Dijon, France

The dog in the window of the vintage shop is not for sale

Bubble Coffee

New Shoes

 

A market masterpiece

Dijon Mustard

Yesterday we traveled about 12 hours to get from Figeac in southwestern France to Dijon in southeastern France. The French train system is designed to go most conveniently from north to south which meant our going from Agen to Bordeaux to Paris to Dijon. The most nerve racking part was changing train stations in Paris with a one hour train connection. Fortunately, when I stopped back at the house to repack for the next part of our trip, our friends and house renters handed me their unneeded Navigo cards. This saved us from lining up to buy metro tickets.  Our destination, Gare de Lyon which for some reason lacked signage would 

have thoroughly confounded us if not for an adorable French gentleman on our train who explained to us in detail the best way to get there.

When we actually collapsed into our train seats,  I declared a miracle. By the time we got to our hotel in Dijon, we were starving and exhausted.  We both felt grateful to find a brasserie on the corner. The fixed menu, the only option, sounded good. I soon realized the menu featured specialties from the southwest where Monflanquin is located. We traveled all those kilometers to dine on the cuisine we had just left. But what a meal! Homemade unctuous foie gras with onion confit followed by savory duck shepherd's pie, and for the finale, sweet refreshing strawberries with mint in a mouth watering strawberry sauce.  We spoke to the chef who graciously offered us red wine from Cahors.  The chef actually lives near us in Monflanquin and was working as a substitute that night.  We certainly felt at home while watching all the diners enjoy the cuisine from our French region like one big French family.

The next day, moving rather slowly, I agreed to meet my friend at the tourist office.  Despite a map, my infamous poor sense of direction kicked in. When I stopped to ask for directions from a lovely French woman, I did not expect her to offer to accompany me. On the way, we chatted. I learned that she worked as a bus driver in Dijon and Paris for over 20 years. I couldn't help but tell  her about Bill working for Trimet. 

Dijon is known for its gastronomy. We saw definitive proof of this in the massive covered  central market selling among its offerings a variety of farm fresh cheeses, meats, fish, poultry, fruits, vegetables, and the regional specialties of mustard and spice bread. The possibilities left us dazzled and hungry.

After lunch in a bistro close by, my friend and I went our separate ways. We do this regularly so we don't get sick of each other and get to experience one on one interaction with the French. With the weather so cold and rainy, I decided I needed to buy tights and some "sneakers" to add to my sandals and Mary Jane's.  The shoe store Eram advertised a 30% off shopping party. The rose colored shoes featured above fit me in size 36. With the money I saved, I purchased watering proofing spray and comfort insoles and celebrated with a French not so French Bubble Coffee. By the way,  what do you think of the shoes? 

We ended the day by going to a French movie entitled "N'avoue jamais. (Never confess)  For  a movie snack, my friend opted for popcorn. Much to her surprise, it tasted sweet and looked like cracker jacks. The Magnum ice cream bar, classic vanilla covered in smooth dark chocolate called out loudly to me. So satisfying, as was the senior discount saving me 2 euros. Amazingly, the movie featured a super cute beagle who played an important role like a pro.  I am certain this is Maggy's French cousin.

It seems like I have been saying "What are the chances ? "since arriving in Dijon. A southwestern menu, a bus driver, and a beagle??  I am truly loving Dijon.

Keys and Kindness

Chai Tea & Writing 

Yesterday I thought the key saga was over. But no! We came back to our accommodations this afternoon to find ourselves locked out again! Bizarre! Our host took all the keys with her yesterday so she could make duplicates today.  Consequently, we left the front door unlocked this morning. After a few choice words to myself in French, I called our host to explain our new predicament. Turns out that after making duplicates, she came back to our door to test out the keys and inadvertently locked our door. If you are not really following this, do not worry. I had trouble following this turn of events  myself. Madame returned to our place quickly, apologized, and let us in.

At one point, we thought the key might be in the dressing room of the Indian Café & Boutique where we stopped yesterday. I texted the owner, and both he and his wife graciously looked for the key with no luck. Today I received another text from them asking me if I wanted them to move things around and keep looking during the week. What kind people! Their thoughtfulness felt like the silver lining to this entire tedious key drama.

When we drank our tea yesterday, we also wrote. Both my friend and I love to write and will pull out pen, paper, and a writing prompt in a Café to seize a quiet moment. Today's Café turned out not to be tranquil as American country music started blasting from the speakers as soon as we started writing. Then a group of hell's angels charged in for lunch. Upon closer the inspection, all the bikers, both men and women, had gray hair and looked over 65 years old. A French senior citizen bike gang!  I admired their courage and sense of adventure. When we left, I noticed at an outdoor table, their helmets lined up and  waiting patiently for their owners to ride off with them into the sunset. Adventure comes to those who seek.

 

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A Day to Remember

 My traveling companion celebrated her birthday yesterday. We drove to a charming town called Marcillac-sur- Cele. There is an accent aigu on the last syllable though my accents went on strike this morning. Very French, n'est-ce pas?

We discovered Café-Caravane, a surprising combo of coffee shop and Indian boutique with imported clothes and housewares. In the spirit of India, I ordered chai tea. We sipped our lovely flavorful drinks while enjoying a magnificent view of the Cele River and the surrounding cliffs. Afterwards, we could not resist doing a little shopping. My friend bought an attractive tunic and skirt. I felt so happy for her as the experience fell under the category of what she calls birthday magic.

Lunchtime approached quickly. We popped back in my little car which I named "Le Happy" when I bought it. About thirty minutes later, we were seated at yet another table in a restaurant located in Cardenac. Hard to find a table because yesterday was French Mother's Day. We sipped a cool dry rosé instead of tea and ordered a three course meal. Feeling completely satisfied, we made our way back to our VRBO accommodations. Time to rest and digest until my friend announced she could not find the key to get in. Apparently, it had fallen out of her pocket somewhere. I called our host whose immediate reaction was she did not possess a spare key. How is this possible? She would however look in her house to see if she could find one. Long story short, she could not. She thought it would be impossible to find a locksmith to help us on a Sunday. I began to envision us sleeping by the pool. I started calling around for a locksmith which inspired Madame to do the same. She ultimately found one just ten minutes away. He arrived quickly and saved the day. In the states, the locksmith would open the door immediately upon arrival.  Not in France. First, he and our host needed to establish that their paths had crossed before. He knew her mother, bla bla bla. Finally,  we rushed inside the now opened door to use the facilities. My friend paid for the locksmith's visit which seemed a bargain at 50 euros on a Sunday. The host took away all the keys scattered inside the locked house to make copies. Very interesting to me was her typical French first reaction to problems. Impossible is what you hear so often in France after presenting a dilemma. Luckily, I knew this and together we made the impossible possible and created a birthday memory that will not be soon forgotten. Above is a picture of the pool near which we did not need to spend the night.

Road Trip

 We took my little car and headed for Figeac, located in the Aveyron about two hours from Monflanquin.  Our mission: to learn about the cheeses in the area and taste as many as possible.  Look, somebody has to do this.

The idea for this trip came to me after finding a delightful  brochure about AOP cheeses in my filing cabinet. Sometimes it does pay to do some paper purging. AOP stands for Appelation Origine Protégée, a label meaning in this case that the cheese comes from the local area and certified as authentic to the region. In the Aveyron, the four major AOP cheeses are: Roquefort, Rocamadour, Laguiole, and Bleu des causses. If you read French and would like a brochure about AOP cheeses throughout France, please let me know. I requested a bunch for students and generously received quite a few and a bonus poster.

Besides the deliciousness of cheese tasting, we are enjoying the lush beauty of the region.  See pictures below. 

The Foot

 Comfortably seated in our train seats, my friend next to the window, me on the aisle, I look up from my knitting and cringe in horror. In my direct line of vision is a foot, not just any old foot but a foot belonging to a French person. What is this foot doing? There in all its bare glory, it is sitting  up on the table, the table meant for  crusty baguette sandwiches with ham and cheese,  brightly labeled soft drinks, best sellers  and crossword puzzles, baby toys and pacifiers.  The foot looks quite dirty as if it walked all the way to the train station with neither socks nor shoes. I try to ignore it, but I can't. It is a woman's foot, a woman in her forties surrounded by her family in the compartment meant for four passengers. Every time I look up, I see it. I cringe repeatedly. Finally, I mention the foot to my friend. She squints to see it through the peep hole between seats. Much to my relief, she is horrified as well.  We discuss how scandalous this behavior is in French culture, maybe any culture.  The ticket controller walks by and totally ignores the foot.  It seems permanently stuck to the table.  As we finally approach our destination, I ponder saying something to her.  How would I approach her? Excusez-moi, Madame,  your foot is on the table, and I don't think that is done in France.  Or excusez-moi, Madame, is there a problem with your foot? Are you in pain? Can I get you a shoe and a sock? How about a fine for incivility and indecent exposure of a foot.  But I am too jet lagged to brave this confrontation. So I too say nothing. What is happening to French manners and politeness? Many of the passengers exhibit strange behaviors like wiping their nose on their sleeve. I will spare you other examples since you most likely get my point.  Next time I see a scandalous expression  of rudeness, I resolve to put my foot down and say something.

Picture of my beautiful omelette with mini crepes to combat the image of the dirty foot

Woah!

 My flight over to Paris via Amsterdam went smoothly. I watched a full season of The Golden Girls. Now that I could be considered a Golden Girl, the show felt very relevant to me. The other  day, someone asked me which Golden Girl I could be. With confidence, I can now reply Dorothy. She, like me enjoys words and likes to be witty. 

I met up with my friend at Charles de Gaulle Airport. We decided to share a taxi to our hotel.  Our taxi driver from the approved taxi line seemed a little gruff to me.  We sat in the back seat and peered out the window hoping to catch glimpses of the Eiffel Tower and other iconic monuments. I soon realized that the taxi driver was using a route unfamiliar to me. What were we doing in Montmartre on the way to Montparnasse?

Medieval Bench in Monflanquin taken after we made it to the village and proof we survived the taxi ride

He seemed to be following his phone. Horrendous traffic met us everywhere he drove. The taxi driver became quite agitated. After a while, he could not help himself and started using every curse word a French teacher is not supposed to know.  My friend and I just looked at each other.  This ride went on and on and on. Suddenly, we became aware of the driver sniffling continuously, My friend pointed to her nose and looked at me. I thought she meant to convey that perhaps the driver was sick with Covid.  Finally, we arrived at the hotel. The taxi driver took our luggage out of the car gruffly.  What a relief to be at our destination where we could speak freely!  My friend turned to me and said she thought the driver to be a cocaine user.  What did I know? I thought he had allergies.  We are lucky to be alive, That was one wild ride.