Parroting

We first saw scarlet macaws seven years ago on the Oso Peninsula in Costa Rica sitting in wild almond trees beside a lagoon. Last year when we were staying near Manuel Antonio Park, we spent a lot of time watching these magnificent tropical birds fly by our balcony.

This year a went a bit further north to the Macaw Recovery Network south of Sámara at Islita on the Nicoya Peninsula. And what a show—up close and personal with the birds.

The reserve offers tours but only takes a limited number of people, 12-15, twice a day, early mornings or late afternoons. Reservations are required (but easy to do and pay for online). We opted for the early morning session which meant up in time to see the sunrise and a 45 minute drive to make the 7:30 feeding.

It was a bit of a harrowing drive — much of it a roller coaster of rather heavily traveled dirt roads. Can’t imagine how anyone can find the place without GPS — we had three devises tracking the way using both Google maps and Waze which, for once, agreed with each other. We still took a wrong turn. (Over and over again we were encouraged by locals to use Waze— old Google habits die hard.)

A modest open air structure served as reception area, a gift shop, and auditorium for the video. Several scarlet macaws posed for us around the edges of the building, waiting to be fed. Apparently, after being being trained how to survive in the wild and released, some birds stay near the reserve for a year or two until they are comfortable fending for themselves. After snapping a few pictures, we settled into the back row, more interested in spending time watching the birds than a video. Nonetheless, we were impressed.

In addition to working to restore the bird populations (macaws were extinct in the Islita region 30 years ago) the Network also works to restore habitat and educate Costa Ricans about conservation.

The Network raises scarlet and the even rarer green macaws to be released to the wild. Currently, they believe only four thousands scarlet macaws exist in Costa Rica and only three hundred green macaws. Even fewer Yellow-napped Parrots which the refuge is just starting to breed. With the results of several years of breeding scarlet macaws, 64 banded birds have been released and had produced offspring “naturally” —bringing the total birds in this area to over 100. Impressive, given that macaws were extinct in the Islita region 30 years ago. This year the Network will release the green macaws in the north eastern part of Costa Rica for the first time.

Not surprising in the animal kingdom, the birds have dominant and submissive members, so two feeding stations are filled — one for the big guys and gals — females as well as males display aggressive behaviors — and a second to give the other birds a chance. Incidentally, the sex of these birds can only be determined by a blood test, we were told.

Sometimes fights break out as the birds feed. But mainly they seemed to move around, slide up and down the pulley lines and take turns feeding.

The groups of birdwatchers are limited to minimize the stress on the feeding birds. This is breeding season and while we could hear but not see the pairs, the staff was particularly interested in keeping those birds calm. The breeders are fed as the same time as the wild birds and created quite a cacophony.

The iguanas also come out at feeding time, waiting for bits of fruit and nuts to be dropped on the ground by the birds.

Snakes pose a danger to the breeding program, particularly boa constrictors. The reptiles love to feed on the baby chicks. So traps are set around the grounds to lure boas in with the scent of wood chips used in the breeding nests. We were told the trapped snakes are then released into the wild some distance away. Some in our group were skeptical — or maybe hopeful the snakes met a different fate.

On our way home there were signs along the road indicating where nesting pairs of macaws had taken up residence. A clear indication of the success of the program. We also stopped by another nature reserve adjacent to a beautiful beach— Costa Rica is filled with reserves. While there were plenty of signs warning about crocodiles and sharks, we only saw surfer dudes, discussing the quality of the waves, clearly not worried about the danger.

A soda is not a soft drink…in Costa Rica

Sometimes we’re a little slow. Well, maybe a lot slow.

The first time we were in Costa Rica seven years ago we kept driving by modest roadside establishments with signs advertising “soda” this or “soda” that. Of course, we thought they were selling local soft drinks to thirsty Ticos and tourists. Only, when by chance, we actually stopped to get a cold soda, did we realize that a “soda” was actually a restaurant—more specifically, a small family run restaurant with a limited local menu. And we soon found out these “sodas” were often gems of local cuisine serving great food at ridiculously cheap prices. Yes, the menu is limited. Yes, the ambience is sometimes is missing (but not always—we’ve eaten in sodas on the beach with sand under foot and up in the mountains with stunning views of volcanos). But you are likely eating with locals, maybe being served by someone whose grandma is cooking in the back.

And the food! Almost always fresh local ingredients, always prepared to order. The limited menus in most sodas usually features Costa Rica’s star menu item—the casado plate (which translates as “the husband’s plate” or “married plate”). Rice, beans, plantains, salad, maybe some fresh fruit and a choice of protein—fish, pork, or chicken. The protein can be grilled, stewed, or braised. Big portions meant to serve the very hungry.

The typical price is between 2000 CRC and 4000 CRC or $4 to $8. And most sodas take US dollars in addition to Costa Rican colones, and many accept credit cards. A few only take cash. Other local dishes include arroz con pollo, (rice and chicken, sometimes in a tomato sauce), gallo pinto (rice and beans), ceviche. Almost all serve the local beer (Imperial), sodas (Fanta orange soda is ubiquitous), and fruit juices. Whether is a result of widespread tourism or simply the influence of North American culture on the locals, hamburgers and margaritas are often on the menu as well.

You will almost always be eating outside on a covered patio with a kitchen tucked in a small space in the back. No air conditioning here. Most will be filled with locals. Often there are small children playing near by, and an occasional dog or two strolling through the soda. Once, up in the mountains, as we ate, the waitress called a dozen or so children playing in the field next to the soda to serve them their lunch on paper plates which they promptly ran off with to eat under a nearby tree, dodging the local cattle as they went.

The owners of one soda, in a very, very remote area up in the mountains when we were staying on a small coffee plantation across the dirt road, would wait until we drove by their home on the long driveway, then run down from their home to the soda to open up just for us. We were clearly their only business for the night. Mom would cook and her young daughter would happily sit at the next table, coloring. The food was absolutely amazing—and as you can imagine, cooked to order. Best pollo y arroz ever! We ate there three times and, despite the language barrier, began to feel like part of the family.

You’ll never have to worry about finding sodas in Costa Rica—they are everywhere. Really, everywhere. Big towns, small villages, remote rural areas, industrial zones. In the more upscale resort communities such as Playa Flamingo or Samara on the Pacific coast, they are often located just outside the town centers on the roads that lead into to town or in the nearby little Tico villages.

Recently we were in Samara on the Nicoya Peninsula in a beautiful AirBnB in the hills above the town. Our wonderful hosts recommended a number of local restaurants. They were all lovely beachfront establishments with spectacular sunset views, music, and tropical cocktails. But the food was very ordinary and at US prices $20-40 for an entrée. The clientele was almost exclusively gringos—not surprising for a tourist town. And, yes, of course, we are in fact gringo tourists. So we fit right in.

The next night we were off in search of a soda….pura vida!

Taking the Waters

We’re not strangers to Costa Rica, nor are we experts — not at all. We’ve traveled here for a month or so four times in recent years. We’ve found areas that draw us back year after year (around Potrero, in Guanacaste and Monteverde). And we visited areas that we enjoyed — just not enough to return to year after year when there is so much more to be seen. For such a small country, Costa Rica has so much variety.

This trip we decided to spend a few days in La Fortuna on the base of the volcano, Arenal. We had passed through the area five years and been intrigued.

La Fortuna is the most heavily touristed areas of Costa Rica, according to the guide books. The main attraction is Arenal, the volcano. Before 1968 the town was just another agricultural crossroads and then the volcano erupted, putting on a show until 2010 for the tourists who soon arrived. The town isn’t much to look at today, except almost everywhere you look, you see the big cone.

And where there are volcanoes, there are often hot springs. Today, along with the main attraction, hiking, zip-lining, horse back riding and various water sports lure tourists. No zip lines or horses for us — we were there for the hot springs spas. The roads in and out of La Fortuna are filled with everything from modest to ultra-swanky to middle of the pack spas like the one we found — Los Lagos.

Our initial impression of Los Lagos Hot Springs Spa and Resort was simply “wow.” An impressive entry, lush vegetation, streams crisscrossing the grounds and cascading small waterfalls. A restaurant, a swim up bar adjacent to the largest of the hot springs pools, a spa and a series of walking paths through a “jungle.” The resort also has lockers and changing rooms for day visitors. The hotel rooms are a little dated—you have real keys to open the doors—and are need some upgrading. But still very nice.

Our primary focus was the hot springs. While a little cheesy with their faux rock appearance, the pools did not disappoint. Varied in temperature from a cool mid-70’s to almost too hot for us—100+. Each hot springs pool had a sign indicating water depth and temperature.

Some pools were built for two. Most were bigger. A few had jacuzzi jets and reclining couches built in.

We started at the top and wandered from pool to pool down the hill until we, like Goldilocks, found the pool that was just right for us. Most of the time, we had the pools almost to ourselves. Our fellow soakers were largely locals; gringos seemed outnumbered.

Of course, we had to try the swim up bar. Yes, tacky, but still great fun. Sitting on the submerged stools was harder than it looked, but highly entertaining. And in this family friendly pool, the water was cool enough for the kids to enjoy.

The resort also had a couple regular swimming pools (fed from natural spring water, the resort info said) with water slides for the kids and a wading pool for the littlest with a fountain shaped like a volcano.

We drove to the upper reaches of the resort to the lookout point and we almost saw the top of Arenal. Apparently, you can be here weeks, even months, and never see the top of Arenal.

From that high view point there are a series of zip lines, and we saw folks harnessed in for the ride, and watched them end their trip zipping along above the swimup bar far below.

We certainly enjoyed our indulgent dips into the hot springs. With more time, we might have found the energy to explore more of what the area has to offer. Next time. But then, those hot springs are awfully tempting.

Brittany Reality Check

Sometimes you just get it wrong.

We had an image of Brittany, France, as a wild, rural region, sparsely populated, with a rocky coastline filled with quaint stone fishing villages. Hilly, maybe covered with heather or wind blown pines. Something like the Ireland’s wild Atlantic way or the coast of Maine. But with dairy cows everywhere, happily producing the world famous Breton butter and cream. After all it is “finisterre”—the end of the world.

What we found was nothing like that…still beautiful, still fascinating, but something entirely different (as the Monty Python crew used to say). The south coast is mostly flat, maybe a few rolling hills, and dotted with beautiful white sand beaches in between low rocky outcroppings. Southern England, maybe, not western Ireland.

Many beach towns with their white washed houses had sprung up to take advantage of the mild climate, luring hordes of Parisians wanting sun, sand, and water. Instead of pines and heather, we saw palm trees, clearly planted to help enhance the beach aesthetic.

And lots of yachts and sailboats.

And in the middle of October, when we were there, people were still swimming. We were tempted! A definite surf vibe with a French accent and slightly Victorian look.

We were also surprised at how densely populated the south coast is. Suburban developments everywhere, done in a Breton style but clearly modern. Retirement communities? We weren’t sure, but judging from the age of locals, highly likely.

Quiberon, with a parking lot for summer tourists almost as big as this beach

Many towns like Vannes, Quimper, and St. Malo all had beautiful historic centers filled with half timbered buildings, cobblestone streets, and gorgeous churches and cathedrals—which we did expect.

But it turns most had to be rebuilt stone by stone after the massive bombings following the Allied invasion of France in 1944. That explained why you often saw a modern monstrosity next to a beautiful medieval building. The coastal cities and towns of Brittany, like Normandy, were heavily fortified by the Germans and fighting here was ferocious. Some cities like L’Orient and Brest never really recovered. L’Orient, for example, was subject of repeated attacks because of the giant German submarine base located there. The base was so well built it survived all efforts to destroy it, and later became a French naval installation. There is an excellent museum and you can tour a decommissioned French submarine.

The northern coast looks more like our misguided expectations—a little more rural, more rolling hills, and rockier. Small rock islands dotted the bays. But still far from the wild Brittany of our imagination.

What we did find were some real gems. St. Malo with its massive walls behind which lies a gorgeous old city—even if it was painstakingly rebuilt over 35 years after the war. It has a great maritime past with connections to explorers like Jacques Cartier (who sailed up the St. Lawrence river and founded Montreal, Canada), and privateers and pirates like Robert Roscouf.

Town of Dinard, a short ferry ride from St. Malo

Vannes had lovely medieval center with a narrow picturesque boat harbor on a river inlet. There were the little gems like St. Marine, a tiny seaside village, where we had lunch with a cousin of a friend, and Locranan, a picture perfect stone village in the heart of Brittany outside Quimper.

And then there were prehistoric stones at Carnac. The scale and size of of the “alignments”, as they’re called, dwarfs anything we had ever seen, including Stonehenge. Literally thousands of monoliths in long rows, stretching for several kilometers. Of course, no one really knows their purpose or really much about them, except it was a massive building project even by today’s standards. We had read about the stones so it wasn’t really unexpected, but the sheer scope was.

Not everything surprised us—we did get some things right. The food, particularly the seafood and dairy products—cream, butter, cheese—lived up to our every expectations. Creperies on every corner. Wonderful specialty shops. And the people were every bit as open and friendly as we thought they’d be, and the Breton culture was strong and clearly a focus of local pride.

We found Brittany a wonderful corner of France even if our expectations met a different reality. Sometimes a surprise is a good thing.

Au Revoir – leaving France again

When we left Spain, almost exactly a year ago, we wrote a blog about what surprised us in Spain and what delighted us. As we were wrapping up this year’s trip to France over the last few days, we our conversation veered into the same direction. Not shocking that there were fewer surprises — we’ve been to France several times before. Nonetheless, certain things stand out in our minds.

A good guide makes all the difference in the world. We’ve written before about the value of a guide. Our trip to Mont St Michel, our tour guide reinforced that opinion. Anne-Isabelle [anne,isabelle.gendrot@gmail.com] greeted as just as the tour buses started to roll from the huge parking lot three kilometers from the actual village (you definitely want to get to Mont St Michel early).

Without her guidance, we might have not have been able to look past the Disney-esque appearance of the village, beyond the trinket shops and flashy restaurants, to actually appreciate the history, the architecture and the beauty of the place.

She set the record straight, separating myth from fact. Her energy and enthusiasm helped us up the all the steps (and there’s a lot of them). And as a good guide does, she shared with us much more than what we could have read in a good guidebook — a couple sharp rebukes to the Norman flag flying alone over the monument when the Bretons helped pay for the restoration, the local legends that were largely fantasies, and to the Nazi’s use of Mont St. Michele as their vacation playground during the occupation.

This trip reminded us to forget the silly notion of French rudeness. Everywhere we went, locals went out of their way to be helpful. We needed the help of almost every clerk in the post office to mail a package home and everyone smiled as we fumbled our way through the process. Or when we were assigned to nonexistent train seats and needed the help of strangers to figure it all out. In a pizza joint, the owner/baker almost joined us at the table, stopping by to chat in a mixture of French and English any time he had a minute or two. And the staff in the restaurants, those snooty French waiters? Amazingly patient with us and often stretched their English to explain the menus. Perhaps Paris and crowded cities are different. In the Dordogne and Brittany friendliness ruled.

It is easy from a distance to forget France is a multicultural country. Up close it becomes self-evident. The Basque, Occitane, Breton, Corsican, and other cultures are alive and well, particularly in the far corners of France. France is a former colonial power, the people on the streets visually represent that history. It is also a country of immigrants. Our tour guide in Nantes was a native of Peru who has lived and worked in France for ten years.

In Brittany particularly, but maybe elsewhere, too, there is a sense of place and belonging that is deeply rooted in the local culture and a source of pride. An acquaintance who has lived in Brittany for 30 years, laughed when we suggested she was almost a native. Oh no, she was still a newcomer. Our guide Anne-Isabelle described how happy she was to discover that as a resident of St. Malo for years, she uncovered the fact her grandmother was born there — which made her a Malouin, a real citizen of St. Malo.

Regional differences matter. That’s a big reason why we head back to France. From food, to architecture, to the countryside, it’s hard to get bored when Brittany is so different from the Dordogne which is so different from Provence, which is different again from the Loire Valley. Vive la difference!

Part of the fun of returning to a place you have been before is the new discoveries. We knew soccer (or football as it is called here) was a big sport, but we were amazed to discover how many French fans were following the Rugby World Cup. Rugby? Really? In France? Most towns where ever we were had store windows celebrating the local team. Grocery stores had displays right next to the wine. Tourist shops sold memoribilia. And the flags and banners were everywhere. When we stopped in Bordeaux, one of the many sites for the regional matches, our first restaurant was packed with Australian fans and a few Welsh, too. Who knew?

And that’s why we travel.

Brittany on Our Stomachs

Anybody that know us, or reads this blog, knows we are always interested in food, first and foremost. So as we started this trip over five weeks ago with a food tour in Bordeaux, we ended the trip with a food tour in St. Malo, Brittany.

Our guide was from Normandy, whose specialty was, not surprisingly, the beaches of Normandy. He said he was happy do our food tour, one he loves, but doesn’t get to do that often. We then proceeded to go on a whirlwind shopping trip with him.

First stop was a cheese and butter store [http://www.lesfromagersmalouins]. Brittany is known for its butter, crammed with as much richness and salt as possible. We had tasted good Breton butter from a supermarket in St Cyprien. Definitely better than anything at home, including the Amish butter we splurge on during the holidays. Unfortunately the store in St. Malo was out of Breton butter so we had to settle for Norman butter. The staff asked me if we wanted deux butter (little salt) semi-sel or regular and nodded approvingly when we bought the entire inventory of “full salt” butter — 2 packages to take home to savor.

He also guided us to try several cheeses to eat with a baguette and espresso before we continued the tour — a brie (with a layer of a curry spice mix that started as a medicinal remedy. Unfortunately, our quest to find the spice was unsuccessful despite checking in several shops). Then a Timanoix (a semi- soft cheese with an edible rind washed in a walnut liqueur) and finally, a Camembert, again a Norman cheese. Did we detect a cultural bias?

We also opted the take some cheese home to enjoy later — a great Roquefort, some more of the Timanoix and the curry Brie.

Fortified with espresso and a “light” breakfast we headed to a spice shop. St. Malo has always been a trading center and home to privateers and pirates, and unfortunately slave traders.

Window display in an antique shipping crate

It was the center the East India Company’s continental trading post. Epices Roellinger, started by a retired 3 star Michelin chef and now run by his family offered a mind boggling assortment of spices. The selection of peppers alone — Vietnamese, Cambodian, multiple Indian, Sichuan and many more overwhelmed us. All with a different degree of heat and different tastes. We bought a red black pepper from Cambodia simply because it seemed the most unusual, but still fit within the foods we cook at home.

The choices of a dozen or so different vanilla beans (we smelled several and were amazed at the differences) blended curries, shelf after shelf of other spices and variety of dried herbs were too much to take in. We needed hours here to take full advantage of the options.

Of course, Brittany is famous for its oysters. We have been sampling them since we arrived in Nantes almost two weeks ago. But the size of the operation in Cancale — just one of many such operations along the Brittany coast — was astonishing.

The bags of oyster are cleared of seaweed, loaded onto trailers and moved into different areas for exposure to different parts of the sea, we were told.

Just above the oyster beds, a collection of striped tents offered local oysters for sale, shucked right in front of us. Of course, we had to share a plate of oysters — a variety pack. Unlike at home, the smaller oysters are considered a rip-off (too little meat for the price) and French connoisseurs prefer the four year old #4’s. Actually the #4’s were pretty small and delicate. We joined the workers on the steps by the beach, slurping away and tossing the empty shells for the seagulls.

Then we headed across the street to lunch.

Unfortunately we had half devoured the platter before we remembered to take a picture — langoustines, more oysters, a local crab, periwinkles, cockles and more.

Stuffed from a platter of fresh seafood, we headed for a rummery. Yes, a rum store—filled with artisanal rum from the French West Indies.[https://www.officinearhum.fr/]. What we didn’t expect was a lesson in rum tasting (quite different from wine tasting) and a locally produced sipping rum named after the character JR from the TV show Dallas. We had to buy a bottle. Wish we had more time to talk more with the owner-distiller whose shop resembled a science lab with hand labeled specimen bottles stored in an old apothecary cabinet. Several small casks of spirits being aged. A delightful man with a clear passion for rum! If you’re ever in St Malo, look him up.

With full stomachs and a bit of rum, we were ready for a nap. But we had one more stop on our food tour. We had read about a Breton specialty, Kouign-amann. Butter and carmelized sugar — what’s not to love. Again, the food tempted us before we remembered to record its beauty. A cross between puff pastry, a croissant and a cinnamon roll.

Needless to say, we skipped dinner that night.

Between these various treats we learned a lot about the region and France. Our guide, a former teacher, proudly told us about his one daughter studying at a vocational school to become a jockey and horse trainer. His other daughter was on track to become a dancer or a veterinarian! Typical eleven year old anywhere! He also provided a historical context to the towns we had visited — St Malo, Cancale, Dinard — which were all largely destroyed like much of the Breton sea coast after the allied landing at Normandy. Their pre-war appearance was largely replicated in the postwar era. And, of course, we talked politics — he’s no fan of Macron, France’s president, and politicians in general, except for DeGaulle. In turn, he wanted to know more about tenure for teachers and how our schools worked. [https://www.normandytour.fr]. He had learned his English as an exchange student in the California and on several subsequent trips to the US.

That’s one of the things we like about a food tour — as much as the food itself — talking while you share food and sometimes a meal gives you a chance to build some mutual cultural understanding.

Our Town — St Cyprien

It barely gets a passing mention in the Michelin green guide and no stars at all. Rick Steves doesn’t say a word about it, though he raves about its Dordogne neighbors—Sarlat, La Roque-Gageac, and Beynac. It doesn’t have any great attractions—no museums, no castles, no great cathedrals, no magnificent châteaus, and no prehistoric caves. It does have a very large, rather drab, old abbey. But it’s our town, St. Cyprien, in the heart of the Dordogne.

Safe to say we’ve kind of fallen in love with this place.

What drew us to St. Cyprien was first it’s location—perfect for day trips and outings. And kayaking down the Dordogne.

Two castle/chateaus are within a 15 minute drive—Chateau Beynac and Castlenaud. These two great impressive fortresses sit high up on rock cliffs on opposite sides of the Dordogne River—staring at each other. On the front lines of the Hundred Years War, they changed hands between the English and the French frequently. Brooding Chateau Beynac is part of the story of the great Eleanor of Aquitaine and her son Richard the Lionhearted. Castlenaud offers a fine collection of medieval weaponry and armor, including a number of siege machines. A kilometer or two down the river is the another spectacular chateau, Les Milandes, formerly owned by the Josephine Baker, American dancer and singer, resistance fighter in WWII, and civil rights activist. The chateau is now a museum to her incredible life, complete with many of the costumes she wore in her Paris reviews in the 20’s and 30’s.

Open any guidebook, and you’ll find a dozen more chateaus or castles in the area. But nothing in St Cyprien.

The valley is peppered with insanely cute towns and villages, among the most beautiful in France, most much prettier and more touristed than our St. Cyprien. La Roque-Gageac, Sarlat, Beynac, Rocamadour, St. Leon de Vezere, just to name a few. And the big towns of Bergerac and Perigueux are close by as well.

And the prehistoric sites! If you’re a fan of Neanderthals, cave paintings, and prehistory, this is ground central. There’s Lascaux 4 with its perfectly recreated cave (the Sistine Chapel of prehistoric art), Font de Gaume, the only real cave you can visit with polychrome paintings, and the prehistory museum in Les Eyzies, with its fabulous collection of ancient artifacts. And again, open any guide book, dozens more. Enough to make you an amateur archeologist. St Cyprien has only one cave above the city where it’s hermit and source of the town name once hung out.

The second thing that drew us to St. Cyprien (well, it might have been the first) is the food and the wine. In the Dordogne, fois gras, duck, walnuts, and truffles are the stars on the food side; Montebazillac (sweet Sauterne style white) and Pecharmant (a Bordeaux style red) on the wine side.

And the markets! Every day there is a farmers market somewhere that would put to shame anything we have in the US. We were lucky—one of the best and biggest was the Sunday market in St. Cyprien.

Specialty shops are everywhere. In St. Cyprien, we had several boulangeries, boucheries, a fabulous cheese shop, a wine store, two coffee shops, and one store specializing in fois gras and duck related products— one of the few places where we could buy goose fois gras in Dordogne (most of it is exported). And this is not a tourist town.

Excellent restaurants are nearby—from local pub food to Michelin starred establishments. And the prices are crazy cheap by US standards.

And finally, it’s easy to find beautiful accommodations, particularly if you want to rent a home or villa. It seems every French person or British expat (and there’s lots of those) are renting homes, villas or apartments. We were lucky and found a magnificent house near the abbey.

Walking down the main street of St. Cyprien, particularly on a non market day, you’d think nothing special here. Kinda dull. But spent a few days here or a few weeks as , you get to know a place—the lady at the boulangerie with her preppy “bon jour” every morning, the cats and dogs we see regularly, the rugby practices on a Sunday morning, the pouty waitress at the local bar, and the same locals walking their kids to school everyday. And the out of the way corners of the town with roses and historic timbers.

St. Cyprien—our town.

Steampunk Nantes and much more

Travel is full surprises and curiosities. Little did we know when we were on our way to Nantes, France, that we’d be staying across the street from a collection of phantasmagorical mechanical creatures right out of 19th century, including one very, very large mechanical elephant. It’s one of Nantes biggest tourist attractions—Les Machines de I’lle. Years ago, the city of Toulouse turned down the opportunity to house the exhibit—thinking it too kitschy. Poor decision.

Les Machines de I’lle complex is huge, located on the site of the old shipyards. There are still remnants from the old shipbuilding days—dry docks, a massive crane, ramps where the newly constructed ships slid into the murky Loire, now a park of sorts.

The menagerie of mechanical creatures is housed in the Gallerie des Machines. It’s a monstrous old warehouse with dozens of creatures — a giant spider, a heron, sloth, caterpillar, hummingbirds. All move. All are created out of old metal parts with a very steampunk look. Most animals take a few riders from the audience as part of the show put on by the guides. Unfortunately for us, the “show” was in French. But no matter—the excitement on the children’s faces and the squeals of laughter was the universal language.

But the star attraction is the giant elephant. It is free range. Standing three stories high, and carrying up to 50 passengers, the elephant walks around the grounds bellowing and spraying water at unsuspecting tourists.

The complex also includes two retro carousels, one that revolves around a three story aquarium of mechanical sea creatures.

You had a sense that all of this might have been inspired by late 19th century science fiction writers like Jules Verne, and, well, turns out he was a native of Nantes. There is a Jules Verne museum in the city—a house where he once lived overlooking the Loire river and the Machines de I’lle. For us, it was a little disappointing. Not much to see. A few books, some posters from the movies made from his books. A few half-hearted displays.

The rest of the Isle de Nantes, across the Loire from the city center, was once dominated by the shipyards and waterfront with warehouses and rail lines for moving goods. You can still see where ships once tied up. Today it’s the site of a massive building project to create a new medical center and home to several schools, as well as the Temple of Justice and Commerce Center and an architectural school and university, punctuated by sculptures and art.

What makes the community really different, however, is the planning that is going into the new residential five and six story buildings. We were told by the owner of a fabulous oyster bar (https://www.lelieujaune.fr/) that the new structures must include ground floor store fronts, a certain percentage of low income homes as well as office space and high end units — all to create a mixed community. All very progressive, he said. We liked that. But it is certainly different than the old Nantes on the right bank of the river.

Nante and the Loire River was also played a role in the slave trade. That history is marked by memorial along the right bank of the river, where the ships could very well have tied up.

The historic center of Nantes isn’t all that old. It really came into its own with the Industrial Age and all that shipbuilding which led to a building boom. The old buildings largely had to be rebuilt after a massive bombing by the Allies in the fall of 1944 near the end of World War II.

Amazingly, photographs of the bombed city show the main fountain in the square somehow avoided destruction. We aren’t sure if the display around that fountain to World War II is a permanent exhibit, but it certainly offers a grim view of this city’s destruction.

There is a small medieval quarter in Nantes, Bouffay, close to the Ducs de Bretagne royal palace. Beautiful narrow, winding cobblestone streets, old churches, atmospheric squares filled with dozens of restaurants of every ethnicity. The royal palace itself is worth a stroll through, and grounds and the ramparts walk are free. It sits next to where the Loire River used to pass, before its diversion to its current flow. We hired a private guide (a Peruvian who has lived in France for 10 years and is also a jewelry maker https://instagram.com/stories/piedraspreciosas81/3206317892185479660?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==) for two hours to walk us through this area, point out a few of the remaining bits of medieval history and introduce us to the Jardin des Plantes, a beautiful botanical garden across from the main train station.

As only a local can, he tipped us off to a good option for a dinner of mussels and fries, as well as helping us master the tram system.

Steampunk Nantes was quite a surprise and definitely more than what we expected. And the city itself is delightful and well worth a visit.

Caving In

We decided to visit the Gouffre de Padirac cave system, reputed to be a spectacular underground river and a top sight in the Dordogne, just a little over an hour drive from our house in St. Cyprien. We didn’t really know what we were getting into, which was probably a good thing, but our friends who were visiting wanted to see the caves. Brochure pictures looked intriguing. Not our usual thing, but — hey! Something different to try!

The visit begins with a knee knocking descent into a huge, deep chasm, 338 feet (103 meters) below the surface. The chasm has been known for centuries and potassium nitrate was extracted from there in the 15th and 16th centuries.

You can take three elevators down to the bottom, but, stupidly, we decided to walk down the caged staircase so that that we could hyperventilate into a panic by the time we reached the bottom.

And then you enter the cave. The first few hundred meters is a walk in sometimes claustrophobic passageways—not really much to see but eyes acclimatize, you get used to the chilly temperature and the overall dampness. Then, after having to fight with the automatic ticketing machine that guards the next phase of the visit (unless you’ve downloaded your passes in advance you’re screwed— no internet three hundred feet underground), you get into a small boat that takes you along an underground river with a boatperson who both punts and paddles through the narrow channel, trying to avoid the returning boats coming the other way. Hard not hit your head on the cave ceiling or protruding side walls. All the time we were trying to listen to an audio guide (available in several languages, although Mary opted to ignore the whole audio thing — was hard enough to focus on feet, not hitting your head and breathing) that really just relives the adventures of the first modern explorers who came here in the 1890’s. By the 1930’s tourists began to visit.

At the end of the boat ride you come to the most spectacular part of the caves. Another several hundred meter walk. Really was amazing. Stalactites 180 ft long, huge cathedral sized rooms, massive flowing calcite rock formations and more under ground pools with crystal clear water illuminated by the lighting system. No pictures allowed but, of course, every French person was snapping photos, so what the “merde” we joined in. When in France….do as the French.

We cut our visit a wee bit short—too many additional stairs and bridges across the chasms. At this point, Mary and our friend had enough (Mary’s knees were shaking and her pal is a loyal friend). The cave stretches for 25 miles (40 km) and empties into the Dordogne River. Only two people in history have made it all the way to the end. Wisely, only the first 2 km are open to the public.

For us, it was back to the boats, and a quick escape—this time, intelligently, using the three elevators to get out. Would we do it again? No. Would we recommend it to others? Yes, with multiple caveats. Claustrophobic, no. Fear of heights, no. To see something so unique? Yes!

Vive la Difference! Vive la France!!

After three extended trips to France, mainly in the rural south and southwest of France, we are by no means experts on things French. Our most recent three weeks in France, however, have brought back into focus how things are different from North America — at least in this corner of France.

First of all, planning your day means remembering almost every shop, every store, every site will close for lunch for an hour and a half to two hours. Not so much for big stores and big cities, maybe. On this trip in our little town of St. Cyprien in the Dordogne, the boulangerie closes for lunch until 2, the boucherie until 2:30 and the frommagerie until 3.

We were dismayed when we drove for 30 minutes to a wine co-op for some tasting only to discover that it was closing in 6 minutes for a 90 minute lunch break. And we arrived at the car rental return at the Bergerac airport at 12:04 only to find the agent was lunching until 2:00. Everything was locked up. Drop the key in the key box, said the sign. Made us nervous, but we did get the correct billing a few days later by e-mail.

Restaurants serving lunch, of course, usually remain open as the shops close. However, in turn, the restaurants generally close to 1:30pm, or at least that’s about when the chef leaves and the food service stops, although the bar often stays open. Again, maybe not in the heaviest touristed towns, but generally so. On the other hand, dinner service does not even begin before 7:00pm, and if you arrive then, you are likely to dine alone. On the other end, we’ve seen potential diners turned away, or closed signs posted at 9:00pm.

In addition to long lunch hours, the shops, particularly in the smaller towns, shut down the day after the town’s weekly open air market. Sunday afternoon in St. Cyprien (our little town in the Dordogne) after the open air market closes, is a ghost town. And most of the shops remained closed on Mondays, including all the coffee joints and bakeries, much to our dismay!

The Sunday market and the same street on Monday

We did use the weekly closing to our advantage in Perigieux where we toured the medieval town and took pictures without anyone photobombing out shots.

As far as cultural courtesies go, only in the big grocery stores can you get by not saying “Bonjour” as you enter and “au revoir” as you leave. Everywhere else it is just plain courtesy to exchange these pleasantries. If you ask a question of the staff, even in the big stores, begin your question with “Bonjour.” In fact, it is rude not to do so.

On the food front, we are worlds apart. The French eat their main meal at lunch, followed by a light dinner in the evening, although we are told this pattern is fading. Most restaurants serve a “plat de jour” or a fixed price meal with an appetizer “entre” and “plat” main dish and dessert. Often it’s a very good deal. French fries come with lots and lots of meals. The fried potato seems more ubiquitous here than almost anywhere else we’ve been. Unlike in North America, however, French fries are not a finger food in France. They are eaten with a fork and often served with a side of mayonnaise.

Be braced in the large French grocery stores for a vast variety of cuts of meats, and a full array of lamb, pork, veal, beef and chicken as well as offal. The selection puts our largest and best grocery stores to shame. Cuts we have to search for at home, or special order, were almost always available in stores we saw. Probably says something about the centralization and conglomeration of the North American food supply chains and the French preoccupation with fresh and local.

Small sample of meat selection from a grocery store in Le Bugue — multiple kinds of poultry, beef cut to order, beef for braising and offal.

The same is true, not surprisingly, for cheeses. Who knew goat cheese comes in so many shapes, sizes, styles and ages? At home we would think four or six different goat cheeses was a unbelievable selection! Most cheese stores also stock the cow and sheep cheeses from around France.

Proceed with some caution when shopping in a supermarket’s produce department. In some stores the check-out process operates like our neighborhood store at home. In our corner of France, often you must weigh the produce on an electronic scale in the produce department, receive a bar coded sticker with weight and price of whatever you’re buying to stick on the produce bag. If in doubt, we pause and watch what the other shoppers are doing. And most of the time at the check-out counter, you will be left to bag your own groceries. So don’t forget to bring your own bag or be prepared to buy a reusable bag with the store’s logo. Only small specialty shops seem to offer bags for free.

In the farmer’s markets the rules change again. Often, but not always, you are given a plastic bowl by the proprietor and expected to put your selection of fruits and vegetable in it. When you are done with your selection, you and the basket to the proprietor who weighs each item tells you what you owe. Sometimes your produce is placed in a bag, more often locals simply put their vegetables in their basket or bag they brought. And, compared to the farmers’ markets we shop at home, the prices in southwestern France are ridiculously low. But note: prices for some fruit and some other produce is higher in supermarkets than at the open air markets.

Driving in France? Be prepared for an endless sequences of roundabouts, very narrow country roads often with large trucks and farm equipment, tolls on all the major freeways, and fast drivers who think nothing of passing on curves or limited sight stretches. Oh, and your speeds are monitored electronically, which can often be a shock when you get home and see the pile of speeding tickets in the mail.

It’s the little things that can trip you up. There’s no way we can ever pass for French. And we are sure we’re unaware of some cultural toes we have stepped on. Our goal is to fit in as best we can, and avoid as many faux pas as possible and, ultimately embrace the differences!