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It seems like every vacation Mrs. DJ L’il Bit and I have taken has had its own specialty drink — not just a featured beverage, but something that we never drink at home that comes to the forefront during travel. There were daiquiris in Hawaii, our first vacation; beer seemed to be the theme of our honeymoon (it’s true, neither one of us is a strong fan of beer); and, on this trip, it’s been rosé wine. Despite all of the improvements in American wine over the past couple of decades in particular, at least in California we don’t really get a good, refreshing, delicious rosé. But, in hot weather in France, that’s exactly what comes out in droves. With a good dose of flavor, like a red, but all of the lightness and refreshment of a white, there’s no beating it.

The best way, if you ask me — and you must have, coming to this site and all — to enjoy your rosé is to order what the French call a pitcher de rosé (say “pee-chay duh roh-say”), or carafe of the very, very local pink-colored hooch. Since practically every little village in France has its own historic wine variety, AOC or not, featuring a distinct blend of grapes, unique terroir, and individual handling and aging practices, the pitcher guarantees you a flavor you’ve never experienced before. And, at usually something like €6 for 25cl (that’s 2 glasses, for those using imperial measurements) or €12 for 75cl (that’s, like, a lot), it’s a very, very economical choice. (That Coke you’d choose otherwise is at least €2 and you might pay €4 for a pint of beer, so €6 looks pretty good in comparison.) We’ve been enjoying pitchers de rosé at almost every dinner, and not a few lunches, everywhere we’ve been.

Even the little island we’re on right now has its own wineries making their own rosé — actually, this includes maybe the best rosé we’ve had all trip. We’re in a little place called Porquerolles (say “pork-uh-roll”), an island off of the famous (and unaffordable) Côte d’Azur, where you find places like Cannes and Monte Carlo. Porquerolles has apparently, by the reaction we’ve gotten from French friends when we told them we were going there, been quite the special getaway for denizens of this country. We found it by googling “Mediterranean sandy beach,” which isn’t so common a thing as you’d think, then narrowing that down to places that we could reach by rail, when it turned out that Ryanair didn’t fly to any place we really wanted to make our getaway.  

Porquerolles is a little slice of heaven. It’s slow and covered in green, sporting three separate wineries and four main beaches on just a few square kilometers. An enormous din of crickets provides a soothing soundtrack everywhere you go; unlike the cicadas of the east, these little pests stay out of the way and aren’t clumsy at all.

We’re staying at a hotel on the island, charmingly painted a lobster bisque peach with blue shutters, which includes a demi-pension, or breakfast and dinner at the hotel — a great deal given that the hotel’s restaurant gets a Michelin star! Service at the hotel itself is four-star (in the French national rating system, the place gets four stars). There’s a beach just past the hotel, it’s not private but it’s quiet enough since the town’s a good hour’s walk away, and the hotel has parasols, towels, and cushions out on the soft sand. The water’s warm — we’re on the Mediterranean — although a bit cool in the morning. And it’s shockingly clear and a bright blue, reminiscent of the Carribbean.

A couple of years ago, the not-yet-Mrs. DJ L’il Bit got me on a plane to Hawaii, where I discovered that I really do love the ocean, being a Cancer water baby and all. Before this trip, realizing it was time to replace our old point-n-shoot, we got a waterproof camera and have been enjoying ourselves with it in the ocean.

The main way around the island is along several dusty upland roads, either on foot (our choice) or via bicycle (not our choice, since, for her, it’s too hilly, and for me, bikes are scary). We’re a good 40 minutes by foot from the main town, or 10 if we take a hotel shuttle that runs hourly. When we walk, we make a bit of a sport of watching the poor bicyclists, told that the beach was “just up that way,” as the sweat and curse their way up the dirt road, covered in yellow dust and sweat. Nothing like a hot, dirty walk home, followed directly by a plunge into the sea.

Town itself has a variety of cute and not-so-cute restaurants, catering to the island’s other hotels, the throngs who sail their boats into the packed marina, and also daytime visitors who come on the hourly summer ferries. It’s a charming Mediterranean place, looking like a slightly-local variation on all of the charming, small towns that cover the northern coast of that sea all the way from Spain to Turkey. To add to its charm and character, the town even has a jazz festival going on, with shows nightly in many of the grander local attractions; we stumbled into an impromptu concert in the square one day.

The place is filled with the French, a smattering of Italians, a few Germans, and even a couple of Americans like us. I got one compliment on my French from a man who has an accent that shows he doesn’t come from around here, but otherwise have frankly struggled with the thick southern France accent of the island, in which words blend together in a mellifluous monotone… my brain often needs a second to process the speach, during which time I believe I have a blank, dumb look on my face, that causes people to switch into English, much to my consternation. I know they’re being nice, but, dammit, I want to practice my French!

The styles worn around here are obviously European, not American, with the kids sporting t-shirts containing English slogans that one would’ve figured they could read, given Western Europe’s vaunted language education, but which somehow read “I Don’t Need Anything” (on a 13-year-old girl, who you figure wouldn’t mean it), “American College State Beach Team,” and, best of all “Elmira City Schools,” with an elaborate crest. (Incidentally, the kids all through France are also wearing Franklin and Marshall, which either speaks to some odd logo theft or a study abroad program that’s remarkably comprehensive for such a small school.)

Adults wear looks that would fit in less in the US, with, of course, a great deal of toplessness on beaches, and Speedos for the guys; Dr. Neil Roberts on the OC-style lush, wavy hair for men, with pastel shirts that would be garish even on Martha’s Vineyard or a white linen shirt with only the button directly above the navel closed; and short shorts, especially on men, and especially on this one guy who had tucked up the ends of his Umbro running shorts so that he had, basically, a poofy, nylon speedo on, as he walked through town shirtless, fanny pack bulging, walking stick forging ahead, family in tow.

Porquerolles is right off of several of France’s main Mediterranean fishing ports, and it shows. Dinner the first night was a prawn the size of a lobster tail, and lunch is either a deep pot of mussels — six sauces, your choice, including the old standby of wine and garlic, and going all the way up to gorgonzola — fisherman’s salad — featuring an assortment of fish and shrimp — or a pasta with an immense pile of assorted, and very fresh, shellfish, tasting so much of the sea. Breakfast… well, that’s croissants, of course, we being in France! 

The goodies we’ve eaten are so delicious that a local seagull has taken to feigning injury to get sympathy scraps of food. He was walking along, his wing hanging like it was broken, and, our hearts breaking too, we almost considered giving him food; or at least we considered, at length, if there were any large predators on this island who would eat him before his wing knit. Then one of his friends flew past and loudly honked to him some news, and he flew off, unencumbered, wing unbroken and working fine. I do suppose the racket works for him, which would not be a surprise since I’m pretty sure the other day I saw one of the town’s two stray dogs get thrown an entire sandwich by the pan bagnat stand man.

Since Porquerolles is just off of one of France’s older ports, and near two other major ones, it was of course fortified. We’ve taken short hikes — did I mention hot and dusty? — to two of the main forts, the 18th-century Saint Agatha and Grand Langoustier; we also walked to a late 18th-century place called, seriously, the Windmill of Happiness. I suppose that either tells us about Walt Disney’s early influence or the locomotive power of air. 

The best part of these hikes has been the vistas from these dominating spots, which let us take in the beauty of the island and its surrounds:

It’s hard to decide what to do here: lie on the beach… lie by the pool… eat great food at the hotel… lie on a chaise longue under the pine trees… sit on the veranda… travel into town for a delicious, and cheap, meal, or some great ice cream… but now it’s back to Paris, then onto a plane to fly home.

Now, a France vacation, it’s a dream vacation, that’s for sure; romance, food, culture, and all that. The only problem I’ve had is paying with credit cards. It’s not that we’ve run out of money — though, even with the euro as strong as it is, it all seems like funny money and a 2€ coca-cola comes off as a great discount that it’s almost impossible to say no to — it’s the technology. See, in cafés around here, instead of having a central machine they take your card to and then do the transaction at, the waiters have these hand-held machines that they use to run the charge on the spot. This sounds convenient, but the process is a little weird to me as an American. I can’t just get the bill, put my card out, then wait for the server to return, take the whole megillah back, and run it; I need to somehow signal to them that they should bring out the machine. Waving my card about seems gauche, and I never remember to ask if I can pay with a credit card when the tab shows up (anyway, at most cafés they leave a running tab with each comestible they deliver). The best thing to do would be to watch what the French do, but cafés are way too relaxing to go being all eagle-eyed about things. 

Speaking of cafés, the squat toilet situation has improved, although, now that I’m in the south, I expect that trend to reverse in due course. With consistency, the French seem to have no love for the tradition of washing one’s hands after using the restroom — I’ve yet to encounter hot water, soap is spotty, and the drying method of choice is the bacterially-frightening continuous roll towel — but, then, there’s precedent: my Father, an MIT grad, has always told the story of an MIT man and a Harvard man who meet in a restroom. Both men use the urinal, and, on the way out, the Harvard man stops to wash his hands. He notices the MIT man leaving without joining him at the sink, so the Harvard man says “You know, at Harvard, they taught us to wash our hands after we urinate.” The MIT man replies, wryly,: “At MIT, they taught us not to pee on our hands.”

Anyway, back to the whole trip thing. I was going to write one of my usual entries, filled with photos, but slow Internet connections have kept me offline and I’m about 105 photos behind on uploading — and have about 700 un-edited photos to go through after that. (FYI, that should cut down to about 150 that actually get uploaded at the end of the day, so I might get all that up eventually.) We did, finally, make it to the Louvre in Paris, and on a bateaux-mouches tour up and down the Seine. There will be black-and-white of the former, when I finally develop it (weeks or more, folks), and, when I finally edit it, color of the former. There may even be a few photos from the incredible lunch that we shared with my parents as they celebrated their 45th anniversary at the Pré Catalan.

And then there will be photos of the next two phases of our trip: the Loire, and Burgundy. The Loire is basically château central for France; once a prime route for invasion, many of the fortified castles have been torn down and turned into magnificent, ornate palaces. We saw lovely Chenonceaux, not just surrounded by a moat but actually built over a lake, supported by arches the float over the water and topped with rounded spires, and Cheverny, its second-best that is still privately-owned and sports a giant pack of 70 hunting dogs; we saw Ussé, with so many spires and made from such beautiful white stone that it inspired the story of Sleeping Beauty; we saw quaint little Saché, where Balzac wrote (and famously ordered coffee directly from Paris, to replace the local brew); and we saw Amboise, the former favorite home of the French kings, where poor Charles VIII hit his head on a doorframe and killed himself. We saw a two-hour sound-and-light-and-hundreds-of-townspeople-with-fireworks-and-horses spectacular on the château, which mostly concerned variations on the theme “the King and the people of Amboise like to party,” with a bit of “Leonardo Da Vinci died here” thrown in for good measure. The château of Amboise actually towered over our hotel room in the city of Amboise, a charming, narrow-streeted Renaissance city that served as our home for three days. We also had an outstanding meal there, at a place called Le Lion d’Or.

Then it was a train trip to the Burgundy region, to see some old family friends. France being France, we had to take a train from Amboise to Paris, then from Paris down to their little town. France being France, the trains were clean, fast, with wide seats, and on one leg of the trip even featured a range of seasonal delicacies as lunch options.

Our family friends are incredible people. The husband is a retired physicist, who now dabbles in archaeology by traveling to the Sudan on digs and brews his own liqueurs; the wife, a retired government minister, cooks three gourmet meals a day, makes jam from scratch, and keeps a home lovelier than any three ideal 1950s housewives could all working together at once. They showed us a wonderful, relaxing time, which was well-needed after our busy Paris and Loire schedule. 

Today we’re in transit. Perhaps I’ll get some of these photos processed. And, hotel Internet allowing, maybe there will be some more posts coming.

It’s really true, sunset is at nearly 11, which goes a long way to explaining why I haven’t blogged lately — It’s hard to come home, edit photos, and write all about them while it’s still light out and I could be sitting at a café, having what the French call a digestif. And the days have been very, very busy. And the hotel internet can be a bit sluggish from time to time, so I got well behind on getting all my snaps online.

But here we are: caught up with the photos, and well past time to write an entry. First things first: we have not gone to the Louvre yet. “Tomorrow,” in the last entry, was Monday, and on Monday the Louvre is closed. Instead, we went to the Luxembourg gardens, walking around for a while, seeing all of the perfectly-manicured gardens and the famous pond in which the youngsters float their sailboats:

Much to my shock, having not been here in probably 14 or 15 years: they actually let you sit on the grass! This is not the France I knew!

Also not the France I know: Notre Dame, while beautiful, is absolutely filled with people. I remember visiting when I was maybe 9, and walking around a cathedral with plenty of empty space, worried more about bothering the worshippers than bumping into other visitors. Now, as DJ L’il Bit said, it’s like the Disneyland of cathedrals — one long line. Still, it’s gorgeous.

Both Mrs. DJ L’il Bit and I are big fans of the gargoyles:

With all the foot traffic, however, I think we preferred the little Saint Germain des Prés church, in a cute little square in the Latin Quarter (that we also keep going to for digestifs!). One of the neatest things about Saint Germain des Prés is that its walls are painted inside, which used to be a feature of all of the cathedrals in France; most of these lost their decoration during the Revolution, with its anti-clerical pushes.

We also went up and down Montmartre, famous home of the Moulin Rouge and Sacré-Coeur. Built at the beginning of the 20th century, well after when I think of people building cathedrals, Sacré-Coeur doesn’t much look like a cathedral anyway:

Also unlike a cathedral, they don’t let you take pictures inside. 

The Moulin Rouge is still there, looking seedy as anything along a stretch of nudie bars; being on the highest hill in Paris, the whole area used to be filled with windmills. We went questing after the last one still there, which was mentioned in every single guidebook we read. We missed it, because it’s on private property, well set back, obscured by trees; amusingly, there’s a restaurant next door that advertises itself as the windmill restaurant, that has a 20-foot-tall replica windmill over the door. Charmingly, we took pictures of ourselves in front of that, thinking it was the real thing. After, we sat at the top of the hill enjoying a cool beverage:

It’s a steep hill down. (We took the stairs up the back way, climbing quickly and avoiding the crowds, then worked our way slowly down the curvy roads, saving our energy in the hot, hot day.)

We took Mrs. DJ L’il Bit’s first Metro ride to the Arc de Triomphe — mobbed with Foreign Legionnaires, by the way — and then back on the train to the Eiffel Tower.

A short line later, we were at the second level, enjoying the panorama. Along, again, with half the world; but at least the Eiffel Tower has a little more affinity for the Disneyland feeling. (Sadly, the crowd was so large they’d closed the top floor, so we didn’t make it all the way up; nonetheless, the second level is well above any other Paris building, so our views were vast and unobstructed.)

Fitting everything after the Luxembourg Gardens, except the above visit to St. Germain des Prés, into one day, we were well ready to take a day a bit off. That meant only walking around the very, very old Île St. Louis and Île de la Cité for about five hours, fitting in some gift shopping (some of our friends and family will be very lucky!) and also some relaxing time at a corner café.

We also stopped by the flower market, beautiful and ancient like the islands:

;

Today we had lunch with a family friend, a member of the Assemblée Nationale, France’s House of Representatives. We got a behind-the-scenes tour of the Assemblée’s iconic building, the former Palais Bourbon, across the Seine from the Louvre. Sorry, no photos: I could’ve actually brought a camera, but I assumed it wasn’t permitted, so we didn’t. We got to enter the chamber where the Assemblée votes, and eat at the restaurant they all eat at. (Great meal, with fish and a cheese course, by the way.)

And that brings us to tonight. We relaxed in a café for a while, I finished my ’50s pulp sci-fi book that I’d brought along, and soon we’ll be off to dinner and, if we’re lucky, Bateaux-Mouches. See you tomorrow or, given our schedule, more likely the day after!

If you’re planning a Paris trip, it’s worth noting that this whole free first Sunday of the Month at the Louvre thing is not such a good idea. We showed up just after 9am — opening time — and the line was long. Like, took 20 minutes to walk to the end of it long. This was a fast-moving line, but the staff said it would be 2 hours to get there, vs. the usual 20 minutes. So, after the obligatory photo of us by the palace, we moved along.

The good news is that the first Sunday of the month is free pretty much everywhere. We met the parents at the Museum of the Monnaie — that’s the Mint — to see an exhibit on French photog Willy Ronis. Of course that was my scene. This is me outside the Monnaie, inspired by Willy:

A museum day is a good thing, so next was the Cluny, the museum of very old things in a very old place.

These old things were pretty awesome. Lots of tapestries, which unfortunately I haven’t figured out how to shoot. Also lots of sculpture, which I’m better at. 

At night: short walk to Rue de Bac, in the Latin quarter, then happy hour (the Parisians do it right, starting at 2pm and going to 9:30).

Then a bistro dinner. We just walked along until we found a busy, hopping, bright place with delicious plates of food outside. The one we picked had a loud, boisterous clientele eating big pots of mussels, french fries on the side; and high piles of beef tartare, topped with egg and filled with onion. If you know us, it was the mussels for her and the raw meat for me.

And now, exhausted, bed. Early tomorrow: Louvre, again.

One of the most stylish parts of Paris is the Marais neighborhood. Marais means swamp — just like La Cienega, for those of you who live in LA — and that’s what we walked around today. Just like yesterday’s entry promised, there was rain, and it cooled the place down, so we could just amble around. Up past the super-modern, Habitrail-styled Pompidou Center, through the old Jewish Ghetto (so many Falafel options!), we got to see one of the oldest parts of Paris, including a beautiful old house whose lady, legend has it, laughed as her new lover killed her old lover in the courtyard.

A long walk but a short entry! I could talk about the bistros and brasseries we’ve been to, I guess. We grabbed a quick beer at the Place des Vosges, Paris’s oldest park, earlier today, and sat down at a little café, where we each ordered what sounded like a nice, light, summery beer on tap. Then we each drank our beer — ooh! too bitter and hoppy! Mrs. DJ L’il Bit said; ooh! too sweet and lemony! I said — and then we switched beers, drinking  happily for the next 20 minutes until the very French, very snarky waiter saw us off. The waiter later in the evening, at Les Deux Magots (our hotel’s just down the street, we couldn’t skip Hemingway and Camus and Picasso’s favorite place!), was just as classically French rude, but we enjoyed our digestifs of Marc and Armagnac anyway, as we watched the sun go down at 10:30pm. That’s right, it stays bright late here.

Some of that waiter snark may come from my French not being all it was knocked up to be. Eleven years of disuse seem to have left me unable to get my mouth around the words quite right; I’m tripping on my vowels and rolling my rs. We’ll see if the rest of the vacation gives me enough time to return to my old pronunciation skills, which weren’t good enough to pass for French but which did leave most native speakers unable to figure out where I was from, at least. 

In contrast, the food has been all it’s knocked up to be, especially classics like Steak Frites and Croque Monsieurs. Portions of tartare, if that’s your thing, are more than king-sized; a Double Double, raw, at least. The tables are tiny, of course, and everyone’s right up next to you, all of which you would think would inspire claustrophobia, but for some reason — maybe the retracted awnings that leave the cafés open to the sky — does not. 

The tiny, definitely-not-handicap-accessible bathrooms also do not, which is nice since any long walk around town involves lots of water and maybe a wine or beer or aperitif or something like that. The score so far is that nearly every men’s room in a Brasserie or less has a squat toilet. Women’s rooms are far more fortunate. Updates on that as events warrant.

Despite the bright, far North sky that kept us out late, we’re trying to get up early to make it to the Louvre tomorrow first thing, before the crowds, so I’d better wrap this up.