Follow up on “Truck Stop” restaurant experience
My friends Dennis and Linda sent these pictures of our rural France dining experience. I’ve detailed the experience in the post dated April 18.
If things don’t go according to plan…change your plan! Le Petit Paris Restaurant
I’m in my “European Planning Mode”, and last weekend I took two days to methodically inspect my summer tour schedule. I am one of those guys who enjoys piecing together the individual tour elements in order to make a stress-free and seamless travel experience. Yesterday, I was talking with a friend who is considering studying architectural design. As the conversation went on I began to draw a lot of parallels between constructing a building and building a good group tour. You can do most of the planning up front and lay it out on paper just like a blueprint, but eventually there is always something that crops up to change your plans.
Brunelleschi, the designer and architect of the dome atop the Duomo in Florence, encountered many such problems. Did you know that he wrapped a series of chains and timbers inside the dome just so the gently sloping dome would be pleasing to the eye? Even today you can climb inside the dome and see where he had to alter his original plans to make the final product even better.
A few weeks ago I was taking a group from Interlaken, Switzerland to the Burgundy region in France. It was a Sunday morning and our route took us through the Jura mountain range and some pretty remote countryside. There were 23 of us on the bus and many needed to make a toilet stop. Unfortunately, villages were few and far between and none had any services available. Things were not going according to my plan. You see we were supposed to make a stop at a big restaurant on the highway just before leaving Switzerland. Well we either missed the place or it had moved since the last time I was through the area.
It was almost noon when we came to the town of Pontarlier. I had Peter, our driver, pull the bus off the road and I walked up “Main” street to find a toilet, an ATM, and somewhere to eat. We did find an ATM machine, but that was it! Back on the bus we finally came to a group of fast food highway restaurants. But much to everyone’s dismay, I had Peter drive right by them. We certainly were not going to have our first Sunday lunch in France at a McDonald’s!
I knew from experience that France is covered with little mom and pop run “truck stop” restaurants serving gourmet home cooking meals at a value price. I had my fingers crossed that we’d run across one of these restaurants and it would be open for Sunday lunch. Finally we came upon a lone restaurant. There were no cars but the lights were on inside. I had Peter stop and I ran inside.
The place was empty. I could here some people banging around in the kitchen out back so in my best French accent I shouted bonjour. Out came two ladies and I began my stilted French explanation about a bus full of people, could they serve us lunch, how much would it cost, and is there a toilet nearby. After a few moments we came to an agreement and I went back outside smiling and motioned the group to “come on in.”
You should have seen the two restaurant ladies! At first they were startled that I was even in the restaurant. Then I shocked them again with my lousy French (I am sure they wondered why an American was so far off the beaten tourist path). Their eyes got as big a saucers when I asked if they could serve 23 people. I think they thought I had not learned to count correctly in French. “Vingt-trois,” they exclaimed in unison. “Oui, oui, vingt-trois,” I said as I pointed out the window to the huge 50 seater bus. They looked around, spoke rapidly in French, ran back to the kitchen and took a peek into the refrigerator and return a bit calmer with a nice menu proposal.
By the time I got the group inside the tables had been rearranged with fresh sets of wine glasses, silverware, and napkins all neatly in place. The stressed and panicked looks which had been on their face just minutes before were replaced with kind and understanding expressions. They spoke no English, we spoke very little French, but we all managed to understand what we were ordering and how it would be served.
This began a two hour dining experience where we enjoyed the food, local wine, friendship, and most importantly , the hospitality of the staff. All this was offered at a cost of 17 EURO per person. (Had we had a remotely similar experience in the United States it would have been in a 4-star restaurant and at a cost of $60 or more, not including the wine). I think I can speak for everyone in the group that this was a good decision as our first impression of France. So when my best laid travel plans don’t seem to be going just right…I look for something better!
Restaurant “Le Petit Paris” was completely filled by local folks by 1:00 p.m. Obviously it was well known for good home cooking. We were offered three courses, each having several choices. I had homemade vegetable soup, pork sausage with wine and mushroom sauce, vegetables, and a pear tart for desert. Many of my friends said the “house” salad was to die for! The restaurant is located on route 57 between the towns of Pontarlier and Besancon, about 40 km north of the Swiss border. The owners are Laurence and Patrick Dufau. They can be reached at Tel. 03 81 60 04 42 and only speak French. Closed on Sunday evening and all day on Wednesday.
Undiscovered Umbria
“Gubbio, what is there?” That was the response of my tour group as we floated out of Venice and hopped aboard our bus. It seemed we would never get out of Mestre, the industrial town just to the west of Venice. Finally we broke through the tangled web of tractor-trailer rigs and were on the Adriatic coastal road heading south into Italy. As the afternoon wore on we passed one small town after another. The little two-laned road seemed to never end. Finally we cut inland across the mountains and into the region of Umbria.
Gubbio, our homebase for the next three nights, lay at the foot of Mont Ingino. Peter, our driver, and I navigated our way into the town center but soon came to a dead-end at the town’s main square. The roads were all too narrow for our bus, but our hotel lay somewhere up ahead. I got out, walked through the square and continued up the small cobbled street looking in all directions for the hotel. I had the address, but that did not seem to help in this medieval tangle of one-laned alleyways. I was on the correct street, but it seemed to continue uphill forever. By luck I discovered a small iron gate inscribed with “Hotel Gattapone.” There was a buzzer nearby, I pushed it. Momentarily I was greeted by a monotone voice, “Bouna sera, Hotel Gattapone.” I responded in my best Italian, “mi chiamo David McGuffin con gruppo.” “Si, bienvuto, io basso,” the monotone voice responded. The gate sprung open and I headed down the stairs to the ground level.
Soon I was out the front door walking just a short distance back to the main square to retrieve my friends who had patiently been waiting on the bus. We unloaded our luggage with what seemed the whole town looking on. I don’t believe they were all that accustomed to having a tour bus in their town. We rolled and carried our bags up the hill, across the cobbled streets and into our hotel. The gentleman at the desk and I spoke, a little in English, a little in Italian, but we got everyone a room and settled in for our three night stay in Gubbio.
Umbria is a little region sandwiched in between the two biggies of Tuscany and Latium (Rome). This region is often overlooked on the tourist’s itinerary. However as we found out it has much to offer, especially in the area of cuisine! Later that evening we dined at the Taverna del Lupo, a five-diamond rated restaurant just around the corner from our hotel. For a starter we were served cured ham sprinkled with bits of apple, pineapple, and peaches all smothered in a delightful sauce. The tangy fruit complemented the rich and wild taste of the ham. Our pasta came next lightly seasoned with tomatoes and peppers giving it a bit of a zing. The main course consisted of tender veal in a mushroom and truffle sauce accompanied by roasted zucchini and potatoes. A generous serving of bruschetta and special fried bread rounded out the main course. As if we needed more, the meal was followed by home-made ice cream with a berry sauce for desert. Water and wine was included with the meal all for the fantastic price of about $30!
One morning I decided to walk through town and up to the Basilica di Sant’ Ubaldo on Mont Ingino. I began early, wandering through the steep cobbled streets taking in the peacefulness of a town just waking up. At this hour only a few shopkeepers were out tidying their storefronts and settling into the day. Quickly I discovered it was impossible to take just a stroll in this town. In the direction I was headed the streets snaked their way continuously uphill making my heart race and blood pump at a faster pace than normal. I took a break at the Palazzo Ducale finding a little courtyard with a magnificent view of the town spilling below and the valley beyond. There was even a little cafe where I purchased a Magnum Bar (my favorite ice cream on a stick) and enjoyed the view.
From the palace the road ascended steeply beyond the Doumo, turning into little more than a one-cart cobbled path. Finally I reached the Porta di Sant’ Ubaldo, one of the six remaining medieval gates into the town. Here the road turned to gravel and slowly wound its way through the olive groves and evergreen 
forest. As I trudged on, I was treated to a cool breeze and more awe-inspiring views of the Umbrian hills. I meet a gentleman coming down at a much fasted pace than I was going up. I greeted him with a cheery, “buona sera.” He chuckled, correcting me in Italian, “boun giono,” pointing to his watch and saying, “e nove.” “Good morning, it is only nine.” I too chuckled, winced, and realized I had greeted him at nine in the morning with a “good evening” instead of “good morning.”
Half an hour later I arrived at the Basilica standing on the mountainside overlooking the town. The Basilica has gone through several remodeling jobs over the centuries and what stands here today is from the 16th century. It is worth a look inside to see the giant “candles” (ceri) which are carried uphill during the annual festival of Corso dei Ceri. Even more interesting is the withered corpse of the local patron saint, Ubaldo, forever preserved, and on display, in a glass casket high above the alter.
I was running out of time and decided to take the little funicular down the mountain. This one-man “cable cab” is operated by the local monks and consists of a small cage just large enough for a person to stand upright in. I paid my fee, walked out to the monk and was hurried into the moving cage. In a moment I was suspended high above the hillside en-route to the town below. Once I got over the initial feeling of falling, the ride became enjoyable and a pleasant way to end my morning adventure.
In contrast to Tuscany’s amber and red tiled villages those of Umbria take on a white, almost angelic tint. Obviously it is the character of the local stone from which the buildings are constructed. As in Tuscany, Umbria’s towns are often situated on a hilltops overlooking sweeping vistas of amber grain filled valleys, framed by distant hills covered in olives and evergreens. The setting is “classic” Italian hilltown! However, the biggest contrast between Tuscany and Umbria is in its tourism. While the towns of Tuscany are loaded with tourists day in and day out, those of Umbria lazily sit in their simple existence inviting the savvy traveler to come explore!
I’m in Paris… Thoughts on the LONDON BOMBINGS
This morning I woke to another day in Paris. I’ve been here for five days leading a tour. The neighborhood where we are staying is peaceful…a little community in itself.
I started the day as usual. Up and out of bed by seven-thirty and out for a day of touring by nine. I did turn on the TV this morning, but all the news was about London winning the Olympic bid and Paris being in mourning. The media can sure put a lot of “hype” and their own spin into a story.
Walking the streets of my hotel neighborhood I heard not a word about Paris losing the bid for the Olympics. Most people were concerned about the light drizzle and the chilly July weather. The lady behind the counter at the pastry shop still greeted me with a cherry “bonjour” and had my favorite crème-filled pastry ready to go.
We walked from our hotel to Les Invalides and Napoleon’s Tomb where we spent a couple of hours visiting the church and tomb and touring the WWII museum. Afterwards we walked around the corner and visited the Rodin Museum.
While having lunch in the garden cafe I got a call on my cell phone from my wife. Her first words were “don’t ride any subways or buses.” Being “out of touch” with the US news media, I had no clue what she was talking about. Soon I learned of the bombings in London and the chaos it had caused earlier in the morning. Needless to say, this caused us some concern. We sat and pondered the terrorist act while finishing our lunch. It was odd, not a soul had mentioned the Olympics or the bombing in London during the three hours we had been sightseeing.
Soon we hopped on the Metro and went to the Champs Elysees for a little more sightseeing. I even popped into the Marriott Hotel to see if they had a television broadcasting the news from London. To my surprise there was not one in sight. Everyone seemed to be going about their normal duties. Later we did see a few more police than normal in the Metro.
City workers were busy putting up the “tri-colors” French flags on every light post up and down the Champs Elysees. Just yesterday there had been Paris 2012 banners hanging in the same places. But now, Bastille Day was approaching and French patriotism was over shadowing all the other news.
I guess my point is this…often we are shocked by events in the world. Hurricanes in Florida, a tsunami in India, mud-slides in California, G8 riots in Scotland, and now, the London bombings. The media focuses on these event making it seem that everyone in the area is affected by the event. But in reality the events usually only affect a small area.
This is true with today’s events too. Yes the London bombings were terrible and my thoughts and prayers go out to those who were killed or injured. I pray that those responsible will be apprehended and dealt with. But we cannot stop living, that is what the terrorist want…to scare us into cowering and become hermits.
Tomorrow I’ll visit Versailles just as planned. I’ll not think much about terrorism. Then on Saturday I’ll fly to the good old USA…home of ice-cold drinks, patriotism, slanted newscasts, huge food portions, the US Dollar, cheap gas (compared to the $8 per gallon in Europe), and, most importantly, to my wife, family and home sweet home!
Traveling is good. It gives a new and fresh perspective on life and the culture and society of others. Viva La France, hip-hip-hooray from the Union Jack, but there is no place like home.
I am happy, safe, and loving the French,
-David
Getting Sick and Hospitalized in Europe!
by Michelle Johnson
Whether a graduation present, a family vacation, or a relaxing break from work, a trip to Europe is always heavily anticipated. Every traveler looks forward to the European sights available for the lucky tourist: Renaissance art for the intellectual, Roman ruins for the historian, Alpine mountains for the adventurous, and the Mediterranean Sea for the carefree. However, whatever tops your “to do” list, a two-night stay in a Swiss hospital rarely hogs the number one spot. So how did a bizarre hospitalization become one of my most memorable European experiences? Take an American tourist; add a pinch of kidney infection, one punk rock star doctor, and spice it up with a German-speaking medical center. Now that’s a story.
It was a dark and stormy night… Actually it wasn’t, because I was on the computer reading e-mails and everyone knows that being on the computer during a thunderstorm is dangerous. The e-mail was from David McGuffin about my approaching European vacation, detailing the optional health insurance coverage available for prospective tourists. I read it carefully. I deleted it immediately.
“I’ll never need it. Nothing like that could ever happen to me.” I thought. And fell flat on my face, tripping over one of the most cliché misconceptions. Still, for the first half of my trip I was right, nothing bad did happen until our first day in Italy’s Cinque Terre. I began to have intense chills accompanied by violent shivering although the local temperature was a blistering 4000 F (that may not have been the exact temperature because honestly, who can convert from Celsius to Fahrenheit?). I sat in my bed wrapped in every article of my clothing that was still clean and watched in a fevered blur as my roommates flauntingly jumped and frolicked in their tank tops and bathing suits. While everyone else enjoyed the true Cinque Terre, hiking swimming, and feasting, I laid in bed too weak to hike, too cold to swim, popping Tylenol fever reducers like candy.
By the time we reached Switzerland, David demanded that I see a doctor and kindly arranged an appointment at a local clinic. We both felt confident that since the doctor’s office was only a few houses down from our hotel, I could go alone while he guided the group through the Swiss Alps. The doctor spoke English and I explained my symptoms: fevers, pains in my side, and vomiting. I also mentioned that I had had problems with my kidneys since my early youth. He responded cheerfully with needles and a blood test.
I waited patiently for the results. Again, my doctor approached with a cheerful smile. I felt safe and relieved as he handed me two boxes of medicine. I could feel his smile being mirrored on my own face. The Swiss were masters of medicine, kings of the kidney, rulers of the renal system, emperors of the excretory system!
My doctor took a breath and I waited in awe of his medical expertise. “We don’t have the capabilities in this clinic to tell if you have a kidney obstruction, though we are sure you do have a kidney infection. We want you to go to the hospital in Interlaken, have an ultrasound done, and come back here after we make sure there is no obstruction.”
My smile faded. Interlaken was a 15-minute drive away. How would I get there? “How will I get there?” I asked.
My doctor smiled his cheerful smile again, although by now I wasn’t as taken in by it. “Don’t worry. We will call a taxi for you.” He continued to smile. I began to worry.
A few minutes later, the taxi arrived. Except it wasn’t a taxi, because it was Ursula, the owner of the hotel where we were staying in Laterbrunnen who volunteered to take time away from her busy hotel-running schedule to drive me to the hospital in Interlaken. I felt extremely guilty for imposing on Ursula’s valuable time, and as I climbed into her small fiat, I tried to make small talk in a peculiar and insufficient attempt to repay her kindness. Our conversation went as follows:
Me: So you live in Laterbrunnen?”
Ursula: “Yes.”
Me: “ How interesting.”
SILENCE…….
Me: “So you manage the hotel with your husband?”
Ursula: “Yes”
Me: “How interesting.”
SILENCE…….
Me: “Er..this is nice weather.”
Ursula: “Yes.”
Me: “ Ummm…how interesting.”
SILENCE…….
Thankfully, we arrived at the hospital in ten minutes instead of 15. This might have been because Ursula was desperately trying to get me out of her car so I would not talk to her anymore. Nevertheless, she patiently waited while I received an ultrasound. The new doctor frowned and grunted at gray blurs on the screen while poking me with what looked like a baby monitor with hair gel on it.
I was just thinking fondly about how one could get used to misleading cheerful smiles when the new doctor stated flatly, “You have a kidney infection.”
Well, I knew that. No big deal. I already had medicine to make it better. “No obstruction?” I asked, taking his omission as a negation of such a complication.
He didn’t answer, and in my mind I translated his German silence into an English “no”.
“Okay” I smiled, feeling reassured. “Just a kidney infection.”
My new doctor did not smile cheerfully. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow and frowned at me. “Just a kidney infection?” He repeated. But for some reason I didn’t think that he was simply making sure he heard me correctly.
My doctor followed me to the lobby and spoke to Ursula in German. I watched the transaction stupidly, looking from one to the other like a spectator watching a tennis match. Except it was more like a spectator who didn’t really understand the game, but really liked that bright bouncing yellow ball.
Hopefully, one day Michelle will enlighten us on the rest of her adventures…. She stayed in the hospital for two days and then was released. She and her teacher took the train to Paris where they met up with their tour group. – David
A Sunday Afternoon in South Wales
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m in the hills of southern Wales. I’ve taken a break from my tour group. This morning I attended a local Baptist church in Carmarthen and heard a sermon presented by the pastor and children of the church. The sermon topic was Jesus’ compassion. The lesson was presented as a set of readings and dramatic sketches.
While traveling in Europe I think it is important to immerse yourself into the local culture. Attending a church service puts you at the heartbeat of the community. Here you find real people, assembling for a common goal. Try it!
After lunch at the college cafeteria I visited the laundr-o-mat to give my clothes a well deserved treat of a machine wash and dry. (Those of you who have traveled know the chore of continuous hand washing in the hotel sink). It took about an hour to do my wash, then I was on the road heading back to my hotel. I missed my turning off spot in the round-a-bout and decided to take an alternate route. I had planned on going down the road a bit, finding a place to turn around, go back to the round-a-bout and return to my room, but the road quickly took me out of town and before I knew it I was in the countryside.
Today, being headed in the wrong direction wasn’t a bad thing. I had nothing to do and all afternoon free. I had my Ordinance Survey map of the area, backpack loaded with just purchased snacks, and plenty of petrol in the van. So off I went to find what lie in the distance hills.
Picture the blue haze of the Smoky Mountains in east Tennessee. Endless hill upon hill blanketed in a violet blue haze. This reminds me of the gently sloping mountains in the distance. In the near distance is the yellowish-green hue of rolling pasture offset every half-mile or so by the dark evergreen trees and hedgerows. Dotting these pastures are the white specks of sheep grazing contently. As the view draws near me more detail appears.
The pastures turns into roughly scattered patches of grass interspersed with large green weeds somewhat resembling bullrushes which grow in our marsh land in Florida. Scattered about are large pieces of sheep’s wool which have either fallen off the animals, or are the remains scattered to the four corners from the clipping area half a mile down the road.
This is a remote and far away land from London which I fly into just two days ago. Getting away from the crowd and experiencing a little time alone in the mountains is a great way to recharge your tourist batteries. No matter where you travel there is always places like the hills of Wales in which to seek refuge.
Be an explorer, venture out and find new places!
