Comfort me with apples

So the food adventures have been fairly lax recently, as I'm still working to get settled around here. Much to the relief of my mother, I'm cleaning out my childhood room for good, which involves serveral hours of reading your 4th book reports and 6th grade class president speech. Not exactly a recipe for productivity.

But, thanks to my mom, I did make apple turnovers the other night for her. The apples on our tree outside are a bit too tart for eating, but luckily at little baking and a little sugar does them good. The recipe also involves store bought puff pastry, which is super easy, though it did get a bit too warm so I kept blasting it in the freezer. Looks like I didn't stay away from butter pastry for very long...

Here's the recipe, from Barefoot Contessa. It's like a cheater version of apple pie and makes a nice dessert with ice cream, or nice breakfast, or both in my case.

The writing is going much slower than I thought, too. Writing 3 chapters seemed much more feasible before I did all the research. All this sitting lends itself well to baking or roasting, but considering baking is much cheaper than a leg of lamb, I'm going to stick with that. If anyone has good baking recipes, pass them on!

Blow torch

So, many people have asked me if the blog is over. And I think for now, I'm keeping it up. Sure, it won't be as rigorous or as glamorous as traveling through France. But I'd like to recreate a few recipes I encountered there, and along with a few other culinary adventures, we'll see how it goes.

There has been a long-standing debate in this household about getting a blowtorch for the kitchen. Last night, the need revealed itself again. I bought some Brown Turkey figs (mostly because all you usually see are Mission). Sure, it was hard to shop at Whole Foods after the Park Slope Food Co-op. I suffered down every aisle, thinking of the fresh, cheap produce in Brooklyn. I surpressed the urge to bag my own groceries at the check out. I better get to Berkeley Bowl quick.

So, for the figs, I looked at a French Laundry recipe for roasted figs. First, I didn't make my own vanilla-honey ice cream, as Mr. Keller instructed. And I didn't have any vanilla beans to roast them with. But with a little butter, sugar, and honey, they didn't come out too bad, with a little Straus famlily creamery ice cream on the side. But even at a high temp, little carmalization. That's where a blow torch would have been perfect. Nice crispy sugar on the outside. I'll have to keep convincing my little brother he needs one before college.

For dinner, I tried out the NY Times recipe for tacos - their shredded chicken. Ok, mostly it was an excuse to eat 4 avocados myself. Aside from being the easiest way to cook chicken ever, it wasn't that great. Left out the chili (for family members), so maybe that would have helped, but it didn't really have a kick. It was certainly moist, but when you're dealing with thigh meat, it's hard to go too wrong. Gotta go for the real stuff - stay tuned for the annual tour of Bay Area mexican food places.

Crepes in the Red, White and Blue

And all of a sudden, as with any trip, you're plunged right back into the reality you left behind. At first it all looks a little strange, the pizza and nacho-crazed, massive freeway-driving American culture. But after a day or so, it all comes back. The only thing that remains the same is American pop music, which was a continuous soundtrack no matter where I went. My room here is a massive collision of 3 different time periods - my life in California, the boxes of my New York life (still-packed up), and luggage from my trip. It's only now that I'm feeling the real pangs of missing New York, even though I'm excited to be here.

To ease the transition, my little brother, the resident crepemaker around here, made some for breakfast. He's pretty much good for constant crepe and chocolate chip cookie making at any given moment. The crepes were very good, and we ate them the way we were taught in my family, with a little suger, butter and lemon juice.

Here's the Sommer family recipe - which is slightly modified from an old cookbook we have and has stood the test of time. The key to crepes is getting the right temperature in the pan, using plenty of butter and having a little patience, since you're doing them one at a time.

Basic Crepes
4 eggs
1 cup flour
2 Tbsp sugar
1 cup milk
1/4 cup water
1 Tbsp melted butter
1 tsp vanilla

We use the blender usually, where you combine all the ingredients and blend for a minute, scraping down the sides if you need to. But you can also do it by hand, beating the eggs first, then adding a little flour and sugar, and milk and water alternately, until it's totally smooth.

They say to chill it, but usually I'm too hungry to to that. It probably makes for better crepes though.

Pour a little batter into a medium hot skillet (a small one with butter already in it). Then, picking the pan up, tilt it around until a thin layer of batter covers the bottom. When you see a bit of color on the bottom of the crepe, flip it with a thin spatula or knife. If it sticks, you needed more butter. It happens pretty quick, and once you see a little color on the other side, it's ready to eat.

Scandanavia

Stockholm, like most of Scandanavia I assume, is very clean and pleasant. Big surprise - Sweden is a very blond country. Everyone is blond and tan, and if they're young they look like they just walked out of H&M (also from Sweden), which makes it feel like a bizarre offshoot of Southern California.

In Goteberg, we were in town at the same time as the European Championships for track and field - like a mini European Olympics. I'd been watching shotput trails on TV in France, and had no idea I'd be going to the city where it was held. The crowd was very international there, and everyone was very fit.

Swedish is one of the strangest languages out there. It took me about a day to get over the urge to speak french to people in public. We spent a day or so on the coast, in Smogen (Smurrrgen!), which has very rocky shores and really fresh seafood.

In Stockholm, we visited the Vasa museum, which houses the only surviving 17th century warship. It was salvaged from the bottom of the bay, after its horrific maiden voyage, where it sank 10 minutes after leaving port, with water rushing in its open gunports. However, thanks to the less salty conditions of the Baltic Sea, the ship was preserved and salvaged, and now is the most visited attraction in Stockholm. I feel heartened by it - in life it's the biggest mistakes and worst shipbuilders in Sweden that go on to greatness.

Flying back was also a bit of an ordeal - for security reasons. No one quite knew what was going on about luggage. We' called ahead, as obedient travellers, but of course what we heard on the phone was compleley different once we arrived at the airport. No carry on luggage was allowed for international flights, but they did give you clear plastic bags to carry things on with. There was no way I was parting with my research, so it took 3 plastic bags to fit it all in, with my laptop in one of them. People thought I was a little nuts taking all those bags through security. Also, the fleur de sel salt that I had in one of the bags (hello, it's fragile stuff) caused a bit of a stir at a checkpoint. I guess if you're carrying a big bag of clear white powdery stuff, it doesn't look very good...

And with that, it's back in the states...

Pickled Herring

So, I learned a lesson yesterday. It wasn't fun.

I arrived in Gothenberg, Sweden after flying through Copenhagen. Sure I wasn't feeling super after eating only a croissant and 2 swedish candy bars that day. But then the luggage belt in the baggage claim stops. Without me finding my bags. My bags with all my research and notes in them…

Don't worry, the major freak out didn't happen later, after dinner, when only one of my bags showed up at the hotel. The bag without the research in it. And then a bunch of Swedish people were telling me how weird it was for them to be separated.

Yep, i felt pretty stupid all night for putting six weeks worth of work into that suitcase, most of which isn't in my computer yet. I think I may have sworn faith to a number of religions during the night. But the next morning, my sturdy blue suitcase was waiting for me, with 20 pounds of paper inside. Sweet relief.

On a brighter note, I ate some really good pickled herring at dinner. We ordered this giant sampler thing with like 6 kinds of pickled herring, and it comes with Swedish cheese to eat it with, and boiled new potatoes. Very tasty.

More to come from the land of Vovlos...

Last Croissant

Last day in France! And last croissant of the quest. It rained as we came into Paris, somehow making the final day seem all the more dramatic. After six weeks of hanging in, it’s sad to think the experience is ending. Seeing so many new cities – the feeling of arriving, seeing the streets and houses, tasting the food, having crazy conversations with the people – as tiring as it’s been to cover cities, it’s exciting, and energizing. An addictive lifestyle. But a good reminder that there’s always so much more to discover if you seek it out, outside of your daily routine. And that most people are eager to help you when you’re out there, in unfamiliar territory.

So some stats (for those of you who like them) – 14 train trips, 24 hotel rooms, an astronomical sum spent on bottled water and internet, 12 cities covered, 1 new suitcase needed for all the paper, and a lot of croissants. A lot.

And the last croissant, in the photo, I had the morning I flew to Sweden. The bottle of champagne was not for breakfast (I promise) but was for a celebratory toast the night before.

And while the physical croissants portion of the quest may be over, the spirit of croissant quest continues. Partially out of respect for a deep, unrelenting love for things produced with butter, and partly because everyday should be a croissant quest, an exploration of the wonderful things in the world, and the encounters they create.

One of the nice things about France is that you can’t eat a meal without someone wishing you “bon appetit.” Not just in restaurants, but also when I’d have a simple picnic on a park bench, people walking by would say “bon appetit”. Small children, old couples – it was amazing. A small, simple, touching thing, to wish someone a good meal.

And with that, I wish you all “bon appetit.”

Kouign Aman

Carnac is a beach town on the southern coast of Bretagne – and considering that’s now August, when 99% of the French go on vacation, it’s got a carnival atmosphere. The streets and beaches are jam packed, and so far it’s been the hardest city to cover hotels in. Hoteliers are swamped, and have been giving me attitude about my taking up their time.

Aside from the beaches, Carnac is also famous for its megaliths – stone henge-like rock arrangements, except there are over 4,000 of them, set up in long rows. They’re fenced off in the summer to protect them, too much foot traffic in past years has eroded the soil away. An inability to navigate the public transportation here (due to in equally to lack of planning on my part, and badly explained bus systems on theirs) has lead to a lot of walking. And after you’ve seen 20 minutes of megaliths, that’s pretty much good. Again, my stone age and archeological French vocabulary is also lacking.

The 2000 Guinness World record holder for number of ice cream flavors is also here. Igloo, as the shop is called, has 180 flavors and to come up that many, they really had to dig deep. Cucumber ice cream, gin ice cream, popcorn ice cream. The whiskey ice cream wasn’t bad. It takes about 15 minutes to order, because simply looking at the flavors takes that long.

There’s also a boulangerie with excellent kouign aman. It’s essentially the evil cousin of the croissant. It’s equally flaky and buttery, but denser and baked with sugar on top that melts in to sticky coating. I’ve developed a complete dependence on carbohydrates in the morning. And throughout the day. It’s not going to be pretty when I go off the pastry diet. Until then, you only live once, right? Plus, it’s for research purposes. I’m all for restraint, except in cases like this, and most other cases for that matter…

At the Manor

Finally, a welcome break. A place just outside of Quimper was nice enough to put us up for a night. And what a place it is. Getting there was one story, as I don't think anyone stays there without a rental car. We took the local bus system (no tourists in sight) for 15 kilometers, and then walked down a country road, rolling my massive paper-filled suitcase. After passing cow and corn fields, we actually found the right road. The property is called Manoir du Stang, it's a 16th century manor.

At first I felt badly, rolling up looking wilted and scrubby, but after the traditional cold french reception, the owner was incredibly nice. The house has been in his family for 8 generations, and unlike like a chateau (as he reminded me a few times), it was there for the agricultural estates, not for leisure. The property is beautiful and relaxing, and considering where you're staying, the prices are darn cheap. After seeing upwards of 60 hotels, I can safely say that the best deals are outside of town - the most interesting, most charming spots. I'm tempted to come back someday and do a trip with a car, driving from b&b to b&b. It's by far the best deal.

Finally on to the last town! It's a bit of a relief, and sad at the same time. This pace of this entire trip has been accelerated, super-condensed. It's disappointing sometimes to move on so quickly from a town, but while I'm there, I'm forced to talk to so many people, it's like I spent weeks there. That's been the best thing - while some people greet you with suspicion, saying that you're a journalist gives you a bit of a carte blanche. People accept that you need information, and are willing to open up more. In general, I tend to go for laidback vacations - the sit-back and take-it-all-in kind. It's been good for me to be forced to get in people's faces, to keep busting in doors when everyone is staring at me, to ask for people's time when I wouldn't normally.

On to the beach!

Crepes in Quimper

Scooted across Brittany to Quimper. So far, this is one strange town, completely over-run with tourists, but not that much to see. They have a nice cathedrale, a nice Musee de beaux-arts, and... pottery. Quimper is famous for la faience - a regional pottery with breton scenes painted on it. It seems like every English tourists with a love for precious things is in town right now. You can tour a factory, visit stores, visit the faience museum - just about anything to do with the pottery. The real stuff is expensive, but the knock-offs are everywhere. This is also the first town where people have responded in English right away, assuming that we don't understand french. After a few more responses from us in french, people seem happy to switch back, but it wasn't even like this in Paris. Just about the only thing to eat around here is crepes, with just about anything you can imagine inside. I'm verging on crepes overload. The cidre is still excellent though.

After this, it's one more city - Carnac, and that's it. It's always a bit sad when you can see the end of a trip coming, especially since I've been gone almost six weeks. The only good thing is that I won't be acquiring anymore paper. With something like 10 cities worth of brochures and information, I can barely lift my suitcase anymore. I would ship it back if it wasn't so expenive, so for now I'll bite the bullet and struggle through a few more train trips. Oh, and I'm going to Sweden for 5 days. Random, i know, but my family is there for vacation, and I'm meeting up for the end of their trip. Sorry for the lack of pictures (I left the cord in my suitcase), but I'll add them soon.

Pourquoi pas?

Walking around in St. Malo, I ran into this street sign, which translates to street of why not. It’s becoming a good motto for this trip in general. Which is probably why I'm working on the French 15 (cousin of the freshman 15). There's no shortage of regional baked goods around here. There's regional specialities, departmental specialities, town specialities, and maision specialities down to the individual bakery. Crazy apple fried things, plum custard-y things. That makes for a serious amount of eating. Here's a photo of more kouign-aman.

I've had some legitmately awful food so far. In Rennes, I ate mackeral on plain pasta - what the heck they were think i have no idea. But the night before, I ate at a place that was a dream come true - not expenisve but with tasty, simple food. I had a lamb stew with figs and almonds - so good. I wanted to tell them they're geniuses, but I didn't know how it would translate into french.

St. Malo has about a thousand moules and frites places. The oysters weren't bad, but not amazing. It's always a good warning sign when you only see tourists eating the local food. St. Malo does have some very good bars, suprisingly, probably due to the influx of Paris tourists in the summer.

Two of the main sites are located on islands just outside the walled city, which are unreachable during high tide but are connected by a land bridge during low tide. As if managing the hours of local tourist sites weren't hard enough, I'm now tuned in the tidal schedule to get the work done. On one of them, two young guides were giving the tours. Talking to them afterwards, they told us they get to live in the old fort on the island for the summer as part of their job. That's the fort at sunset, on the left. Pretty cool, also vaguely creepy.

Brittany's WWII history is also everywhere. Most of St. Malo was destroyed by the Americans, as it was one of the last strongholds of Germany during the war. I took a tour of German bunker that was built, along with kilometers of underground tunnels they dug out. It's probably the first time I've gotten a real sense of how dire things were in WWII, and what a task the Americans had landing here. I felt oddly patriotic, as they described how American troops took Brittany and Normandy by land, arriving in mined and bombed out cities the Germans would leave behind. What an incredible task it was.

One last stop at the butter store before leaving St. Malo. Here's a short poem I wrote about it - "Dear seaweed butter, I love you." I fasted from butter for (almost) a whole day for this last meal...

Butter for dinner (I'm not kidding)

On to the coast - St. Malo. It's a beautiful walled city on the coast of Brittany, very popular with Parisiens for the weekend. There's no shortage of tourists here, but with beaches and castles, it's still nice. The walls of the city are like a giant medievil boardwalk, and you can scoot around with the beaches below you. Haven't gotten away from crepes or cider. Galettes to be more specific - hearty crepes made with buckwheat flour. Crepes and seafood are about the only thing you can eat in this town. It's famous for les huitres - oysters - which are harvested nearby. Sadly for me, it's not quite oyster season (months ending in R, don't forget) but people still eat them by the bucket load. The huitres plates - flat oysters are the real speciality, and aren't available until September. Oh well, it's still fresher than what I can get at home.

Which brings me to the butter. St. Malo has an artisanal butter maker in town - a shop that makes salted Breton butter the old fashioned way. Everyone in Brittany likes to remind you that Bretons are priveleged. Brittany only became part of France under certain agreements, mostly regarding taxes. Something about taxes and salt happened (I'm not sure what yet), or it has to do with the fact that fleur de sel also comes from Brittany - either way Bretons like their butter salted, which suits me just fine (as some of you know).

So, we set up a picnic on the city walls which look over the ocean, and had to pick up some of this butter. We got demi sel (half salted) and seaweed butter. Yep, butter with seaweed in it (photo left). They hack off a nice chunk for you and wrap it up. Also, we picked up a few local cheeses, fruit, cider, Sancerre, other goodies - for Toby's birthday. The food was great, but the butter, well, it was amazing. In fact, we basically forgot that it was butter and started pretending it was cheese. We probably ate two sticks of butter for dinner. When in Rome, I guess, but it was totally worth it. It was only a matter of time until I went for a purer version of croissant - which is, simply, butter. Next up - heart attack.

Dessert was also note-worthy - fraise de bois - the real wild strawberries. They're tiny, but wonderfully perfumed, like regular strawberries but better. Not a bad birthday cake if I do say so myself...

World's smallest sheep

Here’s the real essence of my job here – I’m hired to make all the mistakes that tourists make. So within 3 or 4 days, it’s up to me to try things and fail as much as possible. Mostly it involves me clutching a map and notebook, searching desparately for a street sign, which are not really plentiful around here. But then at least I can write that it takes 15 minutes to get to youth hostel, on an unmarked canal. That's the stuff that's really helpful, isn't it? How to get to the city center from the train station, or knowing if the metro system is at all useful for tourists.

Rennes has an Ecomusee - a museum dedicated to rural life in Bretagne. It's located somewhere out of town, of course, involving as many types of public transportation as possible. Somehow you end up walking on the side of a highway through hay fields, wondering if you've gone in the wrong direction completely. It wasn't bad once we got there- well, ok, it was partially closed. But they had ancient breeds of farm animals, including the smallest breed of sheep known. Everything is closing for summer vacation, a fabulous idea where French people take 3-4 weeks off in the summer.

Finished up Rennes, which didn't turn out to be too bad. The heat is much more managable, and though it's not easy covering a university town in summer when no one is there, I think the chapter will turn out fine.

Wiping the butter off the camera

Made it to Rennes, and back to work - questioning waitresses, hounding bartenders, running around. Rennes is a medium-sized city with serveral universities. It's an old town, Celtic then Roman, with medieval houses on the crooked streets. However, most of Rennes burned down in the 1700s - which they remind you often around here. A decent place to visit, but most likely tourists will stop here on their way to the rest of Brittany.

Found some excellent sweets here so far. One shop that makes 22 kinds of macarons (not macaroons, they're a light cookie sandwich pastry thing). And another chocolate shop that was pretty wonderful. The owner makes only chocolats with ganache inside (chocolate cream), which are labeled 1-30 on the top. She doesn't use any essential oils or extracts - all the flavors in the chocolats are real ingredients. And the combinations shouldn't even be legal they're so good. Dark chocolate with elder blossoms, chocolate with absinth (leaves of wormwood), chocolate with Espelette pepper (a basque thing) and bitter Corsican honey, chocolate with basil and lemon. She laughed at me when I asked if she had a specialty.

Toby thinks I have a pastry problem, which probably is true. This morning we got some lackluster pastries, so I went to two other patisseries to find something good. I had kouign-amman - a traditional Breton pastsry that's super buttery. Anyone have suggestions on cleaning butter off a camera?

We went on a tour of the Parliment building, which was built in the 1600s and somehow escaped the massive fire in the 1700s, only to be ravaged by fire in 1994 when striking fishermen accidentally launched a flare onto the roof. A lot of it was saved, including the Versailles era ceilings and paintings. The tapestries also survived, and were sent to Paris for repair after the fire, but then another fire in the Paris workshop destroyed them. It would almost be comic if the French didn't take these things so seriously.

I think we're in the only part of France that isn't having a massive heat wave. But I think Californians have it worse. Back to learning more vocabulary from the tv show "Qui veut gagner des millions?" Comment dit-on "final answer" en francais?

Tour de France

Last day in Paris, and it's the Tour de France. On the Champs-Elysees it was a zoo - people climbing trees to get a view of the race, standing on benches or on their own ladders they brought with them. They shut down the boulevard where the racers do a final few hours of laps around Paris. They good news is that you see can see them pass over a dozen times - which they do at high speeds. We got there towards the end when the pace had picked up and a group had broken loose from the peleton. But it's a zoo, as you can tell from my not particularly good photo of the race.

On other subjects, it's always slightly baffling when something lives up to the hype. How much Berthillon ice cream I can eat in a day, I'm not sure. But when it's this hot, it's hard to stop. You wait in line with hoards of tourists, wondering how on earth it could be worth an ice cream cone this expensive. But it's so darn good - pamplemousse (grapefruit) or fraise des bois (wild strawberry). Good gracious. Enough said.

Last night, we visited Palais de Tokyo, a contemporary art museum. There's a very hip and popular restaurant there which was a suprise to us, that was open very late. It also has a great view.

We've picked our way through several English language bookstores on the Left Bank, buying up these wonderful Penguin paperbacks - they're super thin, part of a set released in England but not in the States. Why these things don't exist for all travelers, I have no idea. It's exactly the right amount of reading. One or two is all I can fit in my bag anyway, aside from the 35 pounds of travel brochures.

I'm also working on my postcard collection - old postcards - as if I don't have enough paper. Here's what Italo Calvino has to say about it:

"Here's what Paris is: it is a giant reference work, a city which you can consult like an encyclopedia: whatever page you open gives you a complete list of information that is richer than that offered by any other city... In Paris you can always hope to find what you thought you had lost, your own past or someone else's. So yet another way to see this city: like a huge lost property office... now we are entering into the limitless Paris adored by collectors, this city which invites you to make collections of everything, because it accumulates and classifies and redistributes, where you can search as in an archaeological excavation. The collector's experience can still be an existential adventure, a search for the self through objects, an exploration of the world which is at the same time a realization of the self."

For the morning, wandered the Sunday market at rue Moffetard, picking up goodies here and there. I don't think there's anything more intimidating than ordering cheese at a french cheese counter, with 5 local Parisiens waiting in line behind you. Somehow we managed, and ended up with something very tasty. It's pretty wonderful to have all the shops you need on the same block - butcher, produce, wine, cheese, bread - each is a different spot. And they're always happy to tell you how to serve the wine, or about what quality meat you're ordering. Of course you stop for an espresso along the way too.

And the fruits of our labor, a picnic by the Seine, as it was getting dark. Fresh melon, colloummiers cheese and something else from Corisca, jambon, a Cotes du Rhone, baguettes and these insanely great raisin and walnut rolls they have all over France. It's like I didn't even have a deadline looming over my head...

On to Bretagne!

Le Grand Hotel

We're still wandering the streets of Paris, probably having one of the least tourist-y experiences possible. It's been nice just to see the neighborhoods and people, but avoid the crowds.

Two adventures yesterday. First we stopped by Fauchon, for the sole purpose of a croissant quailty check. Fauchon is an uber-expensive gourmet food market. When I was here with my grandmother (age 11), they had small café where you could order espresso and sit for a bit. They are decidedly less friendly these days, unless of course, you're a serious buyer. But the croissant was darn good. You can taste the difference in butter. And a chausson aux pommes (apple pastry) was almost better. We had lunch close by at Cojean, an business lunch crowd sandwich place, but really tasty (for those of you keeping notes).

The second aventure occurred at the Le Grand Hotel. We were on our way to brave the crowds at Galeries Lafayette, Au Printemps and other mega-stores (with Toby a reluctant participant), but I had on my list to go by Cafe de la Paix - the restaurant at the hotel. Built by Napoleon III in the 1800s, it's super luxe today. But when I was here at age 11, my grandmother and I had dinner there (my first taste of escargot). I wandered into the other room, where a huge reception was going on for the high fashion crowd. It was quite a sight, and my grandmother and I hung out for a bit. Eventually everyone disappeared into the other room. As we were leaving, a young man was complaining to us that his friend had his ticket, and he couldn't get into the fashion show going on. He noticed the guards had stopped paying attention and were playing cards. In two seconds flat, he snuck us into the Vivienne Westwood fashion show, in a stunning 1800s ballroom. At age 11, it was pure magic for me.

So, I wanted to head back, to make sure I didn't imagine the whole thing. Toby and I wandered around (trying to act like we belonged). It started to look familiar, but no ballroom. I asked a gentleman standing by, who smiled and said it was my lucky day - he was the manager and though it was closed, we could look. He lead us back, and switched on the lights. Pretty incredible.

The warm summer nights are wonderful, as people fill the streets. Toute à l'heure!

City of lights

I've been complaining to Toby that we need to find wifi access here in Paris, but we've had little luck. We spent the morning at the Centre Pompidou and as we're heading up to the upper floors, we look down and see this.

We're still taking it easy, I'm finally catching up on sleep. We hung out by the Seine last night, where Parisiens come to picnic and drink wine. Then we swung by Berthillon - the ice cream place on Ile de la Cité. I went there with my grandmother when I was 11, there's a picture of me ready to pounce on a sundae (how little has changed). Their chocolate ice cream could kill a person it's so rich. I almost couldn't finish, which is saying a lot for me (as some of you know...)

Summer when it sizzles

It's darn hot here. I'm not sure what 36 degrees equals in Farenheit, but it's really hot. We took it easy the first day, and wandered around the neighborhood at bit. We're in the 5th arrondisement, very close to Notre Dame and the river, which is wonderful in the evening. During the day, it's essentially a giant American playground - everywhere you turn is wall to wall tourists, as all the Parisiens have left town for vacation. We spent the afternoon in the Marais, a very cute and chic neighborhood with shops and galleries. It's a huge relief that I don't have to write anything up - no notes, no interviews, I wander around at will without a notebook glued to my hand. I can eat what I want, I can sit on a bench... so this is vacation.

Good croissant in the morning - at Kayser boulangerie. A little flour-y, but we sat down for an espresso at another cafe and the shopkeeper saw we had brought our own croissants. She immediately brought us one of her own for a taste test, and we, of course, told her hers was the best. I think tomorrow we'll do Fauchon, stay tuned...

Badgering surfers

Biarritz is definitely a resort town – even though you’re in Basque country, you feel like its California. It’s a tough time to come here since its so mobbed, this morning was not productive, as 4 hotels told me they’re booked solid and can’t show me a room. I came back in the afternoon, and most of them were much nicer, but losing half a day is not helpful. The beaches are wall to wall people, and the surfers are on top of each other where the waves are breaking.

This is the first place where I’ve met Americans – stalked Americans is more like it. Anytime I hear English I start pestering people to see where they’re staying and what they’ve done. It’s helpful to get their perspective – it’s a guide for tourists after all. The two youth hostels here have been the most helpful – even though it’s taken me an hour each way on the bus system, there are people there who speak almost every language. The one in Anglet is like an international surf camp. I met a nice guy from Norway – who didn’t believe me that I don’t have a phone number. Sometimes communicating across 3 languages just doesn’t quite work (like how I accidentally went on date with the guy who runs the skateboard shop in Lourdes, but that’s another story).

I’ve been subsisting on ice cream and seafood here, after the jambon and chocolate blitz of Bayonne. And baguettes – it’s hard to avoid the white bread. I think I’m also getting over the eating alone thing. At first it was a little awkward, when people ask “toute seule?” like I’m a freak for having no friends. Eating is serious business in France. People eat dinner after 8 or 9, and take hours to do so. It’s the mega-meal and a serious social occasion. But it’s easier now, I go through my notes and checklists, and eventually the guy at the bar feels bad for me and sends over a glass of champagne.

There is one part of the guide that’s going to be lacking – the surfing section. Nothing is harder to do than to get surfers to give up surf spots. And for good reason – the locals want to keep the best spots for themselves. I spoke with probably 15 people trying to find out some good breaks, and not one word. “Il faut pas le dire!” Looks like people are going to have to stick the main beaches.

My last night here is at this charming hotel, with a really nice family that runs it. They told me I’m too friendly to be a critic. I think I’ve been told everything thus far – I’m too young for this job, I’m too thin for this job. People that know I’m American before they speak with me always tell me I speak French very well – I guess the rep of Americans isn’t great. At this point I’d say I understand French, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent. I keep butchering the gender of verbs – I get through an entire sentence and realize all the adjectives should have been feminine.

I had a victory dinner tonight – since this completes my time here in the Sud-Ouest. A glass of white wine, grilled prawns and grilled sardines, overlooking the ocean. Overall, the people have been the best part of this experience. Basque people are truly warm, a little prickly at first, but with a lust for life.

On to Paris now, and looking forward to some comany!

7 hotels in 7 days

So far, Bayonne has not played nice. My first night was not super-fun – the hotel room had no light bulbs and no toilet seat. The second night I checked into a chain hotel just outside of town. The third night, after trucking my stuff back into town, it turned out that the hotel where I had a reservation has some water damage. Since it’s a holiday weekend, there were no other hotel rooms to be had. I ended up taking a spare bedroom in her sister’s house in the suburbs.

This is all part of the 7/7 blitz – a different hotel each night for 7 days straight. The tough part is the 11ish-2ish time period, after you check out but before you can check in. I’ve taken a few long lunches to work and park my suitcase, or asked hotels to watch it for me, but it’s tough to work around.

Tonight, however, is the crowning glory of the trip. A free night in Hotel du Palais in Biarritz. It’s an old palace built by Napoleon III, and it’s stunningly perched right on the ocean. I think they were a little surprised to see me today – I wore my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and black dress to make up for my age, but this hotel is about as stuffy as you can get. Very old money, very old world Europe. Super wealthy crowds. The most awkward part is not knowing who to tip – so many people helped me into the hotel and up to my room that I couldn’t figure out what to do – I don’t have a six piece Louis Vutton luggage set – but I guess I still need that much help.

The suite they gave me for the night is perhaps the most luxurious I’ve ever seen – why I would need 2 rooms and 2 bathrooms and a full terrace with a complete ocean view, I’m not sure. But I’m sure glad they did – I plan on taking 3 showers in the next 20 hours I have this room. Here’s the view from the terrace.

And you’re darn right I went straight for the pool when I got here…

Makilas

In Bayonne, I met the funniest character I've met so far. He owns a tiny workshop where he mqkes Makilas - traditional Basque walking sticks that also have a hidden knife inside. When he saw me writing in my notebook, he exclaimed "no publicity!" We got to talking and he explained why - he's become famous as one of the last few makers of Makilas. Everyone comes to see him and order one but it takes 1 year to finish one. He goes into the woods to select the branches, and then carves the pattern into it. It grows until he harvests it and then he takes several months to finish it. They're really beautiful - with brass and leather. But he doesn't want publicity - he wants to keep it simple. He showed me his real workshop, and we talked about americans and politics, and the famous people like Louis Vutton who have ordered makilas from him. He was so funny, and eventually let me take his picture. The conversation took over an hour!

Here's his photo, and sorry for the spêlling errors - darn these french keyboards.

Breaking into the chocolate museum

Bayonne is known for two things – chocolate and ham. And it’s everywhere here. The chocolate came from Spain when Jewish and other religious groups fled the Inquisition. I spent the afternoon sampling at all the chocolate houses here. On the right is photo of the “chocolat mousseux” at one shop – they whip it with a traditional wooden tool. It’s seriously decadent – it’s not all hard work I’m doing. But like a lot of stuff in France, one of the chocolate museums here was closed for no apparent reason for a week. I hunted down someone that new someone, and they called the guy who owns it. He came around and opened it up for me, to give me the quick tour. Good to know – if you press your face against the glass of a shop long enough, someone notices…

I had one of my best dinners here so far too – at this excellent restaurant. For the last two nights I’ve done nice restaurants, calling ahead to ask for a small tasting menu, if possible. It’s a bit strange actually, never knowing what you’ll be eating. As the 4th course rolls around, and server uses words that I don’t know to describe the food, I just trust that it’ll be something good, and hopefully I can figure it out (is it a beet? red seaweed? veal liver?) At the first place, the chef sat down with me after the meal – he was cold as ice and I tried to freak out about how badly I thought the interview was going. But most of these chefs just care about the food, and if some girl from an MTV tourist guide is there, they don’t really mind. At the second place, the meal was perfect – not overly complicated like a lot of the French food here. The photo on the left is langoustines - like big shrimp. Honestly, I’m hankering for simple food – grilled sardines here are awesome, nothing like the stuff in tins. And the jambon de Bayonne sandwich I made myself and ate in the square was one of the best parts of the day. Especially since Bastille Day meant everything in town was closed, which doesn’t make it easy to research anything.

Oh! And finally a great croissant. In that hotel outside of the town center, I found a boulangerie that had a perfect one –so buttery and flaky that when you touch it, the top flakes away completely. Bingo.

Pays Basque

So I've moved on to the Basque country. Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is a small town in the foothills of the Pyrenees, where you find a strange mix of backpackers and old Basque men. It's the starting point for the Chemin de Saint-Jacques - an old pilgrims trail to Spain that people still use today. You hike from hamlet to hamlet, where there are houses that offer walkers beds for the night.

One of the funniest things here is the "internet cafe." There's only one in town, and it’s more of a bar/grocery, with one computer stuck in the back. Throughout the day, old Basque men, wearing their berets, come to drink wine and chat, which makes for a strange picture when backpackers are wandering in for the computer. All of them were laughing at me for using my laptop, but they’re very friendly, and speak Euskara – the Basque national language. It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard.

Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is very picturesque, and very sleepy. Good cider too (on the left). I’m hoping this is the last medieval chateau I have to hike up to in 90 degree heat for a while though…

That’s all for now – and as they say here “Adio!”