten out again.
We also discovered that the square in front of the
Hotel de Ville, as in the winter it had been turned into a
skating rink, is now several beach volleyball courts.
A row of cooling misters had been set up by the fountains at the North end, under which a small, grateful crowd congregated.
The heat has been oppressive, but a wild thunder storm swept through this evening, so relief is in sight.
Trip to the Dentist
On a trip to the dentist yesterday, all the same instruments of torture were discovered inside (the latest ultrasound cleaning tools, but sorry, no gas). On the outside, however, dentists' offices (at least in our neighbourhood) look a little different.
Not your utilitarian concrete-and-glass medical centre with a pharmacy in the lobby and a lab in the basement.
French Arts and Trades
We introduced B to our Sunday morning market ritual today. The market is less crowded with Paris packing up for summer holidays. Many of the merchants were absent, their spaces often taken over by cheap clothing, umbrella and tchotchke vendors. B explored the remainder and to Janet's horror, evinced some interest in the
triperie (purveyors of liver, kidneys, brains, tripe, head cheese, etc.).
There's a museum for everyone in Paris and in the afternoon we took our guest, an engineer, to the Museum of Arts and Trades (
Musée Des Arts et Metiers). There was a fascinating array of measuring devices, structures, machines, and models of machines, ancient, antique and modern. The collection included everything from medieval sextants to a Cray computer. (Janet spotted a pair of
Curta calculators, a mechanical device that William Gibson fans will remember from his latest novel,
Pattern Recognition.)
The interpretive signs and displays are very good where they exist, but I could have used a few more. It didn't feel quite cohesive, in that I often didn't see the development from one thing to the next, or the significance of the article. The arrangement, while broadly chronological, sometimes seemed a little haphazard. Partly this is owing to my weak French, since, while there was a great deal in English, not everything was translated, so I'm sure it would have been much clearer if I'd made more effort with the French texts. And perhaps I was expecting a science centre. Paris has
one of those, but this isn't it: this is a traditional museum.
B examining a model of an old-fashioned pulp mill
Beau-Père
Many people start their visit to Paris with the Paris zoo (aka the
Gare du Nord in summer). My father-in-law is one such, having elected to come through the chunnel from London (where he started his European travels). I extracted him from the zoo, becoming so entangled in the crowds myself it might have been more practical, if not hospitable, to simply have given him directions and had him make his own way
chez nous.
The heat wave continues, and our first order of business today was to find several fans for the apartment. We bought one a couple of weeks ago; we bought three more today.
We commenced B's Paris orientation with a trip to our favorite wine store,
Lavinia, for a little tasting and stocking up. We took him home via the Place de la Concorde and up the Champs Elysée, which is all set up with bleachers for the arrival of the
Tour de France tomorrow.
In Praise of Sorbet
We had our first dinner party for French guests on Monday night. As well as my visiting godmother, two very lovely French women from Janet's office attended. Rather than try to fight them on their own turf, we cooked an Asian-themed meal. Janet and I both put a lot of work into the evening, so I was amused that the highest praise came for my
ginger sorbet, far and away the easiest item on the menu to produce.
For the guys: I long ago learned that woman are unduly impressed by a man who cooks them a meal; now I'm convinced that you could serve mac and cheese and achieve the same result, if you preceded it with a sorbet.
Geraniums
It seems to be the French thing, at least in our neighbourhood, to have geraniums in your window boxes. They outnumber all other flowering plants on balconies visible from our windows. So since we already buy a baguette every day (and Janet won't let me wear a beret) we have now acquired some
très Français adornments for our Juliet balconies off the living room.
M, having a coffee with me on the way home from the market
The credit really goes to our gardening house guest, who offered to do dirty work (literally). She accompanied me on my usual Sunday morning trawl through the market, and when we saw the geraniums on offer she reminded me of her offer to populate the cheap window boxes that the previous tenants left behind. We bought ten small plants, and the following day she planted them, installed them on the balcony, and provided detailed instructions for their care.
I don't exactly have a green thumb, and the current heat wave isn't perhaps the best time for transplanting, but I will try to follow the instructions.
Rouen Cathedral
We went to the cathedral,
Notre-Dame de Rouen, in the morning. Tremendous gothic architecture, but the recent history seems to be as interesting as that of its origins: it was bombed in the second world war, taking several direct hits and narrowly escaping utter collapse. The damage and reconstruction was the subject of an extensive display inside. The very tattered flag hanging inside beneath the main spire dates from that time.
It also contains the tomb of Richard the Lionheart, or a tomb. There are several, and this one is purported to contain only his heart. At the feet of his effigy we found another dog for J (smaller and between the feet of the lion).
The rest of the day was spent driving to Bayeux, first by charming secondary roads before being forced to take the motorway. En route, we went through apple country and entered Calvados. Apples are among Janet's favorite foods; we will have to come back for the fall festivals. In the mean time, we picked up some cider and other apple treats.
Our ultimate destination was the
famous tapestry about the Norman invasion of England in 1066. I saw it ten years ago, and they have either extensively increased their interpretive displays or I simply forgot about them, but they were well worth spending the time to go through. There is an audio guide included in the price of admission, but it isn't as comprehensive, and it can't be stopped or rewound once started.
Run, Run, Rouen Away!
We rented a car and took off for points West this weekend. Unfortunately this idea for the long weekend occurs to most other Parisians, who enjoy a bit of seaside this time of year and hot-foot it to Honfleur or the like. Janet's allergy to traffic had us up (well, the parade preparations did that) and going out the door at a ridiculous hour for a Saturday; but thankfully so because the traffic on the highway was already heavy at 8:30 a.m.
The early start also had us first in the door at
Monet's
house in Giverny. This is where he lived later in life, once he'd established himself, and painted his famous water lilies (among other things). The gardens (which he is purported to have once claimed were his greatest work. Gardeners.) While not as regular and sculpted as a classic English garden, where were extensive and elaborate.
As we rounded the pond and came upon the footbridge, we remarked how much Janet's mum would have loved it. A moment later a bright blue butterfly flitted past. You have to understand that Janet's mum loved her family, gardening and butterflies in that order. It sounds rather trite when I describe it, but it was a moving moment.
Our next stop was Les Andelys, the site of
Chateau Gaillard, an 800 year old castle built by Richard the Lionheart to confine the French to what was then very measly territory. Alistaire Horne's
Seven Ages of Paris tells how a nine-year-old Philippe Auguste gazed upon the castle and precociously said:
I only wish this pile of stones could be silver, gold or diamonds... the more precious the materials of this castle, the greater pleasure I will have in possessing it when it falls into my hands.
When it did eventually fall to Philippe in 1204, after Richard's death and following a lengthy siege, it represented the first important step in sweeping the English off the continent and establishing France as a significant European power.
Taking secondary roads we drove from Les Andelys to
Rouen, where we spent the rest of the day. The area around the cathedral is full of ancient half-timbered houses, and while choc-a-bloc with tourists, still feels like a city going about its normal business.
After dinner at a restaurant on the old market square we walked back to our hotel. People were gathering on the on the banks of the Seine and on the bridge on our route. Clearly Bastille Day fireworks were expected, so we stopped mid-span and waited. They were launched from the next bridge East, and were impressive.
Tanks in the Streets
Paris woke this morning to main battle tanks in the streets. Quite literally, in our case. It is remarkable that, when so much attention is paid to stealth in other areas of military endeavour, that no one seems in the least interested in muffling the sound of a tank. They make an astonishing din. With the window open, there could be no mistaking the convoy going by at 6:15 in the morning for merely a fleet of semi-trailers.
Presumably our early morning wake-up call was courtesy of downtown Bastille Day parades. Over the course of an hour and a half, we saw an array of military equipment go past, including armoured personnel carriers, missile launchers, armoured ambulances, a variety of logistics vehicles, and so on.
Pictures of the tanks themselves came out as a blur in the dawn light; but this APC was not significantly quieter than its heavier cousins.
Cluny Dogs
While touring museums and galleries I like to keep an eye out for dogs in the collections, which I try to record and send to my canine-enthusiast friend, J. Accompanying our current houseguest to the
Musée de Cluny (Officially, the National Museum of the Middle Ages), I found plenty.
Many scenes in these five and six-hundred-year-old tapestries reflected, if not daily life, at least things that were features and sights of the times. For instance, there was one of a woman taking a bath, and while I'm sure it was not typical for a woman to be outdoors in her bath attended by minstrels, there was something real in the way the water drained from the bath and left a puddle in which ducks were swimming. In the same way, while the scenes of important gatherings all look very staged, there are countless details that provideverisimilitudee; and one of those was the dogs that are often found around people's feet. The picture above is detail from the scene below. With a better quality picture, you would be able to count nine dogs in the scene.
Even the museum's most famous pieces, the series of tapestries known as "The Lady and the Unicorn" contains a dog, as this detail from one of the series, "Mon Seul Desir", (
full size) shows.
Game Over
Sure is quiet out there tonight (sleep well, Toronto).
One Hour To Kick-Off
We stuck to our plan and got back on the Metro at five, in order to be home at least a couple of hours before the game starts. When we changed at Franklin D. Roosevelt station, the platform was crowded with flag-wearing fans. We elected to wait for the next train, in order to be first on and I was very glad we did; not because the next one was less crowded, but because is was even more wonderfully spirited. Greeting the fans getting on the train, the entire car broke into a full-volume
Marseillaise. More cheers and songs, and a few stops later they cheerfully tried, by rhythmic stomping, to derail the car. Everyone was wearing red, white and blue,
bien sur, and there were patriotic flags, scarves and make-up (one middle-aged woman wore red, white and blue eyeshadow). Noise-makers, shouting, jokes, and more songs; It was all tremendously good-natured, including the boos upon the discovery of an Italy supporter.
As we anticipated, these fans are on their way to watch the game at the Parc des Princes, a block from our apartment. We can hear the roar of the crowd, and the game is still an hour from kick-off. The honking, trumpets, whistles and cheers promise a raucous evening.
The Final
The nation is getting ready for the long vacation, and already many of the stalls in the market have closed. Excitement has also been building in the street for today's World Cup final, which will be played at 20:00 tonight (2 p.m. EST). Yesterday we saw patriotism expressed with flags, t-shirts and make-up; today it builds, and many of the younger merchants in the market were also showing the colours.
We're going shopping in the Marais today (the old Jewish quarter, the only place where shops are likely to be open on a Sunday); but we plan to be home well in advance of the kick-off to batten down the hatches.
The Sales
It's possible that what seems to we North Americans as Parisians' pushy, me-first attitude has arisen from centuries of living in narrow streets and tiny apartments, where you simply can't avoid stepping on strangers' toes. At some point in history the step-shuffle-sidestep-step-step-dodge-hop -step needed to win five metres of headway must have seemed like just too much effort. The attitude became one of "hey, I'm just going to move at my own pace, and to hell with you." if you trip over my shopping bags, dogs or children, well, bad luck." The price may be that one occasionally collides, trips or gets wrapped in a leash; but in fact people adjust and somehow the worst imbroglios are avoided. The only practical difference is that people are much more in each others personal space.
Where's Janet? What that means, though, is that when Paris has its biannual re-enactment of the medieval marketplace, i.e. when everyone converges on
les grands magasins for the sales, navigation on the streets and in the stores makes Christmas at the Eaton Centre look like, well, a stroll down the Champs Elysées in January. But since they are only twice a year, and things are so expensive to begin with, it seems foolish to avoid them. With Janet in the lead, and M along, who as a tourist can take some delight in the experience, I spent the afternoon dutifully holding the shopping bags.
Summer Guests
We're going to be busy with guests for the next little while. My godmother flew in this morning, to attend a conference and spend some time with us afterwards. Janet's father will be arriving not too long after she leaves. This should get us out seeing some of the sights that, after almost a year here, we haven't yet managed to see.
Our first summer guest, stepping off the Air France bus from the airport
I'm Rooting for Italy
Did you know: Paris is the only man-made artifact that you can hear from the space shuttle.
If you don't believe me, you should have been here last night, after France won their World Cup semi-final game against Portugal. And we thought we'd had trouble getting to sleep after the quarter finals. This time they had a big screen set up in the Parc des Princes, drawing fans to the neighbourhood. When France won, the crowd took to the streets with cow bells, whistles and horns; they yelled, sang, honked, beat on garbage cans and set off fireworks. I sure wish I cared about football, because this would be a blast if it all meant anything to me.
It will all be over this weekend, when they play the final against Italy on Sunday. Either way someone's not going to get any sleep this Sunday night: either the two of us, or all our friends and family in Toronto (where eardrums are still ringing from the last time Italy won).
Football fans leaving Prague's old town square where they had gathered to watch England's defeat by Portugal last Saturday
Back from Prague
We spent a long weekend in Prague, returning early Wednesday morning. Charles de Gaulle allows no gentle re-introduction to France: we were immediately having to push our way through crowds oblivious to the passage of others; the bank machine didn't work; and our taxi driver got into a heated altercation with the woman managing the queue. Yep, we're home.
The taxi argument arose because we had asked for a cab that would take a debit card (since the bank machine wouldn't) and one arrived, but the driver asked us if we couldn't pay in cash;. The despatcher leapt in to chastise him because, since he had stepped forward in response to our request he was obliged to accept our means of payment, and she attempted to remove him from the line-up, but by the time the yelling and arm-waving was over there were no other taxis. We got in again, and the driver informed us, a couple of times, that the whole thing was just because he was black and she was an Arab.
Having exhausted all of the cat-sitting favours we could call upon, we hired a cat-sitter for this little holiday. Signing up was another very French episode, since like everything else it required a
dossier, in this case Emma's vaccination records, a health certificate and a picture of her. Paperwork in hand, I trekked across the city last Thursday to a lively neighbourhood north of the
Gare du Nord. The agency's office was obviously a going concern, run by an efficient young south-Asian man whose phone (ring tone: a barking dog) hardly stopped ringing. I completed a form to add to the file that included all the usual tombstone information plus such things as the location of the kitty litter, any unusual pet behaviours, plant watering requirements and someone to contact in case Janet and I completely disappeared. For this I had to call Janet and we hastily drafted her office-mate as Emma's godmother.
On our return all seemed to have gone very well. Emma was in good health (not counting the now traditional homecoming hairball), and there was a little note from the attending cat-sitter herself who documented each visit with little comments like "
Emma est venue me voir, se méfie quand même." ("Emma came to see me, suspiciously all the same.")
Two days later: "
Emma m'observe de loin! Elle a bon appetit." ("Emma watched me from a distance! She eats well.")
