I had a heavy heart as we closed the door to our little French village home in Venterol. What an experience this had been. So many times we had wandered the streets of small villages, hearing dulled voices from deep inside the walls of the village homes, I had always wondered who lived there and what it was like inside. Now I know, they are people like you and I, mostly living simple and uncomplicated lives. More often than not they have a deep respect for, and an intimate connection to the land and the things it offers them.
AJ and I ate our last breakfast on our beloved terrace. The hills and the valley below were covered in white mist and all was quiet around us, we too were quiet. Our lives stood still for a brief moment as we drank in the changes that each new day delivered. We reflected on our time in France, sharing our happy memories, memories that money could never buy, the best ones were mostly of the simple things just like the moment we were in.
JR and I shed a tear or two as the bags were loaded into the car and we paused for a photo at the front door that was peeling with old paint. Tomorrow would be our last day in France and with the turn of the key in the door at Venterol, our last home-exchange in France, a country we have grown to love.
We drove the autoroute to Marseille. We had a perfect run and drove straight to the Europcar depo at the airport without one wrong turn. We handed back the keys and not 50 metres away was the shuttle bus taking us directly to Gare St Charles, beside which, we had booked a hotel room just for tonight allowing us to catch our 6.30 train in the morning.
We were checked into our cheap and cheerful hotel, Hotel Windsor which I would not hesitate to recommend. Cheap as chips and clean as clean and run by the most lovely family, middle eastern I think. We had hauled the remnants from the fridge for a picnic lunch and after we stopped to buy a baguette or two, we settled in for a great picnic in front of Marseille's Hotel de Ville.
The Tourism Office were wonderful giving us passes to the open top bus to allow us to become acquainted with the city. The busy port is the focus of the city but my favourite part was the bus ride along the coastline of blue water as far as the eye could see, it was lovely. We hopped off the bus at an old fishing village where it seemed time had stood still. Little boats bobbed in the clear water and locals sun bathed along the water’s edge.
We wandered the old town but could not find its heart although according to the map we were right in it, it just lacked something and to my eye was not beautiful, some of the newer architecture was unsightly and did not seem to fit a city like Marseille, but there it was anyway.
I had tried to book into the restaurant that chef from La Mirande had recommended for Bouillabaisse but it was fully booked, a solution was found and I ended up dining at another, owned by a Chef who is the president of the Bouillabaisse charter, where restaurants must adhere to making this very special fish soup using only traditional methods of both cooking and serving, to enable them to be part a part of. It was a unique experience with much pomp and ceremony, beginning with the croutons, raw garlic cloves to rub on them and a pimento and garlic spiced rouille to smear on top. Once this is done you float the laden croutons in the soup and enjoy. The soup finished, the six varieties of fish are cut up in front of you and blanketed in more of the same soup. It is a huge endeavour to eat a Bouillabaisse to completion, I was nowhere near completion. Chef visited my table for a chat educating me on the traditions of this special dish.
My boys are not great lovers of seafood and at 58 euro a pop (double it for Aussie dollars), they both enjoyed a more casual dinner of pizza, coke and beer a few doors away. Before they left, JR and I visited the Bouillabaisse kitchen to take some photos, it was good of chef to accommodate us like he did, he was very generous and spoiled us with many treats, even though the boys weren’t dining in the restaurant, they were given small courses of summer truffle shaved on croutons and drizzled with balsamic glaze, and little glasses of potato and truffle soup. My meal finished with more little courses, all were a delight. My evening ended with a silver tray of delicate petit fours of anise macaroons, strawberry tartlets and fruit jellies.
The grand finale was the centrepiece on my table catching alight. There I was sitting on my own, trying not to make a scene and be the noisy Aussie in the room, it was impossible. As the fire spread and the flames leapt higher, I had no choice but to yell for help. It came quickly and I escaped my Bouillabaisse experience unsinged. What a laugh and yet another funny predicament to add to the others we have accumulated on our year of adventure.
Showing posts with label Marseille. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marseille. Show all posts
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Au Revoir Paris. Friday 28th August 2009.
We had cleaned and packed yesterday to lighten the load and make moving day a little easier on ourselves. My computer had a melt down yesterday; it won’t even start so we will have to wait until we arrive in Provence to see if all is ok. It pooped itself just as JR had finished backing up my images for the whole year to an external hard drive so fingers crossed I have not lost anything.
The alarm had to be set for 6.30am for the washing to be put on, breakfast to be had, bathrooms to be cleaned etc. We were leaving home at 10am for our 11.15 train to Marseilles. At about 9am there was a knock at the door, it was our lovely exchange family returning from our home in Australia. We were all hoping they would get through customs without delay so we would get the opportunity to meet face to face after swapping our lives and all of our worldly possessions for the past 3 weeks.
Their son of 4 ran straight to his room and began playing with his favourite toys while the rest of us chatted at 100 miles an hour and caught up on what life was like living in each other’s homes. They had loved our home and could not get over just how big it was, this is the wonderful thing about home-exchange, you really do get to live as a local and experience an authentic slice of life in worlds far removed from your own. We love it and so did they.
Goodbyes said, we began our journey arriving on time in Marseilles by 2.34pm precisely. Marseilles was an assault on the senses. Horns blared; traffic was intolerable, life was lived at full tilt it seemed. It was hot and humid and hard. Our next home-exchanger in Provence had organised a car hire for us as he would be using our car back at home. Little did we know that the pickup was at the back of Bourke and beyond and by the time we left Gare Saint Charles at 4.30pm, we were beginning to wonder what time the car hire office would close, it was Friday night?
Onwards we plodded our moods increasingly frosty. We queued at the information booth at the train station for what seemed like forever, the guy was lovely and confirmed the route I had plotted, to the end of the train line, then on bus 12 or 12S for an eternity. Our driver was only too happy to help but when she told us it was time for us to get off the bus, I thought it was a stop or two early. Anyway, who would know best, three blow ins or a Marseilles bus driver? As we were struggling off the bus with our three bulging suitcases, a woman who had seen me reading the details of my car hire paperwork began telling us it was not the right stop. Despite this, we were already half way out, bags and all and we had to believe someone. She ended up getting off the bus with us, explaining that she lives right near the car hire company we were trying to find. She offered to call them for us as she spoke fluent French, and ask them not to close as we were on our way and would be there soon. She explained to us, “You know in France, 6 o’clock means 6 o’clock; they will not usually wait a minute more.” She explained that we had a very long way to go and we had to hurry, maybe it was best that one of us run with her and the others wait on the road with the suitcases. As JR had lost his wallet and licence some time ago, that had to be me so off I ran with my angel, Catherine by my side (a few paces ahead really).
Every roundabout we ran around, and boy were some of them huge, and every motorway overpass we went under, I kept thinking that I had to collect the car, drive a manual through peak hour traffic in a strange city, and I had to remember where I had left the boys, I did not even have a street name to find my way to if I got lost, only the landmarks I was passing as I puffed and panted hot on my angels heels.
We arrived at last, we embraced and I tried my best to explain to her how much we appreciated her help, we would never have found the place without her, and definitely not by closing time, I had 2 minutes to spare. Every time people tell me of the reputation French people have for being rude and arrogant, these are the people I will think of, her and all the other angels we have met on our year of adventure. I ran the last 200 metres along the dirt track that lead to the car hire office and bounded in the door. I must have looked a sight; I was beetroot read and hotter than hot – not in a good way either.
More angels were on hand bringing me cool drinks of water and treating me with TLC. By the time I got in the car (with the AC on full) I felt like collapsing in a heap, but I still had a job to do – to find my boys. I launched the car forward and entered the stream of traffic; I changed gears, once, twice, three times – not bad! I was doing fine with the manual thing (they are not my favourite) but I was so stressed that I would not find the boys. Every roundabout I drove through I would talk out loud to myself with words of praise or questions of doubt, that didn’t help. After a few more turns I saw the familiar glass building of the cinema complex I had run past, I knew I had left the boys around the corner and up the street just a little. There they were, and I pulled into the road beside them. I had never been happier to all be together again, and that is when I lost it. I hugged JR with all the love I had and began to sob like a child. I guess I had held it together for so long and was physically and mentally exhausted; the heat did not help either.
We all managed to fit in the car with our entire luggage, just. On we travelled finding our way out of Marseilles and onto Venterol in Provence. We stopped at a great little place for dinner where we sat on an outdoor table, roadside. The proprietor even sold us a litre of milk for €1 as we anticipated not being able to find anything open in Venterol village on our late arrival. The evening breeze was a welcome friend after today’s searing heat. Finding Venterol was without incident and we navigated the narrow village roads without taking any paint off the car, phew! We parked in the village square as advised by our home-exchanger; we found the right rue between the bistro and the sign for the gallery. It just dawned on me that I did not know what number of the house we were looking for. Now don’t quote me, but I think it was about midnight by this time; the village was quiet except for the owners of the bistro who were having a nightcap in the square. We stopped to say hello on our way past with suitcases in tow. I thought I recognised the front of the house from the photos Ian had sent us so I tentatively tried the key in any lock I could find – no luck, I did the same all the way down the street. I could see the funny side of things after the day we had. I was imagining people opening their front doors to find me trying to unlock them in the dead of night, what predicaments we find ourselves in and you all know how we love to make a memorable entrance.
I went back to the town square and asked the owner of the bistro did he know the house belonging to our home-exchange contact – he didn’t. Now I was starting to worry a little. A night spent in the village square was not so appealing. Mr Bistro disappeared and when he came back he asked to see my key. Voila! He had sorted out the mystery and we were in. The place was cloaked in after midnight darkness, so I ran my hands up and down the wall inside the front door and found a light switch. No lights. Ian had not expected us to arrive in the middle of the night I expect so he didn’t think to mention that the electricity would be switched off. Back to our new friends at the bistro... just as he came down the rue with a torch with AJ in tow, JR and I had found the fuse box, flicked a switch and we were in business.
Our new home is adorable, but more about that tomorrow... first things first, to get rid of the scorpion in the kitchen sink and to figure out tomorrow who is making loud cries in the throes of passion at the rear of our terrace.
The alarm had to be set for 6.30am for the washing to be put on, breakfast to be had, bathrooms to be cleaned etc. We were leaving home at 10am for our 11.15 train to Marseilles. At about 9am there was a knock at the door, it was our lovely exchange family returning from our home in Australia. We were all hoping they would get through customs without delay so we would get the opportunity to meet face to face after swapping our lives and all of our worldly possessions for the past 3 weeks.
Their son of 4 ran straight to his room and began playing with his favourite toys while the rest of us chatted at 100 miles an hour and caught up on what life was like living in each other’s homes. They had loved our home and could not get over just how big it was, this is the wonderful thing about home-exchange, you really do get to live as a local and experience an authentic slice of life in worlds far removed from your own. We love it and so did they.
Goodbyes said, we began our journey arriving on time in Marseilles by 2.34pm precisely. Marseilles was an assault on the senses. Horns blared; traffic was intolerable, life was lived at full tilt it seemed. It was hot and humid and hard. Our next home-exchanger in Provence had organised a car hire for us as he would be using our car back at home. Little did we know that the pickup was at the back of Bourke and beyond and by the time we left Gare Saint Charles at 4.30pm, we were beginning to wonder what time the car hire office would close, it was Friday night?
Onwards we plodded our moods increasingly frosty. We queued at the information booth at the train station for what seemed like forever, the guy was lovely and confirmed the route I had plotted, to the end of the train line, then on bus 12 or 12S for an eternity. Our driver was only too happy to help but when she told us it was time for us to get off the bus, I thought it was a stop or two early. Anyway, who would know best, three blow ins or a Marseilles bus driver? As we were struggling off the bus with our three bulging suitcases, a woman who had seen me reading the details of my car hire paperwork began telling us it was not the right stop. Despite this, we were already half way out, bags and all and we had to believe someone. She ended up getting off the bus with us, explaining that she lives right near the car hire company we were trying to find. She offered to call them for us as she spoke fluent French, and ask them not to close as we were on our way and would be there soon. She explained to us, “You know in France, 6 o’clock means 6 o’clock; they will not usually wait a minute more.” She explained that we had a very long way to go and we had to hurry, maybe it was best that one of us run with her and the others wait on the road with the suitcases. As JR had lost his wallet and licence some time ago, that had to be me so off I ran with my angel, Catherine by my side (a few paces ahead really).
Every roundabout we ran around, and boy were some of them huge, and every motorway overpass we went under, I kept thinking that I had to collect the car, drive a manual through peak hour traffic in a strange city, and I had to remember where I had left the boys, I did not even have a street name to find my way to if I got lost, only the landmarks I was passing as I puffed and panted hot on my angels heels.
We arrived at last, we embraced and I tried my best to explain to her how much we appreciated her help, we would never have found the place without her, and definitely not by closing time, I had 2 minutes to spare. Every time people tell me of the reputation French people have for being rude and arrogant, these are the people I will think of, her and all the other angels we have met on our year of adventure. I ran the last 200 metres along the dirt track that lead to the car hire office and bounded in the door. I must have looked a sight; I was beetroot read and hotter than hot – not in a good way either.
More angels were on hand bringing me cool drinks of water and treating me with TLC. By the time I got in the car (with the AC on full) I felt like collapsing in a heap, but I still had a job to do – to find my boys. I launched the car forward and entered the stream of traffic; I changed gears, once, twice, three times – not bad! I was doing fine with the manual thing (they are not my favourite) but I was so stressed that I would not find the boys. Every roundabout I drove through I would talk out loud to myself with words of praise or questions of doubt, that didn’t help. After a few more turns I saw the familiar glass building of the cinema complex I had run past, I knew I had left the boys around the corner and up the street just a little. There they were, and I pulled into the road beside them. I had never been happier to all be together again, and that is when I lost it. I hugged JR with all the love I had and began to sob like a child. I guess I had held it together for so long and was physically and mentally exhausted; the heat did not help either.
We all managed to fit in the car with our entire luggage, just. On we travelled finding our way out of Marseilles and onto Venterol in Provence. We stopped at a great little place for dinner where we sat on an outdoor table, roadside. The proprietor even sold us a litre of milk for €1 as we anticipated not being able to find anything open in Venterol village on our late arrival. The evening breeze was a welcome friend after today’s searing heat. Finding Venterol was without incident and we navigated the narrow village roads without taking any paint off the car, phew! We parked in the village square as advised by our home-exchanger; we found the right rue between the bistro and the sign for the gallery. It just dawned on me that I did not know what number of the house we were looking for. Now don’t quote me, but I think it was about midnight by this time; the village was quiet except for the owners of the bistro who were having a nightcap in the square. We stopped to say hello on our way past with suitcases in tow. I thought I recognised the front of the house from the photos Ian had sent us so I tentatively tried the key in any lock I could find – no luck, I did the same all the way down the street. I could see the funny side of things after the day we had. I was imagining people opening their front doors to find me trying to unlock them in the dead of night, what predicaments we find ourselves in and you all know how we love to make a memorable entrance.
I went back to the town square and asked the owner of the bistro did he know the house belonging to our home-exchange contact – he didn’t. Now I was starting to worry a little. A night spent in the village square was not so appealing. Mr Bistro disappeared and when he came back he asked to see my key. Voila! He had sorted out the mystery and we were in. The place was cloaked in after midnight darkness, so I ran my hands up and down the wall inside the front door and found a light switch. No lights. Ian had not expected us to arrive in the middle of the night I expect so he didn’t think to mention that the electricity would be switched off. Back to our new friends at the bistro... just as he came down the rue with a torch with AJ in tow, JR and I had found the fuse box, flicked a switch and we were in business.
Our new home is adorable, but more about that tomorrow... first things first, to get rid of the scorpion in the kitchen sink and to figure out tomorrow who is making loud cries in the throes of passion at the rear of our terrace.
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