Tuesday, Nov. 2-- Paris

Petit dejeuner at a cafe where the waiter had obviously taken lessons from the woman in Vex about menu substitutions.  No matter how V tried to explain it,  her request to have a capuccino instead of a regular coffee met with refusal.  It was a small thing, however, and we did not let it dampen the giddy spirit of being in Paris with a whole day to explore.

Met V's niece, Amy, who had been working at a vineyard in Burgundy, and together we signed on to a walking tour of the Marais District. It is a travel truism that tours are made by the guide. We found this true in Istanbul, and it was certainly the case here. The tour was a delight thanks to the animated, knowledgeable British guide who, despite reminding me of the Uriah Heep character from the 1930s film version of David Copperfield, was funny and engaging and not the least bit humble.

Amy and V

We traversed the neighbourhood and were regaled--can one be re-galed without having been galed first??--with interesting bits of history and local sites.  The history was highlighted by a lengthy story about a popular minister at Eglise St. Paul-St. Louis and his female flock.  The power of this man's sermons, not to mention his dazzling good looks, apparently had the ladies sending servants down to line up for prime pews.  Competition was so fierce that, once ensconced, the ladies were loathe to leave their seats during the three plus hour sermons, lest they be invaded by others.  The ladies coped with the call of nature, apparently, by having designer bowls beneath their skirts which, once used, were passed back to an attending servant.

Graffiti from the French Revolution

"Republique Fancaise (sic) ou la mort"

Local churches and impressive mansions, once private homes but now mostly public edifices, all had centuries of fascinating stories associated with them, but the group's attention was perhaps most focused when the guide pointed out the front door of a couples swapping club and provided floor-by-floor details of the activities inside.  He was careful to point out that this information was second hand, speculative, and rumour, and not at all based on personal experience. 

The tour ended in Place des Voges, one of the city's oldest residential developments and most distinguished addresses.  Here , we found a plaque on one of the townhomes claiming it to be where Victor Hugo wrote Les Miserables.  Interestingly, Les Miz has been an ongoing theme through this trip, beginning with the plaque on a house in Guernsey claiming it to be the spot where Hugo composed the story.  Then, of course, there was the memorable stage performance in London's West End, and finally, the claim by 21 Place des Voges as being the real site of Hugo's writing. 

Met Amy's friend and fellow wine maker, Chris, and went for lunch at Chez Janou, a small bistro around the corner.  The food was delicious, the wine list, according to our lunch partner experts, was impressive, and the service was delightful and attentive, qualities not often associated with Parisian restaurants.  They even allowed substitutions!!  We lingered for a couple of hours over the food and conversation, enjoying the ambiance and the company.  This is what the Paris experience is all about.  Well...all that AND  a GIANT bowl of mousse (see photo).

Monster mousse

Goodbyes at the subway station, the young people back to Beaune, and us off on a twelve-stop metro journey beyond the Montmartre.  Trains full of commuters looking exactly like commuters everywhere.  Reality is that if you're battling your way through throngs five days a week, struck on an overcrowded mode of public transport, trying to get to or from a job that ain't great, then doing it in Paris is no more fun than doing it in Vancouver or Istanbul.


Had a drink with Careen's oldest daughter Leonie--if you have no idea who Careen is, then you have skipped over some of the entries. Go back--in a small cafe in the 18th arrondissement.  Leonie, like her sister, is an artist, and this neighbourhood, and particularly the cafe felt like the kind of place where struggling young creative minds and bodies convene.  It was cold and inexpensive and V and I were the only people over 30, or so it seemed.  Can imagine that this is what Cafe Flores and other Parisian haunts were like for Hemingway and his cronies during the 1920s.

Despite being tired, did not want Paris to end, so we walked the 85 (or so it seemed) miles back to the hotel.  Wonderful to see the city at night even if it is a bit tainted by the Vegas-like light show on the Eiffel Tower.

Eiffel Tower ablaze

Only one incident worth noting, and it had to do with my ongoing battles with technology. 

When one needs to pee in Paris, the city has conveniently located fully automatic toilets on street corners. 
I can attest to the fully automatic part.  With the cold and the pints working their wonders, I was happy to espy one of these conveniences.  While V stood guard, I pushed the button, and like a hatch on a starship, the door swooshed open.  Inside was a marvel of technology with buttons aplenty, a toilet and sink, and a big red handle.  I need not, dear reader, go into the sordid details of the encounter.  Suffice to say that I ended up on the sidewalk, unrelieved, with the door sealed and the damn machine thinking me still inside and so refusing to allow entrance. My pressing condition was not eased by my Vs being doubled up with laughter.

Arrived back at the hotel in the nick of time--I was not about to relive the recent humiliation.  Too tired to go our for dinner.  The smiling owner of the Indian restaurant next to the hotel was delighted to have me as a repeat customer.

Monday, Nov. 1-- Great Big Speed

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...  seemed an appropriate line for a day when we were heading to Paris but leaving a good friend.

Climbed aboard the TGV with our 5 bags and settled into comfy seats amongst the hoards of students and business people also headed to Paris, most of them finishing up math homework or reports of some kind.  Like the children who walk to school through the Grand Bazaar, these people have an enviable commute.

Slipped along at sub-sonic speeds with two stops for the first third of the journey, but then hit high gear so smoothly that I didn't even notice until I looked up and wondered why the world outside the window was so blurry.  I am here to report that zipping along terra firma at 325 km per hour is awesome.  However, it is not advisable to stare out the window while the train is flying past objects close to the tracks.  Having never suffered motion sickness before, it took a couple of minutes for my tummy to get the message through to my brain that if I persisted there would be unfortunate consequences.  I stopped and my tummy returned to normal.   Other than this brief discomfort, the trip was wonderful.

Paris or Pago Pago.  Who can say?

Arrived at the Gare de Lyon, a classic European, glass-roofed station decorated with towering potted palms installed, one can only assume, to create the illusion that this is not a rail station, but rather a Caribbean isle. Plan was to take a taxi to the hotel, but first had to find some Euros, doubting that picky Parisian cab drivers would be willing to take payment made up of our leftover British pounds, Turkish lira and Swiss francs.

 I, being a more guard-like presence, was left to protect the bags while V set off to find a cash machine.  Sat on the worn marble steps and watched the world--literally--go by.  We are always struck, when in Europe, by the incredible diversity.  We Canadians like to celebrate our multiculturalism, but by comparison we don't even come close to the racial and cultural pastiche of a London bus or a French rail station.

Was in a trance induced by a family of Canadians, all wearing clothing with Canada writ large and acting like...gasp...Americans.  Had come to the conclusion that they were, in truth, from one of the 50 states, and was just warming to the idea of being able to wade into their midst and cry "J'accuse!" so it would echo off the glass ceiling of the Gare Lyon, when V returned.  My excitement at being able to create an Oscar Wilde-worthy moment might have motivated me to ignore her had it not been for the look on her face.

V had, I learned, narrowly escaped after an encounter with a self described criminal.  The man, apparently not versed in normal beggar/beggee patter, had revealed himself to be a recently released jailbird who needed 10 Euro.  When V said she had no cash the man offered to escort her to an ATM so she could get some to give him.  She declined and came back to fetch me, and I went for the cash.  The ex-con, if he was still about, did not approach me for the 10.  In my distraction at Vs story, I had unfortunately neglected to instruct her to keep an eye on the "Canadians", and by the time I returned they had disappeared.

Euros in hand we and our 5 bags went to find a taxi.  The driver, a woman (??), helped load the car, and efficiently delivered us to the Hotel St. Paul, our favorite stopping spot in Paris. Now, while I can attest without qualification to this person's taxi skills, the same cannot be said about her gender.  V, an ever generous soul, was inclined to take the driver at face value...which was attractive, blemish free, and framed by a blond do.   I, on the other hand, had doubts based on the breadth of shoulders and logger-like hands.  Not that it matters, of course.

'Ya gotta love a town where the libraries have happy hour

Checked into the hotel, then went for a leisurely walk down along the Seine and through the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter.  Would have stopped for bite to eat, but too tired.  Ended up watching TV and dining on Indian take away.

Sunday, Oct. 31-- All Saints Day, Geneva

Vs favorite day of the year, when we get to turn the clocks back and gain an hour of sleep.  Which we did.  And, because the international community can't agree on what time it is, we get to do this twice, once now and once when we get home. 

Began day with the Swiss version of a continental breakfast which is comprised of the basics of the classic form and adds all the ingredients of a full English breakfast, then for good measure piles on some extra meat.  This is my kind of meal.  Joined by Careen's youngest daughter, Clementine, pronounced Clem-awn-teen, a budding animator, her boyfriend, and Evelyn, Careen's mom.  I ate, they chatted in French, and it was good.

This being All Saints Day, a time when European Christians make special remembrance of loved ones who've passed away, and Careen's dad's birthday we all went to his grave and lit a candle in his honor.  The sight was something seldom seen in North America, row after row of graves and crypts, virtually all of them adorned with lit candles and/or fresh flowers.  We have seen this reverence for ancestors before in Europe, and are touched by it each time.

 Off for a walk along the banks of the Rhone, which, even this far from the Alps, is still that clear blue-green colour of glacial water.  The walk, a virtually silent stretch of parkland ten minutes from downtown Geneva, was splashed with fall colours.  I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

Saturday, Oct 30-- Geneva

Up and packed before the sun reached the valley floor.  Surprising amount of cleaning and tidying to do including taking the ropes off the bed and setting a fire in the pierre olair.  Perhaps a word or two of explanation is in order.

Mme. Crettaz, as gentle and welcoming a soul as one might wish to find in a landlady

The ropes on the bed were not for recreational purposes, as those of you whose minds are in the gutter might assume, but rather serve as reinforcement  against collapse as happened a couple of visits ago with the result that we spent most of the night sleeping with our heads on the floor and feet on high.  This was not an experience we wished to repeat, so last time we found twine and tied the sides together.  We are happy to report that it worked.

A pierre olaire is a stove which is the epitome of Swiss patience and efficiency. While the rest of the planet was building huge fireplaces and stacking them with countless cords of woods each winter, the Swiss designed a way to heat their homes with three twigs and a piece of newspaper.   The stove is made of soap stone with the insides comprised of a series of chambers and the outside carved with rural designs of animals or saints or  whatever the buyer wants.  It operates by placing a tiny pile of fuel in the combustion chamber and setting it alight.  This wee bit of fire heats the soapstone which in turn cranks out hours of warmth for the house.

A master craftsman beside one of his pierre olaire creations

A final stop into Gaudin Alimentare for some viande seche before leaving.  Perhaps a word... The store is of a type long since abandoned by modern society.  It is a small, family run emporium which sells food and books and firewood and clothing, and which has survived in a village of fewer than 500 souls despite the incursion of a coop down the valley.  The owners, M. and Mme. Gaudin tend the operation which is open from before we ever get up until they go to bed.  We have rarely found the store closed.  They accomplish this feat, of course, by living above the establishment and having a bell, not annoying buzzer, it is important to note, but a lovely tinkling bell which rousts them from upstairs when a customer enters.  They know everyone, even infrequent Canadian visitors, and all are greeted with a smile from Madame and/or a nod from Monsieur.

Gaudin Alimentaire, let's see 711 match this

They seem as happy to sell you four slices of meat or half a loaf of fresh bread as they are a week's groceries, and are obviously content with their lot.  M. Gaudin, at least as far as we can tell, never leaves the store, however, Madame ventures out frequently and can be seen driving around the valley behind either one of her cows or the wheel of her ancient, red, license plate-less Toyota.

So off we went, headed for the bright lights of Geneva, but leaving with the silver glow of snowy, moonlit mountain peaks etched in our memories.

One of our first stops in the outside world was at a French train station to buy our tickets for Monday's trip to Paris.  Unlike the Gaudins, French SNCF workers do not live above the station and are frequently off shift.  This was an off shift time as the station was closed for a two-hour lunch break.  On to Petit Lancy and the sight of Careen's friendly little house.  The rattling of the medieval key in the front door and the welcoming creak of the stairs are as fondly established in our memories as are the stunning peaks of Val d'Herens.

Unpacked then out again to the train station.  An American with a large suitcase and backpack was asking the clerk if there was a train to Geneva.  With patience and a genuine smile--not one of those supercilious Parisian ones, the clerk explained to him that, although in France, he was essentially already in Geneva, and  referred him to the bus stop across the street.  We purchased our TGV (Train Grande Vitesse--Train Big Speed) tickets, thrilled at the prospect of flying across the French landscape at 325 kph.

Spent the rest of the afternoon meandering around Carouge, an old Geneva neighbourhood recently gentrified by artists.  We were treated to an array of small shops with handmade clothes and hats and toys and more.  It felt like we were easing back into western civilization.  There was a wedding which we found as we walked towards a stream of colourful balloons let loose in celebration.  The band was a trio of Alpenhorns--think Riccola commercials--which greeted the bride and groom out of the centuries-old church. 

Balloons and Alpenhorns and gawkers, essential parts of the wedding

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Out of order

You will notice that for some reason the posts for Oct. 24 and the one for Oct. 25 to 29 are in reverse order.  Live with it!

Sunday, Oct. 24-- To Villaz day

Hit the road before noon, thinking we had a 3 to 5 hour drive ahead of us to get to the other side of the Bernese Alps.  After driving east and south for an hour, came to a sign indicating that the pass we wanted to take had been closed due to heavy snowfall.  Rats!  Thought of taking a run at it, but V was dissuaded by a kaffe klatsch of Swiss mountain men who all grunted and shook their heads at the suggestion.

Retraced our steps and moved on to Plan B involving a different pass further west.  It also involved loading the car onto a train for a ride through a tunnel.  Unique experience sitting in the car while it zooms along unattended, then disappears into complete blackness.

 Car Train from Oberwald to Realp.  This is the non-tunnel part.

For some reason, the tracks inside the tunnel were extremely bumpy and we bounced around in the dark while other trains flew past in the opposite direction, seemingly inches away.  Off the train on the other side of the mountains in 20 minutes instead of the 3 hours it would have taken to drive.

Pleasant drive on back roads to entrance to the Val d'Herens south of Sion.

Welcome to Val d'Herens

Stopped for lunch at a cafe in Vex where we were greeted by the owner/server still decked out in, what one might unkindly assume, was her Saturday night party dress.  Contrary to her nonconformist attire however, she was not one to broach unconventional lunch orders.  When I asked if I could have a different meat on my cheese melt sandwich order, the answer was "No!"  My impression of the woman as being a direct and recent descendant of a Prussian general was reinforced by a sign in the men's bathroom--I wish I had taken a photo--which depicted  a stick figure peeing with such force that geyser-like splashes were emanating from the toilet.  Across this cartoon was a large, bold 'X' indicating that this behavior would not be tolerated.  I took my chances and refused to sit.

In all fairness, our host did warm to us in time, and even offered a complete, authoritative explanation as to why my meat request was impractical.  While in her good books, we paid and made for the door before she had a chance to inspect the bathroom.

Arrived at Villaz, a village where we have stayed enough times that it almost feels like coming home.  Hugs and smiles when our friend Careen arrived back at the chalet from her walk.  Then, out for a short stroll in the fading light.  It had begun to snow lightly just before we arrived, and now it was beginning to stick to the hillsides and trees.  This combined with the moonlight on the mountain and the absolute silence created a magical scene.  We are very glad to be here.

V and her friend Careen catching up over tea and red olympic mittens in the chalet kitchen.

Monday, Oct. 25 to Friday Oct. 29-- Villaz

Have decided, dear reader, to condense this week into a single entry primarily because the routine of the days--Walk, eat, laugh, sleep--was so consistent and the scenery so spectacular, that it seems to make sense to let photos do most of the story telling. 

Monday
Woke to a foot or more of snow and with it still falling.  This is extraordinary at this time of year, even in these high mountain valleys.  The combination of the dump and us having to return our rental car to Sion determined the plan for the day.  Down the valley, and by the time we were half way to Sion the ground was bare.  Returned the car to an appreciative Eurocar woman who inspected it and was dismayed to find that her colleagues in Basel had given us, for a drive through the mountain at this time of year, a vehicle with summer tires.  They received, I'm sure a sharp note of reprimand for this un-Swiss life behaviour.

Walked around this lovely small city (Population: 30,000) for several hours despite Careen recovering from a recently broken ankle.

V in our winter unexpected wonderland

You've heard of the world famous Wintergarten...

And you think you have steps to shovel??

 Beauty on display

Same day, lower down in the valley

Tuesday

Woke to even more snow and a temperature of minus 5.  Oh for the glorious heat of Zeytindali Spa now!  Bundled up and met the walking group in the village parking lot to plan the day.  Now, for those of you who have never been to Switzerland or had the opportunity to watch a group of Swiss make a decision, it is important for you to understand the uber-Swissness of this process.  I was about to write that there isn't a word for "No" in Swiss, but have just remembered my encounter with the cafe owner on Sunday.  So, apparently there is a word for "No" but use of it is discouraged.  Instead, the Swiss negotiate, sometime ad infinitum in the hopes of creating--as they inevitably do--consensus.  So it was with the walking group on the days when there was more than one opinion about which route to take.  The thrust and parry of suggestion and compromise was exquisite, and in a short time we would be off.  

This day the group had made the decision to head up and east.  The climb was gentle and the snow kept the pace slow. Even so, when the sun broke out near noon, we were high above the village at a spot where several rustic benches had been built, so it seemed, for our purposes.

Sunrise from our chalet

 Bus!  Every half hour on the hour regardless of weather, even in this remote valley

Cuteness

Swiss consensus building...or riot.  Hard to tell the difference

Yawn!!! Another majestic view

Cow.  You are not allowed to leave Switzerland without having taken a picture of a cow.  No, really, they check your memory chip at the border, and if you don't have at least one cow photo, you're in big Swiss trouble

It was hell I tell 'ya.  We had to walk all this way for a picnic, and not a single thing to look at along the path

V and Careen and some scenery

Picnic en neige

Goofy Canucks

Trek back in the fog.  Thank heavens there won't be any more of the scenery!

Farmer and cows head for lower ground and greener pastures

Wednesday

No new snow and definitely warmer than yesterday, however, no sun to start.  Despite all the praise I heaped upon the Swiss penchant for consensus yesterday, or perhaps in spite of it, the group fractured this morning.  When agreement could not be reached, we split into two parties and set off in different directions.  V and I went with the group which we thought had chosen the more reasonable trek--less than a 1,000 feet of vertical on a gentle slope, and no snow.  We pooh poohed the choice of the others, who had decided to climb to a glacier.  And we were right, there was too much snow and they failed to reach their objective.  We, on the other hand, did not fail.  I would say "Ha Ha" here, but that would be gloating and not at all in the Swiss spirit.  Besides it would completely ignore the fact that our walk was not quite as advertised.  

Our trek took us from the village of Mase down a trail to the ancient and much smaller community of Ossana, which had been abandoned several decades ago and has only recently been revitalized through the federal government's funding of a work program for at risk youth. Suffice to say that our walk was significantly more challenging that we expected.  However, fearing to be seen as Canadian whiners, we persisted and it was well worth the effort.  In truth, our steadfastness might have wavered had it not been for the fact that Careen's mom, a spry 87, had chosen to join us for the day, and made the descent and assent stride for stride with the rest of us. 

 Someone must have hired a Turkish builder for this

Careen's mom, 87 and capable of walking you into the turf

V leading the way

Thursday
There was more agreement in the parking lot summit this morning, and so all 16 walkers agreed to a single outing, to wit, to return to Ossana, only this time take the vehicles further down the valley to alleviate the toughest part of the descent, and approach the village from another route.  This we did and all were happy.  At least until it came time to pick a spot for picnicking.  Whew!  Arms were waved and opinions expressed and one side even, arbitrarily began to collect stones for a fire at the site of their choice.  Ultimately, however, these rebels were persuaded to transfer their sticks and stones to the alternate site when someone pointed out, with the toe of a boot, that their original spots was rife with cow patties, and besides, the other spot had a better view.

Harmony prevailed and in short order Claude, the resident fire tender, had taken custody of everyone's piece of meat, bought earlier in the day from the Les Hauderes butcher, and had each sizzling to perfection on the grill.  The picnic was at least a couple of hours long, sustained in part by bright sunshine as well as an amazing array of wines and chocolates and fruit and other goodies including our Turkish delights. 

To top off this idyll, on our way back to the cars, we came across a restaurant, on the hillside in the middle of nowhere, and the served wine and beer.  Lord take me now, 'cause heaven can't be any better than this. 

Photos of second Ossana day

The picnic summit.  Surprisingly, Davos is just a couple of valleys away.
Those leaders should take a picnic and a lesson from these folks

 The final picnic spot.  Who could argue with this?

Our chef de feu, Claude

Alexi, the group's resident geologist and folk singer

Friday
No need for discussion this morning, we're all going on a favorite walk along the river to an old sawmill.  A longer walk, but flat ground, and stunning views of the surrounding mountains.  Another memorable picnic and lots of laughter.  Anyone who saw this group would never again think of the Swiss as staid humourless perfectionists. Back to La Sage and a the restaurant deck overlooking the valley and dwarfed by the Dent Blanche.

Spent this final evening with the group.  First to a local pizzeria for sensational pies.  The very end of this valley abuts Italy, and within the lifetimes of some older residents, there was a steady traffic through the pass between this community and its partner on the Italian side.  In fact, both still speak a patois which relects the primary language of the other.  Then in to Evolene to a concert in the church by a visiting men's choir.

Perfect end to a perfect week.

Mill march

 Lunch line at the mill site

Ladies luxuriating

One final look until next time