last day

Hall of Mirrors in VersaillesOne of the things that everyone does in Paris is visit Versailles.


Built for King Louis XIV, the self-proclaimed "Sun King", the palace is the best example of decadence the world over.
Gold-gilded doors, a hall of mirrors, and crystal chandeliers are only the beginning of it. Each room is devoted to a different Roman god and contains a different portrait or statue of Louis XIV. Tapestries in heavy silks with gold thread hang from the walls, marble pillars and painted ceilings complete the look. As I walked through the palace I could only gaze open-mouthed upon the sometimes gaudy excess that was Louis' taste.


When my mom visited Versailles, she felt the same way--overwhelmed by a palace that was more ornamental than historic or charming. The part of the palace that she fell in love with was the grounds and Marie-Antoinette's garden estate. 

Marie-Antoinette's estate
Marie-Antoinette continues to fascinate people, whether it's for her gory death or her naiive remark regarding cake. Her little estate, modeled after a 17th century French farming village, only increases her allure. 


The village looks like something out of a Disney princess movie: small stone cottages complete with thatched roofs, charming rounded windows and abundant gardens. On a large pond, a single white swan swims gracefully and several small pastures hold a collection of goats, chickens, sheep and a peacock. My mom and I were completely enchanted and spent more time walking around the little hamlet than we did in the actual palace. 

Now and then:

Left: 1978, my mom took a picture leaving Versailles

Right: 2009, my mom took a picture of me leaving Versailles

At 11:15 a.m. tomorrow my mom and I will be boarding a plane for a the first leg of our 12-hour journey back.


Leaving France is bittersweet. I'm ready to be home but at the same time, I wish I could stay longer. I'm not sure when I'll return, but unlike my mom, I know I won't wait thirty years; I enjoyed being here far too much. A part of me is dreaming about moving here, living in an ancient stone house with a curving staircase to a dusty attic and windows framed by blue shutters and planter boxes full of red geraniums. 


It's not that I don't love my home in Seattle, because really I do, but there's something about the culture of France that I want infused into my own life. I love that the people still buy baguettes, even at the grocery store, instead of packaged, sliced bread. Every evening people crowd boulangeries to buy their bread for dinnr, leaving with the loaves tucked in bags or simply slipped under one arm. 


I love that the little markets on the streets put their fresh fruit outside under colorful awnings where you can smell them the moment you walk by. 


I love the convenience of Paris' Metro and watching the people get on and off the train: stereotypical French women dressed in black, working men in suits, and the occasional intellectual wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a rumpled sweater and loafers.


I love the flea markets in the country--even the tables of sausages, strange cuts of meat and jars of foie gras.


I love guessing the history of every limestone building, and drinking a cup of café au lait, a taste that can never compare to anything I can get in Seattle. 


Maybe if I lived here the wonders of France would get old; I'd move into a routine and take the street-corner accordion players and sidewalk cafés for granted. 


Today as my mom and I walked the cobblestone streets of Paris for the last time, I ignored my aching feet and instead tried to remember every detail of the city. We spent our last day exploring and shopping although we didn't buy anything except for pastries and coffee. Wind whipped through the narrow streets and twice it rained. The leaves are already falling and schools here are in session. Summer has left in the two weeks that we've been here and I feel nostalgic for school, yellow pencils and maybe, a little, for my home. 

Paris encore

We're back in Paris which, after a week of traveling throughout France, feels like a sort-of home. As we drove in on the freeway, it felt just like Seattle--except that the landmark that rose to greet us was not the Space Needle, but the Eiffel Tower. 


Again, we spent most of the day in the car, driving the main auto-routes north as we made our way back to Paris. One thing that I failed to mention earlier about driving in France is the inevitable and completely obnoxious toll booths that litter the main autoroutes crisscrossing the country. 


Earlier I wrote that the roads of France are pristine--no trash, smooth, perfectly white-striped roads and a rest station nearly every 10 kilometers. How the French government pays for such pleasant road ways is by tolling all the vehicles that take any of the major freeways, labeled by A and followed by a number. 


Our first experience with the toll both was fine. We were buzzing along when the navigation system chirped in her British tone: "Caution: Toll booth." My mom and I looked at each other and scrambled to find any money. However, the tolls work different. Rather, you take a ticket from the tolls on the entrance of the autoroute and upon exiting, you return your ticket and it fines you depending on how long you've driven on that road. 


At first it was fine, a few Euro here, a few there. As we drove into the Loire Valley and then down through the Dordogne region, we took back roads occupied by tourists and farm vehicles. However, driving north, we found ourselves following mostly autoroutes--A75, A71, A10, etc. This adds up.


At one of our transfers, from one freeway to another, we stuck our ticket in to find that we owed 13.20 Euros. Scrambling through our wallets we then realized we had exactly...12.70 Euros. Lovely.


So we then tried our credit cards. Our debit cards. But each time we entered the card, the machine told us that it didn't recognize our method of payment (we had the same problem trying to buy Metro tickets on a machine). After awhile, the machine would spit our paper ticket and card back into our faces. My mom would have to put the car in park and scramble to grab the card and fly-away toll ticket. 


After attempting each of our cards--two credit, two debit, we then realized that we had no other option but to back up and drive to the other toll lane which housed a tolling official. We slid the car into reverse and began backing up, forcing a Frenchman in a small white Peugot to back up as well. Pulling into the other lane, I explained to the woman at the toll office that "la machine n'aime pas notre cartes." She then, like us, attempted to use all four of our cards, without success. She then opened her hand for Euros. But even after digging between the seats we could not find any more loose coins. I halfway hoped that she would take pity on us and let us through after only paying 12.70 but instead she ripped a piece of paper off an official pad and wrote me a bill. I have ten days to mail it in.


Part of me wanted to write a fake address, a fake name, something because she didn't even ask to see any identification. But the other part of me, the goody-goody part of me that crosses at crosswalks and doesn't run red lights, even if there is no one around, obediently wrote down my address in Seattle so they could bill me if I decided to skip town.


My mom and I decided that after that humiliating and frustrating experience, we were going to take all back roads to Paris. Yes, it took longer, but it was cheaper. And that, to me, is worth it.


I think one of the best things about going home will be realizing that everything will be priced in dollars. I won't have to mentally calculate an exchange rate to see how much something really is and if I do choose to drive on I-5, I won't have to dig around for $10 so I can exit to I-405.


Tomorrow is our last official day in France, in Paris. It's already 11 p.m. and my mom has warned me that we're getting up early. She's already asleep in the twin bed next to me. We're back in our original hotel in Paris and strangely enough in the same room. Another full circle: two weeks and back in Paris, thirty years ago, and back in Europe. 

Travel tip #347

If you're in a French village searching for a WiFi connection, all French McDonalds have free wireless.
So here I am in a place I never thought I'd be--a McDonalds in France. I'm feeling guilty somehow, like I'm betraying the French culture.


written earlier:

Another long day of driving; it’s over six hours from Avignon to Paris. We set out early this morning to begin our route up from Provence. France is almost the size of Texas. Usually when we think of European countries, we think small, but France covers nearly _ square miles and is one of the most diverse countries in Europe—both physically and culturally. Today we drove from rolling hills covered with grapes, to mountains, gorges and pine trees and tonight we’re back in the Central Region and close to the Loire Valley. In our rush to get back to Paris, we didn’t make a reservation for tonight, thinking we would play it by ear. The idea was that we would stop at some town, use the WiFi and look up hotels. Unfortunately wireless hotspots are few and far between on the A71. 

One rest stop promoted free wireless but when we drove in, the woman in the rest stop “Cafeteria” told us it wasn’t working. At one point, we pulled off into a small village, hoping to find a café with a connection. It began to pour just as we drove in and soon the rain was accompanied by an immense clap of thunder and jagged bolts of lightning. Within minutes the entire town lost power and as we drove along the quickly flooding cobblestone streets, I gave up any luck finding an Internet café.

            

           So it was back on the road, heading north without any idea where we would stay tonight. As we neared Bourges, the 14^th century capital of France, my mom suggested we turn off into a smaller village and try to find somewhere to stay. Agreeing, I drove to Saint-Amand-Montrond.

           The town was a quaint spot and compared to the bustling streets of Avignon, it was deserted. The central square was surrounded by cafes and outdoor tables, but no one sat in them and few of the restaurants were even open. We drove down one narrow alley, than another, looking for hotel. Finally we stumbled upon the Office de Tourisme or tourist office—every town has one. I parked and we walked to the door only to find the office locked and the shades drawn.

            I turned around to tell my mom it was closed but the minute I did, the door opened and a woman beckoned us in. I told her we needed a room for the night.

            She nodded and pulled out an entire book—listing the nearby hotels and amenities of each.

My mom interrupted her.

            “Is there a bed and breakfast?” she asked hopefully. The woman nodded and pointed out a woman’s house near the end of town.

             “Very charming,” she told us. “Do you want me to call her and see if there is room?” Surprised by her offer we chanted “oui” and she made the telephone call.

             The bed and breakfast is two rooms in the attic of a family’s house. The room we’re staying in is small and charming, complete with ancient beams that stretch across the ceiling and a small cat whose fur reminds me of fudge ripple ice cream.

              Unforunately, there is no Internet here, so I am taking a break—writing a little now to publish tomorrow morning.

              I can hear the rushing of the river outside and the cooing of doves as I type, nestled in a thick down comforter. Rain drips from the eaves, a reminder of the earlier storm. Without the Internet, a phone, or television, I feel completely removed from everything; it’s quite nice.

Debbie & Erika's misadventures...parte deux

It must be genetic, fate, or something in the air,  but the South of France is destined to be a place of mishap.

This morning dawned bright, sunny, and hot. After getting up early to put more money in the parking meter, we decided to sleep a little longer. Unfortunately a little longer meant much later and I awoke with a start realizing that we were just about to miss breakfast--something we had paid for last night. Luckily, the hotel owner took pity on us and we still enjoyed a petit déjuner of croissants, coffee, and yogurt. (The French adore yogurt. Their grocery stores have a completely separate aisle solely devoted to the stuff.)

We then walked out to the car with minutes to spare on the meter and drove off to a smaller village in Provence, L'Isle-sur-le-Sorgue. After googling Provençial towns, this came up, so feeling adventurous, we headed out. 

Today was warm, uncomfortably warm in a shirt sticking to your back, sweat pouring down your face kind of way. The humidity was high and we strolled slowly through the little village, rather than doing our usual brisk walk.

"This is what Rome feels like," my mom said conversationally. 

"Mmm-hmm," I answered, fanning myself with my hand. 

Mysterious lunch dish

We decided to stop for lunch but passed on the usual cafes and boulangeries until we stumbled upon a beautiful outdoor eating area complete with a ceiling of intertwining greenery. We couldn't resist and sat down at an adorable metal table. 

The waitress greeted us efficiently and rattled off something in French that I didn't catch.

"Pardon?" I asked.

She repeated part of it in broken English. "It's a fixed menu. Fish, sweet potatoes, dessert." 

I nodded yes when really we should have left because what followed was one of the most expensive things we purchased in France and yet neither of us enjoyed it very much. I thought wistfully of a piece of quiche while my mom pushed things around on her plate, attempting to hide the bits she didn't eat under basil leaves.

Debbie filling the oilHeading back to Avignon, we decided to try and buy oil for the car. We had attempted to purchase some earlier at a gas station but realized that we didn't know what type to buy and in my communication with the station attendant, I'm not sure he even knew what we were talking about. 

So this was it. We pulled into the parking lot of "Norauto" as I scanned my old French textbook, desperately trying to figure out any words relating to car problems. 

The motor oil was at the back of the store and I strolled confidently to the shelves trying to guess out which one would work. Useless. I know nothing about cars and even less when everything is in a foreign language. 

Walking to the checkstand, I began my rehearsed spiel about the car needing more oil. The checker listened and then told me he couldn't help and directed me to a mechanic in the back. Flustered, I repeated my speech while the mechanic watched my lips, trying to understand the French I was speaking. Finally he shook his head, and asked me where the car was. Following me out to the parking lot, he nodded and we returned to the store, where he pointed out the correct oil.

We returned to parking lot triumphant and opened the hood to pour the oil in. My mom held a small tissue in her left hand as she poured. However, it was windy and as she recapped the oil container, her skirt began to flip up. Startled, she reached to hold it down and in doing do, dropped the oil stained tissue straight into the engine cavity. 

Panicked, we stared into the engine to see the white Kneenex fluttering beyond our reach. My mom pulled the dipstick out and attempted to spear it but in doing so, only pushed the napkin in further. The wind whipped around us blowing our skirts up and only adding to the stress of the situation as each of us took turns trying to retrieve the tissue. It was at this point our absurd actions were noticed and a man strode over to ask us if we needed help. Again, I had to rack my brain for enough French to describe a situation not covered in my language classes.

Graffiti in AvignonFortunately he understood my explanation, and like us, began to poke around for the tissue. After awhile, he turned away but instead of leaving, he ran to his car where he put on a glove and wrapped an old t-shirt around his arm. Returning to us, he plunged his hand under the hood, doing his best to avoid the hottest parts of the engine. Moments later, he pulled his arm out with the tissue tightly pinched between his fingers. We effusively thanked him as he left and we got back in the car to continue on our way to Avignon. 

Graffiti covers Avignon
While the rest of our day in Avignon was uneventful, we are ready to leave the city. Not only are we plagued by bad luck here, but it's the first time that I am not completely enchanted by France. Unlike the north and central regions of France, Provence is a little scruffier, a little dirtier. Avignon, in particular, is covered with graffiti--even in the most "chic" of sections where Hermés and Cartier shops line the main avenue. The ancient city seems tired, worn-down, with the buildings leaning against each other for support in the heat. The Palais des Papes, once the headquarters of the Catholic Church, rises in the midst of it all, a limestone giant out of place among the weathered, concrete buildings.

en route

In 1978, my mom's mode of transportation was a navy blue VW bug. It didn't have air conditioning, automatic windows or a navigation system. 

And en route to Spain through the heart of Provence, the little bug broke down, not once but several times.

August 5, 1978
Debbie writes:
"We got on the freeway and headed for Marseilles. We stopped for gas at Cassis and the car conked out. We had to push-start it. We sweated all the way to Marseilles. We made it and spend the night in the hostel! We gave the car a bath, hoping it would work next time we started it..."

August 6, 1978

Pushing the car in Marseilles"We stayed another night in Marseilles to give the car a rest..."

August 7, 1978
"The car wouldn't start. We pushed it. But that wouldn't work either. We got to a gas station and the guy charged the battery. We made it to another gas station where we had to push again. The guys there said we'd have to charge it for three hours! We said, no thanks, and pushed it again. We made it around the block before it conked out again. It's hard work pushing that car! We got it back to that station and the guy told us to go to Peugot and get it charged there. The car made it there. The guy was really nice and told us to come back at three."

It was pouring rain and nearing dark when the bug was finally charged, allowing the girls to leave Marseilles behind them. They got on the autoroute heading east, the bug lurching the entire way.

As my mom and I began to plan our trip to France, we listed possible places to visit. My mom had only one condition: that we didn't go to Marseilles.


"All I remember is pushing that car around Marseilles," she said. "All my memories from there are bad."

Today as my mom and I drove toward Avignon in Provence, our car suddenly emitted a loud beep and a warning light flashed on the dashboard, informing us that the car needed a litre of l'huille moteur--motor oil.

Instantly my mom panicked, recalling pushing the navy bug through the south of France thirty years ago.  We decided to pull over, however, we were on a back country road miles away from the freeway or any sizable town. Every village gas station we passed was closed on Sundays.

Luckily, a few minutes later the warning light turned off but we continued to monitor the Mercedes carefully. I wondered if I would be strong enough to push the car out of traffic while my mom silently prayed that it would hold out to Avignon. 

We arrived in Avignon around 7 p.m. and decided to just park the car. Tomorrow we will have someone look at it. Hopefully their answer doesn't involve charging the battery for three hours or pushing the vehicle around the block.
Today was a long drive but we're finally in the Provence region of France. (Our route took longer than planned because we pulled off at a medieval castle, and once home of Richard the Lionheart, as well as an antique market.) Tomorrow we'll explore Avignon--the oldest inhabited city in France and the former home of the Pope during the Renaissance. 

To market, to market

Market streets
Today was our first French market experience.  Around 10 a.m. we wandered down to the main village square to a myriad of vendors selling all sorts of meats, vegetables, fruit, eggs, as well as homemade jellies, jams and several items pickled in goose grease. Not to mention aisles and aisles of stands selling jewelry, clothing, hand-me down type items like second-hand books and dishes as well as hand-sewn linens, soaps, woven baskets and more.

Fresh pearsThe market did not just take over the central square but the entire city of Sarlat, including its narrow stone-walled alleyways. People filled the streets, shuffling from stand to stand, oohing and ahhing and bargaining for the best price on fish, eggs and pigeon meat. Most people were French, chattering softly to each other, with small dogs in tow. The second largest group were tourists--British and French tourist families and older couples. The children's faces were smeared with ice cream and pastry and they ran from vendor to vendor, running sticky fingers over fabrics and pottery while begging for a stuffed bear or more candy. Their tired parents lagged behind, toting backpacks and water bottles, pointing out the prices on fresh fruit and vegetables.

Debbie with garlicToday was one of the first days I actually felt like things in France were affordable. I bought two white-fleshed nectarines for 67 cents, a crusty baguette for 80, as well as a large container of sweet-smelling strawberries for only two Euros.
Many small towns throughout the Dordogne region live on these markets. Most villages don't have supermarkets and so the townspeople do their shopping twice a week when farmers drive their vans in, filled with their freshest wares.

Me in front of La LanterneAfter exploring nearly every market stand, my mom and I headed back to La Lanterne, the little bed and breakfast where we are staying in Sarlat. Now I must do a shameless plug for La Lanterne merely because our stay here has been so great. (Not that our other hotels weren't wonderful--they just seem to be getting better and better as we head south.)

Debbie with FrodoLa Lanterne is run by a British couple, Terri and Roy. They moved to Sarlat five years ago and bought a little house nestled into the alley behind the cathedral and had it completely remodeled. While the place is absolutely charming, complete with a private courtyard filled with flowers and little resident dog named Frodo, what makes this place so perfect are the British hosts. They will truly bend over backward for their guests.  As we relaxed in the courtyard, Terri chatted with us about dogs and Roy gave me a French cooking magazine to poke through. This evening as my mom and I wandered around Sarlat, trying to choose from one of the seemingly hundred cafes for dinner, we ran into Roy who then walked with us, pointing out the good restaurants, as well as the best items on the menu. And of course, they both help us in such a pleasing British accent that makes everything even more perfect.

Ancient France (and Austin Powers)

I'm lying in a wrought-iron four poster bed in one of the oldest buildings in a 12th century medieval village listening to the strains of jazz musicians playing Austin Powers' theme song.


I don't know if there's any greater contrast.


We arrived in Sarlat-la-Canéda, or simply Sarlat, around four p.m. after leaving our beautiful French manor house in the Loire Valley. With our trusty navigation system to direct us, (we've named her Margaret), we drove up out of the valley through rolling hills surrounded by soft green forests and the occasional field of corn or wheat.
(Now the musicians have switched to playing "Tequila," complete with French-accented shouts of "Tequila" in-between trumpet blasts.)

an ancient cottage in Sarlat
Sarlat is a medieval village left almost completely untouched by modern life. The cobblestone streets are too narrow for cars and so the pathways are filled with people and dogs instead, wandering over worn limestone bricks, open-mouthed and staring at the ancient buildings.


The city was completely surrounded by walls for many centuries as border town between British-occupied land and French territory during the 100 Year War. The entire region of Dordogne is incredibly old and tucked away in many of the limestone-walled hills are caves filled with thousand years old paintings from the the region's original inhabitants. Brochures describe the area as the "Cradle of Mankind."


I'm exhausted from the day of driving, although to be honest, driving in France is more peaceful than driving I-5 through Seattle. The French are polite, courteous motorists who actually just use the passing lane for passing and rarely, if ever, go over the speed limit or even go the speed limit at all. Most of the time, they drive leisurely as if they're just enjoying a Sunday out. The roads are perfectly maintained and there is no trash littering the sides of roads, no billboards, nothing but blue skies filled with puffy clouds and ancient villages popping into view every so often.


Each little town we pass, I exclaim over the buildings, the gardens, the walls.


"It's so cute!" I squeal. I imagine it's getting old because my mom has begun to remark that every town is that cute. I'm beginning to wonder if there's a law in France that you must own a perfectly maintained home with a colorful, orderly garden because it seems like every home we pass is engulfed by wisteria vines, rose trees, perfect topiary and planter boxes overflowing with every known flower. I can't get enough of it and am trying to drink it all in, absorb the color, the smells, and the absolute delight that is the central regions of France.


History of Sarlat-le-Canéda on the town's Web site.