Road Trip !!!

Part One : Normandie and Bretagne, getting our feet wet

The whole adventure started as I picked up my mother from the airport. From the very instant that we picked up the car, we knew this was going to be quite some ride. My mom reserved a stick shift car for the week because it was significantly cheaper (there are only a handful of automatic cars in France). This meant that I could not drive it and that she had not driven one in about 15 years. She looked at the car, and when I said, I will just wait for you to back up, so I can get in, she told me that it would take a little configuring to get the thing out of its tiny slot and that I should just get in the car. Well, with a few jolts and a few stalls, and figuring out that “off roads” on the GPS literally means, “Here is the distance you have to go and the direction in which you will find your town, so just point your car in that direction, do not pay attention to whether there is a road or not, which matters very little, but in 112 miles, you will get there,” which caused us to choose another function, one with real roads and real directions, we were on our way to the Cider Route (Route de Cidre) in Normandy (Normandie – this is for me to remember what it is that the French say).

I love apples, and I love trees, so I figured this route that supposedly winded around some of the prettiest trees that were used to make cider for the region and all of France would be worthwhile and lovely. I was surely right because as the small “cow paths” as my mom dubbed them wound around the verdant landscape (we found out that it was verdant for a reason…it in fact never stopped raining the two days we were in that general area) where we saw the apple trees pop out like cheerful schoolchildren hearkening a new day. We stopped in one of the towns, called Cambremer, which is the heart of the cider route, where we shared an amazing omelet, whipped like nothing I have ever eaten and filled with mushrooms and cheese only found in France, what a delight. Of course, we gulped down a bottle of cider, just enough to leave us with a pleasant warmth and rosy cheeks for the next leg of the journey. I suppose I need to explain what the cider is exactly, well, my mom would like me to explain exactly the type of cider you would find in these regions. The cider is kind of like sparkling apple juice, except that it is slightly fermented (5 % alcohol) and really pops when you open it. These are three versions of cider that I have seen, so there may be more, but I am not sure. Brut is the strongest and most alcoholic; it tastes like a mild malt beverage and is excellent with crêpes. Doux is sweeter and more like sparkling apple juice; this is better for children and for those who do not like the flavor of fermentation. The third is the farm version, which tastes more like brut but is less pasteurized and cloudier. I prefer the brut, which is what we drank while in Normandie and Bretagne.

The next leg or arm (by the way, why do we use body parts to name the sections of a journey…does that seem bizarre to anyone else?) of our journey was a visit to the Mont St. Michel, in my mind, one of the faces of France. The abbey rises from a rock formation no longer submerged in the water, but lies as a testament to the many past centuries of people who have lived and used the site for a host of things. The first part of the abbey was built in the 10th century, but the main part, the part that we see today really was built in the 13th century, with occasional additions throughout the proceeding centuries. As we entered what has become a nightmarish tourist trap, we were warned that the tide would cover our car in 30 minutes. I thought to myself, great, here it goes again, par for the course with Kelsey’s itineraries; however, it turned out that thankfully the tide was not going to come in enough to harm the parking lot. Whew! My mom insisted on the headset, something which I never consider buying for myself but am always thankful having since you are able to appreciate in greater detail all that has happened in whatever place where you have obtained one of these curious inventions.

From Mont St. Michel, we were off to our bed and breakfast in a town called Pleudihen (now even with my knowledge of French, I had a problem saying this...imagine how it was for my mom and even more for Jill – our GPS lady) which is pretty much out in the middle of nowhere and is accentuated when you decide to take the “shortest way” aka “cow paths and crazy city centers,” rain, and the pitch blackness of a night that had seen little sunlight during its counterpart day. Eventually, we made it and were greeted by a wonderfully smiling woman, who spoke French to me and smiled at my mom and welcomed us to her establishment – very warm and cozy and could accommodate 21 people at a time. I forgot that my mom did not understand a word of what we were saying, so when my mom commented on the fact that we were on the very top floor, I said, “But she already told us that…oh, right, sorry.” I kept forgetting that I was the sole source of comprehension for my mom.

We woke up to a wonderful breakfast and a fabulous plan for the day, which we decided about 15 minutes before leaving. I love those types of plans – a map and a little information and a desire for adventure. We started by the seaside in Cancale, where they harvest oysters and clams right off the beach during low tide and which provided an exquisite view of the Atlantic Ocean. Sitting alongside the ocean, my mom ate oysters and I had a hot chocolate, peacefully except for the sound of the outside heater which resembled a bug zapper. Raining off and on throughout the day and with an umbrella that to say the least is a fair weather umbrella (what a joke, why else would you have an umbrella if not to use it when the rain is really coming down…once again, I have been cursed with a less than adequate umbrella…I have decided that one day I will buy myself a really nice umbrella which will really protect me from the rain!), we braved the weather to fully experience all that the coast and Bretagne had to offer. The next stop was St. Malo, which presented us with an intriguing ambience combining ramparts and maritime conditions all into one. The weather was horrendous, but that did not stop us from walking out onto the beach to see more closely the “random castle” (it did not have a name, and we figured that it was as likely as anything that the guide books had bestowed upon it that ever so dainty and clever name). It was a nice city but a little too touristy for me, with nothing but restaurants and stores that only sold worthless touristy junk.

From St. Malo we were off to Dinard, another city alongside the ocean, a view uninhibited by any sort of structure or barrier; the panorama was open for the world to see, stark and raw, tangy and zesty. Walking around the coastal areas and finally making our way into the center just as the rain started to pelt our unprotected bodies (our umbrella could barely stand the wind and was flopping around like a fish out of water), we experienced the gamut of sensations put forward by the town. Our small haven was appropriately called the Lighthouse, which came at a good time, because we had searched elsewhere in the town and nothing really called to me, and for me, going to a restaurant is a special occasion, so the restaurant needs to possess something to attract me, something to entice me to sit down and relax within its environs. What could be better than warm and tasty crêpes when you are cold and a little disgusted with the weather around you? I cannot think of anything.

Leaving Dinard, we headed to Dinan, which is the city that our hostess recommended to us. In her opinion it was much more beautiful than St. Malo, which is more well-known than Dinan – thus more touristy – and one of the greatest charms in the area. I completely agreed with her. We entered what is called the Port of Dinan, which is literally the entrance to Dinan, but it is considered a town in its own right. Its advantages are that it is a good place for travelers to park and it has a great bakery with some of the delicious pastries of the region (there I go again with my pastries!) Not surprisingly, before even getting into the historic center of Dinan, we stopped for Kouign Amandes, which is basically the most buttery and most delicious thing you could ever taste and one of the most well-known delights in the region. One nice thing about France is that you can take your pastries or your bread and go to a café to buy a coffee (I do not want to say cup, because it is more like a shot of coffee or espresso if you will). Full of Breton goodness, we made our way up a steep hill (a road that we would become very familiar with as it turns out) and into the city.

The city is a very ancient and medieval city, with ramparts surrounding the outside. I had the map, so like usual, I guided us through the city…a few wrong turns, but whatever, we did not have a schedule! While we were in the city, the sun set and we saw its faint rays shining over the tops of gorgeous houses built with such elegance and stature.

Although we loved the city and planned to stay there for another fabulous crêpe experience, we wanted to leave the city to find a large commercial center where we might have the luck of finding an adapter since mine unfortunately broke the day before. Getting out of the city was much more difficult than entering. I of course had no conception of what to do, so like I normally do, I guessed. We went over the large aqueduct (that was my idea; I mean how often do you walk over an aqueduct!) and then walked alongside kind of a busy road until it was my mom who found a garden, down whose steps we walked to find our way across the small bridge. Always an adventure, even to the last minute!

Even with a GPS, we managed to get lost in part because of us and in part because of the GPS, including going up that one famous hill road that in the end was really a pedestrians-only street (thanks Jill!). Before I get into the story, I need to go on a little rant about GPS devices. Okay, so the idea with a GPS is that it prevents you from getting lost, but it does not always show clearly the path you are supposed to take and it does not work too well when you are searching for a name of a store or a center for which you do not have the exact coordinates. I suppose I cannot put so much pressure on a machine or expect too much out of it, but I am just thinking that when you have something like that, it should really be a do-all type thing, you know? Well, after writing this rant, maybe I do have to be more understanding and put more of the blame on myself for getting us lost and not knowing where to go…back to the story now. So, we had a couple ideas of where to go, but nothing concrete. We went to one place, where we got directions, but we did not manage to find the turn-offs she mentioned. Then we stopped the car and got directions from a couple, which seemed logical and easy as they said we would see lots of signs for the center – not really. Finally, we stopped at a little convenience store called Tabac (I am writing this because that is the national name of the convenience stores - for those who are interested in going to France!) where we received more directions, again which seemed easy as she said all we needed to was follow the signs. Well, Frenchies, where are your signs???? I am not sure, but we surely did not see any. Finally, I chose one of the selections from the GPS (okay, it did finally help us) and we made it to the store, only to find it closed! Perfect.

So, we wasted more than an hour wandering around in the dark, but whatever; we went back to Dinan and up the hill we went again, my mom complaining all the way, wondering if there was another way. To this, I responded no, but it is possible that there would have been another choice, but heck, I love hills (not when I am running, but when I am walking, I say “Bring them on!”) The crêperie we found happened to be the one our hostess had recommended to us, which was amazing because the only reason we went there is that it was close and had a lot of people. I have never been in a crêpe restaurant with so many people. Normally, since there are so many and they all serve the same thing, there will be maybe two or three couples or groups, but not more. This place was packed, but with reason as they served wonderful crêpes. This was now our third crêperie and our fourth bottle of cider, which is famous in both Normandie and Bretagne, mostly as an accompaniment to crêpes but served at most restaurants in the area for whatever occasion. We left feeling very satisfied, but as we walked down the great hill, it started to rain, which reminded us that I had forgotten our umbrella. I again walked up the hill (at this point, we had quite the relationship going) and grabbed my umbrella.

Part Two: The Bordelais, wine country

Waking up to rain, we packed our things and enjoyed a lovely breakfast in the parlor of our bed and breakfast; then we were once again on the road to explore a new region of France. The French are very funny with distance. From Bretagne to Bordeaux, it was about 5 hours, which to the French is extremely long and fatiguing. For me, it is a trip from home to my sisters or my good friends up in Minneapolis. Of course, starting out, we got lost down the cow paths, but eventually found our way. As I mentioned before, I am not a huge fan of the GPS, but I realized as we were going through the center of Rennes – a large city in the heart of Bretagne – that I was the one who had told Jill to take us the shortest distance, or the most direct, which often means through towns and city centers rather than quicker and less stressful exterior lanes of traffic. We corrected our error and upon hearing “Recalculating” a sound that always makes me tense, we were on the best and fastest path directly to Bordeaux; of course, we did stop and finally buy my charger, which held us back an hour, stuck in an ugly suburb of Bordeaux in a grocery store. Whatever, we bought a coffee and some cheese and some cheap gas. I guess those moments, the moments where you are held back, you have a choice of whether to complain about the time lost or to count your blessings on what was gained, whether what was gained was just a realization of how silly people can be (I have become aware of this idea to the most acute degree during my experience in France).

We arrived in Bordeaux with about two and a half hours before the sun would set. After parking our car, we set out on a path that seemed to me would lead to the Office of Tourism, not that I have ever been right about my sense of direction. We stopped to get some bread and eat our cheese, including one type, Morbier (pronounced more-bee-ay) that is illegal in the U.S. because it has real cinders in the center (the cinders are from wood, but this summer, my family joked that really the reason why it was outlawed in the U.S. was due to the fact that the cinders were really human ashes…and all I can say is what a cool burial place) I asked the only other woman sitting down at the café where we needed to go to find the Office of Tourism, the directions which brought us to a bustling street, full of shops and life. I am not a big shopper, but my mom wanted to buy some things to bring back from France. I resisted the idea at first since there was so much to see in the city, but eventually, after about five minutes, I just stopped caring and let my mom have her fun. Stopping in almost every store that had shoes in the window, we got to the Office of Tourism about an hour and a half later! Fortunately, we got a map and a booklet for exploring the Bordelais the next day. I love maps because even though they do not prevent me from getting lost, which I now take as just a given, they do enable me to dream and to plan a route for exploring the city.

Bordeaux is a lovely city, with a tram that traverses most corners of the city and certainly serves the center very well. It is much smaller than Paris and the “city center” or the most beautiful part of the city can be walked in about an hour and a half. I found a very nice hat on the ground, which I picked up and plan to wash and use soon, which will now be a good souvenir and a good accompaniment to the scarf I recently found stuck in a fence in Angers. Amazing what people just forget or lose! After finishing our shopping and feeling content with the things we had seen in the city and having viewed the grand well-lit and thus radiant beacon-like cathedral, we stopped at a lovely café for dinner and some flavorful Bordeaux wine, which was the only thing the restaurant served. I found this normal since the region after all is one of the largest wine producing regions in the world, but my mom was surprised since in Napa Valley, the restaurants were more likely to serve a selection of wines from all over the world and not really just from the region.

From the restaurant, we got back to the car, only to encounter a problem with the process of paying for and exiting the garage. In fact, we were parked on top, but the only payment machine was on the first floor, on the bottom of the garage and thus very far from us. I was stuck with the job of running down the ramp with the ticket to pay, only to realize after putting in 6 six euros that we were missing 60 cents, and thus being forced to pay with a credit card on top of the money it did not return to me. What a mess. But the reason why everything seemed to be so rushed was due to our accommodations. I had forgotten to call the bed and breakfast and confirm the time we were planning to arrive, so the proprietor called me, a little annoyed, and asked when we planned on arriving. I thought I had done a good enough job of explaining the situation, but he called again and asked if we were even still planning to come at all to which I vehemently said yes. I felt very hastened because I do so hate it when I inconvenience people or more so when I know that people are somewhat disappointed in my actions or my careless behavior. Whatever…but it got worse. We got out of Bordeaux and were going in the direction of our bed and breakfast only to discover upon arrival that the address I had taken from the website was not really the address we needed and in fact had brought us to the center of a podunk little town and not to the countryside which I remembered from the pictures on the internet. I loathed calling the proprietor again, but it was necessary to get directions from him. Now, I can confidently say that I speak French fairly well, but when I am getting directions from someone, over the phone that include names I have never seen, I have a really hard time comprehending. Although he gave us directions, we ended up getting lost, calling him again and finally arriving around 10:45 pm. He was not happy. Oh, well, so we got a cold welcome, but we fell into our bed without a worry.

We decided to take a walk before breakfast, so we exited the house only to find the gate locked and no way to exit, so we walked around the property and noticed that there was a path that went up the hillside, which had a promising look to it. We passed a dilapidated old stone church and a cemetery on the small path, which did lead us to the road. We laughed about the fact that we escaped from our own bed and breakfast, like criminals from a jail or angst-filled teenagers sneaking out of their windows while the parents are still asleep. Walking among the vines, which encased us on either side, we were simply taken aback by the beauty of the region and all that we would see that day. Refreshing and joyful, the walk started one of the loveliest days I have ever shared with someone.

In the book that we had received from the Office of Tourism in Bordeaux, I had read that there was a morning market on Wednesdays in Créon, a small town (which is kind of implied since all the towns of the Bordelais region, apart from Bordeaux, are small) but pretty in its own right. The market was a mixture of clothes and things for the home, meat (including rabbit, with which my mom was fascinated) and cheese, and fruits and vegetables. I love markets and was quite content to be able to share in this experience with my mom who also loves markets. I think French markets are one of my favorite things about France; I love the people who go to the markets: the old women who plan out their meals as they are touring around with their pull carts (a cloth bag with wheels), the kids who run around as their parents buy food for the week, and the vendors calling out the prices of their wares, all claiming to have the best and freshest products. We went into one of the small stores situated close to the market or the town square, where we were given a wonderful recommendation for a local wine producer.

I love asking people for their recommendations, especially in an area like the Bordelais, where someone has their choice of about 100 or more different wine producers and châteaux where one could taste and buy wine. Taking the woman’s recommendation, we went to the Château de Turcaud, situated on the outskirts of a small village called La Sauve. Surprisingly, the head of the operation, who guided us on a tour, spoke English, which was a blessing for my mom who had been forced to be more or less silent on this trip. She was able to ask all her questions, with only a small amount of translation on my part. The owner of the vineyard showed us the operation, the large tanks where they keep the wine and then the “French” oak barrels (he made a point of saying that he had chosen to purchase only French oak, which is more expensive than American oak, but more reputable in the eyes of the French), where they ferment about ten percent of their wine (the more expensive wine since the barrels cost about $900 each). He is a medium size producer, with 50 hectares of vines. He produces two reds - cabernet sauvignon and merlot – and two whites, which are combined together to create a delightful white wine – sémilion (a special type of grape that is only grown in the Bordelais) and sauvignon. He also produces a wine called Clairet, which is only produced in the Bordelais and is kind of like a rosé except that the skins are kept in the vat three times as long (three to four days). I was amazed at his friendliness and his willingness to have us taste his wines and to ask him questions. What I love about this region is the fact that you do not have to pay anything for the wine tastings but that you are expected to buy at least one bottle of wine. I like the fact that you taste the wine, talk with the producer, and then buy a bottle or whatever quantity you want as a souvenir and as a way to remember the beautiful time you spent in the area.

All of the towns are relatively close together, so it took very little time for us to get to Saint Émilion, which several people had recommended to us as a must-see city in the area. We were not at all disappointed when we saw the pristine architecture of a very ancient-looking city, practically an outdoor wine market. Like some of the towns I had seen in Bourgogne, the commerce in this town was dominated by the demand in the region, which is wine, wine and more wine! There were maybe a handful of other stores, consisting of crafts, bakeries, and restaurants. It rained for a just a short while, unfortunately while we were lost and searching for our car without our umbrella.

Just outside of the city, we found a small producer of wine, which had just been purchased by an American and possessed one of the best views of the day, and stopped to taste the wine, a 2006 left over from the former owner but delicious and pungent (I am not sure if a wine connoisseur would ever say that word, but hey, I like wine but never said I was a wine snob…nor will I ever become a wine snob for that matter!) It was the most expensive bottle of the day, ringing in at 12 euros, including a wooden box minus the lid J After tasting the wine, we paused a while to capture the view, during which the man who is in charge of the operation came out again from hiding (he was a little timid during the tasting) and asked us if we wanted to see the barrels where they keep all their wine. Since they are not a very large operation, they have chosen to ferment all the wine in oak barrels, rendering the wine a higher and better quality. He showed us the vineyards that his boss owned and the fact that they had chosen to destroy the cabernet sauvignon plants and replace them with merlot grapes, which according to this man are better suited for the region.

The small producer was located a small distance from the path we had chosen to take, so we got back onto the road where I called the Château des Léotins, a large wine producer close to where we were staying, for directions and a confirmation that in fact they were still having wine tastings. The woman on the phone was very curt with me, saying that if I wanted to come, I needed to make it quick and then she would only be available until 5:30 pm (at this point it was 4:45 pm). I had to laugh because I am beginning to understand French culture more and more the longer I am here. For her, the city that we were leaving was quite some distance from their home (about 30 km), meaning it would take us a long time to reach them and in her mind almost not worth it for us. However, when we got there, we had one of the best and most surprising experiences of my life. We ended up spending one hour and 45 minutes with them! First, we tried two wines; it was a simple wine tasting with not much discussion. Next, we started the tour with the woman with whom I had spoken on the phone. She was very surprised that we had already made it, but launched into an explanation of their business. She did not speak any English, so I was the translator for my mom, translating both the woman’s explanations and my mom’s questions. It was so interesting for me. I have been faced with a very clear perception of what it means to learn a foreign language. My mom does not understand a word of French, yet for me, I can comprehend almost everything that people are saying because I have been studying the language for a while now. How important languages are! Without the competence the speak the language of the people in whose country you are traveling or residing, your connection to and your relations with the locals are very limited; and in my opinion, those are the most unique aspects of a voyage and also the aspects that most fervently open up one’s mind to obtain a broader conscience of humankind.

As the tour continued, the woman opened up to us more and more. That is what I love about the French: they may be a little cold when you first meet them, but once you get talking and once you show interest in their livelihood, they transform into some of the kindest and warmest people I have ever known. This woman, Betty, as we learned later on, introduced us to her son and her daughter, one of her really good family friends, to the work crew, to her husband of course, and gave us a more than anticipated complete tour, including an explanation of the process of shipping the wine abroad (she had two containers going out to Shanghai and to Japan the next day). We talked about the elections when her good friend, a Spanish man named André, made a comment about how the labeling machine worked like McCain, meaning it was worthless. I thought that was hilarious. I have not met one French person in favor of McCain. We laughed and I kept on translating, although at times, I was not given any time to pause and translate because Betty was talking so quickly and giving me so many things to remember. She was laughing and smiling at us and bonding with my mom even though my mom did not understand a lick of what was happening. The whole ambience was amicable and joyous. Betty went and got a bottle of wine and some glasses, so we drank some more wine as they continued to share more about their lives here and their business and the wine industry in general. Although we tried many times to stop the tour and not take away any more of their time, the attempts were highly unsuccessful. It was not until André had to leave that everyone realized it was probably best to stop the fun and let us buy some wine and be off. We bought four bottles; then Betty threw in another just because she wanted. My mom gave her a hug and she and I embraced like good French friends (two kisses on the cheeks) and we set out, direction Libourne, to grab some dinner, disbelieving what had just happened.

Well, from drinking wine in the presence of very welcoming people, we ended up in a bodega in Libourne. It was the only restaurant open from our view of the city. We laughed about the fact that you just never know what is going to happen in life. How true!

Part Three: From Bordeaux to Champagne

It is kind of difficult to name this part of the trip because it seems like we have just been driving. From the beginning of the trip, we knew that Thursday was to be dedicated to driving from Bordeaux to Champagne, where our bed and breakfast was located. We left after breakfast, delaying ourselves a while as we asked our hosts some questions about their home, which was incredibly lovely and appeared to have undergone serious repairs. They informed us that the house had been a mill at one time for grain, so one part of the building had been reserved for the processing of the grain and the other part had been reserved for the miller and his family. They completely renovated the mill and designated that portion as the bed and breakfast, where they can welcome eight people at one time. The portion of the house that had been used for the former owners was also completely refurbished, for which the couple was particularly proud. I loved seeing this woman just light up as she talked about her home and how they had done much of the work themselves and took their time to really make it a home about which they had always dreamed. There is something so unique about humans and their desire to build for themselves havens in which they can feel completely at ease. I suppose that is logical in a world that is so difficult to comprehend, we have to have some place where we can recoil and hide from time to time; a place that is a reflection of ourselves, and thus minutely varied – in comparison to all that the Lord has created and all the messes humans have made of the world at large.

Even though we had been greeted a little coldly in the beginning (really my fault since we did arrive so late and few people are able to be warmly welcoming at that hour of the night), we ended up really loving our second home and the people who made such lovely breakfasts for us and who had worked so hard on their home from which we benefited greatly. It is once again quite interesting how you can breach so many barriers and overcome so much awkwardness or slighted feelings just by being genuinely interested in the lives of others.

The drive was long, but we had a break in the middle, close to my town of Angers. The town is called Blois, a town built alongside the Loire and pretty in its own right. I am sure that I would have been significantly more impressed had it not been raining and overcast. It is amazing how weather affects one’s impression of whatever the place or city may be. We stopped in the Office of Tourism and got a map of the city and directions to the Château of Chambord, the real destination of this stop over. For me, I have seen the city when I have seen the cathedral. There is something so special about French cathedrals; I love the architecture and the fact that something so beautiful was not made for man but for God, and I love how the cathedrals are in the center of town, meaning they exemplify the most majestic part of the city. I gave us one hour to see the city and buy some bread for our picnic, which we would end up eating in the car since it was freezing and rainy (we even saw a little snow…yuck!!)

I took my mom to the quay (anyone else heard this word…it means the area bordering the water – normally rivers – because my mom was convinced that it does not exist…in French it is practically the same word – quai – and I said that we learned our word from the French…just some musings) of the Loire River, which is the river of my region. It was kind of a stormy day, so the water and the view were not as spectacular as usual. I still enjoyed being able to share a part of “my region” with her. As we left the city, we of course got lost and almost crashed into a few cars (oops…my fault and bad directions), but we made it out of the city and surprisingly got back onto our route to the château very quickly. Driving down a road that allowed us to follow the Loire River for a short while, we were taken aback by all the colors of fall and were swept into the magic of it all.

Entranced by the drive, we were enveloped into the fairytale magic of Chambord. It is a glorious castle with spires that reach high into the sky. Had the weather been more agreeable, we would have enjoyed perusing the forest climate and immersing ourselves into the sultry expanse of gardens and history. Instead, we toured the outside of the castle and walked down the center aisle which appeared to lead to the entrance of the castle. We pretended like we were being led in a carriage, hearing our names and royal titles announced to the onlookers and other members of court; we were laughing all the way.

Our final bed and breakfast was called the Grenouille (Frog), which was quite evident when we were greeted by our hostess, who was wearing a frog necklace. Incredible! There were frogs all over the house, but we were actually staying in the Asian room, complete with prayer steps to the ancestors, or something like that; I never really arrived at comprehending that aspect of the motif. Our hostess was a little cold and not that welcoming, but we decided that we were not going to let that get us down. We drank some of our wine from Bordeaux and went to bed enveloped by the pink light shining from the Asian-inspired lampshades.

Although we were technically staying in the region of Champagne, we were actually quite far from the actual champagne vineyards (these are almost exactly like the wine vineyards, with some slight differences which I will explain later). We drove from our frog home to Reims, which is the largest and most well-known town of the region. What we passed on our way to Reims was more or less scenery one could see driving through the center of Illinois, but the towns we entered and exited were very “French” meaning they were small, with narrow roads, and most of the houses were made out of stucco and clay-tiled roofs.

Reims was more or less a pit-stop for our Champagne experience. We walked around the cathedral square and got a very helpful map from the Office of Tourism (I sure do love these offices); then we were off on the Route Touristique de Champagne (Tourist Route of Champagne). Embarking on the journey, we were so confused because we did not see one single vine. We thought that maybe they have a different system of preserving the vines and cut them all down in the fall and that was the reason, or maybe, we thought, they were not vines at all but resembled corn fields. Boy, were we in for a shock. The Route wound through a lovely forest, replete with fall colors, colors that made me smile and my heart sing (I may get tired of seeing ancient architecture or going to art museums, but I never get sick of seeing the colors of fall, no matter how many times I encounter them), and then all of a sudden, the forest opened up and there were the vines and the rolling hills that created a world unlike anything we had seen on this trip.

Champagne is a very interesting product. First, it is made from a combination of grapes, both red and white (where we bought a bottle, they used pinot noir and chardonnay and a pinot of which I have never heard the name), unless a year is marked on the bottle, in which case, the producer only uses grapes from that year. The reason champagne is different from other sparkling wines is that it is grown in the region of Champagne, which now has a niche in the market and a copyright on the title; no one else is able to use that title. Second, champagne is nothing more than regular white wine with a little sugar put in it. The producers take the wine that has already fermented, therefore technically able to be drunk as normal wine, and put it into bottles with a little sugar, which jumpstarts the second fermentation cycle. Third, the harvesting of the grapes is regulated by the local government, which decides each year how much the producers are allowed to harvest. This year it was 55 kilos of grapes per one hectare of land. That is the reason why we found many vines still heavy with dark, succulent grapes, unused and forgotten. Lastly, the drink has been given a very elite sort of reputation, which is quite evident among the producers who are less likely to welcome people in and who sell their product at a much higher price, as they should, since it is the demand that dictates the price, and someone long ago decided that champagne is quite the desired drink that created a constant and thriving demand for those wanting to drink the “best of the best.”

It was when we left the land of champagne and entered the trenches of Paris that things got a little hairy. My mom wanted to go to SILMO, which is one of the major conferences for optical things in the Western hemisphere, and since Essilor, her company holds 65 % of the market share in Europe, she wanted to see their impressive booth and talk with some of her French colleagues. The problem was that we got into Paris at the start of rush hour and had no idea where to park the car. I love Paris, but in a car and during rush hour and lost, I have to say I loathed what I knew I had once loved (fortunately that love is back…we humans quickly forget the trials we encounter in such types of pressed moments). Eventually, we did make it into a parking garage and did make it into the exposition, which was quite impressive and made my mother very happy to be able to see the new logo – “the left eye instead of the right eye” - and speak with a colleague about new lenses and the difference between Essilor USA and Essilor France. With only 30 minutes to spend at the exposition, we left without seeing much, but enough to make the trip worthwhile, and what a cost it would accrue. I thought the traffic was bad coming into the city, but when we left, what we encountered made the former part look like a walk in the park. No lines, pedestrians, cyclists who made fourth or fifth lanes of traffic in what appeared to be only three, tramways and taxis, construction, and a GPS that kept saying “recalculating” (I was very thankful for Jill because although she did make some mistakes, she did a better job than I could ever have done or would have wanted to…I do not really like traffic nor am I comfortable when stuck in it…I think that I was more tense than my mom during this whole thing) was the environment that greeted us as we left the safe haven of the parking garage. From bad to worse to ugly, we moved at a snail’s speed and slowly made our way to our hotel, making a mistake with the exact location of the hotel, and finally figuring out our lives and the plans for the night, we returned the car and went back to the hotel to pack and eat some small pre-made salads and delicious yogurt from the hotel’s convenience store. However, the wine from Bordeaux and the realization that we were all done with that ordeal calmed us down, leaving us with tiredness that directed us immediately to sleep. (I tried my best to describe this to you all, but for some reason, I am not able to really get the sense of all that happened as it all happened so quickly and as there were many small aspects that either made the ordeal laughable or harrowing and I cannot begin to sort them all out in a coherent and readable fashion, so I apologize if I am not making myself clear)

The End: Paris and the Airport Charles de Gaulle

Even though we went to bed around 1:30 am, my mom and I decided that we were not going to let our last morning together in France happen at the hotel. We took an early train into the Paris center and bought some bakery and had a coffee, recounting the trip and watching the rain fall down like it had all week. We walked along the quay, sharing the responsibility of holding the umbrella above our heads. Only spending a couple hours in the city, we took the same train back to the hotel and went off to the airport; we were on time and it was great. I felt a little rushed, but then again, I almost always do when I am traveling. Thinking that her flight took off from terminal E, we walked in that direction, were delayed by guards who had found an unattended bag on the ground and were investigating the whole area, and found out that in fact her flight and her airline were in terminal A, which just happened to be at the opposite side of the airport. I told my mom to run, because like normal and like so many other times in my life, I knew that she could possibly miss her plane due to this mix-up. We ran and arrived with plenty of time; good thing, since it took us another 30 minutes to arrange her bags to properly situate all the weight and only have to pay for one overweight bag (my school books that I no longer needed and our wine...all stuff...sometimes I am so disgusted with the amount of stuff I have...I am going to try the next time not to bring so much, I mean, why do you really need all of that? I think that is the point, that you do not need it and all stuff does is complicate your life). Helping my mom out made me late, so I ran to the train station inside the terminal only to discover that I had just missed the train I needed and would have to wait another 35 minutes I did not have. The train stopped unexpectedly during its route, which put me in an even worse late condition, then I went in the wrong direction on the metro, and finally missed my train going to Angers by 10 minutes. I ran up all the steps in the metro system (something to which I am becoming unfortunately accustomed), thinking that maybe my train would be late and did not want to miss it if that were the case. Oh, well, I prefer to hurry with the slightest of slight chances that I could achieve my goal then to take my time with defeat hanging over my head.

I saw so many people on the metro today and in Paris who were begging for money. I gave to a few of them but not all, but I cannot help but feeling a lot of sympathy for them. They all looked to be immigrants, some older women, some women aged by the hardships of life, one teenager playing accordion in the metro, and a young man, refugee, who could not find work. To whom belongs the responsibility for these people, the people who were born into a horrendous situation and who came to France (applies in the US as well) for a better life, only to discover that the grass is not greener on the other side and life is just or even more difficult. I thought of them as I started to get upset about being late and about missing my train. There are some things in life about which you do not have a right to get angry or upset. There are bigger and grander problems…but as for these people, what are their crosses and who is going to help them bear them.

I know that paragraph is kind of out of place or maybe a little somber for this entry, but in my opinion, you have to write as you see things happening, both good and bad. As things impact you, you need to write them down and make a note of the way in which you have been affected; if not, our musings are forgotten and the power to remember is not always ours to be had.

I have made a lot of memories on this trip; a road trip…what an experience. We saw the beauty and the ugliness of France and survived to tell the tale. There is nothing quite like a road trip, one where anything and everything can and will happen and one where you just open your eyes and heart to the things and people around you.