tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44530190678439767902024-03-13T14:57:50.427-04:00Where in the world is Val?Reflections on food, drink, and life during four months of living out of a suitcase in Australia, New Zealand, the UK, and DenmarkVal Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-33875403674228654492013-05-06T20:42:00.000-04:002013-05-06T21:04:17.372-04:00Squacquerone<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-6X0wl7sjSdQEae7zU37Pi9jRiqWBgaJHU1XuW4HP2z253O4izrSUyUacoZQ8kqweKl7Y-n-wTv99hTFKA85QxTaIvcaRk70Ug-ftkp-mG_1N-WpKzqCiodARxd6kIhWlgURe-NyrUg/s640/blogger-image--1342534338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-6X0wl7sjSdQEae7zU37Pi9jRiqWBgaJHU1XuW4HP2z253O4izrSUyUacoZQ8kqweKl7Y-n-wTv99hTFKA85QxTaIvcaRk70Ug-ftkp-mG_1N-WpKzqCiodARxd6kIhWlgURe-NyrUg/s400/blogger-image--1342534338.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piadina with squacquerone and arugula, La Tua Piadina, Bologna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's not every day that you come across a food with a name as fun as squacquerone. So when I noticed it on a menu in Bologna, my interest was piqued.<br />
<br />
Squacquerone is a fresh cow's milk cheese. It's eaten when it's only a few days old. It looks something like cottage cheese, with curdy bits suspended in a milky slurry. The flavor is similar to cottage cheese as well, though it's a little tangier. It's typical of the region of Emilia-Romagna, and I saw it all over the place while I was there.<br />
<br />
The traditional way to eat squacquerone is on a piadina: an unleavened flatbread kind of like a tortilla that you fill with cheeses, cured meats, and vegetables. At the piadineria (the name for a shop that serves nothing but a few dozen kinds of piadine), you're almost sure to find a piadina with squacquerone and arugula. It's a killer combo: the peppery arugula is tempered by the tangy, creamy cheese, all wrapped up in a hot, thin, soft yet crisp wrapper. Ultimate fast food. <br />
<br />Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-63248116378965881712013-05-04T14:24:00.000-04:002013-05-04T14:24:00.193-04:00Philadelphia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9ZlPtU8AvjsT4wRzMNgE8kn2f85bg3-qDiwmMMl3Cl36qvg05zU53vU836qoFH3Qcfi0-EKtPbB3ZfzRQMJ2GDfVryMXdK8-FhGpAFfbRT-mfXFcIn0vt9E3zADs4j7rsZvj3tG0T0o/s640/blogger-image-129207091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9ZlPtU8AvjsT4wRzMNgE8kn2f85bg3-qDiwmMMl3Cl36qvg05zU53vU836qoFH3Qcfi0-EKtPbB3ZfzRQMJ2GDfVryMXdK8-FhGpAFfbRT-mfXFcIn0vt9E3zADs4j7rsZvj3tG0T0o/s400/blogger-image-129207091.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Everywhere I went in Italy, I saw Philadelphia cream cheese. It showed up in the refrigerated aisles of groceries in Venice and Rome. It was employed with arugula and <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=M-SPK" target="_blank">speck</a> in sandwiches served at rest stops along the autostrada. It even popped up amongst a dozen kinds of cured ham at a very high end food shop in Bologna (one that sells the same <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=O-ROI-500" target="_blank">Roi olive oil</a> and <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=P-CAR" target="_blank">Carnaroli risotto rice</a> that we do).<br />
<br />
So what's that all about, anyway?<br />
Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-47495133472590285572013-05-03T23:38:00.000-04:002013-05-03T23:38:59.131-04:00In pursuit of wild boar and ricotta<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bag of ricotta and the old castle: the primary attractions of San Gregorio</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Come," said <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2013/04/asparagini-selvatici.html">Emanuele</a>. "We are going to the wild boar festival."<br />
<br />
So the two of us climbed into Emanuele's small white van and drove the narrow, winding, mountain roads to the nearby town of San Gregorio. "When I was a boy, my friends and I would ride our bikes to San Gregorio," he told me. "It was hard to get there, uphill the whole way. But going home again was easy."<br />
<br />
The drive into San Gregorio was perfectly romantic. The town is precariously perched along the ridge of a mountain peak. A medieval castle still defends the entrance to the old part of town (though today it is guarded by policemen who tell you where to park). As we approached the town, passing under the branches of blossoming redbud trees and the tiny, bright green foliage of early spring, it almost felt as though we were driving into a fairy tale.<br />
<br />
Walking the streets of the town was less romantic -- especially with Emanuele as my guide. He pointed out the tiny rooms protruding from the plain stucco facades of the houses. Originally, those rooms were the bathrooms -- or, more accurately, they were the holes in the floor where you'd squat and shit onto the street below. The stench must have been ripe in the summer.<br />
<br />
The festival was simple. A dozen tents were set up around the perimeter of the town's main piazza. Most were selling knick knacks or local pastries. One or two were selling a handful of rough-and-ready dishes featuring the eponymous boar: pappardelle pasta with boar sauce; hunter's style boar; grilled boar sausages. The center of the piazza was filled with a few dozen large plastic picnic tables and a few hundred plastic patio chairs. A few hundred locals milled about. Every couple of minutes, Emanuele would run into some acquaintance, and we'd all greet each other, and they would chat for a minute or two.<br />
<br />
It turned out the festival was not our primary goal. On the drive there, Emanuele told me he wanted to get me some ricotta cheese. "You have ricotta in US, but is not the same. Is not like ricotta we have here. I want you to taste."<br />
<br />
Just off the main piazza, we entered a cramped butcher shop. Emanuele warned me it wasn't very hygienic. He wasn't kidding. The two butchers wore coats that used to be white before they were stained with blood. They did not wear anything to cover their heads -- or hands. I watched one butcher pick up an enormous slab of beef, set it down, select another cut of beef, wrap it in white butcher paper, place the package in a plastic bag, take money, open the cash box, give change, and hand off the purchase to the customer -- all without gloves, all without washing his hands.<br />
<br />
In addition to meat, the shop sold a half dozen cheeses. Emanuele purchased a large tub of ricotta and we were on our way.<br />
<br />
I wish I could tell you how gamey the boar tasted, or how luscious the ricotta was, but I can't. I didn't taste either of them. Shortly after getting the ricotta we left San Gregorio. As the sun set we drove back down the mountain to Tivoli to get a pizza. After dinner we forgot about the cheese. First thing the next morning, I took the train back to Rome and then a plane back to the US. Perhaps, remembering the dried blood caked under the fingernails of the young butcher who handed the ricotta to Emanuele, I'm just as glad I didn't try it.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-81405935556214806742013-04-30T12:44:00.000-04:002013-05-06T21:04:32.681-04:00Asparagini selvatici<br />
<br />
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<![endif]-->“Let’s
discuss the program for today,” said Emanuele on Saturday morning, just after
we had deposited my baggage at his son’s agriturismo but just before he drove
me out to visit his <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=O-TIB">olive groves and oil mill</a>. “This afternoon, my
friend invite me to hunt for wild asparagus. You like to go?”
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A wild
asparagus hunt. It sounds terribly romantic, doesn’t it? And in some ways, it
is terribly romantic. You drive out into the countryside with your friend
Maurizio. You park your car on the side of the road, and then you put on
Emanuele’s wife’s rainboots (luckily you happen to have the same size feet).
You climb over a pair of rickety wooden fences while Emanuele hums “I don’t
know but I been told.” Then you tromp across a rocky hillside strewn with
wildflowers and you catch your breath soaking in the incredible beauty of the
valley below and the misty mountains in the distance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some may say
it’s a little less romantic once your pants and hands and even your face are
smudged with ashy soot (the landscape bears the black evidence of a recent
wildfire), or when you’re leaning heavily on your walking stick to keep your
balance as you try to avoid twisting your ankle or tumbling down the steep
incline. But for serious asparagus hunters, that’s all just part of the charm.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9CoLuNqmURr75E0cxfP1bQ8AAg7Pdx75EOA-IYLZLplvA-0X_6Xgy4w8zPfmI12Mv0k4d9yAvb8gTk_DshnkU0mvHqN7OTev4EPeS8i_u_u6w1QtwGju9Ol7uJeELLgDTAUe3xMw5fGI/s640/blogger-image--370194611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9CoLuNqmURr75E0cxfP1bQ8AAg7Pdx75EOA-IYLZLplvA-0X_6Xgy4w8zPfmI12Mv0k4d9yAvb8gTk_DshnkU0mvHqN7OTev4EPeS8i_u_u6w1QtwGju9Ol7uJeELLgDTAUe3xMw5fGI/s400/blogger-image--370194611.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you spot the asparagus?</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
asparagus, too, is a tricky business. It’s shy and solitary, generally
preferring to grow alone or with a very few close friends, nestled amidst
pricker bushes at the feet of the trees and scrubby bushes that dot the
landscape. Maurizio is an expert at spotting asparagus a few meters away and
then scrambling up or down a shaky incline to pluck it. You, on your first
Great Wild Asparagus Hunt, are lucky if you can see it right in front of your
face.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finding the
asparagus is only half the battle (luckily, Maurizio points out plenty of it to
you). Once found, it is not generally inclined to be picked. Maurizio shows you
the proper method, using the thumb and first two fingers to bend and break the
pencil-sized stalks, but sometimes they require considerable tugging to come
loose. He also demonstrates how to bite off and discard the tough ends of the
stalks that are too long; that way, you can assemble a tidy handful of
asparagus.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After an
hour and a half, your legs are shaky and your fingers are sore where you’ve
been snapping stalks, but you’ve amassed a bulging plastic bagful of
skinny wild asparagus. Though the whole venture was Maurizio’s idea and though
he collected the lion’s share of the haul, he won’t keep a single stalk for
himself. Once at home, it is to be cut in inch-long bits and frozen for year-round use.
You can only find wild asparagus from late March to mid-May, so you must take
advantage of it now during the season.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the way
back to the agriturismo for the evening, Emanuele buys you a gelato. Asparagus
hunting is hungry work.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsf72-WtLUcz9EAivYV-knt8paWmibrlu9uTbprN8Fn8yZVjImvyv2fNINAZ_mtgaUwSNFQiJUroUf2BGLcM2jBWrHBoMMKpjALtt6P5qYRSmS8eEymcixT8XYwswhyphenhyphenZINDiO_TmiPYLs/s640/blogger-image--1227099917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsf72-WtLUcz9EAivYV-knt8paWmibrlu9uTbprN8Fn8yZVjImvyv2fNINAZ_mtgaUwSNFQiJUroUf2BGLcM2jBWrHBoMMKpjALtt6P5qYRSmS8eEymcixT8XYwswhyphenhyphenZINDiO_TmiPYLs/s400/blogger-image--1227099917.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-68073493731856398742013-04-17T16:13:00.000-04:002013-04-17T16:13:00.049-04:00Hello, Goodbye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbvmGPYDCxOkWiGuAVu5DXfgr-seNjjmyEz51n5-hT3Jvdz6hZeurAYB4-2UjzAuXLM7VN3YYevvNlFOUEqwKkQV3syU2mnh6RT2gOtuAOrhfXoaoXfqcZgxU3Z24nTzTJQbBQr4YVqY/s1600/P1000299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbvmGPYDCxOkWiGuAVu5DXfgr-seNjjmyEz51n5-hT3Jvdz6hZeurAYB4-2UjzAuXLM7VN3YYevvNlFOUEqwKkQV3syU2mnh6RT2gOtuAOrhfXoaoXfqcZgxU3Z24nTzTJQbBQr4YVqY/s320/P1000299.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
In France, every interaction starts with a "bonjour" (or, if it's past about 5 PM, a "bon soir"). It doesn't matter how small the interaction is: buying a baguette from the boulangerie or asking for directions, you start every conversation with a hello. To not say hello is very rude; I suspect that, when people talk about how rude the French are, it's partly because they don't know this basic facet of the culture.<br />
<br />
In Italy, you don't necessarily say "buongiorno" when you greet someone. In fact, on the phone, you don't start with "hello" at all, but "pronto" - essentially, "I am ready, speak to me." But if what I have seen in the past few weeks is typical, you always say goodbye. When you leave a restaurant or shop, you are sure to hear "arrivederci." And, just for good measure, you'll probably also hear "grazie," "buona giornata" or "buona serata" (have a good day/evening), and "ciao." You may hear each of these goodbyes from every person you pass as you leave.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-86136881608334398422013-04-17T02:00:00.000-04:002013-04-17T02:00:23.402-04:00The family pantheon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVJey6ulboBE2UEaPwx5pLxn6UfJY4krtBr3pMcGvxLwEO7GJBhDIipVGwFntGoZL4rlLBL0-XSI3HylAwoYv9buwuLPsXiI4PUu6FcXvBJD7FTZTmq-kuTzeIQLtYPGCG8DdWpljzeI/s1600/P1000602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVJey6ulboBE2UEaPwx5pLxn6UfJY4krtBr3pMcGvxLwEO7GJBhDIipVGwFntGoZL4rlLBL0-XSI3HylAwoYv9buwuLPsXiI4PUu6FcXvBJD7FTZTmq-kuTzeIQLtYPGCG8DdWpljzeI/s400/P1000602.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Last week I visited <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=V-10Y">Vecchia Dispensa</a>, an <i>acetaia</i> [balsamic vinegar maker] in the province of Modena in northern Italy. Like most Modenese families, the family behind Vecchia Dispensa has been making balsamic vinegar for generations. In the past, every family kept a <i>batteria</i>, or set of barrels for making balsamic, in the attic. The production was small - just enough for the family to use the balsamic to cure occasional headaches or indigestion. <br />
<br />
(As a side note, I stayed in an agriturismo in Modena one night last week. We got to talking about food with the owners, one of whom then led me over to the attic closet to show me their own family's balsamic batteria. Even as balsamic becomes a known entity around the world, the small family production tucked away in the attic remains a part of Modenese culture today.)<br />
<br />
Today Vecchia Dispensa produces a little more balsamic than the family requires; we sell hundreds of bottles of their vinegar every year. The <i>tradizionale</i> vinegar - the stuff that's made the way it always was, aged for decades in small batterie - is kept in a five-hundred year old tower that used to be a prison. You get to the top via a stone spiral staircase that's only about eight inches wider than I am. In each room along the way up, you find sets of batterie filled with balsamic.<br />
<br />
Most of the barrels are decades old. They don't create new sets all that often - only when a new daughter is born into the family. The new batteria is named for the new baby, and when that baby becomes a woman, the barrels belong to her. Over the decades, batterie will develop personalities: each will produce a balsamic with slightly different characteristics.<br />
<br />
In the top room of the tower, the views over the charming town of Castelvetro in Modena and the surrounding countryside are stunning. But what's even better, I think, are the photographs on the walls. They show the family - especially the daughters - and are surrounded by the barrels that bear their names. It's a beautiful way to map the family tree. It's also a very pleasantly aromatic way to showcase the family pantheon.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-57697824444211990202013-04-15T12:47:00.000-04:002013-04-15T17:35:55.889-04:00Rest stop theoryI'm working on this theory. It goes like this: you can learn all you really need to know about how a country eats by visiting one of its highway rest stops.<br />
<br />
In the US, at an interstate rest stop, you find Starbucks and shitty burgers and pizza. In Belgium, you can chow down on mussels, fries, and beer when you stop along the road. And what did I find at a rest stop along the Italian autostrada last week?<br />
<br />
An espresso bar.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6LzQHPVDYd7-KwZmtEiG9bov34hT68uYIgQImbJ8qnNjd3jDe_Z47uFU6Wyo7QMIRxKmoFLBIuJf9-Jt8MYeLCdiFuEFfhbO73zutX_fTaCqg61r8TOd6tmnyZgQogbURDNbzu-Dfss/s640/blogger-image-783819389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6LzQHPVDYd7-KwZmtEiG9bov34hT68uYIgQImbJ8qnNjd3jDe_Z47uFU6Wyo7QMIRxKmoFLBIuJf9-Jt8MYeLCdiFuEFfhbO73zutX_fTaCqg61r8TOd6tmnyZgQogbURDNbzu-Dfss/s400/blogger-image-783819389.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Sandwiches (fairly decent ones, I might add), served hot. Buttery pastries filled with creams.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVk-A1pFUHGAnEO87JLwDKHRsXD-pDlda1eIlNqbroSfNShYV6SxfWvtuj5TDYVWLL1I2yMjBImSERQNb7cFCXsklz_D0oLRytTHgmjCzFJuvjF0PpuVhgm_3RGpMK6MRyuUBxxYg1KM0/s640/blogger-image-1833188093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVk-A1pFUHGAnEO87JLwDKHRsXD-pDlda1eIlNqbroSfNShYV6SxfWvtuj5TDYVWLL1I2yMjBImSERQNb7cFCXsklz_D0oLRytTHgmjCzFJuvjF0PpuVhgm_3RGpMK6MRyuUBxxYg1KM0/s400/blogger-image-1833188093.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
A buffet with four courses (antipasti (hot and cold), primi, secondi, dolci), plus wine to drink and an oil and vinegar station for dressing your food to your taste.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZSwPlEExwJNj20SpmH53ZGSlT_YRXxPL6qrKloHx7wqVfgrIwtDEgS8GfQzKAwa0GxWX1_3SCIYqfmQS2KAJrYZDrYkg5DuwHXlfQwmzTNInanng4YuQEm6msYOBydm6GAHleGaFMNs/s640/blogger-image--1366752078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZSwPlEExwJNj20SpmH53ZGSlT_YRXxPL6qrKloHx7wqVfgrIwtDEgS8GfQzKAwa0GxWX1_3SCIYqfmQS2KAJrYZDrYkg5DuwHXlfQwmzTNInanng4YuQEm6msYOBydm6GAHleGaFMNs/s400/blogger-image--1366752078.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Bags of pasta and bottles of wine to take on the road.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMJb7oC1agpCUoCErNB-qEwJQKhk1Yad2oqfDfUmV_IDVWgZEAfMuHuCP7U16mWTWbzjBnRQwT5ureUBBERn_2roLqSlHwwvsEuvEQBUuCVZRJiMhP7dTujqjX7euAmmhxSOXdCVVffo/s640/blogger-image-820598253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMJb7oC1agpCUoCErNB-qEwJQKhk1Yad2oqfDfUmV_IDVWgZEAfMuHuCP7U16mWTWbzjBnRQwT5ureUBBERn_2roLqSlHwwvsEuvEQBUuCVZRJiMhP7dTujqjX7euAmmhxSOXdCVVffo/s400/blogger-image-820598253.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I don't think I could design a more perfect microcosm of Italian food culture if I tried. The only thing that's missing is the gelato case.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-58631702589388369362013-04-14T12:13:00.001-04:002013-04-14T13:01:49.679-04:00The exploits of UgoMonday through Thursday of this week, I was on the road in Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany visiting some of the folks who produce foods we sell. Foods like <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=V-10Y">balsamic vinegar</a>, <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=O-PAN">olive oil</a>, and <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=P-MAR-SPA">pasta</a>. (More on those soon.) To reach the small towns where those producers are located, I rented a car.<br />
<br />
Before I left the US, I made a reservation to rent a cute little Smart Car. I chose it because it was small, and cheap, and, most importantly, it has an automatic transmission. I can't drive a stick shift.<br />
<br />
When we got to the car rental agency on Monday morning, the man at the counter told me that they had made a mistake. They didn't have any Smart cars.<br />
<br />
"You drive a manual?" he asked, hopefully.<br />
<br />
"No," was my emphatic reply.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes of searching his computer, he told me, "the only automatic we have is a Mercedes Vito." With a chuckle, he asked, "you know what it is?"<br />
<br />
Again, my reply was, "no." I know approximately nothing about cars.<br />
<br />
But in the end, it didn't matter what it was. It was an automatic, and I'd get it at the same price as the smart car, so unless I wanted to return another day to switch for a Smart car, it was the Mercedes or nothing.<br />
<br />
Enter Ugo.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbryV0xkGc209IMVSf-J0QBBKOEyJ13GZnd9ssaalYo1FJCLpg4WJkrkqrc_R2dj036fmaKU4h5XaBSxCx5FcSU-2nl6UdHoFBgj_9058SUZohWVeG5krFdQD3VvZ2YxZmj22yZvtKpbw/s1600/P1000643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbryV0xkGc209IMVSf-J0QBBKOEyJ13GZnd9ssaalYo1FJCLpg4WJkrkqrc_R2dj036fmaKU4h5XaBSxCx5FcSU-2nl6UdHoFBgj_9058SUZohWVeG5krFdQD3VvZ2YxZmj22yZvtKpbw/s400/P1000643.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugo surveys the countryside in the hilltop town of Castelvetro in Modena</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Turns out a Mercedes Vito is a nine-seat van. I named him Ugo. He would have been called Hugo, because he is huge, but he is Italian and therefore called Ugo. He has a long scrape over each of his rear wheels and a dent in the front and back bumpers. He is perfect.<br />
<br />
Together with Ugo, we drove along narrow paths clinging to mountainsides, we wended our way across centuries-old villages, and we passed through fields of olive trees and grape vines and fruit trees erupting in white and pink blossoms. It was a pretty remarkable trip, and Ugo made it possible for to visit all of the beautiful people and places we saw on the way. It felt a little silly to have such a large vehicle for just two people, but I think it worked out much better (and probably much safer) than if we'd had the little Smart car, after all.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-29010291017199126462013-04-07T06:24:00.000-04:002013-04-07T06:30:16.604-04:00Bologna pasta primer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All over Bologna, you see pasta. The serious food shops with bountiful cheese counters and a dozen kinds of cured hams hanging from the ceilings have displays full of fresh pastas. Most bakeries have a selection of bagged dried pastas behind the counter - and not necessarily the fancy stuff. Down the street from my apartment there's a little shop that sells nothing but homemade fresh (uncooked) pasta.<br />
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Pasta here is usually made with egg, so it is very yellow in color. (Sometimes it's made with spinach too, so you see a few green pastas as well.) All pastas start with the same dough. If you just cut the dough into long, thin strips, you've got tagliatelle. If you leave the strips fatter, you've got lasagna. If you decide to stuff your pasta, you can make little navel-shaped tortellini, or large navel-shaped tortelloni, or occasionally triangular ravioli. Most displays include several varieties of tortellini and tortelloni with different stuffings: ricotta, truffle, speck, pumpkin. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Food-Italy-Waverley-Root/dp/0679738967">Waverley Root</a> writes of a report that lists more than 600 varieties of pasta; the choices are endless.<br />
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Choosing your pasta is only the first step. Each kind is traditionally served with a particular sauce, too. Here's a quick primer of Bolognese pasta and sauce pairings:<br />
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<b>Tortellini:</b> this most famous of Bolognese pastas is classically stuffed with a mix of prosciutto, mortadella, veal, parmesan cheese, and perhaps a dash of nutmeg. It is served in chicken broth (<i>tortellini in brodo</i>) for a delicate yet rich soup. <br />
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<b>Tortelloni:</b> a common stuffing for tortelloni is ricotta and spinach. This is typically served with a simple sauce of butter and sage.<br />
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<b>Tagliatelle:</b> these long, thin strands of pasta are the classic pair for ragù (<i>tagliatelle al ragù</i>) - what the rest of the world would call a Bolognese sauce. This is a rich sauce made from finely chopped veal, pork, butter, onions, carrots, and just a tiny bit of tomato.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-56977139015203313012013-04-05T14:30:00.000-04:002013-04-05T14:34:00.464-04:00How to make French toast in your apartment in Bologna: an illustrated guide<br />
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1. Buy bread at <a href="http://www.paoloatti.com/">Atti</a>. Discover that it is delicious but that you have way too much. Decide to make French toast.<br />
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2. Buy milk and eggs at the grocery.<br />
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3. Remember that your apartment is not equipped with a bread knife. Buy one at the 99 Cent store.<br />
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4. Dig through all the cupboards in search of a bowl large enough for beating eggs. Above the stove, find a large tupperware that will suit this purpose. Also find a large frying pan. Consider this a major success, given that your previous inventory of pans consisted of one large pan for pasta and one metal cup for boiling water.<br />
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5. Turn on some music (preferably Beethoven piano sonatas). Slice up some strawberries, sprinkle them with sugar. (You <i>did</i> remember to buy strawberries this morning at the <a href="http://www.mercatodelleerbe.it/">Ugo Bassi market</a>, didn't you?)<br />
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6. Assemble all your ingredients and tools. Now you are ready to begin making French toast.<br />
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7. Slice the bread. Mix together the milk and eggs; one recipe I found online suggests 1 cup of milk to 4 eggs, but just guesstimate it. Soak the slices of bread in the egg mixture for at least 5 minutes - after all, this is crusty bread, and longer soaking means more custardy toast. During this time, heat the frying pan. Use a paper towel to grease the pan with some of the sunflower seed oil you found on top of the fridge.<br />
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8. When the pan is sufficiently hot, cook the French toast. Flip it when it is ready. It is ready to flip when the underside looks like the piece in the lower half of this photo.<br />
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9. When the French toast is cooked, carefully arrange it on your plate to look like Australia. Top with strawberries. Eat.<br />
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Repeat steps 7 (from the part about soaking the bread in the egg mixture) through 9 as necessary.<br />
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10. Realize you still have most of half a loaf of bread remaining. Wonder what to make next. </div>
Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-14464176454619004292013-04-04T05:27:00.000-04:002013-04-06T13:14:57.094-04:00CarciofiEverywhere you look at markets and grocery stores and floating vegetable boats there are piles and piles of <i>carciofi</i> [artichokes]. Big and small, green and purple, whole and trimmed and just the hearts. I forgot to pack my Personal Artichoke Chef to prepare them all for me. A rookie mistake; I won't make it again.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28isGRI_WZ_Xgx0zyW37BF9B6om0XQo3rpI8y207gDotGnDpIyUD60VII_Ka3Yw3JlxF7jUymQy_XZJu3DNAUmgu5wEzXzzIzKWser5z_lQd2sxVt9T10oWWSpIHY3LCucZ3UNKRr3O8/s1600/P1000194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwwkSFbes3XWM1Zg-qMvaMTKZVylHzUo7CDmagNtxiT0Ee7d1QqC0cIb85nOOjVVLzZd4P_9S69mO6ORRulOr8_PyB4vTnGZRXNA_orAiYnYC4MHNmqvmyOydQ_iGRoOAxwv7DKCl-As/s1600/P1000186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwwkSFbes3XWM1Zg-qMvaMTKZVylHzUo7CDmagNtxiT0Ee7d1QqC0cIb85nOOjVVLzZd4P_9S69mO6ORRulOr8_PyB4vTnGZRXNA_orAiYnYC4MHNmqvmyOydQ_iGRoOAxwv7DKCl-As/s400/P1000186.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28isGRI_WZ_Xgx0zyW37BF9B6om0XQo3rpI8y207gDotGnDpIyUD60VII_Ka3Yw3JlxF7jUymQy_XZJu3DNAUmgu5wEzXzzIzKWser5z_lQd2sxVt9T10oWWSpIHY3LCucZ3UNKRr3O8/s400/P1000194.JPG" width="400" /> </div><br />
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Last night I ate my first artichokes of the trip. (Unfortunately, they weren't nearly as pretty as the ones in the market, so I don't have a picture.) We picked them up from <a href="http://www.vecchiamalganegozi.it/site/punti-vendita/la-baita/">La Baita</a>, an excellent little cheese, meat, and dry goods shop in Bologna. The hearts were simply prepared with olive oil and vinegar, and yet they were so outstanding that they forced you to sit up and take notice. Bright, rich, acidic, supremely flavorful. Best artichokes I have ever eaten. Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-23630331124685979772013-04-01T10:46:00.001-04:002013-04-01T10:46:05.082-04:00Things I've seen in groceries<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milk boxes filled with milk to eat, not drink</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSuJ6FNVJrfQRf2qQQ-xl3bpmc8kWrg4MkIAH0PJEbcNkSs4rI-p3j3HOjllmc0X4ErwSSH19ptnT4iR-uAqvJoIcA-ze9SmOnOvasEjFJdpAU5534Oank2NERpSqiqBd-sC18gH3RJyM/s640/blogger-image-251323558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSuJ6FNVJrfQRf2qQQ-xl3bpmc8kWrg4MkIAH0PJEbcNkSs4rI-p3j3HOjllmc0X4ErwSSH19ptnT4iR-uAqvJoIcA-ze9SmOnOvasEjFJdpAU5534Oank2NERpSqiqBd-sC18gH3RJyM/s400/blogger-image-251323558.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apparently, gluten free is a Thing over here, too.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf2DzLWzWgeXg-iT2yVzRcbFyPbGYN0OQDqFS4lOm7MkwATJQa218h5wDcwS6wR9y1ynoElvFjMde-wngh-FK-GypnPQaDF6WP2xIgaTSx-NcY2o-9Z8qjKBYR6D3ppbKSkRTiYSste0/s640/blogger-image--944033140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf2DzLWzWgeXg-iT2yVzRcbFyPbGYN0OQDqFS4lOm7MkwATJQa218h5wDcwS6wR9y1ynoElvFjMde-wngh-FK-GypnPQaDF6WP2xIgaTSx-NcY2o-9Z8qjKBYR6D3ppbKSkRTiYSste0/s400/blogger-image--944033140.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Organic meat? Sure, it's over there, between the chicken and the horse."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3NPiJ4g9t83sCwLzxB9hXTdL2mW2XtMJ2PR8pU_ACcU98PTE1aIH6JwCZqdrWPmLPw50gZXNYkg2aQslLA-fuOWk6pDIOsGL6E4yI-PoF6h3ysHYfHvyHfbR22tSZc2Sc9ibNSuKub8/s640/blogger-image--1512900200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3NPiJ4g9t83sCwLzxB9hXTdL2mW2XtMJ2PR8pU_ACcU98PTE1aIH6JwCZqdrWPmLPw50gZXNYkg2aQslLA-fuOWk6pDIOsGL6E4yI-PoF6h3ysHYfHvyHfbR22tSZc2Sc9ibNSuKub8/s400/blogger-image--1512900200.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Juice boxes. Filled with wine.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04VU740Iz9ue1gt68zW0rUXsM_KpFzDVmbFN3tDT82s-vsHRBVZKgHboiEPfthGcF9hAQhtlxP3JuI-ZaL4qftid-e5KYV7tMKsb-80tUJq4xd9q_Qo-o3n1K3zuJ-dMSimq9xYfiGMA/s640/blogger-image-2049974076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04VU740Iz9ue1gt68zW0rUXsM_KpFzDVmbFN3tDT82s-vsHRBVZKgHboiEPfthGcF9hAQhtlxP3JuI-ZaL4qftid-e5KYV7tMKsb-80tUJq4xd9q_Qo-o3n1K3zuJ-dMSimq9xYfiGMA/s400/blogger-image-2049974076.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the cured meat counter. I don't know if this is fun or creepy.</td></tr>
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Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-51473386650122234092013-03-29T16:34:00.000-04:002013-03-29T16:34:54.151-04:00Focaccia alla Veneziana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Every Thursday," writes <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Italy-Gourmet-Traveler-Fred-Plotkin/dp/190686831X">Fred Plotkin</a>, "[Pasticceria dal Nono Colussi] makes <i>focaccia alla veneziana</i>... It is sold until Sunday but is best sampled on the day it is made."<br />
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My only Thursday in Venice was yesterday, which was also the day I arrived. So no matter that I was jet lagged and dopey; my one and only goal for yesterday (okay, my goal after finding our apartment and taking a shower) was to hike across town from Castello to Dorsoduro and get some focaccia.<br />
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<i>Focaccia alla veneziana</i>, or <i>fugassa alla venexiana</i> in the Venetian dialect, is not the same as the focaccia we're familiar with in the US. That flat, savory bread, topped with olive oil and herbs, is a product of Liguria, a region on the Italian riviera. Focaccia alla veneziana is a sweet yeasted cake. It looks a lot like <i><a href="http://www.zingermans.com/Product.aspx?ProductID=P-ANE">panettone</a></i>, an Italian cake eaten at Christmastime that's shaped like an oversized muffin with straight sides and a puffy top. In the picture above, the things that look like muffins on the left are mini-focaccie; some standard-sized focaccie are partially visible on the right.<br />
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In fact, the resemblance to panettone is not an accident; focaccia alla veneziana is the Easter equivalent of panettone. The main difference is that panettone usually contains raisins and bits of candied citrus. Focaccia alla veneziana has no little bits of anything scattered in the dough, though it is flavored with candied citrus. Both are mildly sweet and have a light, fluffy texture.<br />
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I've seen focaccia alla veneziana in pastry shop windows and at grocery stores all over town. Usually, they're displayed right next to another, even more Easter-focused cake: <i>colomba</i>. Colomba, which means "dove" in Italian, is made from the same dough as focaccia alla veneziana, but it's topped with almonds and shaped like a dove. (Or, at least, that's the idea. To me, it's shaped like a lower-case 't,' but with no tail and very fat arms.) In the above photo, the pastries in the middle are colombe.<br />
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Though I've seen focaccia alla veneziana in many places, I'm glad I bought it at Pasticceria dal Nono Colussi. Stepping inside the shop was heavenly: after perhaps an hour of meandering through narrow streets and over countless bridges in a chilly afternoon drizzle, the small shop was warm and bright and the air was perfumed with the sweet aroma of fresh-baked pastry. The shop was filled almost entirely with foccaccie and colombe of various sizes, along with a very limited selection of other pastries. <br />
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The largest focaccie at Nono Colussi are much larger than my head and sold for 34 Euro each. I opted for one muffin-sized focaccia (labeled simply "venexiana") and one small colomba for 6 Euro total. They are outstanding - light and fluffy, sweet without being cloying, with a citrusy flavor like lemon or orange. If I were feeling really decadent, I'd go back and get a big one, bring it back to the apartment, slice it up, and make French toast.Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-47051748509186574372013-03-13T18:25:00.000-04:002013-03-13T18:25:44.766-04:00Italy bound<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few weeks ago, during a long weekend in Baltimore, I dragged a friend across town to Fell's Point. I needed to visit <a href="http://sucasa-furniture.com/">a shop</a> that I was hoping would have a certain map of Italy in stock. My friend indulged me, in part because she is a good friend and in part because a visit to Fell's Point was also a good excuse to pick up some <a href="http://pitangogelato.com/">gelato</a>. Our trip was a success; we both got gelato and I got my map. Now it's hanging above my desk, just beyond my computer screen as I type these words, a happy distraction.<br />
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Italy has been a happy distraction for the better part of a year now, ever since I started imagining the month I'll be spending there this spring. A few months ago imagining transitioned into planning, and since then every shelf and side table and spare flat surface has been buried under stacks of guide books and tomes of Italian cookery. Now that my trip begins in two weeks (!!), many of those books have been buried under to-do lists.<br />
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Here's the plan as it stands now. I'll fly into Venice, where I'll stay for about a week. After that, I'll spend about five days in Bologna. Then I'll be renting a car (my first time, not only in Europe, but ever) to visit smaller towns and food producers in Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany. That road trip will end in Florence, where I'll stay for about five days. Next comes a week-long buyer's tour with <a href="http://www.attavola.com/English/Overview.html">aTTavola</a>, a company that imports many of the Italian foods <a href="http://www.zingermans.com/">we sell</a>. And finally, I'll end with about six days in Rome before returning to the US.<br />
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In the past, I used this blog as a record of everything I saw and did and ate during every day of my time spent living and traveling in France. (If, after that persuasive pitch, you'd like to know more, read on! It's all still here for your perusal.) This time around, I want to use this blog as a tool to share my learnings and epiphanies and banal observations on shorter topics. Less diary, more topical. I expect the posts will be much shorter, but also (I hope) much more frequent. And my fingers are crossed that I'll write about things - at least some things - as they actually happen, rather than doing most of the writing months after the fact.<br />
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I hope you'll join me for the trip!Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-19493950124611241962011-04-30T15:58:00.001-04:002011-11-04T16:37:19.434-04:00Paris VIII: à bientôt<b>11 September</b><br />
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When Victoria and I arrived back in Paris after our day in <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-vii-les-banlieux.html">Saint-Germain-en-Laye</a>, the sun was just setting and the sky was pretty spectacular with dalmatian-spot clouds. We decided to head to the Champ du Mars to relax for a little while in the waning sunshine; little did we realize that thousands of others had the same idea.<br />
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The screen at the base of the tower was new, and there were speakers blaring music and search lights scanning the skies as more and more people arrived. Clearly, we had stumbled into some huge happening - which is pretty consistently my story every time <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/muse-du-cluny-fiert-des-gaies-etc.html">something</a> <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-i-coucou-old-friend.html">interesting</a> <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-v-la-greve.html">happens</a> to me in Paris.<br />
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Eventually, someone arrived on the stage in front of the screen to explain. From what I gathered from the speech (in French, <i>bien sur!</i>), there was to be a <i>spectacle</i> this evening in honor of the efforts of hundreds (or thousands) of volunteers who had helped out an organization called <a href="http://www.solidarite-sida.org/">Solidarité SIDA</a>, which unites young people in the cause against AIDS. Or something like that. In any case, for a long while the screen was plastered with, "des Médicaments pour Tous" (Medication for All). We had hoped there might be a concert, but we had no such luck, though there was certainly some music.<br />
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After the welcoming speech, they showed a long and confusing series of video clips on the big screen. The short (maybe one minute long at most) clips seemed to be taken from random TV shows that had been aired in the last twenty years, but that seemed to be all they had in common. Some were funny, some were intense, some made no sense at all, and most of which involved too much jargon or were spoken too quickly to be very intelligible to me. The final clip, though, that one was perfectly clear... sort of.<br />
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It's hard to see because the crowd is so dark in the video, but pretty much everyone in the field did the infamous YMCA dance during the chorus. I wish I had kept taping for an extra 5 seconds; the tower started to sparkle just after I stopped recording... but as it is, you'll have to take my word for it and use your imagination.<br />
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We stayed to watch for about an hour, and decided that was plenty. <br />
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<b>12 September</b><br />
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My last full day in France was, appropriately, a Sunday, so that I could spend my happy few remaining hours wandering through <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-ii-marketing-we-shall-go.html">the market</a>. After getting some fruits and bread for myself, I met with Victoria and introduced her to my favorite spot in Paris.<br />
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She had never been to the marché de la Bastille before. It was so great to experience the city with someone who had also lived there, but had an entirely different experience than I had - we could introduce each other to favorite spots we might never have seen otherwise. After some requisite wandering and ogling, we picked up some lunch to split: a <b>saucisse en croûte</b>:<br />
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The sausage tasted like a Touraine saucisse d'ail to me, and was wrapped in a somewhat crisp and flaky crust. It was good, but heavy - we enjoyed it much more once we had bought a large bottle of <i>jus de pomme</i> - apple juice - to drink with it. The juice was similar to what we would call cider in the US - it had a delicious, complex, fuller flavor than standard grocery store juice and made a perfect accompaniment to the sausage.<br />
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At three, I saw Victoria off to the train station, as she was headed back to Geneva to start her internship the following day. I'm so glad the timing worked out that her first weekend in Europe was my last, and that we were able to spend a few days together in Paris!<br />
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When she left, I was at something of a loss for what to do with my remaining hours. In 2008, my <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2009/01/fte-nationale-franaise.html">last day in Paris</a> was somewhat frenetic. It happened to be Bastille day, so some of the metro stops weren't running, and I spent about 8 hours walking all over the city, soaking in every last drop of Paris that I could before I had to get on a plane and fly back to the boring old U S of A. This time around, however, leaving felt much more bittersweet. I was sorry to leave France, of course, but I was glad to be headed home. Mostly, I was tired: tired of living out of a suitcase and moving to a new, unfamiliar city for a few days; tired of coming up with where to go and what to see and which adventures to pursue each day; tired of working so hard to keep up with the language spoken all around me; tired, even, of eating French food. I was ready to go home and read books and watch movies and take a few days to do absolutely, gloriously nothing.<br />
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Perhaps my last few hours are an indication that I absorbed more of the French lifestyle or culture on this trip than I did on the first one; in the end, all I wanted to do that afternoon was sit at a table on the sidewalk terrace of a café, sip<i> un déca</i>, people watch, and write in my journal.<br />
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The last sentence I wrote in that journal, as I sat in that café that afternoon, was a hope that I would finish writing this blog "within a few weeks" of getting home... it's taken just a little longer than that. But I have enjoyed revisiting the memories of the sights and sounds and tastes of this trip as I have slowly made my way through typing this all up, and I hope you have enjoyed coming along for the journey. In the end, I mean this blog to be an (exceedingly long, but illustrated!) answer to the question, "how was your trip?" That question invites a one word answer, and though it was indeed "great!," that's not the whole story. That doesn't begin to tell the whole story. I hope that this does.<br />
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The next time I travel with the intent of eating and learning about French cuisine, I presume I will write about it here. For now, I have no upcoming travel plans - though you never know what might be around the corner. In the meantime, if you'd like to hear about what I eat (and cook!) when I'm not traipsing across Europe, I am writing all about those (slightly less exciting) adventures <a href="http://cherryspurtle.blogspot.com/">here</a>. I'd be glad to have you join me for the ride.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-40810441434448312062011-04-27T17:09:00.000-04:002011-04-27T17:09:19.710-04:00Paris VII: les banlieux<b>10 September</b><br />
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My mom was headed back to the US on the afternoon of the 10th, so we got an early start to get ready to take her to the airport. We paused for a moment for our last <i>café </i>together.<br />
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I accompanied my mom part of the way to the airport on the metro, then spent the day meeting friends in the city. Unfortunately, I hardly took any pictures during the day, but that was in part because I spent the day revisiting spots I had already been to in the last week. At noon, I had a lunch date with my friend Victoria, whom I met during college. She went to high school in Paris, and her mother still keeps an apartment just outside of town. She had just arrived in Geneva a few days earlier, where she was going to spend the next few months interning at the World Health Organization, but she hadn't found an apartment there yet. I suggested she come to Paris for the weekend, and I was thrilled when she decided to do so.<br />
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We met for lunch at <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-iii-playing-tourist.html">le Loir dans la Théière</a>, where we both had tartes aux oignons rouges and we split a clafoutis aux mirabelles and a slice of tarte aux nectarines de vigne et romarin. It was one of the few meals I had in France where I was good company instead of a good note-taker, but since I'd eaten almost the exact same meal just a few days earlier, I figured I could get away with it.<br />
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After a very pleasant lunch, I had another date with another old friend. I met Isabelle through the Boston University program I attended in 2008. Though her day job is with BU, she is also a professional photographer, and I first got to know her when she led an <i><a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/atelier-de-photo.html">atelier de photo</a></i> - a photography workshop - one gray Sunday afternoon. After an hour or two of taking photos all about the lovely jardins de Luxembourg, we decided to sit down for a juice in a café near the park. At the café, Isabelle and I discovered we had a mutual love of pastry, and later that day she introduced me to my first Pierre Hermé macaron. Another of Isabelle's strong recommendations that day was <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-iv-moveable-feast.html">Angelina</a>, which she enthused had "the best hot chocolate on the planet," a fact I verified for myself a <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/angelina.html">few weeks later</a>. Fast forward to two years later: when we were deciding where to meet, I suggested Angelina, and naturally she agreed. It was wonderful to see her again and catch up on the last two years, though neither of us was feeling up to tackling the heavy, rich hot chocolate at that time; I went for an apricot juice instead.<br />
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After saying goodbye to Isabelle, I went back to the hotel to relax for an hour or so before heading out across town to Victoria's apartment for dinner. Her apartment is a little outside of Paris proper, in Boulogne-Billancourt, one of the <i>banlieux</i> (the suburbs) of Paris, just south of the bois de Boulogne. While in US the suburbs are often considered safer and cleaner than inner cities, in France the word banlieu has a decidedly negative connotation. The banlieux are often home to immigrants and the working class, and in many cases they are can be dangerous places. But Boulogne-Billancourt is a little more affluent than some of the other banlieux, so though I was out of Paris, I was still a ways from really slumming it.<br />
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Though it is illegal to build buildings taller than seven stories in Paris proper, each banlieu plays by its own rules. Victoria's apartment is on the eighth floor, and the horizon is dominated by two<i> tours</i>: the Eiffel, and the Montparnasse.<br />
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Throughout most of our undergrad years,Victoria and I celebrated Thursday nights with weekly dates to watch Grey's Anatomy and, usually, to cook dinner together. At lunch, we decided to continue the tradition by cooking dinner together that evening. We started with a trip to the grocery to pick up ingredients, then came home and cooked up a feast of rice, sauteed spinach, caramelized onions and mushrooms, and chicken in a lemon-butter-basil sauce. After a month and a half of eating out every day, it was wonderful to have a home-cooked meal for a change!<br />
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We ate on the balcony as the sun set and the Eiffel tower lit up. We watched the tower sparkle at 9:00, and then, surprisingly, sparkle three more times before the regular 10:00 sparkling - who knows why we got a few extra shows!<br />
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It was a gorgeous evening, and it was so nice to spend it relaxing over a home-cooked meal. Eventually, though, it was time to head back to the hotel and retire for the evening - though we parted with plans to meet again the next day.<br />
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<b>11 September</b><br />
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Our plans for the next day were centered on another banlieu, Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Before we headed there for the afternoon, though, I had the morning to myself, which began with a <b>viennoiserie aux pepins au chocolat</b>:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-gpfhw4GF5Ozh3mVSkrWwTt07gzbZT2HdSKtLPvf91iQJJygCQh22BhB3rxvh7d8K-gQWqJef0gsiFbEG2cxmsO_TLOBjoYsb1NEkZKO9fMIbmj8Yiz_sbu3Esbl2V3HymhfCfswTO0/s1600/P1250569-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-gpfhw4GF5Ozh3mVSkrWwTt07gzbZT2HdSKtLPvf91iQJJygCQh22BhB3rxvh7d8K-gQWqJef0gsiFbEG2cxmsO_TLOBjoYsb1NEkZKO9fMIbmj8Yiz_sbu3Esbl2V3HymhfCfswTO0/s400/P1250569-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<i>Viennoiserie</i> refers to a subset of pastries that are based on sweetened yeasted bread dough (there's usually no yeast involved in a "pâtisserie"), and <i>pepins au chocolat</i> are chocolate chips. The dough was very similar to that of a brioche, sweet with pockets of warm chocolate.<br />
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Before meeting with Victoria, I had a few hours to myself. I spent most of my time walking, first down the rue Rivoli where I found this unique facade:<br />
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This is why I love Paris. For those of you who, like me, want to know why, there is a banner hanging near the top on the right that reads <a href="http://www.59rivoli.org/">http://www.59rivoli.org/</a>, which explains this is "L'aftersquat Rivoli," of course. Aren't you glad you asked?<br />
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From there, I headed up to <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/galerie-vivienne-montmartre.html">Montmartre</a> for a while. It's such a cute neighborhood - if you can handle all the hills. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>If I lived in Paris, I would keep red flowers in my window boxes.<br />
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Around 2:00, we met and took the RER (the commuter rail that reaches further into Ile de France than the metro) to St-Germain. Victoria had been there with friends during high school, spending lazy afternoons in a huge park with a view of the Paris skyline. Our first stop when we arrived, though, was to La Crêpière, because it was well past lunch time and we were decidedly hungry.<br />
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I ordered the <b>crêpe au fois gras et aux figues fraîches</b>:<br />
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As you might have guessed from the name, this extravagant crepe was filled with fois gras and fresh figs. It was rich and sweet, but it could have used a little more complexity: a little acid, perhaps, or salt. It came with a beautiful, lightly dressed green salad, and we ordered a <i>pichet de cidre</i> to go with it as well, <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/tours-iii.html">of course</a>.<br />
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For dessert, we split a <b>crêpe orange miel cointreau</b>:<br />
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The cointreau, an orange liqueur, was flambeed at the table. The alcohol wasn't too strong, but the orange flavor was somewhat bitter - it could have used a little more <i>miel </i>(honey) to counteract the harsher flavors.<br />
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Following lunch, we headed down to the park. The park sits on a wide, flat plateau, which seems sometimes to go on forever.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhfc41U_CLBj0VQcgG1derYNg5HDb0PCfkLqzqC9c4tHaL_Ot3vK40crwOTI9iL2rNsP7FxOBi3u34eU_8QdEMCg8_JDrsVKIxPpHy21O9uL8rcq8pbsPd4AglJntyYl2yUCBltdg-J4/s1600/P1250643-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhfc41U_CLBj0VQcgG1derYNg5HDb0PCfkLqzqC9c4tHaL_Ot3vK40crwOTI9iL2rNsP7FxOBi3u34eU_8QdEMCg8_JDrsVKIxPpHy21O9uL8rcq8pbsPd4AglJntyYl2yUCBltdg-J4/s400/P1250643-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Looking over the edge of the plateau, the horizon is broken by the highest points in the Paris skyline: la Défense, the Eiffel and Montparnasse towers, and, sometimes, Sacré Coeur.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShQ6lzs7H0n7zwiKvDCw__nCs3qWWpwqL676cHF6O_81Hc2vU-MUPnTIud0tGOF4o_s86_DDPJkKkw4sR9_HyWWJ-Z6axrMHAiih-1IZv5girGBz_WyxgeTcz_uARXaCYr3PPt8MlHfI/s1600/P1250631-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShQ6lzs7H0n7zwiKvDCw__nCs3qWWpwqL676cHF6O_81Hc2vU-MUPnTIud0tGOF4o_s86_DDPJkKkw4sR9_HyWWJ-Z6axrMHAiih-1IZv5girGBz_WyxgeTcz_uARXaCYr3PPt8MlHfI/s400/P1250631-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To the left, La Défense, with the Eiffel tower peeking out on the right</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After walking along the edge of the plateau quite a ways - maybe twenty minutes-worth - and still with quite a ways to go before we reached the end of the park, we spread out a blanket in the grass so that we could have a picnic, of course.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvgMVLcnVMCMKF8gQS3sLhtLHM7Tdo9JXzYQqjhJGBOWpt9C204F6BEOywCtW2-zfwyRJs3YPI6vM6bN_wEvRk-lqgrCqZkA60voQpb7-dTYB2d8c1YPVOSvVRuqk6kyA5ZSlKe7CtDg/s1600/P1250644-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvgMVLcnVMCMKF8gQS3sLhtLHM7Tdo9JXzYQqjhJGBOWpt9C204F6BEOywCtW2-zfwyRJs3YPI6vM6bN_wEvRk-lqgrCqZkA60voQpb7-dTYB2d8c1YPVOSvVRuqk6kyA5ZSlKe7CtDg/s400/P1250644-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It was a perfectly beautiful afternoon, warm and breezy under a blue sky dotted with hundreds of cotton ball clouds. That morning Victoria had picked up a baguette from the <i>boulangerie</i> that was voted to make the best baguettes in all of Paris in 2010, and we munched on it with <i>chèvre </i>and a fig-thyme compote. Life doesn't get much better.<br />
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Eventually, some hours later, a policeman biked by to contritely inform us that the park would be closing soon, and we might consider beginning our long mosey back to the entrance. We complied, but with a couple of pauses along the way to take a picture or two.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUIXR5aEk93G7Ltl_t6Yiua44ySP-ulfwlzzJCJgB_i0pMDDjJXOLfUrM_ljDh6TR0CA8nyY3oB1a-biaDT88kp1rQcWsaEVIBAyJ-c5xbaLjYv-bHpu3_yHghp_-X7h6XbDp3Kk7Huo/s1600/P1250653-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUIXR5aEk93G7Ltl_t6Yiua44ySP-ulfwlzzJCJgB_i0pMDDjJXOLfUrM_ljDh6TR0CA8nyY3oB1a-biaDT88kp1rQcWsaEVIBAyJ-c5xbaLjYv-bHpu3_yHghp_-X7h6XbDp3Kk7Huo/s400/P1250653-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remember how I said I got a <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-vi-disappointment-reconsidered.html">new skirt</a>? <i>Et, voilà !</i></td></tr>
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Once we had finally made our way back out of the park, we hopped on the RER to head back into Paris. Our evening wasn't over yet, but that story will have to wait for another post.<br />
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Coming soon: The end of my journey, including the video you didn't realize you've been waiting for all your life - let's just say it involves the Eiffel Tower, a thousand AIDS medication-distributing volunteers, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CS9OO0S5w2k">the Village People</a>.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-2454941080623524612011-04-24T12:25:00.120-04:002011-04-24T21:21:39.347-04:00Rouen<b>9 September</b><br />
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When I was planning my trip across France, I knew I wanted to get up to Brittany or Normandy for a day or two. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done; train routes and schedules (and prices!) made it quite difficult to get to Brittany from anywhere, or to Normandy unless you passed through Paris to do so. So though I had planned to end my time entirely in Paris, it became clear that it might be easier to arrive in Paris a day or two earlier and then make a day trip up to somewhere in Normandy - after all, it was only an hour or two on the train. Once we had decided to spend a day in Normandy, it was tough to decide where to go. In many cases, the towns' biggest attractions were the memorials for the second world war (remember D-Day?); in other cases, the towns sounded like seaside tourist havens rather than real cities. In the end, we opted for Rouen, the historic capital of the region.<br />
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After missing our train to Rouen the day before, we got moving a little more quickly in the morning to ensure our plans wouldn't be thwarted again. This time around we had no trouble making a 10:20 train, which arrived in Rouen just before noon. I think it all worked out for the best; while the day before had been grey and drizzly and perfect for <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-vi-disappointment-reconsidered.html">shopping and sipping kir</a>s, the weather while we were in Rouen was sunny and pleasant.<br />
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The architecture in Rouen was again unlike anywhere else I'd been in France so far. The streets were a panoply of different styles, with half-timbered houses next to classical brick and stone facades, intermingled with modern structures.<br />
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Considering that nearly half of the city was destroyed during WWII, I suppose the juxtaposition of so many styles reflects the interests of those who rebuilt the city. Some structures, however, have remained for hundreds of years. In particular, the city is the (proud?) home to the execution of Joan of Arc, and a sign marks this tower as the keep of the castle (fun fact: the word for keep is "donjon;" sound like "dungeon" much?) where she was imprisoned during her trial.<br />
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There would be more time for dungeons and executions later; but for now, we were hungry. Normally, when I would arrive in a new city, I would spend a fair amount of time looking in restaurant windows, reading menus and weighing my options, before I would choose a spot to eat. In this case, however, since we arrived around lunchtime, I went the simple route and chose a restaurant that had been well recommended by a few guide books.<br />
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I'm not sure I would have chosen it on my own; it boasted laminated menus and, of all things in France, a salad bar (what???), but the meal was nice and the cider was excellent, so I can't complain. I say cider, of course, because Normandy is apple (and therefore cider [read: hard cider]) country. In fact, while other regions, like Alsace, have a wine route, Normandy has a cider route.<br />
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To go with my cider, I chose the <b>mijoté de canard aux abricots et ses carottes fondantes</b>:<br />
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The long name of this dish translates as "simmered duck with apricots and its melted carrots." I was served a small cast iron pot steaming with chunks of duck, apricots, and carrots in a still-bubbling broth, which I doled out to myself in a bowl at the table. The sweetness of the apricots really permeated throughout, making the dish one of the sweetest main courses I've ever tasted in France. My only complaint would be that the duck was quite difficult to cut in the bowl, making it difficult to eat; the flavors, however, were warming and just what you would want on a chilly fall evening.<br />
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After lunch, we made our way to the heart of the city, passing the Palais de Justice on our way. With its intricate Gothic facade, it looks more impressive than the average civic building.<br />
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What you can't see in this photo, however, are the huge pockmarks in the stone, a solemn reminder of the war that ravaged the city seventy years ago. You're never too far from such a reminder in Rouen; even <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rouen_Cathedral_%28Monet%29">Monet's beloved cathedral</a>, though still soaring and impossibly intricate, shows serious signs of damage.<br />
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Though the facade is fairly well maintained, the interior lacks the mystical, jewel-toned light that is the result of stained glass windows in other cathedrals in France; Allied bombs dropped in 1944 on the German occupation damaged a number of the windows in the cathedral. The remnants of the war, still so omnipresent after so many decades, are sobering - and this wasn't even one of the Norman cities whose sole touristic attraction is the war memorials! Really, one day in Normandy was enough.<br />
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But enough solemn, sobering history; let's get back out to the sunshine and celebrate <i>le Gros Horloge</i>:<br />
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The creatively named "large clock" appears on just about every postcard you can buy in Rouen. On the underside of the arch, we find another hidden treasure:<br />
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After having spent some time exploring, we paused for <i>un café</i>, and then we needed something sweet. Luckily, Hautot was there to help us out.<br />
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In addition to its famous apple orchards, Normandy is also home to quite a population of Norman cattle, who provide over half of all of the dairy products in France. (Take a look at any specialty French butter that may appear in your grocery store, like Président - chances are, it comes from Normandy.) Traditional Norman desserts are thus often based on apples and cream, and those were the requirements for the pastry I would choose. Luckily, my <b>tarte Normande chiboust </b>fit the bill:<br />
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I think the shopkeeper recognized I wasn't French, and intentionally gave me the tarte that had fallen in on itself, thinking I wouldn't know the difference. I wouldn't, either, except for the fact that it had been sitting next to all of the other perfectly lovely and un-messy tartes. In any case, I don't suppose the fallen meringue affected the flavor. This is a small apple tart topped with a mound of bruléed <i>crème chiboust</i>, which is standard<i> crème pâtissière </i>mixed with an Italian meringue. I would have liked a little more apple, but it was a nice, simple pastry that hit the spot.<br />
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We didn't eat the pastry in the shop; instead, we walked to the nearby Place du Vieux Marché (Old Market Plaza), since it thoughtfully provided bench-height stone remnants of what must have been an important building hundreds of years ago.<br />
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I say it must have been important because when we were done eating, I noticed the sign that indicated that it was on this spot in May, 1431 that Joan of Arc was executed. What an incredible thing to just stumble across!<br />
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But perhaps you are uninterested in the events of centuries past; perhaps the unusual structure behind the stone wall remnants has captured your interest, instead?<br />
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It is the church of Ste Jeanne d'Arc, and it is unlike any other church I have seen in France.<br />
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I'm sure the walls of windows must be thoroughly impressive from the inside; unfortunately, there was a somewhat creepy man standing and begging in the entrance and harassing anyone who went inside, so we'll just have to imagine.<br />
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The church isn't the only piece of interesting architecture, though: just to its left rises another soaring, pointed roof.<br />
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Here on the other side of the church is the Old Market which lends its name to the Plaza. It was a pleasant market, covered yet open to the air, and host to a few vendors with standard market fare: cheeses, fish, meat, fresh produce.<br />
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We got some apples for the train, and then stopped in a nearby Paul bakery for a couple of <i>flûtes</i> to take on our way before gradually making our way back to the train station. On the ride back to Paris, we laughed until we cried about my mom's future employment in the art world. I don't want to give too much away, but I am confident that someday hers will be a household name.<br />
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By the time we were back to the hotel, Paris was dark and rainy. My mom started to pack, since she was headed back home the next day; I had a few more days left in Paris before I would fly back to the states.<br />
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Coming soon: time to get down and dirty in the (not-so-)seedy Parisian <i>banlieux</i>.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-67208978349274778242011-04-23T18:20:00.002-04:002011-04-24T11:11:46.738-04:00Paris VI: disappointment reconsidered<b>8 September</b><br />
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We had thought we might head up to Rouen for the day, and took the metro across town to the Gare Saint-Lazare (one of Paris' many train stations) with this aim, only to arrive about 10 minutes too late to make the train - perhaps we shouldn't have stopped for <i>un express</i> along the way? I was still feeling somewhat downcast, partly left over from <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-iv-moveable-feast.html">my realizations</a> from the day before that Paris wasn't "mine" the way it had been before, and partly from knowing that my trip would be ending in a few short days. Missing the train sent me over the edge for a minute... but only a minute. We were in Paris, after all! Who cares about stinking Rouen, especially when we could go tomorrow instead and here in Paris, McDonald's looks like this:<br />
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Seems to me this ought to be a Burger King instead, but given that I wouldn't eat any brand of American fast food in Europe, I suppose the point is moot.<br />
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Gare Saint-Lazare is right on the edge of the 8th and 9th arrondissements, near l'Opéra and home to the most famous of les Grands Magasins, including Printemps:<br />
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We ducked our heads in all the big shops, just to have a look at the overpriced goods and, in the Galeries Lafayettes, the <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/bien-mang.html">stunning architecture</a>. We also stopped in some shopping venues that weren't quite as fancy, like the passage Havre, which boasted a charming little park in the middle of the city and the mall.<br />
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It had been raining overnight and the benches were soaked, so when we paused in the park to eat our baguette, picked up from Kayser that morning, we didn't sit.<br />
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After our snack, we ducked in a Pimkie (a chain clothing store found across France), where we did in fact make a few purchases. I'm not sure when the last time was my mom and I went clothing shopping together... maybe ten years ago, so we were long overdue. We had fun, with me trying on some ridiculous long dresses and an adorable skirt that I ended up getting (thanks Mom!). My mom was so swept up in the excitement of the Paris fashion world that she even bought herself a scarf or two, and I'm confident that one day soon she'll wear one of them.<br />
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Having sufficiently shopped, it was time for a little more sight seeing, so we walked down to see l'Opéra.<br />
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By now it was probably around 1 pm, and the stately steps were momentarily home to a crowd of lunching young professionals.<br />
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Speaking of lunch, we were getting hungry ourselves, so we decided it was time to find something to eat. I had a spot in mind, not far from la Madeleine:<br />
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It's hard to go hungry anywhere in Paris, but the block surrounding la Madeleine is home to some particularly spectacular eateries. Specifically, I was thinking of lunch at Fauchon. Fauchon is internationally renowned as a high-quality gourmet food shop, selling jams and patés and coffees and vinegars and all manner of goods. They also have an incredible pâtisserie that sells not only incredible sweet treats, but also all manner of beautiful savory versions of classic pastries (say, salmon eclairs with peas, or vegetable tarts). And then, if that weren't enough, they also have a <i>salon de thé</i> serving some pretty fantastic lunch fare that features a number of the items they have for sale in the boutique.<br />
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We were seated in a pleasant outdoor terrace that was encapsulated in a clear plastic tent - quite lucky, given the on-again-off-again rain we experienced throughout the day. My mom ordered a bowl of gazpacho, heady with the intensely fresh flavors of cucumber, green pepper, tomato, and a little kick of onion. Its velvety texture was a perfect counterpoint to the crisp croutons served on the side. For my part, I had the <b>risotto aux cèpes et artichaux</b>:<br />
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The rice was perfectly creamy with a tender chew, deep in flavor from mushroom stock, perhaps. The <i>cèpes</i>, or porcini mushrooms, were beautifully caramelized the complemented the rice beautifully, and the pickled artichoke hearts were a lovely tart counterpoint to creamy richness of the rest. All together in a perfect bite, the dish was creamy, toasty, and just a little acidic - complex and well-balanced.<br />
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The restaurant is on the second floor of the boutique, so after finishing our meal we headed downstairs to spend some more time shopping, for mustards and chocolates and teas. When we finally tore ourselves away, it was only to head down the street to Ladurée for some macarons. I had been told - and believed - that Pierre Hermé made the best macarons in Paris, but having never tasted those of the other macaron hotshot, we would need a taste test to be sure. We picked up three macarons from Ladurée: <i>caramel-fleur de sel</i>, <i>pistache</i>, and <i>fruits-rouges</i>.<br />
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And then, of course, we hopped on the metro to head down to Pierre Hermé for a sample of his: <i>jasmin</i>, <i>cassis</i>, and <i>vanille-huile d'olive</i>.<br />
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That evening and the next, we carefully tasted both sets of macarons. While the flavors of each shop's macarons were bold and well-defined, the light, airy, delicately crisp texture of Pierre's made them the winners for me. The classic <i>vanille-huile d'olive</i> (vanilla-olive oil, the green one on the right) was particularly excellent.<br />
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But there was no time for macaron tasting just then - we were off to the Tour Montparnasse, the only skyscraper in Paris. I visited it <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/08/dernier-weekend.html">first in 2008</a> on a tip from my friend Isabelle. There are two ways up: one costs about 7 Euros just for the trip up the elevator; the other leads to a restaurant with mediocre but very expensive food and a stunning panorama of the city. But it's open all day, and if you go at about 3-4 pm, a time when the French never eat out, you can order a drink and enjoy a table by the windows for an hour or two. Sure, the drink may cost 9E, but the restaurant is empty and quiet and the view cannot be beat.<br />
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</div>We arrived at about 3:30 and were immediately seated at an empty table just adjacent to the window. My mom ordered a coffee, while I opted for an extremely photogenic kir, the classic <i>apéro</i> made with white wine and <i>crème de cassis</i>: <br />
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Later, my mom told me she hadn't been that enthusiastic about coming to the restaurant, but she changed her mind quickly when we stepped off the elevator and were greeted with this view:<br />
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We stayed for maybe an hour or so, noticing different monuments and taking a ton of pictures over the city... and in the mirrors.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSbLW2tQIdd6P-pgj45T6s3OWFPStpyDqst1Orr02T1KE7QbyY5ax0LnC2ZDhPVjsz_aWbaTfVwT-0gp-38wHd48H6GeuoUaP0X94uhirKprfaoIYaM5hX1l-IBDFM_BuCRvJhX8l9Bw/s1600/P1250300-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSbLW2tQIdd6P-pgj45T6s3OWFPStpyDqst1Orr02T1KE7QbyY5ax0LnC2ZDhPVjsz_aWbaTfVwT-0gp-38wHd48H6GeuoUaP0X94uhirKprfaoIYaM5hX1l-IBDFM_BuCRvJhX8l9Bw/s400/P1250300-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Eventually, we headed back out into the grey weather to walk through the 6th arrondissement. On our way to the metro, we passed through the lovely jardins de Luxembourg.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl89yrD4iC5lQetPuYWXUbhOxfPyNZ0wWFHoaA2C3fk0_Gt3NSlZlAeXfBRlAoKD8wBswRP-MCxnTK8dwNNLt3bDYUToBy5gPqQupjESX0et08UD42CpsRzScVcTM09aOxqyOKTYXyKOk/s1600/P1250356-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl89yrD4iC5lQetPuYWXUbhOxfPyNZ0wWFHoaA2C3fk0_Gt3NSlZlAeXfBRlAoKD8wBswRP-MCxnTK8dwNNLt3bDYUToBy5gPqQupjESX0et08UD42CpsRzScVcTM09aOxqyOKTYXyKOk/s400/P1250356-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
We went back to the hotel just long enough for a light dinner of Kayser baguette, yogurt, and fruit before heading getting back on the metro to head back across town and visit the Champ du Mars. My mom had never seen the Eiffel tower sparkle in person, so we wanted to be there in time for the 9:00 show, just as soon as the sun had set and it was dark enough to watch.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ADqgmEthK2LxhqLwgK3730VmBD9TNWCGR82Q-ZTtusHE4EAu0dKe9D7LODvX02I2UlRiwQfuY5uy7L3rx8jJxTxLB2VufOPL7wmeJSXHDQcCiyQ4gHpXZWLm3MP16Wd11YT61ibv3mc/s1600/P1250383-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ADqgmEthK2LxhqLwgK3730VmBD9TNWCGR82Q-ZTtusHE4EAu0dKe9D7LODvX02I2UlRiwQfuY5uy7L3rx8jJxTxLB2VufOPL7wmeJSXHDQcCiyQ4gHpXZWLm3MP16Wd11YT61ibv3mc/s400/P1250383-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Seeing the tower sparkle was nice, but I enjoyed seeing my mom's reaction more: she lit up just like the tower, a smile beaming across her face, so happy to be there and to see the lights in person. Going to school so near the tower, and becoming so accustomed to seeing it sparkle, I had forgotten how exciting it was when I first arrived in Paris. It was wonderful to see how happy the tower made my mom.<br />
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After the ten minutes of sparkling, we took the metro back to the hotel for our dégustation des macarons. Though we had a rough start with the narrowly missed train, it was a lovely day indeed.<br />
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Coming soon: Rouen, heart of Normandy, home of apples and cows and damage from the second world war.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-44581536922285975672011-04-11T13:22:00.000-04:002011-04-11T13:22:35.017-04:00Paris V: la grève<b>7 September</b><br />
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Around 1 pm on a pleasant, warm afternoon, as I <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-iv-moveable-feast.html">walked up rue de Turenne</a> through my old haunt surrounding my old gallery, I decided I wanted to walk up to Place de la République along the path I used to take daily after work to get home to continue my mildly melancholy march down memory lane.<br />
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You might say that was my first mistake.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGfqv5a-8vgIz0MtFwk87Xx3Nc1eT4PKPbMVeSbiwNHUpYaWBLxouYHGEIiWt8NrrSWgqvCeJvtvIN2Dq5_OlwRC0WqGNtsksze0M6wWbhh16v4HTrLVpsU_van2PP8pBIXM3Wq_nmA4/s1600/P1250142-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGfqv5a-8vgIz0MtFwk87Xx3Nc1eT4PKPbMVeSbiwNHUpYaWBLxouYHGEIiWt8NrrSWgqvCeJvtvIN2Dq5_OlwRC0WqGNtsksze0M6wWbhh16v4HTrLVpsU_van2PP8pBIXM3Wq_nmA4/s400/P1250142-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Remember those <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-i-coucou-old-friend.html">12,000 demonstrators</a> I saw on Saturday when I arrived in Paris? Those teeming crowds filling the streets by the Place de la Bastille?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0yH5Z46odqr35sEQTjK-3BZ-mr6agFqi88DsAwpmRNNfjFVBorRmVLYOj67NkgchuphJw1bX94AkBimGfJpdM7Ry00KH0J7rXmJqcIw4B5j8DS4H16zF39R7nRiHRZRknpU0UjzRqmco/s1600/P1250152-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0yH5Z46odqr35sEQTjK-3BZ-mr6agFqi88DsAwpmRNNfjFVBorRmVLYOj67NkgchuphJw1bX94AkBimGfJpdM7Ry00KH0J7rXmJqcIw4B5j8DS4H16zF39R7nRiHRZRknpU0UjzRqmco/s400/P1250152-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
They had nothing on the crowds I now found marching down the Boulevard du Temple.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVUxHEWv5VBHUZX8zfVCqyx-S1N6e6D3RU_hYL5PhD1dea2lzx5RZ9aK5GROkKt0amDJtZADaLTsOwkO4OlTnuXOnxGfhSmBLzCIvTM5-NPE9SKDF0qDQYYPbWJphYQNF-5IaatA2qkM/s1600/P1250156-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVUxHEWv5VBHUZX8zfVCqyx-S1N6e6D3RU_hYL5PhD1dea2lzx5RZ9aK5GROkKt0amDJtZADaLTsOwkO4OlTnuXOnxGfhSmBLzCIvTM5-NPE9SKDF0qDQYYPbWJphYQNF-5IaatA2qkM/s400/P1250156-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See the Bastille column, way in the distance?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>One of my <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/05/la-vie-quotidienne.html">first days</a> at my internship in 2008, on my way to work I passed a small group of noisy demonstrators marching down the street, not far from the gallery. They were loud enough that their chants were inescapable, even a few blocks away in the normally quiet gallery. When Eric (my boss, the owner of the gallery) got to work, he said to me, "You want to see the real Paris? Go look outside at the <i>grève</i> - I'm serious!"<br />
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Of course, that was in May, a month rife with strikes in memory of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_1968_in_France">Mai 68</a>, when millions of student strikers brought France to an economic standstill. And this was September - who would have predicted tens upon tens of thousands of strikers taking to the streets?<br />
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I should have known, had I paid any attention. Two days earlier, the front page of le Monde mentioned the strike set for the 7th of September. I mean heck, I even <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdEIKxW7wVmvCSWIFsv0UJDWJV_vRGa94Kt8KfXaw9u-nv3WBOyYEIc23LmCVEHTUIpGD3rvceqmPwkBVmgzTTt8Y_7szX2TGfmssOkWC8R-d4803kWn-6hwTB2Enlbh2VpC1f2TGAFQ/s1600/P1240736-small.jpg">took a picture</a> of the headline - in appreciation of the strike I had seen the day before making the front page. And even if that weren't enough, that very morning we'd been warned outside Sainte-Chapelle that September was a busy month for strikers: after taking all of August for vacation, we were told, the people are refreshed and ready to fight with the government.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuHOW1ALXodGVm5GY8ABPFkDMtdYhiscFK43Mpcn5gMq67k01abfZoafaAh3xmcnMibun_QIiYDrPVMsNd-cBpg8Phe-DrQtHXbLH5SYDxXL7kBBZCIaFUxYg-ogVM2l6xuOVfhN3o1A/s1600/P1250164-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuHOW1ALXodGVm5GY8ABPFkDMtdYhiscFK43Mpcn5gMq67k01abfZoafaAh3xmcnMibun_QIiYDrPVMsNd-cBpg8Phe-DrQtHXbLH5SYDxXL7kBBZCIaFUxYg-ogVM2l6xuOVfhN3o1A/s400/P1250164-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
But I was unaware of the impending masses along my path. Depending upon who you asked, I had stumbled into a crowd of between 90,000 (according to the police) to 270,000 (according to the unions), all slowly - but loudly - milling their way through the streets. Of course, I didn't know that until later; at the time, I just knew there were a lot - I mean a <b>lot </b>- of people, armed to the teeth with flags and stickers and balloons.<br />
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And it wasn't just Paris that was up in arms - there were strikes across the country. That evening, <a href="http://www.lemonde.fr/">lemonde.fr</a> had a map that showed how many people had joined the strike across the country. All told, there were between 1.2-2.7 million demonstrators throughout France that day.<br />
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For the second time in a week, I had stumbled across the nation's top news story. (And lest you think that the news was limited to France, I should mention that the next day it was front page news at BBC.com, too.) It was kind of exciting to be there, in the middle of the action, to have my own story of the events.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvreHW_a5wwjPwYpIQT0iOYB9_kLQ1rx6Gi9EkGkzS5cYGjUjuC247dgkExdKVNxDbXtrivI_yxZfzfRAAYkQjouRmCBkeCMZTsOMxqjKbwFIuWBtFNbg1CFTE5OKFl11DsReQ0INYGRA/s1600/P1250172-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvreHW_a5wwjPwYpIQT0iOYB9_kLQ1rx6Gi9EkGkzS5cYGjUjuC247dgkExdKVNxDbXtrivI_yxZfzfRAAYkQjouRmCBkeCMZTsOMxqjKbwFIuWBtFNbg1CFTE5OKFl11DsReQ0INYGRA/s400/P1250172-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Of course, it was also a little intimidating to be there, too, in the middle of the chants and the crowd.<br />
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Just as I was nearing the Place de la République, I made my second mistake. I noticed a restaurant I had heard recommended by a number of acquaintances, and I wanted to cut across the street to have a look at their menu. Unfortunately, I never did get to see the menu - I couldn't get close enough to the building to look at the windows. I was pushed instead to the other end of the patio in front of the restaurant, where the chairs had been piled to the side in front of the railing before the street.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2-6R15Oti5jFt2dGW7eXr-_TyZbvd78k4Ph7m0BI0t0XNampmWdGz9j0e7TgUHpA2_KB8NC1MtKP2ahVkjuJYiWRqXGGJFmcVgELElxHtEqEPGMa_Cl4k8SLdbikTxMEiZolfwPmqsMw/s1600/P1250178-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2-6R15Oti5jFt2dGW7eXr-_TyZbvd78k4Ph7m0BI0t0XNampmWdGz9j0e7TgUHpA2_KB8NC1MtKP2ahVkjuJYiWRqXGGJFmcVgELElxHtEqEPGMa_Cl4k8SLdbikTxMEiZolfwPmqsMw/s400/P1250178-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
In that moment, I was swept into the middle of the hot, teeming crowd, engulfed amid a sea of people, trying to push my way through the masses alongside everyone else. I had thought if I could work my way to Place de la République, I could get out of the crowds.<br />
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That was my third mistake.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWK9J5iEI6pN80yz0TMRy_qoxyU2ol-TKWMgfDLdT0QeR_f6Sklxgl6ag34GZdCa5C38YL2D2Qq9qBwDV7epwQuoIR0oaCiPWy9O6y03yMWH3yABhzK947Ak3i2godH_m3hffy1yB3IH8/s1600/P1250182-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWK9J5iEI6pN80yz0TMRy_qoxyU2ol-TKWMgfDLdT0QeR_f6Sklxgl6ag34GZdCa5C38YL2D2Qq9qBwDV7epwQuoIR0oaCiPWy9O6y03yMWH3yABhzK947Ak3i2godH_m3hffy1yB3IH8/s400/P1250182-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The entire enormous Place (if you've never seen it, it probably takes 5 minutes to walk from one end of the Place to the other, even without any encumbering crowds of strikers) was filled to the brim. What percentage of the people there were really active in the movement, and what percentage were accidental onlookers swept into the masses like me, I couldn't say. But those who were there to strike felt so strongly about their cause that they brought <b>all</b> their friends into the action.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFL-1Z6Z0wpAL5j3F8Juxblz_5WApZDyIWbdTUANMuVroAoqvbfw99KRuC0wFlsP72UzJuElH50ClrolmO8BD8V8Y5NTyhuLh5U-HnK2AJjxtIMpObBb9phnSlPQI5Gee_UtoKey1M1g/s1600/P1250181-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFL-1Z6Z0wpAL5j3F8Juxblz_5WApZDyIWbdTUANMuVroAoqvbfw99KRuC0wFlsP72UzJuElH50ClrolmO8BD8V8Y5NTyhuLh5U-HnK2AJjxtIMpObBb9phnSlPQI5Gee_UtoKey1M1g/s400/P1250181-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The cause for the strike was the government's plan to raise the retirement age - from 60 all the way to 62. (Never mind that neighboring Germany had just raised their own retirement age from 65 to 67; this was France, and working until age 62 was a clear violation of the people's<i> liberté</i>, <i>égalité</i>, and <i>fraternité</i>.) As the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-11570828">world would hear</a> in the coming weeks, this was only the first of many days of national striking about this issue. The government would, however, go on to pass the reforms, despite the many loud dissenters.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycRySBgRtfckBtraIeBwgNaT_LuNwod0sgNkZRUet0vK9DJh9eX0uixpFffyci-b4BfjivGfkNI_gJVUA7gtvp2igqPgy8BhqSgXPPb0pOyn327sUzt9wDldjNNm5pZcfKD8sgmSB-DY/s1600/P1250188-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycRySBgRtfckBtraIeBwgNaT_LuNwod0sgNkZRUet0vK9DJh9eX0uixpFffyci-b4BfjivGfkNI_gJVUA7gtvp2igqPgy8BhqSgXPPb0pOyn327sUzt9wDldjNNm5pZcfKD8sgmSB-DY/s400/P1250188-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Finally, after a sticky, uncomfortable forty minutes of being wedged in the crowd, personally bumping or elbowing or stepping on the feet of at least half of the 150,000 or so marchers, I was out and into the blissfully empty safety of rue de Faubourg du Temple. The walk from my gallery to my apartment that took, on average, around 20 minutes, had taken over an hour.<br />
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I thought it likely that the République metro stop would be jam-packed, so I worked my way North to the Belleville stop to head back to the hotel and have a much-needed shower. I hadn't considered that RATP, the public transportation in Paris and the surrounding countryside, would be on strike too. Most lines of the metro were running fewer trains than usual, so upon getting into the train, I found myself just as packed into a crowd as I had been in the streets. Though it wasn't the most pleasant of all metro trips I've taken, it did get me back to the hotel where I could get away from the mess for a few hours.<br />
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But the day wasn't over yet. I had been in touch with Catherine, my old host mother, and she had invited me and my mom to dinner that evening at my old apartment with her, her husband and my old host father, Jacques, and the two students they were hosting at that time. When we left the hotel a little after 6 pm, we found smoke rising in the distance, and the last stragglers of the strike marching around Place de la Nation.<br />
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Catherine and Jacques told us that the standard path for marchers is from République to Bastille to Nation, which might have been useful to know in advance as I tried to make my way through the city! <br />
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It was wonderful to visit my old apartment. We were clearly honored guests; dinner not only had wine and a cheese course featuring about eight cheeses (both reserved for, in my experience, special events), but also a pre-dinner <i>apéritif</i>, making it quite the evening. Dinner was usual, as wonderful: we started with a salad, and then moved on to a main course of baked vegetables, as one of the current students is a vegetarian, and the other is allergic to eggs - quite limiting for a French cook! Dessert was a perfect <i>tarte aux mirabelles</i>. But it wasn't just the food that was good - the company really hit the spot, too. It was great to hear how Catherine's children (and grandchildren!) are doing; to watch the friendly banter between Catherine and Jacques as they debated the date of some historical event (and then went to look it up); to have Jacques encourage me to take seconds, and then thirds, of all the food (as if I needed encouragement). And it was great for me to get to show my mom where I had lived and introduce her to some of the people that had made my experience what it was in 2008.<br />
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At the end of the evening, I was sorry to leave and say goodbye again. Though I suppose the French say it better with <i>au revoir</i>: "until I see you again."<br />
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Coming soon: rain and missed trains can't get our spirits down (or, at least, not for long) when there's shopping to be done and <i>kirs</i> to be drunk and <i>macarons</i> to be eaten!<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-2474146879944510832011-04-07T11:49:00.000-04:002011-04-07T11:49:28.199-04:00Paris IV: a moveable feast<b>6 September</b><br />
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After our stroll down the length of the <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-iii-playing-tourist.html">Champs Elysées</a>, we needed a little pick-me-up. Luckily, from Place de la Concorde, it's not so far down the august rue de Rivoli to <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/angelina.html">Angelina</a>, which is, without hyperbole, home to the best hot chocolate on the planet. The fancy <i>fin-de-siècle</i> <i>salon de thé</i>, which is located just opposite the Tuileries, is as pretty and ornate as the hot chocolate is delicious - which is to say, very much so.<br />
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Even if you don't like hot chocolate - my mom, for one, never touches the stuff - it's worth a stop to Angelina for <b>l'Africain</b>: <br />
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Why the infamous hot chocolate is called "the African," I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is that this is impossibly fantastic stuff: unbelievably rich and smooth, like drinking molten gold, if gold tasted like complex and intensely satisfying homemade brownie batter. The silky smooth mouthfeel is nothing short of divine. And just in case it's not rich enough for you, it's served with a mini bowl piled high with thick, freshly-whipped cream, which, intriguingly, is more salty than sweet and brings an additional layer of flavor. My mom, who, after an unfortunate childhood incident with chocolate ice cream, invariably turns up her nose at any chocolate beverage, was the one who couldn't bear to leave any behind in our pitcher: it was she who had the genius idea to, when the waiters' backs were turned, sneakily pour the excess into an empty plastic water bottle for later that evening. We are nothing if not classy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3MRmOgA5UMsNG4eFwqO-SoV56aLcIz_R6AdMnceeD4UKQHj-VAXxs2GMCwiMLBpfb6Xa-nCrZxHoVxjZFFRJH3m7QLQLIeTcVtOfUfa7v2xd2cSBAA1lSiOB-D8dqZmF_Mf9f8ejsPyw/s1600/P1250002-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3MRmOgA5UMsNG4eFwqO-SoV56aLcIz_R6AdMnceeD4UKQHj-VAXxs2GMCwiMLBpfb6Xa-nCrZxHoVxjZFFRJH3m7QLQLIeTcVtOfUfa7v2xd2cSBAA1lSiOB-D8dqZmF_Mf9f8ejsPyw/s400/P1250002-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It's better hot and fresh and with a dollop of cream, but in plastic water bottle in your hotel room, it's still pretty fantastic. Especially if you're drinking it alongside hot, fresh a Kayser baguette.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNxoO4ChxIjUl6rQsUV6e1qbY50zDAVsKyYai-8RHk1sryFlCOdO3C1jv2t8dydeio2IAARlkyCvs3UdtDA3wpqONTDQB7r2iDt5HkSmgf9YqST_mD07KwdS0yKX4yWwd5Lqx5wWLzzyM/s1600/P1240999-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNxoO4ChxIjUl6rQsUV6e1qbY50zDAVsKyYai-8RHk1sryFlCOdO3C1jv2t8dydeio2IAARlkyCvs3UdtDA3wpqONTDQB7r2iDt5HkSmgf9YqST_mD07KwdS0yKX4yWwd5Lqx5wWLzzyM/s400/P1240999-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Eric Kayser is a chain of <i>boulangeries</i> found across Paris. While I would normally advocate frequenting a neighborhood boulangerie, when you're a tourist looking for consistently good food across the city, Kayser is a sure bet. The baguettes have a perfect crisp crust that crackles and makes a beautiful crumby mess when ripped, and a soft, chewy, fragrant, wheaty crumb. With bread this good, all you want for dinner is a baguette, some fruit, and yogurt. And maybe a bottle of cold Angelina hot chocolate.<br />
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<b>7 September</b><br />
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Speaking of neighborhood boulangeries, the next morning we got up bright and early to catch the metro for breakfast at one of my favorite haunts from 2008. <a href="http://www.dupainetdesidees.com/">Du Pain et Des Idées</a> is in the 10th, just a couple of blocks off of the Place de la République, and a paltry five minutes walk from my old host-family's home. From our hotel at Place de la Nation, it was more like a 20 minute trek - well worth it to visit the site of the best baker in Paris of 2008.<br />
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Each year, Paris' hundreds and hundreds of bakeries are judged by <a href="http://www.gaultmillau.fr/">Gault Millau</a>, who produces a well respected guide to the best eateries across France, in a number of categories including, for example, best croissant, best baguette, and best baker. In 2008, Du Pain et Des Idées was named best baker in Paris - no mean feat in a city where breads and pastries are second to none. It was such a pleasure to revisit the stacks of fresh breads and pastries piled high on thin metal shelves, the murals and mirrors adorning the walls, and the smiling red-headed clerk I remembered so well. I visited a number of times when the boulangerie was in my neck of the woods, and the item that really stole my heart was the <b>chausson à la pomme</b>:<br />
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A standard pastry found across France, the <i>chausson aux pommes</i>, or apple slipper, is a flaky pastry dough wrapped around an apple compote. Here, though, the compote is replaced with an intact half-apple:<br />
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I have eaten my fair share of chaussons aux pommes, and this one beats 'em all, by a long shot. The pastry is perfectly melt-in-your-mouth flaky, crisp and buttery in the best possible ways. The apple, soft and sweet and fragrant from the oven, practically dissolves on the tongue. Using a single apple, the ratio of apple to pastry is better than when there's just a glop of compote. It's the kind of pastry that makes you sit up and slow down and give thanks for your sense of taste.<br />
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My mom went for a <b>pain au chocolat</b>:<br />
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The pastry was, again, sheer perfection, in this case wrapped around two bars of rich dark chocolate. <i>Magnifique</i>.<br />
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We ate our pastries at the wooden picnic table sitting just outside the boulangerie, then I took my mom on a brief tour of my old neighborhood, down the canal Saint-Martin, past my old FranPrix grocery, down the street I took every day to the metro... it was so comforting to see everything in its same place again, like coming home for a visit after a long time away.<br />
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We didn't tarry: we had plans to come back for dinner with my old host family that evening, but in the mean time, there was plenty more to see and do - and of course, to eat. We hopped on the metro and headed back downtown to visit Ile de la Cité again.<br />
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Like walking the Champs Elysées, another item I never got around to checking off my list in 2008 was visiting <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sainte-Chapelle">Ste-Chapelle</a>, the "jewel box" church that is shrouded in painted vaulting and endless stained glass windows. We made our way to the church and were encouraged by the lack of a line outside the front door - until a friendly policeman explained the church would not be open today, "<i>à cause de la grève</i>." Because of the strike? What strike? I hadn't seen any strike. But then, this is France, after all, where going on strike is practically the national pastime, so we didn't make too much of it.<br />
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Instead, we wandered the banks of the Seine, over the Ponts Neuf and des Arts.<br />
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At some point, we decided, on a lark, to walk through the Louvre courtyard. You may imagine my surprise when, in addition to this...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRzz6BwWwYnT2dHWM6Y_wi_GsCYL2dcNepOs_2qeTp7pZiJR5hyJKyX_xUgG_QY8u0qu-BVCrph3YqtgzzUXw6AKof90ODmPv0HiMdf1-DpyRYFIj5HRQBPRJZL47QjD7rLohGqdu9J0/s1600/P1250087-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRzz6BwWwYnT2dHWM6Y_wi_GsCYL2dcNepOs_2qeTp7pZiJR5hyJKyX_xUgG_QY8u0qu-BVCrph3YqtgzzUXw6AKof90ODmPv0HiMdf1-DpyRYFIj5HRQBPRJZL47QjD7rLohGqdu9J0/s400/P1250087-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoSzsZy6OukGnbaQDMSGCCz02VC_9yoytCvzJCN2jxZ5xsg1r6Ig_-nbqULWw4-yCaTM_Sws09FDkRIk-33FE4Xtj5wW-Ch9Rl_ild8RVUm0EVSPrSXwbEXX2NB2ETSH8eyqJ_Z3mDEw/s1600/P1250093-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoSzsZy6OukGnbaQDMSGCCz02VC_9yoytCvzJCN2jxZ5xsg1r6Ig_-nbqULWw4-yCaTM_Sws09FDkRIk-33FE4Xtj5wW-Ch9Rl_ild8RVUm0EVSPrSXwbEXX2NB2ETSH8eyqJ_Z3mDEw/s400/P1250093-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
...we also stumbled across this:<br />
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There was a whole large assembly of military, police, and firefighters in rank. A martial band played a tune, and a few drills were performed, and many commemorative photos were taken. I asked a nearby young man in uniform what was going on, but his response was quick enough - and quiet enough - that I couldn't understand him.<br />
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And here's something you don't see every day: just like the perfectly square trees on the Champs du Mars <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/08/le-dernier-jour-avec-bu.html">need to be trimmed</a>, so too do the Louvre's glass pyramids need to be washed:<br />
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Leaving the Louvre, and heading back towards - where else? - the Marais, we poked our heads into the Palais Royal:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-_LpFbdYOWA_AgWxc7Xy8A6JQSoU1ldrsS0CetgQuTtBytD_1Gj0tN-UVLVnjZstdeEFUIUXe7dKO2DFjOofsDqR-JpIatwavLhf6IbtGqfx1YsDty4xI891UjZqLMK5yLm5Hx6FgyY/s1600/P1250107+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-_LpFbdYOWA_AgWxc7Xy8A6JQSoU1ldrsS0CetgQuTtBytD_1Gj0tN-UVLVnjZstdeEFUIUXe7dKO2DFjOofsDqR-JpIatwavLhf6IbtGqfx1YsDty4xI891UjZqLMK5yLm5Hx6FgyY/s400/P1250107+cropped.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It seems to be under some renovation, but a pair of small boys kindly demonstrated the functionality of the Daniel Buren column installation as an obstacle course:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzBMD9aT_p7dKnLnT4ls9gbpWKV6nmu3pJL-HirYvRvi_Es_3o09RI6tmAMewX1nbS1OtiwNOfIbDcEHilHcA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
From there, we ambled through the <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/08/dernier-weekend.html">galerie Vero-Dodat</a> and past la Bourse and les Halles, into the park around St-Eustache:<br />
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The church must have been cleaned in the last two years; the stone is much lighter and brighter than I remember.<br />
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From the park, we made a quick detour past the <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/05/la-vie-quotidienne.html">Centre Pompidou</a>, and then, finding <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-i-coucou-old-friend.html">rue des Rosiers</a> <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/04/paris-iii-playing-tourist.html">again</a>, made our way to l'As du Fallafel for the best falafel on offer in Paris:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_P2B13Vp8dBD-WFD1s7VM2rsF11Poy4MQfjDTqfo-Vm1pZf8OSkPcgYEDcGp78aYHXOfYa119k2TGPCXnBpAcgtUd6G7SadkTAduHjBnBDLYSAlB-JwDsgZgNFkU5AslhBDeOY4wqRcU/s1600/P1250135-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_P2B13Vp8dBD-WFD1s7VM2rsF11Poy4MQfjDTqfo-Vm1pZf8OSkPcgYEDcGp78aYHXOfYa119k2TGPCXnBpAcgtUd6G7SadkTAduHjBnBDLYSAlB-JwDsgZgNFkU5AslhBDeOY4wqRcU/s400/P1250135-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I had my <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/rue-des-rosiers.html">very first falafel</a> there in 2008; when standing in the street near the shop window and debating on what to have for lunch, I was approached by a man who asked me if I was having a falafel, and how could I refuse? But in addition to their lively, boisterous, perhaps preemptive roadside service, there's also a large dining room inside, too. There's also a menu with more things on offer than just falafel, but why break with tradition? The crisp, cool cabbage slaw is a fantastic accompaniment to the warm balls of falafel, crunchy on the outside and soft and chewy on the inside. Every bit as fantastic and finger-lickin' good as I remember it.<br />
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(When I was planning my trip and deciding which cities I wanted to visit, I spent a lot of time reading about traditional regional foods. When I looked into Paris (which I knew would be a stop on the trip, because how could I visit France without stopping in to see my old haunts?), I read that there aren't really any specifically Parisian dishes, but that in Paris you can find good examples of most of the regional cuisines from around France - and you can find the best food from around the world. So, when in Alsace, eat Alsatian; when in Basque country, eat Basquaise; and when in Paris, eat falafel.)<br />
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After lunch, Mom headed back to the hotel room to rest, but I wanted to spend some time wandering the streets of my old neighborhood. Walking North on rue de Turenne, toward my old gallery and, eventually, my old host family's home, I had such a rush of nostalgia for my former life. It was a sad moment for me. Over the last two years I had relived so much of my time in Paris in my mind, and now, really being there, walking the same streets, eating in the same restaurants, everything was the same, as if it was just waiting for me... and yet, it was different, too. I didn't live there any more; I was just a visitor, passing through for a few days; life had, as it always does, gone on without me. New students took my place at my host family's home; presumably, new interns took my place at the gallery. It was a strange disconnect to be in a place at once so familiar and comfortable, and yet feel like an intruder into what was now someone else's life.<br />
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Luckily, just around the corner were 100,000 people who had assembled just to help me see the city in a new light.<br />
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Coming soon: an ever-so-enjoyable forty minutes spent trapped in the middle of a crowd of thousands and thousands and <i>thousands</i> of people.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-43580036706258532792011-04-01T21:28:00.001-04:002011-04-05T10:56:00.268-04:00Paris III: playing the tourist<b>5 September</b><br />
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Following our morning of <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-ii-marketing-we-shall-go.html">omelets and marketing and potatoes</a>, it was time to cross off a few major tourist destinations from our Paris to-do list. As it was the first Sunday of the month, and the first Sunday in Paris means free admission to any and all museums (not a bad deal for a city that has thirty-some art museums alone), our first stop was to check out the line at the d'Orsay. The museum, which boasts an outstanding collection of late 19th century works, is housed in a mid-nineteenth century former train station, right on the banks of the Seine. In 2008 it <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/march-de-la-bastille-muse-dorsay.html">stole my heart</a> with its wonderful room full of Cézannes. But alas, the line was outrageously long, and as we did not feel like waiting only to get into an overcrowded museum, we decided to try our luck elsewhere.<br />
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We popped across the river to see I. M. Pei's pyramids in the Louvre courtyard, but as expected, the line here, too, was far to ridiculously long to actually venture a visit inside. We did, however, admire the stately Place de la Concorde on our way back to rive gauche.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4pzkJstDAnIngOAmZteHYrLIToHipk_XbvQmpsEs30zUttjBpUJRX_QYHrlDr6_-DQ3PHKp-ZWIqiE2lX0R-mMOs5mVOdBhYtxX7Wzqsu5ApClCbtRuTpQ0aqjcaHSF8rW0keGD1LYFs/s1600/P1240773-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4pzkJstDAnIngOAmZteHYrLIToHipk_XbvQmpsEs30zUttjBpUJRX_QYHrlDr6_-DQ3PHKp-ZWIqiE2lX0R-mMOs5mVOdBhYtxX7Wzqsu5ApClCbtRuTpQ0aqjcaHSF8rW0keGD1LYFs/s400/P1240773-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE98SJmQ0IE_q9ED15RflknOWM4nyrEHkKZF8Ol7DwA5m90ajgnwYuAsmLf_ifH4XI7zraWBy0fUdFf8HpIxpLojCRM_-56U_rdyh_e04b3Iof03YnIg2yop-9M8MXJz32vgu-fD8JQwQ/s1600/P1240772-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE98SJmQ0IE_q9ED15RflknOWM4nyrEHkKZF8Ol7DwA5m90ajgnwYuAsmLf_ifH4XI7zraWBy0fUdFf8HpIxpLojCRM_-56U_rdyh_e04b3Iof03YnIg2yop-9M8MXJz32vgu-fD8JQwQ/s400/P1240772-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The d'Orsay sits on the left bank, while the glass roof of the Grand Palais shines in the distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Following our initial thwarted attempts at visiting a museum, we continued along the <i>quais</i> beside the river toward a museum I hadn't visited, but one I had taken much notice of in 2008: the Musée du Quai Branly, which houses so-called "primative" arts; that is to say, art not in the Western European tradition. Happily, we found it to be without line and not too crowded. But more on that momentarily - it was a beautiful day, and we appreciated the lovely weather as we made our way across the city. On our way, we found a group of men playing bike polo, in front of les Invalides.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtAIZ60l8xU0jsPjwd1Klbv435ArIrmLQ0Fuwj0rfMc2if1N23Wp5v4FFgGN8EMJw-VqMtv4XTvBwypA5q8T4IFusiyCFwg1sAAnRe4a0-NkwKz6uKTCtk8lssD6A16FsSGZV8YiIWuw/s1600/P1240785-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtAIZ60l8xU0jsPjwd1Klbv435ArIrmLQ0Fuwj0rfMc2if1N23Wp5v4FFgGN8EMJw-VqMtv4XTvBwypA5q8T4IFusiyCFwg1sAAnRe4a0-NkwKz6uKTCtk8lssD6A16FsSGZV8YiIWuw/s400/P1240785-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Oh Paris, this is why I love you. You never fail to surprise and intrigue me at every turn.<br />
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On our way, we made one quick pitstop to the American church in Paris. You didn't know there was an American church in Paris? Neither did we. But the American who was greeting guests at the American church in Paris kindly directed us toward <i>les toilettes</i>, and for that, God bless him.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJUnjUv2cYXbDQLkPnDP2dFhTbCGku6w2kANhvjmZP-8XBXiLUi9hY0P6TTUfojD-ZQjSMyYXIaezaSLHWvSMrsTM2gjvBxqsR_G315aiIOewjzgFqR9525UG7qEB7wMf6UMXTdrDemk/s1600/P1240790-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJUnjUv2cYXbDQLkPnDP2dFhTbCGku6w2kANhvjmZP-8XBXiLUi9hY0P6TTUfojD-ZQjSMyYXIaezaSLHWvSMrsTM2gjvBxqsR_G315aiIOewjzgFqR9525UG7qEB7wMf6UMXTdrDemk/s400/P1240790-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inner courtyard at the American church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally, we reached our destination. The museum had first caught my attention with its singular facade:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwsL1miEvcLP3MC2wdjzfADXHANg472SQxe5rAz0OxfIHCzlys5OsL-Eo5JWMhrSML4d987LFwsOTYwPNUPMRdtBAkAyJHJkT6pBgS1ZIeVm7228Fk3d3GeqL3rKG5PiNEDXAO13DauA/s1600/P1240803-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwsL1miEvcLP3MC2wdjzfADXHANg472SQxe5rAz0OxfIHCzlys5OsL-Eo5JWMhrSML4d987LFwsOTYwPNUPMRdtBAkAyJHJkT6pBgS1ZIeVm7228Fk3d3GeqL3rKG5PiNEDXAO13DauA/s400/P1240803-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The plants growing directly out of the exterior walls have nothing to do with the collection, at least so far as I can tell. Said collection is kind of a strange hodgepodge of arts from around the world, with displays devoted to works from south and central Asia (though not the far east, like China or Japan), sub-Saharan Africa, the Pacific Islands, pre-Columbian America (and works by Native Americans, post-Columbus), and Australia. It seemed somewhat offensive to me that, in a city with so many dozens of art museums, all these widely disparate arts were lumped together as "primitive" and housed together in one building, especially with such a wide variety of subject matter - as though this were the museum of "uncivilized, non-western, brown-people art." One particularly strange display case held a collection of artifacts from around the Americas, ranging geographically from Canada to Peru, and dating from several different centuries. The information panel next to the display explained how you could see the "unity" across the two continents. Really? I mean, really? As in, the <a href="http://www.totem-pole.net/photos.html">totem poles</a> of the Pacific northwest are comparable to <a href="http://www.aztec-history.com/olmec-civilization.html">giant stone heads</a> of the Olmec in Mexico, which are in turn comparable to the <a href="http://www.mayacodices.org/">Mayan codices</a> from the Yucatan or the <a href="http://incas.homestead.com/inca_weaving.html">Incan textiles</a> in Peru? I would say they are as similar as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Renaissance_painting">Italian Renaissance frescoes</a> are to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impressionism">French Impressionistic</a> works that feature so prominently in Parisian museums (the d'Orsay, the Orangerie, the Marmottan-Monet - just to name a few) - and those are considerably closer together in time and location. But I digress.<br />
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After seeing as much of the strange and varied collection as we cared to see, we headed out to make one last visit before heading back to the hotel. The Musée du Quai Branly is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the Eiffel tower, which looms over the neighborhood.<br />
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My mom was drawn to the tower like a moth to a flame (only without the imminent death part), and we couldn't very well leave before walking beneath it and then stopping down the street to get a <i>café</i>. It was overpriced and underwhelming, as far as coffee goes, but we were paying for the scenery, after all. Finally, we caught the métro and headed back to the hotel for a light dinner of fruit, bread, and brie, all picked up at the market that morning.<br />
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<b>6 September</b><br />
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The next morning we woke up refreshed and ready for another day of touristy activities. After taking the métro downtown to Hôtel de Ville, we paused briefly for<i> un express </i>before continuing on our way. And before I continue on my way now, a brief aside: as any Paris native will tell you, to not sound like a tourist in Paris, you should order your coffee by asking for "un express:" a shortened version of espresso. I learned - slowly, I might say - that this is not how one orders coffee in the rest of France. When I asked for <i>un express </i>in Dijon, or Bordeaux, or Tours, the waiter's invariable response was "<i>un espres<b>so</b></i>," to make sure he understood me correctly. I would have done better to simply ask for <i>un café</i>. How pleasant to finally be appropriate in my use of vernacular in Paris!<br />
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After our express, we headed across the river to the Ile de la Cité.<br />
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We passed by Notre Dame briefly. In 2008, I waited in a long line to <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/le-weekend-pass.html">ascend the towers</a>, but I don't remember ever seeing a line just to get inside the front doors. Good thing we didn't care to poke our noses inside on this occasion, because it would have been quite a wait:<br />
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But the gardens around to the side of the cathedral are at least as pretty as the stained glass windows inside.<br />
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From there, we crossed the Seine again, now to rive gauche. As we passed over the Pont de l'Archevêché, we were struck by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_padlocks">hundreds of padlocks</a> festooning the railing:<br />
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The nearest, legible lock reads, <i>you are my life! I love you ... xox</i><br />
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It's not just photographers who are inspired by the famous cathedral; we saw a number of sketchers, and a painter or two, poised along the quai to capture the cathedral on paper.<br />
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Leaving the cathedral behind us, we passed over to Ile St-Louis, walking the length of the island, poking our heads into paper shops and under awnings to read menus. Slowly, as the gray skies began to shed a gentle sprinkling of rain, we made our way back to <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-i-coucou-old-friend.html">rue des Rosiers</a> for lunch at an old favorite, <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html">le Loir dans la Théière</a>. The homey, homely interior is filled with mismatched furniture, the walls plastered with layer upon layer of posters for local happenings. It's the kind of place where a customer will plug in their iPod to charge in the outlet by the dessert buffet; where chihuahuas are charioted to their lunch table in a rolling backpack. <br />
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How I love it here. Oh, and the food's pretty fantastic, too, by the way. I think they have a menu they hand out, but as I always order off of their chalkboard list of daily tarts, I don't recall. On this occasion, I recommended to my mom the <b>tarte salée aux oignons rouges et tomates</b>:<br />
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The oven-roasted tomatoes are piled atop a thick bed of sweet, nearly creamy caramelized red onions and sprinkled with a dusting of dried rosemary. The tomatoes bring a little acidity to the sweetness of the onion, while the rosemary brings a little fresh earthiness. Oh, and then it's all served on a delicate, crisp pie crust. Heaven on a plate.<br />
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I went with the <b>tarte aux échalottes et chèvre</b>:<br />
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As with the red onions, the shallots were well caramelized, golden and sweet, almost as thick and succulent as a compote. The goat cheese had been aged for perhaps a couple of weeks and had a superb, crumbly texture. It added a little tang to the sweetness of the shallots. It was good, but I found the balance of the tomato's acidity from the other tart lacking in this one - it could have used a little bite.<br />
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The best part of any meal at le Loir, though, is the dessert buffet, which always promises a variety of succulent offerings. We chose two: one, a clafoutis with mirabelles, which, I am sorry to say I did not photograph. It was soft and light, the delicate custard heady with vanilla and citrus, surrounding pockets of juicy, sweet, whole mirabelle plums. The second was a <b>tarte aux pêches de vigne et romarin</b>:<br />
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<i>Pêche de vigne </i>translates as vine peach, though it grows on trees like all other peaches. It is a specific variety of peach boasting a dark, nearly purple skin and white flesh. <i>Romarin</i> is rosemary. The tarte had a thin layer of pastry cream over a perfectly crumbly pâte sucré, topped with enormous slices of juicy, purple peaches, with a little rosemary sprinkled over everything. The herbaceous rosemary was a fantastic foil to the sweet-tart peach and the tender custard. <i>Miam</i>.<br />
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After sufficiently oohing and ahhing and sighing over a perfect lunch, we hopped onto the metro again, this time to head to the opposite end of town. Though I did my fair share of touristing my last first in Paris, one essential I never visited was the Arc de Triomphe, and I didn't mean to miss it again.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayf7_Gt7j4RLEP4puMrD4iY_iTszYWFvaSRlfBVxzwro23WBmIBeSlmVL8-4-h1eIxT54vw1WWUx0Ig_ubFEFCg14AdPFgSEDHeEJ3wXQIUB0HVcEh7VgIZarbh5HMn2EhtikudENCxc/s1600/P1240941-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayf7_Gt7j4RLEP4puMrD4iY_iTszYWFvaSRlfBVxzwro23WBmIBeSlmVL8-4-h1eIxT54vw1WWUx0Ig_ubFEFCg14AdPFgSEDHeEJ3wXQIUB0HVcEh7VgIZarbh5HMn2EhtikudENCxc/s400/P1240941-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
After a few confused moments of wondering how, exactly, one is supposed to cross eight lanes of roundabout traffic to reach the arch (answer: sneaky underground tunnel), we made our way under the impressive structure.<br />
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When Haussmann <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haussmann%27s_renovation_of_Paris">redesigned Paris</a> in the mid-nineteenth century, he did it with an eye to creating impressive vistas down long boulevards. The métro stop for the arch is called "étoile," which means star, a reference to the eight streets extending away from the arch like spokes on a wheel, creating eight impressive down-the-street views of the arch from different angles all over the city. The front and back facades of the arch are also carefully arranged. To one side, it faces la Défense, a business district just northeast of Paris.<br />
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In the opposite direction stretches the fabled Champs Elysées, arguably the most famous street in the world, which stretches from the arch all the way down to Place de la Concorde, and beyond that, the Tuileries and the Louvre.<br />
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After a few minutes under the arch, we began our stroll down the Champs Elysées, since, as we all know,<br />
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<i>Au soleil, sous la pluie<br />
À midi ou à minuit<br />
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez<br />
Aux <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4C6cqo4EjY">Champs Elysées</a></i><br />
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(In the sunshine or the rain, at noon or midnight, there's everything you want on the Champs Elysées)<br />
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And it's probably true, too - the wide avenue is lined with shop after pricey shop. You could find just about anything there - if you're feeling particularly solvent.<br />
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Having reached again the golden-tipped obelisk where this post began, I will finish for now.<br />
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Coming soon: <i>chocolat chaud</i>, <i>chaussons à la pomme</i>, falafel; or, a day in which I happily gain ten pounds<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-76417630040180767722011-03-27T13:52:00.000-04:002011-03-27T13:52:33.950-04:00Paris II: a-marketing we shall go<b>5 September</b><br />
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Happy Sunday morning! We woke up early to get an early start on walking down to my beloved <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/march-de-la-bastille.html">marché de</a> <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/dimance-le-6-juillet.html">la Bastille</a>. It's a good hike from our hotel, just off of Place de la Nation. When we started on our way, I was struck by how autumnal the city felt. In 2008, I was in Paris only for the summer - seeing the leaves on the trees any color but green felt bizarre in a city that is, in my mind, eternally in summer.<br />
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On the way to la Bastille, we got distracted by rue d'Aligre, which boasts its own market with a bounty of produce. We ogled enormous, bright orange wedges of <i>potiron</i>, a cousin of the pumpkin, and piles of thousands of golden-yellow fresh dates. There's a covered market just off of rue d'Aligre, too, boasting prepared foods and vibrant flowers.<br />
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But we had a ways to go yet, and didn't want to pick up any extra weight to carry with us, so after thoroughly poking around the place, we didn't get anything at the marché d'Aligre. We were holding out for this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkYBqm3D148pHJ0p6LgjXex92H8BSpP2m86Ri3Lk9wLlhJEr6_845_AbGoaQRqbzeKx_KuGebrHYlsy5nGefG4kRk0Oxmo5MsyPiU6WIXJ5kOeOLif8nq-cLRAYDQ7kQvNyuLep0LjYk/s1600/P1240723-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkYBqm3D148pHJ0p6LgjXex92H8BSpP2m86Ri3Lk9wLlhJEr6_845_AbGoaQRqbzeKx_KuGebrHYlsy5nGefG4kRk0Oxmo5MsyPiU6WIXJ5kOeOLif8nq-cLRAYDQ7kQvNyuLep0LjYk/s400/P1240723-small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
I'm sure you're tired of pictures of the <i>colonne de Juillet</i> in the Place de la Bastille by now, but I can't help it. There's just something about the blue skies and the gracious, golden, glittering gleams* of the winged figure and the text that sets my heart a-flutter. Seeing the column brings back so many memories, and though I've fairly well gotten over my urge to photograph, say, the Eiffel tower every time I pass it, it's nearly impossible for me to walk past the column without wanting to snap a quick shot or two.<br />
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Having reached our destination, we put off visiting the market in favor of some brunch. We sat down on the terrace of Café Français with a lovely view of the column and the Place to grab a bite to eat. I was planning on a pastry of some sort when a waiter walked by carrying a tray loaded with omelets and salads to a nearby table. That settled it; I needed an <b>omelette au jambon</b>:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aaVT4qhS6AsC8609PuclhzE_CW8E9WPsZFG5N-iO0ViRVD3TFDFYTq3GsR16Cl0Ok9sigJR0Y6_0Rc6mVRaw60lr6nJGvSXuv674wRGPGK3lpNrZSokJPty8uX7mPRKrlS21RdJ89KU/s1600/P1240728-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aaVT4qhS6AsC8609PuclhzE_CW8E9WPsZFG5N-iO0ViRVD3TFDFYTq3GsR16Cl0Ok9sigJR0Y6_0Rc6mVRaw60lr6nJGvSXuv674wRGPGK3lpNrZSokJPty8uX7mPRKrlS21RdJ89KU/s400/P1240728-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The French are no strangers to eggs, what with their custards and flans and quiches and omelets. But what might surprise an American is that eggs are decidedly not breakfast food in France. Breakfast is nearly always some variation on a <i>tartine</i> - usually day-old bread with butter and jam - or a pastry, like a croissant. Omelets are lunch or dinner fare - but never breakfast. After a month of trying to (mostly) eat authentically French meals, having a brunch-time ham omelet felt deliciously illicit - probably mostly because it was so delicious. The omelet was cooked perfectly - creamy and toothsome and just what I needed. The salad was lovely, too, with a beautiful mix of fresh greens and a refreshing, bright vinaigrette.<br />
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Finally, with full, happy bellies, we headed into the marché to do some serious shopping. I was not disappointed.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJUjZj7x7bQeK6n1pPm1ld9t9KifO9tlUJpZz1JJbPByuIoMLi469DksGwxMiAPGs7XaqUsDo_HkT8SYqAt-ykga_XvCd3_JP9t_YxAUTjJIOkABYX8PpxzZC5lAZlA4W_u5Eo7HSIsI/s1600/P1240757-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJUjZj7x7bQeK6n1pPm1ld9t9KifO9tlUJpZz1JJbPByuIoMLi469DksGwxMiAPGs7XaqUsDo_HkT8SYqAt-ykga_XvCd3_JP9t_YxAUTjJIOkABYX8PpxzZC5lAZlA4W_u5Eo7HSIsI/s400/P1240757-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those are <i>potiron </i>slices, way in the back</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJFZxNZUtOXq4SZSirmwscif-511-_G5QUc86Sk1qOcO83DfQDgD32o66AIPrO_28eFQuNh0dKPbhwGaX0pKWPe43ROWmtRl9nJWgOT06GLVbsdRx84tVZfJiT0XCx20EaQIRTx77j5Y/s1600/P1240731-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJFZxNZUtOXq4SZSirmwscif-511-_G5QUc86Sk1qOcO83DfQDgD32o66AIPrO_28eFQuNh0dKPbhwGaX0pKWPe43ROWmtRl9nJWgOT06GLVbsdRx84tVZfJiT0XCx20EaQIRTx77j5Y/s400/P1240731-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZzV35WJ_BOsjUOdV4aX_1s3u6k0msEHl6gNaQvkMtosh52OV1ruhF16wqYdEQmErO8xJB35tYR6YYD6T69hKVOnYetltIp7TmXzrOBBq6wvBjQM6AqIKL6i207Rcms_vGIm9fSPLOiA/s1600/P1240749-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZzV35WJ_BOsjUOdV4aX_1s3u6k0msEHl6gNaQvkMtosh52OV1ruhF16wqYdEQmErO8xJB35tYR6YYD6T69hKVOnYetltIp7TmXzrOBBq6wvBjQM6AqIKL6i207Rcms_vGIm9fSPLOiA/s400/P1240749-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ooh, I'll have the white fluffy one over there, please!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLSf28FpqL29Q1t6x3cJAzqLLbaDQHuIcP0cptdzcDrw3ZCjBdesArwfEoIJJVqaB4aDuRwJcu25VGXnG0qWgxEYF1tMp0OzuzLEt5pkj5c8BFMQ7zcfg1nuKF8eQazH8f74EieHbZQk/s1600/P1240740-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLSf28FpqL29Q1t6x3cJAzqLLbaDQHuIcP0cptdzcDrw3ZCjBdesArwfEoIJJVqaB4aDuRwJcu25VGXnG0qWgxEYF1tMp0OzuzLEt5pkj5c8BFMQ7zcfg1nuKF8eQazH8f74EieHbZQk/s400/P1240740-small.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br />
The selection at the marché was outstanding as usual. We got some<i> </i><a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/tours-iii.html"><i>reine de reinettes</i> and <i>mirabelles</i></a>, carrots, nectarines, a baguette, a small wedge of Brie de Meaux, and some roasted potatoes:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9uhKFIqmktTMyfGKyk4EGaftmRWPnpaYibMHgoJAuLdbmKjHy2QMYrNPCFbDDDbxMc-C-j8ae-_RVKvoQL9CZLcTM1tFy_X39MCPUib3NW-iLYMzxqM11uahl1szHbGl2es1OjdVsrg/s1600/P1240766-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9uhKFIqmktTMyfGKyk4EGaftmRWPnpaYibMHgoJAuLdbmKjHy2QMYrNPCFbDDDbxMc-C-j8ae-_RVKvoQL9CZLcTM1tFy_X39MCPUib3NW-iLYMzxqM11uahl1szHbGl2es1OjdVsrg/s400/P1240766-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<i>Ooh là là</i>. If you are an extremely observant reader of this blog, and you are blessed with an outstanding memory, you may recall that in 2008 I posted <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/08/dernier-weekend.html">a video</a> of one of the many rotisserie chicken ovens at the market. The chickens spin and roast and become impossibly delicious, and invariably, the bottom of the oven is covered in a thick layer of small, peeled potatoes, which catch the drippings of fat and juice as the chickens slowly spin and cook. The resulting potatoes can be bought - and cheaply, I might add - by the kilo, and they are impossibly delicious, heady with rich, succulent chicken fat, and greasy in the best possible way. These potatoes are utter perfection when hot and fresh, but make sure you've got a napkin - or, better yet, a sink - handy when you eat them.<br />
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I was also pleased to notice that the front page of Le Monde, a paper that is to Paris what the New York Times is to NYC, featured an article on the <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/paris-i-coucou-old-friend.html">protests</a> I had happened upon the day before:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdEIKxW7wVmvCSWIFsv0UJDWJV_vRGa94Kt8KfXaw9u-nv3WBOyYEIc23LmCVEHTUIpGD3rvceqmPwkBVmgzTTt8Y_7szX2TGfmssOkWC8R-d4803kWn-6hwTB2Enlbh2VpC1f2TGAFQ/s1600/P1240736-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdEIKxW7wVmvCSWIFsv0UJDWJV_vRGa94Kt8KfXaw9u-nv3WBOyYEIc23LmCVEHTUIpGD3rvceqmPwkBVmgzTTt8Y_7szX2TGfmssOkWC8R-d4803kWn-6hwTB2Enlbh2VpC1f2TGAFQ/s400/P1240736-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The headline reads, "Security, Roma people, decline of nationality, retirement: this is the France in protest." I would have done well to read the first sentence of the article as well, which announces, "Saturday September 4 against hate and xenophobia, <b>Tuesday September 7</b> against the retirement reform: labor unions, the Left-wing political parties, and several dozen other associations are rallying against the politics of the government." But alas, I took my photo of the front page without any idea that there might be more strikes to come. That, however, is a story for another day.<br />
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Successfully loaded with fresh produce and potatoes, we hopped on the metro to head back to the hotel and drop off our goods. I love the Bastille metro stop; when waiting for the 1 line, the stop is open to the Place, and the column peeks out over the tracks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLUOR1QHnlTOhpA-StsYgSU1s6MEymbD7dAKAQpgcJntvzgNybKDWJYcvA2ZWZUmy6GdjHjzTYgCnjbE5lJlAdkKpn_1BTtYH0o1seR6ZOFsTu-P07p84j2L4xRA8y76oEaHS0A9qkfs/s1600/P1240759-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLUOR1QHnlTOhpA-StsYgSU1s6MEymbD7dAKAQpgcJntvzgNybKDWJYcvA2ZWZUmy6GdjHjzTYgCnjbE5lJlAdkKpn_1BTtYH0o1seR6ZOFsTu-P07p84j2L4xRA8y76oEaHS0A9qkfs/s400/P1240759-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Also visible from the stop is the modern, glass-faced Bastille opera house:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijv95O1ShbobcA1Q2mbktu46MCk0K-aemXodeceo_Z3waYP75TqwC0QXUfqDye5o-N0dh3WbD6_A_HAsPVMnl-I4A_wJaxHFu4f8BsAjREp9tKZZkhpiya2QAQMw8H8gV61MNWqwtEHbA/s1600/P1240763-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijv95O1ShbobcA1Q2mbktu46MCk0K-aemXodeceo_Z3waYP75TqwC0QXUfqDye5o-N0dh3WbD6_A_HAsPVMnl-I4A_wJaxHFu4f8BsAjREp9tKZZkhpiya2QAQMw8H8gV61MNWqwtEHbA/s400/P1240763-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
From Bastille, it's just a few quick stops to Nation, where we dropped off our food and scarfed down our potatoes. But we didn't linger; since it was the first Sunday of the month, admission to all the museums in town was free, and we meant to take advantage of this fact and be thoroughly touristy for the afternoon. But that, too, will have to wait for another post.<br />
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Coming soon: a basic tourist's guide to Paris in 24 hours: museums, churches, and the best savory tart you'll ever taste.<br />
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A bientôt,<br />
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*<i>Thank you, <a href="http://shakespeare.mit.edu/midsummer/midsummer.5.1.html">William Shakespeare</a> (see Pyramus, near the end)</i>Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-30386904579189250002011-03-20T12:58:00.002-04:002011-03-20T13:05:15.138-04:00Paris I: Coucou, old friend !<b>4 September</b><br />
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After a month traveling around France, I finally reached my final destination: Paris. It was such a change to be in a familiar city, albeit in relatively unknown surroundings. Our hotel was close to the Place de la Nation in the 12th. The only time I made it out to Nation in 2008 was for my <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/bien-mang.html">cooking class</a> at Printemps.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilDZX2N2QhkjNpduKzg_XCx8_QR3v0KIt7cdqO6I52bpWtGHVTXUU_5VMDAA3UPr7YsSz1EcxgAHZ9R4MffItFkwDTc2vrQ6EdjWZidu2YMXYgrQysAGryo2P3XKjBuYBU8D7tG878Jc/s1600/P1240667-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilDZX2N2QhkjNpduKzg_XCx8_QR3v0KIt7cdqO6I52bpWtGHVTXUU_5VMDAA3UPr7YsSz1EcxgAHZ9R4MffItFkwDTc2vrQ6EdjWZidu2YMXYgrQysAGryo2P3XKjBuYBU8D7tG878Jc/s400/P1240667-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It was a new part of town, but not so far from familiar territory. After dropping off our stuff at the hotel, I was ready to visit some of my favorite old haunts. We set out on foot to visit my favorite monument, la Bastille:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrqMv6SD_WUcZg4Nsg-bQa7glLjJ8cjvRzDFjko2gbMnfbFtzXHAAl5rQvNMgutgkZlbYRbbOfVvn3-Teq_DTzUgIJGojdNXwjDbEOaWRYVxIwaOiH6H3eGQvmLG5U8nZlkbUxHg9x1k/s1600/P1240672-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrqMv6SD_WUcZg4Nsg-bQa7glLjJ8cjvRzDFjko2gbMnfbFtzXHAAl5rQvNMgutgkZlbYRbbOfVvn3-Teq_DTzUgIJGojdNXwjDbEOaWRYVxIwaOiH6H3eGQvmLG5U8nZlkbUxHg9x1k/s400/P1240672-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
When I saw the golden winged statue finally peek out from above the rooftops, it was such a friendly welcome back to the city I called home for two months. The column marks the spot where the Bastille was stormed in 1789, setting off the French revolution. It was one of my favorite spots to visit in 2008 due to its proximity to an enormous <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/06/march-de-la-bastille.html">open-air market</a> that I frequented nearly every Thursday and Sunday for its an outstanding selection of produce of every type. It was also just a 20 minute walk from my host family's home in the 11th, and maybe 10 minutes away from my gallery in the 3rd - perfect for a Thursday lunch break.<br />
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But why are there so many people in the street in front of the column? And are there people standing on the base of the column - and with a flag? Better take a closer look:<br />
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Well that wasn't there the last time I was here. But then, neither were they:<br />
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Boulevard Richard Lenoir, which leads from the Place de la République to the Place de la Bastille, was full of marchers - some 12,000 of them. Turns out we had stumbled across a <i>grève</i> - that is, a strike - welcome to Paris! On this day, thousands massed in Paris as well as other cities around France to demonstrate against the government's recent <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-11027288">expulsion of Roma people</a>.<br />
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Unfortunately, we needed to cross the boulevard to head into the Marais, and the demonstrators filled the street for blocks and blocks. Luckily, though, it wasn't too difficult to weave our way through the crowd.<br />
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I popped in briefly to visit Eric, owner of <a href="http://mircher.com/">Galerie Eric Mircher</a>, where I did my internship in 2008. He was busy setting up for a <i>vernissage</i> - after a month of vacation in August, all the galleries in the area were holding the openings of their newest collections on the same night. It was great to see Eric and the gallery, and to introduce my mom to some of what my daily life had been like when I lived there.<br />
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The gallery is across the street from a church, and when we stepped out into rue de Turenne, we were just in time to see a bride arrive to walk into her wedding. She looked beautiful, and if the music in the church was any indication, it sounded like a joyful ceremony. All my best wishes to the hopefully happy couple!<br />
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Outside the gates of the church, oblivious to the fanfare, a bum slept on a pile of mattresses, snuggling his pink teddy bear. Oh Paris, how I love you.<br />
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Full disclosure - I came back a few days later to be a creeper and take this picture of the bum and bear, since I neglected to capture him sleeping. But I wanted to give you every opportunity to imagine the scene with me - I am that devoted to you, dear reader.<br />
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The gallery is at the northern edge of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Marais">le Marais</a>, an artsy area of the third and fourth <i>arrondissements</i> filled with narrow streets home to many boutiques and boulangeries. It is also home to most of Paris' Jewish population.<br />
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In the heart of the Marais lies my favorite street in Paris, rue des Rosiers.<br />
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After walking for a couple of hours, with me gasping and getting super excited as we turned each corner and my mom trying to pretend for my sake that she was as interested in seeing the back alleys of the Marais as she would have been seeing the Eiffel tower, we decided we wanted some dinner. We visited a Jewish <i>traiteur/boulangerie/pâtisserie</i> to pick up some wares.<br />
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A <i>traiteur</i> has prepared foods, ready to be taken home to heat up or eat cold. We picked up a couple of boxes of vegetables: one with artichoke hearts, and one with a number of marinated and roasted summer vegetables, which we ate in my favorite park, the tiny secluded Square Georges Cain, just around the corner.<br />
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To go with our tangy, flavorful vegetable, we also got a beigle aux pavots:<br />
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This bagel may have been a little fancier than those we usually see in the US, but it was very similar in flavor, if a little sweeter and eggier, kind of like challah.<br />
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We had thought we might stop for some dessert at <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/07/la-fin-sapproche.html">Le Loir dans la Théière</a>, my favorite restaurant that has an amazing dessert buffet and is also, conveniently, located on rue des Rosiers, but it was completely mobbed. Instead we headed down to Miss Manon for a slice of outstanding <b>flan</b>:<br />
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After so many weeks of scouting out the best restaurants in each new city, it was such a comfort to be in a place where I already knew so many great spots to stop for a bite to eat. The flan was just as I remembered: thick and creamy with just a little bite, sweet with an intense vanilla flavor. Custard at its very best - how I love dessert in Paris.<br />
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Happily sated, we walked down to the banks of the Seine for a brief visit before heading to the hotel to retire for the evening.<br />
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So let's just recap briefly. My first six hours back in Paris:<br />
<ul><li>A <i>grève</i> with thousands of demonstrators... check.</li>
<li>Wedding party... check.</li>
<li>Bum snuggling with pink teddy bear... check.</li>
<li>Rue des rosiers... flan... Seine... check, check, check!</li>
</ul><br />
Oh <i>my</i>, was it good to be back.<br />
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Coming soon: and Sunday comes afterwards, which can only mean one thing: market day!!!Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-75018532926456247202011-03-18T09:59:00.000-04:002011-11-04T16:37:06.425-04:00Tours III<b>3 September</b><br />
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After a morning of <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/chenonceau-le-clos-luce.html">châteaux and inventions</a>, by the time we got back to Tours we were ready for lunch. Having decided a few days earlier that Tours was the closest we'd be getting to Bretagne (unfortunately, that's one <i>région</i> that's quite difficult - and expensive - to reach by train), I decided we'd better take advantage of our proximity and visit a <i>crêperie</i>. Crêpes are available all over France, especially with <a href="http://www.nutellausa.com/">nutella</a> and alongside waffles in touristy locations as "fast food" type stands, but a real crêperie is a sit-down restaurant that serves dozens and dozens of varieties of sweet and savory crêpes.<br />
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As we traveled further and further North along the Atlantic coast, we saw more and more crêperies. By the time we got to Tours, there were quite a few. We opted for La Grange des Celtes, which was almost empty when we got there at the end of the lunch rush.<br />
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When I had <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2008/05/bienvenue.html">my first crêpe</a> in France in 2008, I was told that the traditional beverage with a crêpe was, of course, cider. At the time, I was baffled - why cider? It made no sense to me. But what do you know - those silly Bretons know what they're doing after all. Bretagne is too cold and rainy to make great wine, but there are a lot of apple trees around, so the standard local drink is, indeed, cider. So naturally, I had to order a glass to go with my <b>galette "celte:"</b><br />
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A<i> galette </i>is a savory crêpe. The batter is made from buckwheat, and common fillings include ham and cheese, though most crêperies offer all sorts of varieties. My mom ordered one with ham and spinach, and mine, called the "celte," had butter, raclette (a mild cheese from Switzerland, often included in <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2010/10/gruyeres.html">fondue</a>), onions, potatoes, and <i>lardons</i> - small bits of bacon.<br />
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The potatoes were beautifully browned, and the bits of bacon added a lovely smokiness. The caramelized onions brought a sweet element to the party, while the flavor of the cheese melted into all the other elements and tied everything together. The galette itself was just a little sour and beautifully crisp on the edges. And, not surprisingly, the cider was an excellent accompaniment - it cut through the heaviness of the crêpe with a crisp, almost citrusy edge.<br />
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The savory crêpes were filling enough that by the time we finished them, we didn't have room for a sweet one. So we headed back to the hotel briefly before we were off a-marketing again. On the first and third Friday of each month in summer, there is a "gourmet market" in Tours, so our first stop was there. After being so impressed with the variety and quality available at <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/tours-ii.html">Les Halles</a>, we wondered how the gourmet market could be better... The answer is, it wasn't. In addition to your standard fruit and vegetable stands, there were a couple of wine vendors and an exotic American selling <i>pâtisseries Américaines</i> (cookies, zucchini muffins... the kinds of things I'd bake myself!). The market left us unimpressed, but it did lead us to a cute café called Les Gourmands Disent where we stopped for a pleasant mid-afternoon <i>café au lait</i>. The walls were a neutral grey, and the espresso cups were among the most adorable I've seen.<br />
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They had a nice menu of lunch-like fare posted on the wall: soups, salads, tarts. If I were in town for another few days, this is exactly the kind of place I'd want to pop into for lunch.<br />
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Sufficiently caffeinated, we continued on to pick up some supplies for dinner. We passed a Hardouin boulangerie on the street, and popped in for more fantastic bread samples as well as a <b>baguette à la tradition</b>.<br />
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<i>Boulangeries</i> often offer multiple types of baguettes, each slightly different. One common variety is the baguette à la tradition, which is mandated by law to be made only of wheat flour, kitchen salt, water, and natural yeast leavening. (Gotta love a country that mandates by law what ingredients may be used to bake certain types of breads!) This was one of the best baguettes I have ever tasted: it had a perfectly crisp, thick but not hard crust that crackled beautiful when ripped open. The crumb was soft and complex and flavorful. This was a baguette as they were meant to be - and what a pleasure it was to eat!<br />
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We also got a <b>pavé au chocolat</b>:<br />
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<i>Pavé</i> means brick, which tells us this was a dense, small, rectangular loaf. It was studded with dozens of chunks of dark chocolate and was, unsurprisingly, quite delicious. <br />
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After getting out bread, we headed on to les Halles. I visited<a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2010/11/dijon-ii.html"> a number</a> <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/02/la-rochelle-ii.html">of Halles</a> on my trip, some of which were architecturally stunning. In Tours, les Halles are a little more streamlined and a little less spectacular than in some other cities.<br />
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But the produce for sale is top notch, and that's what counts. We got some<b> reine de reinettes</b>:<br />
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<i>Reine de reinette</i>, which means queen of the little queens, is a variety of apple we don't have in the US, which is a real pity. It's crisp and slightly tart with a good Apple flavor. To go with our apples, we also got some <b>mirabelles</b>:<br />
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Mirabelles are a tiny variety of plum, about the size of a large grape, with a mostly yellow color. They are sweet and the pits pop right out as you eat them. And if you didn't already know, they are beyond fantastic when cooked and served over <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2011/03/tours-ii.html">brioche perdue</a>.<br />
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After getting our fruit and making a quick stop at Monoprix for some yogurt, we headed back to the hotel for the evening to relax.<br />
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<b>4 September</b><br />
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Our last morning in Tours was spent heading back to, of course, les Halles one last time for supplies for lunch on the train. Not surprisingly, perhaps, les Halles are much busier on Saturday mornings than Thursday afternoons, and this time all the shops were open and there were many shoppers milling about with bags on their arms or in their ubiquitous <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/64350215/plaid-versatile-rolling-grocery-bag">rolling grocery bags</a>. Included in our purchases was a <b>tomate-pesto</b> from Hardouin:<br />
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This crispy bread was filled with a fantastic pesto and sweet tomatoes and made an excellent lunch and reminder of Tours as we headed, finally, to Paris.<br />
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Earlier, I had booked two spots on the<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TGV"> TGV</a>, which takes just over an hour to go from Tours to Paris. But before getting on the train, we'll take one last look at the Hôtel de Ville:<br />
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It was a strange feeling to head to Paris, a city I already knew and loved, after spending so long heading to a new, unfamiliar city every couple of days. The part of my trip focused on eating new regional cuisines and seeing the French countryside was all but over, but I still had another nine days in France before I would return to the US.<br />
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Coming soon: revisiting old friends and neighborhoods, and the 20,000 citizens who came out to welcome me.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4453019067843976790.post-59340822946970162482011-03-08T11:58:00.000-05:002011-03-08T11:58:01.343-05:00Chenonceau & Le Clos Lucé<b>3 September</b><br />
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When picking where I wanted to visit in France, there were a number of factors to consider. The first, of course, was where I could find fantastic regional cuisine. Some picks were easy: how could I go to France to taste regional cuisines without visiting <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2010/09/aix-en-provence.html">Provence</a> or <a href="http://val-paris.blogspot.com/2010/11/strasbourg-i.html">Alsace</a>? Others, unfortunately, had to be eliminated due to the difficulty in getting there by train. I had hoped I might visit Périgord for foie gras and truffles, and Bretagne for crêpes, but complicated, expensive train connections ruled them out as possibilities for this trip. Of course, after visiting so many cities and regions in just over a month, it was also something of a relief to cut out day-long train trips in favor of an extra day in a region I was already visiting, such as Touraine.<br />
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After all, some decisions about where to visit were based on sights to be seen, too, and what would the point be of coming to the Loire valley without seeing a few of its stunning châteaux? When we decided to spend three nights in Tours, we knew we wanted to get out of the town and see some of the countryside and royal residences. We debated the relative merits of being total tourists and booking tickets with a tour group versus figuring out train schedules and new locations on our own, and decided that the tour group was the best way to go. After all, it's all tourists at the châteaux anyway.<br />
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We considered a few different tour companies, and opted for <a href="http://www.accodispo-tours.com/english/index-excursions.html">Acco-Dispo</a>. They offer full-day or half-day tours that allowed us to see different châteaux on different days. On the Friday morning tour we chose, we saw Chenonceau, the most visited of all Loire châteaux, and then had a choice of visiting the royal châteaux d'Amboise, home to François I and two other French kings, or Le Clos Lucé, home to Leonado da Vinci during the last three years of his life.<br />
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We met our guide, Cécile, at the Tours tourist office around 8:45 am, and once the rest of our tour group arrived (a Japanese mother-daughter pair with limited English and very little French, and an "Australian" woman of Asian descent who spoke good English as a second language), we were off. On the drive, Cécile entertained us in carefully-enunciated English with stories of queens and kings and mistresses and the affairs that built Chenonceau. When she was done, she played a recording of the same information in Japanese. Knowing more about the people who lived there made the experience of visiting the château richer.<br />
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The path to Chenonceau is lined with tall, stately, shady trees. The three women seen headed down the path were on the tour with us.<br />
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When we got to the château, we discovered that the front was being restored.<br />
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Good thing no one comes to see that side of the château. At Chenonceau, it's all about the view from the river banks.<br />
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Chenonceau is constructed across the Cher river. While she lived there, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diane_de_Poitiers">Diane de Poitiers</a>, mistress to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_II_of_France">Henri II</a>, decided she didn't want to have to walk to the bridge to cross the river - she wanted to be able to cross the river without leaving the comfort of her home. Diane built gardens around the château, such as this one:<br />
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The interior of the château was, for the most part, fairly typical - richly decorated rooms filled with tapestries and paintings and elaborate furniture. I wonder how much of what is shown to be in Diane's bedroom today was actually hers - I would guess almost nothing.<br />
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Awkward fact: when Henri II died, his widow,<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catherine_de%27_Medici"> Catherine de' Medici</a>, ousted Diane de Poitiers and took up residence at Chenonceau herself. Her room was at least as fancy as Diane's.<br />
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The bridge over the river is a beautiful, light, airy room with plenty of windows for admiring the view.<br />
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But my favorite part of the château was the kitchens. You descend down a stone staircase to see the larder, pantry, butchery, and a servants' dining quarters.<br />
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Oh, and did I mention the bread oven, complete with baskets for baking bread? I want one of these in my house!<br />
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Our time at Chenonceau was limited - we had about an hour to see all of the grounds and interior. I would have liked to spend a little more time in the gardens, but instead we'll have to make do with one last look out over the river.<br />
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And then it was on to the town of Amboise! The crown jewel of the town is the royal Château d'Amboise, which overlooks the village from its hilltop perch.<br />
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While François I was king, he invited Leonardo da Vinci to visit him at Amboise, and in 1516 the king gave Leonardo Le Clos Lucé, a manor house just 500 meters from the château. Leonardo lived here until his death in 1519. (It is because of Leonardo's residence in France at the end of his life that his most famous painting - and perhaps the <a href="http://www.louvre.fr/llv/activite/detail_parcours.jsp;jsessionid=N2d0pntLcGYvW6HRMSnxp115gVLwspCcnhQhJ2dNVWyXhLh0T2G3%211494910514?CONTENT%3C%3Ecnt_id=10134198674098115&CURRENT_LLV_PARCOURS%3C%3Ecnt_id=10134198674098115&bmLocale=en">most famous painting in the world</a> - resides in the Louvre in Paris.) Today, the house is a museum devoted primarily to Leonardo's extensive genius for invention. The basement is filled with dozens of models based on some of his most innovative sketches, including the first helicopter, the first hang glider, the first ball bearings, a turning draw bridge, paddle boats, Achimedes' screw, inflatable life savers... It's pretty astounding what he came up with. Le Clos Lucé has a few animations available <a href="http://www.vinci-closluce.com/en/decouvrir-le-clos-luce/visites-virtuelles/">online</a> to show off some of his ideas. And all this in addition to his painting!<br />
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Unfortunately, the manor house does not allow photography, so you'll have to go to see his genius for yourself - it's well worth the visit. The only image I have of the premises was taken from the extensive grounds, showing a model of his helicopter and the house:<br />
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The helicopter is attached to the ground and definitely not flying away any time soon, but it does spin, much to the delight of babies and onlookers alike.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxO4-5QOzGfx2-Xig8zWEy0B8bdlPy0RDOwuxqsOzDfpW_PFPnn8fhKqVfih5_7dBjxhEsUCBeU1FU1G7CEUg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
Our time in Le Clos Lucé was very limited as well - it would have been great to have a little more time to see more of the extensive grounds surrounding the house, which feature many life-size models of Leonardo's inventions. I would have liked to see a little of the town of Amboise, too, which looked decidedly cute during the quick drive through town to the manor house. But it was not to be on this trip. The other three ladies on our tour were off to see another three châteaux that afternoon, and for our part, we were back to Tours for the remainder of the day.<br />
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Coming soon: crêpes and reine de reinettes and mirabelles and every good thing on our last day in Tours.<br />
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A bientôt,Val Neff-Rasmussenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383417205061658451noreply@blogger.com2