I’m heading for Paris, and discovered this video — by a brilliant travel guru named Steve Ricks — filled with tips as well as inspiration. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. (Nice work, Steve, but those glasses just have to go.)
If you can’t see the video below, watch it on YouTube.
Last week, sitting down to a traditional fried breakfast in an early-19th-century steel master’s mansion in England’s Ironbridge Gorge (birthplace of the Industrial Revolution), I reviewed ways people had spiced up and given meaning to my travels in the past month.
Collin, who ran the B&B I was enjoying, topped up my coffee and showed me a photo of an industrial wasteland with his stately brick home standing like some weary war survivor in its midst. Today, his delightful house stands in a lush river valley welcoming guests like pilgrims to the place where iron was first produced in the modern way. As his wife, Sara, brought my toast on a rack, I asked about the marmite. She explained to me what the beef-yeast spread was, and that “even the adverts admit you either love it or hate it.”
A few days before that in Paris, under dangling lamps and a heavy subterranean stone vault a block from the Louvre, I spent a tasty and fascinating two hours with Olivier, a passionate young sommelier. He makes his living explaining the fine points of French wine to travelers. Between the pouring and sipping, he shared the basics with random insights: “Riesling works well both in the Alsace and in Russia. A French Alsatian vintner was offered big money to make wine in Russia. He refused, saying, ‘Here, I have the privilege of being from somewhere.'”
A few days before that, in Finland, a man sat naked next to me beating himself with birch twigs while explaining the importance of opening the pores, stimulating circulation, letting out toxins, and relaxing in a place “where there are no bosses and all are equal.”
A week before that, I met Marianne from Berlin, who’d been hiking alone across Spain on the ancient pilgrims’ Way of Saint James. With her floppy backpack dangling carelessly from her tiny frame and backlit goldilocks, she talked with a pilgrim’s philosophy as if singing children’s rhymes. She spoke as if she were a real saint come to earth. Talking with her, I felt like I had just entered a Botticelli painting.
And, packing up after that Ironbridge Gorge breakfast, I was heading west…knowing that, in a couple of hours, I’d cross another border, where I just knew someone would tell me why in heaven they speak Welsh.
If there’s one thing that keeps me enthusiastic about traveling in Europe and teaching European travel, it’s the beauty of connecting people with people. Maybe it sounds trite. But that fact can’t be over-emphasized. If you’re not connecting with people in your travels, you’re missing out.
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Olivier Magny, a young sommelier, gathers tourists in a royal French wine cellar a block from the Louvre. Two crude lamps hang under a rustic vault. Before us, sparkling empty glasses await an impressive array of fine French wines. As we drink, Olivier gives us a wonderful commentary. I’m no wine expert and would never claim to be, but I learned a lot. Here’s what I gleaned (from my rough notes):
White wine should be clear…if not, it’s Spanish.
Acidity is like salt. It gives wine character. “Legs,” a.k.a. “tears,” indicates how much sugar is in the wine. Dry wine has fewer legs; sweet wine has more and faster-running legs.
Americans need to break out of their four favorite words to describe the taste of wine: “dry, sweet, fruity, oaky.” When you sip a little wine and then suck air in, it exaggerates the character. You’re not making it better, but bringing out its flavors, so that it’s easier to identify the characteristics of that particular wine.
The Champagne region defended its name and therefore has a strong image today. The Chablis region did not, so winegrowers outside of France used the name and made it cheaply. Today the real Chablis is better than its reputation.
Terroir (pronounced “tehr-wah”) is a uniquely French concept. The French don’t call a wine by the grape’s name. Two wines can be made of the same grape, but be of very different character because of their terroir. A real Chablis made from the Chardonnay grape is better than Chardonnays made elsewhere because of its terroir. Terroir is “somewhere-ness,” a combination of the macro- and microclimate, soil, geology, and culture (the accumulated experience of the people and their craft).
Grapevines are creepers, with roots going through the topsoil and into the geology deep down. The roots are commonly 150 feet long and deep. While topsoil can be influenced by the vintner, the deep geology cannot; and this gives the wine a distinct character. The French do not allow irrigation, thus forcing the grapes to search deep for water.
Riesling works well both in the Alsace and in Russia. A French Alsatian vintner was offered big money to make wine in Russia. He refused, saying, “Here, I have the privilege of being from somewhere.”
There are two basic kinds of wine in this world: that of big growers and that of little growers. Big business works better for wine in places like Argentina and Australia (where 90 percent of the wine is made by three companies). Most French wine is still made by thousands of small, independent, and passionate vintners.
The French are not enthusiastic about oak barrels. A French vintner went to a wine conference in California, where the wine is shaped by oak barrels. When pressed to comment on California wines, he said, “I don’t like oak shaping my wine. When I drink Californian wine, I feel like I’m kissing Pinocchio.” (Actually, he had a more graphic way of describing it.) Without the focus on oak-barrel aging, and because of the business environment that encourages small outfits, French wine is lighter and more diverse.
Because of global climate change, wine in general is sweeter these days. A grape can’t be harvested properly until it’s both sweet enough and the tannins are right. This used to happen at about the same time. But lately the grapes are sweet enough many days before the tannin level is ready. Consequently, when the tannins are right and the grapes can be harvested, they are sweeter than is optimal. Before, the average wine was 11 percent alcohol; now it’s 13 percent.
The average French bottle sells for €3.60 (about $4.50). Bordeaux makes half of all French wine; that’s more than all the wine produced in the US. Everyone wants Bordeaux Grand Cru, and that demand drives up the price. That’s why Bordeaux, while very good, is overpriced. Burgundy makes only 3 percent of French wine. Because of its reputation and the demand, it is overpriced as well.
Back when rooms were cooler, the idea that red wine is best drunk at room temperature was established. But room temperature is higher now than it used to be. Consequently, many restaurants serve their reds too warm. It’s perfectly acceptable to ask for it to be chilled. Five or ten minutes in the fridge, and it’ll be just right.
People like their cars and dishwashers made in Germany, not in France. And they want their wines French, not German. Since World War II, the French have lifted their glasses and — after bottoms-up — said, “That’s one thing the Germans won’t take from us.”
Generally, in France you’ll get light wines in the north, and big, full-bodied wines in the south (where it’s sunnier). Big name (e.g., Bordeaux, Burgundy) means big price. Small name (e.g., Languedoc, Sud-Ouest) means potentially better value. Languedoc can be a great value for a big syrah. A high-end Languedoc costs less than a low-end Bordeaux. Of the thousand different grapes that make good wine, 10 are famous. Break out and experiment.
Merci, Olivier! (For more on his Paris wine-tastings, see www.o-chateau.com.)
Santé!
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To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is Paris’ best market street, Rue Cler.
As a guidebook researcher and travel writer, I’m inclined to look for the “ultimate” in each category: the ultimate medieval walled town in Germany (Rothenburg), the ultimate prehistoric stone fortress in Ireland (Dún Aenghus), the ultimate castle setting in Castile (Consuegra), the ultimate Riviera port town (Vernazza), the ultimate German enclave in Romania (Sighisoara), the ultimate medieval castle interior (Reifenstein castle, in northern Italy), the ultimate hike in England’s Lake District (Catbells above Keswick), the ultimate neighborhood pub in London (The Anglesea Arms, in South Kensington), the ultimate castle in North Wales (nope, I still can’t pick just one)…and the ultimate pedestrian market street in Paris (Rue Cler).
Travelers want “top tens”…favorites. Even our Smithsonian magazine project was driven by the appetite for readers and travelers to know The Best. We needed to offer not just “20 great destinations,” but Europe’s “top 20 destinations.” The new phenomenon in travel publishing is the demand for “top ten” books. I’ll play along, but who can really say “the best” or the “top ten”? (Perhaps that’s why I included England’s Blackpool in the Smithsonian “top 20” — just to playfully punk the whole notion.)
As consumers of information that shapes our travels, we need to see these lists for what they are: not the top, but a collection of favorites. In my work, once I declare a place “the best” or “the ultimate,” I know a rising tide of visitors will wash away some of its magic, and I need to be out there looking for a successor or another place in order to dilute the crowds. As far as Paris’ Rue Cler goes, you’d think there would be a bevy of pedestrian-only market streets with village charm offering alternative opportunities to feel the pulse of a Parisian neighborhood. Every time I get a suggestion, I track it down. And it doesn’t top my favorite. Rue Cler is tough to beat.
To me, Bamberg is really good, but it’s no Rothenburg. Santa Margherita Ligure is really good, but it’s no Vernazza. Burg Eltz is really good, but it’s no Reifenstein. The circular rock forts of the Ring of Kerry are really good, but they are no Dún Aenghus. And, in Paris, Rue Montorgueil is really good, but it’s no Rue Cler. Collect the bests. But as you sort through all the superlatives and all those “bests’ and “ultimates,” go ahead and disagree. Don’t let some fancy travel writer limit your freedom to find your own ultimates.
Let me stoke your travel dreams for 2009 by sharing some of my favorite European experiences, roughly from northwest to southeast. Maximizing the experience is a dimension of smart budget travel that’s just as important in challenging times as saving money. Imagine these…
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Many abhor the French passion for la gavage — the force-feeding of their geese. To learn about the tradition, walk through the idyllic French farmland with a Dordogne farmer, surrounded by a hundred happy geese, dragging their enlarged livers like loaded diapers. On a visit to a gavagefarm, feel the rhythm of life for a goose…taste a slice of that glorious foie gras…and be thankful you’re tops on the food chain.
People visit Paris’ St. Sulpice Cathedral to worship, to track down a scene from Da Vinci Codelegend, and to climb into the loft to see perhaps Europe’s greatest pipe organ played by Europe’s greatest pipe organist. After Mass, a tiny green door in the back pops open. Join a gang of organ aficionados and scamper like sixteenth notes up a tight spiral staircase to the dusty loft. Pass 19th-century Stairmasters upon which men once tread — filling the billows that powered the mighty organ — and enter the ramshackle loft where a venerable lineage of world-class organists have performed. The current organist, Daniel Roth, graciously welcomes visitors each Sunday. Rest your chin on the historic organ, and watch as Mssr. Roth powers an entire church with his mastery of the mighty bank of keyboards.
You can read about the carnage as German and French soldiers slaughtered each other day after day on the Western Front. Or you can wander silently through fields of white crosses at the vast World War I cemetery at Verdun — realizing that less than a century ago, that horrific battle of attrition left half of all the men in France between the ages of 15 and 30 as casualties. You’ll come away with a deeper understanding of why, to this day, France is reluctant to go to war.
In Beaune, surrounded by the hallowed vineyards of Burgundy, the venerable Marche aux Vins (wine market) welcomes serious wine buyers and tourists in a subterranean, candlelit world, where fine wines sit seductively on old oak kegs, just waiting to be tasted. Pick up a tastevin(shallow stainless steel tasting dish) and a shopping basket, descend into dimly lit caverns, and work your way through the proud selection. Sampling a world of $100 bottles in the company of people who live for their fine wine can be both inspirational and intoxicating.
Summit the Rock of Gibraltar by taxi or cable car to find yourself at a unique perch: the only place on earth where you can see two continents and two seas come together. Gaze out at Africa and notice the energy in the straits. Ponder the action where two bodies of water meet, creating choppy riptides where little fish gather, attracting big fish, who attract fishermen. Consider the action at this meeting point of two great civilizations — Islam and Christendom — rubbing like cultural tectonic plates for 1,300 years. Then ape with the monkeys who call the Rock home and couldn’t care less.
In Santiago de Compostela, in the northwest corner of Spain, stand in front of the cathedral at mid-morning to greet the daily batch of well-worn pilgrims completing the Camino de Santiago. For centuries, humble seekers have hiked from Pairs and points all over Europe to this spot. With leathery faces, tattered pants, and frayed walking sticks, they plant their hiking boots victoriously on the scallop shell symbol of St. James imbedded in the square, look up at the cathedral that marks the end of their journey, and are overcome with jubilation.