Do you know the way to St. Paul de Vence?
April 7, 2002 | 12:00am
On a very warm summer’s day in Paris in June of 2001, I assembled my wife, our two sons, my sister and my niece for a three week drive from Paris to Rome.
The trip had been planned and all hotel rooms had been reserved two months beforehand. Since there were so many of us and there was a distinct possibility of us being stranded without a room if we did not plan our trip in advance, I did not wish to leave anything to chance. We were also on a strict budget and therefore had to find hotels whose room rates were within our means. Given the prices of hotel rooms in Europe these days (a minimum of US$400 a night for the best-known five-star hotels), this promised to be quite a task.
Our itinerary had us staying one night in Geneva where I had a meeting, another night in the small town of Cliousclat in order to break the long drive to the south. Then we were to spend two days in the town of Roquefort les Pins 30 minutes north of Nice. We would then wend our way to the small northern Italian city of Varese where my son Diego wanted to meet up with an old schoolmate. Then it was off to Venice for three days, four days in the Tuscan town of San Gemignano, three days in Florence and four days in Rome where we were to split up. My sister and niece would be off to London while we would go on to Greece.
Keenly aware of the Filipino propensity to pack a lot of things to meet every possible contingency and to shop till kingdom come, I had specifically reserved a large American type van that could comfortably take six people with tons of luggage. I was repeatedly reassured that there would be one to my specification waiting for me in Paris.
The minute I was shown the van, I knew we were in trouble.
European large does not equal American large. European large is small by American standards. The van reserved for me could take a total of seven passengers with only backpacks for luggage. And we hadn’t even gone shopping yet!
It took us six hapless Filipinos one hour to figure out how to stuff all of our luggage into the car. When we finally left Paris, I had four passengers in back, with luggage stuffed into every nook and cranny of the van and the excess pieces on their laps. I had to endure screams and curses, with several threats thrown in for good measure, until I was forced to stop at the first service center that came our way.
A kind French truck driver obviously figured out that we were in a predicament. Here were six tourists trying to secure luggage onto what seemed to be a luggage rack on the roof of a van without any success. He took me aside, told me which strap to buy, how to install it and how to safely secure our luggage onto the roof. It was with a great sigh of relief that we left the service station and were finally comfortably on our way.
As we drove the Cliousclat after an overnight stay in Geneva, it rained and, while it was still raining, the sun broke out and produced a double rainbow. Was this perhaps a portent of the pleasures to come?
France is a relatively small country (relative to the United States, that is) but it harbors a landscape that ranges from mountain plateaus to lush farmland, traditional villages to chic boulevards. It also enjoys a diversity of regional identities, which makes travel through the country a singular experience. The country belongs to both northern and southern Europe and encompasses Brittany with its Celtic roots, the Mediterranean sunbelt, Teutonic Alsace-Lorraine, and the mountain regions of the Auvergne and the Pyreneees.
No other region of France fires the imagination as strongly as Provençe, however. From its herb-scented hills to its glamorous harbors brimming with yachts of the rich and famous, Provence’s vivid landscape and luminous light has inspired authors like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Peter Mayle and Marcel Pagnol (whose books were the basis for the movies Jean de Florette and Manon of the Spring) and painters such as Van Gogh and Picasso.
The borders of Provençe are defined by nature: to the west, the Rhone; to the south, the Mediterranean; and to the north, where the olive trees end. To the east are the Alps and a border which has shifted over the centuries between France and Italy. Along the Cote d’Azur you will find a moveable feast of sun-drenched beaches, Camargue saltflats, jazz and film festivals, bullfights, auto races and impossibly chic casinos – all liberally sprinkled with celebrities and magnates from all over the world. The interior of Provençe is a contrasting terrain of plummeting river gorges, lavender fields, remote mountain aeries and perched villages – a paradise for walkers and nature lovers.
Our introduction to Provençe was the little village of Cliousclat in the Drome region of France. I chose to stop in this village because I needed to break our trip and it was along our route from Geneva to the Cote d’ Azur. I was also rather intrigued by the description of our inn:
"La Treille Muscate is exactly the kind of small hotel you hope to find in a Provencal village. Beautiful sunny yellow walls brighten the ground floor rooms... the dining room with its bright Provencal table linens... vanished jugs and splendid dinnerware crafted by a skilled potter, a neighbor and a friend... a lovely view out over the quiet village or the countryside... excellent cuisine enhanced with aromatic herbs and local products..."
I was also definitely intrigued by the price, which was US$65 per room per night inclusive of breakfast.
Cliousclat and La Treille Muscate did not disappoint. We arrived at around 9:30 p.m. and found a tiny village of about ten houses dominated by La Treille Muscate at its center. The inn’s restaurant was closed but the inn’s manager thoughtfully reserved us a table at a small charming restaurant just a few meters from the inn. You would think that the restaurant would empty at such a late hour but, lo and behold, it was full and we had to wait, to get a table. Our patience was richly rewarded with a hearty French meal and all the local cheeses that we could eat.
Our rooms at the inn were charming. They were all differently decorated in the best provincial manner, with a bath and a balcony overlooking the countryside in each room. Admittedly, this was not the Hilton but we did not come to Cliousclat to vegetate in a hotel room that could be anywhere in the world. We wanted to soak in the atmosphere of the French countryside, in rooms that definitely told us that we were in a place we had never been in before. And that is what we got at La Treille Muscate.
When morning broke, we were treated to a typical French petit dejeuner (breakfast) of freshly squeezed orange juice, warm baguettes with butter, jam and cheese, piping-hot cups of fresh brewed coffee, English tea and chocolate. By the time we were through with breakfast, nothing was left on the table; everything tasted so good.
The rest of the morning was spent relaxing in our rooms and taking in the views of countryside with its olive trees, grape vines, wild herbs and lavender bushes. After dressing, we strolled through the little town and discovered a small pottery museum and workshop. A few meters away was a small boutique selling pottery, crockery, glassware, placemats and napkins, most of which were made in the area. There were also souvenirs, which started to fill up the precious little empty space we had left in our van.
At one point during our stroll, I had to restrain my wife and sister from pulling out every rosemary bush they encountered. This is what happens to terminally deprived third worlders. Rosemary is hard to come by in the third world, whereas in Cliousclat, they were growing wild and sprouted from every crack in the village walls! So what does a terminally deprived third worlder do when confronted with such abundance? Grab as much as he can, including the wrapping, and squirrel it away for a rainy day. For if there is one fact of life in the third world, it is that there is always a rainy day.
Nearby was a small vile perche (perched village) which was in the early stages of rediscovery and reconstruction. It turns out that many of the these hilltop villages were abandoned in the nineteenth century when the local economies dwindled and the young villagers left for the cities for better jobs and better futures. Artists, who by definition are always starving, rediscovered these ville perches and their cheap accommodations and started repopulating them, to the everlasting joy of the French tourist trade.
There are no monuments in Cliousclat, no museums, no galleries, no fashionable cafes and bars. There is just a small town with a few houses, which showcase the works of the artisans in the area. On the day that we were there, the sun was blazing in a cloudless, deep blue sky. Instead of hurrying off to our next destination, we decided to linger a while and have lunch in La Treille Muscate’s leafy garden where we were surrounded by roses, rosemary and other herbs and fields of lavender. A good lunch, a bottle of wine, the company of loved ones, the smell of adventure in the air, the promise of more to come. Not much to some people but, for me, just the very ingredients which make life worth living.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>
