Chez Moi

French Lesson: The word “chez” in French is a preposition literally meaning “at the house of.” Thus, the title of this blog translates to “At the House of Me” or rather “My house.”

Cultural Lesson: Should you ever see a French restaurant named “Chez Pierre” (or some other stereotypical French male name), avoid it. It is a tourist trap. It is bad.

And so, at long last, I present a tour of my house. The same house in which I’ve been living for the past four months. The same house in which I have only 9 sleeps left. Just don't touch anything.

Note: The inside pictures were taken when my host parents were babysitting a few of their grandchildren (a not uncommon occurrence). The house looks like a 1980’s Toys R’ Us exploded. So beware.

Welcome.

This house is more than 150 years old. It has been in Madame’s family for at least three generations, and it is something of an engineering marvel that it is still standing up. It seems most houses in France are that way.

I’m glad I took that picture back in March, because those ugly looking trees have since sprouted leaves. This is what were are dealing with now.


Shall we go in?

Up the stairs (I always go up the stairs on the left, always) and through the door is a foyer.

There is a tiny rug to wipe your feet, but they don't seem to mind a dirty or even muddy floor. Through the various doors are:

The kitchen (dirty from an evening party, the cleaning lady has a lot of work ahead of her today)

The kitchen is the same size as my bedroom: not big.

A sitting room (complete with a small collection of swords dating back to Napoleon)

The dining room (with a piano)

The TV room (note the small TV)

And the stairs.

All the stairs in France are spiral/curved. They are all tremendously dangerous if you are not paying attention.

We pass up the second floor (premier étage). That is where my host parents sleep and work and do laundry and other things. I haven’t been told not to explore, but I think it is understood that I don't belong there.

Up to the third floor. My domaine.

At last count, there are five rooms on the third floor. That's not to say there aren’t more. I just found a new one last week. Two of the rooms are full of toys (actually full). Two have beds for visiting children and/or grandchildren. The last is mine. All of them have sinks. The bathroom does not.

I have a pretty standard, bedroom set up: a twin bed, desk, swivel chair, and wooden bureau (c. 1780).

Out in the stairwell/hallway, I have my own little kitchen.

I can use the kitchen downstairs, but this is mighty convenient to store food and heat up a quick (read: cheap) meal.

Probably the best part of the house is the backyard (a.k.a. le jardin). Back in the winter and early spring, it looked overgrown and somewhat depressing. Now that the flowers have started blooming, it is quite the scenic place to read a book on a sunny day.

Roses are everywhere in France. They are giant, colorful, and smell like… roses.

Among the roses are something like 6 varieties of fruit trees/plants including: two types of cherries, apples, peaches, lemons, and some sort of nut.

We have a chicken, too.

They collect the eggs (which are giant). There is also a turtle, as creepy as it is giant, that was once a pet and now just roams around the yard. And there is a hunting dog, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of months.

So that is my humble homestead. From what I’ve seen, it is pretty average, if not above average, for an Angers bourgeois (upper middle class) family. It has grown on me over the past four months.

And my host family.

Can you tell who the American is? I can't.

Madame is a retired doctor who spends most of her time preparing for her children and grandchildren to come for weekends and/or extended stays. In fact, she is leaving next week to go help her very pregnant daughter take care of her two young children. Monsieur is a practicing doctor by day and a deacon at the local Catholic Church by weekend. By night, he sells drugs outside the soccer stadium (tell him I sent you).*

I don't know that I fully appreciated my house or host family the past four months. I sure hope they don't pave it and put up a parking lot...

*My host dad does not sell drugs outside the soccer stadium at night. That I know of.

Paris for Pentecost

The past weekend was Pentecost. It was also the last weekend I have to travel before leaving France. So I celebrated the Apostles being burned alive by the Holy Spirit AND the culmination of my travels in Europe. I went to Paris. How appropriate.

This was my third time in Paris for those of you who are counting, and like my past visits I didn't have an agenda (save for a couple of chocolatiers). Instead, I meandered around and enjoyed the unbelievable weather. Paris was actually pretty during the day because the sky was blue and the flowers and trees were in full bloom. You might say: Paris's plants were pretty on Pentecost. Alliteration is my favorite.

This statue is in the Jardin des Tuileries. This poor guy looks upset. Maybe it is because he is hot, standing in the sun and all. Maybe it is because he is naked. Maybe both.

There was also walking around Montmartre. Just to the west of the Sacre Coeur is a nice neighborhood in which artists paint pictures of naïve tourists, cafés and souvenir shops overcharge the same naïve tourists, and then… this.

There is even a vineyard involved. I'd imagine the wine is terrible and the price outrageous. This is Paris, after all.

And a windmill that is not the Moulin Rouge.

I spent a good portion of my trip in cafés. I don't think I stressed the café scene in the past, but on a warm and sunny day, sitting outside a café with a coffee and/or cold beverage, reading a book or newspaper, watching the people walk by, is a dream come true. If there were American crossword puzzles involved (of the New York Times Monday/Tuesday variety, please), I would probably never leave. Here is a nice example of a typical café in Paris.

They are usually on a corner (but that is not obligatory), there is always an awning, nobody actually sits inside, the tables are big enough to hold exactly two beverages, the chairs are a synthetic wicker of sorts, and they all face the road. If you pay for a coffee, you have the right to sit there all day long. That friends, is a good day.

Alas, some cafés are better than others. Take, for example, these two:

Les Deux Magots and Café de Flore are on the Boulevard Saint Germain, a really nice street that runs through the fifth and sixth arrondisments (just to the south of the Seine River). Here is an idea of what it looks like.

Back to the cafés, they both have some pretty famous clientele. Jean Paul Sartre (French author and philosopher), Albert Camus (French author and philosopher), Simone de Beauvoir (French author and philosopher), Ernest Hemmingway (one of these things is not like the other…).

I went to Café de Flore with a couple of friends for breakfast. I got a freshly squeezed orange juice and croissant.

The orange juice tasted more like oranges than most oranges. The croissant was one of the best I've had. The bill had big numbers on it. It was worth every centime.

Other highlights I don't have pictures of:

~Angélina (a café that overlooks the Jardin des Tuileries in the first arrondissement) for some Chocolat Chaud à l'Africain. Supposedly the best hot chocolate in the city, it was thick, rich, hot, and chocolaty. It was also hot outside. That didn't matter one bit.

~Ladurée (a salon de thé with multiple locations around the city) for some of the best macarons in France. I had six (don't judge me): caramel, café, dark chocolate, lemon, raspberry, and pistachio. The raspberry tasted like a dream, but the pistachio was my surprise favorite.

~Le Petit Chalet for a nice lunch with friends. This is a small, French restaurant that looks right at Notre Dame. I think a lot of tourists miss it because it doesn't advertise 10 Euro, three-course meals like every other tourist trip in the area. In fact, the food was notable and the atmosphere just right. Plus the view.

~À La Petite Chaise for a great lunch. Another tiny, French restaurant, this one sits on a side street where unknowing tourists are not likely to wander in on accident. It is a traditional French restaurant: male waiters and everything. The dining room sits around 20 people. I had an avocado and salmon salad which was nice and refreshing after walking around a steamy Paris all morning. For dessert, a raspberry mousse with raspberry jelly, and fresh strawberries. There was also a Bordeaux red involved.

I also looked for some entertainment. For example, did you know the French Open started on Sunday? Well, all of Paris did. I got close enough to see the main stadium, though.

And if I'm honest with myself, I would have gotten bored after 20 minutes of watching a neon yellow (or is it green?) ball bounce to and fro. And in the sun? That's a recipe for a crabby me.

Instead, I went to a free organ concert at Notre Dame.

Philippe Lefebvre played that organ like nobody's business. There were Latin chants by Bach and some other guy (a little on the boring side). And for the finale, Lefebvre, the titular organist at Notre Dame, improvised some. Okay, he improvised for like twenty minutes. But the sound that came out of that organ was unbelievable. The end of any organ piece is the lowest and loudest note on the instrument. I thought the Cathedral was going to collapse. It didn't.

And I also bought some chocolate. I went back to see Denise Acabo at her shop À l'Étoile d'Or near the Moulin Rouge. My friend Laure went with me.

Denise is probably the sweetest person in all of Paris. She is passionate about chocolate. She loves her shop and its décor. She likes to talk to people about her store, even the wrapping paper she uses for gifts. She told us Meryl Streep was there not long ago. And she wears a plaid skirt. Come on.

The next day, I went back to Jacques Genin. From the outside, his chocolate shop doesn't look like much.

But inside, it's as modern as they come.

I got a millefeuille: a pastry that is made with buttery, tender puff pastry and, in my case, chocolate mousse. Some say it is the best in Paris. The pastry is as buttery and flaky as they come. It melts in your mouth, and when you cut it, it flakes into a million pieces (hence the name). The chocolate mousse was rich and dark, but not so much that it overwhelmed the pastry.

After a nice snack in the sitting area, I went to buy some presents. I picked out various flavors to fill up some boxes - a task more stressful than it sounds. The woman who was helping me kept giving me free samples to ensure that they were worthy of my gift boxes. I kept tasting them. And what is this? There was one that I've had before. From where though?

When the boxes of chocolate were full, we went to the caramel counter so I could get a little sample of his acclaimed caramels for myself (they are not to be missed if you like caramel!). After I picked out some flavors, the woman handed me a fruity-looking candy. When I left the store, I opened it up and tasted it. I've had this before, too.

And then it hit me. These were the mignardises from my lunch in Lyon at Nicolas Le Bec. Jacques Genin supplies chef Le Bec with his candies. What an appropriate way to end my culinary adventures in Paris? It was all meant to be.

Before I left, I went to Point Zero, a little circle just in front of Notre Dame from which everything in France is measured.

They say if you stand on it, you will return to Paris some day. I stood on it.

Au revoir, Paris.

Je t'aime.

Croatian Vacation

You are going to experience Croatia the same way I did: we’ll arrive at a destination, look around, eat, and go on to the next one. Repeat. For some things, I may have a lot of details to give you. Other things, not so much. I may not include the name of a city/town/village for no less than one of the following reasons:

~You won’t know how to pronounce it
~I don’t know how to spell it
~You’ll forget it anyway
~I’ve already forgotten it

Here are a couple things to keep in mind while reading: the total duration of the trip is two and one-half days; while most people speak English, Croatian is much more prevalent, and I only know one word if Croatian: “goodnight”; the weather was actually bad and some of the pictures really don’t do the country justice (even from what I saw); my third cousin and her son planned this entire trip for yours truly, isn’t that swell of them?; before each and every meal, we had a shot of some sort of liquor (schnapps): honey, blueberry, pear, blackberry, mistletoe, etc. Pretty much anything you can steep in vodka for a while without the resulting concoction eating through the glass.

Let’s hit the road and head about two or two and a half hours southwest of Zagreb to a small town whose name escapes me. There is a river and waterfalls.

What do we gather from this little town? It is remarkably quaint and quiet. The river water is clear as can be. The waterfalls/rapids are as scenic as they come. And there are trout in the river.


There was also trout on my plate. Curious. This trout was quite tasty and the first whole fish I’ve been served. It won’t be the last. There was also polenta with bacon, and potato slices. The polenta was milled in the mill next door powered by the river we were talking about earlier. How do you like that?

We took dessert on the road. Apple and cherry strudel.

It was warm and satisfying. Almost like a pie is. But you can eat it with your hands.

Why the rush? The waterfalls. Duh!

About 2 hours south of this mystery town is Plitvice Lakes National Park. A series of 16 lakes and a similar number of waterfalls, it is essentially a Brobdingnagian nature preserve. (Note: the word Brobdingnagian is one I found on my computer’s thesaurus under the entry “big.” The usage is likely wrong, but I couldn’t pass up using it.) But it is not just a series of ordinary lakes. If that were the case, the entire state of Minnesota would be a national park, and we all know that isn’t the case (thank the good Lord). Indeed, these lakes are special. A special type of moss generates sediment that grows over time and eventually creates new lakes. Or something like that. Whatever the case, it is pretty. Even if the sky was not.


We only saw a tiny piece of the park. Most tours last four or six hours and some as long as nine… days. We were there for two. But it started to get dark, and scary animals come out at night, like wolves, lynxes, wild cats, and capercaillies. That last one is some sort of turkey-bird, but its name is pretty well intimidating.

Instead, we got back into the car and went to find some bears.

Not far form the lakes, there is a sanctuary for bears. A group of nice people build habitats to help struggling bears readjust to life in the mountains. There are a lot of bears in the mountains of Croatia, but these were left by their mother for one reason or another.

We bought dinner back near the lakes and took it with us to the hotel. There was lamb, veal, and potatoes, respectively.

This lamb was not cooked on a spit. That is what ‘Croatian Picnics’ are for in the summer. This lamb was cooked in a special metal pot or pan. There are hot coals involved. It sound rustic, primitive even. It tasted like you would imagine lamb in Croatia to taste. And the veal was also delicious. The potatoes had some sort of sweet sauce or glaze on them. That's a good meal.

Just so you know, until now we have been in the region of Croatia known as Lika. It's the home of my great-grandfather. So there you go.

The next morning: to the coast!

But on the way, we stop in the mountains to see some wild purple flowers and pine plants.

The flowers are apparently used in perfumes and/or as a natural remedy for headaches or gout. I don’t remember which. The pines may or may not have something to do with asthma treatment. Apparently, the combination on the ocean air and these pines can really improve asthma symptoms.

Our first look at the coast. That is the Adriatic Sea, I’ll have you know.

I forget the name of this city, but it has a fortress/castle that was instrumental in the Middle Ages when the Tartars invaded (there is a joke about tartar sauce here).


And from here we drive along the coast, through more mountains, traverse the western peninsula (the region known as Istria), and arrive on the western most part of Croatia. The Brijuni Islands.

So here is the essential information: this is a pretty set of islands that traded hands over the years (it was under Italian rule even in the 1940’s) but now belongs to Croatia. President Tito (of Yugoslavian fame – I didn’t know who he was, either) had a house on the island. Apparently people liked to give him random animals, and there is now a zoo with said animals (think elephants, ostriches and emus, zebras, etc.). Now it is a national park with Roman and Byzantine ruins, dinosaur fossils, and other fun things. We took a golf cart around. It rained a little.

This is President Tito’s parrot Koki. He says different things, like ‘Tito’ and ‘Koki.’ It is a little creepy. Parrots are weird.

Dinosaur foot prints.

Byzantine ruins.

Roman ruins.

1700 year old olive tree.

So Brijuni is pretty nice. There is even more to see, but that is all we had time for. Okay… we got a little hungry and left to get dinner. And being on the coast, the logical decision was to eat seafood. Its fresh. We ordered a fish. They brought us this plate.

There was no sushi involved. We picked one and named the other one Eric. In the mean time, we had some appetizers.

Prawns and black risotto.

The prawns were awfully hard and messy to eat, but they were worth every used napkin. There were cracking shells and slurping noises. The black risotto was the star of the show. If you can believe it, that is rice covered with a mysterious black liquid. It is not oil (Brian Williams tells me oil is a brown liquid and coal a black rock). It is squid ink. It tasted of umami if I’ve ever tasted it. For those unaware, umami is apparently the fifth taste that our taste buds pick up. I think it is fake. But if it is real, it is in this black risotto, and it is tasty.

Then they brought Eric's friend back out.

So sad. So good.

And after that meal, we head south to Pula where this monument awaits us.

This is a 2000 year old coliseum from the Roman empire that is NOT in Rome. There are also city gates.

Take that Italy. Other fun things about Pula: there is evidence that Homo Erectus lived there some one million years ago (and/or a close descendant of Adam and Eve with bad osteoporosis for my Creationist readers); other ruins from pre-history have been found nearby; Greek ruins; it was a pretty major port in Roman times and still is today; it is mentioned in Dante’s “Divine Comedy.”

The next morning we saw another small town on the coast. Porec (pronounced something like porridge).

There isn’t too much to say about this except that it is a nice little town and even prettier in sunny weather.

We also went into a cave.

Istria (the region we are in) has a lot of caves like this one. Stalactites and stalagmites and what not. Millions of years. You know the drill. It was pretty interesting.

Then we drove back through Istria and stopped at a town on a hill: Motovun.

The region of Istria has a lot of Italian influence (see Pula coliseum for more details). The town of Motovun was, in fact, under Venetian control for a stint of time in the 13th or 14th centuries. The city walls date back to this time.

What is more important about Motovun is the forest that sits at the bottom of this hill. The Motovun Forest is famous for its truffles. This area is the perfect combination of climate and soil for the fungi (tubers, really) to grow. In America, and pretty much everywhere, truffles are worth their weight in gold (and, more often, chocolate), and they are as rare as they are expensive. Here they are still relatively expensive, but they are all over the place. Some of the products sold: plain truffles, truffles in oil, truffle (infused) oil, no less than twenty different truffle spreads, truffles in cheese, truffles in bread, etc.

There was also prosciutto, dry-cured ham.

Take that Italy. We ate the first course of lunch here.

Prosciutto with cheese and olives. Beef carpaccio with cheese. It was all delicious with some of the best olive oil of my life. I’ll remind you that beef carpaccio is raw beef. You won't find that on the menu in the U.S. What a shame?

Our next stop is Hum: the smallest town in the world.

That is pretty much it. Six people live here according to the 2001 census, but it still has a church, museum, and two different gift shops. I'm still unsure of what constitutes a town, but I'd imagine you need two different gift shops.

Now that we’ve seen the town, lets have that other half of lunch.

Sauerkraut and ham: I love sauerkraut.

Pasta with black truffles. Istria has a special noodle shape called the fuzi (take that Italy). This was the best dish of lunch.

So now that we’ve eaten two meals where normal people only eat one, we hop in the car and head back to Zagreb. But we made one stop on the way. Mrkopalj.

Mrkopalj is a tiny village in which my great-grandmother was born and I still have family. This is it.

We stopped to visit family who welcomed me into their house, offered me food, spoke not even a little English, and were probably the nicest people ever. And there was homemade strudel involved: apple and cheese varieties. The cheese one was sweetened and easily my favorite.

And then we headed back to Zagreb. It was a marathon of a trip, but I got to see a nice portion of northern Croatia and eat some very delicious food. Thanks especially to my tour guides and family, Vlatka and Lovro.

I was sad to leave, but I know I’ll be back one day. They say Croatia’s coast (especially in the south), has some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. I’ll just have to go and confirm these rumors…