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Destination: Paris

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Euro Experiences from NW to SE — Part IV

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.

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Fine Pianos and Cheese

When you travel, enjoy the cultural wonders. I used to be put off by those sophisticates in Europe. They’re so into their fine wine and stinky cheese, and even the cultural soil that created it all. But now I love being the cultural bumpkin.

Sure, I’m simple. I was raised thinking cheese is orange and the shape of the bread. Slap it on and…voilà! Cheese sandwich. Over there, cheese is not orange nor the shape of the bread. In France alone, you could eat a different cheese every day of the year. And it wouldn’t surprise me if people did. These people are passionate about their cheese.

I love it when my favorite restaurateur in Paris, Marie-Alice, takes me shopping in the morning and shows me what’s going to shape the menu tonight. She takes me into her favorite cheese shop. It’s a festival of mold. Picking up the moldiest, gooiest wad, Marie-Alice takes a deep whiff, and groans ecstatically, “Oh, Rick, smell zees cheese. It smells like zee feet of angels.”

I’m her wide-eyed student. It’s fun to be on the receiving end of all that cultural, gastronomic, and regional pride. I see it as a learning opportunity. Thankfully people are sophisticated about different things, and when we have the opportunity to meet the expert, it can be good for all.

While my father doesn’t know the first thing about cheese, he is sophisticated about pianos. He was a piano tuner in Seattle, and he imported fine pianos from Europe. When I was young, he took me to the Bösendorfer factory in Vienna, where the world’s finest pianos were made. I remember thinking they weren’t made — they were birthed. Touring the factory, which fills a former monastery, we learned how the wood was aged and the imported felt was made from just the right sheep’s wool. In each of the former monks’ cells, they proudly produced only two pianos per worker per year. The result of this lovingly labor-intensive production process: each piano had its own personality.

I remember going to Vienna on those first trips with my dad. Back in the late ’60s and early ’70s, I’d join him on a flight to Vienna. They’d line up five or six of these grand pianos — the finest and most expensive in the world. I’d hop from bench to bench playing them as my dad would analyze the personality of each, matching it with his client’s taste back in Seattle. He’d make the selection, autograph the sounding board, they’d put it in a box, and ship it to some lucky American pianist. Bringing that Old World quality to the New World was the joy of my dad’s work.

While this old-time quality is gone — a casualty of our mass-produced modern world — perhaps having seen this is one of the reasons I’m enthusiastic about sharing the fine points of European culture. Bösendorfers may no longer be produced with such loving care. But, thankfully, the cheese still smells like zee feet of angels.

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A Bum Under a Floodlit Cathedral

A magazine recently asked me a few questions to get an American’s take on France. I thought my responses might be blog-worthy:

Tell me about your first visit to France.
My first memories were as a 14-year-old schoolboy: gazing up at the Arc de Triomphe, thinking it looks old but isn’t; discovering the wonders of a crêpe with sugar and butter; venturing into a subway system for the first time, then emerging to turn the corner and see the Eiffel Tower…and thinking, “I love to travel.”

What aspect of the French culture do you like the most?
The way smart people do things differently than we do, with no apologies. The way proud people are not bullied by American ethnocentrism. I was raised thinking cheese is orange and the shape of the bread. I am humbled to find people evangelical about fine cheese. I am inspired by French people who find their niche in life (whether it be doctor, lawyer, baker, or tour guide) and fill it with pride and panache.

How good is your French?
My French is terrible. I quit French in high school when I couldn’t remember the many variations of the sound “uhn” in French. I am tone-deaf to French (unlike Italian or German, which I find much easier).

What is your favourite French museum?
France is filled with great museums. These few come to mind: The Marc Chagall Museum (actually designed by the artist) in Nice; Unterlinden Museum (with the Isenheim Altarpiece) in Colmar; and Paris’ newly renovated Orangerie (with Monet’s Water Lilies and much more) are all great. The Jacquemart-André Museum in Paris offers an intimate peek into the domestic world of 19th-century aristocratic France. The Caen Memorial Museum is great for WWII.

What or where, in your opinion, is France’s best-kept secret?
I can be in Lyon and enjoy an elegant French urban scene with no hint of crass tourism.

Many Americans choose to visit Paris. Where can you recommend that is off the beaten track?
See Paris as a collection of villages. Find a village street and — as a temporary local — shop, taste, and browse your way down it with all the Parisians. Some of my favorite moments in Paris (and I can’t vouch for the safety) have come when walking around late at night. Jardin du Palais Royal, Place des Vosges, Ile St. Louis, Ile de la Cité…delightful just before bedtime.

Tell me about a memorable meal you’ve had in France?
(Given the state of our dollar, I’ll use a humble meal.) I was munching a baguette with Emmentaler cheese and sipping my box of juice on a bench in front of the floodlit Chartres cathedral. The bum on the next bench leaned over. We both acknowledged how life is good, and this Gothic church — glowing against a starry night sky — was gorgeous. And he reached his hand out with a plastic bottle to offer me a sip of red wine.

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Getting Cozy with the Language Barrier

In Aurora, Illinois, I agreed to have breakfast with the winners of a “funniest story in my travels” contest before I gave my talk.

When I’m on a lecture tour, to be honest, I am focused on the big groups. (And I am amazed at how talking to a 500 people at once can be less demanding of my energy than talking to individuals before or after a talk.) Climbing down the stairs that morning, I went into the breakfast room a little tired and feeling sorry for myself.

The dozen travelers assembled were a delight and I thoroughly enjoyed the breakfast meeting I was not looking forward to. Conversation thrived as the well-traveled gang shared favorite memories of past trips — many were the results of little mishaps, generally caused by the language barrier. Here are my two favorite stories among the winners:

Dear Rick,

On my first trip to Paris several years ago, I was exploring on my own and decided to visit the Musée D’Orsay. I had a museum pass, but the line to get into the museum was still very long. People were standing very close together outside, waiting to enter.

It was a chilly spring day, and I had my left hand holding on to my shoulder bag, while my right hand was tucked into my coat pocket. Suddenly, I felt a gentle touch on my right arm; I turned my head and saw a well-dressed, nice-looking older woman standing next to me. She had linked her left arm through my right arm, and she was smiling happily, looking off to our right.

I thought, “Don’t be an Ugly American and make a scene! She’s not doing any harm, and maybe this is just something they do in France to be friendly. Chill out, relax, and see what happens.”

We stood in line together peacefully for about ten minutes, until the line finally started to move. At that point she glanced at my face and her expression turned to one of absolute horror. She pulled her arm away from mine, turned around and ran away.

I guess she must have gotten separated from her original companion, and I never did see her again, but I was very proud of myself for having kept my “savoir faire” that day.

Thanks for reading my story! Maria C, Oak Park IL

Dear Rick,

My husband and I booked a one-week hotel package at the beach in Italy. We experienced the worst July week at the Adriatic Sea in decades: it rained the whole week. My husband and I had caught a cold and sore throat which were getting worse. My husband decided to buy some Contac (US cold remedy). Being a foreign language teacher, I impressed on him to pronounce the vowels the Italian way (“kohn talk”). He came back and said, yes, he found some.

Before going to bed, I asked him for the “Contac” when I pulled two flat boxes out of the paper bag it was clear that he did not buy “Contac.” The Italian label on the boxes was CONTACTO D’AMORE. He had purchased prophylactics.

Now things became clear to my husband. The (English) conversation in the pharmacy had been difficult. The person had asked him if he wanted 2 or 4. My husband said “Give me 4, my wife has a cold too.” He recalled the clerk giving him a really puzzled look.

Since the product was fairly pricey and my husband was reluctant to return it, I went to the pharmacy and explained the whole thing again. The clerk politely asked me to wait and went to the back of the store. There was a conversation in a low voice and then muffled laughter from the pharmacy staff.

Happy travels, Petra T, Aurora, Il.