Cruising Biarritz.

I had a fling this past weekend.  I'm still catching my breath.

I love the Cevennes, and not just a little.  But we've gotten to know each other, and well, things have gotten very comfortable between us.  Perhaps even predictable.  I mean, Biarritz it's not.

I don't know what I was expecting before I headed west.  Atlantic coast, Northern Basque Country, the birthplace of pelota (or jai alai, as it's called in the US--remember that jai alai shot in the Miami Vice opening sequence?), check, check, check.  My expectation: a slightly petrified resort town, maybe even chic-er than thou.  I mean, it made the shift from whaling town to resort rockstar status when Napoleon III built a little cottage for his Empress Eugenie way back in 1855.  Okay, it was a ginormous villa, which is now a ginormous five-star hotel on the Grande Plage.  Anyway, assorted royals and the merely monied have been flocking to Biarritz ever since.

Today, turns out the chic bit is still very real. Parts of the old center seem directly lifted from Paris' 16eme arrondissement.  Grand perhaps, but not by definition a good thing in my book. However.

Biarritz is Parisian chic modified, transposed on the rough, spray-soaked Atlantic coast and nicely populated with surfer boys. This is something in a softer register.  The vibe is relaxed cool.

And yes, this is the perfect opportunity for some gratuitous surfer shots.   

I think I'm ready for a camera with better telephoto capability, don't you?  I was blushing too much to get shots of the closer-by, drop-dead fine fellas passing the rugby ball.  Not only is Biarritz billed as the surfing capital of Europe, but rugby is very, very big here, with the home team, Biarritz Olympique, regularly taking home the national title.  This in a place where there is a municipal pelota court on every other street corner.

This is a detail of the door leading into the cathedral Napoleon had built for that most-loved Eugenie. In the process she was eventually named a saint--in this, her own cathedral on the rocks anyway.   

Unlike Frank Sinatra, I did not stay at the Hotel du Palais (Eugenie's old digs), but I still splashed out:

This was the breakfast table.

And boy, did we get lucky with the weather.  In the Cevennes, il pleuvait des cordes (it rained ropes, i.e. a heckuva lot).

Meanwhile, we cruised around, stopping for dinner in St. Jean de Luz, a nearby village (dramatic amounts of shaved local ham were involved).  All in all, picturesque to the nth degree.

The sea was sedate, and so was the village tempo, shops closing up for the night as the bars and restaurants filled up.

People were having drinks out on their terraces as well.  I loved the mosaics I kept seeing with the swirly Basque cross symbol, indoors and on building facades.

I did not get any beautifully stripy Basque linen; I dearly wanted the gussied up VW van, though.

I experienced a twinge of envy when seeing this wisteria, so old it had a proper trunk.  Makes our wisteria here at home seem outright anemic in comparison.

I window-shopped avidly at Maison Adam, which is, by all accounts, the place for macarons, since the mid-1600s at any rate. You can see from the link these are not remotely Parisian-style macarons, either.  I can't tell you how they taste because the shop was closing.  But I can tell you the peppers hanging above the sign are made of ceramic, and are a colorful nod to the nearby town of Espelette, famous for its AOC registered chile.

As my daughter is horse-mad, we went to a hunter competition at the Club Hippique in Biarritz.  Some lovely, perfectly done-up horses on hand, more of that Basque red and pure white around us, and loads of that relaxed Biarritz cool.  

I can tell you now, I'll be back to savor more Basque charms.  Impossible to do otherwise,

even if I still come home to the Cevennes...

Led by the nose.

You can't tell from this image, but I had to swallow several times on the way here, as my ears were popping.  I live in the foothills of the Cevennes.  The Lozère is the mountains for me, and several times I found myself well above 1,000 m in altitude.

Agrandir le plan

Smack-dab in the middle of this Languedoc Roussillon map you see the Parc National des Cevennes, 1,500 square kilometers straddling the départements of the Ardèche, the Aveyron, the Gard (where I live) and the Lozère.  In the middle of the Parc--and the Lozère--is the town of Florac, population about 2,000, where I stopped for lunch and a good wander.

This is the kind of place to which nature-lovers can't help but be drawn, tucked into a valley between high, wide plateaus.  It's also a good stopping point for those who love hairpin turns and panoramic views. A lucky someone had an old Triumph I couldn't help but admire; it fit right in to the laid-back, slightly lost in time feel of Florac.

Many come for the fishing as four different rivers and streams come together in Florac, offering a lush quantity of trout, if local menus are anything to go by.

The house on the motionless water on the left is actually a restaurant with a divinely situated terrace, overlooking the canal.  It's where I had wanted to eat--La Source du Pêcher. I had heard quite good things.  Unfortunately, I cavalierly failed to make a reservation, and seeing as it was Mother's Day in France...well, the lovely-sounding menu went untasted.  Another time--and outside seating a must.

Beyond the hikers and fishing aficionados, lots of motorcyclists head this way for the aerial, twisting turns of the ancient route of the Corniche des Cévennes, used by the King's soldiers way back when they were hunting down the Protestants, or Huguenots. 

Just a bit farther north-ish and you are in Gorges du Tarn territory, a dramatic, fine place to be, as long as you aren't in a hurry.  Get yourself stuck behind a truck on these narrow lanes and you're waiting a while indeed.  I'll admit to having had a touch of vertigo. Some people welcome the slowness, if not the trucks.  In a couple of weeks the transhumance will be underway, slowing things down even more, as goats and sheep in the thousands head to summer pastures well above the hotter lowlands.

As you reach the Gorges du Tarn, you also pass Ispagnac, a little village girded by picturesque low-scale orchards and known for its cherries and strawberries.  This is where they still have communal meals on long tables in front of the medieval church, under the sibilant, swooping circles made by dozens of swallows.  Just earlier this month, they enjoyed the annual tête de veau.

The local roofs are eye-catching with their roughly-shaped slate tiles, unknown in the lowlands, where rounded terre cuite rules the day.

I think I could fall in love with a mountain place on the strength of that sort of roof alone, warm and smooth in the spring light.

The roses are in evidence everywhere--and they have a rich scent.

But the perfume that really drew me to the mountains in the first place came from two sorts of local broom.

There is the more common type (cytisus scoparius), which grows rather sparsely around my house, and is considered a nuisance plant in some countries (despite its herbal and practical uses).  But there is also what is called by some Provence broom (cytisus oromediterraneus), which hugs the ground more closely and can cover entire flanks of mountains in the Parc. The scent is intoxicating, almost a sort of golden jasmine of the mountains. At this time of year, the air is swollen with that perfume.  People drive with their windows and nostrils wide open to take it all in.

I know I did.

Going south.

Oh, life's so hard: this was the view from the breakfast table over the weekend.  A friend's house, on the Catalonian Costa Brava, due south of the border (three hours drive from Montpellier), well north of Barcelona.  Intensely restful, transparent waters, good times.  I won't even get into how juicy sweet this melon was.

I will say that now, while it's still spring, is really truly the best of times to visit this rugged bit of Spain.  Now, before you're crushed under the collective weight of the relentless sun--and summer visitors.  This said, even in the sardine can that Spanish tourist season often becomes, the northern end of the Costa Brava remains appealingly full of simple pleasures.  As the budget flight-enabling Girona airport was relatively recently built, the coast was never ruinously over-developed--nor was it converted into a teenage rendezvous for disco trance and debauchery.  That bit of extra distance between the northern bit and Barcelona helped as well...  

You can come to the Costa Brava to follow in the traces of Chagall, Picasso and native son Dali.  You can come for for the kiting, kayaking and golfing.  You can come for the secluded coves and nude beaches. Or you can come for the history.  

Minutiously restored, medieval Pals is an inland village that was once a port town, this before silting permanently altered the coastline, as also occurred in France's Aigues-Mortes.  While worth wandering in the off-season, I've been warned by the locals that Pals becomes tour-bus central come summertime.  It's not hard to see why.

 

I found this little shop in Pals, a brief paean to Spanish foods.  And don't even get me started on that bellota ham.

In the Gothic church, if you should so desire, you can get your prayer candle...from an automated dispenser. 

That was the first time I'd seen that anywhere, let alone someplace with medieval origins.

The cobblestone paths and steps are ideal for casual strolling, and the inhabitants make it look less mineral with heaps of plants, their flowers tumbleing from balconies and hanging deep and long from windows.

The zoning laws here are thankfully strict.  It remains all sunsoaked, golden and ageless as result.  If I had more than a weekend (darn educational system with its rules!), we would have done more exploring--at the very least in the nearby walled village of Peretallada, apparently just as exquisitely medieval and also built on and of stone.

But, really, a family weekend at a beach house on the coast really must involve a bit of beach, yes?

The summer sun seemed to have set up shop.

We wandered, we ate, the adults drank too many cortados, potent Spanish version of a noisette, or expresso with just a bit of milk. In my over-caffeinated, near ecstatic state, I decided my favorite beach (we explored three) was definitely ultra-cosy little Tamariu.

You come to Spain not only for nature or history or even food, but for the people themselves, who in some ways differ markedly from their (often cynical) French neighbors.  They are certainly distinct from the reticent, modest Protestant Cevenols.  This too was a breath of fresh air.

The rest of the weekend we played.

And there might have been some crema catalana-flavored ice cream at the farmer's market, too. What, you say you've never tried to make this flan, custard cousin to crème brulée?  Do something about this, pronto.  It'll help bring sunny Catalunya to your own table.

Traditional Crema Catalana

Serves four.

6 egg yolks
200g sugar
3/4 liter milk
1 cinnamon stick
1 large strip of fresh, organic lemon peel
3 tablespoons cornstarch

Beat egg yolks until light and smooth, then whisk in three-fourths of the sugar. Bring milk--with cinnamon stick and lemon peel--just to a boil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Remove and strain into a bowl. Whisk most of the milk into egg mixture. Dissolve the cornflour in the remaining cold milk and add to egg mixture.  Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and return the pan to low heat, stirring constantly until it comes to a boil.  Remove from heat and pour equal measures into four small heat-proof dishes (ideally ceramic cazuelas) and allow to come to room temperature before refrigerating. Just before serving, preheat the broiler.  Sprinkle a bit of sugar on top each serving and caramelize by placing the dishes first in a ice and water-filled shallow pan and then briefly under a hot broiler.  Remove as soon as the sugar has browned nicely.  Enjoy...

There are flies in paradise.

I can't get my heart to stay put. 

I'm very much here, in my garden (update to follow, bien sur), but theres a shadow part of me off revisiting things, six time zones away.  Because after the pleasures of Washington, D.C., you see, came a few truly big-city thrills: we took the train to New York City.

And I promise, New York City--for my purposes Manhattan--is an awful lot of fun with young-ish children.  You too, can bring your tykes, have a reasonably cultural experience, and not lose your mind.  Ladies and gentlemen, mothers and fathers, here are eight winning strategies:

1. Ride the Staten Island Ferry.  Yes, Virginia, some things in NYC are still free.  The kids have room to move, things to see--like a certain famous lady that was an outsized gift from France.  And, hey, the kids're on a big boat.  Each ride is a half-hour long, leaves from Battery Park (so the view of Lower Manhattan's top-notch).  Once you get to Staten Island, you walk off, and then get back on again.  Windbreakers are a pretty good idea.

2. Enjoy the view from the Empire State Building's 86th floor observatory.  Having been before, I didn't actually go up; my daughter took the panoramic photo.  Buy tickets ahead of time online (even day-of is fine), it'll reduce your time in queues.  Prepare your children for time in queues.  Bring pencil and paper to play tic-tac-toe while in queues.  But do it in spite of the queues, because it's just plain cool to be up that high--metaphorically and in fact: again, bring a windbreaker.

3. Go native, take a break. If the weather's fine, grab some picnic fixings and head to a nearby park, where the tots can let off some steam and won't have to look both ways before springing forward.  As of this printing, parks are still free.  And there's a lot more on offer than 'just' Central Park if you find that too far away or too full.  Some of them, like Fort Tryon Park (which contains the lovely Cloisters Museum) in upper Manhattan or Hudson River Park (midtown to lower), are a day's outing in and of themselves.  These are parks with some jaw-droppingly gorgeous views.

4. Alright, I am so not a zoo kind of girl, so it feels odd to suggest this, but spend some time at the zoo.  Not necessarily the well-regarded Bronx Zoo, but the (perhaps) more conveniently situated Central Park Zoo.  Stroll through the park to reach the zoo if you have the time. 

It's a small zoo (a plus for little ones and parents with limited patience), well-curated, with poetry and science sprinkled liberally throughout, and the animals still have room enough to hid away in their spaces. The polar bears and (reclusive) snow leopard were a particular hit, as were the exhibitionist seals... 

5. Go to the MOMA.  Yes, there is the Children's Museum of Manhattan and the Children's Museum of the Arts, but this is an art museum that will knock the socks off both the big and little people in your bunch.  At the MOMA, there are made-for-kids gallery talks.  There are workshops for four to eleven year olds that explore art techniques and ideas through hands-on practice.  Remember to register in advance. And don't skip a browsing kind of wander through the museum shop, where kids can see and touch sublime (sometimes sublimely funny) design objects.  Doing so was one of our highlights and prompted an interesting discussion about how objects are used and how they can be better designed...

6. Take them to an afternoon show. If you're ready and willing to splurge, a Broadway musical is a truly thrilling way to introduce them to live theater.

7. Take the subway.  If you've the time and they're not too tired yet, take that (subway) train to Coney Island.  Quick, before they tear down all the good old tat in the name of bland-ification. If you don't have the time, take that train to to the High Line instead.  Section Two's nearly ready to open...

8. Stay with family.  See, this makes everything else easy-peasy.  If you've neither friend nor family in Manhattan, consider an apartment rental (they come in different price brackets!) for a decidedly more cosy, relaxed experience.  Shopping at the local grocery, you'll get to pretend you're actually a local, and the kids can feel more grounded.

 

Just writing all those possibilities out makes me feel giddy, but the garden here in France is doing everything it can to seduce me.  Balmy breezes, saturated color, birds all a'twitter (and woodpeckers a'knocking), the bullfrogs in chorus, the works.

With every year, I'm loving roses more (and resenting them less for their high-maintenance aphid and disease magnet tendencies).  Aren't these ones lovely?  They're now blossoming in the garden of my 78 year old friend and fellow choir member, an unreconstructed bundle of sass, wit and wisdom.  She has a lovely little space she putters in every day, kept company by her donkey...I'll put up some pictures of my own roses in the coming days.

And--news flash--this just in at our place: strawberries.  In bloom.

And in fruit.  Sweet Jesus, are these good.  Little, and all the more succulent for it.

We're already eating garden salads.

And the tomatoes are under construction.

A certain kind of heaven, yes?  But there's always something, and in our case right now it's flies.  An unreasonable, crazy-making amount of the buggers.  Glomming onto any warm surface--window, car seat et al. They are everywhere, and it embarasses me.  It makes me do ugly desperate things, like hang sticky tape in my otherwise pleasant kitchen, where I stand around with friends and pretend I don't hear the periodic buzzing from stuck-fast flies.

Lacking a definitive solution, the most effective distraction technique/escape for me is to mull over recipes.  And I have just the one in mind for if you have unsolvable issues of your own, because while in Manhattan, we happened to have a most delicious Venezuelan meal while staying with family...

According to my brother-in-law, absolutely everybody knows how to make arepas in Venezuela.  He learned how from his grandmother. Photo caveat: Venezuelans normally only use HAN brand fine-ground white cornflour, but he had to use a blend of white and yellow, which resulted in somewhat denser cakes. He sliced the finished hot little corn cakes like a pita and stuffed them with shredded beef which had been slow-cooking much of the day, then blended with chopped red peppers, onions and super-secret spices. So. Good. 

Almost makes me forget about the flies.

Venezuelan-style Arepas

 Makes six arepas, to be filled with shredded meats, scrambled eggs and cheese, black beans...

2 cups white, fine-ground corn flour (Harina PAN brand flour if possible)

2 cups of water

pinch of salt

Pour flour and pinch salt into a medium sized bowl and mix with hands. Add water and combine with your hands until mixture is thoroughly and evenly blended, adding more flour or water as necessary. The dough should form a ball easily, with no major cracks.

Take a small handful of dough and form a ball. Patting and turning it, like a kid busy with Playdough. The smooth, finished disk should be about one centimeter (half an inch) thick and about six to eight centimeters in diameter (3-4 inches).  Continue to make disks with the remaining dough until there is none left.

You can keep any leftover dough wrapped in plastic and refrigerated for three to four days.

Preheat oven 110C (225F). Heat  a teaspoon of oil in a heavy frying pan over medium heat. Place several arepas in the pan. For the desired crunchy crust, keep the heat at medium. Once browned, about five minutes, turn them over and cook the other side until browned as well.

Once arepas are nicely browned,  slide them into the oven, near the top, for about 15-20 minutes, depending on the oven. You'll know they're ready by tapping them with a knife: they should sound hollow.

Best when eaten right from the oven, the arepas should be sliced and filled with the toppings of your choice.