Good-bye Gîtes, Hello Paris

.


Catching up: two days here, two days to come....

(And apologies for typos in the past posts; it's only once in a while that I remember to spell-check. Everything's fixed in my own copy, but it's unlikely I'll go back to fix errors in the blog.)




Friday, August 6

By Friday, the last full day in our gîtes, we had slowed completely. We lazed around most of the morning (well, I wrote some eight pages of blog, so maybe that is not exactly lazing), then went just down the road to the Grotte de Cougnac, a relatively small cave with paleolithic paintings. The cave has two accessible sections, the first with stunning stalactite/stalagmite formations (never knew the rock could have so many colours!) and the second with the ancient paintings. We were in a group of about twenty, which seems standard, and there were a number of children along, which is also normal (lucky kids!).

The paintings were breathtaking, once again. It is not possible for a photograph to do them justice, as it is the way the painter has used the formations of the cave wall that is most impressive. The animals on the postcards are flat, but those in the caves are three-dimensional, and they move as the light source moves. It is the most eerie thing to see.

The tour was in French, the young guide speaking at Tour de France pace, and the kids (and their parents) were chattering throughout. By this time, the third cave, however, we pretty much knew what information was to be had. What I learned from this particular tour was how to sort out the various animals portrayed from the jumble of lines of overlapping images. I loved it.

We had to return John’s rented guitar to Sarlat, so we decided to have our last Dordogne dinner there; for me, it’s the kind of town I can’t get enough of. It’s big enough that you can escape the tourists, big enough to get lost in (like Venice, in a way), big enough to have plenty to keep you occupied. We chose a place recommended in the Michelin Green Guide (it’s hit-or-miss with restaurants, and I’ve learned it’s better to go on recommendations). We were early (it was only seven o’clock, the very beginning of dinner time), so we were alone in the little enclosed terrasse, at first. We splurged for the €26 menu, which included oh god something like five courses.

(If I have explained all the following previously, please forgive me; I am losing track.)

I think I might actually be figuring out this whole menu business. French menus (what we would call menus, what they call the Carte, I think) have several sections. One section is for entrées (starters), one for plats or viandes (the main course), and then cheeses and desserts. There is a section for drinks (sometimes two, for aperitifs and for wines/beers/coffee). And there is a section for the “menus”. There are two or three menus offered, typically. Each consists of two to (you name the number) courses. There are choices for each course. The cheaper menus not only have less interesting choices, they also have less food. I didn’t know that till I ordered the €28 menu in Sarlat.

Okay. We got a tapenade and bread as a “bouchon” before the first course. (Uh oh.) First course, I ordered some version of foie gras, knowing this was my last meal in foie gras country. Second course, I had some kind of salad, which happened to have foie gras on the side, as well as some dried smoked duck as a garnish (or something—why there is an obligation to put meat in a salad is beyond me, but I have found few salads in France without it). Main course, I had duck. A magret, I think they call it. Magret of duck is indistinguishable from a big slice of roast beef. I swear it! First time I had it, in Arles a few years back, I thought they had made a mistake. It’s dark, cooked rare, and most unlike poultry. Anyhow, I had the duck. Which happened to be served with a slab of fried foie gras on the top. After that, cheese. After that, profiteroles, which are like cream puffs. These were filled with artisanal vanilla ice cream and slathered in chocolate.

I was a bit sensible about it all, and didn’t finish any course entirely. I had already had the too-full experience and was not willing to repeat it. After dinner we strolled through the town, which had come alive with street performers. A panpipe player (who brought his own floodlight with him), a juggler, some street-statue people. The place was buzzing, a different Sarlat than we’d seen before.

Back home, we packed up for leaving the next day, and went to bed. I was feeling sick by that time, nauseated. I lay sleepless till 3 a.m., fighting it off, and finally got up and threw up pretty much the entire dinner. Last time I felt that sick was with the flu two winters ago. Moral of the story: get the cheaper menu, or at least avoid too much foie gras.

Here’s the coup de grace, though, or the coup de gras, if you please. When we went to Sarlat, we thought, “This will be the dinner from Kathryn,” as she generously asked us to have a dinner on her while we were in Europe. Obviously, it just won’t do to have thrown up Kathryn’s dinner, so we will just have to try again. Thank you Kathryn! We look forward to a Paris dinner!




Saturday, August 7, 2010


Felt just fine in the morning. Cleaned up, settled the bill, and drove off to Bordeaux to return the rental car and catch the train to Paris.

We hadn’t planned to take the autoroute toll-road, but the first part of the trip was so slow, we realized we wouldn’t make it on time otherwise. (We had a TGV reservation for 2:50, and it would be a big hassle if we missed it.) So we fairly flew to Bordeaux. For €16.50 total, the route was worth it. Fantastic highway.

Getting to the station was another story. We had the GPS, and I’ve already told about her lack of reliability in that regard. I was so distracted by the GPS, that I missed the turn-off for the station (and the car return). Then we were utterly dependent on her. The maps are off by just enough to make us overshoot the turnoff almost every time. And when we do, she says, “recalculating, recalculating”, and I just might throw her out the window if I hear it again. After innumerable recalculations, we did reach the station. But there were no signs of rental car depots. In Toulouse they had been obvious. We cruised by the station to a traffic circle, then cruised back. Pulled a risky u-turn and cruised back again. I thought maybe the rental places were in the underground parking, so down we went. A parking official helped us out, gave us directions. We were beginning to panic, as we had about a half hour till train time. Finally, over a bridge from the station (we had been told, casually, “it’s just by the station”), and through some single-lane alleys unmarked by any indication that there might be car rentals nearby, we arrived at the right lot, parked the car badly, dropped the keys and ran.

We were in plenty of time, as it turned out. We found our platform, and when the train arrived, we found our seats like we’d been riding the rails all our lives. We breathed. We sank into the cushy seats. John ate a sandwich made from the supplies we had brought, but all I could manage was a nectarine. All was well. For three hours.

We arrived in Paris, at the Gare de Montparnasse, which is walking distance from our apartment. We walked down Rue de Rennes and all I could think was, “I’m in Paris! I’m in Paris!” I had visited the apartment by Google street view, so I got us right to it. That’s when things got interesting. I had full instructions for finding the actual apartment, but they were in email form, which, of course, I couldn’t access.

I am not as smart as I look. (ahem)

I have noticed, throughout France, a kind of good-samaritan mentality. People stop to help. They go out of their way to help. It seems to be the expected thing.

So, at the big blue door on the street, when my key didn’t work, a young woman came along to get into the building and showed us that there is a code. (I knew that, I’d just forgotten.)

Once inside, there was a tangle of apartment blocks, any of which could be ours. I had a vague memory that “Gabriel Brun” (the apartment owner’s son, who had the apartment when he was going to university in the city) would be in the first building, and there was his name, on the call-board. Okay, so we’re in the building, but had no idea which apartment was his/ours. (Again, I had instructions, but hadn’t printed them and didn’t remember; I think I had presumed that I would review the instructions before actually arriving in Paris, not realizing that travel-wear would have gotten to me by that point and I wouldn’t be thinking that clearly) I walked up to the top of the building, seven storeys, hoping to see “Gabriel Brun” on a door. Nope.

Another woman came along. Everyone seemed to know that there was a rental apartment in the block. She walked us up and found the right suite; how she knew, I have no idea. Why she would climb 100 steps for strangers is another mystery, but we are very grateful.

The apartment is beautiful but strange to the North American sensibility. The living area is spacious, but the bathroom has barely enough room to turn around. The “kitchen” is a wall with built-in cupboards. The sinks are distinctively French: deep, square, white basins. The stove is a two-burner convection thing that operates partly on touch and partly on ESP. But the bed is king-sized and the pillows are good, and we are more comfortable than we have been since Berlin.

Whew.



.