No. 5
Lisa Alpine's Getaways
Braving the Côte d'Azur
by Lisa Alpine
Traveling
leaves you speechless and then makes a tale teller out
of you. --James Rumford.
Last summer in France, for the first time ever, I declared myself an American. In the outdoor markets, at the cafés, at the hotel reception desks, I'd boldly blurt, "Yes, I'm an American traveling in your country, even though my president said I shouldn't (remember Freedom fries?). I am not the politics of my country. I love France and always have since my first trip here thirty-three years ago."
I
freely admitted my citizenship, though at the time maybe
I should have nodded affirmatively when they asked their
usual, "Are you Dutch, German, Norwegian?"
Okay, maybe the Marseille Marché aux Puces (flea market) was not the place to announce this detail. Maybe that's why my friend, Carla King, kicked me in the shins as the Arab produce vendor handed us the Anjou pears and announced in a loud guttural voice, "Americans Americans. Clinton Clinton. Monica Monica," wagging a wild, pointing finger at us in the solely Arabic crowd gathered around the ripe fruits and vegetables.
Yikes! My confession of being an American had backfired a bit... but we got out of there in one piece and had an idyllic picnic by the sea at the mouth of the port watching ferries from Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco, and Cyprus pass into the narrow harbor mouth.
In fact, we had a fabulously lovely trip to the south of France despite America's rabid politics. A time of picnics and sipping rose-tinted kir royals on stone terraces, watching the sun slide into the shimmering, copper waters of the Mediterranean.
I want to share with you what I discovered: a map for the perfect French summer vacation, which, of course, started with four days in Paris. My traveling posse then flew to Marseille to meet the woman who instigated this holiday and brought the Wild Writing Women (my writing group) across the Atlantic to vacation in a villa.
Oh, twist my arm....
It was Maureen Wheeler's fault. She is an honorary Wild Writing Woman who lives in Australia and publishes the Lonely Planet Guidebooks. She rented a villa last June in Gaou Benat on the Côte d'Azur and invited us to join her.
In Marseille, we waited at the airport for Maureen, whose flight from London had arrived before ours. We waited and waited. Puzzled. Then, a sleek, silver Mercedes stopped at the curb, a chauffeur stepped out, opened the passenger door and voila! Maureen appeared from its plush interior.
She had been kidnapped, unintentionally, by a handsome French chauffeur. The story had us in stitches as we drove two hours south to the villa. She had been greeted at the baggage claim by a man in a jaunty cap holding a sign for Mrs. Wheeler. He gathered up her bags and off they went in the Mercedes. Maureen was impressed that we had sent a limo for her. What nice friends, she thought. Then she proceeded to talk with the driver.
"My friends went ahead to the villa?" He waved his hand vaguely, yes. A bit farther down the freeway he informed her, "Don't worry, Mrs. Green is holding lunch for you."
"Who is Mrs. Green? I don't know a Mrs. Green!"
They returned to the airport to find us standing on the curb looking bewildered. There was also a short, Texan woman with the same look on her face -- the other Mrs. Wheeler.
Maureen looked disappointed as we loaded her luggage
into the rental car but soon we were twisting and turning
around the seductive curves of the French coastline.
Our villa was in a private gated community on a hill near the beach town of Le Lavandou, between Toulon and St. Tropez.
Not one, but two, houses wrapped around a stone-paved terrace with a huge, blue swimming pool at the edge of a cliff overlooking the bay. We spent most of our time there, eating every meal outside, sitting long into the night, drinking wine, talking, and listening to Jacqueline's new Julien Clerc CD, "Studio." The air was balmy and the moon glittered through the cypresses leaving a shimmering track on the sea's surface all the way to Algiers.
In
the mornings, several of us would throw on bathing suits
just as the sun winked over the sea's lip, and hike down
the pieton - hiking trail - among acacia and
oak forests for a swim in the brisk crystalline waters.
Villas are expensive but can house six to eight people. And we could cook, which appealed to the foodie in all of us who found the farmers markets irresistible.
Our first excursion was to nearby Bourmes les Mimosa, named for the 500 species of mimosa (acacia plants) that grow there. On Wednesday morning the market was hopping in this 12th century medieval village carved into the flanks of the Massif des Maures, with a view of the azure Mediterranean. Bourmes is known throughout France as one of the great villages fleurie, or flower villages—it won the "Grand Prix du Fleurissement" award in 2000. Its cobblestone streets carve webs into the hillside, hemmed in under arbors of rampant, burgundy bougainvillea and fragrant honeysuckle. Fiesta-hued lantana edged the sidewalks and the flaming red beak-like flowers of Toucan trees carpeted the pavement.
We
spent a small fortune on foodstuffs—paella crowned
with mussels and shrimp, runny goat cheeses, plush melons,
rosemary roasted chickens, lavender breads. Too exhausted
to carry our overly laden baskets any further, we recuperated
over lunch at Lou Portaou Restaurant in the ancient shaded
archways at 1 Coubert des Poètes.
Other excursions included nightly strolls on the promenade in Le Lavandou where summer evenings centered around the pétanque court (bocce ball). All ages were out to play, to watch, and to be watched. The young bucks rolled up their shirt sleeves revealing defined biceps, with cigarettes dangling from pouty lips, and the community all offered advice on the next strategic maneuver. They had even set up folding tables laid with cloths for their own makeshift bars, mixing drinks under the plane trees.
It was there, on a bench, that we were told the town was not named for the surrounding lavender fields (le lavande), as we had so romantically assumed, but was literally le lavandou, "the wash house." This is where people had done their laundry long ago.
One
morning, during my early morning swim in the sea, I met
a nice man floating on a rubber raft with his grandson.
He generously revealed the name of their favorite beach,
while I pretended not to notice they were both stark naked,
except for shoes.
Through a tunnel, on the other side of Le Lavandou, is Plage de Saint-Clair, the penultimate beach of bleached fine sand skewered with sunny yellow and blue umbrellas, with pristine aquamarine water lapping at its scalloped edges and mountains rising from behind like a surreal Magritte painting. We rented beach chairs, pulled out our Dan Brown novels, ordered lemonades from the cabana boy, took off our bathing suit tops and applied sunscreen to our alabaster northern skin.
The beach was littered with trim French folk sporting mahogany tans. We grumbled among ourselves, "Haven't they heard of skin cancer? Why do they get to eat all the fatty food, drink wine, sunbathe naked in public, stay skinny, AND get super tan?"
That is partly what makes Southern France a fun vacation: become one of them and lose the puritanical rules.
On another Robin's egg blue day we boarded the La
Croisière Bleue ferry for Port-Cros, a delightfully
undeveloped island in the Iles d'Hyere chain just a twenty-five-minute
boat ride from Le Lavandou. It is the smallest national
park in France and its only marine preserve, with a population
of only forty-eight inhabitants, no cars at all and just
a few auberges and cafes.
We had bought cheap snorkel gear in Le Lavandou in anticipation of exploring a much touted underwater marine trail. To get there we hiked a narrow track that snaked over the mountain, above the cliffs overlooking the bay. Fragrant, heady scents of lavender, sage, pine needles, and rosemary all blended in the baking sun. Carla said she felt like "a leg of lamb in the oven with herbes de Provence."
The
footpath descended to a small beach dotted with a few other
snorkelers. Curious fish followed as we glided over emerald
green meadows of swaying sea grass, spying hide-and-go
seek octopus trying to blend in with the speckled grass
blades. We picnicked on the beach — our salty lips
flavoring the sandwiches. Butterflies landed on the edges
of our bread crusts and we had to be careful not to bite
into them as they flapped like handkerchiefs in our faces
while trying to take nibbles, too.
* * *
After
a week on the Côte d'Azur it was on to Marseille,
the polar opposite of our villa experience. Hot and humid,
with throngs of multiethnic residents crowding its noisy
boulevards, we spent these last three days of our vacation
shopping and eating. We stayed on the harbor's edge in
the Vieux Port at the Hotel Alizé, which was blessedly
air-conditioned and fairly quiet with double-paned windows
that sheltered us from the constant traffic and the cries
of the fishmongers.
Marseille is the second largest port in Europe behind Rotterdam, and ships have docked in the Vieux Port for at least twenty-six centuries. It's a fisherman's town and the fish market was directly across the street.
We
got an eyeful of writhing eels, glassy-eyed red mullet,
chewy yellow violets, a sort of sea urchin that
comes in a spiny, deep violet-colored shell. We enjoyed
all of these delicacies during prolonged evening meals
at outdoor restaurants in Marseilles and in the Vieux Port
at Valon. Over chilled bottles of Sancerre, we sampled,
tasted, and debated topics such as the difference between bourrides, bouillabaisse and soupe
de poisson.
The new high-speed train from Paris to Marseille has made it easy for young chic Parisians to come here for the weekend and get a touch of the sunny south. The bohemian Cours Julien is the hippest area for fashion boutiques and restaurants. While the shops were closed, we chose nearby Café Petite Montmartre at random, and dined on artfully displayed salads topped with goat cheese, chicken livers, ratatouille and other delectables.
I found my take-home gifts there, too. Marseille was once the soap factory capitol of France, but now there are only three of these establishments left. We visited Savonnerie Marseillaise de La Licorne and left with a suitcase load of soap for less than $2 a bar. (Here in Marin the same soap costs $10.) These olive oil-based bars are hand-pressed in a machine that's over 100 years old and they're made from natural ingredients in a parade of scents: honey, lavender, mimosa, muguet, orange flowers, rose, and green tea.
That is why Carla and I took a taxi to the Marché aux Puces on Sunday before we flew home. We needed extra carry-on luggage for our soap investment. What better place to find cheap but durable bags than the outdoor market? The taxi dropped us off and a swarm of shoppers swept us through the gates and into a maze of vendors, mostly from Africa and the Middle East. Our blondness stood out as much as if we were visiting the souk in Cairo. Same sounds, same smells, same merchandise, same friendly people—even though we were the awkward Americans traveling in their country during a tumultuous era.