Naturally we started our trip off with a glass of wine at lunch. After all, it was too late for breakfast… Deux verres de vin rouge – um, uh — pas sec. Un peu… Finally I just threw my hands in the air and laughed. I meant well but it seemed unfair to make our poor waiter suffer for my lack of versatility with the language. Our waiter obliged with two glasses of wine and a hearty, Welcome to Provence!

Our first morning, Vaccination Card in hand, we left to explore Pernes-les-Fontaines, a 10-minute walk from our cozy, CDC-treated, 100-year-old, two-story farmhouse we had come to call home for two weeks. We had to move to the curb much more often to accommodate bicyclists than cars.

How different our Provence adventure was from the usual prescribed schedule offered by most tour companies. Such is the beauty of UNTOURS which puts you up in unusual accommodations in multiple cities in more than a dozen European countries – perhaps a castle, in a vineyard, or a delightful old house like ours to live like a local. Untours provides a car, inundates you with information, connects you with a local contact to answer questions, and sets you off to see what you want to see when you want to see it. Unencumbered by anyone else’s set schedule or preferences, it’s a much more socially distanced option than a tour bus.

Yes, there is a supermarket near Pernes, known for the 41 fountains which constitute its name (although none operational due to water as a precious commodity), but it’s so much more French to stop at the individual butcher, baker, cheese shop, produce store to buy provisions – and so we very smugly did.

Expect to get lost everywhere – and savor the adventure of doing so. No one has ever been inextricably lost, though the temptation to be so is great as you traverse streets spanning multiple centuries in an afternoon’s outing.

One day after building up a great thirst, we stopped for lunch and ordered a beer. When I balked at the choice of either Heinekens or Corona (Ou est les bieres Francaise?), I received a stern rebuke: We are French; we drink wine. Lesson learned.

Second surprise: how few people actually spoke any English, though very eager to help nonetheless. And in Covid September, when we were there, that was true for the tourists as well.

Our first Hill Town (which come by their name honestly), of which there are more than a dozen within an hour’s drive of Pernes, was Gordes, one of the 100 Most Beautiful Villages in France. As it first comes into view, perched high upon a hill (go figure!) – enveloped by stone walls overlooking stone buildings overlooking vast vineyards – you do not question that designation.

As much as I imagined anything called a Hill Town to be quaint and picturesque, I was not prepared for the exhilaration I felt upon entering. The awe at the walled surroundings, the sense of being transformed back to the 11th century, views that demand head-shaking wonderment, precarious walkways and narrow side streets whose sides you can touch with outstretched arms – all of which made it easy to dismiss the many cafes, shops and tourists which also abound. Take time to visit the 11th century Abbey. Its most recent renovations? The 18th century.

From Gordes, it’s an easy drive to Roussillion, a town shrouded in varying shades of ochre. Sort of a combination of red, maroon, orange, terra cotta and yellow. Who knew there were so many shades of a color I heretofore couldn’t have given a name to? Dramatic views of ochre cliffs give the town its unique coloration. Oh yes, it also has stone buildings.

The next town was more a nostalgic stop than anything else – that and the dozens of vineyards we passed enroute. Menerbes, the home town of Peter Mayle, author of the renowned My Year in Provence, which admittedly I wish I had read after the trip rather than before so that I could have related even more to his many Provincial adventures, is another of the 100 Most Beautiful Villages in France. The canopied entrance alone suggests that. And, of course, there is the de rigueur enthralling view.

Menerbes is quieter, more subdued than Gordes with wider streets. While dating back to the 14th century, there is less a visceral sense of the medieval influence. All of which contributed to its own personality and livable charm – and the fact that this is where Mr. Mayle did his shopping. A small garden for sitting and reflecting beckoned. This being our third hill town – hill being the operative word – we welcomed it! Just when we thought we had seen the most charming village, we came by another. Best to withhold judgment on charm quotients…

When visiting said charming small towns – which is mostly what you want to do – be sure to park in the lots outside of town. Don’t even think about driving in the towns themselves unless you’re on a bike. We did – not by choice – and not until we finally found a way out of the one way, very narrow miasma of traffic did our stomachs return to their designated place in our bodies.

A trip to the Saturday morning market in Pernes is – well, a trip itself. Unending supplies of flowers, fruit, furniture, food; also clothes, shoes, crafts, purses, jewelry, household items. And especially wine, cheeses and olives – and more varieties of ham than all the deli meats combined at a supermarket at home. And the people are as varied as are the perishables.

Sunday brought us back into town – this time to a ghost village. Hard to believe the two days co-exist within the same town. So much for our plan for afternoon wine at a café. But as we had learned, whatever the village, it’s always a good idea to walk off the main square to see where the people really live. So we found ourselves in a residential area, perusing 13th-century corridors with the sounds of everyday life emanating from apartment windows. A welcome sense of becoming acquainted with our hometown outside its more touristy main square. And a reminder that there was more life to the ghost town than we initially thought. Some time later, when visiting a favorite restaurant, our waiter smilingly led us to your usual table. Voila, we belonged. Thank you, Untours.

Avignon was a slightly different experience than our beloved Hill Towns. A big walled city from the 14th century. Here the operative word is big. Massive medieval monuments dominate the square – churches, palaces, municipal buildings, amphitheatres – dwarfing those straining their necks to take them all in. Take especial note of the Palais de la Pape because yes, Avignon was the center of the papacy in the early 14th century before it permanently moved back to Rome.

As always, the city center is a combination of ancient buildings and modern shops and everywhere the city walls, built three centuries before the first settlement in America. The past somehow feels both overwhelming and imminently present.

As my husband’s eyes were beginning to glaze over at the thought of another Hill Town, we mixed up our days with a local hike, a day of errands and laundry, a visit to a Cezanne and Kandinsky exhibit at a museum in Les Baux (Can you handle yet another Most Beautiful Village?), and a festival in St. Remy (there is probably a festival every day somewhere in Provence…), a week-long homage to bulls in several iterations. At the bull ring, more than a dozen grown men were chasing after the bull – or maybe it was the other way around. It was a bizarre sport and I didn’t know whom I was supposed to root for – but it definitely made me better appreciate American football.

Fortunately there was also a bonus stop to view extensive Roman ruins dating back to the third century and a street adorned with reproductions of Van Gogh’s letters and paintings from when he lived in St. Remy – there is always a bonus in Provence.

At lunch in St. Remy, we sat at a table for two and ordered a steak to share. They then moved us to a larger one. Porquoi? It was needed to accommodate the size of the steak. Provence is also full of surprises.

Another memorable meal? Harder to name one that wasn’t. But this one a destination multi-course luncheon at an imposing hilltop chateau – Le Domaine du Castellas in Sivergues. If with a novice gear-shift driver (my husband), harrowing roads competed with breath-taking scenery, if you dared take your eyes off the road long enough to look at it. Sheer terror might overcome appreciation of your surroundings but these very surroundings and the narrow, winding hill towns that inhabit them are the very reason you come to Provence. Fortunately, we didn’t come upon a car going the other way – we’d still be there trying to figure out who could pass by where…. And the roosters and goats with whom we ended up sharing our outdoor repast – some of whom at other times might actually show up on the menu themselves – help mitigate the afore-mentioned terror.

All the more reason to appreciate picking up a fresh roasted chicken from the market, wave to shopkeepers we had befriended, sip yet another glass of wine and dine al fresco at our arbor-covered, garden-enclosed picnic table, contemplating tomorrow’s adventures. A perfect way to end the day. Yet one more reason to be thankful for Untour’s unique approach to travel. For more information, contact www.Untours.com.

The post Provence, France: Proving that Hill Towns Plus a Plethora of Wine and Cheese Promise Paradise appeared first on Traveling Archive.

1. Question: What are some of the “things” or activities that the people of Bordeaux do for fun?

Answer:

The Bordelaise, active and vibrant, enjoy wine tasting in one of the world’s great wine growing regions such as Saint Emilion or Pomerol. Dining at sidewalk tables that line the Historic District, and cycling/jogging on the pedestrian promenade adjacent to the Garonne River. A short drive to the Atlantic Ocean beaches, and to Arcachon, a colorful seaside town is where the Bordelaise dig into a plate of fresh oysters from the Gironde estuary. With one of the liveliest music scenes in France there are performances at the Grand Theater/Opera House, 1789, and on going productions and exhibits at La Cite du Vin, and night clubs. On Saturday and Sunday the Bordelaise also head to the Le Marche des Capucins market to art galleries and antique dealers in the colorful Saint Michel neighborhood.

2. Question: What’s one thing the public probably does NOT know about Bordeaux?

Answer:

Bordeaux is not a “Little Paris.” Old Town dating to the 18th century is the world’s largest UNESCO urban World Heritage Site. St. Catherine Street is the longest pedestrian shopping street in Europe. In keeping with the dynamic French culture Bordeaux has a growing collection of young up-and-coming chefs. La Cite Du Vin is a five-star one-of-a-kind venue covering the World of Wine. Bordeaux, a cyclist’s paradise, is the sixth most cycle friendly city in the world with over 100 miles of cycling trails, and seven designated routes for exploring the city. Resident Melanie Pelle explains, “Visitor’s are surprised to discover that We have 71,000 acres of natural woods, parks, pine forests, private gardens and marshlands and a large number of hiking trails, and also 15 museums including a former Submarine Base bunker used during World War II.”

3.  Share some aspect of what Bordeaux has contributed to the world.

Answer:

Bordeaux is long noted for their fine wines anchored by 16th, 17th and 18th century chateaux; preserving their downtown Historic District with 5,000 buildings dating to the 18th century; La Cite Du Vin, (The City of Wine) an elaborate cultural experience, unique to the world, with eight floors, 19 themed modules detailing all aspects of wine through the ages with art exhibits, wine tasting and dining with a view.

Get more information about Bordeaux

The post Three Things About Bordeaux appeared first on Traveling Archive.

On the hallowed grounds of the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial rest 9,387 Americans who made the ultimate sacrifice during the Operation Overlord landings and ensuing battles in the Allied liberation of France. Set high on a bluff above the Omaha Beachhead in Colleville-sur-Mer, France, it is one of the best-known military cemeteries and memorials in the world.

Part III of the series begins with a long coach ride from the riverboat AmaLyra’s docking to the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. Our guide explained that we would walk the cemetery alone, for she never accompanies tour groups in fear of endless bouts of tears. This I soon understood, as I paid witness to the many Latin Crosses and Star of David markers on the cemetery’s lawn. The government of France granted use of the land to the United States, perpetually, free of charge or tax to honor the Allied forces. U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower and French President René Coty dedicated the cemetery on July 18, 1956.

Elizabeth A. Richardson’s life began in Indiana, then moved on to college and career in Wisconsin, finishing with the American Red Cross in England and France in 1945. Her job was to lift the morale of GIs in rural Britain, providing food, entertainment and “a connection to home.” This was done by the use of “Clubmobiles”: single-decked buses, barely large enough to transport three Red Cross women and one British driver to GIs stationed far away in the countryside. This unique vehicle also contained coffee and doughnut-making equipment, chewing gum, cigarettes, magazines, newspapers, and a record player for popular songs and dance. The Red Cross “Clubmobileists” were well-schooled in the use of GI slang; could “dish it out and take it,” knew how to talk about baseball, Duke Ellington and the Coney Island Hot Dog. They also knew how to look at pictures of wives, families and girlfriends, and patiently listen to personal stories, which may have included sad news from home. The American Red Cross “Clubmobile” women were often referred to as “donut dollies.” When passing a truckload of GIs, a popular exchange was, “Hey, soldier, what’s cooking tonight?” The soldiers would shout back, “Chicken, wanna neck?” Elizabeth A. Richardson’s life ended in a plane crash to Paris.

As I left the cemetery, I accessed my phone and discovered that as many as 4,400 Allied troops, along with approximately the same number of French civilians, died during Operation Overlord on the day of June 6, 1944.

A decision was to be made: a self-guided tour of the Musée Mémorial d’Omaha Beach or visit the Nazi Wehrmacht (“defense power”)  bunkers overlooking Omaha Beach. With only an hour and a half, it would be difficult to do justice to them both. But, after a brief moment of hesitation, I realized that my decision was obvious.

In the wave of thousands of landing ships, more than 156,000 Allied infantrymen stormed five Normandy beaches – Juno, Gold, Sword, Utah and Omaha – spread over 50 miles of blood-soaked terrain. Facing them were around 50,000 German soldiers. Like the “Battle of Okinawa” and “Invasion of the Philippines,” it was among the largest amphibious assaults in modern history.

On Omaha itself, Americans suffered 2,400 casualties, but eventually landed 34,000 troops. The German 352nd Division lost 20 percent of its strength, with 1,200 casualties, and also had problems with reserves arriving in support. The French Resistance and the Special Operations Executive (SOE), a secret British organization, had provided accurate intelligence reports and aerial photography as well as the disruption of German supply and communication lines.

So, with facts and stats in my head, I charged over to the bunkers, and took a harmless spill on its hill, which produced no laughter from the slightly older AmaLyra tour group, whose only concern was of my well-being. But my concern was to enter a bunker and see the Wehrmacht soldiers’ viewpoint of Allied troops on Omaha’s beachhead. My mind raced to images of Allied soldiers landing on the bloody-soaked beaches, doing everything in their power to stay alive, help the wounded, let alone fight. I also thought of conscripted adolescent German soldiers, barely old enough to fire a weapon, trembling, desperately trying to hold back tears. My thoughts then wandered to the words of my Marine Corp father, who had experienced his own World War II D-Days in the “Battle of Okinawa” and “Battle of Iwo Jima”: “No one wins in war, Eddie… it’s only the little guy that gets hurt. We should ask all those flag wavers in Washington DC, if they’re willing to sacrifice the lives of their own children.”

Yet, today, I’ve noticed there are some who have never experienced warfare, regard a battle as it was hardly more than a video game, while for others – my next-door neighbor, who lost a leg in Vietnam, or my two cousins, one who became a Quaker, the other who eventually found piece in Buddhism – it is quite literally a matter of life and death.

African-American soldiers accounted for a still unknown number of deaths among the 2,000 black troops who stormed the Omaha and Utah beachheads on D-Day. While portrayals in film and literature often depict all-white troops, African-Americans fought not only Nazi German weaponry, but also segregation in the military and at home. Waverly Bernard “Woody” Woodson, Jr. was a medic in the 320th Barrage Balloon Battalion when his landing craft hit a mine on its way to Omaha Beach. Woodson was wounded in the back and groin, but still spent 30 hours on the beach, reviving soldiers, resetting broken bones, performing amputations, removing bullets and shrapnel before collapsing from his own wounds. By the end of World War II, more than a million African-Americans were in uniform, but when many returned to their homes in the Jim Crow South, they were not regarded as heroes; often segregated from others, denied admittance to restaurants and movie theaters, and forced to sit in the back of buses, while still in uniform, as their white band of brothers sat in the front. In 1994, Waverly Bernard “Woody” Woodson, Jr. was one of the three veterans invited to visit Normandy by the French government to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the D-Day landings. He was presented with a commemorative medallion.

As my photographer and I left the bunkers, we hurried past our tearless guide, who shouted we only had ten minutes left to access the tour bus. “What should we do?” “Run,” she replied. Nevertheless, we decided to run into the engaging Musée Mémorial d’Omaha Beach for a cursory look at its collection of soldiers’ personnel objects, historic documents, archival photographs, vehicles, uniforms and weapons, and a peek at a 25 minute-documentary film. We swore that somehow, someday, we will return for full solid day.

Our bus arrived at a small village for a closer look at Omaha Beach. In our 30 minutes, I noticed the lines at an ice cream vendor, and understood that this was also a vacation for many. I realized I was on holiday, too; as my photographer and I sipped cappuccino on a restaurant’s deck, gazing at  the beach, imagining the U.S. troops’ landings and the horrors they faced.

Julius “Henry” Pieper and Ludwig “Louie” Pieper did everything together. They were identical twin brothers of German immigrant parents, the first twins to graduate from their Nebraska high school, and then went on to work for the Burlington Railroad together. When they enlistment with the Navy, underage, but with parents’ consent, they were informed that they would be separated, but their father appealed and made a special request. “My sons came into this world together, and they should have the right to fight and die together.” And when their vessel hit a German mine at Utah Beach, they perished together at 19-years-old in the LST-523’s radio control room. But then, they were apart. Louie Pieper’s body was found and buried at the Normandy American Cemetery, but Henry’s body, known only as “X-9352,” was not identified until 74 years later due to the help of Vanessa Taylor. Ms. Taylor was a student at Ainsworth High School in Nebraska, who had been looking for a topic for a class project. “We were supposed to select a silent hero from our state. I just happened to notice there were two people killed who had the same exact last name.” She made a request to the U.S. Government for personnel files on the two sailors which caught the attention of officials at the Defense POW-MIA Accounting Agency. Henry’s body was recognized by his dental records and DNA. The Pieper boys were given the Victory Medal and the Purple Heart. Inseparable in birth, in life and in death, and finally reunited. Otto and Anna Pieper received a letter from the brothers only two days before their deaths: “Do not worry about us. We are together.”

As we began our long journey back to the AmaLyra, we passed through a number of small French villages; national flags waved proudly in the sky. It was quiet on the bus. Perhaps we all felt a sense of reverance for the nations who had suffered and sacrificed; no doubt as the French did, too, and still pay homage to the Allied soldiers on this bloody day, a bloody day that time will never forget.

A member of the Coeur d’Alene Schi_tsu’umsh Tribe, U.S. Army PVT Charles K. Louie was one of the 175 American-Indian soldiers who participated in Operation Overlord. As part of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, he was killed in mid-air in the pre-dawn hours of D-Day during the paratroopers’ descent behind enemy lines. A combination of low clouds and anti-aircraft fire caused the break-up of the air armada’s formations, scattering paratroopers throughout the pitch-black sky. The name of U.S. Army PVT. Charles K. Louie is listed on the WWII Honor Roll and on the tablets of the missing at the Normandy American Cemetery, with the distinction that he was awarded the Bronze Star and a Purpleheart. As many as 25,000 American-Indians fought actively in World War II: 21,767 in the Army, 1,910 in the Navy, 874 in the Marines, 121 in the Coast Guard, and several hundred nurses. There is a deep sense of patriotism among many of the tribal nations, a belief that despite genocide, broken treaties, and the savage Anglo-American attacks of their tribes, that the United States can still be a better place for all.

As I returned to my stateroom on the AmaLyra, I slipped into a dream, and imagined the sound of D-Day Clickers. Clickers were used by the American paratroopers of the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions, who made parachute drops behind enemy lines on the blackened eve of Operation Overlord’s D-Day. Many perished in the sky or drowned in the flooded marshlands below, but those who landed safely, would make a single click, and waited to hear two clicks back, to determine if friend or foe. When I accessed mine, I noticed two clicks back.

Postscript:

The French Resistance, estimated at 500,000 men and women, carried out endless acts of sabotage against the Axis occupiers. Created by the French Communist Party in 1939, the French Resistance was made up of citizens. And, like other anti-fascist partisans, they were not protected by the rules of war. More than 90,000 French Resisters were killed, tortured or deported. But, after four years of occupation, the French Resistance staged an uprising against the German garrison in Paris, which led to the city’s liberation on August 25, 1944. Allied troops were soon to follow.

The Allies became a formalized group upon the Declaration by United Nations on January 1, 1942, which was signed by 26 nations, including governments in exile and small nations far removed from the war. Latinos from the Americas, led the Allied Western European pack with the largest number of troops in service at 16,000,000.

America First and Seven Hours in December

The U.S. was a late entry in WW II due to a pressure campaign by the America First Committe – its name taken from a Ku Klux Klan rally – whose isolationist policy included no intervention in foreign wars and virtually no immigration from non-Anglo-Saxon nations. With Charles Lindberg as their spokesperson, and members who embraced anti-Semitism and fascist sympathies among their ranks, many admired Hitler and some considered him a friend. Lindberg wore a German medal given to him by Luftwaffe Commander-in-Chief, Herman Goering, then number two man in the Nazi chain of command. The America First’s intensified campaign against sanctions dramatically impacted the U.S. Government’s policy to such an extent that the ocean liner St. Louis, whose 937 passengers were almost all Jewish children seeking safety, was turned back to Europe where many would face certain death.

a prevailing sentiment among the America First nationalists was that British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt and world Jewry had caused WW II, not Nazi Germany. The America First nationalists vehemently oppose the Lend-Lease Act of 1941, which stated that the U.S. could lend or lease war supplies to any nation deemed “vital to the defense of the United States.” Under this policy, the U.S. was able to supply aid to Great Britain, while still remaining officially neutral. Once this was achieved, Churchill knew that Nazi Germany would be defeated. The U.S. finally joined the military campaign after the Western Allies had been engaged in warfare with Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy for 27-months. It took the surprise, coordinated seven-hour aerial bombings on December 7, 1941 by the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service on the U.S. territories of the Philippines, Guam, Wake Island and Hawaii’s Pearl Harbor for the U.S. to act. And act they did, sending a combined number of 16,112,566 American troops to Western Europe, North Africa and the Pacific.

Sad as it may sound

Despite my reluctance to use the term, “fake news,” I found the concept of “D-Day Dodgers” to be a particularly disturbing example. A “D-Day Dodger” was a name branded on Allied troops who supposedly avoided combat on Operation Overlord’s D-Day. The label was put forth by the press to an ignorant populace, unaware that there were many Allied troops who had already participated in earlier D-Days. Many were killed or wounded in the invasion of Sicily, followed by the D-Day beachheads on the Italian mainland with Anzio, Salerno, Calabria and Taranto. On the Western Front of World War II, the battles in Italy proved to the most devastating campaigns in casualties, suffered by infantry divisions on both sides. Over 150,000 Italian civilians died, as well as 35,828 anti-fascist partisans.

I encourage you to read T-Boy’s Stephen Brewer’s illuminating article which covers the Sicily-Rome American Cemetery: At Rest in Italy.

Honor the served & fallen, and teach the next generation

“The War” is a seven-part documentary mini-series which focuses on WW II from the perspective of people living in America’s towns. Directed by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick, and written by Geoffrey Ward, the inspiration for the series stemmed from a lecture Ken Burns made at a U.S. high school. He was surprised that many of the students knew very little about WW II, with some believing that the war was fought against the Soviet Union; our ally who lost 28 million Red Army soldiers and civilians on the Eastern Front,  yet also accounted for 76 percent of Germany’s military dead. It was the beginning of the end after the Red Army’s defeat of the German army in the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943, which continued on the Western Front with the Allied battles at Sicily, Anzio, the Battle of the Bulge, far too many to list.

And, with the Red Army at Berlin’s doorsteps, Hitler, now hidden in his bunker, issued his infamous Nero Decree for the complete destruction of Berlin, leaving no trace that a city had ever existed; also aimed to punish the German people for losing the war. Due to breakdown of communication lines or to the refusal of his generals, it was a command that was never met. Days later Hitler would take his own life. The Red Army soon poured into Berlin, leaving the Volkssturm, Germany‘s citizen army of children and old men to defend what was left of the city. But no one could stop the sheer force of the Red Army’s numbers, and Germany would officially surrender after the Soviet Union victory at the Battle of Berlin (May 2, 1945),

V-E Day celebrations erupted around the globe, but U.S. President Harry S. Truman reminded us that there was a V-J Day that still needed to come.   

Related Articles

• See Part I: Down the Seine to Normandy: Seven Days on the AmaLyra
• See Part II: Monet in Giverny: Down the Seine to Normandy on the AmaLyra
• Stay Tuned for part IV where Ed Boitano writes and Deb Roskamp photographs, The Long Week on the Seiene closes: The royal residence at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France’s Musée d’Archéologie, and the final night on the riverboat AmaLyra.

The post From Monet Gardens to Gardens of Stone: Seven Days on the AmaLyra, Part III. appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The latest T-Boy Society of Film & Music poll is devoted to our members’ favorite international destination. That is, the first international destination we’d visit when the roadways, skyways and waterways are deemed safe to travel. You’ll find members’ selections to be illuminating, telling us much about their own personal preferences.  – EB

Susan Breslow – T-Boy Writer

Madrid, Spain – Despite the king and queen of Spain issuing an order in 1492 for all Jews to be expelled from the country, this Semitic jet-setter is determined to return. I first visited Madrid in 2019. A big fan of walkable cities, I made my way from bustling Gran Via to Puerta del Sol (the center of the country) and then into wide, airy Plaza Mayor. Entranced by the sights, the sounds (what was a mariachi band doing playing in Puerta del Sol?), and the shops, I ventured beyond. I visited the Prado Museum, slipped into Casa Alberto at la hora de vermut (1 pm, the vermouth hour) for a glass of the sweet fortified wine and Spanish olives, wandered the Literary Quarter, attended live flamenco performances at night. It was only a taste, which left me hungry for more of this city and country.

Richard Carroll – T-Boy Writer

The first international destination I will travel when it’s deemed safe to visit is Buenos Aires. The sensuous flow of tango envelops Buenos Aires like a big hug from a long lost lover. Intricate and lush, the essence of exquisite grace, tango has long captured the heart and passion of this grand city. The Portenos are eager to explain that tango is their very own priceless art form based on tradition and cultural roots. The passion and fervor of life can be seen in the royalty of the dance, but not unlike a naughty and mischievous little child who slowly but indisputably develops into a captivating icon, and now is celebrated worldwide. Throughout Buenos Aires tango has always gracefully touched me with a joyous welcome. The tango neighborhoods of La Boca or San Telmo is where the captivating rhythms of tango rule, and where the music and dance unifies the city in an artistic way that no other destination on the planet can match. I found that not all Portenos in Buenos Aires can tango; it often depends whether their mother or father taught them, but with a few lessons tango is captivating.

Writers have tabbed Buenos Aires, The Paris of South America, maybe not, but the large boulevards, historic architecture, fine dining, and a collection of distinctive neighborhoods, captured my travel soul. Browsing through the city with drifting riffs of guitar music touching my heart is a splendid way to cover a destination. The museum-like Cafe Tortoni on Avenida de Mayo dating to 1858, the oldest in the country, hosting everyone from Hilary and the King of Spain, to the late great Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, offers a top-rated tango show that has been enjoyed by thousands of visitors and Portenos alike. It was easy to see that Tango aficionados are never at a loss for a dance or live tango music, realizing that tango was recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. The cultural heritage easily spread throughout the region. From the shores of Buenos Aires across the broad Rio de la Plata, the world’s widest river, is Uruguay with long-lasting tango roots in Montevideo with countless Tangueros or tango dancers, and a thriving tango culture.

Sitting in the crowded Bar Sur club in San Telmo, an earthy, popular, neighborhood in the heart of Buenos Aires, I was tucked around one of nine tables, where it feels as if you are smack dab in the midst of an old black and white foreign movie, and Bogart is going to wander in with a tango dancer draped on his arm, cigarette dangling. The intimate tango room with its classic black and white tile floor, twirling ceiling fans, and gorgeous servers, filling a space the size of a few postage stamps, continues non-stop. The dazzling female Tangueros have certainly left a trail of broken hearts behind them, and with a style and grace close to ballet, they are mesmerizing. I’m counting the days when I can again revisit Buenos Aires. A tango lyric is engraved in my thoughts, “Please take a slender slice of time and set it aside and listen to my fascinating music of life, passion, and lost love.”

Tom Weber – T-Boy Writer

Salò: Lake Garda’s elegant and historic town – Situated on the southwestern corner of Lake Garda, Italy’s largest lake, Salò is the most elegant town of all the lake’s locales. Sadly, during World War II, this gem on the lake also served as the capital of Mussolini’s failed attempt to relaunch fascism as the Republic of Salò.

Fyllis Hockman – T-Boy Writer

Provence, France – Only because we’re scheduled to leave November 21st, after having been cancelled twice before. So unless France closes down between now and then, we’re there!

James Boitano – T-Boy Writer

United Kingdom: Manchester and Wales – I have some longtime friends who live in Manchester. I visited them regularly every 5 years: in 2010 and again in 2015. I had planned to visit them in 2020 and even had my flight ticket to Manchester. We planned a fun trip to explore Wales and the Channel Islands. Of course, Covid got in the way for the past two years. So, the United Kingdom will be my next international destination.

Ringo Boitano – T-Boy Writer

Monterosso, Cinque Terre, Cinque Terre, Italy – The Conque Terre is a string of steep, hillside towns on the rugged Italian Riviera coastline, each with its own majestic setting of colorful houses and vineyards clinging to the terraces. The Sentiero Azzurro cliffside hiking trail links the five towns and offers sweeping, almost unimaginable vistas of the sea – and you must try to experience each of the towns! Monterosso, the first and largest of the five towns, is the only one with an expansive sandy beach, and is the best place to choose as your home base, with a recommended stay of a minimum of five days. After a day’s hike a refreshing swim is in order, followed by a Sciacchetrà, a liquored white wine from the vineyards’ slopes, a plate of fried anchovies (acciuga) caught that very day, and a bowl of Pesto alla Genovese at one of the many trattorias on Monterosso’s pulsating promenade.

Jim Gordon – T-Boy Writer

For me, it would be Italy, Italy, Italy! 2nd choice: England!

Weave Cleveland – T-Boy Writer

Lake Como in Northern Italy – It’s an early summer daydream where (my perception of) a beautiful mature lady drives me all around the region for at least 10 days, being my guide and chaperone. It also looks like I would surely agree to share the driving. Last week I watched the film The Burnt Orange Heresy and just knew that was it. I had never given it thought before but the region in Lombardy, Italy seemed like a special slice of Heaven, and the first place I would like to go is to Lake Como.

Roy Endersby – Philosopher

Brownes Beach, Barbados – The coast of the island nation of Barbados ranges from beaches with powdery sand and protected Caribbean waters to the powerful swells on the eastern Atlantic coast, good for surfing, but dangerous for swimming. Brownes Beach is conveniently set near the capitol city of Bridgetown, and serves as the perfect venue for a serious dose of Bajan flavor with nearby tropical bars and grills, local music and dancing, crowds of people swimming and snorkeling; and yet you can still find your own place in the sun. And all this from a former English colony; today a fascinating cultural fusion of the descendants of plantation owners and slaves, who serve elegant high tea and play cricket.

Phil Marley – Poet

Magens Bay, St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands – Perhaps because it was my first tropical beach or maybe it was due to its heart shape, turquoise waters and one-mile stretch of white soft sand, I was a goner the second I saw Magens Bay. Located on the Atlantic side of St. Thomas – one of the three US Virgin Islands of the Caribbean – Magens Bay is a short, picturesque drive from the port town of Charlotte Amelia. There are no waves and currents, and there is a good mix of sun and shade under the palm trees. On the ends of the beach are rock formations that provide good snorkeling. Despite its distinction of being called one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world by National Geographic Magazine, there are also very few people. Now that I think of it, it is for these very reasons that Magens Bay is my favorite beach in the world.

Skip Kaltenheuser – T-Boy Writer

Carnival Anywhere – Right now, any change of scene looks good. But if and when festivals crank up again without becoming super-spreader events, my primary addiction has always been Carnival across different cultures. But alternatively, solitude also attracts, such as returning to museums in Berlin or pursuits of wildlife in Africa or elsewhere. Of course, there’s also abundant solitude wandering amid crowds in foreign countries, whatever they’re up to. Intergenerational travel, sharing perspectives and sights with younger eyes, is always an informative pleasure I seek.

Ed Boitano – T-Boy Editor

English Bay, Stanley Park, Vancouver, BC – A mandatory pilgrimage for me is to stroll down Robson Street in downtown Vancouver to Stanley Park, my favorite urban park in the world. In the days of my honeymoon, we knew it as Robsonstrasse, due to the number of its German and European delis and bakeries. Today, I would continue further west towards the bay, and soon I am at Stanley Park’s English Bay. With the exception of a kayak trek, I’ve never once set foot into its waters; for the cool of the evening is my desired time to visit. Locals after work congregate on the beach or at nearby bars and grilles. Hikers and bicyclists traverse the lanes along the shore, and I simply take a place on a piece of driftwood and bask in the beauty of what is Vancouver today.

Annie Brouwer – T-Boy Writer

Hello…Italy. We just watched “Luca” the Pixar/Disney film, but I think that town isn’t real (Potorroso). I’d want to go there though.

Roger Fallihee – T-Boy Writer

I would love to visit Morocco. I’ve read that a large part of country is mountainous, which includes the Atlas and Rif Mountains. Apparently both ranges are mainly inhabited by the Berbers. I need to have a better understanding of these fascinating people. I mean, who the heck are they?

Tony Chisholm: T-Boy Writer

The Oregon Coast – I’d love to repeat a trip I enjoyed a few years ago in June, when I joined a contingent of hardy (we thought) cyclists from Toronto. We flew into Vancouver with our bikes for a 10 day cycling trip down the coast of Oregon. Our group included 2 guides and we’d be camping out for this spectacular 400 mile scenic adventure. From Vancouver we drove through Washington State to the Oregon border in our mini-bus picking up the rest of the cyclists along the way.

Finally on our bikes, we head out of the town of Astoria with “the wind on our backs” as promised. We were filled with the confidence that only ignorance can produce. We rode 44 miles the first day and then camped out that night on a beautiful beach that looked to be 10 miles long and very secluded. We found out why it was so secluded. When we went into the water which at 50 degrees was totally leg numbing.

The next day we ride 60 miles. The weather is cool and my friend Chris bonks (an athlete’s expression for running out of fuel). We started a “Yellow Jersey” contest for all the cyclists. Chris wins it for showing grace during a severe bonk and in desperate need of food. In fact, that day when we finally stopped for lunch Chris just kept ordering food until something arrived on the table. It ended up being literally half the menu!
Then comes the trial.

Monday dawns with lots of rain, rain and more rain! It poured all night. Everything we owned seemed wet. So we had the lovely task of dressing in wet, cold clothes to head out on our 65 mile ride. What an experience. This was our trial by rain. As we headed out, the rain intensified. The cold water poured out of our jackets down our legs and into our shoes. It was so cold that on the downhills with the wind and the wet my hands started cramping on the brake hoods.

Finally when it seemed almost intolerable we stumbled across “Cinnamon Town” a restaurant in a tiny town that served huge, unbelievable cinnamon buns – an Oregon diet staple. There we sat, miserable in our wet cycling shorts, dripping all over the table. We tried to stay warm by soaking our feet in warm water in the sink in the men’s room. That’s how desperate we were. Then as if in a dream, the guides showed up with dry clothes. “Thank you.”

Warmer, those of us that went on, faced the rain again to start a 3 mile climb fueled by “cinnamon power”.

Oregon is well set up for cyclists. There is a bike lane all along route 101 that follows the sea. They offer excellent state campgrounds every few miles with special areas for hiker/bikers. Even at the tunnels they have special traffic signals the rider turns on before entering to warn drivers of a cyclist up ahead. The beautiful coast was broken up with side trips to lighthouses and amazing vistas on cliffs above the sea and over long unbroken beaches. I became known as “Mister Vista” when I’d continually complain that we weren’t stopping enough to enjoy the views.

By the 5th day we had a full day off riding in the old restored town of Florence to dry clothes and lick our tired muscles. The sun came out and our trial by rain was over.

As the rest of the week went on the sun got stronger and so did my legs. Must have been true for everyone because our speeds seemed to increase. We did notice a strange phenomenon. After stopping for lunch it seemed we always started out with a big hill. On those occasions it was all we could do to hold our food down. Salt water taffy was a local delicacy that we ate in vast quantities. It seemed our food consumption went way up as our bodies demanded more and more calories.

The last two days were among the nicest but also the longest thanks to a string of flats caused by the sharp gravel along the edge of the road. One day, 3 of us got 5 flats and I ended up walking most of the way back to camp having run out of tire tubes. We took all of this in our stride and everyone seemed to have a positive attitude that really helped make the trip so much fun. Besides, the rain was over and the sun just made these last beautiful days more precious.

On the last Saturday we proudly had our photos taken under the “Welcome to California” border sign. What a wonderful experience. Over 400 miles of riding past some of North America’s most spectacular country.

READERS, feel free to offer your won selections of the first international destination you’d visit in the post pandemic world. Please send to **@**********oy.com, and we will post in our Readers’ poll.

READERS POLL (as of today):

As a lover of 20th century history, it must be Berlin, Germany. — Kyle – Seattle, WA

Though I’ve never been, island hopping in Tahiti should be the thing which I’d love to do. — Terry – Portland, OR

The post The First International Destination You’d Visit in the Post Pandemic World appeared first on Traveling Archive.

My wife Anne and I had been in Barcelona many years ago and knew even then that we had only scratched the surface of the available cultural richness offered in the Catalan capital. We had leisurely strolled the famous Ramblas, a pedestrian area that links the waterfront with the city center where itinerant Tango dancers twirl, tarot readers ply their craft and innumerable vendors offer traditional merchandise.

Adjacent to the Ramblas is La Boqueria, the public market that is a riot of colors, smells and energy. Yes, it can be crowded and a challenge for someone in a wheelchair at times, but to tour a site that has been in operation since 1217 and offers such an extraordinary range of goods it is well worth the effort.

During our previous time here we had explored what we could of Antonio Gaudi’s crowning achievement, the Sagrada Familia. As impressive as it was then, we were astonished to see that so much progress has since been made and though wheelchairs still face some obstacles we were able to enter the sacred confines and appreciate the noble space. Note: It is advisable to visit closer to sunset to fully appreciate the sun’s rays through the magnificent windows.

Our exhibition was held at the Museu Maritim, a marvelous museum on Barcelona’s vibrant waterfront that details the rich maritime history that signaled Spain’s early contributions to navigation, exploration and shipbuilding. Also along the waterfront is a vast promenade that people using wheelchairs can easily maneuver to soak up the Mediterranean atmosphere and marvel at the private yachts in the harbor.

Our hosts offered excursions and we gladly boarded sightseeing buses to explore the ancient areas of the city. It was wise to start our wheeling tour at the top of the pedestrian areas and save us the trouble of struggling uphill. A very exciting outing was to the Penedes wine region and we were delighted to take in the countryside and tour an historic winery and savor the fruits of their efforts.

Enormous paper mache puppets of historic Spanish figures and families of acrobats who constructed human towers six people high also royally entertained us.

Public transportation appeared to be readily available and had we extra time we would most assuredly have visited the Picasso Museum and the Miro Foundation as well as the esteemed cathedral among other sites.

Alas, we did not have that luxury but were excited to take the early train to Paris the following day. As train stations go Barcelona’s can be as confusing and stressful as any and we were relieved to attract the attention of a station assistant who ushered us to the proper queue and made sure we got on board. Some minor confusion required me to temporarily occupy a space between cars until a following stop where I could be resituated into a proper space. We had purchased our train tickets well in advance for a reasonable sum but required a last minute ticket for our companion and were fairly aghast at the price hike for late tickets. The 5-hour trip traversed scenic fields and factory installations, small, rural towns and distant horizons. By the time we arrived at the Paris station we were rested and eager to begin the next phase of our journey.

We would only have a few days to take in what we could and thankfully we had been here many years before and had already ascended the Eiffel Tower and strolled the Champs Elysees. Anne would make sure her niece experienced those landmarks and I made sure that I would see every treasure within the Louvre and nearby Musee D’Orsay. And here I am very pleased to report that consideration to those in wheelchairs has been maintained at a high level. There is no waiting in line, admission is complimentary and even the Mona Lisa has a rope line that wheelchairs have special privilege of accessing. Other portions of the Louvre are difficult to access on account of retrofitting lifts but the staff is available and the map of the galleries is probably necessary to avoid getting lost among the treasures.

A very wise piece of advice that we had learned earlier was again in effect. Knowing that wheelchairs are first allowed into the Musee d’Orsay, we arrived before opening and were inside before anyone else. We immediately ascended to the top floor where we enjoyed breathtaking work by the Impressionists, Symbolists and Post Impressionists before the crowds of the day appeared. The museum café offered delicious meals and a welcome break from studying the masterpieces and we were fortified to see the remaining works before exiting to a drizzly and traffic congested city. Being April, we had expected as much and exercised patience as we maneuvered curb cuts and waited patiently at crosswalks.

We happened to be in Paris for Easter Sunday and took the opportunity to be in attendance at a service at Notre Dame Cathedral. We were ushered in privately and allowed to come forward to take part in the sacrament. The very moving ritual was heightened by the magnificent interior and the notes of the choir seemed to echo the angels. Afterward, I had enough time to roll to the newly refurbished Picasso Museum and was very pleased to see that extra care has been taken to assure access and again received complimentary admission.

Our apartment was only a few blocks from the Louvre but not nearly as accessible as advertised. We managed to traverse a steep threshold and narrow doorway but I was still obligated to sleep on the fold out couch since I couldn’t wedge through the bedroom door. We will take extra care in the future to measure my chair’s dimensions and recommend a portable ramp be on site.

My first time on the Chunnel to London went smoothly enough and we were glad to have purchased these tickets well in advance also as the sticker-shock for our companion was even more severe than the ride up from Barcelona. I was surprised to be served lunch with beverages and offered amenities usually reserved for first class and we arrived in London in good cheer indeed. The London cabs are some of the most accessible in the world with a short ramp that makes loading a snap and so abundant that we never failed to acquire one when needed.

Since our niece only had one precious day before her return to work, I laid back at our hotel, the Doubletree in Chelsea while they got tickets for the hop-on hop-off sightseeing bus and saw as much of the city as possible. The ticket also included a cruise on the Thames that Anne took the following day while I was immersed in the study of artworks at the National Gallery. The overground station was barely a half block from our hotel and was easy enough to access. We purchased Oyster Cards to facilitate entry and made good time getting to the sites we had planned. After visits to both the Tate Britain and Tate Modern and the wonderful artworks at the Courtauld Institute we were about as saturated with culture as we could be.

Anne had heard that a rooftop garden in one of the newer skyscrapers offered free admittance and spectacular views from the observation deck. Well, not exactly. 20 Fenchurch Street is referred to as the Walkie Talkie on account of its curious shape and does indeed have a marvelous view from a large 2-story lounge with abundant plantings and a fine dining area. Admission is free but advance tickets are required and only available online. We were able to charm the attendant to allow us admittance and would’ve been sorely disappointed had they a strict policy since Anne had pushed my chair a few miles along the Strand by then.

It was a fitting conclusion to a remarkable journey. Feeling on top of the world and relishing the combined memories of magnificent artwork and architecture, engaging with colorful and helpful people, sampling regional cuisine and being entertained by traditional performers. I am deeply grateful to my wife Anne, whose unending patience and good humor made the journey a delight and we were pleased to offer one another a special toast in celebration of our very good fortune.

The post Barcelona, Paris & London: A Remarkable Artistic Journey appeared first on Traveling Archive.

This wasn’t a conscious thought. As the travel restrictions weighed more heavily upon me I started to broaden my cooking, unconsciously seeking out new recipes from favorite countries that reminded me of my visits. Then one day I realized I’d taken a grand tour of Europe without leaving my dinner table. Over the course of two weeks I cooked ten different international meals. With the resulting leftovers and lunches I had 14 days of reminiscences of past visits while enjoying the taste of each country.

And it wasn’t just Europe I visited. I went to Cuba (I wish!) New England (a favorite summer haunt) and to North Africa for an adventurous dish. But it really all started rather simply in Mexico.

I’m a big fan of tacos, but not one of “messy eating around the dinner table” tacos. So now I make taco bowls to be eaten with a fork and spoon. Yes I’ll still eat tacos as street food, say, in Mexico City, with sauce dripping down my chin and arms, but doesn’t this look more inviting?

The next evening I was transported to Spain over a dish of Chicken Chilindron. This dish could be from any Mediterranean country except for the addition of smoked paprika, a.k.a. smoked pimenton, a very distinctive Spanish spice added for its red smoky heat. The aroma and taste had me right back in Extremadura, Spain, where smoked pimenton has its own DOC.

For a Friday in Lent I made cod cakes. The Iberian Peninsula is historically connected to cod, with Basque fishermen crossing the Atlantic, way before Columbus “discovered” the New World, to catch and dry fish for transport back home. All the salt cod you see today is descended from their preserving tradition. The Portuguese fished New England’s cod banks as well. This recipe is from an older Portuguese woman I once knew. It is healthier and more complex than the deep fried Spanish cod croquettes I love.

The next three dishes could easily be lumped into an Italian trifecta. Not that I was on a roll here. And certainly pizza the way I make it has nothing to do with Italy. But it’s still good and does have Italian-American roots. No, these reflect a desire for a more extended stay in the boot of Europe.

And while the scallops in white wine and garlic could be found along any Mediterranean coast, serving them on pasta got the dish included here.

But the true dish of Italy I made was a huge batch of slow-cooked Bolognese sauce, fragrantly simmering all day in my kitchen. It made a great base for some homemade ravioli I enjoyed for many days before freezing a quart for another trip, er, I mean meal. And speaking of slow cooking, I also made a vat of Pasta e Fagioli, unconventionally using some Rancho Gordo pinto beans I got as a Christmas gift. (If nothing else, we’ve all learned to improvise ingredients during this pandemic shut down.) I enjoyed the soup’s rich deliciousness many times.

Then, while I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d skip across the Mediterranean to taste a bit of Ethiopia. It wasn’t my plan, but I was inspired by a description of berbera spice mix on Milk Street Radio one Sunday. Apparently Ethiopians put berbera spice in everything, everyday, and each house has its own distinctive blend. I researched the basic recipe and made my own, adding and subtracting to my tastes. By the second batch I knew to use less hot ingredients, so everyone in the household can enjoy this taste of North Africa. The result is Doro Wat, an Ethiopian chicken dish with a red onion to chicken ratio of 1:1, a head of garlic, and a half cup of berbera spice blend. Wow! Just Wow! I doubled the next batch of berbera I made so I can use it every day, too.

Europe bound once more, I had a layover in Greece, because I always wanted to. And because I had all the ingredients for this delicious sounding dish: Greek Braised Chicken, a.k.a. Kota Kapama. It’s not what you’d think – no olives or feta cheese – just a healthy amount of cinnamon and allspice rubbed into the skin-on chicken thighs before they are braised in a tomato and wine stock. It was just so fragrant and tasty – Yum!

On my last visit to France (and the word “last” takes on new meaning during this pandemic as I wonder if we’ll ever travel again . . . ) I was in the Lorraine region when I remarked that during my entire visit I had not tasted the celebrated local dish, quiche. Arrangements were promptly made, and quiche was served with drinks before dinner, by a chef who disdainfully told me that we “never serve quiche here.” (I can only throw my hands in the air and exclaim “THE FRENCH”! when I think of it. They should serve quiche more often – and more civilly.) It was delicious. Since then I have it on rotation in my kitchen, using up bits and pieces of ingredients and things “going bad” in the refrigerator. This one used up the sheets of phyllo pastry left over from the Greek spinach and feta dish, Spanakopita, that I ate all of but neglected to photograph!

Last year a sale on pork loins left me with an eight pound loin (I cannot resist a food sale!) Half was butterflied, stuffed with herbs, wrapped in prosciutto and braised (with much work and little reward except that it was pretty) while the other was frozen. I thawed that for the next two dishes.

The first was a slow-cooked New England balsamic and stock braise on red potatoes and carrots. It fits the travel theme because we visit family in New England often. Coastal Maine and New Hampshire are favorites for summer fun and food, so while it wasn’t lobster rolls I was cooking, it was comfort food.

But the real reason to cook the pork, besides making room in the freezer, was for the leftover pork needed to make Cuban Sandwiches. With thinly sliced pork loin, Swiss cheese, ham, dill pickles, and two kinds of mustard layered in a crusty loaf, then pressed and grilled, these are always a favorite in our house. They were so satisfyingly chewy-delicious served with a horseradish cole slaw and a cold beer. Heaven!

There was another Cuban dish – Braised Chicken. It tasted great, but except for the raisins, olives, and capers it looked just like all the other chicken dishes pictured above. So, instead of looking at same ol’ same ol’, here’s a picture of the Cuban Sandwiches plated:

So wasn’t that a fun vacation to the culinary hotspots of the world? You got to read it and enjoy a vicarious tour through kitchens of seven countries, while I gained five pounds cooking and eating! Does that seem fair to you?

Do you like to recreate the dishes of your favorite vacation destinations? Please tell me about them in the comments below (and share the recipe!) Thanks for reading.

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Wonderfully produced and directed by Laura Naylor, this enchanting film presents an intimate look at the daily lives of a group of working class men, some of whom have been showing up for the harvest drive at the Jacques Selosse vineyards for the last twenty-five years.  The film captures the heart and soul of this particular harvest experience, which takes place from August through November, culminating with the bottling of the wine.

Complimenting the excellent direction, the film is exquisitely shot by cinematographer Ryan de Franco, and begins with a series of establishing shots – an outdoor barbeque, men working in the vineyard, a worker tasting a grape, and scenes of women brought in to prepare meals for the workers.  As the men arrive from different parts of France, they greet each other warmly as most of them have known each other for years. Sleeping accommodations have been made and after a slight discussion over the arrangements, everything is settled amicably.  Soon, we are taken into the vineyard where every day the grapes are carefully cut and placed into crates.  It’s backbreaking work, but the men are cheerful, playful, very respectful of each other, and take their work seriously.

These workers are not just pickers.  They are wine experts capable of detecting and identifying the inherent complexities of a particular variety.  On their cigarette breaks, they lie down amongst the vines and playfully joke with each other or share family stories.  The wife of one of the workers is part of the group of women who will be preparing the mouth-watering meals and there are delightful scenes of the cooks comparing recipes, deciding what food items needed to be purchased, and fun shopping trips to the markets. But, with the younger members of the family taking on greater roles in the running of the business, there are occasional culture clashes between the aging pickers and the younger family members who might not embrace all of their traditions. However, at the end of the harvest, they all gather in a beautiful, candle-lit dining room and between the gourmet food, plenty of fabulous wine, and singing, any tensions during the harvest melt away. Brian Bender and Deniz Cuylan’s rousing musical score fully accents the joy and spirit of these people. There are sweet scenes of the workers with their families illuminating their lives away from the vineyard.  Director Naylor was meticulous in painting the crew with a fine brush so that they are multi-dimensional showing how they spend their days away from the vineyard.   A very delightful scene is with one of the workers playing a variation of bocce ball with his wife, who also happens to be one of the fabulous cooks.  At last, with the harvested completed, the dorm is stripped, floors are mopped, pay is handed out, and these dedicated workers, most of whom will return next year, are once more headed home to their families.

For anyone interested in an intimate look at a complicated wine harvest, this film walks you through the process from beginning to end, capturing the humanity of everyone involved as well as the symbiotic relationship between the owners and the workers.  It also reveals the pivotal role Mother Nature plays in the final product, which could impact on the level of success of the harvest.  However, one can see why the Domain Jacques Selosse, now run by the founder’s son Anselme, has earned an excellent reputation for producing very fine champagne, perhaps due in part to using oak barrels for fermentation rather than the usual stainless steel.

The film features: Miguel Delhaye, Samuel Delhaye, Bastien Favier, Léa Favier, Bruno Santiago, Anselme Selosse, Caroline Selosse, Corinne Selosse, Guillaume Selosse, Michel Waret, and Renelle Waret.

*Cinéma vérité or “truth cinema” was a French film movement of the 1960s that captured  people in everyday situations with authentic, unscripted, predominantly  improvised dialogue.

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On the other side of the English Channel back in WW 2 – 1943 to be exact – there was another imaginative and vibrant character – known as “The Desert Fox” to many, but also by his more recognized name, Field Marshal Rommel. I’ve always thought it was intriguing that Rommel was highly regarded by many of the higher echelon of the British and American military leadership.

To enrich YOUR mind, and WW2 interest, a 2019 book by American born Peter Margaritis, “Countdown to D-Day, The German High Command in Occupied France, 1944,” is also equally spellbinding.

Not only is it a stimulating, even an enthralling, time about the daily, and personally punishing work productivity of the Field Marshal, it also offers up an intimate perspective on another top German Field Marshal – Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt. When you read about his luxurious yes, LUXURIOUS! lifestyle in Paris during the latter part of WW2 in his extravagant French mansion, it makes you wonder how he was able to get away with such an opulent daily life for so long.

As a WW2 aficionado I’ve been to Normandy 4 times, and as I read this riveting As-You-Are-There-Book and appreciated, and even more understood, how Rommel lived and worked each day from December 1943 to his last moments before the invasion on June 6th 1944, I knew that THIS book has the most meticulous account of Rommel’s Normandy days than anything before or since.

If you’ve been to France, and know this part of the Norman countryside, especially the landscape, around the areas in Normandy that took up so much of Rommel’s daily life, what you read here becomes even more thrilling, as you can relate it to what you’ve seen and done there.

This book’s written as if you’re the proverbial fly on the wall, and vividly describes how Rommel reached out to his soldiers, and what an avidly and colorful character Rommel was. Nothing shows his integrity more than his face to face meeting with two British commandos who, on Friday, May 19^th, 1944, had been captured on the beach shortly before D-Day.

One was Lt. Roy Woodridge, the other Lt. George Lane (pages 449-455).  The former refused to say anything to his captors’ but Lane was more open to conversation, so much so that one of Rommel’s top advisors, General Speidel, brings him, at Rommel’s request, to La Roche Guyon, Rommel’s plush, French mansion and HQ, to speak with the Field Marshall. He was so impressed – by Lane particularly – that Rommel arranges to have them “protected” from both execution and the Gestapo. Both Brits survived the war.

The book also brings out how grueling Rommel’s work schedule was, and he expected all who worked for him to have the same devotion and loyalty.  It details, and I found this riveting, how concerned he became on learning about the plans to assassinate Hitler, and describes how strongly Rommel felt this was NOT the way to achieve what the plotters’ wanted. He felt a trial was more suitable.

I’ve read countless books about D-Day and the vast majority all come from the Allies’ point of view. Although written by an American, this book provides a mesmerizing portrait of a brilliant, controversial German general in WW2. As such, I highly recommend it for your reading enjoyment, as the book will also give you insights on why it was – and still is – a tragedy that Rommel’s life ended the way it did. Contact John: jd******@***il.com

The post A fascinating, Indeed Thrilling Book of WW2’s “Desert Fox” Rommel, in Normandy, 1944 appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Vincent van Gogh’s Final Days in Auvers-sur-Oise

Ask the general populace to name a famous painter, and they’d probably say Dutch painter, Vincent van Gogh. Today his paintings command staggering purchase prices, with his Portrait of Dr. Gachet, painted the last year of his life in Auvers-sur-Oise, selling for 152 million dollars in today’s currency.

I finally caught up with up with  van Gogh in the charming French village of Auvers-sur-Oise, just 16.9 miles by train and a world away from the riveting pulse of Paris. This is where Van Gogh spent the final two-month of his life; a period of intense prolificacy, creating over eighty, almost violent paintings, and 64 sketches.   Many are considered masterpieces, such as Crows over Wheatfield, Portrait of Dr. Gachet and Church at Auvers. I had journeyed there to walk the self-guided Vincent van Gogh Trail.  You simply follow the path where many of his works were painted, and then stop at posted landmarks, which feature a reproduction of one of his paintings, overlooking the exact place where he painted it. It’s mesmerizing; you actually see what he saw when painting one of his many landscapes or village streets. I was surprised that not one of Van Gogh’s original paintings was on display in Auvers-sur-Oise, but you can clearly feel his spiritual presence. You’ll see the modest village houses, the town hall and the church Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption, pretty much unchanged since van Gogh painted them.

The pilgrimage continued with the much anticipated tour of van Gogh’s modest attic room in Auberge Ravoux where he died from a self-afflicted gunshot wound. Often called The House of Van Gogh, the room has remained vacant since his death; not because it was where van Gogh took his last breath, but due to the French superstition of never renting a room where someone has died. There was a sense of hushed reverence as our small group followed our guide up the sacred stairs. As we quietly assembled in the little room, I felt that I already knew this Spartan-like dwelling from Vincent’s paintings; which along with his quarters in Arles, is one of the most famous rooms in art history. But to see it, smell it and feel it in person moved me to the depths of my soul. Our guide gave a heartfelt account of Vincent’s last two days in the room; so heartfelt, that she actually wept.

A final walk up a little hill leads to the cemetery where the unassuming graves of Vincent and his art dealer brother Theo, who had supported him most of his life, are buried side by side.

PISA – Leaning Bell Tower of Pisa

Yes, it really does lean. In fact, it started to lean during construction in 1178, before builders had even reached its third story. Over the next 800 years, it became clear that the 180 ft. white-marble cylinder wasn’t just learning, but was actually falling at a rate of 3 ft. per year. This was due to an unstable foundation of shifting soft soil, fine sand and shells – an engineering debacle flawed from the beginning – which could not properly support the structure’s weight. To compensate for the tilt, the next eight-stories were built slightly taller on the short side in an attempt to compensate for the lean. However, the weight of the extra floors caused the Romanesque-style tower to sink further and lean more. Because of this, the tower is curved. Numerous efforts throughout time have been made to restore the bell tower to a vertical symmetry. In 1964, the Italian government insisted on retaining the current tilt, due to the money-making role that the Tower played in promoting tourism to Pisa.  Today, only groups of 30 are allowed inside at once, and are welcome to scale the 251 steps from the bottom to the top of the Pisa Tower. The Tower’s bells have long been silenced as their movements could worsen the lean of the bell tower further.

Throughout the years, we’ve all seen endless photos of the Leaning Tower, but to witness it in person was a monumental occasions. I was unaware that the Tower stands on a pristine green-expanse inside the medieval walls of the Square of Miracles. The piazza is also shared by the white marbled Cathedral of Pisa, the Baptistery – famous for its acoustics, demonstrated by singers daily – and Capuano Monumental Cemetery, made with 53 shiploads of earth brought back from the Hill of Calvary in Jerusalem.

Princess Grace in Monaco

In 1956, Monaco’s Prince Rainier III married Hollywood Royalty in the name of 26-year-old Grace Patricia Kelly.   Her acting career and striking refined beauty had already made the daughter of a wealthy Philadelphia socialite family an international household name. She had appeared in John Ford’s Mogambo;  The Country Girl, for which her deglamorized performance earned her an Academy Award for Best Actress in the otherwise dismal film;  High Noon;  and three Alfred Hitchcock masterpieces, Dial M for Murder, Rear Window and To Catch a Thief. Prince Rainier, always desperate for money, met with billionaire shipping tycoon, Aristotle Onassis,  who suggested the prince find a Hollywood beauty to marry. Aristotle believed the added media publicity would attract more investment opportunities and make the principality a greater alluring destination for tourists. Rainier jumped at the idea. His first choice was Marilyn Monroe, who  laughed at the thought, but did jokingly say, “Give me two-days alone with him and of course he’ll want to marry me.” A meeting was arranged with Kelly while she was in the Riviera filming the last stages of To Catch a Thief. It wasn’t love at first sight for Kelly, but the prince was relentless, initiating a long correspondence by mail, which eventually led to their marriage. Rainier received a two-million dowry  from Kelly’s family for the union to proceed, insisted that Kelly take a fertility test, give up acting and banned the screening of all her movies in Monaco. The marriage was described as the wedding of the century. Following a long honeymoon cruise, Her Serene Highness Princess Grace devoted her life to raising three-children, and then founded the World Association of Friends of Children, based on her vision that every child, whatever their social, religious or cultural origins are, would have the capacity to live in dignity and security;  and the Princess Grace Foundation, to support local artists and craftsmen. In 1982, tragedy struck when Princess Grace was driving her Range Rover down a steep road and suffered a minor stroke. She lost control of the vehicle which violently plunged 120 feet off a cliff.

Princess Grace passed away the next night. Her death was a shock to the entire world, and her funeral, like that of Princess Diana, was watched by millions of people around the globe. With the death of Rainier in 2005, Prince Albert II assured the succession of the over 700-year-old House of Grimaldi.

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Ask the general populace to name a famous painter, and they’d probably say Dutch painter, Vincent van Gogh. Today his paintings command staggering purchase prices, with his Portrait of Dr. Gachet, painted the last year of his life in Auvers-sur-Oise, selling for 152 million dollars in today’s currency.

During his ten short years as a painter, he only sold one painting, and that was to his young art dealer brother, Theo van Gogh, who supported Vincent financially throughout most of his life. His years have been well-documented in films: Vincente Minnelli’s Lust for Life (which Kirk Douglas called his favorite film role); Alain Resnais’ short documentary, Van Gogh;, Robert Altman’s Vincent & Theo; Maurice Pialat’s Van Gogh; and avant garde painter Julian Schnabel’s At Eternity’s Gate with  Willem Dafoe in the title role. Van Gogh is also well represented in print. For an immediate read, visit Vincent van Gogh: The Letters, where all his written correspondence is presented in a web edition.

“How can I be useful, of what service can I be?
There is something inside me, what can it be?”

– Vincent van Gogh

Backstory

Vincent Willem van Gogh (1853 – 1890) was born in the southern Netherlands into an upper middleclass Dutch family; his father a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church. In Dutch, his surname is pronounced ‘vun Khokh.’ Prior to be being a painter, van Gogh had been a junior clerk at an art firm, teacher, bookseller, art student and preacher. His commission as a lay preacher in the Borinage mining region of Belgium was spent helping coal miners in their horrific existence. Vincent lived among the miners and their families, sharing their poverty and sleeping on the floor. He would literally give the very shirt off his own back. His dedication was such that he was nicknamed The Christ of the Coal Mine. With his sloppy attire and unorthodox manner of ‘bringing God down to the miners,’ the ministry’s elders found his style not in the same vein as their dignified, buttoned up theology, and did not renew his contract. At age 30, van Gogh decided to dedicate his life completely to art. After a short stay in The Netherlands, he moved to the town of Arles in the south of France – also a favorite of the Impressionists because of the bright Mediterranean sunshine which created vivid colors and blue skies. He changed his style to impressionistic-influenced bursts of color and rough brush strokes done in thick impasto. His theme eventually focused on nature and brooding self-portraits, mainly due to his lack of money to hire a model.  This is where he created many of his greatest paintings. Every act of his life was of a deeply felt sense of fervency, which transitioned into his art, where every move of his paint brush was done with profound intensity. Regardless of the subject matter, all his work is about himself.

“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.”

– Vincent van Gogh

For many, Vincent is best known for his mental instability, suffering from psychotic episodes and delusions, which resulted in self-imposed tenures in an asylum under the care of Dr. Gachet, also a painter. A sensationalistic incident where he slashed off his left earlobe with a razor, purportedly after an argument with post-impressionist painter, Paul Gauguin, added to his reputation as ‘the unkempt, mad painter.’ Gauguin had been a stockbroker and Sunday painter under the guidance of impressionist painter, Camille Pissarro. He left his career to take up painting full time, and his family promptly threw him out of the house. Penniless, Theo suggested that he should share a room with van Gogh to save money. It was an arrangement which immensely pleased van Gogh due to his loneliness and attraction of having long discussions about art with another painter. For Gauguin it was the opposite, and he bailed for Tahiti, where he created a body of work, which depicted Polynesian nature and culture, especially pubescent girls, rendered in solid outlines and vivid color. He died at the age of 54 from symptoms related to syphilis. Little did either painter know that their works of art would later sell for unimaginable prices.

Final Days in Auvers-sur-Oise

I finally caught up with van Gogh in the charming French village of Auvers-sur-Oise, just 16.9 miles by train and a world away from the riveting pulse of Paris. This is where Van Gogh spent the last days of his life. His final two-month period was his most intense and prolific, creating over eighty, almost violent paintings, and 64 sketches.   Many are considered masterpieces, such as Crows over Wheatfield, Portrait of Dr. Gachet and Church at Auvers. I had journeyed there to learn more about van Gogh and walk the famous self-guided Vincent van Gogh Trail.  You simply follow the path where many of his works were painted, and then stop at posted landmarks, which feature a reproduction of one of his paintings, overlooking the exact landscape where he painted it. It’s mesmerizing; you actually see what he saw when painting one of his many landscapes or village streets.

I was surprised that not one of Van Gogh’s original paintings was on display in Auvers-sur-Oise, but you can clearly feel his spiritual presence. You’ll see the modest village houses, the town hall and the church Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption, pretty much unchanged when Van Gogh painted them. Besides negotiating the Vincent van Gogh Trail, you can stroll further through town and visit Dr. Gachet’s house, which is now a museum. The tour showcases the rooms where Dr. Gachet treated van Gogh with homeopathic remedies and where they painted together in his garden. The village itself is a bit of a horizontal sprawl, and a pair of solid walking shoes is essential

On the evening of July 27, 1890, Vincent van Gogh stumbled back to his tiny room at the Auberge Ravoux. Alarmed by his groans, the innkeeper looked in on the artist and found van Gogh doubled over in pain from a gunshot wound to his stomach. The innkeeper summoned the village doctor, and van Gogh requested that Dr. Gachet come as well. After examining the patient, the doctors concurred that it was not possible to remove the bullet. Gachet filled a pipe, lit it and placed it in the artist’s mouth. Van Gogh puffed quietly away, while the doctor sat at his side and painted a canvas of him, at van Gogh’s request. Theo heard the news the next day and rushed to Auvers to be by his brother’s side. Comforted by Theo’s presence, van Gogh told his brother, “I wish I could pass away like this.” He purportedly whispered to Theo that he shot himself in the chest and missed, resulting in the bullet entering his stomach. He apparently passed out, and then was revived when the weather cooled down. His next step was to shoot himself again in a more fatal part of his body, but he could not find the gun. “I would have thought that as I passed out the gun would have remained in my hand: I doubt if I would have thrown it far.” Vincent, however, was unable to find the gun, and staggered home.

“Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter’s soul.”

– Vincent van Gogh

The disappearance of the murder weapon resulted in a series of conspiracy theories. There were long debates whether he committed suicide or was shot by an unnamed person. Never popular wherever he lived and painted, villagers often considered him a dangerous madman dressed in rags. Children would mock van Gogh, throwing rocks and dirt clods at him while he painted. Some researchers argue that van Gogh was accidentally shot by two young boys playing with a gun nearby. There is even one theory that he was murdered by Wild Bill Cody (really) when he was visiting Auvers-sur-Oise on the same day.

The mystery finally came to rest when a corroded revolver was discovered, buried in a wheat field, by a farmer in 1965. Lauded as the most famous weapon in art history, an unnamed buyer bought the 7mm caliber Lefaucheux revolver for about $212,000. The gun’s trigger is pulled back, frozen in place, cementing the moment where it would have dropped from Van Gogh’s grasp.

The origin of the gun was investigated by the writer Alain Rohan in his 2012 book, Did We Find the Suicide Weapon? Rohan presents arguments in favor of its authenticity: “Its caliber matches the bullet retrieved from van Gogh’s body, scientific studies show that the gun had been in the ground since the 1890s, and it is a lower-power gun, which could potentially explain the artist’s prolonged death.”

“I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.”

– Vincent van Gogh

A month before his death, he wrote to Theo that his series of painted wheat fields didn’t take much effort to express sadness and extreme loneliness. Van Gogh’s growing sense of distress was exacerbated with news that Theo was experiencing financial problems of his own, which would mean a greater hardship in supporting him. Plus, he was subsiding mainly on coffee, tobacco, and the highly alcoholic beverage, absinth. While Gachet attended to his wounded friend, he still expressed his wish to somehow save him. “Then it has to be done all over again,” replied van Gogh. It is still not exactly clear why van Gogh chose to end his life, but by committing the tragic act so close to the setting of the hauntingly stark Crows over Wheatfield merits much thought.

The journey back in time continued with the much anticipated tour of van Gogh’s modest attic room in Auberge Ravoux where he died. Often called The House of Van Gogh, the room has remained vacant since his death; not because it was where van Gogh took his last breath, but due to the French superstition of never renting a room where someone has died. There was a sense of hushed reverence as our small group followed our guide up the sacred stairs. As we quietly assembled in the little room, I felt that I already knew this spartan-like dwelling from Vincent’s paintings; which along with his quarters in Arles, is one of the most famous rooms in art history. But to see it, smell it and feel it in person moved me to the depths of my soul. Our guide gave a heartfelt account of Vincent’s last two days; so heartfelt, that she actually wept.

“The sadness will last forever.”

– Vincent van Gogh

A final walk up the little hill leads to the cemetery where the unassuming graves of Vincent and Theo rest, buried side by side.

If You Go

Tourist Office of Auvers-sur-Oise

Van Gogh Route in Auvers-sur-Oise

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