More than just Bed and Breakfast

You never really know what you're bargaining for when you book a B&B over the Internet. Photos may be misleading – a pretty front door tells you nothing of a seedy neighborhood, as happened to us once in Milan; a map may not tell you what the road is really like; photos of food, turquoise-blue pools or smiling hosts are no guarantee of anything.

Of course, when booking on a site like booking.com, there are also guests' comments. But you have to take those with a grain of salt, too.

That's why stepping into Le Moulin Pastelier was so delightful, such a relief. And not only because our hosts turned out to be British, meaning I didn't have to start stammering in French.

Just look at the room – isn't it lovely? See all rooms here.

 

Called the Gardenia room, our bedroom is decorated in cool shades of blue and white. The other three bedrooms have their own color scheme.

Donna has a fine eye for color and design. In fact, she is so fond of color that the bookcase in the lounge is organized by color, rather than by author or category:

Books arranged by color

Having the bathtub actually in the room was unusual, but also rather convenient. The wash-basins were obviously designed with tall European men in mind rather than petite ladies like me; I did have to stand on tiptoe to wash my face properly. But who cares – deep inside I'm actually a ballerina, as my exercise-class teacher knows; plié-relevé come naturally to me.

The bed was very comfortable, and the bed-linen heavenly, made of very delicate pure cotton. (Extremely important for my sensitive, easily-irritated skin.)

Bath/shower in room

Though the window looks out onto the gravel foreground, and there's another bedroom across the corridor, we had complete privacy, total peace and quiet. If we wanted noise, why, there was always a TV set, a CD player and a batch of music CDs provided by the hosts. And if we wanted company, all we had to do was step into the main lounge and say Hi.

We would then be greeted by one or more of the following : Chris, Donna, Theo. Bella (Isabella) was usually too busy dozing to come over and say hi. Young, frisky Theo wouldn't stay still long enough for me to take a good picture of him. To avoid misunderstandings, Theo & Bella are French pointers:

The guest lounge manages to be both cozy and spacious, harmoniously made up of several areas – two for lounging, whether with a book, a drink, watching TV or just enjoying the real fireplace; and others for eating, desk/computer work, and cooking. Not that you're expected to do any cooking – that is Donna's domain and specialty. I've seen fancier lounges, but I don't think I've ever walked into one so pleasant and inviting.

As soon as we arrived, Chris apologized for the dreary weather and offered us a drink. In this case, our first choice was a pot of tea. But on most other occasions, we had wine. By the end of our first evening, after a sumptuous meal and plenty of wine, we felt like we were staying with old friends.

Some guests may prefer not to interact with their hosts; some hosts prefer to stay in the background. We've been to B&Bs where we saw the owners only twice – upon checking in and upon leaving. For example, Villa Ladavac in Rovinj (see my earlier post ). But it is totally up to you – you can come and go as you please without saying "boo" to anyone, if you so wish. As for me, each time we returned from our day trip, the first thing I did was poke my head into the lounge to announce, "Hi honey, I'm home!"

In principle, breakfast is served between 8 and 10. Guests are requested to say when they expect to be at the breakfast table. Makes perfect sense to me. No point in having the food out on the table by eight if we intend to sleep in and make an appearance at a quarter to ten. What with Michael being rather punctual by nature, we said we'd eat at 8:30, and showed up at 8:29, unlike most other guests who were, ahem, more lackadaisical. Loved Donna's home-made muffins. As for coffee – I always bring my own, wherever we travel.

Chris & Donna not only lent us their GPS, but also provided us with maps, recommendations, directions and explanations. And so we set forth on our explorations each day.

Though I knew before we left home that we chose a place a good few kilometers off the main road (rather than, say, a place in or on the outskirts of a proper city), I was a bit taken aback by its remoteness. Sure, once you get used to it, it's nothing: you hop into the car and in 10 or 15 minutes you're at the nearest boulangerie-patisserie… I have family and friends who live in decent towns in New Jersey or cities like Los Angeles and Las Vegas who are in a similar situation, i.e., can't get anywhere without driving. In our naiveté we expected the little village to have a grocery, a café… Instead, we saw a church, farm houses, a tractor or two. And lots of fields. Well – the fresh agricultural produce has to come from somewhere! On the first night out, driving to a popular Italian restaurant in Revel, I was struck by the total darkness: no lamp posts, no city lights in the distance. Just black night, with stars if you're lucky and the skies are clear of clouds. Oh well – Michael is an experienced driver, and the TomTom was reassuring, when it wasn't scolding us for disobedience and insubordination.

And a propos driving – the Opel Meriva, like the washbasin in our room, was obviously designed for tall people. I could barely reach the clutch, and gave up on the idea of driving, this time. When Avis said they were upgrading us from the smaller Corsa, it didn't occur to me to object.

- to be continued -

Vive la France, part 2

First of all, I owe an apology to all English-speaking French people. For example, the very pleasant girl who served us at Le Comptoir de l’Horte in Revel; and the lovely lady at the Domaine Laubarel winery ; and Vincent, a young man from Toulouse with whom we shared the dining table here at Chris and Donna’s place. 

Lovely lady at Laubarel winery

 We’ve been here nearly a week, but after the first 24 hours or so, the place felt like home, as if we were staying with long-time friends rather than at a B&B booked over the Internet. It’s called Le Moulin Pastelier, and is located the tiny village of Belesta en Lauragais, which I suspect none of you has ever heard of, and which took me forever to commit to memory. All the names of the little towns and villages here are beyond me. Long and awkward or short and awkward, I can't pronounce them. They seem to have too many vowels in unwieldy combinations. 

Unassuming facade of Le Moulin Pastelier

I was half looking forward to, half dreading, the prospect of airing my highschool French. All the way from Toulouse airport I mentally practiced a few choice phrases…

After leaving the highway and driving through narrow country lanes, feeling certain that we’ve gone astray, we found ourselves at the right spot. Parked the Meriva and rang the doorbell. A pleasant-looking blonde opened the door, and I braced myself and said “Bonjour!”, followed by a quiet Hello just to be on the safe side.

Imagine my relief when it turned out that Donna and Chris, our hosts, are British…  So obviously, I have a good excuse for not having practiced my French this past week.

Our first destination, on Sunday, not-so-bright and not-so-early, was Carcassonne, a pretty tourist trap in the shape of a Middle-Ages walled city. Michael had fond memories of the place from his previous visit there, some 50 years ago, on a school trip… I’d bet anything that it didn’t have as many trinket shops and restaurants fifty years ago…

Nina (with purple backpack) taking pics of the entrance to Old City of Carcassonne

Monday’s destination was Albi, a prettier city with a civilized old section, a grand cathedral, and a Toulouse Lautrec museum. 

Palais de la Berbie, Albi, now the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum

But the French being awkward, everything closes down between 12 noon and 2 pm; and lots of places don't even bother to open on Mondays. The owners are probably still tired from Sunday. Besides, Tuesday was All Saints’ Day; no point in opening shop on Monday just to close it again on Tuesday… But the weather was perfect for roaming the streets and trying to capture the falling leaves of autumn. While tourists like me can’t get enough of the beautiful tall plane trees* along the roadsides, I can understand how the locals might feel differently. Taking photos of them and sighing at their beauty is a far cry from dealing with the mounds and mounds of drifting leaves everywhere. Though leaves are probably the least of the problem, judging from the copious mention of those trees on the Internet. See, for example, what The New Yorker has to say, in this charming article. 

Autumn leaves (of the plane tree)

Finding your way around Languedoc-Roussillon and Midi-Pyrénées  easy once you’ve done it for a week or so… But initially, what with crazy French drivers, fast roads, unintelligible names on signs, and winding country lanes  with absolutely no lights and no landmarks… it’s, well, tricky. So the GPS that our hosts kindly lent us was a blessing, when it wasn’t driving us crazy. To an extent, it was our fault, we hadn't configured it properly. You have to be very specific in choosing certain options, such as whether you want to go the fastest way, or the scenic route, or avoid toll roads, etc. But some of it is, I think, the fault of the developers who wrote rather annoying texts for the various announcements... When we didn't do what the program instructed us to do, it responded in a very insulting way, just short of calling the driver a bloody idiot. But most of the time we didn't switch it off, because it does have its advantages. Like when you’re driving in thick fog, or it pitch black, and can’t see where the next bend in the road is.

Back home, I didn't think much of GPS devices, having seen more than once how they led drivers astray. This particular one was a TomTom, a name I can't help but finding amusing. Yes, the logo is very cute; but I can't help imagining an Israeli agent trying to promote a GPS device called TomTom, which, when written in Hebrew, would probably be mispronounced as Toumtoum, meaning "idiot". 

That was around 700 words, very briefly covering our first 3 days in France...

Stay tuned for the rest of our adventures.

Vive la France

Okay, so we took a BA flight from LHR to Toulouse.

The first thing you might notice about France is that they speak French. Even when you clearly have Ignorant Tourist emblazoned on your forehead. They just roll their eyes at you, managing to convey a French accent without uttering a word, and re-phrase in French.

The second thing you might notice is that it’s not England. Funny how you just cross an itsy-bitsy [unless you are swimming it] channel, et voila! Tout le monde parle Francais, et, autour de toi, tout semble different.

Once you’re away from Paris – the average tourist’s comfort zone – the names of the towns and villages become unpronounceable. Especially when the signs whizz by as you’re driving. Which reminds me. The car Avis gave us is an Opel Meriva, which I’d never heard of, mainly because it isn’t imported to Israel. Over to you, Hebrew speakers: Can you imagine an importer promoting a car model called Meriva?*

We took the A61 going south.

You know you’re in a European-Mediterranean region when…

-        The farm houses have solid wood, low-tech shutters; none of your flimsy white (lace optional) things and/or heavy drapes of British homes.

-        Some of said shutters are painted warm brown hues; others in a wide range of blues, greens and violet.

-        The public toilets are – unless you’re very lucky – squat toilets, which I strongly feel should have been phased out at the turn of the century. That’s the 20^th, not the 21^st, century.

-        The distances are in km, not miles (when they are displayed at all); fruit and veg are sold by the kilo, not the pound.

-        Pizza rules. McDonald, though present, is way behind.

Shutters on the houses in Foix

And so we reached the godforsaken little village of Belesta en Lauragais. Which doesn't even appear on most maps. And this is where the story of our south-of-France vacation begins. Stay tuned!

* “meriva” in Hebrew means a quarrel, a row.