It was nice once we got here!

Now I’m not one to complain (oh, who am I kidding?) but after our EasyJet flight was cancelled from Paris to Nice because of flight crew problems last June and we were given a form outlining the compensation we would be entitled to, only to be told three weeks later that our flight had been cancelled not, after all, to flight crew problems but to air traffic control issues (how handy) so that we are not entitled to compensation, I’m annoyed. And I’m going public. Hopefully you’ll find my ongoing correspondence to EasyJet entertaining. Because I, um, don’t. Well maybe I do in an abstract awful kind of way, but conflict is no fun. And don’t these big corporations count on this? Count on wearing you down and making you slink away? I’m forcing myself to keep on. Here’s one for the little guy. Now come on EasyJet, why make it so hard?????

Letter to EasyJet July 28, 2010

Sirs,

In January 2010 I purchased 3 tickets for a flight from Paris to Nice for July 3, 2010 at 18:10 on my credit car #xxxx. The flight was cancelled and we were not given a new flight until the next day July 4 at 19:25. We want compensation but my credit card expired in Feb 2010 and so I don’t know how my money can be refunded because my credit card number is now different. As you can imagine, this was a very stressful situation and our 6 day holiday in Nice was reduced to 5, a trip that we planned 5 months in advance (!) so we feel we are owed compensation, but what form can I fill out to get a refund on my new credit card number? The name is the same on the card.The booking reference is xxxx.
Thanks, Carol Perehudoff

It was nice once we got here!

Letter to EasyJet, July 29, 2010

Thank you for your response. The problem is that is was not a problem caused
by Air Traffic Control, it was a ‘flight crew problem.’ I am quoting from
the customer service agent in Paris. There was not enough staff to man the
plane apparently. It was not an extraordinary circumstance and we were told
that we would be given compensation by the EasyJet representative. Please
advise on how to get my refund.
Thank you,
Carol Perehudoff

Yup, just delightful once we got here!

Why aren't I still here?

It’s one thing to go away on a trip. It’s another thing to come back. What happens when the dream trip is over? At first it’s okay. For one thing, you’re so exhausted you don’t care where you are. And then you get to phone all your friends and everyone says, “How was France? I want to hear all about it!” Trust me, they don’t really. They only want to hear that you had fun, you’re alive and that you didn’t get pickpocketed .. unless you had an affair. Everyone wants to hear about that. Oh, wait. Did I say that out loud? Hey, I’m speaking abstractly here. This is theoretical, folks.

For a few days when you come back from a trip you are motivated by the excitement of your  return. It’s like that new fresh feeling you get in fall of hope-filled beginnings. For a few hours or days you see your city in a new light and you have a determination to get organized, to start anew. And then … and then …. blah. Then you have credit card bills to look forward to, and work that has piled up that you don’t want to do like your quarterly GST, and a dusty floor that needs cleaning and laundry and .. shut up already. I’m making myself feel even worse.

And why am I not still here?

So, having just come back from my personal dream trip in Paris and the South of France, here are my tips to adjusting:

1) Don’t stress out if you don’t seem to be able to get much accomplished. Travel is tiring – especially if it’s a trip abroad – and it takes awhile to recoup. Unless you are my boyfriend Mark who seems strangely refreshed.

2) Don’t feel bad because your travel companions recover faster than you. It’s just a sucky quirk of fate.

3) Check out something new. Nothing gets a person excited about being back in his/her home territory than tramping new ground. For me it’s going to be a trip to the Iyashi Bedrock Spa next week, the only Japanese Ganbanyoku (rock bathing) spa in North America. Apparently it uses black silica stones imported from Japan and I’ve had it on my radar for quite some time.  Expect a report soon.

4) Learn something new. Cruise the Net or read your local paper to find a talk or a workshop that will keep you motivated and interested in life. Tonight, for example, I’m going to a talk on blogging hosted by my local TMAC (Travel Media Association of Canada). Hopefully it will make this blog more readable (hey, don’t agree with me).

5) Meet someone new. No, I’m not saying go walk down the street and try to pick someone up (you should have done that in Paris because then your friends would want to hear about your trip). What I’m really saying is that as luck would have it, next week I’m going to have coffee with one of my fav bloggers who happens to be in town, Nomadic Chick. Yay!

6) It’s not all about doing something new. The best, the very best, thing about coming back to town is meeting up with old friends and having a beer (and don’t cry because it’s not champagne at the Hotel Crillon in Paris) and catching up on their lives, their latest trips and their most scandalous gossip (especially if they had an affair).

And especially ... why am I not here?

I'd rather sit on the beach

After a big fight with my boyfriend over the dangers of renting a motorbike (I didn’t want him to so he rented one anyway), I was so mad that I got on the bike. I’m serious. I didn’t know what else to do. We seemed to be at a stalemate and that’s the only thing I could think of to do to break the impasse.

“Okay, let’s go then,” I said in a grim tone.

“Really?” he said, hopeful that the fight might be over.

Are we still fighting?

It wasn’t over. I just thought I would rather be on the stupid bike than sitting in the apartment in Nice worrying.  My reasoning is that it is better to be the one involved in danger than the one sitting at home consumed with anxiety. Now I know that lots of people rent, drive, ride motorbikes everyday. I’ve also known too many people who have had accidents, so my reasoning seemed simple. I chose, years ago, not to ride on any more motorcycles.  I’m also of the mind that people close to me shouldn’t ride them either. But there it was. A Honda Lead from the Elite Rental Agency sitting at the curb outside our Belle Epoque apartment on the rue Verdi.

I am not immune to the thrill of the ride. That’s not why I’ve chosen not to do it. The idea of the wind cooling you down as you whisk along the stunning coastline is pretty alluring. But so are a lot of things that aren’t good for you. I won’t name them because all the ones that come to mind are illegal and you might think less of me if you knew all the forbidden things that tempt me.

But it was time to face this demon of a bike fear head on.

Drive inland to St-Paul de Vence and go to the Atelier de la Courting, where you, um ... learn to court?

So I got on. We rode along the Riviera through busy traffic up toward Cannes then back the other way to Villefranche-sur-Mer and Cap Ferrat. And nothing happened. We didn’t crash, or go over the cliffs at Villefranche-sur-Mer and it was gorgeous and sultry and hazy and the sea breeze was refreshing. But really, I expected all that. I mean, you don’t crash every time you get on a bike. Just like you don’t get your purse stolen every time you walk down the street. But it can happen. I’ve had my purse stolen in both Seoul, Korea and London, UK. Plus my backpack in Banff. Sometimes things happen. And you can’t predict when they’ll be, so you choose caution over fun. Or, do you sometimes choose fun over caution?

My boyfriend is the one in white

I don’t have the answer, but I hope we never rent a motorbike again. And yet … and yet ….

Feeling like a traitor to myself, the next morning I woke up at 6:50 a.m. and nudged Mark. “We should take the bike to St-Paul to Vence before you return it,” I said.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said.

Made it!

Champs Elysees - don't wanna be here

I’m not knocking Paris, but when you’re all set to leave Paris and fly to Nice for your 6-day seaside holiday, it’s a major pain in the arse when, after an interminable and chaotic lineup, first the computers go down so you can’t check in, then a small group ahead of you turns into a group of 50 Canadian students as each newcomer is ushered in, and then when you finally check in and go to the gate, your flight is cancelled. This, I hasten to add, is a flight I booked five months ago!

“We are very sorry, but you must now go to baggage claim and reclaim your bags then go to Room 1 and get further information.” At least that’s what I thought I heard. Surely, I was wrong. No, I wasn’t wrong. Our flight to Nice was cancelled.

“Flight crew problems,” we were told.

So back we went to collect our bags and then pulled them off the carousel just as if we’d actually gone somewhere, only we were still in Paris. Then I went to the wrong Easyjet lineup only to be told to go to check in desk #1, and then waited in line to get a new flight and another one to get a hotel room.

But the worst, the very worst – after 4 hours of line ups at the airport – was when we were told that we couldn’t get on another flight until the next night at 7:25 p.m. Yes, 26 hours after our scheduled departure.

Then we spent the night at the Ibis Hotel with no airconditioning and, in my first room, with windows that didn’t open and a bathroom door handle that was sitting on a bench.

Now I’m not knocking Paris, but when you are set to be in Nice, and have paid for a beautiful Belle Epoque apartment on the lovely rue Verdi you do not want another day in Paris. You do not want to fight the crowds on the Champs Elysees and you don’t care a fig about the Arc de Triomphe. You want to be lying on the beach in the pastel sunlight and enjoying your 6-day seaside holiday that is now a five-day holiday.

Arc de Triomphe - don't wanna be here!

Of course I am not knocking Paris, but it’s interesting how one week ago I was dying to get to Paris and go to the Plaza Athenee for champagne and to visit the Louvre to see the Uccello and the Cimabue, but when you are focused on being elsewhere, your point of view changes. Especially when your legs ache from so many lineups and they’re too sore to spend another day walking around in a Paris heatwave. And when Easyjet will not let you have late checkout at the Ibis hotel (“It’s not in the contract,” they said after waiting in another lineup the next morning) and the hotel has no baggage storage.

It’s interesting how when things go wrong it sorely tests your relationship because you are two very unhappy people who would either like a fresh sea breeze  in Nice, or at least some airconditioning in Paris. I have never really seen Mark angry before and it was a bit of a shock. After two years, I finally learned that he has a temper. Go figure.

 My point of view about Easyjet has changed too. It’s not, um, very positive at the moment.  

But eventually we arrived in Nice. My relationship has been saved – Mark’s good nature restored – and the sea breeze (plus two seaweed treatments at the H20 Thermes Marins spa in Cannes) has helped wash the stress away.

H20 Spa in Cannes - wanna be here!

It would have been pretty embarrassing to go to Paris and not go to the Louvre, especially when our apartment is right across the street from the gargantuan museum. Our balcony overlooks the east end of it and we’ve spent a lot of time watching other people go in, come out, and mill around. Not to belabour the point, but this is a pretty sensational location. Except of course, after 1 p.m. during a heat wave when this lovely un-airconditioned apartment begins to feel like the inside of a hair dryer, and it’s time to stop looking at the museum from the balcony and actually go inside.

Paris is hot! hot! hot!

I tried to get in using my press card instead of buying a ticket. I’d used it successfully at the Musee D’Orsay on Thursday, and I’ve used it before at the Louvre, though I knew that they liked to give you a hard time. Perseverance, I told myself, is key.

“Non, non, non, non, non,” said the woman at the ticket counter, looking at me as if I was gripping a dead rat between my teeth (which I wasn’t).

“Why not?”

“It’s not an International Press Card.”

“We don’t have those in Canada.”

“Non, non, non.”

I went to the information desk. “I’d like to use my press card to get in,” I said. “I have a TMAC card and an SATW card.”

“Okay,” says the man. “Go and show it at the entrance.”

I go to the entrance of the Denton wing. “Non, sorry. International Press Cards only,” says the woman.

“But they told me it was okay at the information desk.”

She sends me back to the info desk, where they look at my card for awhile, call someone then send me up to the Sully wing and tell me to ask for the manager. I wait a long time for the manager. He looks at my card.

“You need an International Press Card.”

“Read this!” I say, pointing to my Society of American Travel Writers card. “It says Canada, USA and Mexico – that’s international.”

“No it’s not, it doesn’t say Europe.”

“I don’t write in Europe,” I point out, not that I write in Mexico either, but why quibble?

“I really would like to help you,” he said. “But I can’t.”

“Monsieur,” I say, not even getting mad, because by now I’ve met half the staff at the Louvre and have enjoyed seeing how far I could go in my quest to persevere. “I have waited in the ticket line, at the entrance to the Denon wing, at Information twice and now, you are saying I must go back and start again? Plus I must pay?”

He shrugs helplessly. He really did want to help – and though it would have been more helpful if he’d just shunted me through the entrance – he said, “I can at least take you to the front of the line so you can buy a ticket.”

“Deal,” I said.

“It’s really a problem, this press card business,” he said as we took the escalators down.

“For me, not you,” I said.

“No, for us too,” he replied, and I suppose since I had used up quite a bit of staff time, and had given him the unpleasant task of saying no when he would have preferred to say yes, it was indeed a problem for the both of us.

Finally an hour later I am inside the Denon wing and find that Mark has rented a headphone set. Let me just say right now that there is no way that one person in a pair can rent a headset and the other go without. The one without – that would be me – must stand around tapping their feet while the other listens to entertaining stories about the masterpiece you are staring at blankly.

“Why didn’t you rent me one?” I whined.

“I didn’t think you’d want one.”

Mark, bless his heart, thinks I know everything about art and would never stoop to such a basic educational device as a headset. (He knows better now). I may know a Rembrant from a Da Vinci and I can spot a Uccello a mile away (I love Uccello, he paints velvety horses in battle and uses perfect perspective at a time when perspective was still a fairly new innovation in art) but I do not know all 35,000 paintings in the Louvre.

So, if our relationship was to last, I had to go out – out!- and wait in another line to get a headset and then another line to get back into the Denon wing. My day at the Louvre was quickly losing its lustre. Mark, who had been lurking around in the sculpture room waiting for me was faring no better than I.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, when I finally made it back with my headset.

“I would just like to look at some paintings!”

So that’s what we did. I loved the headset, which told great info about the paintings, and I loved it even more when it was interesting information I could listen to from the comfort of a padded bench in front of the painting because my legs were already tired from all the pre-entrance lineups. Thus, I now know more about Cimabue that I ever hoped to - since I listened to all the information about him twice.

Mark fell in love with the war room (what else?) and went back and forth from the Géricault Raft of the Medusa and Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People in great excitement. Me? I got to see Paolo Uccello’s Battle of San Romano, a Giotto, and Saint Sebastien getting shot up with arrows by Mantegna. What could be better? And of course we found room 29 with Mona Lisa and an endless swelling of crowds.

Mona who?

Oh, and then I’m looking at Tintoretto’s sketch for Paradise when I look over and see some chirpy American girl trying to pick Mark up!

“Ooh, look, I just took your photograph in front of that painting,” she said.

By the time I got over there, she was gone.

‘That woman just tried to pick you up!”

“Is that what she was doing? I thought she was trying to sell me a photo,” he said.

Can we sit down now?

Then we had a lunch break on an picturesque stone terrace overlooking the Pyramid entrance and met a couple from New York on their 25th anniversary. I should have stopped there, but it’s hard not to keep going at the Louvre. There is always one more masterpiece to seek out, so even though my feet were aching, we headed to the Sully wing to see the Vermeers.

Go soak your feet!

So, like most people I left the Louvre happy but with glazed eyes, burning thighs and hot sweaty feet only to go out into the sun and see that the crowd of art lovers have discovered the perfect reviving post-museum activity – soaking their feet in the fountain. What else could I do but join in? When in Rome, I mean Paris, do as the tourists do …. and above all, persevere.

Who needs Paris?

It’s our last night at the chateau Bussas. Our French wilderness idyll is over. Every day since Wednesday Mark and I have had a running conversation of, “oh no, I can’t believe we have only 3/2/1 more days” or “where has the time/day/morning gone?” or “how can it be over already.”

Le Grand Chateau

Then, last night, Mark turned traitor. I caught him reading our Paris guidebook in bed! And today again by the pool! While I’m still poring over A Walking Tour of the Cevennes along the trail of Robert Louis Stevenson, he’s already moved on to Paris, where we will be tomorrow night, after a drive to Marseilles and a short flight, soon settled into a little apartment across the street from the Louvre on the famed and wonderful rue Rivoli. In walking distance to the Piano bar at the Hotel Crillon. And this time I’m drinking champagne at the Plaza Athenee as well.

Don't make me leave!

But not yet. For one more evening – which is going to include a local meal (chicken in fresh tarragon sauce for me and wild boar casserole for Mark) cooked and delivered to our table by the caretaker’s daughter, I plan on staying right here in the rugged and beautiful Cevennes. At least for one more night.

Robert Louis Stevenson may have trod this perilous area with a donkey named Modestine in his short novel Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes written in 1879, but that was nothing compared to driving these routes with a GPS, a difficult finicky animal Mark and I have named, appropriately, Modestine.

Nice town - where are the people?

The Cévennes is a wild mountainous area in the southwest of France. Stunningly beautiful and green and overgrown, with red rocky cliffs and twisty trails and roads, it’s surprisingly untravelled, at least in June. In fact some of the towns we have stopped in seem a bit like eerie shuttered ghost towns, though, we are told, in 10 days, it will be bursting with tourists.

Too bad. I love it like this. Although sometimes, I must say, it is a bit weird, like after the third time you’ve eaten at a restuarant without actually seeing any patrons.

But back to the roads. We travelled from our chateau (oh, I plan to say that as much as possible … our chateau) to the town of Saint-André-de-Valborgne and decided to take a scenic route back. Modestine recommended it. But Modestine did not have our best interests at heart. The road was the size of a bowling lane with dropoffs of hundreds of feet. I’m not making that up – Mark thinks some of them were five or six hundred feet. No rails.

Turn sharp or get wet

Arrgggh! I said, as we twisted around a blind corner. Accckkkk! I said at another as I stared straight down into an impossibly low valley.  At one point, a perilous one ( I plan to say perilous as much as possible in addition to chateau), we turned yet another blind corner and came upon a volcanic peaky-looking mountain smothered in an orangey misty gold from the late afternoon sun.

Yikes! What happened to the guard rails?

At another point, when we were feeling a wee bit more relaxed we actually came upon quite a crowd. And who has the right away on a steep mountain road, I’d like to know? The grizzled man walking with his dog coming toward us, the two cyclists ahead of us who we were about to pass or the two motorcycles on our tail. As this was the only traffic we had seen so far on the road it was quite exciting. And just so you know, in case you ever find yourself in such a predicament, this is how it unfolds: The man and dog step to the side of the road, the car (us) pulls over to let the motorcycles pass, the two cyclists grudgingly let the motorcycles pass them and then as we all round a bend on a narrow road (except for the man and his dog who went the other way) the cyclists, quite wisely refuse to let us pass, and then eventually we get by them and we all enjoy the mountainous view. Except perhaps, the cyclists, who were going straight up hill.

I like hiking. Can we sit down?

In the end, though Modestine is difficult and I quite hate her – as Stevenson hated his Modestine – maybe she just wanted to show us the most spectacular parts of the Cévennes. And maybe when we give her up at the end of our stay, I’ll cry. Because that’s what happened to Robert Louis Stevenson.

The good thing about renting this villa in France is that it was actually there when we showed up. After reading a trashy novel about a group of people who rented a villa in St Tropez only to find that it was an abandoned wreck I was mighty pleased when we turned up deep in a valley in the foothills of the Cevennes, an incredibly dramatic and lush area of craggy cliffs and streams and chestnut trees, to find that we really did have a place to stay.

The problem is that I have limited – and I mean extremely limited – Internet access so I just haven’t been able to blog. Or finish any of the articles I wanted to. Maybe that’s a good thing. We all need a break. But I want so badly to download the photos I’ve taken of this crazy gorgeous and little visited region of France, but I guess it will have to wait a couple of days. For now, I’ll have to content myself with a swim in the pool at the foot of this 12th century chateau that Mark and I are currently calling home (one of 5 apartments in the chateau), visit the litte spa I found with stinky sulferous water and buy fresh produce at the stands that line the road. Ah, don’t you feel sorry for me?

There was a worm on my pillow the other night though. And I’m sorry but that’s all I have to complain about. Maybe I can complain more next time. But don’t hold your breath. I love the South of France.

This is not the Cevennes but it's close

My plans to rent a villa in the South of France this summer have changed once again. First it was one month in one place, maybe in the hilltop town of Vence, a stone’s throw from Nice and the Med.

My summer vacation

Now the plans are two weeks in the middle of nowhere in a 12th century chateau (booked!), then a week in Paris (not booked!) and a week in Nice (booked!). This will be the first time I’ve gone for an apartment/villa rental and some of the perks are:

Room with a view?

1) many places have washing machines, important because washing by hand is a boring waste of exciting should-be-sitting-in-a-cafe time.

2) a kitchen, cuz this time I’ll really cook. Honestly. Okay, at least breakfast. Hey, maybe my boyfriend will cook. So far, in our 20-month relationship we have cooked 3 times if you don’t count toast, fruit and yogurt. Once he made bacon and eggs, back when he was still trying to impress me. Once we made hamburgers on a hibachi on my terrace (okay, the patties were pre-made, but I tore up lettuce for a salad, too) and this year was our triumph, Thanksgiving dinner. Nothing burned, and the fact that the turkey was done half an hour after the mashed potatoes hardly detracted at all.

3) space! a one-bedroom for the price of a hotel room. Perfect for those on different sleep schedules. Which is us.

4) that groovy I-live-here vibe. Can’t beat it.

However … I found the perfect apartment, not too over budget and a little balcony overlooking the Louvre. Can you imagine having your morning caffeine overlooking the Louvre? Have I mentioned I love the Louvre? And I love it especially in the morning when the crowds haven’t descended – a joy I only experience if I’ve flown in in the morning and can’t get into my hotel room until 3, or … if I have an apartment a minute away. The problem is that when I enquired about the apartment they never wrote back. So, I’m thinking my little Louvre dream is not meant to be. That got me thinking about hotels again and I wondered how one found a cheap hotel. Then I remembered that waaaay back when, 6 years ago to be exact, I wrote about finding cheap accommodation in Paris because I was jumping from 2-star to 2-star all over the City of Lights. That article is still floating around the web, only the prices must be quadrupled by now. Nonetheless, I dug it up and am posting it below, because I just may need it sometime soon.

Paris Long Term - Keeping Costs Low and Quality High

by Carol Perehudoff

Thousands of artists have come to Paris and starved in a garret. How they found that garret is what I’d like to know. Many of the cheapest hotels won’t allow stays of more than two weeks, and affordable apartments are as scarce as Parisians in sweatpants.

Staying long term in Paris often means drifting through a series of rock-bottom budget hotels, at least for awhile. This is not all bad—it’s a great way to explore the different arrondissements. The Latin Quarter—lively, touristy, and overrun with Greek restaurants—is heavy on backpackers but it’s central and cheap. The Hotel Marignan on 13, rue du Sommerard, 75005 (011-33-1-43-54-6381; www.hotel-marignan.com) is a friendly, quirky place with rooms from $50 including breakfast (and free laundry). It offers a few single rooms in low season (after October) on a reasonable monthly basis. Enquire for rates and availability.

Another budget option is the Hotel Esmeralda. Located in a 17th century building near Notre Dame and the Seine at 4, rue St-Julien-le-Pauvre, 75005 (011-33-1-43-54-1920; rooms from $37). Check out the nearby Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore at 37, rue de la Bûcherie (shakespeareco.org), an offbeat literary institution rumored to house book-loving stragglers in exchange for a few hours work.

For a trendier scene, cross the Seine to the Marais, a gay-friendly right bank locale filled with chic bars and funky boutiques. One of the most reasonable hotels is the Grand Hôtel du Loiret on 8, rue des Mauvais Garcons, 75004; (011-33-1-48-87-7700; rooms from $24).

When the novelty of shared bathrooms and noisy Australian backpackers fades—and this takes no time at all—the bulletin board at the American Church in Paris at 65 Quai d’Orsay (www.acparis.org) is a good bet for finding apartment rentals (it’s popular so go early).

Language schools also often offer accommodations service. The Alliance Française, at 101, Boulevard Raspail (011-33-1-42-84-9000, www.alliancefr.org) is a gargantuan nonprofit language school offering a variety of monthly classes. Registered students have access to an accommodations and job board. And, hey, you might even learn French.

A couple of free magazines around Paris such as FUSAC (www.fusac.org/en/) and the Paris Voice (www.Parisvoice.com) are worth picking up for their classifieds, and web sites like www.lodgis.com are helpful if you want to line up a place beforehand.

The only way to survive cheap lodging is with the odd splurge. And nothing says splurge like a French luxury hotel. At the Hôtel de Crillon (where Marie Antoinette may have studied music) on the Place de la Concorde (where she definitely lost her head), the Piano Bar is international Paris at its most haute, even if the designer mirror mosaic gives it a faint ambience of a Nevada brothel.

Sitting in a Paris landmark, drinking good French wine, talking to a local—suddenly all those budget hotels seemed worthwhile.

This is my dream trip and it’s about to come true … at least for a summer. But, has anyone actually tried to do this? Boyfriend and I have spent about 30 hours by now trying to organize it, and we’re only partway there. Where do you begin when you don’t know what the heck you’re doing? Cruise the Net of course. But still – I’m not sure the dream and the reality are the same anymore.

Sultry and sexy South of France

This was my goal: to spend a month in one place, preferably the Riviera, aka the Côte d’Azur aka the South of France. Somewhere lazy and sophisticated, like Antibes, where Picasso painted his masterpieces in a studio in Grimaldi Castle. (Read my article on the South of France.)

Let's live here!

Or Cagnes-sur-Mar, home to Renoir; or – and this was high on my list – the hilly town of Vence where Matisse designed the Chapelle du Rosaire.

Matisse's Rosary Chapel - pray here

Or, or, or …  maybe St-Paul-de-Vence where all the artists drank and bartered paintings for food at the Colombe d’Or.

High on a hill - St-Paul-de-Vence

Every little town in that gorgeous area with its sparkling light had at least one resident Impressionist master or at the very least, a Cubist or two. But where’s my villa? Did anyone ever think to ask Renoir how he found his place? As I doubt the authorities are going to offer up Grimaldi Castle as they did with Picasso, it’s back to the web.

Art everywhere!

While I was trolling private property rentals, or gites, at www.frenchriviera-tourism.com, Boyfriend was looking at site called something like www.gites-de-france.com.  At least I think that’s the site he was on. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of gites, and gazillions of websites, and it is mind numbing, I mean seriously brain withering, once you start.

And then Boyfriend found it. Well maybe not IT, because it’s not exactly in the Vence-Nice-Antibes chichi area. It’s in Languedoc, which is still South of France but more wild, I think, hopefully cheaper, and somewhere around St Jean du Gard, the town on the banks of the river Gardon, where Robert Louis Stevenson was heading in “Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes”. It’s a 12th century chateau, or at least an apartment in the chateau. With a pool. And a pine forest. Even a river.

But back to nightmare organizational issues. In lieu of a donkey we will need to rent a car, which means flying into Marseille via Frankfurt then heading into the hills in a car in a strange country after a night of no sleep. And what are the rules about renting a car in France? Is it easy? What about insurance? Blah blah blah.

And now we’ve decided to get the gites for only two weeks instead of a month, because Boyfriend’s son, Son of Boyfriend, will be coming for a week and we thought maybe it would be better to stay somewhere more lively and entertaining because the truth is, I plan to be mighty boring in my gite. Maybe I will lie by the pool. Or make a salad. Or buy a baguette. But not much else. This is my vacation.

Oh, let me be bored here

Lively Nice

And since Son of Boyfriend has to fly over by himself, we can’t fly him to Marseille because in order to be accompanied by someone on the airline, a youth has to be flying direct, which you can’t do to Marseille, so now we have to go to Paris and pick him up – which, hey, when you think of it, isn’t that bad. Champagne at the Hotel Crillon here I come!

So now we must find a second villa maybe in Nice, which is handy for the train and bus so we can visit Vence, Antibes, Cannes and all those other places that I want to live in forever. We want a place near the beach, or maybe in the Old Town, and I’d prefer two bathrooms and a balcony and well, I’d like a pool as well. I know it’s asking too much. The thing is, I found the perfect place at a decent price but when I emailed the owner the price magically doubled. Sigh. Now I don’t want to settle for anything less, but $3,000 a week is more than I can justify no matter how hard I try to delude myself. Once I figured out I should search for vacation rentals instead of gites, suddenly there were a whole lot more choices in the swanky Riviera. The sites I’m using are www.tripadvisor.com and www.holiday-rentals.co.uk both of which have reviews which is helpful unless, of course, they’re fake. Are they?

Can't fake this view!

Anyway, we’ll keep on planning. At least for once we’re starting early, something neither of us have ever done. I’m not sure I’ve ever searched for accommodation without typing in last minute availability into google. But planning ahead is a good thing, because no doubt it’s going to take every bloody weekend until summer to get this monster trip sorted out.