Lovely French Girls!

A very good friend of ours sent John and Alex on a mission to find some lovely French girls but they can't seem to find them anywhere!

A special day. Saturday 14th Feb, 2009

Today is special because it belongs to someone I love very much, my Dad. We spoke last night, he in Melbourne and me half way around the world in Lyon. His birthday had already begun and he and Mum were ready to go on a picnic with Dallas, Julie, Bailey, Cam and Laynee. What a time they would have celebrating his special day.

Happy birthday Dad, I love you. XXX

To my Valentine... Saturday 14th Feb, 2009.

To have you walk with me, to have time to just be. This is the greatest gift you could give me. It was nice this morning, just you and me, walking to the market at Place Jean Mace in the snow. Remember the cheese we tasted, it tasted like a field of green grass. And meeting Isabel while we were buying the lapin for dinner. Isabel was offering her cooking tips, "Make sure you add a little honey" she said. The snow came and went and I hugged you.

We laughed at Roland the butcher on rue de la Thibaudiere, singing his song when customers arrived in his door. The customers happily waited while he sliced and packaged the meat, no one was in a hurry and neither were we. He praised our success at placing our order in French and said his customers were all jealous of how well he spoke English, they all laughed. What a funny guy. It was nice just you and me enjoying something so simple as a visit to the market. Happy Valentine's Day.

Class acts. Friday 13th Feb, 2009

Even as I begin to write this post I am laughing.


We had the funniest visit today to a family who live nearby. They have a son called Ludjovic the same age as Alex, they called last night to invite us over so the kids could get together for a play. Nice sentiment! They obviously didn't know what they were in for...


We arrived at their appartment, me with lippy on and nice clean clothes, wearing our best smiles and, as the locals do, we arrived with a gift of potted flowers. All was going smashingly well.


We became acquainted, they took our coats and we were invited into the lounge room where tea, coffee and biscuits were served. The kids were beginning to warm to eachother and decided to go outside to ride the scooters. What a lovely time we were having all sitting around the coffee table, sipping our refreshments and enjoying little biscuits. Until...


Stephanie (the lady of the house) was sitting opposite me, I took a mouthful of my tea, a big mouthful, and then it happened.


I coughed and spontaneously sprayed, yes sprayed, the entire contents of my mouth all over Stephanie, the biscuits, the table, the floor and myself. Oh how embarassed I was, I must have blushed the deepest hue of red. Stephanie had a fleeting look of horror plastered across her face, it was fleeting but I definitely saw it. John quickly passed me a hankie, I dabbed and dabbed but it was useless. I never knew ones mouth could contain so much. The place was covered. Stephanie had left the room, probably to clean herself up but she soon returned with some paper towel for me. I couldn't appologise enough, I felt terrible. She and Robert (her hubby) were so lovely and seemed to accept my appology. And then...


The door bell rang. In came Ludjovic and Alex close behind, his face ashen, with a swollen eye and blood trickling down his pale skin. His knuckles were grazed and his glasses were in a twisted mess with scratches all over the lenses. We all were concerned for him and after the initial shock, Stephanie dissapeared to get bandages and antiseptic to bathe his wounds. He had come off the scooter while riding down a ramp. When we could see the funny side I began to laugh out loud. I turned to Stephanie and said, "Well, you will never forget our visit in a hurry will you".

And guess what? They have asked us back for dinner. I wonder what we can do for an encore?

On the road again. Thursday 12th Feb, 2009.

Kate (satalite navigation lady) took a while to rise from slumber this morning so we drove aimlessly around Lyon's outskirts. At last her soothing voice floats to our ears, she is our compass. We follow the Rhone through the town of Vienne, we will come back here another day, today we are off to Condrieu and La Chapelle-Villars.

On one side, the Rhone rushes by and as we near Condrieu, the other side of the road is edged by hills covered in bare vines. The scene looks cold and the colour of the land changes as sun peeps through dark clouds and hides again. Each hill is marked with the name of the wine maker to which the vines belong. The vines are fruitless today, but with the change of season, life hidden inside the stubbled branches will burst to life and the cycle will begin again.

We snake up the vine covered hill that rises behind the town of Condrieu. There are three diligent workers tending the vines on the hill. How they cope with the cold I will never know because for me it is out of the car for a snap or two and back inside quick smart. It's the kind of cold that makes my teeth hurt.

Up, up, up the road goes until we arrive at the little village of La Chapelle-Villars. Just past the town, the snow thickens until we are in an opening with picnic tables. Snow kinda excites us so we decide on a picnic in the snow. Well, that idea lasted for about three minutes, it was freezing. The next best alternative was a picnic in the car. (Yes Mum and Dad... "picnic from hell comes to mind!"). The flutes we bought at the little artisan boulangerie in Condrieu were golden and crusty on the outside and dense and soft on the inside.

Fettucini carbonara for dinner tonight, JR recons it was the best carbonara money could buy. The flavour reminded me of the carbonara I had in Rome when last there, ahh memories.

It's off to Les Halles we go. Wednesday 11th Feb, 2009.

Most of the morning passed with with me learning to upload photos to my blog. I'm getting there though and it's all for you. I really have no patience for the process, I just like to see the end result.

Alex's wish finally came true and I made my first batch of French crepes. They were pretty good too. Alex had his smothered in chocolatey Nutella and John and I both had ours sprinkled with a little sugar and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice.

We are in the grips of a heat wave today, it's 10 deg! Even so, I rug up as it is amazing how chilly it is outside. Alex is allowed to stay behind in the apartment today after a thorough test of home phone to mobile, mobile to home phone and mobile to mobile... all work.

John and I make our way to Les Halles Marche where I am interviewing Romuald, the Maitre Cortador (Master Cutter) of the Jambon Iberico Bellota-Bellota. It is proclaimed to be "Le meilleur Jambon du monde", (the best jambon of the world). Romuald is so passionate about what he does and very proud of his cutting prowess. He cuts for Paul Bocuse amoung others, and also for competition. We are given a translucant petal of jambon to try, it is incredibly delicate. There are four different varieties of this jambon, differing in characteristics due to the different regions in Spain where the black pigs roam scoffing down acorns and arromatic herbs all day. I was very proud to be able to identify the variety we tried. It seemed easy really, the fruit and nut characteristics of the jamon were very pronounced. Cut from the leg as we ate it costs a mere €261 per kg, that's $522 AUD!

John snapped away and got some beautiful shots. It was really lovely to be collaborating on a project together, especially one as wonderful as this.




And for dessert tonight... crepes!

The first touch of snow on the way to Cremieu, Monday 9th Feb 2009.

Skype is given a great work out this morning with calls from all over the world from family and friends. Alex spoke to his much loved cousins back in Australia and I got to speak to Julie at long last. We are in regular contact with so many people via email and Skype that I don’t feel far away at all... most of the time anyway. We share the terrible news about the loss of life and property in Victoria with the current bush fire crisis. The death toll is quickly rising and dear friends email me to check on my family who are all safe, thank goodness. I miss sharing my day with Janie as we both stand on our back decks for a chat at the end (or beginning) of our day.

John did so well to get the car out of the garage secured behind two security gates under the floor of our high rise apartment building. It took a while to get sorted and even at the end of the day he was still trying to change gears with his left hand instead of his right. We always seem to have the most laughs when driving in strange cars through strange cities on the opposite side of the road to what we are used to. Alex spent much of the journey laughing from the back seat at the funny predicaments we found ourselves in.

As we left the city behind, snow capped mountains came into view. Reaching snow became our new objective. And reach it we did, in a little town east of Lyon called St-Pierre-de-Chandieu. We drove to the highest point and found ourselves on a tiny, boggy road, lined with farmhouses and fields with geese and donkeys roaming free. Alex was beside himself with excitement. We piled out of the car and packed handfuls of snow into icy balls for a snowball fight, what fun we had. Deer trotted across the landscape on the ridge above where the land met the sky as if in a wintery movie scene, it was perfect. Alex’s first touch of snow... forever etched into my memory.

By now John is doing very well with the driving on the wrong side of the road caper. The satellite navigation lady (Kate) is directing us, trouble free, further east of Lyon, to the medieval town of Crémieu. What a find. The small twelfth century township lies in the shadow of a Benedictine priory built into the cliffs of Saint-Hippolyte. Hills are covered in feathery trees stripped bare of leaves; the landscape’s colours are soft and gentle blending nature and mans creations harmoniously.

We picnic on fresh baguette, a wheel of Coulommiers cheese, pale butter and saucission Rosette de Lyon under the covered market place. It was cold, so cold we could hardly spread the butter, and the cheese which usually is soft and oozing was quite the opposite, but you couldn’t find a happier family anywhere in France.

It’s Monday so all shops are closed with the exception of two pretty florists shops; testimony to the fact that the French visit friend’s homes with flowers in hand; a lovely tradition. One florist has pots and planters displayed on a white shabby-chic table on the road outside his doors. Crémieu is surrounded by city walls to protect it in days gone by. Steep, stone pathways snake their way upward behind the town to Chateau des Dauphins revealing a view of huddled peaked-roofs coloured with rust, terracotta and earth.

Vieux Lyon, Sunday 8th Feb 2009.

I rug up against the cold, cocooned inside my jacket, gloves, scarf, boots and hat (thanks Auntie Marg!). I am so thankful for the protection from winter’s chill. My cheeks are exposed and I remember the same feeling on my skin from years ago while living in Melbourne, there are many things that take me back to my youth in Melbourne; the bare trees against the grey sky, the cold air as it brushes my skin, the city streets and the people in them, wrapped in cocoons of their own.

We walk the 15 minutes along the busy Cours Gambetta which leads from our apartment, over the River Rhone to the vast (16.5 acre) Place Bellecour in the heart of Lyon, sandwiched between the Rivers Rhone and Saone which run under the many bridges that arch over their rushing water.

Pont Bonaparte delivers us to St-Jean in Lyon’s world heritage listed old town known as Vieux Lyon. A veil of steam camouflages a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts and vin chaud (hot red wine), he peels the charred skin from a chestnut with fingertips peeping from half-fingered gloves, to tempt us into a purchase. Buildings lining the river stand cheek-by-jowel wearing all shades of soft pastels. Wandering the narrow, cobbled streets of Vieux Lyon is a lovely way to spend the day. Home to artisans, bouchons, cosy book stores, chocolatiers and surprisingly, a few Irish pubs, one with stools filled with soccer mad Irish men with eyes glued to the plasma TV hanging above the front door. They all groan or cheer in unison depending on the outcome of the play, frothing pots of Guinness in hand of course.

John views the scenes before him through a photographer’s eye, me through a writer’s and Alex through a child’s. Alex buys a miniature macaroon; its crusty layers are stuck together with a thick smear of delicious chocolate ganache. It doesn’t last long.

Solitude is sought inside the modest Saint-Jean Baptiste church on Place Saint-Jean, the hushed sounds inside are captured by the ceiling high above and the stained glass window above the altar allows God’s fingers of light through, painting the stone interior in warm hues.

Settling into living life less ordinary.

I woke to snowflakes falling earthward, they danced back and forth as they fell and I smiled. What an adventure our year of home-exchange would be...

Goodbyes at Brisbane International Airport were a week ago; it seems like so much longer as I sit here today, half a world away, thinking of the beautiful family and friends left behind. I remember not wanting to let go of them as tears ran in salty rivers down my face. How bitter-sweet it is to say goodbye to those you love. The two that matter most are by my side to share in this year-long adventure so the pain in my heart soon gave way to excitement and wonder at the thought of living life a little less ordinary.

Philippe was a welcome sight at the train station as we arrived in Lyon after two days of travel. His sing song “Bonjour” rang out above the noise. I liked him instantly, his warm smile and his offering of croissants, pain au chocolate and a crusty baguette in the bag he passed to Alex.
We settled into our new home during the wintery days to come and I began to embrace our first home-exchange experience. As I rummaged through the kitchen cupboards I thought of the family of five in our home, doing the same, rummaging through our things. I wonder do they laugh at our funny way of life as we laugh at theirs. Three questions come to mind; how does a kitchen operate without 1) a casserole dish, 2) a pair of tongs, and, 3) a good knife. I cannot believe I didn’t pack my cook’s knife, something I tuck safely into the depths of my bag even on the shortest of trips.

Our apartment is comfortable and we have a large terrace which Alex claims as his French cricket pitch. It is perfect really, surrounded by a thick hedge which stops the ball from travelling to the next lot of apartments. So far the ball has only made it down to the road twice and I am so happy we invested in our Wahu cricket bat and ball as Alex uses it several times a day. Hundreds of windows overlook our terrace, so we amuse onlookers by playing cricket regardless of the rain and cold, we just rug up and have a great time.

Days tick over and the fog of jet lag slowly leaves us as we adjust to our new time zone and our new, relaxed way of life. Acquiring food seems to dominate each day as we plan which market to visit and how to nourish our bodies. We soon are able to distinguish a good baguette from a bad one and have our favourite boulangeries duly marked within days of declaring ourselves temporarily Lyonnaise.

Lengthy visits to the prefecture for our Carte de Sejour (residency card) are tolerated by us all. It seems so unnecessary for us to have to jump through the same tedious administration hoops we had to jump through with the French Consulate back in Oz when applying for our French visas. Thank goodness we have our new found friend Philippe with us to translate for us. JR doesn’t tolerate bureaucracy well, I assure him we are making good headway and once we have the last piece of paperwork sent from Xavier in Australia, and we have passed our medical checks, all will be fine.

We embrace the Lyonnaise people and they embrace us which fills our days with joy. The local market bustles on a Sunday when the number of stalls triples. Trestle tables are laden with bread, cheeses, seasonal fruits and vegetables; earthy artichokes lie alongside bunches of blushing radishes, potatoes crusted with rich earth and shining eggplants.

We claim the butcher nearby, Maison Moraud, as our local favourite after our second visit. It is owned by Didier and Corinne Moraud who welcome us warmly with each visit helping us make sense of the charcuterie and meat on display. Their saucission brioche is made to perfection. Its fat, tasty sausage is studded with jewels of pistachio and is encased in a rich crust of brioche. It is just heavenly. So heavenly in fact that today we returned home with a saucission brioche weighing over one kilo. The traditional Rosette de Lyon (salami like pork sausage) has become a favourite filling for our crusty baguettes. Didier prepares it to order just as we like in wafer-like slices which he wraps in a neat bundle and passes to Corinne who cheerily completes our transaction. Shopping for meat and charcuterie is something we all get involved in and enjoy immensely.

Right beside Didier and Corinne’s shop we discover yet another boulangerie who has perfected the art of baking baguettes. These are the kind of simple pleasures that make even the bleakest of winter days in Lyon a delight.