What now? Bonne question.

It was not like I had imagined. No lobster with bay leaves and star anise. No heated debate about French wine. And no real connection at all with my favorite Top Chef. I'm sorry to disappoint you all...I was truly hoping to have some juicy gossip after dining with Josh on recently at Mattin's San Francisco restaurant, Iluna Basque. I did manage a nervous smile as Mattin strode past our table on his way to the kitchen. And somehow my motor skills prevailed as I my hand met his in the good ol' informal American handshake when Josh introduced us. I was hoping for the typical French double-cheek kiss (les bises), but that's not the way the packaged, preservative-filled Nabisco cookie crumbles in California.

Harsh, I know. I didn't mean it. And before you label me a pretentious frog, slap a beret on my head, and export me back to France, please know that I will always be a Californian girl at heart. Although the grass may seem greener in France, I do know that the grass is not actually greener. I never took off my rose-colored glasses over there, but unfortunately that was the first thing I did when I got home. (After consuming a spoonful of peanut butter, of course. First things first). Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that I was braver in France because I had to be. Which opened a lot of doors for me. And California is stereotyped by the world at large as the hippie state, but conversely I found that my head was in the clouds as I frolicked around Europe. Call me crazy, but I think that's a great thing! There is something je ne sais quoi that I felt there and am now craving again like a French macaroon or a White Burgundy.

This is not to say that I couldn't satisfy that appetite here, but the forces of reverie are actually combining with the forces of practicality! It's hard to turn down a world-reknowned winemaking program...in France...with local winemakers...that is essentially free...and open to étrangères, comme moi! Of course, I must do more research and paperwork (not mention fatten up my wallet enough to get me ovet there). But now that my nonexistent relationship with Mattin has flopped, I have nothing holding me back.

Except you, dear reader. It's so great to see you again. You haven't aged a bit in three months. And if I pull through with these grandiose plans, you're welcome to squeeze in my suitcase next to my hiking shoes when I fly to France next September! Otherwise, I will miss you too much.

Love, Dani California

The Last Supper

After a mere month and a half, Charnay has completely transformed.  Snow adorns the distant mountain tops, the sky is painted with sparkling silvers and heavy grays, and the colorful autumn foliage has abandoned the now naked vines.  So this is what is it like to have seasons.

But in France some things never change.  For instance, Saturday night was devoted to one of those typical French five-hour long feasts.  However, this dinner was not so typical.  Forty of the Texier's closest friends and family cozied up in Charnay's only restaurant to celebrate Eric's tenth year of winemaking.  Clearly, the event called for more than just a simple glass of bubbly.  The guest of honor himself hand-picked a generous supply of treasures from his personal cellar, some of them with nearly illegible labels through the accumulation of dust over several years.  And I had the good fortune of befriending another winemaking guest, Helene, from the Cotes du Rhone early in the evening and sitting beside him at dinner.  This guest just so happened to be Eric's tasting soulmate, and Eric kept returning to our section of the table with new glasses to be evaluated.  The two of them were quite cute actually, like little boys comparing their new toys the day after Christmas.  With my limited French, I couldn't interpret all of their detailed taste descriptions, but emphatic bulging eyes, head jerks, and raised eyebrows informed me which wines were especially worthy of inspection.  Helene and I agreed that the definite winner of the night was a 1991 Cornas that tingled the roof of the mouth, tickled the brain, and warmed the heart.  With only three days left of my trip, I can't imagine a better send-off.

This morning I took my last run through the countryside, inhaling the crisp winter air and soaking in the scenery one last time.  I whispered my au revoirs to everything I encountered on the path...to the donkey next door, to the snow-topped mountains in the distance, even to the scatterings of horse poop on the road.  Oh, how I will miss you.  Okay, maybe I have the slight over-indulgence in wine from last night to blame for such crazed sentimentality.  Or maybe that's just the power that La Belle France has over me.     

Bordeaux is Bor-delicieux

As I give my (temporary) au revoirs to Bordeaux from my window seat on the train, I begin to realize that this famous wine mecca is a world of its own.  And within this complex world exist a variety of different regions.  Trying to explore as many of them as possible in a mere few days was a daring feat that I could only have accomplished with the help of a few overly generous friends...

Medoc: Though I spent most of my visit in this region with a dish rag in hand as I helped chef Alain Briant (see last entry), I would have done more unpleasant tasks (cleaning the horses’ stables?) in order to have the rare opportunity to spend the day in a beautiful chateau in Margaux.

Cotes de Bourg: talk about southern hospitality.  And I’m actually talking about the American variety!  Technically a family friend twice removed (and essentially a total stranger), Phillip from North Carolina allowed me to be the excited puppy in the passenger seat of his car while he went about his weekend tasks.  A young aspiring winemaker himself, he not only had great advice and stories but also served as an insider’s tour guide.  Our adventures in Cotes de Bourg include:

• A (perhaps prolonged) lecture on Malbec followed by a tasting of the varietal as produced from various regions around the world.  And had I known I would be clinking glasses with some of the head honchos in Bordeaux winemaking, I would have spit into the buckets a bit more gracefully.
• Spending the night in Chateau de la Grave, where a beautiful family is living the dream.  A humble chateau amidst curving hills of vines, three adorable children, six cats, and a continuously roaring fireplace…I was about ready to offer my services as maid and move in permanently!  Phillip and I huddled with the winemaker and his children around the fire, grooving to tropical tunes from Martinique, munching on gambasses avec citron vert, and sipping on the estate’s very own sparkling white wine.

Saint Emilion: as if one spectacular chateau wasn’t enough, we lunched at Phillip’s home and "office", Chateau Monlot, the next day with fellow Californian(!) girls who are studying for the semester at the university in Bordeaux.  The girls' ever-familiar “Oh my God’s!” reminded me to pinch myself to be sure that I wasn’t living a dream.  After pasta and homemade tomato sauce at the chateau, we ventured into the little village atop the hill to catch views of the prized terroir and snack on Saint Emilion’s famed chocolate macaroons. 

Sauternes: Though it is difficult to imagine people living in Bordeaux whose calendars are not determined by the vines, my motherly hostess, Catherine, was largely indifferent to wine apart from the honey-sweet Sauternes.  Thus, on Monday, she, Thierry from Paris, and I ventured by car through torrential rain to the small town to warm our souls with golden goblets.  As we passed around and compared three different samples of Sauternes wine, we did some detective work to locate Catherine’s American friend—and my new hero—Cedar.  Cedar met us in the café and, with sparkling blue eyes and a flawless French accent, she described how she grew up in the Bay Area of California, married a French man in San Francisco, and now is single-handedly managing and making the wine for the estate Chateau Hautes Graves that her father-in-law is passing down to her.  Oh, and she is renovating their lovely home in Sauternes and taking care of three children at the same time.  Can you see why she is my hero?

I have to confess that I came to Bordeaux a bit skeptical.  After finding a home in the Rhone Valley, I was worried that I would find the fame and pretense of the area a bit standoffish.  But the genuine kindness, hospitality, and joie de vivre of the people I encountered there leave me craving another glass.

Canard with cranberry sauce...a new Thanksgiving tradition?

Okay, Mattine.  I’ve changed my mind.  Let’s settle down in the Basque country ASAP.  It seems to have everything we need: the French countryside, unbeatable local cuisine, Spain within a short drive, and the endless coastline.  I’ll give you my final answer once I’ve explored the nearby wine country in the unabashedly famous Bordeaux region.

As you can see, even after all the beautiful new places I’ve seen in the past weeks, Biarritz swept me off my feet.  Almost literally, because each time I strolled along the coastal path, crashing waves threatened to leap over the barriers and pummel me over.  The swells of this well-established surfing mecca rival even the monsters of the North Shore in Oahu.  Though I can hardly complain about traveling along the serene aqua blue water of the Mediterranean these past few weeks, I didn’t realize how much I missed the power of the ocean until I heard the ever-familiar roar of a collapsing wave.  I never realized I could find such reckless and uncontrollable natural force in cozy, calm, quaint little France.  But my short time in Biarritz was limited by another unprecedented adventure…

I felt like I was on Top Chef myself, Mattine.  Fleshy slabs of raw salmon adorned the end of a long table, where soft avocados, crisp bell peppers, fresh herbs, and glimmering silver knives awaited an uncertain culinary destiny.  Little did I know that when my French chef friend, Alain, invited me to a cooking party in Bordeaux, I was to be the one providing the entertainment.  My mission: to instruct a group of sophisticated foodies on preparing a raw salmon dish…of which I had no idea how to make…in French.  Bonne chance à moi!  Unfortunately, the professional look of my apron and chef hat did not lend me any extra sense of confidence.  Padma and Tom would have told me to pack up my knives and leave immediately, but luckily these people—who worked for the esteemed Nestle company—seemed to know their way around the kitchen.  And though I was essentially a slave of the kitchen the entire day from 7:00 in the morning to 5:30 in the evening, I did sneak a few taste tests of the creamy eggplant-zucchini-mushroom risotto.  But after seeing the mounds of uneaten magret du canard with cranberry sauce go to waste while the staff didn’t have so much as a five-minute lunch break, I’ve decided that working in the restaurant industry is not my scene.  I’d prefer to be a humble cellar rat.  Mattine, I don’t know how you handle the confusing world of white table clothes and culinary experiences that involve at least three forks for a single meal.  You could serve me entrecote et potates dauphinoise from a dog bowl for all I care and I would still love it.  And you, of course.

Muthas grathias, Barcelona

I have to wonder if a common side effect of visiting Barcelona is the development of Attention Deficit Disorder.  When a new source of entertainment can be found at every turn—whether it be a costumed street artist, a buzzing café, or a new art exposition—you almost have to limit your attention span in order to absorb it all.  Yet at the same time, the Catalonians live a very relaxed life, with the inevitable consequence that a shop owner may not open this doors on time for the day…or even at all, if he decides to take a grand siesta.  In fact, I learned that tapas were invented after so many workers decided to indulge in a little too much vino at lunch time.  The tooth-pick skewered snacks were meant to help leisurely lunchers stay sharp enough to ride their scooters back to the office in the afternoon.  Luckily, the tapas trend is here to stay, so we can all sample spanish omelettes, grilled mushrooms, and jamon serrano without blowing the bank.

With such temptations, it is not surprising that the city was bustling with tourists even at this time of year.  After experiencing the sheep-herd mentality that is Las Ramblas in late November, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like in the summer (schools of fish?).  Which is why I feel so lucky to have had my first real “small world” moment of my trip in such a huge city.  The wine bottles lining the walls of Shillings on Saturday beckoned me into the cozy café, where I settled into a stool at the bar.  My American accent gave me away, and soon I began chatting with the bearded man beside me.  In no time we discovered that we both not only lived in the Bay Area, but also that he goes to Cal and lives about three blocks from the winery I worked at!  We reminisced about Berkelian things (tuition fees, protests, nerds, etc.) until his Barcelona-dwelling American expat friend, Alex, met us.  Alex modestly introduced himself as from “a small town outside New York” (translation: New Jersey), but it was obvious that Barcelona had become his new home.  And he was intent on being our personal tour guide for the night, avoiding the tourist centers in favor of the seediest bars in El Raval.

I am somewhat reluctant to tell you about my favorite one because I want to ensure that it continues to retain its sanctity, but it is such a gem that I would feel selfish not sharing.  Though Alex was mysteriously banned from Bar Pastis years ago, we ventured into the dim, closet-sized dive bar, dodging the hundreds of origami cranes that hung from the ceiling.  Quirky French tchotchkes and pictures lined the walls, and the owner’s bellowing deep-voice resounded over Carla Bruni-Sarkozy’s seductive background singing.  The owner, sweater-vested and pleasantly plump, clearly wanted to shelter this establishment--his pride and joy--from tourists, so we kept our American voices low and ducked into a corner…which apparently becomes a stage on lively nights.  Although I have no idea which random back alley led us to this treasure, I am determined to seek it out when I return to Barcelona again.

I also tried to experience the local feel by buying fresh fish, fruit, and veggies at the Boqueria Market, which was kind of like Palermo's Ballero Market with a face lift and designer threads (see Sicily blog for description).  And I attempted to transport myself around town like a local when I rented a bike all day Friday.  The smooth, clearly-marked bike paths made it easy to cruise from the beach in the morning all the way to Park Guell in the afternoon, where I admired the view over the ocean from a much different (and higher!) standpoint.

But of course I also pulled on my tourist getup (embarrassing camera, map, sneakers and all) to explore the must-sees, including Gaudi’s fairytale-like architectural work.  I couldn’t decide whether I was under the sea or in Candyland up at Park Guell.  At the rooftop of La Pedrera, I tried not to fall over the edge as I dodged the famous chimneys that hold an eerie resemblance to Darth Vadar.  And the gothic yet cartoon-like detailing on La Sagrada Familia left me wondering what kind of hallucinogenic drugs the architect was on while he sketched in his studio.

With such overwhelming stimulation, you’ll never believe where I found a sense of meditative peace.  The Magic Fountain.  Cheesy, yes, but there is something about watching the movement of flowing water that totally hypnotizes me.  Hopefully, I didn’t embarrass myself with some Dirty Dancing to "Hungry Eyes” in front of the neon-lit fountain while under my trance!

A taste of Sicily

Arrividerci for now, Italy.  Goodbye gelato, pizza, gnocchi, foccacia, arancini, and vino.  I will miss you.  And goodbye life-threatening traffic.  Your constant horn-honking, whether to signal "Here I come," "Move it, fatty", or "Ciao, bella" will continue to ring in my ears and give me near heart attacks.  See you later, purple fashion statements.  Maybe when I return you will have moved on to another blatantly feminine color...magenta?  And ciao to that oxymoronically hurried yet slow lifestyle...where older Italian men zip through the alleyways on their vespas , nearly flattening millions of unprepared stray cats, only to linger for a couple hours over their evening espresso fixes.

As the 12-hour long train from Rome progressed along oceanside tracks on Saturday, reminding me nostalgically of California's Highway 1, I prepared for a drastic change in scenery in Sicily.  Exhausted but antsy after hours of claustrophobic confinement, I decided to join the hostel crew for a five-course dinner featuring traditional Sicilian cuisine.  In addition to the unique pasta al forno, I knew I was in for an authentic experience after shamefully noticing that I was the only non-Italian speaker at the table.  Sicily became the only place in Italy where I desperately wanted to speak the language in order to interact with the friendly locals.

Authenticity also thrived in the Ballero Market, which offered rainbows of seasonal produce, slimy and fresh seafood glistening (and emitting powerful odors) in buckets of ice, and pigs' innards hanging from strings.  In spite of swearing off meat for a few days in response to such graphic displays, I've never eaten so well for so cheap.  My new Danish friend, Conny, and I stocked up on fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil, parmesan, and bread to make overflowing plates of bruschetta.  We washed it down with a complex bottle of inky red wine, though since Sicily boasts more vines per area of land than any other territory in the world, I must return again someday to do more damage.  And despite my language deficit, my cheese vendor always cut me just the right amount of pungent gorgonzola and thinly-sliced prosciutto.  Needless to say, I strolled along the market at least once a day, eventually learning where to shield my eyes from butchered cows' brains or pigs' feet.

On Sunday, Conny and I hopped the train to Cefalu, a charming little beach town among rocky mountains.  The highlight was trekking up to the ancient castle on the mountain above the town in time to catch the sunset.  I truly felt like a queen, with panoramic views of the island as we sat perched atop the ruins while the sky flushed pink.  The mountain goats laughed at us after we lost track of time and were forced the run down the mountain path before the trail entrance closed.  Unfortunately, all this direct impact irritated Connie's already-infected foot, which ballooned up like the enormous melons we had seen for sale that morning in the market.  Despite her attempts to site-see as normal, doctor's orders and my own worry for her well-being had me running errands and feeding the poor girl for the next few days. 

Other highlights of my stay include:

• Sette Veli: Roughly translated to "Seven Layers" this rich cake would impress even the most serious chocoholics with its seven varieties of cocoa.
  
• Mondello Beach: amid strange stares from the locals while walking to the bus stop in shorts, my bikini, and towel in the middle of November, the warm sun and crystal clear water beckoned me to bake in the sand Tuesday afternoon.  The beach and gelato in November?!  Please don't hate me for bragging.
• Agrigento: I can't adequately describe the ancient Greek Valley of the Temples in words, but unfortunately my camera began malfunctioning Thursday morning on the two-hour bus ride to Agrigento so I will have to try.  Thousands of years later, glowing orange stone temples still tower over ripening olive groves and almond trees on sloping hills leading to the sea.  A lovely setting for not only a hike, but also a step into the past.
• the friendly locals: merci beaucoup to Santi at Agrigento's tourist office for giving me directions in french (our only common language) to the gelateria with the creamiest pistacchio dessert.  And grazie to Beni, who drove me back to the center of Agrigento just in time to catch my bus back to Palermo.  Don't worry parentals, I don't usually get in the car with strangers, but he was an official and was completely harmless.  And thanks finally to Giuseppe at the hostel for all the recommendations about traditional Sicilian life!  I must go back to explore it all some day...and to find more sette veli!

Finding a home in Rome

Taking in the sweeping view of Rome from the top of St. Peter’s Basilica, I have never felt so tiny.  Here I was, thinking I was a big girl now by traveling Europe on my own, but the massiveness that is Rome knocked me right off my high horse.  To see the grand civilization that the Romans built with their bare hands thousands of years ago was not only wondrous but also humbling.  And so, after admiring the view of the city from every angle, with my jaw undoubtedly dropping to the floor in a stupefied gape, I dismounted the three-hundred-and-something steps the only way I felt appropriate.  I crawled through the tiny spiral staircase, sucking my thumb. 

Thus, Rome has essentially rendered me a wide-eyed infant at each of its famous sights.  In the Vatican Museum, I was like a kid lost in an amusement park, as I repeatedly found and lost different friends from the hostel in various rooms.  And in the Sistine Chapel I felt like I was asking Mommy to read me another story, as I pressed repeat on the audioguide while taking in Michelangelo’s stunning frescoes.  The sculptured hand of Constantine on display at the Capitilone Museum was bigger than my entire body.  You get the picture.

It really makes you wonder if the residents of this ancient city have psychological disorders.  How can you walk by the Colosseum every day on your way to work and not bust out into schizophrenic renditions of Russell Crow’s portrayal in Gladiator?  Or stroll by the elegant garden of ruins that is the Roman Forum without having hallucinations of men in togas?  I think I’ve discovered the ending to that famous saying: “When in Rome…try not to go off your rocker.”

Fortunately, returning to the great vibe at Chianti Hostel always restored my sanity.  And with a five-night stay, I was lucky enough to have three of Marko’s home-cooked dinners there.  Italians are obviously legendary for their cuisine, but I’ve learned that you can only really experience the best food when it is prepared with amore at home.  Though I resisted buying souvenirs in Rome, I will be coming home with recipes for authentic bruschetta, gooey pesto lasagna, and marsala-soaked tiramisu.  Grazie, Marko!

Fleeing big cities for the calm countryside is becoming a habit for me.  On my final day, I took the advice of the Canadian wine enthusiast, Hubert, to visit the medieval village of Orvieto.  Perched atop a craggy hill with panoramic views of the Umbrian countryside, Orvieto seemed to be an Italian version of France's Provence.  Boutiques lining the cobble-stoned streets offered handmade gifts and cafes boasted various produtti tipica.  Stone cathedrals towered over quaint homes where lines of laundry hung out the window to dry.   And unlike in Rome, the locals spoke only Italian…and were friendly!  Unless those agreeable smiles were actually masking their snide comments about the “stupid American.”  I guess I’ll never know.

The thought of trying to describe the wonder of Rome through words initially terrified me.  It is one of those places to be experienced by people watching on the Spanish steps, wandering into the beautiful cathedrals, and throwing coins into the Trevi fountain.  I just hope the fountain's legend holds true so that I can return!