my latest sources of intense sensual pleasure

Ulti Jus d’orange, pamplemousse et frambois. 

Nectar of the gods, I tell ya!   Monoprix makes one that’s equally delish under the “daily monop” label.    And not terribly easy to find outside of big cities.   So far, I’ve only encountered it in Paris, Nice and Marseille.   It’s fresh and so good you want to savor it like a fine wine (or in my case, chocolate milk).   With every sip I take, I’m boggled by its deliciousness anew.   I think there must be something in it like crack.

A friend of mine tried it when she was visiting France and is showing signs of a burgeoning addiction.   Now when she calls me, her first question is “are you drinking that juice?” her voice thick with desire.     She’s now planning to retire here, in part, I believe for this juice.

Domaine Ramateulle 2010 Rose

I am by no means a wine connoisseur.   In fact, I never been a big wine fan.   Until I met rose (with an accent over the “e” — someday I’m going to have to figure out how to do a accent grave on my computer).   I always thought they were the white trash of wines, but boy was I wrong (well, either that, or I have white trash taste).   They’re dry but refreshing.   Light, but fuller bodied than white.   They’re jush desilicious.

So far, this is my favorite.   It’s hauntingly good.   I find myself thinking about it at various points during the day, looking forward to the moment my lips touch its cold, dewy glass.  And the best part is, it not only tastes ambrosial, it gets me drunk!    I never want to be without it ever again.

Sun dried tomato/anchovy tapenade

I can’t vouch for all of them, since every recipe is different (and they often have different names such as bagnattou, or croistillade.”   I’m in love with one at the Antibes Marche Provencal that has olives, sun dried tomatoes, basil, anchovies and god knows what else.  They call theirs “bagnattou d’angele”, which seems apt.    Everytime I eat it, I’m surprised at how utterly freaking good it is.   I find myself having it for dessert.   Who knew something without chocolate in it could be so addictive?

Rotisserie chicken from a truck

I have yet to eat a chicken as perfect as those from a truck in France.    I don’t know if it’s that the chickens are better, or fresher, or better prepared but dang, those are good chickens.   Perfectly seasoned, moist, flavorful.   I have sought tastier chickens all over the world and have yet to find one.   Particular kudos to the hot guy and his pretty wife at the Vidauban market (not pictured here).   The best of the best, IMHO.

Oreillettes de Languedoc

I happened upon these babies while waiting in line at Monoprix to pay for my Ulti jus d’oranges, pamplemousse et frambois.   They’re one layer of pastry drizzled with lemon juice and sugar.   I ate the entire box in an hour an am now planning to go to Nice first thing in the morning to stock up on more (I’d go right now, but it’s Sunday).   I guess they’re a specialty of the Languedoc, which is making me consider moving there.

Meil de lavande from La Maison du Miel in Vidauban

I always thought honey was honey.   And lavender honey just sounds like so much BS.   So when Gilli told me people travel from far and wide for this honey, I took it with a grain of salt (or pollen).

Well, over here they have honey degustations (the next gourmet preoccupation?) which I’m glad to take part in (hey, free food!).   After tasting honey from across the land, I’ve come to revise my thinking.   Honey is not honey, and this stuff is amazing!!!  I wish I could describe what it is exactly that makes it taste above and beyond every other honey–a subtle hint of spicy-ness?  The round, almost buttery depth of flavor?   Yes, it’s a miracle honey.   I think it probably cures illness and eliminates wrinkles when applied topically.

Produce

Holy shit!   So this is what these things are supposed to taste like.

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

 

good morning, Vidauban

Yesterday (or was it today?) is a blur.   I pretty much arrived at my cute little apartment, around 4PM French time, got the kitties set up, ate some pasta my landlady made for me since it was Sunday and all the stores were closed.   I fought mightily to stay awake until 11PM, to try to get on a normal sleeping clock.

I awaken refreshed and ready to go.   I look out the window to see what kind of a day it’s going to be and am mildly shocked by the view.

Thrown, I check the clock:   3:30AM.   I go back to bed, but my body is already in “let’s go” mode.   I get up, make some tea and a plate of bread and cheese (aren’t I European?) thumb through some information about the region and wait.

And wait.

Finally, it’s light enough to take my preliminary grand tour of Vidauban.   If I can find it.   I head down the dirt road and onto the main road, looking for the telltale church spire that I use as a compass in every European village, town and city I’ve ever been (a rare example of organized religion providing something useful).

Eureka, I’ve found it!

Not bad, eh?

I can’t wait to see it when the stores are open.

san francisco – nice

I have a very complex system for long haul travel.   It involves carefully modulated Xanax dosing which has saved many lives.

When the kitties or I start yowling on the way to the airport, I take my first chip of Xanax.    We check in without a hitch.

Unlike last time, when we traveled to Auvers via Air France, Luftansa actually checks the cats’ paper work that cost me hundreds of dollars and countless hours to get.   I guess that’s the difference between a French and German airline.   Either that, or since my last trip, the kitty terrorist threat has been raised.

I take an unscheduled chip of Xanax when they tell me my extra baggage fees plus the kitties cost $650.

After the kitties and luggage are safely in the airline’s hands, I wait in the three mile security line that’s coiled up like an intestine..  After an hour of waiting in line, I take my next chip of Xanax.    By the time I get to the x-ray machine, I don’t even care that airport security probably knows more about my body than my doctor.  I’m mildly concerned that nobody saw fit to grope me.

I think I bought something at the duty free store and I’m sure I’ll figure out what it is later when I see the bill or the actual item.

Once I’ve finished boarding and loathing all the people clogging the aisles trying to fit a 48 x 30″ bag in the 36″ x 18″ overhead bin, I take my final chip of Xanax and settle in for take off.

SF pretty…from a distance.

Man next to me takes up too much space.   What’s really annoying is he’s not fat, he just likes to spread out.   His arms are hanging in my chair space and his legs are definitely taking up MY legroom.   Just my luck to get an uncute, unfat space hog.   Or is that airspace hog.   Or unhot hog.   Whatevs, he sickens me more than … mushy mushy mushy.

I wake up, look out the window and pray what I’m looking at isn’t the Rockies.

After asking the stewardess a few key questions I’m able to determine it’s the Alps,  which melt into the Cote d’azur and Mediterranean in a few moments.   Jeez, this doesn’t really give me much time to worry about every horrible eventuality that could possibly happen upon landing.

Villefranche sur la Mare, Cap Ferrat, Monaco, Monte Carlo from the air

Cote d'Azur from Menton (bottom) to Nice (top)

Damn, it’s pretty down there.   I mean here.

A bit of Nice

Nice Airport is very manageable.   I get through customs and got to baggage claim within 10 minutes of landing.   That time is well-spent making deals with whatever higher power may be listening that I’ll trade the safe transport of of my bag with the Dolce and Gabbana jacket (vintage 1999) for that of my kitties.

The luggage and cats emerge unscathed although I do have one brief horrible moment where I have to poke Denzel in his carrier to make sure he’s alive (he is).

My landlords are waiting for me outside the baggage claim with a sign that reads “Lesley Stern and Kitties”.

The 50 minute drive to Vidauban is smooth (as opposed to full of potholes, like our disintegrating roads in California which cause me to refer to any car as an orgasma-tron).   It’s also very beautiful with mountains, the Mediterranean,  hilltop villages and vineyards.

Unfortunately, my memory is a little foggy, my camera battery died at the airport, and I just dozed off in front of the computer, so the tour of Vidauban and my new home for the next three months will have to wait until later.   But it’s all good.

Good night or good morning or whatever it is.

 

my new occupation in france

With less than a week until I’m back in France, I’ve been thinking.   When I was in Auvers, my principle goal was to experience life in France, soak up the culture, the food, the art and do some writing, which I did.     I halfheartedly pursued a few whims (ie:  tried to learn French, considered writing a book, getting a job, finding a rich husband with property in France), but I lacked focus. As a result, all I got out of it was knowledge and experience, which has little currency in today’s world.

This time around, it’s going to be different.  Now that I’m going to be in France long term, I need a long term goal.  I need to wholeheartedly pursue something substantial.   Something life-changing.   Something that’s evident not only from the inside, but also externally, for all the world to see.    None of this vague stuff. It’s got to be specific and it has to be etched in stone (or blog) or I’ll get distracted.

After a great deal of research and thought, taking my skills, interests and location into consideration, I’ve found a new raison d’etre that I can pursue wholeheartedly.   I’ll be stalking Johnny Depp.   He lives a mere 20 minutes from Vidauban, so it will be very convenient.    I can’t wait to get started.

So, in addition to continuing this blog, my new blog, Stalking Johnny Depp will chronicle my efforts.   Please check it out, subscribe, share, link and like.