St Émilion to Storybook Sarlat

6 April 2011

St Émilion to Storybook Sarlat

The village of St Émilion was pretty sleepy when we woke up that morning. The sun was already shining in the blue sky. I had been hoping to start my day with a fresh buttery croissant but believe it or not, we could not find a bakery that was open. This was a slightly shocking concept in France. The only shop we discovered open was the bakery where we’d had macaron cookies the day before. They didn’t have any croissants, just sweets, but they did have espresso. We ate our breakfast on a bench outside some of the town’s medieval ruins.

This sugary breakfast was the perfect fuel for a morning run. Mike and I changed into our running gear and this time set out on foot to explore the wine country. It was a gorgeous run through the wide open country. The smell of grass and lilac was ever present. We could see the vineyard workers out tending to their grape vines. For just over eight miles we ran up and down the winding country roads. The French drivers were extremely courteous to runners, which is a pleasant change from the aggressive drivers I’m used to in the US. Hot and sweaty, we made a stop off at a church with a water spicket outside and then headed back to the village to be able to check-out of the hotel in time.

By the time we showered and returned our bicycles it was time to eat lunch before we left the beautiful sunny village of Saint Émilion. In one of the main squares in town we found a 3 course menu for €14. My started was toast with roasted eggplant and warm goat cheese, after that there was salmon with vegetables and then a crepe with sugar for dessert all of this washed down with some cool, dry white wine. After lunch we stopped in the shop across the street to purchase some wine. The handsome man told us about half a dozen wines in his thick French accent. We tasted each one, starting with the cheapest for about €10 and ending at around €70. We each chose a bottle of red to take home as souvenir and another to bring to Alain and Catherine who we’d be visiting tomorrow in Brittany.

Around one o’clock it was time to walk the mile from the village to the train station and see about getting back towards Bordeaux. As we approached the train station we passed a bunch of people who appeared to be entering town from the station. I had a bad feeling that once again we had missed our train out of town. When we read over the train schedule, we confirmed that this was true. The next trains out of town in either direction were not for another two to four hours. It was a frustrating set-back in time especially after lugging our ever-expanding bags and now three heavy bottles of wine. Mike graciously volunteered to camp out at the station with the bags so I could stroll around town unencumbered.

I had a little more than an hour to explore St Émilion by myself. I spent most of that time playing with my camera, snapping shots of wisteria vines, colorful old doors, and winding alleyways. I also had a delicious cone of cassis sorbet from a market selling sweets as well as grape vines. From a jolly man at an outside stand, I bought a small can of foie gras to bring home. I also found some beautiful and colorful scarves from Provence in a quaint shop with a friendly and smiling storeowner. She informed me that the weather is not always this summer-like and glorious in St Émilion at this time of year. We were lucky that it wasn’t wet and gray.

When I returned to the station, Mike had come up with an exit plan for us. Either we could wait another hour and return to Bordeaux and from there, figure out a train ride to Brittany, or we could head further eastwards and explore another town. He had read about a town called Sarlat which is in the Dordogne region of France. The book described this medieval town as beautiful and storybook-like. It also claimed that it is the most filmed town in all of France. It sounded worth visiting to me and the train to Sarlat would be passing through in about 20 minutes.

To get to Sarlat we had first take the train to a town called Le Buisson. To get there, we rode through some beautiful countryside. We passed old stone farmhouses set on rivers as well as quaint lakeside towns and chateaux. In Le Buisson the train stopped and we had to board a bus to go any further. The bus ride proved to be even more beautiful as we got a closer look at these lovely little villages. We passed through one amazing little town set across from a peaceful and still lake. It was a tiny little village that clung to a cliff side. At the top of the village was a perfectly preserved medieval castle. We would have gotten off the bus and stayed there for the night, but by the time we actually realized what a gem of a town it was, the bus had already blown past the stop.

Twenty minutes later we arrived in Sarlat. The sun was low in the sky and all of the buildings were painted a rosy hue. It was about a one mile walk from the station to go downhill to the old city. We stopped at one of the first hotels we found, a cozy little two-star hotel just outside of the medieval walled city. For €50 we got a spacious room and felt like we had the whole hotel to ourselves. It was already about 7 o’clock at night by that time and we knew we only had about an hour and a half to explore before the sun went down.

I can see why Sarlat is used as a movie set. It is a beautiful medieval town with hundreds of narrow alleys that crisscross and wind through the town. Hidden in these alleys one could find restaurants, boutiques, hotels and historic sites. In one alley, we found a cat and a dog sitting on stonewall basking in the sun together. Behind the cat was a bright yellow flowering bush, the wall behind was purple with wisteria. We had most of those little alleys to ourselves. These little alleys would sometimes open up suddenly into open, sunny plazas. One plaza had a statue of geese in the middle and I later learned that Sarlat is known for geese and has a celebration there every year where one can eat all kinds of delicious goose products. I felt grateful to be there during the off season as the travel guide said it was difficult to even enjoy the town with the hoards of summer tourists descended en masse.

I think we explored almost every corner of the old walled city that evening even a public garden. My stomach was grumbling as it started to get dark out now and so we stopped to pick a restaurant in one of the alleys which was busy with café tables outside. With the sun down, it was a bit chilly for outdoor seating. We took a table at a restaurant with orange table clothes. The service was slow but I enjoyed my meal. I had foie gras with toast, then a delicious duck cassoulet and finally a rich brownie-like cake made with good European dark chocolate. As we walked the few minutes back to our hotel, we barely passed another person on the street. We were ready to go to bed early for a 7am train to take us northwest to Brittany.

The sun shines on Saint Émilion

5 Avril 2011

The sun shines on Saint Émilion

Breakfast consisted of bread, cheese and butter left over from the shopping spree at Carrefour the day before. We supplemented this with some croissants and coffee fron the boulangerie stand outside the hotel and a fresh loaf of six-grain bread for our travels. For one final time, we walked the roughly two miles back to the train station to catch the 1030 train to St. Émilion. By the time we completed our trek there we didn’t have much time to catch the train. The ticket line was quite long, so instead of joining the queue and risking missing the train, we figured we could just purchase our tickets online.

It was over an hour ride out to St Émilion which is located east of Bordeaux. The train was a local line which stopped frequently. The sun was shining on the countryside as we slowly bounced along past vineyards, farms, and green pastures. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at the tiny station of St Émilion and without ever seeing a train conductor. Our ride had been free! Karma was finally paying off!

There were no signs, maps or information at the tiny St Émilion train station so we used our common sense to find the village. Further uphill from the station we saw a bunch of stone buildings and tile roofs in the distance. Saint Émilion is famous for being one of the premiere wine subregions in Bordeaux, Bordeaux being one of the best regions for wine in France, which therefore makes St Émilion one of the most famous wine countries in the world as well. The town itself is quite small, but in the hill country around St Émilion are over 800 vineyards.

As we walked up the hill into the village of St Émilion we were surrounded by rows of grape vines, decadent houses perched on hilltops, and bright flowers in full bloom. There was a wine tasting in full swing inside one of the buildings we passed. I was so happy to be out of the cities and into the French countryside and the small villages. I always feel that the “real” Europe is experienced in the villages.

We were sweating by the time we hiked up the hill and steep cobblestone roads to arrive at the center of town. The St Émilion tourism office was located on one side of a bright and sunny square that had a few outdoor cafes and offered a beautiful view of the town and the valley below. St Émilion is a gorgeous and well-preserved medieval village that is a UNESCO world heritage site. All of the buildings are made of beige stone and are tightly packed together in winding cobblestone streets and narrow alley passageways all perched on the top of a hill overlooking the wine country below.

Inside the tourism office we inquired about getting help booking a hotel. The friendly girl informed us that they were not allowed to arrange bookings at their office but she could offer us a large brochure with a comprehensive listing of all of the nearby inns and hotels. While Mike stayed to arrange for us to rent bikes for the day, I went off to look around for a way to call some of these nearby hotels. I found free wifi access not far from the tourist office and even succeeded in calling a few of the hotels using my Skype account, however the person on the other end could not seen to hear me. I was starting to get frustrated. I turned around and saw a two star hotel behind me and figured I might as well see if they had a room at a reasonable rate. I may have forgotten the majority of the French I studied for all of those years, but I still had enough proficiency to ask the man at the front desk for a room and understand when he smiled and said that yes, he did have one room left in the hotel. We were lucky, he said, because someone had just called to cancel their reservation. He walked me upstairs, showed me the cute, clean little room with views of the city below and I immediately said we’d take it.

After settling up with the hotel manager, I headed back to find Mike and tell him the good news. Just as I stepped out of the hotel, I saw Mike rounding the corner pushing a bicycle in each hand. It seemed things were finally falling into place for us! Before taking the bikes out on a ride around wine country, it was time to fuel up with a good French lunch. We discovered a sunny cozy little square with three different restaurant options. We sat down outside right next to one of the steepest cobblestone streets in town. Below us was another restaurant shaded by a trellis covered in wisteria. My three course meal consisted of a Mediterranean salad, then boeuf bourguignon and finally crème caramel. Mike got paté on toast with a salad, the same boeuf bourguignon and then chocolate mousse. We decided to hold off on ordering any wine and wait to try the wine out at the vineyards. By looking through the book we’d been given at the tourist office, we learned that there were at least fifteen vineyards that offered free tastings. All of these vineyards were just within a few miles, easily accessible by bike.

After lunch we ran into two American girls who were studying abroad in Paris. They asked us in whiney voices if we had been able to find any vineyards to taste wine. Apparently these two had come here on a mission to get drunk for free on French wine. The girls informed us that unfortunately almost all of the wineries in St Émilion were closed for the week. Wine officials from all over France and presumably the world had descended upon St Émilion to taste all of the region’s best wine and vote. The only wine tastings that were available were open just to those in the “business.”

Further questioning back at the tourist office led us to two wineries located right within the walls of the city, in fact right next to one another and only a two minute walk from our hotel. We tried a variety of wines and toured the cellars. We ran into the whiney American girls and also met a young married couple who was just beginning a three month backpack journey around Europe. The couple were from New York City but had been living in London while the husband pursued an MBA. Now that he had graduated, they’d travel Europe before heading back to the US. This was their first stop of many including Greece, Croatia, Turkey, and Italy. I was quite envious of their upcoming adventure.

We chased down our wine with a stop to the local patisserie. We bought a dozen macaroon cookies. French macaroons are much different from the American type with coconut flakes. The French kind are an almond based fluffy and chewy cookie that can be made into a sandwich with any number of flavored fillings. Apparently the recipe for the simple macaroon cookie had been brought to St Émilion in the 1600s by a group of culinary-inclined nuns. We also tried the local canelles and some almond brittle with dark chocolate. All were delicious. I think I already need to increase the waist size of my pants.

For the next four and a half hours we biked all over the beautiful country that surrounds St Émilion. It was about 75F, the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the blue sky; it couldn’t have been a more glorious day. We biked past vineyards with rows upon rows of grape vines. We saw castles and cathedrals, mansions and abandoned homes, farms, fields and roadside restaurants. Between the steep hills and the blazing sun, I was sweating. It was a shame that all of the vineyards were closed because it would have been so easy to ride from one wine tasting to the next before you toppled off your bike back in the village.

We entered the arched in the medieval wall of St Émilion as the sun was starting to get low in the sky. After parking our bikes in the designated parking area, I decided we should end this glorious day with wine & cheese at sunset. At the hotel, we grabbed all of our snacks and a half bottle of Bordeaux wine and headed back to a stone bench sitting along the village wall. From our vantage point, we could admire the green valley with it’s geometric lines of grapevines below as well as the many brown and red tiled roofs of the old homes in the village.

The town was much quieter at night than it had been during daylight hours. Most of the tourists had left St Émilion, probably to return to Bordeaux for the night. The streets were dark and quiet. There were a few cafes in one of the larger squares in the village. The cafes each had just a few tables with patrons so we picked the one with the best menu options. I had some shredded zuchinni with cheese, sundried tomatoes and smoked duck breast, followed by stuffed salmon with risotto and dessert was something called a floating island which was a meringue type dessert sitting in a goblet of crème anglaise. This time we were sure to order some wine and it wasn’t long until my happy stomach was ready to go to bed.

Trouble with Transportation in Bordeaux

4 Avril 2011

Trouble with Transportation in Bordeaux

It was an early wake up that morning to get to the train station in time for the 0700 train to Bordeaux. We arrived at the station with papers that had confirmation that we had purchased our tickets to Bordeaux. To get to Bordeaux we would have to first take a train to Poiters and from there we’d get a TGV (high-speed train) to Bordeaux. The only places that were open in the station that early was the café and the information desk. I approached the information desk with our paperwork to try to get the tickets, however that particular office is just for information, not for tickets. The woman told me that I would just have to speak with the conductor on the train.

About twenty minutes into the train ride, the conductor walked through the car checking tickets. I used my best possible French to explain our situation to him. I handed him the paperwork for the tickets we had purchased online and he shook his head in disapproval. He asked me if we had tickets. I once again explained that our stupid American credit cards will not work in French machines. He made some frustrated sounds and continued to shake his head. I offered up my apology and he responded, “No, I am sorry for you because you are going to have to purchase another ticket.” Luckily my credit card worked on his handheld machine and after forking over €36, we officially had tickets. The conductor assured me that we would be able to get reimbursed for the redundant tickets at any station in France. He scribbled an explanatory note out on a little piece of paper as proof.

Once we arrived in Poitiers we knew we’d have less than fifteen minutes before our train to Bordeaux departed. Having finally learned our lesson, we went to fetch our train tickets from the sales window. The last thing we wanted was to be overcharged again, and this time for expensive TGV tickets. We had just enough time to grab our tickets and make it to the correct train platform. I had hoped I’d be able to get a coffee and croissant but there just wasn’t enough time.

When one rides the TGV train one is given assigned seats in a certain car. We found our spot in the crowded train which was practically full. Since we hadn’t had time to get our breakfast in the station, we were forced to pay top Euro for overpriced and underwhelming pastries and coffee, but it got the job done.

As the train sped southwest through France I read my book and listened to music. Before long, we were disembarking the train in Bordeaux. It was a big and busy station with high glass ceilings. Reading the travel book on the way had provided information about a hostel in Bordeaux that was cheap and close to the train station. We had to walk through the sketchy part of town past strip bars, tobacco stores, porn shops and kebab restaurants before we found the hostel. It was located close to a university and seemed to be filled with highschool to college-aged travelers. We quickly learned that all the beds were booked for the night. So far it had been easy to stumble across hotels so we decided to press on. Most of the hotels mentioned in the travel guide seemed to be in one certain area of town but unfortunately our tiny little map didn’t even include the train station so we had no idea where we were in reference to the hotels.

We headed on in the direction we presumed to be the hotels. It was about 1000 in the morning and the town of Bordeaux was pretty busy. We couldn’t seem to get out of the sketchy area though and all we ran into were hair weave salons, cell phone vendors, and shops selling cheap and slutty clothes made of polyester. Eventually we stumbled upon a Carrefour grocery store and decided we’d eat. I had fun looking at all of the different French cheeses and yogurts that are plentiful and affordable. We filled up our shopping basket with bread, cheese, butter with sea salt crystals, sheep’s milk yogurt, cured pork sausage, apples, and half bottles of red Bordeaux wine.

Not far from the Carrefour we found a flea market in a pedestrian only square around an old tower. We sat down on the steps of this landmark and devoured the French treats. After being sufficiently satisfied on carbs and milk fat, we walked through the market. This market sold everything from bras to mattresses to fabric for sewing. We eventually realized that we had walked in a giant loop and ended up back at the same square we’d stood in about an hour ago. We re-grouped and decided that since we had not successfully found the hotels in the book, that we’d head back to the area around the train station; as sketchy as it was, we had seen a few two star hotels.

Another twenty minutes later we were back in the land of lap dances and falafel, this area was quite the contradictory neighborhood with it’s mix of Islam and sex industry. I spotted a sign for a two-star hotel down a side road and we approached. It was confusing as to where the entrance to this place was and it looked as though it might be shut down but I noticed a small sign above a doorbell that said “hotel.” I pushed the button and a few moments later a Middle Eastern man answered the door. Behind him in the hall way I could see the rumble of some crushed wood and sheet rock on the floor. I asked him if there were any available rooms and he told me this was not a hotel. Clearly the sign on the door disagreed. We figured it was just as well considering we’d probably wake up from a night in a hotel like this and find that Mike’s kidneys had been harvested and I had been traded into the Eastern European sex slavery.

We circled back to the large town square for the third time now, only this time I spotted a large map near the light-rail stop. By consulting this map next to my tour book map, I was able to finally realize what direction we’d need to head in to get to the hotels. We just hadn’t gone far enough before. The bags were starting to feel heavy on my back and in my hands but we continued on.

Thirty minutes later we arrived into the nicer part of town. There was a wide pedestrian only street with shops, restaurants and finally, hotels! The first three places were visited were full but luckily offered tips on where else we could try to find a room. Eventually we found a room in a clean and quaint two-star hotel right near the city’s cathedral and the busy pedestrian street. Our luck was turning around.

It felt so good to ditch the heavy backpack and change into some warmer weather clothes as the sun had finally come back out to shine. A block from our hotel was an open-air coffee and gelato shop. I tried some mango, raspberry and chocolate gelato along with a delicious milky latte. We wandered around the sunny and bustling streets of Bordeaux. It was actually a very pretty city with granite buildings similar to the beautiful ones seen in Paris. The cafes were full of people sitting outside smoking their cigarettes and drinking beer in the sunshine.

Most of the towns we had visited in Paris offered a bike service. At various locations around town one can rent a bike by the hour or day and use it as much as one wants and when finished, drop it off at another designated spot. All one has to do is put a credit card in a machine and create an account. This plan to ride around Bordeaux was foiled by our stupid chip-less American credit cards once again. While discussing what we wanted to do for the next few days, we both felt like we’d get the most out of our time if we could rent a car and explore the wine country that makes Bordeaux famous. The receptionist at the hotel told us that we could find all of the rental car agencies around the train station. For the third time that day, we walked another few miles back to the train station. The first half a dozen places we tried were all sold out of cars. Just when we were ready to claim defeat, I noticed one last rental agency. The woman was happy to inform us that there was a car available and we could have it for about €80 for the day. Just as I handed over my credit card to secure the reservation, she informed me that we’d need an international driving permit. I’d traveled to Europe many times with my family and they’d always rented a car and as far as I was aware, this special permit was never necessary. The woman made a call to another person, presumably the boss, and still confirmed that we couldn’t get the car without the permit.

After striking out with all of our other transportation options, we checked the train schedule times and headed back to the hotel for an evening run. From our hotel we headed down to the wide river that runs through the city. It seemed to be the popular exercise spot in town as we passed lots of other joggers. It was a beautiful sunny evening. People were sitting out in riverside cafes and dinner cruise ships. By the time we finished our four mile run, the sun was finally starting to set. It was hard to believe how late the sun was setting in Europe compared to home, but it makes sense when you realize that Bordeaux sits at about the same latitude as Nova Scotia.

It was officially dark when we set out to find a good dinner. We felt like we deserved a delicious meal after all of our bad transportation luck earlier in the day. I was drawn to a crowded brasserie a few blocks from our hotel. One of the things I liked about Bordeaux was that it was not a touristy town, in fact I hadn’t remembered seeing any foreign tourists all day. We were seated at the only free table in the place, handed menus, and told that we could go up to a wine case and choose our bottle.

I consulted the menu and decided I was going to order the prix fix menu which included foie gras as a started and duck confit as the main course. I had one of the guys at the restaurant help me pick out an appropriate red wine. My foie gras was silky, buttery and delicious. Mike enjoyed his starter of warm goat cheese on toast. The duck confit was one of the best I’ve ever. Mike had a steak in the bordelaise style, which is the sauce of that region that has wine, shallots and bone marrow. The wine was from nearby St Emilion and it was cheap and good. For dessert, Mike had a crème brulee which was light but flavorful and I had cognac with canelles, which are tiny bite-sized eggy cakes made just in Bordeaux. This kind of food is the reason people visit France! Everything was delicious and not a bad deal at three courses for €16. Needless to say, we slept well after that meal.

Castles with Coralie

3 Avril 2011

Castles with Coralie

I woke up Sunday morning feeling so well rested. I hadn’t had a sleep that deep in weeks; I even started dreaming again. The heat and sunshine from the day before had left, and it was gray and drizzling outside. Mike and I decided to go out for a morning run. Running along the Loire river seemed like the best idea. That section of the river has a parallel running canal so we ran along this canal 3 miles from the city and 3 miles back. There were a few other runners up early in the gloomy weather but we mostly had the place to ourselves. As we finished our run, we encountered a flea market and small food market setting up and decided to come back for breakfast after cleaning up.

My cousin, Coralie, just happened to be on vacation in France for the same week as I was. She was mainly in the Paris area visiting with her French relatives, but they were all staying in the Loire valley over the weekend so this was the reason I decided to start my weekend off in that region. After I called Coralie to make plans for meeting up later that day, we checked out of the hotel. We strapped on our backpacks and walked back to the riverside area. The morning market was actually running a fundraiser for AIDS, or “Sidaction” as the organization was called in France. My breakfast of coffee, croissants and a crepe all went to a good cause. I even managed to pick up a sandwich for lunch later as well; a delicious baguette filled with cured ham, cheese, lettuce and butter.

Mike and I made our way to the train station to catch the next train to Chenonceau, one of the most famous chateaus in the Loire valley. The town was quiet and sleepy that morning and the train station was nearly deserted. My travel book had said that there were trains departing from Orléans every hour to Chenonceau. We quickly learned that this was not the case on a Sunday however. The next train would not be leaving for almost three hours. I felt bad as I already knew that this would have the subsequent effect of altering my cousin’s plans. I called to let her know we would be delayed and we set out to kill some time.

Sundays in Europe are very quiet. Most of the shops are closed or do not open until late in the day. As we walked through the damp cobblestone streets, we finally found an open-air café where we could spend some time. We ordered cappuccinos and watched a few of the earlier risers walk by while listening to the latest in European pop stream in over the radio.

It was a short hour and half ride to Chenonceau through the countryside. The weather was still a bit grey, but the rain had stoppped. The train practically dropped us off at the front door of the chateau. After purchasing entrance tickets and dropping our bags in a luggage locker, we found Coralie, her husband, Greg, their two kids Wyatt & Eliot, and her aunt and uncle, Marie-Pierre and Jean-Noel. They had gotten there quite a while before us and had already toured the chateau. Little Eliot was napping in Marie-Pierre’s arms when we arrived.

Coralie lives in North Carolina and I hadn’t seen her since last May when my grandmother died. It was the first time I got to meet her new baby, Eliot as well. It was great to catch up together and play with the kids while being in such a beautiful setting. Marie-Pierre looked as though she hadn’t aged at all since I had seen her last. She told me that I better come visit her in Paris before she dies. I don’t think she will be going anywhere anytime soon!

Unfortunately the visit with my family was all too short. They little ones had to get back to their hotel for a nap so we said our “au revoirs.” After they left, Mike and I walked through the Chenonceau chateau. I had visited this very place thirteen years ago, the first time I ever visited Europe, on a school trip with my French class. It was still quite familiar. The castle is impressively built across a river. The water runs under the arches that support the castle from below. The castle rooms were adorned with huge beautiful bouquets of fresh-cut flowers from the castle grounds. After we had thoroughly explored each room and warmed our damp bodies next to the fire burning in the massive fireplace, we left.

On the way back to the train station we explored some stone buildings that made up the castle farm. There were rows upon rows of vibrantly colored tulips outside the farmhouse as well as purple wisteria that clung to the stone walls. As we got back to the luggage lockers, we heard the train pass through the village again. I had a bad feeling that we had just missed our train back to town.

After reading the train schedule, we got confirmation that we had, in fact, missed our train out of town. Luckily there was another train passing through again in just over an hour. We took some time to walk through the cozy little village of Chenonceaux which had just a few inns and restaurants along with the required boulangerie and patisserie that every French village must have. This village even had a small vineyard. While we looked at the vines, a motorcade of antique cars drove through the town.

Our next train ride would take us to the town of Tours, just about an hour southwest of where we currently where. It seemed like this would be a convenient place to spend the night before taking an early train to Bordeaux. Tours and Orléans are the two main cities of the Loire valley.

Tours was a bit busier than Orléans when we arrived, however we still found most shops and restaurants to be closed for Sunday. We set out in search of a place to crash for the night. I was beginning to feel surprised at how few hostels I was encountering in France. During most of my travels to Europe I have stayed in hostels and always found them plentiful. The travel guide only listed a handful of places and none in Tours. Luckily the search for a hotel in Tours was not as epically long as the search had been in Orléans. After about fifteen minutes we walked by a sign advertising a two-star hotel. It was a modest place filled with eclectic old furniture, which reminded me of a grandma’s house. There was an Asian woman working at the front desk; we spoke in French. She offered us the cheapest room in the house for about €50. I immediately said we’d take it. The room was four flights up a winding spiral staircase. It was a tiny room in the attic with sloping ceilings and a hideously pink walls. The bathroom was about the size of an airline bathroom, even with a shower included.

After abandoning our bags, we decided it was time for dinner and to sort out our train tickets to Bordeaux. We stopped by the train station which was just a five minute walk from the hotel. We found the ticket office closed and the machines still unaccepting of our credit cards. Our focus turned to dinner. Tours looked like it would be a bustling little city on any day but Sunday. We didn’t get much of a tour of the city as it was already dusky and we were hungry. There were some typical pretty French buidings lining wide avenues. Unfortunately ninety percent of the restaurants were closed that evening. The remaining options were as follows: quickie mart, Dominoes pizza, Chinese hole-in-the-wall, brasserie, Italian restaurant, McDonalds, or the equivalent of a French diner. After actually sitting down at the brasserie and realizing that the menu was horrible, we ended up at the Italian restaurant next door. We each got a glass of the house wine and some decent Italian food. I was barely halfway through dinner before I felt the effects of jetlag and alcohol setting in. Back at the hotel we finally realized we could book our train tickets online with our American credit cards and pick them up the next morning. The Asian French woman at the front desk was kind enough to print out the paperwork for us while I slept on the ugly 1970s grandma couch.

Fourteen Hours: Texas to the Loire Valley

2 Avril 2011

Fourteen Hours: Texas to the Loire Valley

A rubbery croissant straight out of the microwave was my official welcome to France from Continental Airlines. The tired-appearing flight attendants hurriedly served up breakfast as we started to make our descent into Paris. Fortunately my massively sleep deprived body was able to get some sleep on the ride over, but I was already fantasizing about my first coffee.

After landing, going through customs, and collecting my small backpack from the luggage claim, I found my good friend, Mike, waiting for me. He had arrived an hour before me on a series of stand-by flights that luckily aligned to get him from Connecticut to Paris. I was glad he was there to lend his brain power because I felt as if I had about three brain cells left after finishing up an exhausting month working 80 hours a week on the night shift.

We squeezed into a crowded elevator with a dozen other travelers and their big suitcases to get from the terminal to the train station. The goal was to eventually end up in the Loire valley where my cousin, Coralie, and her family just happened to be visiting that weekend.

When Mike and I arrived at the train station to attempt to buy tickets to a town called Orléans, we had a few unfortunate realizations. The first was that the train station was closed. Apparently they would be doing repairs for the next few weeks on the Charles de Gaulle airport train station. The second realization was that the train ticket machines do not accept the traditional American credit cards. The only accept European credit cards with electronic “chips” in them or they accept coins only. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t often carry around $20 worth of change.

The ticket booth line was quite lengthy however we had no choice but to queue up. Twenty minutes later when we reached the front of the line, I was pleased to know that my French language skills were still proficient enough to ask for directions however the woman was not able to help us, and sent us to yet another window for help. When I approached the next woman and told her that I needed to go to Orléans. She gave me a confused look and said she did not know this town. Orléans is not some tiny village but a small French city that isn’t even all that far from France. She had to reference a map to know what I was talking about. I would’ve thought a transportation employee would be a bit better educated in geography but how wrong I was.

We finally realized that to get to Orléans we would need to take a bus from the airport station to the next closet RER train station that was open. From there we would take the RER (rapid transit train) to one of the Parisian train stations called Gare d’Austerlitz and from there we would be able to get a train to Orléans. About an hour later after the slowest bus ride known to man, we arrived at Gare d’Austerlitz. After another failed attempt at using the automated ticket system, I stood in a long line behind a group of African women in colorful robes and headdresses. While I did this, Mike somehow met a French guy who tried to help him get the proper tickets to Orléans. When Mike came to find me again, he had two Metro tickets in his hand that this man had helped buy for him. Apparently the guy thought we were trying to go to a site in Paris by that same name and not the actually city of Orléans. That was another €20 down the drain. Finally we succeeded at buying our train tickets from the ticket counter.

The train to Orléans would not be leaving for at least another hour so we set out in search of lunch. We grabbed some ham and cheese on butter-slathered baguettes from a nearby shop and headed to a park across the street from the station. It was a beautiful spring Saturday afternoon in Paris. The sun was out and it was almost 70 degrees. We ate our sandwiches on a bench of a tree-lined path. The park was in full bloom with bright poppies, fragrant flowering trees, and vivid tulips. I guess this is the reason they talk about “April in Paris.”

After an hour and a half train ride, we arrived in Orléans. We had not arranged any place to sleep so we wandered around the city in search of a hotel. The first one we found had a sign in the glass door stating that they would be away on lunch break from 12pm to 4pm; we moved along. Orléans is a small city that is famous for being the home of Jean d’Arc. The old town was made of up typical French-style buildings as well as half-timbered houses. After we had no luck in stumbling upon a hotel, we consulted the travel book which made a few recommendations. Without the help of a map, it was difficult to actually find the place and so we wandered through the narrow streets until some kind soul finally pointed us in the right direction.

It was a modest hotel right off of a square that was towered over by a cathedral. I was more than ready to ditch my heavy backpack after a few hours of toting it. We didn’t linger too long in the room, but set out to explore a bit more. Not far from the hotel we found a patisserie that had just opened. It was hard to decide which of the many delicious pastries I would order. I chose a croissant with almond, pear and chocolate as well as a strawberry custard tart. We took these treats down to the banks of the Loire river which runs through the city. It was a gorgeous sunny late afternoon. After eating the delicious pastries, my jetlagged body fell asleep in the sun.

When it was time for dinner, we found a cobblestone road lined with restaurants and bars a few blocks from our hotel. For a small city, the variety of cuisine was impressive. They had everything from standard French cuisine to pizza to Chinese, Japanese, Indian and even Cambodian and Pakistani. The outdoor café chairs along the road were filled with the locals sitting outside drinking and enjoying the weather. We decided to eat at the Cambodian restaurant since it was so unique. I don’t think I have actually ever seen a Cambodian restaurant outside of Cambodia! The food was great and we tried some Angkor beer. After my stomach was full, I was more than ready for bed. The combination of food, alcohol, jet-lag and residency sleep deprivation had rendered me all but comatose. Bon soir!