By the Numbers (Take Two)

I've no time to do much of anything here, but work and the administrative "life" stuff so, in the interests of a) avoiding my commitment to show you my latest Lady Skater dress (photos take effort) and b) reminding myself of the awesomeness that was my European vacation, please see my latest Best of / Worst of list (You can view the last one here):

Best Single Moment: For Scott, this was when he ordered a G&T at an awesome market-meets-restaurant and the server brought a glass of such proportions that I could not pick it up with one hand. To wit:

The glass arrived empty. The server then added ice and proceeded to advise Scott to "say when" as he poured what seemed like half a bottle of gin into the glass. We've never been anywhere that the strength of the drink was the patron's call - especially when the glass was like a tumbler on steroids. It cost 11 euros (amazingly the MOST money we spent on a drink the entire time we were away), but that's what it costs to have a watered down G&T in TO. 

For me, the best moment was probably when we walked into the apartment in Barcelona. I was enthralled by its elegance, by its authenticity. It was beautiful, functional, perfectly-appointed and the location could not have been better. I felt like I'd hit the jackpot and that my risk (not staying in hotels) had paid off in spades. 

Worst Moment: Well that deserves it's own post... To our credit, we bounced back within 12 hours (though the bouncing was harder for the guy who'd puked his guts up all night...)

Best Meal: It's a toss up between the (not gorgeous but life-altering) hole-in-the-wall pizza in Monpellier (sacrilege, I realize) or the paella at another hole-in-the-wall in Barcelona:

Best Dining Experience: The first meal at Garriga (we ate there a few times since it was 2 doors from our apartment). The service was awesome. We had potato omelets with the best local wine. The cortado after the meal was the most sublime coffee I've ever had in Europe. Sorry peeps, but I think coffee in France is almost as bad as coffee in NYC.

Worst Resto / Worst Food: Gotta say this place in Arles with lots of attitude and nothing to back it up. An American couple sitting a few tables over had a (reserved) melt-down over the woman's meal (which she felt was raw though she'd ordered it medium). The servers couldn't communicate adequately (or perhaps chose not to) and kept her waiting another 30 minutes for a new steak. We got off lucky (and Scott ate the largest duck breast either of us have ever seen), but they were out of everything I tried to order (at 7:30???) and there was very little flow to go with the ambiance. Also, the mosquitoes were out. 

Natch, the open-air market chicken was technically the worst food...

Oddest Occurrence: We spent NO time in a hotel of any sort - not even to drink or dine.

Best Surprise: The weather was the best I've ever experienced in my life, and I'm not exaggerating. Southern France / northern Spain were having a cool spell so temps were a mere 25C (aka nature's perfect temp) with NO humidity of any sort and constant sun. Like not a cloud in the sky weather. It was a salve for my very winter-beaten soul. It wasn't only the perfection of the weather that thrilled me (did I mention the Mediterranean breeze?) - but the duration of that perfection. The weather was unceasingly beautiful.

Second Best Surprise: Other than mosquitoes (the after effects of which are still visible), I didn't see one bug the entire time I was away.

Scariest Moment: It's a toss up between the cable car and the tower of the Sagrada Familia. I'm going with the tower... At least the cable car experience had a view that was (almost) worth dying for.

Most Surprising Things:

• I was unaware of the deleterious impacts of poverty of southern France until I came upon them. The culture was palpably weary. The graffiti was out of control (though sometimes interesting).
• The light in southern France, similarly weary, was nonetheless spectacular. It's inexplicable (though many paintings and books try to do it justice).
• Arles was more like Spain than Spain.
• Barcelona is one of the most friendly places I've ever visited. And one of the most beautiful.
• Coming upon Camarguaise bull-fighting, like, on a little walk...
• Staying in people's homes (while they aren't there, and if those homes are chic) is WAY more fun than staying in a hotel.
• Montpellier is a university town. I mean, I knew there was a prominent university there. I just didn't think it was the only industry.
• Swallows are seriously loud and very stealthy little birds. But they eat bugs so they can have at it.

Best Place: Barcelona, hands down.

Place To Skip: Montpellier. When your (tax-funded) Botanical Gardens are looking more unkempt than my backyard after a 3 week vacation, you need to up your game.

Best Pastry: Arles. That flan was spectacular...

Best Shopping: Barcelona must win because of its size and scope. (Furthermore, its offerings are suitable to my shape.) But Montpellier is nothing to shake a stick at. The shoe options were extensive.

But now to open up those lines fellow-travelers: Have you been to Arles? Montpellier? Barcelona? What was your best and/or worst? Let's talk!

Profundity

The grace of travel is that it's difficult so when it's time to leave the sadness can be borne.

But would that I had another week here, or a few days even. I've barely scratched the surface of this infrastructure.

Today, on our last day in Barcelona, we went to see the famed Sagrada Familia (the unfinished church, active construction of which has continued for more than 100 years). Let me assure you, it was as much a hardhat zone as a place of worship. Really, for its masterful architecture (and it has outlasted, one can argue, the religion it serves) its current format disrespects - dare I go there - its religious proposition.

In full disclosure, there are few peeps who have been raised more Catholically than me (especially in this day and age). I respect the Church enough not to go there, most of the time, because my beliefs do not align.

However, in this instance (and because I did not see it when I was in Barcelona last) I went for the architecture but I was astounded by the faith that fuels the engines. I was also astounded by the general lack of respect I observed. Where I come from, you don't take selfies directly in front of an Icelandic choir (the most beautifully composed, might I add). Moreover, you don't clap when it completes its choral exercise, but that's a whole different story... You do not wear club clothing (especially as the church rules stipulate modest dress). You do not speak in the central zone, demarcated from the rest as the meditative, prayer space. I could go on.

Um, let's interrupt this rant with some photos of the neo-Gothic (and seriously modern) marvel that is this place, shall we?

This sculpture, associated with the Passion of Christ, was beyond moving. The engraved doors, behind, were like nothing I've ever seen before.

That light is entirely created by the chromatic (and I do use this as a means by which to relate colour to music) stained glass.

There's something so Hannah Barbera about this exterior when you see it in photos. In real life, it's stunning.

Those pillars...

 

Have you ever seen stained glass like this? It's designed to be neither too dark nor too light because either extreme inhibits sight. This is a place of clear observation.

I know I sound like a crotchety old lady much of the time. (In truth, whenever I've played that game wherein you have to assess your "spiritual age", I have been 50 - like, since I was 5.) Righteously indignant is my natural state. I feel very strongly about how things should be and, when they fail to meet my expectations, the fire - like a dragon's breath - is unleashed.

It appears we return to the theme of Kristin's vacation: expectation.

My resilience was undermined by my kryptonite: terrible crowds, bright light and noise. Put these together and it's a recipe for my undoing. Thank God we had the foresight to book the tickets online. That meant we bypassed much of the queuing, though by no means all of it. We did have to wait in the unremitting sunlight for 15 minutes. (I forced Scott to leave our apartment with plenty of time to spare.) And then, the "pilgrim" hum, amplified by the acoustics - and at odds with audible construction - followed me ominously like a hive.

Scott swears he didn't know that a trip to the Bell Tower would be a claustrophobic horror - a descent even as an elevator drew us into the air and left us (unceremoniously) to make our way down an endless, dangerous stone staircase replete with constant opportunities to kill oneself by accident, by falling from unthinkable heights. Am I the only one who feels inclined to jump when confronted by heights? Am I the only one whose field of vision narrows (a propos of which, Lord, I was sorry to be wearing those progressives)?

I cannot begin to tell you of my thoughts during that part of the visit though a very nice Chinese woman, who walked in front of me, was kind enough to reassure me (in English) at regular intervals, saying such things as: This part is safe. Look, there's even a railing here. Yeah, to keep you from certain death.

On the way up, the elevator guide had a lively, foreign-language conversation with some other Catalan speakers. I could only pick out the words "claustrophobic", "scary" and some anecdote about people losing their shit half way through. I should have said no then and there, but Scott got all: It's going to be fine. They wouldn't let us do it if it were dangerous. Never listen to people who aren't afraid of heights.

I think it's safe to say I had a complex experience of the Sagrada Familia. And really, you must visit (despite the challenges) because it is a marvel in the truest sense of the word. Just don't go up the Bell Tower.

I drank my face off at lunch.

Sun, Sea and Sky

I have no words to describe the beauty I observed yesterday on Montjuic. From the citadel, we saw the unfathomable density of Barcelona city, on one side, and the splendor of the Mediterranean on the other:

Do yourself a favour and enlarge this panoramic shot. Alas, it does no justice to the real thing...

In the pantheon of my anxieties, heights is second only to bugs, so the fact that I look cucumber-cool in this shot (when actually I thought I would throw up), is really a testimony to the propensity of photographs to lie:

Yeah, there I am, gripping that seat for dear life. I know it seems like I'm saying: Oh, look at the Sagrada Familia in the distance! Really, I'm berating Scott for having lured me into the capsule of death (as I refer to those cable cars).

We did more "touristy" things yesterday than ever I have before (seriously) - the Olympic park, Placa Espanya, Miro museum, cable ride, Citadel - and every bit of it was spectacular because, when the weather is 25C with no humidity and you can see the world's most stunning views from every vantage point, what's not to love.

But one thing I will say, I loathe artsplainin'. I may have made that term up, just sub out "man" and insert "art", but nothing is more absurd, to my mind, than justifying surrealist symbolism with a kooky narrative. (And I did my degree in English Lit with a minor in Semiotic Studies?!)

Who the fuck cares if the butterfly is a symbol for erotic intent and arrows are like birds in flight?! It undermines an entire work of art to try and decode it because, really, at a certain point every fucking Miro looks the same. (In truth, I do love his sketches and early works, before the surrealist insanity kicked in.) I'm the first to admit that my knowledge of art history and theory is limited to what I've seen on PBS documentaries - and I like to visit art galleries and read articles. Point is, I'm not exactly learned on the topic. But I know enough to know that art is a subject of the heart. I'm never getting the headphones at a gallery again.

In Brief...

I have so much to say, but no time in which to say it because I am living at the pace of late vacation. I continue to love Barcelona with fervor. The sales didn't hurt its case. :-)

I have done some public service research on the topic of lingerie shopping (for the non-matrix sizes) at a regular department store (El Corte Ingles). Your options, while not excessive, are not the disaster one experiences in big box North America. For starters, the brands are much more inclusive than in France (not that I had access to a big box store there) and they tend towards wider wires and shallow shapes. Having said this, the larger cup sizes aren't unheard of. I sense you're on good footing if you are not waifish and your breasts are on the bigger all-around end of the equation.

Still not good for the women shaped as I am. But I did find one bra (and I was hardly exhaustive) that fits perfectly (Felina Conturelle 80521 in Anthrazit - the grey colourway). It was even on sale, though the full set did cost $160 CDN. Felina is a German brand and the product is on the lady/sophisticated end of the spectrum. The offerings I found were all full-cup, and not like UK full-cup (which tends towards a balconette shape). European cup sizing is a totally different scene than US or UK so I sized up in the back and maintained my regular cup size. Since the EU cup sizes are one cup size smaller than UK (at least sometimes), I retained the same cup size (I think). Mind you, the shape is so different, it's hard to say what's going on. Definitely, the Felina back sizes are snug.

I also bought shoes (in Montpellier):

Arche Sakari in Nubuck

The Arche's (above) look very sturdy, I realize, but when you wear them they are quite elegant, sleek and architectural (as all Arche shoes tend to be). I have never been able to justify the cost in TO - esp. for suede - but these were about 150.00CDN and they feel like clouds. They also look terrific with most of my clothing and so will be walkable to work, in a way that isn't hideous like my new (and incredibly comfortable) orthotic Naots. I mean, the Naots are ok for a day at the Island or when on vacation (as no one will ever see me again), but to walk on my regular route, they are depressing.

The new shoes (below) however, are pure sexy - if on the sensible heel-end of sexy:

Wonder 2945

The ones I bought were in this colour, but in leather. They don't appear to exist in an internet photo, so this shot will have to do... Wonder is a Spanish brand, not dissimilar to Camper. These were very affordable in the sale (maybe 75.00CDN?).

I do love me some COS for the sleek lines and wide variety of basics. It reminds me of a Euro version of Club Monaco - very textural. I got 2 blue items, a long-sleeved T (unfinished on the sleeves and hem) and a high-cowl, tunic(ish) sweater. These were both 50% off so the total cost came to 75.00CDN, a ridiculous steal on any day.

Let me say this about European sizing: It is not catering to North American vanity.

And let me say this about the current crop of European styles: Is this the land of sacks or what?? I mean, the sacks are very lovely. They're made of beautiful materials. But a sack is a sack and I'm tired of it!

FWIW: You can posit that my new cowl tunic is a sack (it's loose fit through the torso and it has a curved hem at the thighs). The thing that saves it (aside from the fact that it's in a sleek merino) is that it is cut very small through the arms, shoulders and neck. If you're going to wear a sack, be very certain that the fit is perfection in the shoulders and arms. Otherwise, you will look like a raisin.

Said sweater will go very well with these:

Hue Original Jeans Faded Leggins

People, I know the denim leggings trend has been over for 2 years, but I was working this look before anyone, and I cannot give up on leggings that look like denim. What's not to love? These are made from a very soft denim with loads of lycra. The rise is mid-height. They come in a box like tights?! and they cost 50 bucks. You can't even try them on! It's hilarious. Honestly, now that I've worn them, I'll buy them on eBay from here on in.

I love the shop assistants, they are so helpful - so decisive - and completely comprehensible in Catalan (how, I don't know), the Spanish/French combo language they tend to speak in Barcelona. This region is very like Quebec in that it's a land "displaced". They're angling to separate from Spain though, it would appear, in the most pleasant way.

Crazily, I asked another person another question about the Basque yesterday. Learn from my mistakes. Seriously, do not ask anyone about the Basque. I don't know what it is but you will be met with shock and horror.

And on the topic of random, awesome meals: here's a shot of the most gorgeous paella we ate yesterday:

It was touted as vegetarian (not that I care) but I can assure you it was awash in seafood broth. Man, it was delicious.

Perfección

Oh, peeps. It's like I've died and gone to heaven. I. LOVE. BARCELONA.

I love saying hola! I love the supermarket - it's like the land of custard. I love the boulevards. I love the people who are kind and cheerful and warm. I love the food - I had a superb meal for lunch (at 4:30 pm?!): a pasta with Iberian ham, some other kind of ham, cream and eggs followed by the hugest avocado vinaigrette you've ever seen, a chocolate cake-like thing that defies description and the most delicious coffee I have ever been served in Europe. It was a cortado - and by that I don't mean a Toronto cortado (aka a slightly drier than usual cappuccino). It was (and I can't tell you how rarely this happens) the perfect temperature.

I love the architecture, the weather, the horticulture, the sales, the shoes, and man, I love our apartment:

The view from our terrasse. Trust me, it is all that.

A small snippet of the living space...

In 1200 square feet, it's got 2 bedrooms, a separate (large), fully stocked kitchen, easy sleeping for 6, a dressing room (?!), a fantastic bathroom, original mosaic floors... Honestly, if you gifted me this place, right now, I would live here forever and would not change a fucking element of the design.

I'm writing this from my fabulous balcony, eating some kind of creamy, salty sheep's yogurt (I think that's what it is) watching the swallows and bats fly around. (Yeah: While I am completely freaked out by the tiniest bugs, I'm ok with bats and lizards, who the hell knows why...)

It appears that I cannot eat lunch at 4:30 and dinner thereafter. My stomach is having a bit of a flip out so we're snacking now, after wandering the insanely packed streets at 9 pm. It also appears that this culture does not sleep - or eat before 9:30. But so far, this apartment is silent.

A Very Good Meal

If you can believe it, and truly I cannot, Scott ordered the chicken...

The resto was very ambiant:

The view from my seat...

We ate everything on the freakin' menu, somehow, which wasn't difficult since it was a tapas joint. After dessert, they rewarded our efforts with some homemade Domincan rum infused with orange.

But, perhaps best of all, the walk home was spectacular:

Beachy reputation aside, this is a very poor part of France, with high unemployment, and one feels the disenfranchisement. Beautiful landmarks are frequently marred by garbage, graffiti or the decay of neglect. I'm not going to lie to you, this town isn't on my Best-Of list. Frankly, one can do better on a French vacation (Arles, for example). And I'm not just saying that because of the night from hell.

But, if you happen to be in the area, there's some good food and some even better people-watching. Tomorrow, on to Barcelona on the high-speed train!

The Chic French Woman: A Primer*

What I'll say for Montpellier is that, on my first day here (a Saturday), a saw more chicness in less time than ever I have before. I suspect it's because the city-folk were visiting (the chic factor declined rapidly thereafter). It was a veritable parade of women wearing the craziest things, very well.

Please allow me to entertain you with a few observances:

• If you're wondering about the jumpsuit's spiritual home, it's southern France, people. Lord, I have never seen more varieties of onesies in my life. Slender women wear them, children wear them, old women wear them, women who have no business wear them... They come strapless, plunging v, shorts-style, avec les pantalons ballons. It truly is amazing to see a 60 year old rocking a completely impractical, military-meets-silk one-piece. With absurd heels. On cobblestones. I've been skeptical of the excess of marketing of the jumpsuit for a while now, wondering how it could possibly have any impact in the real world. Well, here, the trend is making money - namely with the elegant set.

• Delightfully, IMO, if you are chic and French, you're allowed to have a menopausal gut. It will in no meaningful way undercut your cache. It's simply ill-advised to have breasts of any volume or to be of substantial frame. Or to be tall, come to think of it. I have tried on everything on sale in this city (except for jumpsuits) and not one fucking thing fits. I'm not joking. And it's not my, ahem, less than flat stomach that's causing the problem. The clothing is cut for straight frames. Furthermore, it's cut with very little profile anywhere. Which is why having breast or hip circumference is not advisable. 

• Side note: I'm remarkably nonplussed by my French shopping fails, though my younger self would have been horrified. Actually, my 3 years younger self, when last in France (Paris) could barely find anything to fit - nor could my teenaged self, come to think of it - and they were pretty traumatized. Now I look at all of the clothing and realize I could make much of it, pretty easily (these clothes are architectural sacs, not tailored!) in proportions to fit my body well. It seems crazy to pay 100 euros for a sleeveless, a-line tank. Moreover, these women do not look like me. Not in any way. I have seen myself surreptitiously eyed, perhaps even occasionally critically, by women in shops, by women on the street. Don't misunderstand - I'm not suggesting that I've encountered rudeness (though an exasperated woman in a ring shop within which I could not find ONE RING to fit my man-like fingers, at one point muttered "Mon Dieu!". And, really, at that point I shared her pain.). It's not that I'm all freakish and feeling judged. I'm just an outlier and it's obvious. To wit: No one here wears leopard-skin bodysuits with jeans that sit at the natural waist, even in the cool, after a day of rain. And, if they did, they'd probably have proportionately little in the way of hips or boobs. I wonder if, to some, I'm seen as too observable. No doubt, my accent and mediocre French don't help. But really, in the scheme of things, I'm fairly refined by many standards. I don't think I'm standing out because of my behaviour.

• A propos of the bullet above, absolutely every chic woman wears either linen, cotton with applique/chambray etc. or silk. And 90 per cent of the garments are shapeless, especially in the midsection. A good number of them are quite colourful, or monochrome (namely white) and they've got asymmetrical lines. The cinched drop-waist (belted or elastic is everywhere. What makes you edgy in much of North America, makes you feminine here.

• Nonchalance is de rigeur. There's nothing fussy about the chic French woman. She owns her clothing. Nothing wears her.

• She's not afraid to show off her breasts, though small breasts do tend to be less attention-grabbing (on display) than voluptuous ones. On this topic, I'm willing to go on a limb here in suggesting that the mainstream of the smallest breasts in the western world is in France. That's not because of what I've seen, specifically, but because of what I know of the lingerie industry. The French have cornered the market on the 30-34 B-D shallow, seamed half-cups - and man, do they make them beautifully. But God help you if you are a woman out of that size and shape range, looking for a gorgeous bra. Your options are frumpy. This is like the anti-England.

• They're not afraid to be tanned, wrinkled or to smoke. Age is not the equalizer, fat is.

• They have "great legs", by which I mean slender to the knee, at least, and quite muscular - and they wear very feminine footwear (of high quality).

Now of course, I'm speaking of the definition (as I see it) of the chic French woman. There are many French women who are not chic. They are frumpy, fat, shapeless, untoned and pale. They're just like un-chic women everywhere, going about their meaningful lives, thinking about things other than chicness. And that's fantastic, needless to say. But, if you're going to hang out in a beach town in the south of France, and you'd like to ensure your place on the scene, do take my observations for what they're worth. I'd hate for you to wear a tight, leopard print knit.

File Under: Wear in Canada - And that top is my first Nettie, btw.

* Yeah, I'm the arbiter of this concept for the purposes of this post, but go with it (or feel free to refute!)...

The Night After the Day After the Sick

You know you're not quite having the trip you expected when your best French meal (so far) turns out to be this:

Having just recovered from digestive misery - which was hard to watch, though apparently harder to live through, Scott and I delayed our fancy resto plans in favour of this... Neither of us could bear the thought of eating anything raw.

Honestly, this is some freakin' awesome pizza - from a hole-in-the-wall, owner-franchise resto (albeit one highly recommended by everyone). I know from pizza, even if it isn't my go-to food (since so much of it is so mediocre). These pizzas, however, were pure perfection. We actually couldn't talk as we ate because they were so compelling.

The crust was perfectly salty and springy (not in any way mushy in the centre), the tomato sauce was fresh but subtle, with a sub-note of sweetness. The cheese was initially oily and extremely gooey, settling into strings as the pie cooled. On cooling, the pizza took on complex flavours - its saltiness intensified and was beautifully offset by the pique-y quality of the sauce. It came with a generous glass of mystery wine.

The servers were all Italian, the pizza-maker himself being something of a star. Honestly, by the time I finished this meal, I wanted to marry him. Alas, he was entirely nonplussed as I stuttered over his pizza-making prowess. I got barely a nod.

Dessert was tiramisu - the rarified authentic sort (something that's not impossible to find in TO, but still, it's special wherever you do find it). It was a good portion, which I did not share with my husband. On recent glance, traces of cocoa powder are still adhered to my lip gloss.

We didn't mess this up with any vegetables, dammit. Now here's hoping we both keep it down.

Huis Clos

Oh, mes amis, where to begin? While Arles was a gentle introduction to the land of Southern France, Montpellier is quite another story altogether. To disclaim: I intend to bitch mercilessly in this post. Next post will be more balanced, be assured.

Yesterday, after an epic wander (to allow our apartment hosts to fix the toilet that had gone awry?!), including a hardy dinner and much booze, we headed back to said apartment to be abused for 8 fucking hours, by the moronic "guests" of a nearby house party. You know my stance on the house party, yes?

Perhaps I should begin by advising that I chose our lodgings with the most careful detail, eschewing price and cool features for the listing omnipresence of the phrase "quartier tranquil". Non-smoking was also consideration, what with my North American propensity to judge those who mistreat others by exposing them to carcinogens.

Here's my perspective: Don't disrespect those around you. You wanna smoke, go ahead - just don't make it non-stop, @20 packs in one night (it was a large party, people) across a close courtyard. You wanna make noise - well that's where I'm going hard ass. Shut the fuck up. I do not care to listen to you drunkenly sing fucking Miley Cyrus at 4 am. Your plaintive, inebriated shrieks of ennui do not amuse me and even less so for their entitled, adolescent mien.

I swear to God, I wanted to get on the phone and call everybody's mother. And then take them all out.

Now, this would be bad enough, if not for Scott's hideous bout of emergent food poisoning (we think it was food poisoning) which worsened throughout "the night that precluded sleep". At a certain point, we had to close the windows to protect our sanity from noise and smoke, which, of course led to near heatstroke. Let me tell you, these were some delightful conditions under which to puke up one's guts (in the most visceral of ways) for 2 hours, after 5 hours of abdominal distress.

I was very worried, to understate the matter, transfixed by thoughts of how we'd get ourselves to a hospital in the wee-hours of Saturday night in an entirely Catholic country. There isn't a pharmacy open today. I couldn't help but think: Fuck. This guy is 50 years old, not some teen with a gut of iron. (Note: In all ways but the digestive, my husband is a pillar of strength and youthful vigor which is why, when it comes to the stomach, he seems like such a mess. Not to mention, that he decided (against my vehement wishes) to eat a half-roast chicken (gnawing at the bones) purchased at a kiosk at an outdoor food market, earlier in the day. FWIW, my concern was not germs, but politesse. It's gross to eat a chicken with your fingers under the aqueduct.)

(On an amusing note: At the kiosk, Scott nicely asked the rather-attractive server to cut up the chicken into small pieces, to walk with, whereupon she looked at him derisively and said: Perhaps you'd like me to eat it for you too? Ah, those cultural stereotypes die hard.)

I have to be honest, after this night from hell, my faith in a) outdoor food markets and b) the French way has been shaken. At one point Scott sick-whispered that he desperately wanted to go home. He's since revised this perspective and has even eaten a couple of pain au chocolat. But I have to say, Montpellier's charms aside, it's going to be never before book travel to this part of France again. Bad weather keeps people inside with the doors closed, thereby encouraging them to impinge only on their own life-expectancies with alcohol poisoning and second-hand smoke.

Scandinavia in December is suddenly starting to look good.

Arles: A Round Up

Tomorrow we go from Arles to Montpellier, a bit south and somewhat west of where we are now. I am most definitely looking forward to the next part of the vacation (even as I continue to dwell on this one) but, as a writer in my heart, I cannot resist sharing early reflections on this delightful destination:

• I wanted a slow place, reminiscent (in terms of pace) of Quebec City. It is most definitely that. It is also surprisingly sexy - as long as you don't define sexy in terms of haute-luxury. It's very earthy.

• The atmosphere is languid and sultry. It feels like Spain in this part of the world. Of course, the French would have you know that Spain feels like France.

• The food is very good. I haven't hit the full-meal jackpot at a restaurant yet, but this dish was utterly fantastic: 

• There is lots of culture here, even though the town is on the small side. If you like museums, there are 3 of them (with worthwhile collections); if music or photography appeal, there are festivals for both in the summer. There's a Roman arena (the architectural claim to fame of Arles - only outdone by the Alyscamps, depending on whom you ask). There's Camarguaise bull-fighting at the arena - a totally bizarre spectacle. The fighting style in this region is non-violent (though mean, if you ask me).

Click on this photo to see the panoramic fabness in full size...

• It's gorgeously old here, in a vaguely creepy way. Streets meander into other streets. Detours return you to your starting point. People live here. They stay up all night - talking. It's noisy. It's messy. But it makes for atmospheric photos:

• Arles is all about its light. I can totally understand why everyone wants to decamp to Provence. The watery sunlight is spectacular, engaged in centuries of collaboration with the stones. It's is a player in this place, a guest at the table, an ancient friend. When the sun fades, the town loses a considerable portion of its luster (IMO). Happily, the sun seems to shine most of the time (and rain, while heavy, is not long-lasting).

• The temperature is fucking perfect - like 28C with no humidity. Honestly, I'm beginning to feel like I live in the shittiest part of the world for weather. It's always dull - or cold, or wet, or freezing, or like an oven or threatening to be one of those things. In my town, temperate weather is practically an unknown. It's is a trickster. Even in summer, it is unwise to leave the house without a sweater and an umbrella (and you're probably wearing pants). In Arles, you put on some shorts and a t shirt. You wear them out in the morning. The temperature is perfect. In the evening, you to wear the same shorts and top (or a little sundress, perhaps). The temperature continues to be perfect. It storms for an hour. While you watch the rain, you note that the temperature is perfect. Life, from this vantage point, is so tremendously easy. This experience has helped me to viscerally reaffirm my ever-deepening perspective that it's hard to live in a northern, interior city because every move you make takes foresight. I love not having to concern myself with the environment!

Lots of people suggested to me that there wouldn't be enough to do for 4 days in this one town but I am here to refute that. I was looking for a rest. An hour in the plaza with a glass of wine while people-watching. A day in the house napping and cooking and partying with my husband. A great meal at a tiny bistro. Walking through the streets and observing architectural gems. I'm not in this vacation for big box museums and attractions - and yet we've gone to museums and spectacles! So don't worry about not having adequate activity, unless you're looking to be in the fray.

And, if you want to know about a great venue, email me. This house is not perfect for everyone, but it might just be for you.

Breakfast (As Many Times As I Can Find It)

You may recall my love affair with pastry cream - especially when presented in a tart shell of pate sucree. Here's an example of the divine collaboration of eggs, cream, milk, sugar and vanilla:

Custard Flan, in the French style

This is not flan in the Spanish style (though, really, in every way except for food, Arles is effectively Spain. Note: Do not suggest this to the locals.*) The custard is more like yolk-y pastry cream. See the beautiful caramel glaze? It gives it a hint of smokey flavour that is offset by creamy-sweet vanilla in the most balanced way.

This tart is the equilibrium of all things: flavour, texture and simplicity.

* In a moment of insanity, I asked the counter server, at a patisserie, if she sold gateau Basque. Her response was a horrified: Vous me posez cette question en Provence??! (You have the nerve to ask me this in Provence??!) I am not generally culturally insensitive but this place feels SO French-meets-Spanish that it seems natural that one would find that delicacy (aka the best thing on the planet) here. The woman was actually quite friendly - she had a gleam in her eye when she took me to task - but I was momentarily afraid she might run me out of the store. Thank God we were alone or my embarrassment would have been palpable.

Ploughman's Lunch for Dinner in France

I wish everyone were eating this right now...

We went to the Wednesday market - apparently the small version of the one on Saturday. I cannot imagine the scale of Saturday's, given that we found everything - including wine - without a moment of hesitation. Mind you, I don't understand all the peeps who suggest that you buy dinner at the market to be frugal on hols. This spread cost more than 100 bucks - not that I begrudge it - though there is enough food for at least two meals.

The menu:

Wine: Chateauneuf-du-Pape - L'angelus (Scott says it's "sort of angry". I don't agree... Mind you, he's drinking it.)
Cured Pork: Caillasse de Savoie Fumee. No refrigeration. Mind you, it's half gone.
Tomato (insanely awesome varietal)
Sundried tomato tapanade (Lord...)
Baguette / Olive Oil
Locally cured olives, brined with citrus, hot peppers, sweet peppers and spice
Selection of Local Cheeses - can't remember name of either but do not put them in the fridge!
Cherries - delicious and I don't like cherries
Grapes
Peach
Artisanal Nougat (Caramel and pecan)
Chocolate (Suite 88 from Montreal) - fleur de sel, sucre d'erable

Now, if only this ancient townhouse had a dishwasher...