PART ONE: HOME

Saturday, August 21

Left Montreal, Air Transat. As usual, tight flight tonight (is Transat French for sardine)?

Sunday, August 22

Lyon. The temperature is great. The city looks empty, but it is August and the French are still on the Riviera eating their glaces.

The hotel is great – a bed-sitting room in the style of 20s Europe, a vase of flowers on the coffee table, and a king size bed!

The city is very clean with its beautiful buildings and nifty little alleys – gutters, really. We walk to old Lyon via Place Bellecour. There are funky little shops and restaurants offering “Lyonnais” specialties. The alleys tunneling through the buildings (les traboules) open into courtyards with winding staircases in towers, old wells, stone carvings everywhere…

On to cuisine Lyonnais... We have heard that Lyon is a gourmet center of France. Chez Antoine Lecuyer, on rue des Marroniers, we try a delightful salade lyonnais with lardons, croutons, mesclun topped with a poached egg … smoked herring strips on a bed of pommes (that’s potatoes) drizzled in olive oil … the chausson de chevillard, (tourtière with a difference), and a wonderful terrine de chicken liver and light and delectable quennelles de volaille … prunes with a difference … tête de canuts (this sure looks and tastes like tzatziki). Wow … Lyonnais dining, first time out. Antoine offers us his special jus de raisin (I say marc, but he insists jus de raisin, either way, it hits jet lag with a thud) … and then to bed.

Monday, August 23

We ride the funicular to the top of Vieux Lyon to see the cathedral. (Warning – do not sit downwind of too many people in the funicular – in a country with as many brands of perfume as there are AOCs of wine, the smell can be a killer!) We enjoy the gilt-covered mosaics in the church, the intricate stained-glass, the panorama of the city.

We descend on foot, through a park-like setting of trees and flowering herbs, to find ourselves back in the lanes and traboules of the old city. Funny, without the cafés open, the place seems desolate. Also, many establishments remain closed on Mondays. The city is ours to browse.

We walk around until lunch, in and out of the old streets, through the traboules. At Bouchon Lyonnais, Denise lunches on Nordique salad (smoked trout, shrimp, lettuce), and Barry has a very tasty andouillette lyonnais (veal sausage). We meet Odessa, a 13-month old mignonette from Angers, near Nantes, and her parents, of course, who give us their address and ask us to visit them if we are ever in the Loire area.

On to shopping – all of the designers from Paris, New York, and London can been seen but we buy nothing. On to a little nap before supper.

Back to the bouchons for supper. Denise wants to try the poulet de Bresse, but that means swimming in cream. With no Lactaid, it will have to wait…

Lyon sure comes alive at supper. Streets fill up with diners as the cafés take over every square inch of trottoir. We have a marvelous galantine of rabbit and salade de chevre and a pavé de saumon - light, delicious – a perfect complement to our Macon Villages white.

A last thought as we cross the bridge to our hotel – what a marvelous job has been done in rebuilding from the ruins of the second world war, new bridges, stoplights with automated barriers that emerge from the pavement like little phalli, the metro... it’s not Paris, but the visit has been worth it.

Tuesday, August 24

All good things must come to an end, and, in this case, in anticipation of better. Leaving Lyon is a small challenge, with its travaux routiers and one-ways, but, at one point, we see the little red “N7” – yes, we are on the way to Provence.

Fields of corn and sunflowers and lavender take over the countryside and we find ourselves in the ever-present shadow of the French Alps (signs point to Grenoble and Chambéry, but we are heading towards Romans s/I and Beaurepaire and the elusive D538). Alas, the sunflowers are all drying for their oil and the lavender seems to be finished for the season, too. We must come back in July… the colours should be a riot. We do find a field full of sunflowers still alive enough to photograph in its stunning yellow glory.

Lunch in Romans sur Isère, a typical little French town where even the parking meters take a mid-day siesta. We discover that une pogue is a brioche from Romans with orange rind and orange flavouring.

Back on the road, we see Grignan in the distance, with its chateau perched on the flat top of the hill. This is our first antique town of the trip, and our hotel, Au Clair de la Plume, is nestled behind a courtyard in the remains of an old monastery at the foot of the castle. (Here, “old” means medieval.) The hotel has a dream interior from “Maison Française” and the rough tile and stucco surfaces outside are part of the eye-pleasing mosaic that is this old French village. Perched on the rooftops are more satellite dishes than you can count. Dinner at La Poème… According to our young B&B host, it is not ordinary, not gourmet, but a good intermediate restaurant. It seemed fine to us: the brandade de morue appetizer exploded with flavour; we followed with delightful plates of pintade and magret de canard, and finished with une soupe de fruits rouges. The wine, a local AOC Tricastin, was delightful. Somehow intermediate just doesn’t seem to describe this adequately. At home, this would be epicurean delight. Pleasantly full, we descend the hairpin pathways to our hotel for sweet repose.

Wednesday, August 25

After a hot night in Grignan (those dormers may look romantic, but the August heat just gathers there and stifles), we drive through the Drome Provençal on our way to Châteauneuf-du-Pape. We pass fields of grapes and olives and more olives and more grapes. The grapes are dark blue and bursting with sweetness; the vines are bent over under the weight of the bunches of grapes. We stop to taste the grapes along the road in St. Pantaléon and then to taste the wine at the local winery. We continue to Nyons, where we visit a wonderful little “Jardin des Dromes” and then begin our grocery shopping with some olive oil and tapenade. Further down the road, in Vaison-la-Romaine, we see the Roman ruins, but at 34^o in the shade, we do not stop for very long.

We are in Orange, which has some of the best Roman ruins in France. The theater is magnificent. In its perfect semi-circle, you can hear voices from the bottom right at the top, nine stories above ground. A woman singing a classical song a cappella at the bottom can be heard clearly from our vantage point -- it brings tears to our eyes. The arcades behind the seats provide cooling comfort in the summer heat. We step out, always under the watchful eyes of Emperor Augustus, and climb down into the ruins of an old temple, which had been rebuilt from the stone from an old Roman “nymphae”, whatever that is. The stone remnants give away the secrets of the Roman builders, showing the notches that held and aligned the buildings in place for so long. The Musée d’Orange tells the story of the different players in the story of Orange – the Dutch monarchy, the Comte de Grignan, they were really a bunch of, well, not for this travelogue!

Back into the countryside, grapes seem to take over the entire field of vision. We are entering the area of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and the offers of dégustation are everywhere. It is a one-industry region, but what a wonderful industry! We wind through the old town of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and then on the road to Avignon, we look for our hotel. In the distance, on top of a hill, looms a structure that would be more at home in Disneyland than the modest French countryside, with the castle’s turrets and machicolations clearly delineated against the provincial landscape. As we approach the driveway, we discover that this is our home for the next two nights. Once he home of the Marquis de Folco de Baroncelli Javon, who decided he wanted a traditional Chateau for his winery, the Chateau Fines Roches dominates the countryside. It is a working winery, with 6 B&B rooms and a four-star restaurant (the hotel is a member of the Relais Gourmand chain).We check in and wander the vineyards, sampling the grapes bursting with sugar short weeks before the harvest. And then dinner …

For starters, champagne kirs – cassis pour monsieur, peche pour madame – accompanied by olives and petites bouchées. The pre-appetizers are melon and duck jambon breads. Appetizers are accompanied by, naturally, white Châteauneuf-du-Pape. These are filet of lotte on a bed of fennel à l’orange and patés of lapereau and fois gras with basil. Mmmmmm – we’re just starting. The main course is accompanied by a red Châteauneuf-du-Pape and the setting sun, its last rays shimmering over rows of grape vines that extend beyond the horizon. Pigeonneau for monsieur, agneau for madame. The service staff is amused by monsieur’s difficulty in telling the difference between oiseau, volaille, and pigeon.

The staff, there are about eight of them serving us, are obliging, and even smile once in a while. Stray cats play at our feet. They are far too skinny to have eaten here.

Then the pre-dessert, a little nougat ice cream, in advance of the cheese. We are offered nine types of chèvre, vache, and brébis (that’s goat, cow, and lamb). We finish the wines, plates of desserts appear in front of us, the waiters are all smiling now, coffee and tea, is there any other way to end the day?

A final chance meeting with the chef – he worked at Le Lutetia in Montreal – he says lavender is for linens, not food – and then on to sweet, air-conditioned sleep.

Thursday, August 26 (rain)

This was our day for exploring the valley between the Vaucluse and the Luberon mountains. This is a touristy area made even more famous by Peter Mayle’s “Year in Provence”. Mayle does not live there any longer. He moved away because of the increase in traffic in the area since the publication of his books. One visit to the area, though, is enough to charm anyone into staying.

We make our way to Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, famous for its antique markets which, of course, are closed today. The city streets are lined with the regular market stalls, though, and we begin to anticipate buying fresh salad, cheese, sausage, bread and so on once we arrive at the condo (oops, apartment – condo is not a French word and is too close to something a lot more intimate). Denise buys some used (she says old) hand-embroidered linens. The town is pretty, ringed with canals and bridges, giving it the reputation of being France’s “Venice”.

Back on the highway, we round a bend, and le gendarmerie national pulls us over to the side of the road and asks monsieur (the driver) to breathe into a bag. C’est une programme contre l’alcoolisme. Our designated driver has had little or none this morning and passes the test, so we go on. C’mon guys. This is wine country. What do you expect? We discover later that the gendarmerie may be the worst offenders.

Our tour takes us to Gordes, a historic ville perchée, with a side trip to the secluded abbey of Sénanque. The road to Sénanque is precipitous, at times a single lane carved out of the mountain with “garages” (wider sections to allow two cars to pass) every once in a while. The abbey is closed, of course, being lunch hour, but we learn later that lavender is the only colour permitted on the stone because of the lavender farming done at the abbey.

We choose another road back to Gordes. This one takes us into a deep valley ringed by tall, cavernous, rocky mountains, but, alas, Gordes is not to be found, so we retrace our way up the precipice back to Gordes as we first saw it. Full of tourists, Gordes is a pretty town, perched on a belvedere, where the stone cobbles make stairs instead of streets. Only the brave residents drive their cars there – and certainly not a place for rollerbladers.

After lunch at Gordes, we wend our way through the valley, stopping at a little winery (Mayol) outside of Apt. The owner’s father chats with us, saying that his grandson studied in Montreal. We ask what. He says, embarrassed, nuclear physics. We taste his wines and buy some to his plea “find me a distributor”. (He had one in New York who wanted exclusivity, but he did not think 200 bottles were sufficient for America … what about California?).

On to Ménèrbes, yet another village perched in the hills. A few tourists, no public wc. We buy a Perrier in a café to use the toilet. It is a real hangout, but it works for us. I reflect at the beauty of the vistas, the quiet on the streets, the age of the buildings, and know why I love this place. We visit the winery down the hill, Domaine de la Citadelle, try a few, and buy the viognier cépage, grown only in this area, near the Rhône.

We return to the village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape just as the wineries close their salles de dégustation. Dinner is at a small, out-of-the-way restaurant, where even an ordinary meal (fillet of rouget, delicious house wine in a pichet, change of cutlery between courses) meets high standards and satisfies. A fine end to a fine day.

Friday, August 27

We awake to see the sun rising over the rows of grape vines stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction from our little bedroom room in the chateau. We will be leaving this sweet wine country today, trading it for the Mediterranean. We both have tea at breakfast, having been overcome by the overwhelming strength of French coffee. We marvel at the sheer gall of the hotel owner in charging us 70 francs ($17.50) each for a tea and a bun and jam; it is good but just isn’t up to par with dinner the other night. But as we pack the car, we cannot help but feel that staying in a castle such as this is truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

We decide to bypass Avignon’s urban sprawl, but a wrong turn takes us into it anyway. We escape in a totally wrong direction and stumble on an authentic old town called Tarascon. There is a medieval castle built on the banks of the Rhône. We opt to visit the early Renaissance church across the street. It is built on the foundation of an earlier medieval church. The church is designed in an unusual asymmetrical fashion, with a main entrance on the side of the nave, and a split-level front leading to a medieval crypt in the basement. The exterior blends early Renaissance decoration with a down-to-the-street-level human scale, at once bringing this building in touch with its citizenry, masking its awesome interior spaces.

We had intended to skip les Baux de Provence, but our wrong turn had brought us in the vicinity, so that becomes our next destination. This is not “just another ville perchée”. On a peak in a string of mountains known as the chaîne des Alpilles, much of the town is carved out of the soft stone. We visit the old chateau, once home to members of the Grimaldi family (of Monaco fame) and walk through rooms carved as much as four storeys deep into the rock. From the watch towers, we see Avignon 30 km to the north, and the Camargue 30 km to the south. Over two million tourists visit les Baux every year, and its striking carved Renaissance architecture and awesome location and vistas are good reasons for that.

Down the hill, we stop at a small winery and learn of the bureaucracy of the AOC (appelation d’origine controlée). The wine growers of les Baux wanted their own appelation, but the regulatory would only give them that on the red wines, so our “Mas de la Dame” white is an AOC “Coteaux d’Aix-en-Provence”.

Onward, we take the autoroute to bypass Aix-en-P^ce (just another beautiful old French city), get lost in another small French city (Aubagne), and finally see the Mediterranean as we cross a mountain pass. “Let’s roll down the window”, Barry suggests, “and smell the sea air”. Denise says “it smells like exhaust”. Thank goodness for air-conditioning.

We continue to St-Cyr-sur-mer, our stop for the night. This little seaside resort town is packed to the brim with families taking in the last weekend of the summer before la rentrée. There isn’t a square inch of sand available, but we are content to stroll the boardwalk and enjoy the sights and sounds of the (mostly) French and Italian, English, and German tourists around us. Our hotel, the once-grand Grand Hotel, has seen better days, but it is clean and has a large pool. Fortunately, we have a corner room which cools off quickly as evening brings relief from the 32 degree midday heat. A dip in the pool, a large plate of moules-frites on the seaside terrace, and we begin to sense that familiar, at-home feeling.

Saturday, August 28

And home it is. We pull into St-Tropez around noon, and, sure-enough, the town is overflowing with tourists, all trying to be a part of “the scene”. (Are we so different … at least, our bun and cleavage exposure is kept to a minimum?)

Saturday is market day, and we take advantage of it to pick up some supplies from the farmers – lettuce, tomatoes, garlic – and the cheese vendors.

Every time I visit St-Tropez, I cannot wonder about the extravagance, the borderline obscenity, of the boats in the port. Who rides these? Needs them? Can afford them? An Onassis? A Windsor? Some sheik? But we have places to go, things to do. First, a short stop at a winery (AOC Golfe St-Tropez), but, alas, not one is open at this time. Too bad, as one of our favourites, Chateau Minuty, is here.

The N98 brings us through familiar territory, through St-Maxime, and on to Fréjus, and the Géant Casino. Now, the Casino is just a supermarket, but to these poor Canadian cousins, it is an experience in gourmet (and not-so-gourmet) shopping. The cheese counter stretches for an entire aisle, as do the two terrine counters. The prepared foods read like a Montreal cuisine française menu, but we have had enough menus for a while. We content ourselves with a slice of terrine de lapin to complement our fresh salad from the market. Rillettes in a package, simple salad dressing (no Kraft 100-varieties here – there are only a couple of types available), and a dizzying assortment of wines tempt us.

We pass through the maze of streets that is the small city of St-Raphaël, which adjoins Fréjus, and reach Boulouris, on the outskirts, where the apartment is located. It has been barely a year since we were last there, but everything is familiar as if we have been away for a week. We turn on the refrigerator to start chilling the rosé. This year there is a vacuum cleaner (Denise is thrilled) and a new coffee maker (Barry is thrilled). A little clean-up, unpacking, a dip in the pool, supper on the terrace until the sun sets, coffee as it should taste, and then sleep. We are home.

PART TWO: VIGNETTES OF ST-RAPHAËL

Sunday, August 29

Sunday is market day in Fréjus and we take advantage of the opportunity to pick up farm-fresh produce: rotisserie chicken, olives, bread, cheese, pissaladière, etc. The market is crowded, stalls lining both sides of a lane three to four city blocks long. You can buy clothing, jewellery, Provençale fabrics and other specialties, but we content ourselves with food today. Many different languages are spoken in the market, but you can tell the French women by their blond hair and often by their lame attempts to dress like teen-agers. They are known as les donsesses.

It is a good thing that we bought the food, because a thunderstorm sets in and we have lunch at home. The storm parks itself over our apartment and lasts all afternoon, causing much washout in the gardens and beaches.

Everything dries up in time for us to go to Santa Lucia for dinner at La Tonelle. Barry has a fish soup to soothe his head cold and Denise her first Clairs de Marenne (oysters) of the season. We have the entrecote and the salmon, both excellent. The pistachio ice cream is sweet, cold, and delicious – certainly it is the first time in a long time that anything tastes as good as it does in a childhood memory.

Monday, August 30

We stroll through St-Raphaël to do a few errands. We mailed our postcards in a bank night deposit (it said very clearly “boite aux lettres”), visited our favourite little pastry shop and the Monoprix (grocery store). Lunch at home was a leftover rotisserie chicken and tomato sandwich with white wine; sunned at the beach (the water was still a bit murky after yesterday’s storm); walked to the centre of Boulouris; had a sorbet; returned; napped; more food; more wine; it got dark. Just another fine day on the Cote d’Azur.

Tuesday, August 31

On Tuesdays the antique dealers (brocantes) fill Place Coullet in St-Raphaël. We wander among the old books, linens, dishes, cutlery and furniture. Denise is taken by an old cowbell, Barry the old prints. Denise picks up a few hand-embroidered linens (visions of a B&B?) but we reserve our serious brocant-ing for Nice, where there is a huge market on Monday. More wine, more food, more beach.

Wednesday, September 1

Today we go to the beach first. What a twist! This allows us to do touring in the afternoon once everything has re-opened after lunchtime break. The sun is hot in the morning but the salty-sweet Mediterranean cools.

After lunch, we stop at Le Continent (think Wal-Mart) and find the perfect orange outfit for Natalie’s soon-to-be-born infant. French clothing for adults tends to be similar to what we get at home, but the children’s wear is wonderful – designed to make infants look like well-dressed, tailored little people. Something like Baby Gap, except that you can get it anywhere. Denise dreams of the day she is a grandmother and can shop here.

Our destination is Le Muy, with a large concentration of “Cote de Provence” wineries. We see the sign pointing to the town and turn off the N7, but find ourselves in, at first, an industrial park, then a residential area. We had inadvertently left all our road maps in the apartment, so we have to rely on the signage. In a country where no road goes in the same direction for very long and any road is likely to change its name or number on the slightest whim, this could prove to be a challenge. Anywhere else, we are lost; in France, we are exploring.

We continue, believing the sign (it turns out to be a detour for trucks around Le Muy). At one point, about 5 km inland, we see a small sign indicating “Chateau de Cabran 3.5 km”, and decide to go for it. The road twists and turns through forest (no grapes here) and, after a while, we believe we missed a turn somewhere. But, no, there is a little sign saying we are 1 km away. Has that really been 2.5 km? Are French km the same as Canadian ones? Do they measure as the crow flies? These questions recur often as we explore.

We drive the kilometre and see another sign pointing to a gravel road. About 2 km down this road, we see the house, built on the foundations of an old Roman villa, on the edge of the National forest, surrounded by fields of grapes! We taste the wines, a robust but fruity rosé ‘98 and a smooth and seductive (and award winning) red ’93. The rosé has to be the best we have tasted yet. The owner identifies our accents right away (“canadienne d’origine française, canadien d’origine anglais”) and tells us of his experience hitchhiking across Canada and how he worked as a ship’s carpenter in Vancouver. He comments that he never gets Canadian visitors so he doesn’t charge us for the red.

We return to the main (we are in Puget-sur-Argens) and begin looking for Le Muy (no wineries), La Motte (no wineries), les Arcs (Chapelle Ste Rosaline, which we visited last year), but without road maps we take several false turns. It is getting late and we decide to head back and look for the N7. We pass one winery, Domaine du Thouar, where we see the oak casks that are used to flavour the wine for the American market. We buy a red and a rosé (Le Grand Thouar), both delicious and reasonably priced.

At a roadside stand, we pick up some tomatoes, garlic, pasteques (melons), peaches and grapes. It seems funny buying grapes after having sated ourselves for free in the vineyards, but the muscat grapes are good. The lady throws in a bunch of parsley to go with the tomatoes. It has been a day for gifts. Who need maps anyway?

Thursday, September 2

Today we are going to visit Grasse, the world capital of perfume. We leave bright and early (that’s 10:30, we never seem to be able to get out before 10:30) but that is ok, because we do not want to arrive in Grasse at lunch when everything is closed.

We skirt the edge of the Massif des Maures, passing through familiar territory (Le Muy, Ste Rosaline), and arrive in Draguignan, once the fourth largest city in Provence, and now a major military training centre. It becomes quickly apparent that this was an important city from the neo-classical building facades, so atypical of this region.

The road climbs out of Draguignan in a series of steep hairpins, and we are reminded that these are the beginnings of the French Alps. We leave Draguignan behind and below us as we weave through forest and mountain until we reach Fayence, perched high up on a mountaintop.

A series of steep, reverse hairpin curves brings us to the top of this well-maintained pretty town which probably has seen a lot of tourists, given the large quantity of restaurants and shops. As with many of these towns, no street is level, indeed, it is difficult to tell if these are streets or stairs in many places. We pause for lunch in a little Italian café.

On to Grasse, perched high in the Alpine foothills. Grasse is at the end of the Route Napoléon, which is the major lavender growing area of France. As such, it is famous for its perfume industry. We stop at Maison Molinard, and tour its factory. The numbers are impressive – 6 tonnes of petals to make a litre of essence. We see the fermentation vats, the mixing labs, and the hand labeling, testing, and packing of the bottles. They test each sprayer until something comes out. Boy, the smell in there… In fact, our tour ends with a bit of an infomercial and the room smells like Bloomingdale’s ground floor.

We proceed to the centre of the city, which, like Fayence, is built on a mountainside, but is much larger. We visit the “Musée provençal de couture et bijou”, and see how women looked in the early years of Provence. We wander the streets of Grasse (everything is vertical, of course), missing the provençal market, and decide to savor its history on another, perhaps longer, visit.

We drive to Cannes, the Grande Dame (la donsesse) of the French Riviera. It is just a few kilometres from Grasse – how can we come this close and not visit Cannes? Driving into the city we remark how it has grown since we first saw it nearly two decades ago, since we first fell in love with the Côte d’Azur. We wander the centre – marvel at the prices they charge for dinner at the Carleton – 75 FF (nearly 20 bucks) for the gazpacho, 495 FF the entrée – does that include service? The streets are alive, the shops wide open with alluring and expensive merchandise, restaurants beckon with menus of every national origin. We are not hungry, so we decide to return to St-Raphaël for dinner.

We find the N7. The section from Cannes to Fréjus takes us along the Corniche de l’Esterel. The rugged mountains drop from the roadside into deep, forested valleys, and we lose sight of the ocean. Unfortunately, in the waning daylight, we press on to Fréjus, taking little time to appreciate the panoramas from our high vista points.

We stop in Santa Lucia for dinner. Our favourite restaurant, L’os à la moëlle, is closed for a private party, so we settle for moules-frites next door. The rosé is plonk, but what can one expect for 38 FF in a restaurant? We have done well in the wineries.

Friday, September 3

The day begins overcast. We want to go to the beach, but at some point, stop believing that it will clear up. We take a little outing to Agay, a neighbouring town hosting a provençal festival today. On the way, we see the Mediterranean lashing at the rocks of the Esterel, an angry Mediterranean that I have never seen before. At the beach in Le Dramont, on the way to Agay, young French surfers (actually, bellyboarders, but this is as good as it gets, I suppose) take to the waves. The wind brings the temperature down to an unseasonal 19^o mid-day.

At the market, we taste olive oil, pesto chips, orange and thyme wines, Cantal cheeses. The cheesemonger spots our Canadian accents and replies “hostie” and “Christ”. Haven’t heard these in a while. We taste a wine from Corsica, le Roi du Maquis, with a picture of a wild boar on the label. Delicious. We buy a bottle and some pesto chips for snack time.

Tonight, we dine out. We start at the Excelsior bar terrace with a pastis. That stuff gets more raunchy every year! The musical combo is terrible, and gets no applause for their kitschy rendition of the old folk song “Donna, Donna” to a beat box. Still, everyone throws a few francs into the hat. Yes ter die, ole mah tra bells simmed so fah a-weigh…The pastis whets our appetites for something more substantial.

Dinner at François premier, where shellfish reigns supreme. We start with a soupe de poisson for Denise and salade de magret de canard for Barry. The soup, bursting with flavour, rich, brown, and textured, is hot and delicious with its accompanying rouille and cheese. The magret, pink in the middle and amply served on a bed of dandelion greens, is tender and tasty in its framboise vinaigrette. The seafood platter follows – tortue (that’s crab from Brittany), bulots (big snails), mussels, clams, and of course, the queen of the sea itself, the fines Clairs de Marennes oysters. Everything is fresh and redolent of the ocean. A little horseradish sauce and a little aïoli delight. The white Côte de Provence completes the feast. No room for dessert -- the waiter looks at us as if we are strange -- everyone must eat dessert. How do the French do it? Three courses at lunch (with dessert). Three courses at dinner (with dessert). And a glace afterwards. It must be the wine. (Mind you, many French over 30 have more belly than necessary.) We have a coffee. A jolt. Might as well have had caffeine intravenously. The waiter said it was Italian style. What is that supposed to mean?

We go into the Casino (the gambling parlour, not the grocery store) in downtown St-Raphaël. They let Barry in this time as he is wearing shoes, not sandals. Shorts seem ok, though. A hundred francs amuse at a slot machine for about half an hour. A woman at a 20 FF machine (that’s five dollars a shot) is making a lot of noise. Her pot is full, and she is ringing in jackpots. There’s one in every casino.

The casino is very smoky. We note that the Europeans are very heavy smokers. In fact, we have not been in any restaurant that offers non-smoking areas, and we do not see people standing outside of buildings power-puffing either. Europeans also have a lot of dogs, and they take them everywhere – restaurants, museums. Some hotels indicate a no-pets policy, but more often than not, Frou-Frou is welcome. But we digress.

We leave the casino and stroll the St-Raphaël and Fréjus beachfronts. The stores are still open. The wind has died down, and it is warmer than it has been all day. The crafts vendors are as tacky as those at home. The promenade is the entertainment; we are out with people of all ages. Grandparents are proud to walk with their blue- and pink-haired kin. Kids are proud to go out with their old folks. A sense of security pervades the atmosphere.

Saturday, September 4

The old Roman theater in Fréjus is lined with old pine trees, and Denise wants some of the large pine cones for her crafts projects. Alas, and it is lunch hour, and the theater is closed. Curious. There is no staff there, but someone goes by at 12:00 noon every day and locks the gate and returns at 1:30 PM to unlock it. Furthermore, they change the closing hours in winter (lunch is from 12:30 to 2:00).

We wander around Frejús centre and discover that the vendors are still busy in the market area. Time to buy some more salad fixings and a baguette. Denise buys some linens from a provençal vendor. It is not easy, selecting from patterns of lavender, olives, grapes and mimosa on brightly coloured yellow and blue backgrounds that evoke the flowers and seaside of Provence.

We return to the apartment and enjoy the remainder of the day at the beach.

Sunday, September 5

Sunday, and we are back at the market in Fréjus. Denise flatters the rotisserie chicken seller and we get an extra-large chicken with its juice for a mere 35 FF (the price of a medium). We choose olives with thyme, white fleshed peaches, Italian plums, and a fresh brioche. We recognize many of the vendors, even from last year.

Monday, September 6

We save Nice for Monday, when antique dealers from all over Provençe take over the flower market, the Cours Salya, in Vieux Nice. Nice is about an hour drive from our apartment. We first cruise along the Promenade des Anglais where the stately old and new hotels are lined up across from the beach. It is a handsome sight, and accessible, too, as all beachfront is public (contrary to Cannes, where all of the major hotels have privatized the beaches). We park in the antique market, and look for a public washroom, but, alas, cannot find one. A vendor admits that this is a problem in France. We suspect that French people have very strong bladders. Fortunately, there are many restaurants lining the market, so comfort is not too far away. (Beware of McDo – they lock the restrooms, and do not freely allow access. When they do open them, floods and foulness abound!)

We browse the market; it takes most of the day. Denise picks up a Ricard water jug; Barry skims the old prints and illustrations from old books. We lunch in a little fast-food place that serves up delicious socca (a local main course chickpea crepe) and pizza that reminds us of Montreal’s Little Italy. We sit next to a couple from Germany (she’s Danish). They have never tried socca. She remarks that it could use some sauce. We usually have it with a pichet of rosé – that seems sufficient. Oh well, we never went to Germany for its cuisine anyway.

We visit the Russian Cathedral on our way out of Nice. A gift from Nicholas II to serve the large number of Russian expatriates in the region, the cathedral became a sanctuary for the gilt-laden, pearl-studded images of Orthodox saints smuggled out of Russia after the revolution. The soaring minarets and tiled facades stand in stark contrast to the pastel, stucco Côte d’Azur residences. Yet, for some reason, the cathedral seems right at home, nevertheless.

We wend our way home along the coast highway. The road takes us through the walls and along the ramparts of Antibes. The old stone houses along the road nestle one onto another and look out on the Mediterranean. One feels instantly safe and at peace behind these walls. No wonder Antibes was a favourite of artists. The road passes through the walls on the other side of the old town and we are in a neat, modern residential area of Antibes. Here the hotels and restaurants are all three and four stars. Indeed, as Antibes melds into Juan les Pins, the houses become estates, hidden behind stone walls and iron gates. We come down to earth again as we drive through Golfe Juan, a busy resort town full of beach shops and young people, and then we see the stately apartment blocks of Cannes up ahead.

It is rush hour in Cannes. It is always rush hour in Cannes. We cross the city at a snail’s pace, not minding, though, since we have nowhere to go but home. The Nice-Marseille train runs along the coast at some point and the engineer waves at Denise. We try to guess his name. Fred (Frédéric)? No. It must be Théo.

The local road from Cannes to St-Raphaël weaves along the edge of the calanques, the red cliffs of the Esterel which drop off sharply into the sea. Each turn gives, to the east, the view of Cannes fading in the distance, and to the west, communities of stucco houses perched high in the hills. We have traveled this road several times, but, in spite of the familiarity of the towns and the landmarks, each vista is fresh and exciting.

We arrive in Boulouris and are impressed by the straight tree-lined road that welcomes us. We rarely enter town this way, and are struck by how nice it looks. How good it is to be home -- it has been a long day!

Tuesday, September 7

At the St-Raphaël brocante (antique market), the lady selling old linens recognizes Denise from last week. We are not looking hard, but Denise finds an old needle case which she picks up to bring home.

We discover the best bread in St-Raphaël yet at a bakery on rue Gambetta. Crispy on the outside, soft and tasty inside – will we ever eat multi-grain again?

Wednesday, September 8

Just a quiet day in paradise.

Thursday, September 9

You can buy almost anything at the open markets. The foire in Fréjus this morning is the biggest one yet. More businesses than in a large shopping centre. But it’s 30^o out there – who really wants to shop for sweaters?

We stroll back through St-Raphaël, and discover the historic centre of town, with its cobbled streets and archaeological museum. Even on the last day of our stay we realize we have only scratched the surface of this tiny corner of the Côte d’Azur.

But it is our last day in the Côte d’Azur, and the sun and sand beckon. We learn that the little old lady who walks the beach, talking to whoever will listen, is named Denise (Garcette). She is 92 years old and sometimes talks about her old sister (94 years old). She approaches us and gives Denise a compliment, but we do not engage her in lengthy conversation. We suspect she will not let us go. We meet a third Denise while bathing in the sea.

Our parting dinner was at le Scirocco, one of the finer restaurants on the strip in St-Raphaël. We are pleased to see our favourite Chateau Minuty white on the menu. We have oysters one last time, allowing the salty sweetness linger. La salade folle with salmon and caviar for madame; l’éventail de poisson, freshly grilled, for monsieur. The marquis de chocolat tickles our fancy, and a couple of glasses of Sauternes complete the enjoyment.

The night is warm. It is nearing mid-September, but there are still many tourists in town, and the artisans are still set up along the waterfront for another week. A woman is singing French cabaret songs in a café that is open on to the promenade. But we are full and tired, and we know that we will have to be up and out before sunrise.

PART THREE: HOME AGAIN

Friday, September 10

It is still dark when we leave the apartment. The city crews are busy, however, and it becomes clear why the city is so clean. Otherwise, there is very little traffic at this hour, so we move freely on the autoroute.

The autoroute is mysterious in the dark. At 130 kmh (or maybe 150, we never did figure out how to backlight the speedometer), the road to Nice is a roller-coaster ride. Cannes sparkles in the last darkness of the night. Nice is reached in daylight.

The Air Transat staff are congenial; we are allowed our (30 kg) overweight without penalty. That’s 2 for 2 on this trip.

We share a row in the airplane with a French woman from Toulon who is visiting her daughter in Ste-Hyacinthe. She is looking forward to going to the Chinese buffet restaurant! We never missed Chinese buffets in France – in fact, we never miss not going to them in Canada, neither. She finds that Canada makes her gain weight. No wonder. Fortunately, France does not do that to us.

We head out of the airport and on to the Laurentian Autoroute. The car seems to be crawling at a snail’s pace, even though the speedometer says 120. The 100 speed limit seems downright primitive.

Signs of home remind us of how far we have gone. Drivers cut us off with cell phones in hand (just not done in France, with its twisted roads, giratoires, and manual shifts). Suburbs fill the valleys (in France, they crowd the hilltops and seek seclusion in the valley, as in Sénanque). There are lots of trees and green space between the airport and the city; more emptiness than we have seen in weeks. The golden arches, that ubiquitous sign of what America has done to the fine art of dining, jut abruptly into the horizon and remind us that now clean rest stops are close by. The city skyline appears we are on very familiar territory. Home is exactly as we have left it. There is no need to unpack right away. We brew a Canadian coffee. It is not too strong and has a nutty, pleasing taste. We put up our feet and relax. It has been a long and satisfying ride.