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No, I did not drop off the edge of the world. We went to France—southern France. In December. Not exactly the southern France of the Cannes Film Festival and the Riviera, but at least we had no crowds.
December 6 and 8 are holidays here, and this year they fell on a Monday and Wednesday, so of course everyone took the 7th off as well, creating another 5 day weekend. When a holiday falls on a Thursday or Tuesday, and you get the Friday/Monday off as well, it’s called a Puente, or bridge. When you get two extra days off, it’s called an aqueducto. I like this practice. We had no internet access at our French home, so I did not write. And, even though we returned to Barcelona on Wednesday night, somehow I had gotten out of the blogging groove. I’m back.
We did a home exchange with a lovely retired couple who live near Montpellier. Montpellier is not technically part of Provence, but it’s close. Margareda, who is Swedish, met Alain 40 years ago when she came to France to study the language. And she never went back. The house we stayed in used to belong to Alain’s mother. Situated on a small canal in the village of Mauguio near the sea, it basically functioned as a hunting and fishing cottage. When she died, Alain and Margareda completely renovated it and now spend time there when they want to get away. It is small and cozy—painted bright yellow throughout, with a fireplace and local linens on the tables and bed. The large fenced yard was perfect for the kids, who “fished” in the canal and looked for flamingos and other shore birds.
We are a family that travels on our stomach. Long ago I stopped feeling guilty for not spending most of my travel time in church after church, obscure museum after obscure museum. Rather than punctuating our sightseeing with quick stops to refuel, we create our travel agendas around food markets, pastry shops, and restaurants we want to try.
We left Barcelona around 5 pm on Friday and set off for the 3 ½ hour drive. We ate our first French meal at a rest area not far over the border and, not surprisingly, it left a lot to be desired. Even in France, rest stop food is rest stop food. There were a few notable differences, however. For example, the plastic flowers for sale in the vending machine (see photo). And the two grand pianos—one pink—that graced the dining room. We arrived shortly after 10 pm and met Margareda and Alain on the road near their house so that they could help us find it. They had stocked the house with wine—red, white, and rose—along with breadfast fixings. They oriented us to local sites on a map, we gave them our keys, and they were on their way.
On Saturday we drove to Montpellier and, arriving hungry, looked right away for a place to have lunch. We found one that claimed to be good for families in our guide book, and went straight there. It looked a little nicer than the family restaurants we’re accustomed to, and had higher prices to match, but we decided that getting food into our bodies was top priority. Alec and I had terrific and inventive fish dishes, and we ordered the 15 euro kids’ menus for C.C. and Milo. Unfortunately, both Alec and I swore the waiter said the main course was poulet (chicken), but what showed up was salmon, which neither of them touched. Clearly, our French was rusty.
After paying $18 each for our kids to eat a lot of French bread and butter, and the ice cream that came with their meals, we walked through the old town which featured a large holiday market, and got them waffles with chocolate sauce. It was cold, and I had a cup of hot mulled wine, which totally hit the spot.
Sunday is market day in Mauguio, and Margareda had told us it was a really good market that lots of people travelled to. We set out in the morning, excited despite the chilly grey drizzle, and bought amazing cheeses, two kinds of honey, olives, chicken sausage, bread, croissants, a marinated duck leg, local mussels and oysters, and home made harissa. After dropping our market booty back home, we set out again for two nearby seaside towns—Grand Motte, an odd, 1970s era planned resort that we were told “must be seen”; I don’t think I agree. And Aigues-Morte, a 13th century walled village with enormous towers at each corner, one of which housed the Bourginons killed during a particular battle. The corpses were so numerous that they had to be stacked inside, each layer covered with a thick blanket of salt to keep them from smelling too much. Indeed, this is sea salt country, and we drove past the Baleine plant that seems to stock every Whole Foods and gourmet grocery in the US. On this particular day, mostly deserted Aigues-Morte hosted a western-themed telethon. One of the buildings on the main plaza had its doors flung open so that the country music echoed across the ancient buildings. We peeked in and saw a horde of line dancers whooping it up, many of them dressed in acqua suede cowboy boots and matching shirts. Sometimes you come across strange things when you travel.
That night Alec cooked our mussels, provencal style of course, and they were delicious. We each ate huge bowls of them and sopped up the sauce with our baguette, all for about $4.00 total.
We decided we were more interested in seeing small villages than larger cities, so the next day we drove beyond Arles to the town of St. Remy de Provence, which used to be owned by Princess Caroline’s family and is now just beautiful. And it houses a fabulous chocolate shop—Joel Durand, chocolate, where we all got a little delirious. My favorite? The salted caramel and dark chocolate bars. I have not yet tried the ice cream sauces we brought back, but I’ve been nibbling my way through the other treats. www.chocolat-durand.com.
After walking around some incredible Roman ruins outside the city, we drove the short distance to Les Baux de Provence, another medieval hill town with a gorgeous view, and enjoyed walking the mostly deserted streets. We’ve figured out that medieval walled cities are a sweet spot for us because we can browse shops or sit and eat a nice lunch while the kids run around outside. Most of these villages are entirely pedestrian or have very few cars.
On Tuesday—another day with no sun--we lazed around the house in the morning and then drove toward Saintes Marie de la Mer. Note that it’s Saintes Marie, not just one Saint Marie. The story goes that after Jesus was crucified, the three Marys who were the first to see him resurrected—Mary Magdalene, Jesus’s Aunt Mary (his mother’s sister, who was also named Mary) and another Mary, took off from Egypt in a boat that had no sail and no oars. They were joined by Black Sarah, a servant from Egypt. Somehow, they wound up in the south of France. Take a look at a map—this is long way to go without sails and oars. But I supposed they had other forces on their side. Anyway, there are now enormous pilgrimages to this town every year; like most activities that take place in this neck of the woods, the pilgrimages are in the summer. A lower chapel of the church in town is devoted to Sarah, who was also sainted at some point. The chapel features a statue of Sarah dressed in a gaudy, sparkly dress that’s a few sizes too big and a fake tiara. People light candles and leave notes and plaques—asking for favors or thanking her for miracles. We lit candles for Grandpa Joe and Hoover, and the kids drew some pictures to stuff into the message box. Even though my Dad did not go to Catholic church much during my lifetime, the smell of the incense and the candles—and all of those Marys—make me feel close to him.
That night Alec grilled our market chicken sausages over the fire, and we heated up some Riesling cooked sauerkraut that we had also bought at the market. Delicious.
Wednesday we had to pack up and head out. We took a detour to the village of Carcassonne—another medieval, walled village. The kids played knights and dragons while we ate cassoulet and vegetable soup out on the terrace of one of the restaurants that stays open in winter. It was warm in the sun and the views were incredible.
So ours was not the Provence of bright sun and impossibly purple lavender fields. But it is a beautiful part of the world nonetheless.
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