La Douce France- a two-week holiday

-LA DOUCE FRANCE –a two-week holiday
I
We left from Newark on Friday 22nd December and arrived in Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport on Saturday morning, a cold but sunny one, which we appreciated. Martha was waiting for us to have breakfast. We decide to go to a museum, the Carnavalet, for instance, before lunch and nap time. In that elegant XVIIIc. Hotel we saw, among other interesting thigs, Marcel Proust’s bedroom, the pieces of furniture and other objects donated by Celeste Alberet’s daughter. These her mother, as Proust’s housekeeper for years, had inherited from him. Then we went on to the Revolution Rooms, and two hours later, we were out looking for a bistrot. We had to go back to the apartment to take a nap and change, for we had tickets to an 8pm ballet at Opéra Bastille. It is a new and beautiful building in glass and iron, the largest opera in the world, with excellent acoustics. There we saw "Coppélia", with music by Delibes, and direction and scenographie by Patrice Bart, who has given it back the more psychological and sinister tone of the original Hoffman’s tale: Der Sandmann. The main ballerina was magnificent; and this Ballet de l’Opera claims to be the youngest: the average age of the dancers is 25 years. We loved it and left very satisfied; then walked two blocks around the Place Bastille to have dinner at the Brasserie Bofinger, where we had already reserved a table under the gorgeous painted class dome. We shared a seafood sampler, called "Mareyeur" (oysters, sea snails, crab, mussels…“Pour deux?”, the maĩtre d’ asked in a haughty tone; “Non, pour trois”, was our assertived response; for dessert, a pear tarte à l’ Armagnac…
The 24, already grey and damp, we went to the restaured Petit Palais, to see its permanent art collection from the 19th & 20th centuries: besides glazed ceramic sculptures, oil paintings like the portrait of Sara Bernhardt, the famous “Berma” of In search of lost time. And, so that I don’t lose my connection with Proust, Brian bought for me, at the charming bookstore: Le Paris retrouvé de Marcel Proust, with beautiful illustrations . After lunch in the cafeteria, we took a walk along the Champs Elysées all the way to the Louvre pyramid, and then on rue de Rivoli to the Café Nemours, so as to warm ourselves up.
We had dinner at home, with a dear friend of Martha’s, an Argentinian too (Aurora Bernárdez, who was Julio Cortázar’s first wife and at 86 keeps herself in good physical and mental health, and still revises translations of the writer’s work, or thesis written about it). We started with what seems to be traditional here, on this date, fresh oysters (Fines de Claire), which Martha had gone out to pick in the morning, from the market around her place, on the rue Cambronne (15e arrondissement, not far from l'Ecole Militaire and UNESCO) with champagne, a pumpking cream, and a selection of cheeses with baguette (brebis, chevre and Conté de Noël, all of them delicious) with Chardonnay. For dessert, the "Bûche de Noël" from the famous Lenôtre bakery, brought by Aurora, who proved to be a great conversationalist! We walked her home, two blocks away, at 2am!
On Xmas Day, we went to Montmartre, full of tourist despite the weather, not so much cold as damp and foggy. Along the rue des Abbesses to the charming little St Pierre’s church, from the 12th c. And then on to the huge and rather ugly Basilica, from where we could only distinguish the lower part of the Eiffel Tower.
II
Tuesday 26 we woke up early to leave in darkness and take the # 88 to Montparnasse train station, where we would borrad the 9.10 fast train (TGV) to Tours, charming Tours nested between the Loire and Cher rivers. At the Place de la Gare, Ander a lead sky and erigid air, we picked up the car from the rental agency.
We spent two nights in Tours and two days in the Kings Valley. After leaving our luggage at the Hotel Rabelais, we took off towards Saumour, and stopped at the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud (12th c), an authentic monastic city, governed in its day by an abbess. Large halls, dining room, a Roman kitchen of octogonal plane, gardens and orchards. In the center of its naked church we found the stone tombs with laying sculptures: Elinor of Aquitaine (1122-1204) was entombed there beside her second husband Henry II Plantagenet and son Richard. Her tomb effigy shows her reading a Bible and is decorated with magnificent jewelry. She was the patroness of trouvadour poetry both in the Oïl language France and in England.
From there we went on to the remains of a destroyed Chinon, that is the Clock Toweer, where materials about Jeanne d’Arc’s life are depicted. On to the handsome Blois royal castle, with a variety of styles, side by side: Medieval gothic; the Flaming gothic Louis 12th wing; Renaissance Francis I, and the Classic Gaston of Orleáns. To the latter belongs the Royal chamber where Duc of Guisa was murdered, under Henry III’s orders, who suspected him of an attempt at coup d’etat. The visitors can see a video of a silent movie depicting the drama.
We devote the following half day, to visit the charming Amboise and Clos de Lucé castles (the latter given by Francis 1st to Leonardo da Vinci so that he could work there the last three years of his life). After lunch, we hurry to Chambord, but arrive too late. So we can only see it from the outside, but gorgeously lit.
Thursday 28th, early in the morning, after returning the car, we board the 8am train to Paris. From Montparnasse we took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon where we boarded the train to Avignon. Having planned all this before hand, we knew ewe had a two-hour margin between stations. I took care of booking the hotels, Brian, the cars, and Martha, the train tickets. It was a good combination, as the train allowed us to rest, and the car to pleasantly cover short distances.
At almost 300 kms/hour, the train causes in the beginning a deafness feeling similar to what happens when one flies. On the way, when we were about two hours from our destination, Martha thought she saw “cherry blossoms”, but it was in fact a white and shiny frost over fields and trees…
However, on arrival, Avignon received us bathed in sunlight. We picked up the car, drove to town, booked in the hotel, took a walk in the city after the museums were closed, and had dinner at "Au tout petit", a tiny restaurant recommended by the Europcar agent, which we liked a lot. We spent only one night in Avignon, where we would come back three days later.
III
From the 29th to January 1st we stayed in Aix-en Provence, a small, charming city, full of history, and to our delight, also of Mediterranean sun!. Handsome mansions (hôtels), from the 16th to the 17th centuries; Medieval monuments (the clock tower, the cathedral), fountains all over the place (no less than forty!): Roman, Medieval, Renaissance; squares, museums. It has University, art cinemas, many restaurants and cafés along Cours Mirabeau (see below, Marseilles). Being Christmas, the city was full of light and animation.
We visit at leisure the imponent Cathedral of Our Saviour, including a guided visit of the closed cloister, and watch a video on the famous triptych “The burning bush”, by Nicholas Froment (15th cent.), where it’s possible to appreciate the fine details of the painting: how, for instance, part of a man’s face is reflected on the armoured shoulder of a knight… The cathedral was built on the spot where a pine tree stood, and where the Catholics used to hang Huguenotes.
Also in Aix (word derived from Old Latin meaning waters) there is the Tapestries Museum, in the old bishop’s palace. The guide highlights for us the wool and silk tapestries made in Beauvais in the 18th century, with scenes of Don Quixote and Sancho’s adventures.
Unfortunately, the Granet Museum is closed, where we were hoping to see some Cezannes. In exchange, we go to the artist’s workshop, on the second floor of a country house, walking-distance from the city.
On the 30th we drive to Marseilles, only half an hour away. It’s a beautiful and energetic port city, the second in importance in France, with a rich history since the time when it was colonized by the Greeks. It is proud of its university, subway system, innumerable monuments and museums. We were lucky to visit it on a sunny and warm day: its fish market, the Old Port which has become an elegant yatch marina.
Brian wanted to visit the Chateu d’If, and so we boarded the Noon ferry to the Isle of If (Greeek Iphea), where famous and infamous, real and imaginary men were held often until their death. Among the first, Mirabeau (1749-1791), writer, orador, statesman, who in his youth was such a rascal his own father had him imprisoned for a limited time (and in the best possible conditions) so as to teach him a lesson . Among the imaginary, there is the not-less famous Count of Montecristo… and in quarantine the rhinoc éros immortalized by Durer… So goes the story: “In 1513, King Guzarat offers Manuel the Magnificent, King of Portugal, a rhinoceros from Asia (sic). The King wants himself to offer it to Pope Leo X. The beast is then sent to Lisbonne to go to Rome, with a compulsory stopover at Marseilles, on the Ile of If, en 1516. Altogether unknown in Europe, the rhino awakens the city inhabitants’ curiosity, and also the King’s who, on his way back from Marignan stops to admire it. Albrecht Dürer made then the famous engraving on wood, from a draft. The animal remained a few weeks in If and then was sent to Rome. But a violent store threw the ship against the reefs in the Gulf of Genoa. The rhino was found dead on the coast. The Pope received its stuffed corpse.”
We also learnt the origin of the not very French name Montecristo: it’s a place in the Dominican Republic where Alexandre’s Dumas father was born, of a Black mother. Another trivia: as in Cuba it was traditional that the cigar-makers had a reader while working, alter months of listening to Dumas’ novel, it was decided to give the famous Habana cigars the Count’s name.
From the castle terrace one has an impressive view of Marseille harbor.
Back in the city, walking up the Canebière, central avenue staring at the Vieux
Port, we arrive at Cours St. Louis, where we find Touniou, an excellent seafood restaurant, with its own stalls outside on the street. Later, we went back to the port, to have a coffee (une noisette is the equivalent of a macchiato in Italy, a cortado in Spain), and we decide to take the tour of the city in the Bonne Mère tourist train which goes up the very sep streets, to the Notre Dame de la Garde basílica, another unattractive big cake like Montmartre’s Sacré Coeur , but from the terrace of which over a hill some 147 metres above sea level, one has a very fine view of the port city which has recently received an injection of euros to beautify itself.
We return to Aix by car, always in the good, prudent hands of Brian, who this time has the help of his beloved GPS…
In Provence we stayed in hotels belonging to a Chain: Campanile, in the outskirts of cities, in rooms not always very large, with modest services and abundant breakfasts. The worst experience was the Court’Inn (in the village of Courtine, Avignon), where having arrived some time befote 7pm, we found the office closed and empty, and had to wait for the attendant to finish his dinner and come to open half an hour later… This time, though, we had a suite. Hotel Rabelais in Tours was quite satisfactory.

IV
Leaving Aix on January 1st, on our way to Avignon we stopped at Salon de Provence , recommended by the Let’s go guide. It was a pleasant surprise: its XIII century castle, Saint Lawrence Collegiate, where Nostradamus worked, and the XVII century Hotel de Ville. From then, on to Arles and Nîmes, two beautiful cities (the former somewhat neglected, dirty, the latter more stately and elegant. Both of them are proud of their admirable Roman monuments, specially the Amphitheaters, still used for bullfights. Being a festive day, most places are closed in Arles (Van Gogh’s house, among others), but in Nîmes we can see the Square House, enter the Cathedral of Notre Dame and visit at our leisure the magnificent Arènes, a real museum of old Gladiator’s glory.
Every day in the south we enjoyed sunny days and warm temperatures.
Our next two days in Avignon were not enough to see even a fifth of its interest sites, irs no less than nine museums, but enough to walk inside the Palais des Papes, which is in fact several palaces, as each new pontifice would add to the previous one. Fascinating, this history of war and intrigue, for the period that the Pope resided here, his authority in Rome challenged by various kingdoms. We walk the Saint Benezet bridge, the half of it that remains alter several destructions by the flooding of the Rhone river. It is now a museum, where among other things one learns this is the subject of the folk song “Sur le Pont d’Avignon- originally “Sous”, under). On the other side, our last day, we visit the small town of Villeneuve lez (sic) Avignon*, with is Medieval tower, the ruins of a very large Carthusian monastery and a non less interesting museum: the Pierre de Luxembourg, where one can appreciate, among other, “The Crowning of Virgin" a very detailed painting commissioned to Enguerrand Quarton in the 1400s
V
*It was in this peaceful town where I fell victim , that Wednesday January 3rd, at 2.25pm, just two hours befote our departure by train to Paris, to a bag-snatcher (vol a l'arrachée **), after Brian, in an exceptional and in his own judgement unforgivable gesture, contrary to all his customary precautions, parked thoughtlessly in an isolated and empty area, and after locking the car ran uphill towards the entrance to the Tower, while Martha and I followed at our leisurely pace –we had just had lunch with wine! The snatcher came from behind and all I felt was two hands picking my bag strap, which I had crossed over my chest. Although a cheap one, made in China, I doubt it could have been torn apart; it’s more likely that the guy used a blade to cut it, so that I almost didn’t feel the pull, but by the time I half turned to hold it against me, it was gone! When I turned around all I could see was the back of a tall, agile man, running downhill to where his accomplice, in a small white car, was waiting for him, before pressing the gas. Brian ran back to our screams, and managed to get the plate number, or part f it. With help one of the museums employees, we arrived to the police station to declare the theft. From there, Martha called the train station to change the time of our departure, and Brian, the US Embassy in Paris to report the theft and inquire about the requirements to get a letter which would allow us to fly back home. Resides 200 euros I had just got that morning from an ATM, I had in my pocketbook both our passports and green cards, as in a similarly exceptional and unforgivable way, I was not carrying them in their pocket around my neck… This is what happens when one lowers the guard, under the assumption that one is safely traveling in a “first world country”. My VISA card, my address book, my make-up little bag, hand-made by my mother from a very nice golden fabric, and other minor items. From the Europcar offices, they allowed us to make phone calls to the Mexico and Australia embassies in Paris, to get an appointment for the following day.
** I can’t resist the tempation to copy here what I found in Internet about this kind of theft:

DÉFINITION :
Vol avec violence perpétré par un ou plusieurs individus. Action d'arracher en force, des mains de la victime, un objet convoité (sac à main, téléphone portable, carte bleue, lunettes de marque, etc)
Les "arracheurs" peuvent être à pied ou motorisés (moto, scooter)
Ne pensez pas que ce genre d'individus ne s'attaqueront pas à vous si vous n'êtes pas une personne âgée ou si vous êtes en pleine journée dans une rue très fréquentée.
…
(CONSEILS)
C'est un peu idiot à dire, mais il vaut mieux garder votre argent dans une poche de pantalon que dans son sac à main. Idem pour les choses de valeur (carte bleue, chéquier, téléphone, etc). Si vous vous faite voler votre sac, vous me remercierez par la suite. Privilégiez les poches avant, pour évitez également les pique-pockets.
Ce conseil, je le donne surtout aux personnes âgées, parce que j'en ai vu trop finir leur jours à l'hôpital pour un simple sac à main. Je ne leur conseil pas de nouer leur sac autour de la taille en pensant qu'un éventuel voleur ne pourra pas leur arracher. Erreur, si la lanière ne casse pas, les voleurs n'hésiteront pas un seul instant à vous traîner sur plusieurs mètres. C'est avant le vol qu'il faut tenter un échappatoire. Au moment où on vous l'arrache, c'est trop tard, il faut laisser faire sans opposer de résistance. Pensez que ce n'est qu'un bien matériel et que de toute façon, vos voleurs sont déterminés. J'ai vu le cas parmi tant d'autres, d'une femme âgée de 92 ans, qui s'était fait traînée sur cinq mètres et rouée de coups par trois jeunes de 15 ans, parce qu'elle ne voulait pas lâcher son sac à main. Nous avons eu la chance d'interpeller un des voleurs, porteur du sac à main, mais cela n'a pas empêché la victime de finir à l'hôpital avec un traumatisme crânien très grave. (…) »
So that I have to be thankful I didn’t end up, “dragged for about 12 feet and beaten up » ! When Martha tells the story to a French friend, she responds that both in Avignon and its neighbor Villeneuve, the unemployement rate is high.
…
Back in freezing cold Gare de Lyon, the first thing we do is leave Martha in charge of our luggage, sitting in a café, while we get money from an ATM with Brian’s card, and take our passport photos. We also call the bank in NY to report our lost cards (Brian and I share the VISA) and Ian, to look for my cash card number.
We take care of all this, and exhausted, but not resigned to go to bed without dinner, we decide to go upstairs to the elegant Le Train Bleu .There, under bright chandeliers and surrounded by Belle Epoque décor, we eat and have a glass of a delicious rose wine….
As Dr. Pangloss would say, we were, after all, lucky… that none of us was hurt in any way, that the unhappy incident came to happen almost at the end of our very enjoyable trip, but not so near to our departure date that we couldn’t take care of our documents replacement on time. On Thursday, we devoted the whole day to goings and comings to the three embassies. And by Friday afternoon we had each a new, temporary passport and two “letters of transportation” from the US, one for the airline at the De Gaulle airport, and another for the Immigration authorities at JFK.
VI
That same Friday we had an appointement at the Grand Palais, to see the exhibit on Sunken Cities (Alexandria, Herakleion, Canopa), with my friend Bernard and his family. I had met him in 1968 in Bordeaux, where he still lives, when I arrived to give Spanish conversation at the young girls lycee. Throughout the years, we have kept in touch, by letter, and have followed our lives. This was the second time that, knowing I was going to be in Paris, he organized the trip north with wife and daughter. The first time had been in 1988, when we were there with the boys and aunt Bertha from de Australia. He came with Danielle, his wife, and Joelle, a little girl of six.
The show was interesting, but very badly organized. After lunch across the street, in the Petit Palais, we gave each other rendez-vous for the following day, at the Institut du Munde Arabe, a beautiful, ultramodern building on the Seine, to see: “Venice and the Near East”, which will be coming to the Metropolitan Museum in March. Then we parted, on their way to Notre Dame, till next time…
Releived from the tension of the past 24 hours, Brian agreed to accompany me to the Dypthique candle shop, on Boulevard St Germain, and from there to the nearby rue Serpente, to look for our honeymoon Hotel Fleur de Lys, which we found, its lobby renovated, a Chinese man at the reception.
—Brian can tell you about our visit to the Sewers Museum…
VII
Paris was looking as beautiful as ever, maybe more, under its Christmas lights, its clean buildings, the always surprising vistas from the bridges on the Seine, which graciously meanders thru its “lover”, as the song says.
Maybe obesity is spilling over France, as they say, thru the ever-present MacDonald’s, but one can still admire the Parisian women’s svelte figure, stylishly dressed.
On January 6th, we saw people hurrying to the nearest bakery to pick up their galette de Rois, a confection of millefeuille pastry over an almond paste, inside which one can find a little doll, not necessary the baby Jesus, but even a gilded bust of Schumann!

Irene Prieto--- February 2007