lonely planet, I have a bone to pick with you

According to Lonely Planet, with the exception of Renoir’s house/museum, Cagnes sur mer is “nothing to write home about.”   This is exactly why I hate travel guides– If  a tourist went by Lonely Planet, they’d go to the Renoir Museum, find that it’s closed for renovations head off to St. Paul de Vence, or Monaco or wherever and miss the perfectly lovely, untouristed old village on the hill.

I’ve got to question whether the writers of this particular volume have spent any time in the South of France and if they did, were they blindfolded.  Any sighted person  passing Cagnes sur mer on the train or driving on the A8 can see there’s a tumble of ancient stone houses on a hill leading up to an ancient castle.   The first time I saw it, I assumed it was St. Paul de Vence, since that’s the main hilltop village I’d heard mentioned ad nauseum in the guidebooks.

It didn’t take much time or research to realize that St. Paul de Vence is actually about 20 minutes further inland and the cool hilltop village I’d been eyeing is called Haut de Cagnes, part of the larger town of Cagnes sur mer.   The castle is one of the many Grimaldi chateaux (now I understand why Princess Grace married into the family).

It’s a quick 15 minute train ride from Antibes.  When I first get off at the Cagnes sur mer train station and walk out onto the rue, I wonder where the hell is it?   There’s supposed to be a bus that takes you up there, but I don’t know where the stop is and I want to get going.   From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t look like a terrible climb…once I find the damn hill.

I follow the signs into Cagnes proper (not Cros de Cagnes which is closer to the mer) and there’ still no sign of it..   Fortunately, the “Bourg medieval” sign points me in the right direction and soon, I see signs of medieval-ness.   I wonder how the hell a bus can get up here (answer:   tiny buses).

It’s pretty much a straight shot up the hill, but it’s steep.   When I get tired, I turn around and look at the view, which gets more spectacular the higher I go.   The “main drag” and side streets also become cuter.

Finally, I see the  church and chateau.   Past that, a really nice square overlooking the hills. There’s a boules court and several restaurants where you can dine on the square.

The Chateau houses a pretty cool little museum (which is incidentally where you’ll find the contents of the Renoir museum while it’s being restored).   On display are a lot of paintings of Haut de Cagnes by famous and semi famous artists over the years (sometimes centuries), still totally recognizable.

My favorite exhibit is a room full of paintings of a woman I’ve never heard of, Suzy Solidor. I’m sure I would have hated the woman in real life (narcissistic bitch who was probably a total slut).  She had been a model, singer and muse here in the early to mid 1900s and donated the collection to the town in 1973.   They’re all done by different artists, including Raoul Dufy and Jean Cocteau and it’s fun to see them all in one place.

There’s also a stairway to the roof of the chateau (more climbing) with amazing 360 views over the Mediteranean and Var Valley.

The village has a couple of nice artisan shops, one tabac shop that also sells postcards beverages and snacks type things, a souvenir store (not your average tourist crap, though) and a couple of shady squares with lovely outlooks to enjoy an ice cream cone and watch the local kids and cats play.

What it doesn’t have:    Chain stores, tour buses or the cachet of St. Paul de Vence (where I counted 9 tour buses in a 2 hour period).     Thank goodness.

The truth is, after I visited Haut de Cagnes, I did write home about it.   Which makes me wonder.   Is Lonely Planet inept?   Or are they just trying to keep the place for themselves?

More pictures of Haut de Cagnes

2000 leagues over the sea

According to the Ville de Eze Tourism website), Eze is 3.66 square miles.   I’m pretty sure most of that is vertical.

It’s located between Nice and Monaco–about a 15 minute train ride from both (from opposite directions) on the Cote d’Azur TER line.    The train stops at seaside Eze, which is pretty much a residential area for rich people (Bono has a villa about 500 meters from the train station).   There’s a pebbly public beach, a couple of cafes and a small tourism office.  As lovely as it is, the main attraction, the charming medieval village with shops, is about 2000 feet above sea level.   It’s up there somewhere behind the cliffs looming overheadSome insane people like my sister or my father might want to make the 3 kilometer hike to the village, I’m perfectly happy to take a bus.   In fact, when I consider the alternatives (walking or driving myself) I’m thrilled to take a bus.  This road is so windy, the lanes so narrow, there’s no way I could have managed this, even if I was driving a car with an automatic.   The mere thought makes me want to abandon all hope, park on a hairpin turn, weep and wait to die.

Being “chauffeured”, makes the journey both less and more hair-raising.   Less because I don’t have the responsibility of driving but more because some stranger who may have had a bottle of Rose for breakfast holds my life in their hands.   And shit, this bus is big.   It’s probably a matter of centimeters between here and oblivion.  Which isn’t to say oblivion isn’t breath-taking.

At one point I notice the man sitting next to me is laughing at me.   I’m outraged until I realize that all the screams, groans, gasps, prayers and “oh my gods” raging through my head during this ride, are also leaking from my mouth.  I’d be laughing at me too if I wasn’t looking down at a gazillion meter chasm of death two inches to my left.  The ride takes an eternity (15 minutes).

When we finally get up high enough in the cliffs, I see Eze.   I wouldn’t even call that a hilltop it’s perched on, this is more like a jagged shard of rock.   Jutting up from a cliff.   The bus drops me off at “base camp,” the bottom of the jagged shard, where there’s a few real estate companies, restaurants, tourist shops, banks and the requisite pharmacy and tabac shops.    I climb the road leading to the entrance of the old town.

Tiny little streets that barely accommodate one average person, cute ancient stone buildings, balconies and rooftops dripping with flowers, tiny shops (tres cher), beautiful, charming hotels where one night costs more than my monthly rent and finally, a killer view.   No, make that a million killer views.

Part of me is thinking this is the most beautiful place on the face of this earth and I must live here.   The other part is thinking what a pain in the ass it would be to lug groceries up all these tiny steps on a regular basis.  And how the hell would I get my armoire up here?

Whenever I reach a plateau, I stop and admire the view which I don’t think could get any more beautiful until I reach the next plateau.

The streets get narrower and more maze-like, until I reach a clearing, which is the entrance to Le Jardins d’Eze, which is essentially a hanging garden with a path leading to the castle ruins at the top through exotic cactus plants, statues, sitting areas and views to die for.   I almost do die for the view when a stumble on a cobble feels like I’m about to fall off the face of the earth.   At this point I’m practically crawling, but I make my final push to the summit.
Holy crap.  I can see past Cap Ferrat, Nice, Cap d’Antibes to San Tropez and all the way to Italy on the other side!   I’ve got the Cote d’Azur at my feet.   I take a moment to savor my accomplishment and the views before tackling the descent back to base camp.   More tourists have arrived,   I believe they are the “boat people” (people from huge cruise ships), because they are constantly looking at their watches.   The narrow streets are getting backed up.  If I don’t start my descent now, I could be stuck here all afternoon.  I’m hungry and thirsty.  I could perish up here!

Down at base camp I find a reasonably priced restaurant and have the recommended lunch (three courses for a set price).    The meal is unmemorable, but fine (fine meaning it’s edible and it doesn’t poison me).   Over dessert, I ponder my next move.   I can actually ascend even further upwards to the Haute Corniche d’Eze.  Imagine the views!   Imagine the horror of getting there!  Or I can go back down to the beach part of Eze.   Imagine the views!  Imagine the horror of getting there!

I order a second cappuccino.   Maybe I’ll just sit here and enjoy this particular view a little while longer.

Click here for more pictures of Eze.

a brave journey into the unknown

In the last couple of days, I’ve been contemplating a feat of extraordinary mental and physical capacity, but I’ve lacked the strength to execute it.

This morning, I wake up to a semi-clear head and totally clear, blue skies.   I  know this is the day.   I’m going to Les Arcs.

Les Arcs is about 6 kilometers from Vidauban.   Now, if you bother to do the math, you may be scoffing at me right now.   That’s like 3 miles!!!   You could walk that!   Yeah, right.   I don’t think there are a lot of little shops from here to there, and there might even be hills.  And lets not forget I don’t even know which way is up.   Or north.   And these people don’t speak English!   So don’t mock me, you with your fancy cars, streets lined with little shops, subways, mother tongue and sense of direction!   It’s frightening, I tell ya!

While I don’t know much about Les Arcs, I do know it’s very important to go there ASAP, because that’s the home of this part of the Var region’s (they call it the Dracenie) major SCNF/TGV train station.   You can get anywhere from Les Arcs, with super-fast trains to Nice, Marseille, Cannes, Aix, Avignon, Paris,  Bordeaux, Grenoble, Strasbourg, Amsterdam, Brussels…you get the picture.  It’s kind of like a transportation hub, where all bus and train lines intersect.

So, how do I get to this mystical place, Les Arcs?   Unfortunately, the Vidauban train station isn’t exactly what you’d call bustling, which is kind of too bad because the station itself is a nice little building.   Not a lot of trains stop here.    And most of them are at an ungodly hour of the morning.   But there are a few every day.   There’s also the #9 “Tedbus” that runs a little more frequently.

I opt for the bus, which leaves at 12:47.   Now I just have to figure out from where.   I know it’s somewhere in the Place de Clemenceau.   Fortunately,  a sign on the sidewalk makes it pretty clear.   The bus arrives, I pay my Euro to the bus driver, who is friendly and helpful and doesn’t drive like she’s pissed off, which seems like a refreshing change to someone who has only ridden on NYC and SF buses.  It’s one of those tour bus type buses with reclining seats, so it’s pretty cushy.     Ten minutes later,  after some rolling hills and vineyards I’m at the Gare de Les Arcs/Draguignan.

Turns out, the actual village of Les Arcs is about a quarter of a mile down the road from the gare.   At first, it’s positively residential, a little girl scolds her doll on the front lawn, another family works in the garden.   Then it starts resembling a cute little French village/town, with little shops and cafes (phew!).

The main square is tucked in at the bottom of a hill with a ancient looking church, monastary or fortress (I’ll have to look it up later) looking over it.   I wander all the little streets leading off the square, assiduously avoiding anything resembling a hill.      Until I see a sign reading “medieval village” with an arrow that points up a tiny street that can only lead uphill.   I’m a sucker for a medieval village, so I enter the maze, knowing full well, once I enter, there’s no turning back.

OMG, it’s so cute.   All these cobbley stone buildings with colorful shutters and doors are stacked on top of each other, connected by little spiraling alleyways festooned with greenery,  stone arches, steps and bits of serendipitous art.

The further up I go, the more I want to live here.   I see people sunning on quaint tree lined terraces and covet their lives.  It gets quieter and cooler (counter-intuitively) as I near the top.   All I can hear are birds and trickling waterfalls.

At the top, I stop to pant for a few minutes, looking out at the amazing view.   An elderly French man (meaning he’s about my age) lights a cigarette and tells me about … something.   I assume he’s giving me a tip about a beautiful spot nearby, because I hear the word “arbes” and l’eau.   I oooo and ahhhh at his description and thank him for his advice, even though for all I know, he’s describing his hernia operation.

As I admire the magnificent view I start to wonder.   How much would an apartment up here cost?   How annoying would carrying groceries up the hill become?   How do you get a couch up here?   Hell, how do you get a bag of cat litter up here?   And do I really care?   It’s heaven.   I’m sure the groceries, couch and cat litter would float up.   I must live here!

After surveying my domain for about a half hour, I reluctantly head back down to civilization.   I consider eating a light repast at one of the cafes on the square, but am not emotionally prepared for conversations, or trying to figure out what “tete au veau”or onglet de bavette is.   Instead, I hungrily eye the pictures in the real estate office windows, which make me realize I may have to give up food completely if I want to live here (which would eliminate the problem of lugging grocery bags up the hill, I suppose).

I catch the 15:25 bus back to Vidauban and make it home without a hitch.   Fortuitously, I’m greeted to dinner delivered on my doorstep –   escargot!    Maybe I won’t have to starve after all.

Escargot on terrace lantern

 

you gotta love these quaint goddamn medieval villages

We’re spending three nights in the village of Rovinj. Our hotel is in the middle of the medieval old town where attempting to maneuver a car gives mere mortals a nervous tic. You don’t see many SUVs let alone Hummers in this part of the world.

The Angelo D’Oro, is probably the closest thing to a boutique hotel you’ll find in this neck of the woods. It’s a converted townhouse. Homey. Small. Decorated with antiques. It’s got a garden where breakfast, drinks and dinner is served. There’s also a tiny covered porch area near the roof great for kicking back and enjoying the view or a book.

The other recommended hotel options are outside the walls of old Rovinj in big old communist block buildings which offend our sensibilities. The main downside is instead of having the luxury of a paved path to a pool, our hotel choice forces us to walk up the narrow street past the church courtyard to the edge of Rovinj and climb down some rocks to swim in the Adriatic. Here, People sunbathe on the rocks that jut out from the cafes bars homes and churches overlooking the sea. They look like happy flesh colored seals in unbecoming bathingsuits. I love the picturesque-ness of it. And the sight confirms my deeply held belief that humans are not meant to be a sunbathing species. But damn that water looks good.

I particularly like the outdoor market in Rovinj (just outside the wall). The fruit and vegetables all look particularly luscious, big and ripe. And they have great looking bottles with herbs and fruits in them that facinate and tempt me even though deep in my heart, I know they’re grappa. It’s the only market I’ve seen that sells colorful strings of various whole, raw seasoning…laurel, different colored hot peppers, garlic and other stuff that are really beautiful in the simple arrangements The first day in Rovinj we bought fruit and stuff from the market and had lunch on the hotel roof porch.

I’ll always remember Rovinj because my first work of art is acquired here. For my birthday present (like the trip isn’t enough) my parents bought me An oil painting done by a local artist of a couple of rowboats parked in front of a pair of shuttered townhouses in “downtown.” Rovinj. The painting seems kind of impressionist, so I particularly like it. But I’m sure I’ll curse is existence when I have to take it back to Paris, or worse, the US (not going to think about it).

On our second morning in Rovinj, my dad and I break from the pack and drive to Pula to see the ampitheatre and a medieval village or two. We find our way easily and check out the well preserved remains of the roman colloseum. It’s up there with Rome, Verona, but this is probably the nicest location. Kind of a northern Naples. There’s an old town, an old church, an old forum and old medieval streets. And the school where James Joyce taught for five minutes and developed an aversion to the region (he must have had the same problem with Zagreb airport we did).

On the way back we take the scenic route. The road winds along a rocky green shores dotted with picturesque medieval villages and steeples. It’s a Sunday but we figure we’ll stop at one of the little restaurants in one of the villages for lunch. Obviously, my dad and I are the crazy adventurous ones in the family on this trip.

We wisely opt for parking outside our chosen village and look for our restaurant. We can’t find it and everything looks closed. We look confused and an Italian family visiting Croatian relatives offers to show us where the restaurant is by walking us there.. It gives the 10 year old girl a chance to practice her English. She is also the only one in the group with any crossover translator abilities (except me, with my new Auvers inspired gift for mime).

After a few minutes of trying to draw the girl who has clearly been put on the spot out of her shell, she tells me haltingly in English that “it is very important to be good at another language.” I nod encouragingly. “ Yes! That’s very good! And true!” Unfortunately, those are the only words she knows in English and 10 more than what I know in Croatian or Italian.

Nonetheless, It’s a lovely interlude. Visualize it: two families from different cultures strolling along the Croatian coast (maybe in silhouette) together on a Sunday afternoon. One of them is gesticulating wildly.

The restaurant is closed like everything else in this damn medieval town. We escape to the car before the family can invite us to have lunch with them. All this pantomiming is more exercise than I’ve had in years. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted.

We escape to the car, and the moment I let my guard down, I take the wrong turn.

I’m suddenly driving in the pedestrian area of the goddamn medieval village, with no apparent legal exit (of course there’s no legal exit, there’s no legal entrance). And since it’s Sunday, there are no helpful vendors directing me towards the correct exit in an effort to keep me from backing into their displays. Fortunately, there are a couple of kids and cops out, who direct us when we get our car wedged between several goddamn quaint medieval buildings. Is the air-conditioning on? I’m sweating like a pig.

On the way back to Rovinj, all I can think of is how nice it would be to have an ice cream cone and a paved path to a swimming pool. But noooooo, because we’re staying in a goddamn quaint medival village I have to walk up the street carrying a towel and climb down some rocks to swim. Which also requires wearing a bathing suit in a public place.

Once we get back to Rovinj and have a quick lunch, I resolve to brave it. The street, stairs and rocks are easy. It’s the bathing suit and water part that are hard. I finally am in position to dive in. I dip my foot in and goddamn, the water is cold. Goddamn unheated Adriatic water. I take the plunge and dunk my whole body in. It’s blue. It’s clear. It’s refreshing. I’m swimming in the Adriatic. I can see my feet and fish. But they’re not scary fish (in fact, they look delicious). My feet are another story.

I look up and see the quaint little medieval village looming above me. The sun sparkles on me and the water around me. Goddamn, this is good.