Url's Wurld

Url's Wurld is on the move

2009-04-27T17:03:00.003+02:00

As of May 1, 2009 all the pieces I write about slices of life here in France, reviews of performances I've seen, trips I've made and all the nonsense "Other Stuff" which I've found hard to catgorise can be found over on my other blog France Today.

That's mainly devoted to news stories here in France, but - should my technophobic skills be up to it - I'll also be including a section entitled Url's Wurld (what else) in which all the pieces I would otherwise have posted here will appear.

So thanks for logging on here, and if you've enjoyed reading what I've written, try scooting over to France Today where you'll find more of the same....and then some.

Johnny

The future still isn't Orange - but here's hoping

2009-04-27T13:59:00.001+02:00

In August last year I went through the rigmarole of trying to replace a defunct mobile telephone, after just six months of use.

And what do you know, I've just been through the same experience all over again, and the customer service offered to me by my provider Orange, served as a reminder that the company might be trying but they still haven't managed to live up to the advertising that the future is....Orange.

Let me take you back to Summer 2008 for a moment.

Back then I spent a holiday away from the beck and call of my mobile because it gave up the ghost.

It was bliss - only temporary mind you - but it reminded me of those halcyon days when I had a valid excuse for not being obtainable.

I couldn't make or receive calls or messages, which I'll freely admit a real pleasure.

But all good things must come to an end, and I knew I wouldn't be able to remain happily "out of touch" for too much longer. So I resorted to the good old-fashioned landline to put in that call to "get it sorted."

Here in France there are basically three main mobile operators, SFR, Bouygues and the biggest of the lot Orange - the all-powerful, customer-loving arm of the former state-owned but now private telecommunications company France Telecom.

I, along with millions of others, have the "pleasure" of being a subscriber to the last one.

In Ye Olden Days, the chances were that you when you wanted to get something done (about a 'phone) you would hang on the end of someone else's line for hours on end, waiting to talk to someone, and the company might or might not send a man round to "fix it".

At the very least there was a fair chance of talking to a real live human being (eventually) and even perhaps being able to put a face to the company.

Nowadays of course there's the multi-buttoned digital 'phone hotline which initially offers you tinny muzak followed by that belovéd computerised voice telling you to do something resembling the following:

"Press one for customer services, two for technical issues, three for billing, four for queries regarding the internet, five for mobile 'phones and six for other inquiries.

"If you would like to speak to one of our agents, please press nine."

Whatever happened to seven and eight you might well ask. Presumably they're still in the planning phase.

I put in that call to Orange customer services, listened to the lovely muzak, pressed what I thought were all the right buttons and eventually got through to a human voice to explain my predicament.

After asking me innumerable questions and checking through my records, I was informed that in fact my problem (or that of the 'phone) was a technical one and I would have to talk to someone from that department.

"Please hold the line and I'll transfer you," followed by some more muzak.

Moments later up popped another person, to whom I related my story, same questions but different record. Apparently they had no trace of my having changed my 'phone the previous year and as far as they were concerned I still had my old Motorola.

Before proceeding with my problem I would "have to contact customer services for them to update my details."

Ah yes privatisation and modern technology had certainly been compounded by French bureaucracy and simple human error - a lethal cocktail at the best of times.

So another call, more number pressing and of course a different person back at customer services to whom I could tell my story for the third time.

There then followed an interlude - no muzak this time around, just that eery silence that was the prelude to the creeping realisation that even in this modern era it was still possible to be "cut off" in one's prime.

The fourth attempt to an inevitably new voice actually yielded some results. Yes their records said I currently had a Nokia and they would ensure that the technical department was informed. Moreover if I had a problem with the 'phone they (customer services) could send me a replacement and would I like them to do that?

Well yes, that might be the solution I thought, and hastily agreed.

"But in the meantime you might want to check your SIM card in another 'phone (as if I had access to multiple mobiles) just to test whether that's where the problem lies. In which case you would need to contact the technical services to have them issue another one - SIM card that is."

Ah that little devil, the delightfully tripping-off-the-tongue named Subscriber Identity Module aka SIM card was perhaps at the root of my problems.

I thanked voice #4 for her assistance, hung up and called on the generosity of a friend to allow me to try my SIM card in his 'phone. It didn't work, which meant that the problem lay not with my soon-to-be-replaced, in-perfect-working-order 'phone but with my SIM card.

Call number five, a by now automatic explanation which I pretty much had off pat and within minutes a new SIM card ordered which "Would be with me by the end of the week sir."

"So as I don't need the new 'phone, how can I cancel its delivery?" I asked.

"That's no problem sir, we'll do it for you," was the cheerful and helpful response.

Perhaps I should have known better, as this was after all from the same department that had absolutely no record of my having changed my 'phone in the first place.

But still having faith in the spoken word leading to the deed, and that everything would be resolved by others, I waited for my new SIM card.

Next day "You have a new message" pops up on my computer and there's an email telling me that my new 'phone and SIM card are ready for collection at the nearest tobacconist (don't ask) on presentation of proof of identity and in exchange for my old 'phone.

Well that was then, and this is now. Roll the clock forward six months to April 2009, and I'm on a business-pleasure trip for a longish weekend across the Pond when what do you know?

My phone's screen flickers its last breath and disappears entirely.

I could still make calls if I knew the numbers (which because I have that sort of memory I do) but I couldn't access my address book, incoming calls were just not to be recognised (I always have the phone on vibrate and silent, so that wasn't working either) and messages - forget 'em.

Déjà vu in capital letters.

Arriving back in France I hotfooted it down to the nearest Orange shop - once bitten twice shy in terms of using the helpline.

I explained and demonstrated my problem - although how exactly you can show that something isn't there still perplexes me - and guess what!

They told me to ring the customer helpline (free from the shop) and describe what was wrong.

Now that's service for you!

Anyway, that's of course exactly what I did, managing to change my subscription and order a new 'phone, which arrived at that very same tobacconist a few days later, and I'm now the proud owner of an Apple iphone.

Even though I don't really have much of a clue as to how it works or how all the special bells and whistles it seems to have function, all I'm hoping is that it'll last longer than six months.

And should that turn out not to be the case for whatever reason, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that my next encounter with my provider will prove that the future is just a little more Orange than it currently appears to be.

Excuse me one moment, I have a "call waiting".

The Martha Graham Dance Company in Paris

2009-04-20T13:19:00.001+02:00

In fact it has been a decade since, what is the oldest and probably without doubt most significant American contemporary dance company has appeared in Paris.

A regular visitor to these shores in the 1980s and 90s, the company was back last week for a special five-day programme at the Théâtre du Châtelet, featuring a selection of works from a choreographer whose impact upon the world of dance was arguably incomparable.

Indeed in the introduction to each performance, the current director of the company, Janet Eilber, herself a former dancer for the company, explained how Graham ranks alongside some of the last century's greatest innovators in terms of the influence she had in her particular field - that of modern dance.

The visit here - all too brief - received rave reviews throughout the national press and anyone lucky enough to have caught any of the performances was treated to just a taste of some of the highlights from a woman whose career - as a dancer and choreographer - spanned most of the last century.

Saturday's matinée selection was performed to a full house and offered up five different movements created from various periods of Graham's life.

That introduction from Eilber before the dancers took to the stage, was more than enlightening in terms of putting what was to follow into perspective.

The performance began with Errand into the Maze, taking as its inspiration the myth of Ariadne and the Minotaur and which was first performed back in 1947 in New York.

Dancers Elizabeth Auclair (Ariadne) and David Martinez (the Minotaur) were both powerful and moving: Auclair as mesmerising in the role as she has been in New York and Martinez (as required) made to dance most of the time with a rod all but immobilising his arms.

Diversion of Angels (from 1948) was altogether much lighter and more flowing "the feeling of dancing without gravity," is how Eilber put it beforehand and indeed it was much more balletic and in a sense more poetic.

Most of the company takes part in a piece which represents three women at different stages of their lives. Or is that one woman at three different stages of her life? Graham always left it to the audience to interpret as they wished.

Lamentation Variations was based on Graham's 1930 Lamentation, only reinterpreted by three other choreographers in 2007 in memory of the September 11 attack.

The opening video sequence (a trend in much modern dance nowadays) was more than a little perplexing as there was no music and the only sound that could be heard was the round of accompanying coughing from the audience.

But the second variation, featuring Katherine Crockett showed just how much strength and power is required in appearing to move very little and remaining virtually still for periods.

The third and final variation featuring the whole company was powerful in a different sense with the haunting music accompanied by dancing that evoked the fear, incomprehension and panic that must have been present on the day in question., and which most of us have only seen in television news broadcasts.

After the break it was back to more Greek tragedy this time in the shape of Cave of the Heart - essentially a woman (Medea) spurned by the man she loves (Jason) for a younger woman (the princess) with the inevitable "Greek tragedy" outcome.

Most remarkable in this performance perhaps was that of Tadej Brdnik, as Jason, who proverbially has muscles in places where most men probably don't have "places" and could possibly have put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame in his heyday. Except of course Schwarzenegger didn't dance.

Finally to round things off and leave the audience humming a happier tune, there was Maple Leaf Rag - set to the music of Scott Joplin of course.

Some of the moves were breath-taking. You could hear it from the gasps in the audience. And it was performed at times at a fast and furious pace.

Apparently Graham used to ask her musical director, Louis Horst, to play the Maple Leaf Rag to "cheer her up" - and that's exactly the effect that came across to those in the audience.

And then the two hours were up.

The curtain calls were met with the inevitable rapturous applause before the dancers left (to prepare for their final performance in Paris in the evening) and the buzzing auditorium emptied.

There are no more European dates for the Martha Graham dance company scheduled at the moment

So those of you here who want to catch them performing will have to hotfoot it across the Atlantic to New York.

One plea from a confirmed fan though, would be please don't leave it another 10 years before you pop over the Pond.

Next up in July though - the Alvin Ailey dance company.

Ailey just happened to be a former pupil of Graham's.

Now that too promises to be something of a treat.

Any idea as to when England's St George's day falls?

2009-04-16T14:38:00.004+02:00

The answer is April 23 - in other words this coming Thursday.

That's the day set aside for the patron saint of England (among other countries around the world), but I won't expect too many people "back home" to be celebrating.

You see it's not a national holiday and barely gets a mention, but even though I'm not especially patriotic and certainly not an English nationalist (heaven forbid) I thought I would bring it up all the same as it rather highlights how nonchalant the English are about the whole thing.

Land of Hope and Glory ?

I don't just own dogs, I'm also a bit of a mutt myself - a British one I mean.

My mother was Irish, my father Welsh and I was born and brought up in London, which of course makes me English as well as British.

As yet I've not managed to trace any Scottish ancestry, although family legend has it that when my grandparents on my mother's side took the boat from Eastern Europe bound for the United States, they were quite literally "sold up the river" and landed in Dundee.

Anyway that's all rather beside the point, except maybe that it means when following rugby and football internationals I can switch allegiances depending on who's winning.

There are of course patron saints for each of the countries making up the UK.

For obvious reasons I have to give Scotland's St Andrew's day a miss (November 30), which I believe is a national holiday there.

But I do remember St David's day for Wales (March 1) although I rather baulk at the idea of wearing a leek, and I could never forget St Patrick's day (do I really need to give the date?) - and yes I realise that Ireland (Eire) isn't part of the UK, but Northern Ireland is, and he's the patron saint of all the Irish.

Like many fellow Englishmen and women however, I invariably forget St George's day.

In fact I would even go as far as to say that I actually had to check before writing this piece as to which day it falls on.

Just for the sake of reminding myself, it's April 23.

All right so I won't be flying the flag of St George (a red cross on a white background) outside my house as a) I live in France and b) I'm not really given to displays of fervent nationalism.

Mind you I doubt whether there'll be many to be seen across the channel either as it's not really the sort of thing the English "do" - well apart perhaps from during international sporting events.

In recent years there have been moves from organisations such as English Heritage and the Royal Society of Saint George to encourage the English to don their glad rags and celebrate, but as always mostly the calls have fallen on deaf ears.

It seems that as a whole the English are predisposed to almost complete indifference about the day and perhaps on reflection that's not too bad a thing.

Isn't their just something a little over the top about all that flag-waving and "pride" in one's nation?

After all do the English need to define themselves by having a national day to remember who they are? And anyway what does being English actually mean especially in what is supposed to be a multi-cultural society?

Cricket, warm beer, roast beef, yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash, fish and chips, scones and tea with a "nuage du lait" (not all at the same time of course)?

Besides didn't I read somewhere recently that the most popular dish in England now is chicken Tika Masala?

And what does it actually say on my passport? English?

No.

I'm British and therefore a citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

When all is said and done though, maybe I'll try to find a red rose to stick in my lapel or if I'm not wearing a jacket somewhere equally appropriate.

Just try to annoy my French friends who haven't a clue what I'm on about and anyway think that Britain is England and vice-versa.

Oh yes and maybe I'll break into a rousing rendition of Elgar's "Land of Hope and Glory" or better still Blake's/Parry's "Jerusalem", just to confuse them even further.

"And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?"

Or maybe I'll simply forget.

Or Jerusalem?

Well at least the Mayor of London was celebrating

Hallelujah für die Fernbedienung...Zap

2009-04-10T09:35:00.002+02:00

All right already. The headline's in German.

But if you're at all interested in what that country's telly has to offer on one particular evening - read on.

If not - do as I do and. Zap...

Yep it's part three in this rather off-the-wall look at the silver screen in different countries.

I've already "done" the US and France, now it's time for Germany - because I was all cultured-out after having dragged my 13-year-old Godson around the fabulous chateau de Fontainebleau for the afternoon and because satellite is a wonderful thing.

Actually I was supposed to be "researching" for this Autumn's general election when Germany's chancellor, Angela Merkel, is hoping for an outright win and to wave "bye bye" to the Grand Coalition.

But that's for a future date.

For now, join me while I grab what really is Man's Best Friend (forget all that nonsense about dogs) settle back on the sofa and happily zap my way through an evening's viewing - German style.

Ah satellite TV.

Here in France, I have access to all the national German channels, although for some reason there's no sound on either of the public broadcasters, ARD and ZDF.

Still to make up for that there's a slew of commercial stations offering more-or-less the same sort of thing, RTL, VOX, Sat1, Prosieben and so on and so forth.

Plus there's the all-news N-TV - a sort of German CNN and a dozen or so regional variations of public telly.

First up was Vox's Das Perfekte Dinner, based on the British programme Come Dine With Me.

Each week five "hobby cooks" compete by playing host to one another and serving up their version of what makes the ideal meal.

They don't know each other at the start of the week, but by Friday they've sampled the cooking skills and hospitality of one another and awarded points - in secret of course.

I'm addicted and always try to catch it if I'm home in time, following with almost slavish devotion in the hope that I'll learn something.

This week's "motley crew" are from the northern German city of Bremen and there are only four of them because Friday is of course Karfreitag (Good Friday) and there'll be special holiday programming.

It's not a very inspiring bunch and there seems to be more alcohol flowing than food on the table so. And besides there's about to be a break for commercials, so. Zap...

Over to RTL and the long-running soap Gute Zeiten, Schlechte Zeiten, GZSZ (Good Times, Bad Times).

It's wooden-top acting par excellence blended of course with the most improbable of plots.

It doesn't really matter if you've missed it for a couple of months and don't know who two-thirds of the cast are.

The stalwarts seem to stick around forever even if there's also a huge turnover of characters who have been "killed off" "moved" or disappeared".

Do soap operas have an unusually high mortality rate in comparison with real life? I'm sure someone, somewhere is busy compiling the statistics. Perhaps as part of a University degree course. Zap....

Back to Vox and more cooking this time in the form of Unter Volldampf.

Past winners of Das Perfekte Dinner pit their culinary skills against each other in a professional restaurant environment over the course of the week.

The "guinea pigs" are the clientele, who mark each of the five courses. There's a bottle of bubbly for the winner each day and €3,000 for the overall victor at the end of the week.

Is there no end to cooking on German telly? Zap...

News - well it had to make its appearance in the evening schedule somewhere didn't it?

This time it's on N-TV - a sort of German version of CNN except that the presenters are somewhat "stiffer" and there's little of that fast-paced delivery that characterises US broadcasts.

The big international story of course is still Italy - and the earthquake and the after-tremors.

The number of dead has risen, there's a preview of the state funeral being organised for Friday, and I'm transfixed and wondering what it must be like to lose everything in such as short space of time as I watch the the report of rescue workers still picking through the debris.

It's really where television news and in particular the pictures it can relay come into their own. But sometimes, I have to admit, it just seems a little too voyeuristic.

After 10 minutes I feel in need of the inevitable. Zap...

Over to Sat 1. There should be one of those US imports on. I never really understand them as I don't tune in often enough to keep up with the characters.

Instead it's football and the Uefa Cup quarterfinal first leg between Hamburg and Manchester City.

Oh dear - 90 minutes of teams that aren't quite good enough to make the Champions League. No thank you. Zap...

Now this is more like it. Prosieben. - another commercial station and hey it's Germany's version of America's Next Top Model - only of course it's not called that.

No Tyra Banks though as Germany has its very own supermodel in the shape of Heidi Klum and two rather camp guys who coach the girls how to walk the walk and talk the talk.

There are still 10 girls left in the competition (one will be kicked out tonight) so it looks set to drag on for a while yet, and of course the talons are out and there's the one "everyone loves to hate" being given more than her fair share of airtime - or so it seems - as the show hopes to push up the ratings with some wannabe-supermodel bitchiness.

Tonight's challenge is to look "glamourous" while POLE DANCING in a studio in New York's Meatpacking district.

Sheesh.

Ah Reality TV - dontcha just love it? Zap...

It's getting late but I'm convinced there must be something requiring the use of the odd neurone or two to watch and sure enough there it is on Arte.

This is a Franco-German station, available on good old terrestrial TV in both countries and of course in both languages.

It's very worthy, often highbrow and bills itself as a European culture channel and aiming to promote quality programming.

In other words as it's not in the battle for ratings, its schedule isn't dominated by what might be described as the "lowest common denominator".

The only downside of that concept it that very few people in either Germany or France actually watch.

Tonight it's offering an interesting debate on malnutrition in Europe, and apparently 10 per cent of the continent's population suffers from it.

Although it's a compelling programme, it's already a little late when it starts (almost 10;30 pm) and it'll last for an hour.

Why, I wonder, aren't these things scheduled when people are still awake enough to watch and listen properly.

Rhetorical question really I guess as then they would have to go head-to-head with more popular programmes on the other channels.

It's fast approaching 11 pm and I'm clearly not going to make it to the end.

Plus I have an early start tomorrow (Good Friday isn't a public holiday here in France) so one final. Zap...

And the box is off.

Have to admit an evening's viewing of German telly isn't nearly as entertaining even with the remote control as it is in the US.

But for the moment, that's your lot.

Gute Nacht.

France's own little bit of Americana - Disneyland, Paris

2009-04-07T12:52:00.002+02:00

Here are a couple of questions for you.

What do you get when you put a 13-year-old German boy intent on enjoying himself together with his 40-something (grumpy) Godfather equally resolved to relax on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Paris?

A) A visit around a museum for a dose of culture?
B) A stroll through one of the capital's beautiful parks to soak up the Spring sun?
C) A trip along the Seine on a bateau mouche
D) None of the above.

The answer of course is D) as His Grumpiness made the mistake of asking his Godson what he would like to do, and there was sadly only one answer.....DISNEYLAND.

Ah yes, Disneyland, Paris - that bastion of US culture planted just 32 kilometres from the French capital and a place that has been packing 'em in for over a decade and a half now.

Just the job for really getting to grips with what makes the younger generation tick.

So join me as I leave planet Earth for a couple of hours and transport myself (plus 13-year-old Godson) to what for all intents and purposes is another world.

First up here's a really good tip.

If, like me you have a rather "delicate" tummy, a fear of heights and a dislike of anything other than being on terra firma, twist the arm (ie bribe) a couple of gullible friends to join you, with the promise that it'll be a "wonderful day out" and you'll treat them to a meal in a posh restaurant later in the month.

It works wonders.

You can insist that "you're doing a photo reportage for posterity" (oh yes, my Godson has to have something in "hard copy"to remember his trip by) and your "friends" can let their locks down and behave like the teenagers they've always wanted to be.

Plus of course you have the added (cowardly) benefit of remaining aloof and superior and decidedly "above" all that nonsense.

Now I could try to give the trip a gloss of the "significant" by pretending it was a pilgrimage of sorts to check out the place where at the end of 2007 the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, first "went public" about his whirlwind romance with the now first lady, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, when the couple chose Disneyland as their first "spontaneous" photo op.

But that's old news, and besides, I've already rather admitted that the visit was far from treading on hallowed ground.

There's something decidedly odd about making the drive east from Paris to see rising in the distance the form of what appears to be a fluffy pink castle.

It requires something of a double take to say the least. Can this manufactured chocolate box fantasy image really be perched so close to arguably one of the world's most beautiful capitals?

And in the same country which is stuffed to bursting point with the real thing - chateaux galore?

Ah but this is Disney, where anything is allowed.

The world is just one big dream - or nightmare depending on your perspective - and you kind of know that you've left planet Earth, any semblance of sanity and above all France - not necessarily in that order - once you arrive at the Disneyland toll booth if you're arriving by car.

As you pay you'll receive that gushingly hearty "ENJOY YOUR STAY AT DISNEY. HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY."

Yes the welcome really was that loud

"Onkel Johnny," a voice piped up from behind me. "Why was that man grinning so much and shouting?" it asked.

"And what did he say?"

Ah yes. Only children would dare to utter the thoughts adults might politely keep to themselves.

"He has just been told to be extra polite," I replied, deciding that it was probably better to refrain from adding that it had been something of a shock to my own sensibilities to hear a French person bellowing away such platitudes in an obviously unnatural way.

Once through the admission turnstile (€51 for each adult - "fun" doesn't come cheap - and children over the age of 12 are grown-ups according to Disney) it was off to the first attraction "A ride through Hell in the Dark" otherwise known as Space Mountain 2.

Queues - or standing in line - are very much part of the Disney experience and to avoid too much waiting around twiddling your thumbs, the best advice is to get hold of some Fast Pass tickets which will give you an allotted time for returning and in the meantime you can try out some of the other attractions.

But don't be fooled by the helpful signs that tell you how long you can expect to wait. They're not always entirely accurate.

As we sought refuge at Automania for example, while we awaited our allocated trip to Hell and Back, we sailed past the "75 minutes from this point" marker to join the back of the queue.

An hour later and we still hadn't made it anywhere near the front and Space Mountain was beckoning.

So the party of three (other) adults and one teenager made their way over to where they had started, while the "photographer" was left to snap away at some rather grotesquely dressed dancers.

Similarly as we hotfooted our way afterwards to another area of the park we passed Star Tours with the sign happily announcing "zero waiting minutes".

"Cool, let's check this one out," I enthused, and of course it was only 40 minutes later that we finally boarded the ride with the maniac first-time pilot.

It's rather like being in a flight simulator (I know because I tried one out during a course to overcome my fear of flying) only in outer space.

And here's where I have to admit (in the smallest of letters) that a certain grumpy geezer actually spent the whole time belly laughing madly. A hoot.

Talking of tummies (love the segue) it was time to top up the fuel tank and find some food.

Once again it's a case of Disneyland Paris leaving the visitor somewhat aghast. Remember this is France, a country with a rich gastronomic palate and a culinary tradition of which it is rightly proud

So what did we end up eating at Toad Hall restaurant? Fish and chips! No comment.

Replete and feeling more than slightly bilious, I claimed "photographic reportage" yet again as my excuse for sitting out Indiana Jones, but I managed to record the screams of delight (?) as the rest of the party did a full circle on the Temple of Peril ride.

There were some distinctly paler than white faces that emerged a couple of minutes later, apart from one who wanted to "do it all again."

By this time of course even the other adults had had more than enough of the thrills and spills of Disneyland, and somehow I knew that I owed them big time.

Still there was one final, slightly more sedate ride left, and of course the inevitably long queue for Pirates of the Caribbean.

Even though the warning signs are there that "maybe you'll get wet" that wasn't enough for one still over-excited teenager who ensured that an extra helping of water was flicked over those sitting behind him.

There are of course many more rides and delights to experience at Disneyland, Paris, but as that well worn phrase goes "all good things have to come to an end" (bad ones too).

Back to the car and home.

Oh yes, Disneyland, Paris allows the (European) visitor to feel culturally superior and terribly snooty about the whole experience.

And of course the music is tacky, the parades completely over the top and the dancing ridiculous.

But when all is said and done, what the heck. It's just a bit of fun.

Actually, no, let's correct that - it's not just a bit of fun.

It's clearly a serious business making equally serious bucks - or should that be euros?

Disneyland, Paris is a major employer in the area and a whole infrastructure has developed over the years to support it. There are hotels, cinemas, towns and commercial centres that have been built alongside it.

There's a rail link for both the highspeed TGV service and the local RER.

And in 2002 a second theme park opened - Walt Disney Studios.

Sure there were the initial teething problems when Disneyland first opened its doors on French soil; the workforce issues (this is France after all) political opposition and low attendances. But that all seems to have been turned around.

It's essential for the local economy and there's the added bonus that like it or loathe it, the thing is bringing pleasure to millions.

But perhaps the lyrics of the song "One God" from the British group the Beautiful South best sum up for this particular visitor his feeling of a trip to Disneyland, Paris.

"The world is turning Disney and there's nothing you can do
You're trying to walk like giants
but you're wearing Pluto's shoes."

Can you name all the countries at the G20

2009-04-02T12:30:00.004+02:00

My 13-year-old Godson is visiting at the moment and like all children he managed to ask a question to which I should have known the answer but I have to admit I didn't.

It was a simple one really, something that's making the headlines everywhere and hard to get away from.

"Who are the G20?" Or put another way, "Which countries have sent their head of state or government to the meeting in London?"

Go ahead. If you have time, grab a pen and a piece of paper and try answering that without cheating or Googling.

That's what I did, and this is how far I got.

"Well to begin with," I told him there are the members of the G8. That's easy. It includes the UK, the US, France, Germany, Italy, Canada, Japan and Russia."

Then I thought for a while.

"China and India naturally. They should have been part of the club a long time ago," I wisely informed him.

"In fact at the last G8 meeting in Hokkaido, Japan, that's exactly what the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy wanted. But nobody listened to him then."

Yes the poor boy was getting a mini politics lesson as I was just warming up.

"Brazil," I said confidently. "And Saudi Arabia."

I was beginning to crack though, I could feel it.

"Um South Africa and A r g e n t i n a," I rather dragged the last name out as horror of horrors, I was quickly running out of steam.

Now this is the point at which I could have changed the conversation or simply huffed and puffed my way through an answer.

But that wouldn't have been fair to him, and besides it's not really my style.

"You know what?" I said. "I don't know the names of the other countries. I should. But I don't. Shame on me."

So we did what we should have done right at the beginning and Googled, coming up with the five missing pieces of the puzzle. Mexico, Turkey, South Korea, Indonesia and Australia.

And of course we discovered (as you either already knew of have since found out yourselves) that there aren't actually 20 countries that are "members" of the G20, but 19.

Oh yes and we also saw that there are "non-members" present in London from the Netherlands, Spain and Thailand, which of course raised two more questions from that teenager.

"What's a non-member?" and "Do they get to eat at the dinners?"

Thank goodness he didn't ask me to name all the leaders.

Terminal 2E Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris - a traveller's nightmare

2009-04-01T12:18:00.002+02:00

I've been meaning to write about this before as a word of warning to anyone who might be unlucky enough to arrive at, or leave from, the main airport in Paris, Roissy-Charles de Gaulle, at Terminal 2E.

But now after a second dose of 2E "Terminalitis" in less than a month, it seemed like the appropriate time to "share".

Quite simply put, the place is a nightmare - still. And it must leave even the most seasoned traveller bewildered.

You might remember that Terminal 2E didn't get off to the best of starts.

Designed by the French architect, Paul Andreu, it opened in 2003 to a hullaballoo and was described as "a stylish triumph of innovative yet practical design".

Just 11 months later of course, part of the terminal collapsed, killing four people and injuring several others.

It has since been rebuilt, and for the past year has been up and running, functioning "properly" or so the Airport authority would have us believe.

The problem is that while the main reconstruction work has been finished, there's still a fair amount of tidying-up that needs to be done.

It's a mess.

At the beginning of March, I had the misfortune of arriving at the crack of dawn at Terminal 2E on a long haul flight from Singapore.

The contrast between the two airports couldn't have been greater.

While order, calm and superb design had made the experience at Changi one to relish, the arrival in Paris brought me right back to earth - with a bump.

After arriving at a far flung gate, passengers were then expected to follow the signs leading to the in-airport train to the main terminal.

There was then a marathon walk to passport control with orange-clad ground staff directing confused passengers past cordoned-off areas (a feature of Terminal 2E) to the inevitable queues as European Union citizens looked for the chance of taking the "fast lane" rather than standing behind those from outside of the 27-nation bloc.

Any advantage gained once through was quickly lost when arriving at baggage reclaim.

The Singapore flight shared the same carousel as earlier 'planes arriving from Montreal and Ouagadougou (the capital of the West African country of Burkina Faso, in case you were wondering).

This wonderful bit of French planning resulted in the reclaim belt being chockablock with luggage from those two other flights as obviously many of the passengers were still stuck, waiting at passport control.

It also meant that the "intelligent" baggage delivery service, which automatically slotted a case onto the carousel whenever a space was available, was unable to function properly because there was simply no space available.

The main conveyor belt was full.

Nor was there any ground staff around to help create gaps by pushing cases closer to one another, or taking them off the belt and putting them to one side.

So the result? It was left to those bleary-eyed passengers to sort out the mess themselves by packing the existing luggage together more tightly on the belt thereby creating some space - which is what they duly did.

Bienvenue to Terminal 2E!

Fast forward to last Thursday and a flight out of Paris to New York's JFK, and ominously the electronic ticketing details listed - you've guessed it - flight boarding at Terminal 2E.

Groan.

"Still at least it would provide proof that departures cannot be as nightmarish as arrivals," I thought.

Wrong.

Air France - along with many other airlines - now offers passengers the chance to check-in on the Internet before arriving at the airport.

In theory it saves times (and personnel) and means you get to choose your seat.

Except of course with Terminal 2E, it doesn't really work the way it should.

Well it wouldn't, would it?

And that's especially true if you have extra luggage that can't be taken as carry-on. A fair bet on a long-distance flight.

Non-US passengers travelling to the States still had to stand in line to have details checked and show they'd completed their Electronic System for Travel Authorisation (ESTA).

Then there was another queue to "deposit" luggage and receive the boarding pass.

Next up was another line for passport control before taking Terminal 2E's very own magical mystery tour.

That of course included more orange-clad ground staff, more cordoned-off areas, that in-airport train, and those impossibly long queues at security as departing passengers did battle with those making connecting flights to see who could struggle through first.

All under the watchful and hapless direction of even more orange-clad ground staff.

Finally after all that, the boarding gate loomed somewhere at the back of beyond, and everyone who made it already looked completely shattered from the experience.

Passengers are advised to turn up at least two hours ahead of time for a transatlantic flight.

Believe me, if you're leaving from Terminal 2E you'll need every minute of that - and then some.

_________________________________________

Postscript.

Sunday evening at New York's JFK sitting at the gate waiting for my return flight and scribbling away in longhand.

Once again the mess that is 2E has been brought home to me by being here.

Plane(sic)-sailing all the way. The Internet check-in (or Web check-in as it's called here) works like a dream.

Passport control was a breeze.

Security is of course rigourous (belt, shoes, jacket, computer etc) but there are no snaking, waiting lines or interminable queues that seem to be a feature of European airports.

And all in all I skedaddled through without any problems.

Just one downside - knowing that I'll be arriving the other end at Terminal 2E.

Hello JFK. Now where's my luggage?

2009-03-31T15:07:00.001+02:00

It's bad enough arriving in New York for a long weekend knowing that you're going to have to face interminable queues and the rigours of immigration before you can really begin to enjoy yourself.

But when your luggage goes AWOL, it can really shed new light on the whole experience.

Perhaps though I should have seen it coming.

After all earlier this month the international press was full of some frightening statistics as to the frequency with which airlines manage to "lose" passengers' baggage.

Plus there was an anecdote from a journalist on French radio just last week responding to the figures with his recipe for ensuring that his luggage always arrives.

Apparently he sends one suitcase as a back-up a week in advance to his destination and then actually travels with a second one.

In addition he takes all his "essentials" with him in his carry-on.

"A bit extreme," I thought as I only half-listened to his advice, but perhaps I should have been paying a little more attention at the time.

Ah the wonders of hindsight.

Arriving Stateside can be a bit of a nerve-wracking experience for any tourist and since my last trip across the Pond a year ago, security certainly seems to have been stepped up.

Back then it was “Left index finger on the digital fingerprint screening pad, followed by right index finger. Look into the camera and don’t smile too hard. And when asked the purpose of your trip, don’t even think about a clever reply.”

Now it's "Four fingers right hand - pressed against the pad - followed by thumb right hand.
And then four fingers left hand and thumb left hand. That's all topped off with the all important and serious (don't you dare smile and remember to take your spectacles off should you be wearing them) photo and the purpose of your visit."

Once again, no smart answers.

Oh yes and that's not forgetting the visa waiver application which has to be filled out "correctly" before you make your way to immigration, containing exactly the same information you've had to complete at least three days before your flight leaves for the United States in the online Electronic System for Travel Authorisation (ESTA).

The welcome may be somewhat surly and the wait seemingly endless, but after all they're only "doing their job" and once through it's time to find your luggage - which was where I was headed.

All right, so I've rather given the story away in the opening sentences of this piece, because of course when I pitched up at the carousel my trusty Samsonite was nowhere to be seen and the belt introducing suitcases was no longer moving.

Even though I knew there was no point, I still continued to look, until finally I turned to a member of the ground staff to ask whether there was still luggage expected from the Paris flight.

"Is your name on that list sir?" he asked pointing to a nearby whiteboard.

I scanned it quickly and sure enough, there third from bottom was my surname "Summerton" and initials "JG."

"Yes it it," I replied. "So what does that mean exactly?"

"It means sir that you are in New York," he responded. "And welcome by the way. But unfortunately your luggage is still in Paris."

Of course I knew that was what he was going to say, but it didn't stop my heart from sinking.

Everything I needed for a four-day stay in the Big Apple, clothes and all my toiletries were packed in my suitcase, and carry-on had consisted merely of an overweight laptop, a pen and a notebook for scribbling longhand.

"How useful would that be for cleaning my teeth or providing clean underwear for the morning," I wondered.

"So what do I do now?" I asked rather lamely.

"You'll have to go to the Air France office just after customs," he replied, giving directions on how to get there.

So no suitcase, but there was still there was an upside to not having any luggage to speak of.

Customs was a breeze.

"Nothing to declare sir?" asked the puzzled officer. "No suitcase?"

"It's still in Paris," I replied with a shrug. "I need to find the Air France office."

"Oh," she responded.

"Turn right along the corridor on your way out and they'll be able to help you. Good luck, sir. "

I thanked her and sped towards the exit, made a right and pushed open the door....to discover that I was far from being the only one to have arrived without their baggage.

And joy of joys after the wait at immigration, I now had another line to join at "baggage-not-yet-here!" inc.

This is where it has to be said that in spite of the obvious bad humour of most of the passengers, the staff was immensely helpful, apologetic, efficient and friendly.

Clearly none of them was French!

And it more than drove home the point as to how service-oriented Americans normally are - certainly in comparison with their European counterparts.

The baggage, I learned, would arrive on the next 'plane - approximately four hours later.

It would be delivered directly to my hotel and all I had to do was provide a description of it and leave the key with them as it was locked.

Any unaccompanied luggage arriving in the US, I was informed, is automatically searched.

There would be a "four hour delivery window" after it arrived, and I was asked for my name and home address so that "compensation could be arranged.

Now that really was service - I hadn't even thought about requesting it.

While the staff clearly knew what they were doing, the same couldn't have been said for the unlucky passengers who still seemed somewhat dazed from learning the fate of their luggage.

When asked to "describe" my suitcase for example, I was somewhat flummoxed. "Er, medium-sized and black," was all I could manage.

But somehow the clerk managed to tease the size, brand, shape, colour and material out of me, and done and dusted, I was presented with an "emergency" pack of toiletries and assured that, "everything would be with me by the morning."

And what do you know, true to her word, that's exactly what happened as the hotel lobby rang me at 7.00am to inform me that my suitcase had been delivered.

So in a sense "All's well that ends well" and one person in particular had learned a valuable lesson the rather hard way.

I'm not sure that in future I'll resort to having a second case sent on in advance, but I might give some consideration at least to taking on a few more essentials in carry- on rather than stuffing everything into my suitcase.

And I should be thankful of course that mine was not among the reportedly 1.2 million (and rising) irretrievably lost each year.

A Mother's day reminder

2009-03-16T14:14:00.001+01:00

A timely reminder to fellow Brits that this coming weekend sees Mother's Day or Mothering Sunday.

It's a bit confusing really because apparently the two terms don't quite mean the same thing, although the former has come to replace the latter - and let's face it, they both fall on the same day (in the UK) - the fourth Sunday in Lent.

Those of you in other parts of the world may well be scratching your heads at the moment, thinking that I've got my dates mixed up.

The problem is of course that there's no one single day set aside internationally to pay tribute to what's often described as one of the most thankless and least appreciated jobs on the planet.

Just looking at when different countries "celebrate" or "remember" or "pay tribute" shows maybe how out of step we are with one another.

This year for example in Norway apparently it fell on February 8.

A whole chunk of Europe - including Germany, Finland, Denmark, the Netherlands and Austria, along with many other countries throughout the world such as Australia, Canada, Pakistan and the United States to name but a few, set aside the second Sunday in May - this year May 10.

In France it falls on the last Sunday in May - this year May 31 - as is the case in Sweden and Tunisia.

In fact rather than list every single place in the world, I would be better off providing a link to wikipedia - so here you are.

When my mother was alive and I lived in Germany, I got into a right pickle trying to remember the date back "home".

She insisted that it didn't matter if I forgot, but deep down I knew she was dead chuffed when I remembered.

Mind you, she had to put up with some of the most horrendous gifts down the years, especially when I was a nipper.

Encouraged by teachers I would put a rather dubious artistic bent to full use and pitch up with a painting resembling.....well very little really apart from colour splattered on paper.

Or, if I had been allowed to watch Blue Peter (a long-running BBC television programme for children), she was presented with a useless piece of nothing made from plastic bottles, egg cartons and sticky-backed plastic.

Eventually I moved on from "art" and one year - I must have been around 10 years old - I put what I thought were burgeoning culinary skills to use and my poor mother's tastebuds to the test when I decided to tackle a 10-egg (yep you read correctly) pancake complete with several tablespoons full of.....salt (rather than sugar - far too high a quantity of anything in any case).

I realised my mistake before the monstrosity made its way to the table, and in an effort to compensate emptied the best part of a container of pepper into the mixture. My childlike logic told me that pepper would cancel out the effect of salt - I clearly wasn't the brightest spark.

My ma, when she finally made it down to the smoke-filled kitchen (which of course she would later have to clear up) showed stoicism, patience and the utmost love as well as a huge amount of courage in both praising my gastronomic stomach-turner and even attempting to eat (some of it).

Teenage years saw a return to "art" of sorts (I clearly never learnt from my earlier efforts) with a selection of wooden "thises" and metal "thats" from craft classes, ranging from a chopping board, a cheese grater (she proudly kept it until she died, although I never saw her use it) and a blunt knife. Oh yes, I was full of thoughtful presents.

With hindsight it must have come as something of a relief (to her) when I started earning and actually bought presents - although unimaginatively perhaps I stuck to chocolates and flowers - a safe bet.

Anyway this post - and just as importantly the accompanying video (the former is also an excuse to share the latter with you) is to tell my ma, wherever she might be, "Thank you" and to pass on a gentle reminder to fellow Brits whose mothers are still around, not to forget them this coming weekend.

And hey, even in those countries where it's not officially Mother's day, how about turning around and telling them just how much you love 'em.

The accompanying (probably timeless) video is a rendition of a song with lyrics written and originally performed by the US comedian Anita Renfroe set to the music of the finale of Rossini's William Tell Overture.

It's fast, furious and has something of a ring of truth to it.

YouTube Video

Bienvenido to Britain-on-the-Med

2009-03-12T15:14:00.002+01:00

Forgive the Spanglish. It's a rather feeble attempt to introduce you to a little bit of Britain in the (normally) sun-drenched Mediterranean.

In case you were wondering, this time I'm inviting you to take you a whistle-stop trip with me to Gibraltar.

As promised, here's the follow-up to a post on a recent trip to southern Spain and this time around it's to.....er....."Britain".

Let's try to clear up any misunderstandings from the outset.

The exact status of Gibraltar cannot be ignored and indeed it has to be mentioned.

Without going into the whys and wherefores (after all there's plenty of information around if you want more detail) sovereignty over Gibraltar has been a major bone of contention in Anglo-Spanish relations for yonks.

Spain still asserts a claim to the territory, the British government has left it to the locals to decide and they're strongly against any proposal of shared sovereignty and want to remain British.

While Spain's position on the issue is perhaps understandable from a geographic perspective - take a look at exactly where Gibraltar is on the map - and to the outsider it would seem that two functioning democracies should have been able to reach a happy compromise (they are after all both members of the 27-bloc European Union) there's also maybe something of an irony about Madrid's perspective.

First up, the whole area of southern Spain is a magnet for tourists - not least of all the British, who seem virtually to have "colonised" large chunks of it. So having a little part of "Britain" officially on the doorstep shouldn't be too much of a hardship.

Secondly, just across the Mediterranean in Africa the Spanish are in a sense just as "guilty" of exactly the same sort of behaviour of which they accuse Britain.

Because there on the coast you'll find two separate Spanish cities Ceuta and Melilla "in" Morocco, with the government of that country repeatedly calling for Madrid to transfer sovereignty and likening the situation to the one in which Spain finds itself with Britain over Gibraltar.

All right, that's enough of the geography/political lesson, time to take you around the place with some of the impressions it made upon me during the briefest of brief visits last weekend.

Perhaps the most common ways of arriving in Gibraltar are by 'plane, car or Shanks' pony.

All right there's also private boats for the very wealthy, cruise ships or even a ferry depending on where you're coming from, but the great majority of visitors will be arriving or crossing the border at exactly the same place.

Huh? Well you see the the airport runway is the border crossing point, and that can often lead to tailbacks of vehicles as planes arrive.

In fact the main road connecting Gibraltar to Spain - Winston Churchill Avenue - runs right across the runway.

Why exactly any tourists arriving from Spain would want to take a car into Gibraltar must be something of a mystery as the place isn't exactly enormous (6.8 km2 apparently) and the Spanish border guards have been known in the past to be rather officious in checking vehicle documentation, leading to lengthy waiting times.

The best bet then is to leave your car in La Línea (Spain)- and walk across the border. There's no hassle and it takes all of ten minutes from the car park in Spain to the taxi rank in Gibraltar, which should definitely be where you head first if you want to take a trip around to see what the "rock" has to offer.

Once there - a quick word with one of the waiting drivers and he'll tell you the price for a one-and-a half hour tour (we paid €70 for two) and you're set.

Of course if you prefer to strike out on your own with map in hand you can always continue walking, and if you've just gone to Gibraltar for (duty free) shopping or some traditionally English "haute cuisine" (a Sunday roast, all-day cooked breakfast or fish and chips for example) then another 10 minute or so walk will find you in the centre.

We plumped for the taxi - obviously. The beauty is that you have an informed local guide in the shape of the driver, who will offer you an itinerary, take you there, wait while you look around and answer any questions you might have.

First stop St Michael's cave.

Before entering of course there was a chance to gaze across the Mediterranean towards the coastline of Morocco, the Rif mountains and even one of those Spanish cities in Africa, Ceuta.

It's not difficult to realise just how important Gibraltar has been over the centuries to Britain as a strategic military base, nor the fact that it is perched above one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world.

Turn around in the other in direction and you get a bird's eye view of the marina and there in the distance the Spanish mainland port city of Algeciras.

St Michael's cave is in fact a network of limestone caves and has had a rich and peppered history throughout the centuries, being used for military purposes on some occasions, for picnics (!) on others and even prepared apparently, as our driver informed us, as an emergency hospital (never used) during World War II.

Today it's a tourist attraction filled not surprisingly with stalagmites and stalactites that are delicately illuminated, and steps that take the visitor hither and thither.

A word of warning though, it's pretty humid inside, so sensible shoes are worth bearing in mind and be prepared to be dripped on from time to time.

The piped classical muzak is a little grating but when you eventually find your way to the auditorium you're in for a treat.

It's still used today for concerts - military music and Spanish guitar for example, ballet, theatre and events such as son et lumière shows. It only seats around 100, so performances must be something of a squeeze but the setting is spectacular.

Onwards and upwards with the tour and before taking a look at some of Gibraltar's famous tunnels and getting a history lesson on the Great Siege, there was an obligatory stop at one of the feeding points for some of the perhaps even more famous 300 or so Barbary macaques.

They are of course a symbol of Gibraltar and considered, so our driver tells us, as its unofficial national animal.

As we approached one of them was quick to clamber on to the roof of the car, but soon climbed down to join the rest of the troop.

They're well used to humans and although still wild animals are "unlikely to attack if ignored," we were reassured by our driver as he encouraged us to get out of the car and take advantage of some more panoramic views - this time of the runway separating Gibraltar from Spain.

It's illegal for tourists to feed the macaques, and anyone found doing so will be fined.

After they had obligingly struck various "poses" for the camera while grooming each other, we continued our journey to look at part of Gibraltar's network of 54 kilometres of tunnels.

You can read all about the Great Siege of Gibraltar and the building of the tunnels by the British here.

Only a portion of them are open to the public at the moment but that doesn't prevent the visitor from stepping back in time, and stooping more than a little at some points because they're not high enough for most people to stand up straight.

The oldest were dug and used during the Siege (1779-1783) as the British defended Gibraltar from a French-Spanish attempt to recapture the "rock", and they were extended during World War II.

The welcome to the tunnels advises that "although the downwards walk is pleasant the return is more arduous," but waiting patiently the other end was our driver, and he didn't seem to be in a hurry to finish the tour. So we took our time, read up on the history, gulped at the meagre monthly rations the troops had and admired some more glorious panoramic views.

Once back in the taxi, the driver took us past the Moorish castle, which he told us could trace its origins back to the eighth century and then into the centre of town for a walk around.

It's also there that it dawns on you how very "British" Gibraltar really is.

The names of the roads are a giveaway; Main Street or Library Street for example. Pubs - presumably serving typically warm beer seem to be on every proverbial corner with signs outside advertising English food.

There's a Marks and Spencer, Next, the Church of Scotland (!) a Nat West bank and even the street "furniture" has a touch of the stereotypical British high street about it with a bright red pillar box with the royal crest outside the post office and one of those old fashioned telephone kiosks.

Perhaps - no definitely - the only thing that's different about the place from "back home" of course is the weather.

So that's it. The trip to Gibraltar was over and I had probably had as much of a taste of Britain as I needed.

A final glance back as we walked across the border towards La Línea and Spain, and the thought that when all is said and done though, and like it or not, Gibraltar probably looks very much set to continue being Britain-on-the-Med.

Gaucin, Spain - I can see Africa from my bedroom window!

2009-03-11T13:59:00.004+01:00

Time for a break from hard hitting news as I invite you to join me (metaphorically speaking) on another jaunt to the sun.

No need to travel thousands of kilometres for it this time around though.

Instead it was simply a couple of hours by 'plane, knees-to-chin style economy class naturally as I counted the centimes and braved the skies from Paris to Malaga in southern Spain and "Goodbye drizzle, hello sunshine."

My destination was Gaucin, one of those picturesque little villages in Andalusia with whitewashed houses - or pueblos blancos - around 25 kilometres inland from the coast or the Costa del Sol.

More on that in a moment.

Now it might seem odd for a Briton resident abroad to choose to visit a place seemingly teeming with my fellow countrymen all year round but I was "on assignment."

My purpose - to report on a couple who have recently set up a table d'hôte, inviting people into their home and cooking up a storm.

It might seem like a long way to go for a meal, but who am I to pass up the chance of some champion grub?

That'll all be the subject of a future post (perhaps).

Right now join me for just a taste as I wandered through Gaucin, plucked an orange from the garden and gazed out towards Africa!

For fear of repeating myself, the easiest way to get to Gaucin is to fly in to Malaga and then hire a car to make the one and a half hour trip to reach the village, which is just under 120 kilometres away.

Driving along the A7, you head west-southwest, following the coast, past Marbella (probably the best way to visit that particular town, in other words giving it a miss all together) and exiting the motorway some 40 or so kilometres later before starting the final 25 kilometre climb to Gaucin itself.

Now that coastal drive of course provides something of a taste of all the "delights" the Costa del Sol has to offer.

Yes, well. What was once apparently a series of small fishing villages has now become almost an endless line of apartments and hotels.

In recent decades there has been an explosion in mass tourism and the whole area is famously overdeveloped and still, somehow, there seems to be room found to squeeze in even more monstrous constructions (see some of the pics).

The lure of reasonably priced accommodation (to rent or buy), beaches and great weather all seem to keep drawing tourists to the area, and another more recent major attraction has been the number of golf courses that have sprung up.

If the number of bags containing clubs on the baggage reclaim carousel at Malaga airport arrivals was anything to go by, there are more than a fair few golfing enthusiasts taking full advantage of the area's greens.

But I digress. The Costa del Sol and its golf courses were not my destination, I was Gaucin-bound.

Being perhaps completely unoriginal, the word that sprung to mind when first capturing a glimpse of the village from afar was "breathtaking".

And the promise of that initial impression was more than fulfilled on arrival.

Those whitewashed houses are every bit as "charming" as they appear on many a photo. The village is dominated by a medieval castle, and a wander up and down the narrow streets and glance over the rooftops gives another perspective and a peek directly into the way people live.

Great for the extremely curious tourist.

From the outside then, the village looks what might be considered to be "typically Spanish", but that's something of a false impression.

Take a closer look and a listen and you'll quickly realise that the British have "discovered" Gaucin too.

There's evidence everywhere. From the shop which carries an assortment of products such as tea bags, water biscuits and tomato ketchup - which you might expect to find on the shelves of many a British high street supermarket - to the market held on the first Saturday of every month from March to October.

There you'll find stalls, manned by Brits resident in Gaucin and the surrounding area, selling fare such as carrot cake, apple pie and samosas!

You see Gaucin, with a population of about 1,200 is also home to around 300 Brits and is a popular stopping-off point for many a British tourist to the area.

There's even an English language website promoting Gaucin.

Of course the British are not the only ones to have bought property in the area, there are plenty of other (mainly European) nationalities around too.

And it's hardly surprising, given the beauty and the great weather, that people have chosen to relocate or retire there to give up the rat race for a gentler, slower life.

It's just perhaps not as "Spanish" (whatever that might be) as could be assumed at first sight.

But that doesn't mean it's not worth visiting. Far from it.

Because apart from the architecture and the picturesque setting and the fact that it's something of a gateway to the other marvels of Andalusia, there's also one very special ingredient the village has to offer.

That's the view it affords as you look south.

Because there in the distance, beyond the orange groves, past the cork forests is Gibraltar and the Mediterranean.

And there's more. If the visibility is good enough you can even make out the shores of Morocco, in other words the continent of Africa and the outline of the Rif mountains on the horizon.

Take a (very) close look at some of the photos and you should be able to see them.

Where else in Europe, I wondered, could you stumble out of bed, pluck a fresh orange off a nearby tree and gaze out into the distance to see Africa?

Coming next - more Brits "abroad" on a trip around Gibraltar.

The Raffles hotel, Singapore - a fellah can dream can't he?

2009-03-04T19:05:00.003+01:00

Let me whisk you away for a few minutes to another world and a place that might even be regarded by some as harking back to a bygone era.

Sit back, close your eyes....er maybe not otherwise you won't be able to read what follows....and join me as I recount a recent stopover in Singapore and a stay at Number 1 Beach Road.

That's the address of the Raffles hotel, a place steeped in history (potted version to follow - more detail can be found here) and one of those magical names that conjures up all sorts of romantic images of a gentler, more genteel time perhaps.

Now let me admit straight up that I'm not in the habit of frequenting the watering holes and resting places of the rich and famous - far from it. Because that's what in a very real sense the Raffles hotel is.

It combines luxury with tradition, perhaps a little out of place in these times of financial woes and is definitely the stomping ground of those with probably more sense than money, world leaders and dignitaries, A-list celebrities and the like.

So what, you might wonder, was I doing there? Well it was a combination of factors really.

It's one of those hotels (along with the Old Cataract in Aswan) I've always wanted to visit, and I got the chance last week, partially as a late Christmas present from my nearest and dearest (lucky me) but also as a reward for overcoming my fear of flying and agreeing to force myself on into an oversized lump of metal to fly half way around the world in search of some winter sunshine.

Just one night mind you, and these are some of my impressions as I poked my nose through the door to see how the so-called "other half" lives.

The Raffles is of course rich with history and tradition.

Even though it's rather a throwback to British colonialism (writ large), certainly in terms of architecture and custom, it was in fact founded over 120 years ago by four Armenian brothers, Martin, Tigran, Aviet, and Arshak Sarkies.

It is without doubt a Singapore landmark and has been declared a national monument by the government. Its heyday was probably the first couple of decades of the last century, and it has in its time seen the great and glorious pass through its doors.

If its pristine white walls could talk they would probably have more than a few tales to tell.

The hotel bears the name of the founder of Singapore, Sir Thomas Stamford Bingley Raffles and it survived World War II and the Japanese occupation.

It closed for business two decades ago to undergo a serious multi-million dollar makeover, reopening in 1991. It has also changed hands several times and is now owned by a private international investment company based in Los Angeles.

So much for the past (a reminder once again that you can find out more should you wish to at the hotel's official website here) how about the present?

What exactly do those with deep pockets get for their money.

Well it doesn't come cheap, that's for sure.

Perhaps I shouldn't have (after all I wasn't coughing up the spondoolicks for an overnight stay) but I checked out the rates and GULP they start at something like 690 Singapore dollars (around $US 444 or €335 Euros) for the hotels simplest suites - the hotel doesn't have any "rooms" - rising to goodness knows what at the highest end of the range.

I guess it's a question of "If you have to ask, then you can't afford."

For that you get a warm and personalised welcome when you enter the voluminous lobby and you're escorted to your room - er sorry suite - by a member of staff.

Once there, all the buttons, knobs and doodahs of exquisitely furnished "quarters" are explained, your own personal butler drops by and then you're left to wallow in the splendour.

Now a note on the butler. Of course it's all very charming to have someone around who will cater to your every whim and fancy, but it's also a little disconcerting as such a service is usually carried out by the hotel concierge and unless you're tremendously exigent, you'll be hard-pushed to really find a use for him.

The most I managed was to have him book a table at one of the hotel's eight or so restaurants (I rather lost count).

The principle at Raffles seems to be that anyone staying at the hotel is not treated as a guest but as a resident, and such service, attention to detail and all round pampering can at times be more than a little overwhelming.

Spending just one night there of course didn't really give me the chance to experience all it has to offer, the billiard room, the spa, the pool, the splendid gardens or the shopping, but of course no visit to the Raffles - be it as a "resident" or just dropping in for a quick look around - would be complete without trying out the legendary Long Bar and knocking back a Singapore Sling, invented and first served there around a century ago.

Here's the recipe for anyone who's interested.

I had been warned in advance what to expect - a mixture of businessmen, tourists, ex-pats - sat at the bar or at tables overhung with huge wicker fans, music in the background and monkey nut shells all over the floor.

You see tradition has it that as you munch your way through the nuts distributed freely around the place, you deposit the shells - where else but on the floor.

"It's all very British," I had been told by a good friend - a foreigner who clearly must believe it's typical behaviour of my fellow countrymen. But to be quite honest everyone joins in and does as tradition dictates.

So there you go - the briefest of looks at the Raffles hotel.

Time to for me to return to reality and struggle home through the rain and the rush hour traffic.

It was certainly one of my personal "must dos before the Grim Reaper beckons" crossed of my wish list, but would I really have forked out the money to stay at the Raffles from my own wallet?

Perhaps but probably not.

There again, I'm always open to offers to make a return trip there (or anywhere else for that matter) if anyone is willing to sponsor me to indulge myself on wanton pleasure at their expense.

I'll even promise to write about it afterwards.

Well a fellah can dream can't he?

Mealtime in Malaysia

2009-03-03T12:43:00.002+01:00

Monday saw the launch of the 100th edition of the Michelin guide here in France, the "bible" for gourmets (and gourmands) with deep pockets and a taste for fine dining around the world

No real surprises as many of the "ups and downs" had already been leaked over the weekend, and as expected only one restaurant joined the guide's crème de la crème three-star club.

It just happens to be a regular haunt of the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, Le Bristol - a mere hop and a skip (or a bloated belly wobble if you like) from the Elysée palace - his official residence.

Say no more!

Of course while many French - rightly or wrongly - consider France to be the very standard bearer of haute cuisine, or at least the arbiter thereof, with food and drink being high on any region's list of priorities, other countries have more than enough on offer to tickle the taste buds of the curious traveller.

Guilty as charged - a somewhat contrived way of sharing some of the food that passed my lips during a recent food frenzy in Malaysia.

Living in a country which prides itself on its gastronomic tradition, and hailing from one which rather lacks a reputation for culinary excellence, food and eating have always been part of the joy of travelling for me.

Trying out local dishes gives also gives me the chance to gain an insight into the culture - well that's my excuse and although it might be stretching a point a little too far, I'm sticking to it.

So without too much (further) ado, here's a taste of just one meal among many, I had the pleasure or downing last week on the Malaysian island of Langkawi.

Just sitting here bashing away at the keyboard fair whets the appetite as I try to make some sense of the long-hand notes I took immediately after the meal.

Well I could hardly sit there stuffing my face with a computer on my lap now could I? That would surely have been one step down from those sitting through a meal with a mobile 'phone clapped to the ear.

There are a few (for my chops) unpronounceable names, and I only hope the spelling is correct. But I'm sure if I make the odd error I'll be forgiven.

It was a blow-out of reasonable proportions - four courses and eleven dishes (I counted) - suitably named the Malaysian heritage menu.

For starters, l'entrée of course. Not just one, but three separate dishes.

Otak otak udang - prawn cake in banana leaf, Pai tee ayam dan Sayur-sayuran dengan sos cili - chicken pai tee with chili plum sauce and Kerabu pelam - local young mango salad.

The prawn cake won me over immediately - something of a surprise as I'm not usually a great fan, while the plum sauce was rather overpowering and the young mango salad tasted a little soapy - or at least how I imagined a bar might taste if I were actually to try eating one.

Not the greatest of beginnings perhaps, but it left room for improvement.

Next up, Sup makaman laut bersamo tomato - or seafood soup with tomatoes.

Surprisingly the tomatoes weren't as overpowering as I had feared. How come I can never get just the right tanginess when using them in soup?

And the whole dish really came alive when washed down by a cheeky little Australian Sauvignon blanc. That really was something of a treat as of course what's usually available back home in France is.....well......er.....French wine and nothing else.

On to the main course - four dishes - they definitely needed to be eaten in the correct order from the least to the most spicy. Thankfully the waiters were on hand to offer guidance.

So bearing that in mind the course kicked off with the Siakap merah goreng tradisi dihidang bersama sos liman kasturi or deep fried snapper with dried herbs, the mildest of the four, and then moved on to the Daging kurma - coriander spiced beef, deliciously tender and rather heavy on the coriander.

But really no complaints on that front as I could eat the stuff until it comes out of my ears.

The Sayuran segar bersama herba masala or masala vegetables went down a treat, which just left the spiciest of the lot requiring some attention, the Ayam merah dimasak dengan jintan or chicken braised with tomato, chili and fennel seeds.

Actually there was nothing to worry about even for this wimp of a palate as it wasn't overly "hot" and had a pleasingly distinctive and lingering aftertaste.

Nasi berperisa oren - orange rice and Papedum lada hitam - black pepper papadum accompanied all four dishes as did another Aussie wine - this time a Shiraz.

Finally pudding or dessert - not exactly my favourite as I don't have much of a sweet tooth and perhaps harbour too many childhood memories of British school dinners and "afters" (prunes and semolina - yeeurk).

So when I discovered that we would be served Kuih loyang dan bebola ais limau kasturi or
steamed banana pudding in banana leaf and crispy fritter with calamansi sherbet, I wasn't exactly brimming with excitement.

But again I was pleasantly surprised and the portion was not a gut-busting size.

All right so the meal might not have been the stuff of worthy of Michelin's three stars, but it sure left one person happily replete and convinced that through his tummy he had experienced some of the culinary delights of another culture.

And all that without the belt-adjusting bloated sensation often felt after a heavy and rich meal back home.

Langkawi rain forest - a five star natural luxury

2009-03-01T15:01:00.005+01:00

Ready for a natural history lesson - of sorts?

I'll try to keep it short, although I'm not making any promises as it's not exactly easy to condense such a vast and vital subject into a couple of hundred words.

But here goes.

It comes off the back of a recent trip to the Malaysian island of Langkawi, which bills itself as "brimming with culture, mysteries, legends and an abundance of natural scenery".

It was, the travel agent promised us when we booked last-minute, the "perfect getaway with guaranteed sunshine at this time of the year and wonderful beaches."

And as plans to search for some winter sun in the French Caribbean had fallen through after a series of strikes and protests in both Guadeloupe and Martinique, it seemed the perfect alternative - with the added bonus that we might actually "learn" something rather than sloth it out all day on the beach.

Langkawi, the Jewel of Kedah is in reality an archipelago of 99 islands (plus five other temporary ones) with the largest being Pulau Langkawi with Kuah as the capital.

It's where all the "action" takes place.

Actually there's not really a great deal of that in the sense that might be understood in Bali or Phuket, the main competitors in the region in terms of tourist destinations.

Unique treasure

"While the others have the nightlife, surfing and culture," explains tour guide and conservationist Irshad Mobarak, "Here we have something quite unique which has to be treasured and preserved."

And that "something quite unique" comes in the form of one of the world's oldest rain forests and the mangrove swamps.

In 2007 the whole of the island was designated a World Geopark status by UNESCO and that has played an increasingly important role in maintaining the delicate balance between the influx of tourists, which began in the late 1980s, and protecting the environment from our intrusive wanderings.

The government has encouraged a more eco-friendly type of tourism, and although there are more than 70 hotels on the island, a programme has been put in place to make both locals and visitors aware of the need to protect and preserve the treasures the place has to offer.

Mobarak and his colleagues are probably at the forefront of that effort being made to "protect and preserve".

A former banker, he has spent the best part of the past two decades heading up a team of guides aiming to show visitors around while "trying to educate and get across the beauty of the rain forest in a way that helps people understand."

This gently spoken but clearly impassioned spokesman for wildlife naturalism quickly draws the listener in and reveals some of the rain forest's marvels while at the same time drumming home the need for preservation.

"It's the gift of the gab," he freely admits to one morning session of walkers on hearing they're from Ireland. "I have Hogan blood in me too and can tell a good tale."

It's not true though, he can't just "tell" a good tale. He casts a magical spell over the listener as he makes the place come alive in a setting which offers five-star luxury in terms of appreciating what nature has to offer.

Neighbours from hell

One moment he has us all with our necks craned towards the sky as he explains how a pair of kites became the "neighbours from hell" for nesting eagles when they moved in to their territory a couple of years ago.

"The kites have moved on now," he tells us. "And hopefully this year the eagles will be able to raise their young without being constantly pestered. They didn't breed last year."

The next moment he's going into raptures to explain the extraordinary measures undertaken by the tailorbird to build its nest using spiders web to bind together a leaf to provide a suitable "home".

And then he's mimicking the cry of the mighty hornbill, describing its majestic flight and explaining how at the moment we'll only see the males as the females (they're monogamous) are quite literally holed-up within the nest rearing the young.

During a night walk led by Peter, one of Moborak's colleagues, I innocently ask what the constant racket I've been hearing all day is.

"It sounds as though there's some building work going on in the neighbourhood," I say. "It can't possibly be 'nature'."

"Cicades," comes the answer. "Whose song is being sung by the males rubbing parts of their abdomens together (I'm paraphrasing)."

Breeding by (prime) numbers

And then comes Peter's magical explanation of the insect's life and breeding cycles.

"They stay buried in the ground in their immature form for a number of years," he tells us.

"It can be one, three, five, seven, eleven or thirteen years - depending on which group an individual belongs to - always a prime number thereby confusing some likely predators whose lifecycles simply won't be able to cope with such complexity."

He goes on to explain that when they emerge from the ground, it's for one to two weeks of what has to be the noisiest "love song" ranging from "classical" in the morning, "pop" at lunchtime to "heavy rock" in the evening, as every male goes about attracting a bevy of appropriate beauties.

Once the act is done, the female will lay her eggs before dying.

The male will continue his reproductive "warblings" for just a few days longer, before he too dies. Adults mate and reproduce ensuring the existence of a future generation they'll never get to see - a cycle that is repeated and has been honoured by cultures throughout the centuries as a symbol of everlasting life.

Phew - and I had always thought that cicadas were just noisy tropical grasshoppers.

Taking flight

We quickly learn that the rain forest is not just a place where birds take to the wing.

In Langkawi it's also home to flying foxes (apparently a kind of bat - I didn't get to see any) squirrels and even snakes.

And that's all topped off by the flying monkey or otherwise called flying lemur - the colugo.

Although they're not true lemurs of course, which are native to Madegascar - the colugo has recently been confirmed as a "missing link" between two different types of species Peter explains excitedly.

"What had previously been thought of as a rodent has in fact been reclassified only last year as a primate."

Learning from mistakes

A good reputable guide will not take you tramping through the inner heart of the rain forest, destroying and disturbing nature as you go.

Instead they'll stick to the very edge, which will still give the curious more than enough to hear, see and smell.

The same is true of the mangrove swamps. The previously common practice of throwing food for eagles or monkeys is not just discouraged, it's banned. But the mistakes of the 80s and 90s are proving difficult to reverse.

The omnivorous macaque monkeys for example now expect to be fed and line up on the rocks as boats pass by. During a stop at the bat cave, visitors are warned that if the macaques appear they could become aggressive and intrusive as they search for titbits.

"It's an uphill battle," admits another guide. "There's now official certification for those accompanying tourists, and those working illegally are encouraged by others to get the appropriate training," he adds.

"But even though there are regular patrols to ensure that animals aren't being fed, the old habit of getting animals up close to keep the tourists happy and enable them to get some great 'snaps' for the full on experience, is an all-too-tempting one, especially if the guide wants some extra tips at the end."

Eco-tourism

Tourism has not only arrived in Langkawi, it's very much part of island life now.

It has boosted the local economy and brought with it a degree of development to what was before a small agricultural community - a fact that Mobarak and his colleagues fully acknowledge.

Their job and the responsibility of the government is a delicate juggling act and there's little doubts that they have their work cut out to overturn past bad practices.

"The mangrove swamps are a vital element of the environment," Peter explains at the end of our four-hour tour.

"They're the breeding ground for sea food and we need to protect them," he adds.

The hope as far as Mobarak is concerned is through conservation work and carefully organised tours, there'll be increased awareness of just how precious the rain forest and mangrove swamps are.

"I like to consider myself a conservationist first and foremost, and it's great to see the reaction people get from understanding nature", says Mobarak.

Oh dear. That wasn't very short was it? Apologies.

Changi airport - "Enjoy the elegance"

2009-02-28T18:18:00.003+01:00

Flying isn't really that high up on the list of things I enjoy doing. In fact over the years I've taken a couple of courses to overcome a fear which I consider to be completely rational.

Nor am I the world's greatest fan of airports. They serve a purely functional purpose as far as I'm concerned, namely a point of departure, transfer or arrival - and basta.

All right so I'll admit that I get quite a buzz from pitching up at the arrivals hall to collect someone.

It's more than a little moving to see the pure joy with which people greet each other after time spent apart.

And of course I've become quite emotional when seeing couples cling hold of one another for the longest time until one of them finally has to make their way through passport control.

But that aside airports leave me pretty cold.

Or they did until this past week.

You see my recent "encounter" with Singapore's Changi airport has rather changed the way I feel.

Much has been written about the airport, its magnificent modernity and ample amenities (apologies for the alliterative overload there - I honestly didn't just swallow a thesaurus).

In fact it's probably hard to find anything new and original to say - apart that is from my own personal impressions as a first time visitor.

So with that in mind, and just in case you've never had the chance to pass through, here goes.

Over the past couple of decades there seems to have been the trend at many of the world's major airports (or at least the ones I've visited) for them to become a shopper's paradise.

Both Roissy-Charles de Gaulle (Paris) and Heathrow (London) - two airports I know particularly well - offer a bemusing array of choice for those in desperate need of a little retail therapy or simply the desire to flex a bit of plastic to while (or wile if you prefer) away the wait.

I have - in my rather superior way - tended to scoff at such unsubtle attempts to have me part with my hard earned pennies (or centimes).

Changi tests such resolve to the limits as you can quite literally "shop 'til you drop" or at least until the credit card has been maxed out.

Changi airport, koi pond

To start off with of course there are all the "usual suspects" - in the form of booze, ciggies and smelly stuff.

There's not just the chance to hang out at one duty free shop, but in the terminal I went through - three.

If it's CLOTHES you're after (and it has to be capitalised) and DESIGNER LABELS (so does that) to boot, then you're in for an enormous "treat".

Burberry, Dolce and Gabbana, Bally, Hermes, and Zegna. Gucci, Hugo Boss, YSL, and Esprit. even Ferrari and McLaren Mercedes have got in on the act - a none too gentle reminder perhaps that since last year Singapore has played host to the only night time grand prix on the Formula One (circus) circuit.

The list could go on and on and on, but you've probably got the picture.

Looking for a watch? Hello Tag Heuer, Omega, Swatch, Tissot or Longines....and once again I could go on, but.

Then of course there's the chance to buy luggage - just in case (ouch) you haven't already checked in far too much and are looking to reinvest in something sturdier, flashier, more designer-labelly.

Changi gives you the chance to do just that with a suitcase mantra that includes, Samsonite, Delsey, Victorinox, Mandarina Duck and heck let's face it, just about any clothes or perfume designer you care to mention that seems to have jumped upon the baggage accessory bandwaggon.

Now here's a thing. How exactly are you supposed to take on board a newly-purchased oversized piece of luggage that doesn't meet the carry-on restrictions? Search me.

For technology geeks there are stores galore and the chance to drool over the Apple Macbook Air (a fellah can dream) and hundreds of gadgets that do goodness knows what - I certainly didn't have a clue, I just knew I wanted them - all.

There's a specialist French wine shop (a bit "coals to Newcastle", but that didn't stop me looking) books in a variety of languages and regional crafts stores.

If shopping - real or window - isn't exactly what you're after, then there's plenty else on offer at the airport's spacious and carpeted - yes that's right in places it's almost wall-to-wall woven stuff - terminals.

Check out the space specifically dedicated for children (and adults) to scribble and trace to their hearts' content.

Changi airport - scribble and trace area

Golfers can practise their putting, there's a cinema, live music, a swimming pool (terminal One) and five separate, perfectly-maintained miniature "gardens" featuring ferns, orchids, bamboo, sunflowers and cactus. There's even a koi pond.

Hungry? There are restaurants everywhere featuring food from all "four corners of the globe". Thirsty? Ditto - including Harry's Bar - make mine a double and easy on the ice.

There's free - yes sorry to have to keep repeating myself, but FREE wifi access available and not just for business travellers. That's s bit of a novelty for any European who might be used to having to pay.

All that and much more (I've probably missed out a huge chunk) in an airport that is clean - oh sorry CLEAN - and easy to find your way around.

There are none of those bewildering signs that seem to point you in all possible directions at the same time (anyone who has had the misfortune of passing through terminal E at Roissy recently, where organised chaos and interminable queues are par for the course, will know exactly what I mean) and there's even someone to hand out sparklingly spotless trolleys (are they all brand new?) to help you lug your almost overweight carry-on around.

The blurb in the airport brochure runs "Enjoy the elegance" and that's exactly what Changi offers.

If you turn up far too early or have an overly long stopover, it doesn't really matter. You won't be bored.

And the beauty of it all is that you don't really need to shell out buckets full of dosh to enjoy yourself.

France - and spring is in the air

2009-02-28T14:52:00.001+01:00

I couldn't resist it and forgive me if I indulge myself a little.

But after a two week break in search of winter sunshine half way around the globe, I'm back in France and there's a definite sense that spring is in the air.

Now it might be a little too early to get overly excited, after all it's just the end of February and there's still plenty of morning frost around and there's bound to be more rain, grey weather and who knows even snow.

But in the space of just a fortnight so much seems to have changed as nature struggles to free itself from its winter mantle.

And taking a proper look around the garden on my return there was all the evidence I needed that indeed change is afoot.

Bert (the resident mole) has surely resisted the freezing temperatures and has been merrily tunnelling his way through the winter months, so in a sense "all is well in the garden".

But he has now been joined by the very first crocuses, happily poking their heads above ground.

Ah yes this country and many others might be going through financial meltdown and the media is whipping us all into a panic with stories about the economic crisis deepening.

Just yesterday for example on French television there was a report about the danger of deflation with the apparent mayhem it could cause if a recession turns into a depression.

Unemployment is rising, there's the threat of more job losses to come and all the signs are that another nationwide general strike scheduled for March 18 will go ahead.

But hang about, somebody forget to tell nature, because she's not having any of it - at least not here on the edge of the largest forest surrounding the nation's capital.

That solitary crocus from two days ago has now been joined by another, the trees are in bud and daybreak is now at 7.00am - a full 45 minutes earlier than it was two weeks ago.

All right it may all be a rather premature start to a season that should really be making its proper appearance some time in March, but what the heck!

It serves as a reminder that the simple things in life can still make an impact, not just to this forty-something man but maybe to anyone else who is willing to take a little time out to look around them and appreciate.

Admittedly it may seem a little childlike to be quite so enthusiastic, but as a wise man told me just this morning, "It's good to keep some of the child in us alive. It's healthy for the mind and body."

Have a great weekend.

Remembering Karen Carpenter - a voice of "chilling perfection" *

2009-02-05T18:45:00.002+01:00

I'm sad to say I missed it - and perhaps you did too - the anniversary this week of the death of Karen Carpenter, who died on February 4 back in 1983

She was one half of the brother-and-sister pop duo The Carpenters, who had a string of hits in the 1970s from the remake of the Beatles' "Ticket to ride" through "Sing", "Jambalaya" "Please Mr Postman" and many, many more.

From the outset I'll own up - this is rather a personal post as it takes me back to my dim and distant youth. But what the heck. I'm not proud.

Carpenter was just 32 when she died. She had suffered for several years from anorexia and her death was from heart failure later attributed to complications she had suffered as a consequence of her illness.

Maybe Carpenter didn't have the impact of a Janis Joplin or the King in terms of name recognition and her place in the music's Hall of Fame, but she played a very special part in my teenage years.

"Guilty as charged" and not ashamed, I was a huge fan of the Carpenters in my youth.

Yes I've given away my age and admitted to what some out there might consider rather dubious musical tastes.

While the rest of the boys at my school were strumming their air guitars along to Pink Floyd, waving goodbye to Glam Rock or later pogoing as the decade welcomed Punk and the Sex Pistols, I bucked the trend and listened to what my mother would have called (and in fact did so at the time) "proper" singing.

A mellow voice and a diction that was pure pleasure to the ears. Karen's voice not mine I hasten to add.

And those ears were ones which it has to be said were jammed between the two speakers in the days when 45s were in fashion and C and D were simply two letters next to each other in the alphabet and tapes - cassettes that is - were only just making their mark.

What I was listening to as the turntable spun, might well have been dismissed as somewhat cheesy and certainly all-American apple pie stuff at the time (and probably even now) - but at the very least it was definitely something I could wrap my tonsils around as I caterwauled along in unison.

And that's exactly what I did as Karen launched into to "Close to you" accompanied by her brother Richard and then continued with "Goodbye to Love," "Only Yesterday" or "Yesterday Once More."

How sad and how telling perhaps that more than three decades later I can still remember all the lyrics (if not necessarily the melodies) as I hold forth with my party piece, much to the "delight" of friends and family.

Apart from the music - which I think I've probably waffled on about for long enough now - the most important thing about Karen's life, and in particular her death, was the awareness it brought to the problems of those suffering with eating disorders.

Her death focussed media attention on an illness that had received little exposure beforehand.

Anyway, I hunted around YouTube and came up with the accompanying video, which will allow those of you out there who are interested and up for a great voice to take a listen.

YouTube Video

Thanks for taking time out to read this post and allowing me the indulgence of writing it. And of course to Karen wherever you are, thanks for that voice.

Sorry for forgetting.

* "Hers is a voice of fascinating contrasts, combining youth with wisdom; chilling perfection with much warmth."
A quote attributed to Rolling Stone Magazine

Move over Bernstein, Gershwin's in town - Paris that is

2009-02-03T14:27:00.001+01:00

There's another show about a very special "American in Paris" currently running in the French capital, and rather appropriately it's called "Good morning, Mr Gershwin."

For those of you still missing the far too clever link (self praise is no praise) the 1951 musical film of that name was of course inspired by the 1928 orchestral composition by the great man himself.

Anyway back to the present day and it's more dance and a review of a show from an already self-confessed possessor of the proverbial two left feet.

What a show and what a performance!

In fact it's a great deal more than "dance" as perhaps would be expected from the choreographers José Montalvo et Dominique Hervieu.

Quite simply put the pair are magicians who give new meaning to tripping the light fantastic.

What they manage to put together in this (and other productions) breaks barriers and leaves anyone lucky enough to get to see one of their creations jaw-to-the-floor in open-mouthed admiration.

"Good morning, Mr Gershwin" is of course a tribute to the life and times of the 20th century American composer, and as always with Montalvo-Hervieu it combines modern and classical dance with their trademark visual effects - more on that in a moment.

What is particularly extraordinary about this production is that it blends a variety of dance styles, which would on paper at least, seem incompatible - tap with ballet, hip hop with mime, or jazz with break - all set to the music of Gershwin of course.

But it's a mix that more than works, blurring the lines of rigid categorisation and making anyone watching appreciate that dance is a language in itself.

Actually that's probably one of the real beauties of Montalvo-Hervieu. Their productions break all those linguistic barriers that might make film, theatre or even lyrical music impenetrable or at least leave something lost in translation.

With "Good Morning, Mr Gershwin" - and probably dance in general - there's little fear of that happening, with the interpretation being left entirely "in the eyes of the beholder".

And that's a fact worth remembering given the (minority) reaction of one little ol' lady who clearly felt she had "missed the point" (as if there were one) when she was heard to mutter audibly on leaving "Well that was a waste of an afternoon".

Horses for courses.

"Good Morning, Mr Gershwin" also has of course those visual "effects" - Montalvo-Hervieu's trademark use of video as a backdrop.

Sometimes it's synchronised with what's happening on stage, other times it adds a completely different dimension, which might leave the onlooker wondering what the connection is.

One thing's for sure though, it never detracts from the overall enjoyment of the performance, although it has to be admitted that at times it would be useful to have more than one pair of eyes.

Scene follows scene, but it's not just dance. There are moments of humour that leave the audience grinning from ear-to-ear, such as one performer mockingly gargling along to one of Gershwin's best-known tunes, or the temptations of a chocolate eclair (via video) which is almost made to perform its own dance routine away from the expectant mouth of the woman salivating to enjoy.

A good chunk of the second act is dedicated to "Porgy and Bess" - so it's a bit of a reworking of last year's production by the same company at the Opéra de Lyon.

But something worth seeing once is just as good second time around, so there can be few complaints on that front.

The one down side perhaps is the venue itself.

Le Théâtre national de Chaillot is housed in the Palais of the same name, (re)built in the 1930s and looking every much "of its time" from the outside.

The setting couldn't be more stunning, perched at the edge of arguably the French capital's swankiest arrondissements (XVI) with an impressive view of the Eiffel Tower.

The inside of the building leaves something to be desired though, stark and uninviting, and the auditorium for the performance is somewhat "industrial" in its overall feel, with uneven steps leading down a pretty steep drop with the whole framework juddering as people make their way to their seats.

Maybe Montalvo-Hervieu will breath much-needed new life into the building though as well as the productions performed there as last year they were appointed joint directors with the emphasis being to promote dance.

"Good Morning, Mr Gershwin" continues its runs at Le Théâtre national de Chaillot in Paris until February 7.

YouTube Video - La Bossa Fataka de Rameau

Bharati in Paris - a taste of India with a serving of kitsch

2009-02-02T12:53:00.003+01:00

Have you ever had the sensation that even though apparently you're watching or experiencing the same thing as everybody around you, somehow and in some way, what you're feeling isn't exactly in keeping with the overriding sentiment?

You've perhaps missed something or maybe everyone else has got it wrong.

Such was the impression of one particular member of the audience - currently sitting not a million miles from this keyboard - at the Bharati spectacle in Paris this weekend.

YouTube Video

First up it has to be admitted that this certain someone was clearly in the minority if the reaction of the rest of the 3,500 plus people who had packed into the main auditorium at Le Palais des Congrès on Saturday was anything to go by.

Just for the record, Bharati is described variously in reviews elsewhere as a modern day fairy tale bringing to today's audience centuries of Indian history and culture with the colour, verve, and entrancing music, singing and dancing that might be expected from over 100 performers.

Those reviews have been overwhelmingly favourable as the show has been on the road now for over two years entertaining audiences and playing to full houses in Germany, the Netherlands, Switzerland and Austria.

The current run in Paris is the show's second appearance in the French capital. And from the general reception it was given, it has more than struck the right note, riding the wave of interest in all things Indian which seems to be very much à la mode at the moment.

The whole spectacle - because that's what it is - is a multi-coloured marvel combining all the elements of (Indian) dance, acrobatics, costumes and music you could wish for in the very best Bollywood fashion.

There was general whooping at the vigourous dancing, spontaneous clapping as the music ratcheted up a notch and enthusiastic applause after every number and there's no denying that it was all very much a feast for the eyes.

The rhythm and beat are without doubt infectious, the singing wafts you away and of course the highly synchronised dancing is a pure delight. The men are manly and the women.....well womanly.

It has, to say the least, a rather limp narrative, which is almost redundant apart from giving the performers a deserved break from their exertions and time to catch their breath.

The (rather enormous) programme describes the show as "a musical extravaganza, a delectable composite mix of the varied dances, music and folk traditions of India."

And over the course of one and a half hours we're promised "a glimpse...at the hidden treasures of this vast and enchanting land; its regional, linguistic, historical and philosophical diversity; its myriad peoples, life-styles and traditions."

Therein perhaps lies the problem - at least for one obviously grumpy old man - because the show is all very Bollywood (at its best and worst) and leaves you with the sense that there is more, so much more to India than the clichés on offer.

But there again, maybe that's exactly what people want.

Given the number of flashes that seemed to twinkle around the auditorium each time a new number was presented or a costume change made, along with the time many people seemed to be spending watching the show through their camera lens as they recorded huge chunks of the proceedings, maybe Bharati and Bollywood is all they wish to know about India.

Bharati will be at Le Palais des Congrès until February 15 before transferring to Brussels and then going on tour around France.

On March 11 it'll cross the channel for a performance at the Hammersmith Apollo in London, and there are also plans to take it to North America at some point this year.

YouTube Video

Oh to be in London during Carmina Burana – or not! A review

2009-01-18T13:43:00.000+01:00

It’s not often that "Carmina Burana" is performed professionally in Europe and last weekend was the chance for British audiences to see a rare staging.

Franz Abraham’s self-proclaimed “Carmina Burana Monumental Opera” swept in from Berlin to make a made a two-day stopover at the O2 Arena in London.

But as anybody knows, not all monuments are in fine fettle and this production was one that rather resembled an infrequently visited, but much-touted ruin.

If you need proof of how seldom Carl Orff’s classic can be seen this side of the Pond, grab a copy of “Musique & Opéra autour du monde” – the handbook and bible for opera and classical music fans worldwide. The 08-09 season has precisely zero performances listed.

I know because every year when it thumps through the letterbox, I scour the pages looking for somewhere close at hand where I might be able to see and hear the work performed.

So there was an appropriate tremor that struck the house when the email popped up from O2 last year autumn informing me of the weekend spectacle.

I was straight on the blower, booked tickets – performance and train, reserved the hotel and pulled out the well-scratched LPs (for those who are too young those would be the pre-pre-cursor of the CD, almost back in Ye Olde days just after electricity had been discovered) and wallowed in anticipation.

Now this is not going to be a critical analysis of Orff’s piece, written in the 1930s and first performed by the Frankfurt Opera in June 1937.

For an understanding of the history behind the music, score, interpretations and where it stands in the great scheme of things – there are plenty of other sources.

This is a simple and very personal review.

“Lose yourself in some gorgeous music with a spectacular show at The O2, London” is what we were promised in a production “performed by the world-renowned Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, with the Brighton Festival Chorus and Youth Choir.

First up then a prelude to the main act was 40 minutes of Verdi’s “Greatest Hits”.

After all what better way to warm up for Orff than the Italian genius – other perhaps than Wagner?

Ah yes and apropos of “warm up” maybe now is the best time to mention something of the O2 arena’s suitability as a classical venue.

Because throughout Verdi and the main feature of "Carmina Burana", the air conditioning in the place seemed to be turned up to maximum.

That might in fact be a (more than) welcome feature when the temperature rises during a heaving rock ‘n pop show from the likes of Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, Coldplay or Boyzone – all of whom are scheduled to perform there in the coming months.

But for a classical music concert, when everyone remains seated, the continuous blast of cold air was far from necessary and left huge swathes of the audience in their coats, scarves and even gloves for the duration.

Back to Verdi though, although once again maybe the production should think about trying Wagner in the future –because there were a few problems with what was on offer.

Oh yes it was strong stuff, and popular – but the volume levels were just too much for the sound engineers at the O2 obviously, and not enough checks seem to have been made during rehearsals.

Hence, although there was a fair amount of head-bobbing and audible humming from the audience during “Va pensiero” (Nabucco) and “Gloria all Egitto” (Aida), the pleasure was rather ruined by the distortion as the microphoned singers in the chorus reached their climax.

Any notion that the ears would be relieved from the hissing of the loudspeakers during the high and mighty notes of Verdi as the interval was announced, was soon dispelled as the air-conditioning hummed its way into reanimated urgency.

What’s clear about the O2 arena is that it appears to offer all the comfort of an outdoor one with none of the atmosphere of say the Arena di Verona.

Of course it would be more than a little unfair to compare it to any of the great opera houses, although once again, the producers had said of the venue “Why should rock and pop fans have all the fun? Classical fans will love the excitement of this big, explosive gig”

Quite frankly they got it wrong. It’s not suited to holding such an event.

On to the main act though, and that promised “explosive gig”.

Anyone familiar with the work will know it’s a grand, thumping powerful piece. And that’s very much how it started – with a lot of glitz thrown in.

This production, which was first performed in Munich in 1995 and has been lumbering its way around the globe ever since, bills itself as “Carmina Burana Monumental Opera”.

In the programme we’re told that “Mihail Tchernaev’s magnificent stage architecture with its fascinating light projections and enchanting fire effects creates a unique scenery for this spectacle with 30 dancers in 300 different costumes, with choir big orchestra and soloists.”

And therein lie many of the production’s failings

It is from start to finish all very “Las Vegas”. There are fireworks, flames, glitter – in fact all the paraphernalia on which the production prides itself. It’s gloriously – or perhaps not quite so gloriously – over the top.

Oh yes and there are those costume changes – so many of them and seemingly necessitating constant breaks in the action.

Granted that when Orff wrote the piece he insisted that there was no plot – believable or otherwise – in the conventional operatic sense, and that instead there would be a series of vignettes represented musically and dramatically.

Much of the time during the performance it was quite impossible to see what link could be drawn between what was happening on stage as the dancers rather heavily bounced about, and the wonderful music and song booming from the orchestra pit and choir stall.

The choreography was, to put it kindly, rather pedestrian and it added nothing extra to the music other than an often unwelcome, visual distraction.

Just one example which pretty well serves for much of the one hour and 20 minutes was a scene towards the end when one of the dancers was “acting” out the role and miming the lyrics, while the guest tenor (in this case Michal Pavel Vojta) belted out the aria from the side of the stage.

The two just seemed to work independently (well at least the tenor “worked”; the dancing was just something for the eyes to focus on) and so it continued.

The sad fact was that the music and dance seemed so often to run parallel to one another rather than being complementary and in fact the best way to really appreciate what was going on would probably have been to have closed your eyes and just listened.

The reception afforded by the audience at the O2 was polite but lacklustre applause – reflected in the hurry in which many appeared to be to leave the venue – but that could also have been in a desperate attempt to beat the rush to the nearest tube station and make their way back into the night.

Should after all this, you still wish to catch the show, the next staging will be in Qatar at the beginning of March and then a month later it’ll switch continents yet again for open air performances in Brazil and Paraguay before moving on to Chile and Peru.

Europeans will next be able to catch it in Vilnius, Lithuania in June.

Let’s just hope that the acoustics have been sorted by then.

Alternatively you could go out and buy a CD – try the 1979 recording by Riccardo Muti with the Philharmonia Orchestra and Chorus along with solosists Arleen Auger, John van Kesteren and Jonathan Summers.

Turn the volume up to maximum, sit back and relax and get ready for blast off in the comfort of your own sitting room.

Sex on legs again and a billiard cue - Tango Pasion

2009-01-09T10:58:00.002+01:00

Hot on the heels - so to speak - of last September's sensual tango spectacle "Tanguera", audiences here in Paris have been treated to another show of pure dance delight in the form of "Tango Pasion".

It has just wrapped up a string of dates at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, playing to packed houses every evening, and now moves on to pastures new.

But as the curtain falls here at least, on some fast, furious and fabulous footwork, it's time to share some of the magic that the company has brought to the French capital over the past couple of weeks.

The performance currently on tour is billed as the company's new Ultimo Tango which "traces aspects of the history of Argentina over the decades".

So you know from the start that you're not only in for some of the raunchiest and mind-boggling dancing imaginable - but also a history lesson.

That in itself could leave some wondering why history in schools never seemed to be brought alive to quite the same extent. But that's quite another subject altogether.

The whole performance is highly stylised - almost to the point of possibly being termed "contrived", and the dancers - six couples plus one extra man - are togged up to the nines in the sharpest of costumes and caked with enough make-up that it might be hard at first sight not to mistake them for mannequins.

But this IS theatre, and the lighting can sometimes be a cruel friend.

The setting is Argentina - a club - where else? And as the orchestra strikes up the first chords, the place comes alive.

Oh and a word on that music. Well it's played by an eight-piece orchestra, led by Luis Stazo, who at the age of 78 seems to be having just as much fun as everyone else as he counts the musicians in with a vigourous and audible "Uno, dos tres, quatro" and we're off for a two-hour spin across the dance floor.

Any notion that these are anything other than living, breathing human beings is cast to one side as feet, legs, arms, hands - heck complete bodies take over and the audience is transported.

Some of the fancy legwork leaves you wondering how many bruises must be incurred during practice, and (without wishing to appear sexist) the women really do seem to have the longest legs imaginable - going up to their ears and then some.

The performance is bewitching. Mostly in couples, the dancers twist, twirl, turn and at times offer a display of virtual aerial acrobatics.

It's frenetic, intricate, perfectly timed and above all...sexy.

In separate numbers both the women and the men prove that it doesn't always take two to tango.

One routine sees the women, in formation, strut across the stage from left to right clad in suits, and then right to left in dresses.

While in another the men dispense with their female partners in favour of a cue - go figure - as they dance their way through a game of billiards. It has to be seen.

The show is a masterpiece - and has been described by many critics as such.

In fact drag out all those superlatives you would normally associate with tango, add some more and shake 'em together in a frenzied fashion and you've just about got the mix that is Tango Pasion.

The performance might well leave you feeling as though you've just done 12 rounds with a champion boxer - punch drunk with admiration, hands sore from ecstatic clapping and face-muscles aching from a perma-grin of enjoyment.

Don't believe me? Then go see for yourself.

2009 will see the company continuing its tour through Britain, the Netherlands, Portugal and the United States.

And if you're lucky enough to be in one of the towns or countries where the company is performing - there's really just one two-letter word that's appropriate.

GO!

Tango Pasion

Strasbourg - a superb slice of French life

2008-12-21T17:29:00.001+01:00

Seasonal greetings from the eastern French city of Strasbourg in the heart of Alsace.

It's the setting of what is probably the best known and longest running Christmas market here in France - a time when the city, which has more than enough to offer visitors all year round, really comes alive as the place is packed solid for four weeks.

This will just be a (personal) taste of the place at this time of the year, embellished (hopefully) with the most potted of history by way of background.

There is of course plenty of information available out there on the Net or in books - just click on some of the links for a pointer, or better still, come here to discover it for yourself.

The TGV train from Paris has cut the journey time down to just two and a half hours, and there's also an airport - for all those European parliamentarians, amongst others, who shuffle between Brussels and Strasbourg for one week every month.

The city is just the proverbial stone's throw from the French-German border, and its geographical location has seen it switching between the two countries pretty regularly over the last century or so.

Not surprisingly perhaps the influence of both can be felt strongly - culturally, linguistically, architecturally, politically, religiously and not least gastronomically.

Indeed, the Christmas market in Strasbourg - widely found in towns and cities throughout Germany - is very much a prime example of how much the whole region of Alsace is most definitely French, but with a certain German twist.

Actually there isn't just one Christmas market - but several - spread throughout the city.

While they might not offer nearly some of the true Christmas spirit that can be found in their German counterparts, and the stalls for the most part are full of what could politely be termed "imported tat" there's still the chance to hunt out some regional edible specialities and locally produced crafts.

If that's what you're after, then the best starting point is probably Place Broglie.

Honey from local apiculturists, gingerbread galore (not too dry and ideal for the foie gras)
cinnamon biscuits, lebkuchen - ah yes it has probably dawned on you, those with a sweet tooth will not go far wrong.

Waffles, bretzels, tarte à l'oignons, and of course because it's just slightly brass monkeys temperature-wise, vin chaud - white or red - the Alsace equivalent of Glühwein or mulled wine (of sorts) guaranteed to intoxicate against any chill factor.

There's another market around the cathedral, but you might want to put in a spot of culture too and pop inside the city's most famous landmark.

It's VERY Gothic - parts of it dating back to the 12th century - and it houses the fabulous 18-metre astronomical clock, one of the largest in the world.

You want Gothic - you've got it

Moving along to Place Kléber is where you'll find the Christmas tree (from the nearby Vosges mountains) more stalls, more tat, more food and more vin chaud.

And so it can continue from one market to another.

It's not the most enormous of city centres. Even though Strasbourg is the regional capital of Alsace with around 270,000 inhabitants (which almost triples when taking into account the urban population, making it this country's seventh largest city) walking around (or staggering after too much vin chaud) isn't too difficult.

If you're feeling especially lazy, there's always the state-of-the-art tram to take you from one market to another.

Walking is probably your best bet though, to build up an appetite (you'll need it) and to appreciate the true beauty of the city.

There's Petit France, with its quaint timber-framed houses, some of which almost seem to be leaning from different sides of the street to greet each other.

Much of the area is pedestrianised and the streets cobbled, so sensible shoes are the order or the day.

Mixed in with the timber-framed houses elsewhere in the city is an eclectic mix that has thankfully survived the centuries - and wars - in no particular order there's German renaissance, French Baroque, French Neo-Classicism,

Alongside the river Ill, there are some grand tree-lined boulevards, with even more grandiose housing - and if you feel really brave you can "Shanks pony" it all the way to the more modern stuff such as the European parliament or the Richard Rogers-designed European Court of Human Rights building.

When you need a break from the cold and the crowds and want to grab something "proper" to eat and drink - this is where Strasbourg comes into its own, and especially at this time of the year.

Remember this is France - so food and drink are high on any region's list of priorities - Strasbourg and Alsace are no different.

In a sense what's available is "real" fusion food, in that it brings together arguably the best of French and German tables. But be warned, there's none of that prissy pretence or wannabe trendiness. What's on offer is hearty and substantial to say the least, and not for those counting the calories or who baulk at the size of the portions.

Whatever you plump for, be it baeckeoffe, wädele (veal or pork hock), tartes flambée (flammeküche), choucroute garnie (dressed sauerkraut), coq au Riesling or a host of other regional specialities, you'll be presented with a wholesome serving that'll leave you with a suitably warm glow.

Everything of course can be washed down with a regional wine from a Riesling to a Gewürtztraminer, a Pinot gris to a Sylvaner or a beer if you must.

Replete, you might need to walk off some of those extra pounds, and as you wander through the streets, you might still be in need to another slosh of vin chaud.

No problems, the place is still buzzing late into the evening - so one last shot and then back to the hotel to collapse.

There's so much more to write and say (and indeed it has been done so frequently over the years) but perhaps it's best left to the words of the mayor of Strasbourg, Roland Ries, in his introductory welcome to visitors to the Christmas market.

Although he might have a vested interest in promoting the city as its top elected official, he's probably not far off the mark, as he just about sums up what Strasbourg has represented throughout the centuries and continues to do today in a way quite unlike any other European city.

"Every year, when Christmas comes, Strasbourg adorns itself in its very best finery." writes Riess.

"I am particularly aware of the importance of this presence which symbolises the Europe which we want to build; a Europe which laid its foundations in Strasbourg, a Europe which promotes the meeting of peoples and cultures and unites citizens."

So on behalf of him and from the glorious city of Strasbourg, here's one chilled-out, vin-chaud drinker wishing you a very warm "cheers".

Life in le (French) twilight zone

2008-12-21T17:19:00.000+01:00

Life for the past couple of weeks has been a little like living in a parallel universe.

Forced to live without modern technology, I took a journey back to something that could almost be described as a return to the dark ages.

All right so that might appear something of an exaggeration on reflection, but it’s not that far off the mark, as I lost the Internet connection at home.

Modern technology, or the lack thereof, had me alternately experiencing pain, joy, relief and frustration – sometimes individually, often collectively.

Gone are the days – here in France at least – of clumsy connections.

Wifi (“whiffy” – remember?) means that I can plonk myself down in front of my laptop just about anywhere in the house – et voilà – I’m online.

Great for those elusive moments of (in)frequent inspiration or the rare times when I actually “require” the Internet.

But probably like a great number of fellow addicts, I’m rubbish at restrained use and frequently find myself surfing wantonly just “because I can.”

Until that was, Mother nature – or perhaps more accurately the French utility EDF – stepped in and briefly turned my world upside down, inside out or maybe even the right way around.

Last week there was a sudden surge of power – just a couple of seconds’ worth – and “Poof!” that little miracle of an invention the Livebox (courtesy of Orange/France Telecom, which would have us all believe there were two companies when in fact they are just different facets of the same one) which provides the Wifi connection, blinked what to all intents and purposes appeared to be its last little green light.

Wouldn't you just love to do this sometimes?

Help! How would I check my emails? What about staying in touch with people in far flung places? More to the point, I wouldn’t be able to share news from France with the rest of the world (well no great loss there, you might well be cheering) and much, much more.

I rang France Telecom in desperation, hoping that one of their kindly techies would be able to guide me through the reconnection process, still firmly convinced that the Livebox could be revived.

But “no’ came the response. It was a lost cause, and the only option was to take a trip to the nearest Internet supplier, break open the wallet, and purchase a new box.

That of course would mean happily following the instructions, getting horribly confused as I tried to follow the “simple” (re)installation procedure step by step and then spending hours on the ‘phone to someone in Morocco (which is where France Telecom seems to outsource its services for Apple) in an attempt to connect.

“Been there, done that, seen the movie and bought the T-shirt,” I thought.

“How about taking the radical step and going ‘cold turkey’ – ie; living without a connection (at home) for a while, and rewinding the clock to a time when the Net wasn’t the be all and end all?” I mused.

And that’s exactly what I decided to try – just for a few days at least. A technological “time out”, if you will.

The result? Well getting up in the morning no longer meant logging on and checking my mails or sending them, because I couldn’t.

So I sat down and ran off a couple of letters (how old fashioned) remembering that I could physically “write”, and I worked my way through the Christmas card list – ahead of time.

And here’s something of a scoop. Rather than scanning the French and foreign press online, catching up on everything almost before it had actually happened, I picked up a book or a wrestled with a broadsheet and actually read the things

Instant messaging was impossible, so I made full use of the ‘phone and had a jolly good (albeit probably more costly) natter with friends and family.

I listened to the radio – I mean really listened, not just heard. I watched the television.

The house reverberated to the sound of real conversation, and not just the “tap, tap, tap” of fingers fling across the keyboard. In fact everyone seemed to have rediscovered that not only did they have five fully functioning senses, but social skills to boot.

For me, the initial frustration of being apparently “cut off” was replaced by the gradual realisation that I could actually live without the Net – and vice versa.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been a hermit stuck in a virtual reality. But the two-second electricity surge (and a similar 30-minute power cut a couple of days later) brought home to me just how much I had been dependent on the Net in my private life.

In a way I had been given a much-needed elbow-in-the-ribs revelation of something I had forgotten.

The world didn’t stop because I was offline – either for me or anybody else.

In a sense it was almost like a holiday – Christmas come early – and perhaps a sign as to what I should be including among my New Year’s resolutions.

So with that in mind, from this particular corner of the world to all of you out there who have made it to the end of this and other posts I’ve written, Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année – as they would say here in France.

And until 2009 - perhaps.

Lass mich bitte ausreden - s'il vous plaît

2008-12-08T13:36:00.002+01:00

No fears, you've clicked on to a post written in English, even if the headline is a German-French mix.

It's all about manners - and how difficult it can be sometimes to get a word in edgeways (or edgewise if you like) when trying to add one's own two centimes to a conversation.

In particular it's a look at the different way we have of expressing ourselves, especially when confronted with someone from a different cultural or linguistic background.

Apologies in advance if it's a little on the long side. It's the weekend after all, and there's always the alternative of "zapping" along to the next post.

Let's begin with a question.

Have you ever wondered how world leaders manage when confronting each other and being separated not just by politics and national interests but also the lack of a common language?

When for example, the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, met the German chancellor, Angela Merkel recently in Paris for a tête-à-tête, how on earth did they both manage?

After all neither of them really speaks each other's language, and they're not that inspiring when they try to parler l'anglais oder sprechen englisch.

All right so it's obvious they had interpreters, but in a sense their decisions and those of other world leaders in such high level meetings are very much in the hands (or mouths) of that elite band of men and women diplomatically ironing out linguistic differences and supposedly "getting it right".

By any stretch of the imagination, that's some responsibility.

It's also not a job made any easier by the fact that it's far from always being a done deal that when two people talk to each other using the same mother tongue, they'll necessarily grasp what the other is trying to say.

Factor in the cultural baggage one brings to a conversation with someone in another language other than one's own, and there's a sure fire recipe for some classic misunderstandings.

Let me take you on a momentary diversion that'll hopefully serve as background to what comes afterwards.

As I sit at the keyboard merrily bashing in a four-fingered touch-typing frenzy, I'm having more than a few problems finishing a sentence.

You see on a French "clavier" as they call it here, the layout of the letters is from the top left AZERTY rather than the English language QWERTY, and that can present something of a challenge to the user.

As the "A" and the "Q" are reversed the simple sentence
"the cat sat on the mat" (for want of imagination) becomes
"the "cqt sqt on the ,qt".

Ah yes, did you notice that the comma on the French keyboard is where the "m" is on the English one.

Makes life easy huh?

But more fascinating (to me at least) is the positioning of the full stop or period.

All right so it's in the same place (third from the right on the bottom) but to use it, you need to remember to hit the "shift" button.

Where's that full stop?

Now returning to the main theme of this post though (manners, just in case you had forgotten), perhaps the layout of the keyboard and the peculiarity of using the full stop shouldn't come as a surprise when, as a non-native French speaker, you find yourself in conversation with someone here.

After all it rather illustrates to the outsider the way the French could appear to think and speak......in other words in one endless sentence, full of clauses, interspersed with marathon length "errrrrrrrrs" and leaving little room for a true dialogue.

Such was the case this week during a dinner party at a friend's rather swanky apartment in Paris.

Ignoring the old tenet of not talking politics, religion or sex during dinner, I asked (what I thought) was a rather innocent, almost innocuous question of my neighbour as to what he thought of the future of the Socialist party.

After all it has been the subject of a fair bit of media conjecture in past weeks with the battle for the leadership and the narrowest of victories for Martine Aubry.

I was then treated to more than five minutes of polemic (the French love that word) of almost Herculean proportions as one sentence stretched out to infinity with no recognisable full stop in hearing range.

The only time he paused was to take a sip of wine - an opportunity I used to respond, but even before I had begun warming up, he talked over and took over the conversation once again, proceeding merrily with his train of thought.

Now maybe I was being just a little too British about the whole thing. But I thought - and still think - that conversation was supposed to be just that - an exchange of ideas and a level of social interaction which doesn't just consist of one-way traffic but is also composed of bodily signals that act as encouragement to join in - a dialogue.

Gaps, breaks, pauses - call them what you will - combined with gesture are an invitation to participate - at least that's what social convention would suggest.

Not so in France it would appear, where quantity seems to be as important as quality, and any "discussion" resembles something along the lines of "here's what I have to say, and if you dare try to interrupt, I shall just talk and talk until there's no air left in the room."

Filibustering supreme.

At some point of course, he did stop, but by then I had lost any impulse I might have had to continue the discussion and was rather ruing my decision to have asked a question in the first place.

Besides my neighbour on the other side was "talking food". This was a dinner party in France after all.

Similarly - and here speaks the voice of experience - trying to hold a conversation in German with a native speaker can sometimes prove more than a little frustrating for Mr-Perhaps-just-a-little-too-polite Briton (oh yes bring on the stereotypes).

It's a language of course full of mammoth sentences with the longest words imaginable, but native speakers tend to be less demonstrative in terms of gesticulation and more measured (read deliberate) in the way they speak than their French-speaking counterparts.

Once again for the well-behaved Brit, enthusiastic to jump in and participate, it can be something of a shock to be pulled short and told "Lass mich bitte ausreden" or quite literally "let me finish speaking".

I mean, at face value it's really just not polite is it? In fact it could appear downright insolent.

But actually is that the case? Are either the French, or in this case, the Germans being rude?

After all they're just using their own language in the way they've been taught and in the manner in which it allows them.

The problem of course is how that actually comes across and in the way in which we see perceive each other.

Here in Europe - a continent of 730 plus million people with a breadth of languages, there's an apparent desire for closer co-operation with each other. The 27-nation European Union is an ongoing work in progress for economic, political and social integration.

But what is surely more than clear to all of us is that, while the United State and Britain are often described as two countries divided by a common language, the EU amounts to 27 nations rendered apart by a whole slew of tongues and traditions, trying to achieve unity of sorts.

When Sarkozy and Merkel get together (with interpreters) do they speak in never-ending sentences never allowing the other to have their say? Probably not. But do they actually listen and understand each other in the process?

Add some more world leaders into the equation (George W, Gordon Brown, Silvio Berlusconi et al) and how on earth do they ever manage to find linguistic common ground? And perhaps let's not even get started on the United Nations or the endless round of international gabfests.

There you go, just a couple of thoughts to leave you with this weekend.

"Right enough already," I hear those of you who've struggled to the end of this post shouting.

I'm off to have a chat with someone I know holds exactly my opinions, will understand every muddled and confused concept I'm trying to express and would never dream of interrupting when I'm in full flow.

Yes, that's right, I'm going to chatter away happily to myself.

Bon Dimanche und schönes Wochenende.

Bonjour nice Mr Dog - do you bite?

2008-12-06T16:34:00.002+01:00

How reliable are first impressions - especially when they seem to be formed primarily on preconceived notions of what should and shouldn't be?

What an unusually serious way in which to begin a weekend post, but fear not, that's about as philosophical as it gets.

Instead welcome to another slice of life in France and a pre-Christmas thought. This time both centre on man's four-legged best friend - le chien.

There was a point in the opening question, as will become clear(er) as/if you read on.

For the moment though, back to the dogs.

Owning a dog in France may not require a licence as in some neighbouring countries, but it's still a responsibility.

That's perhaps especially worth remembering at this time the year, when the hunt for THE present sometimes results in the hasty purchase of a pooch.

Here in France, the Société Protectrice des Animaux (Animal protection society, SPA) while desperately trying to rehome abandoned dogs and cats, reminds us all that a pet is not just for Christmas, but for life.

And of course during an animal's life it's important to ensure that it remains as healthy and fit as possible.

While they're not obligatory here, annual jabs are highly recommended to protect pets (and in this case dogs) against a number of diseases including leptospirosis, kennel cough, parvovirus and of course rabies.

The latter still exists among wildlife in parts of Europe but has been controlled to a large extent by programmes such as the oral immunisation of foxes.

Nonetheless there have been a few cases of transmission of rabies among domestic pets - most recently a couple of months ago here in France following the illegal importation of a dog from north Africa.

"Prevention is better than cure" runs the idiom, so a trip to the vet for those annual vaccinations against the nasties and an all round check up seemed to be more than responsible.

My dogs -there's more than one - are bilingual. That is they ignore me in both English and French.

Mother and daughter, Mabel and Panthus

We've been to obedience classes together and all been taught (in French) how to "sit" "lie" "stay", "come" and even "heel". Somehow though the real meaning gets lost in translation. Or maybe none of us were very good pupils.

That said they're happy souls with a mild temperament and almost infectious joie de vivre. It's a breed thing (apparently).

Apart from food, sleep, walkies and mischief one of their real joys is to ride in the car. They quite happily bounce into the back of it thinking we're off on some glorious trip and that they'll be able to get in some much needed shut eye.

Mind you that only works on long distance motorway journeys as the humming of the engine seems to have the desired soporific effect.

On short hops they tend to spend their time peering out of the boot (trunk) window and happily making their presence known to fellow motorists and passing pedestrians.

But the fact that they travel well makes life that much more pleasant - even if at the other end it's the vet that awaits them.

So this week was jabs week, and after 15 minutes worth of "singing" we arrived at the surgery, struggled into the waiting room - one owner being pulled in what seemed like six different directions by two dogs at the same time - anyone with experience of cockers will appreciate that's entirely possible.

And as the door slammed shut behind us, that's when we saw HIM.

A quivering, muscled mass - a cool 50 kilogrammes for sure - alert and just a little too interested in the presence of my two "girls".

If I had the same generous pilosity as the couple dragging me every which way possible, the hairs on the back of my neck would certainly have stood up to salute and probably done an about turn at the same time.

'Tyson' (that just had to be his name) was one of those Group 1 dogs - a Rottweiler with a terrible public reputation and about which there have been frequent media reports of their involvement in maulings.

In fact there was such a spate of highly-publicised incidents last year here in France, that the interior minister, Michèle Alliot-Marie, introduced legislation making the muzzling of such dogs in public and education/obedience classes a requirement for anyone planning to own one.

The beast now facing us seemed macho to the extreme, oozing doggy testosterone and a status symbol that for many appears to be the owner's way of shouting out "don't take a step nearer or else...."

So with understandable trepidation I tried ushering my two over to the reception area as inconspicuously as possible.

But Mabel and Panthus (the terrible two at my end) had other intentions and without a second thought made a beeline for him, exchanging greetings in a manner in which only dogs can reasonably get away with in public.

"Sit," came the command from 'Tyson's' owner - a 30-something guy dressed in a sharp suit and brandishing what looked like a Blackberry.

"Tyson" sat immediately and seemed to 'smile' as my two said "hello".

"It's all right," the owner reassured me. "Clarence is beautifully behaved and very mild mannered."

"CLARENCE" I thought to myself. "Whatever happened to 'Tyson'?"

And that's when it dawned on me.

I had read only the headlines, seen the worst reports on television and built up in my own mind what the dog represented, and heavens, even what he should be called.

Here in front of me was living proof - as if ever I needed it - that there is probably no such thing as a "dangerous" or "bad" dog in itself.

They exist for sure - the stories are out there and appear to be reported with alarming regularity.

Certain breeds have earned the reputation for ferocity because of the way in which owners have handled them, the purposes for which they have been bred and the lack of appropriate training they have received.

But the bottom line would appear to be so often that it's the breeders and owners who are "bad" and the dog is just a result of their behaviour.

Clarence certainly looked like a brute, but he didn't behave like one.

And his owner seemed to be taking his responsibility of looking after a "dog with a reputation" seriously.

We chatted for a while as the other three continued their canine investigations, and it transpired that Clarence was in fact a rescue dog, bought by a family the previous Christmas and then handed in to the SPA at the end of February this year - aged just seven months.

Along with the Summer holiday months when owners "dump" unwanted pets because they don't appear to fit neatly into vacations plans, the post-Christmas period marks an alarming surge in the numbers of animals handed in to shelters.

Such had been Clarence's destiny earlier this year. He had apparently "outgrown his welcome" with his original purchasers as the cute Yuletide present quickly turned into a strapping and gangly teenager within the matter of a couple of months.

Just a shame perhaps that they hadn't realised that before buying him.

Thankfully for Clarence, he had only spent a couple of days at the SPA before "Mr Blackberry" turned up and gave him a proper home with the appropriate training to boot.

And now there he was, calmly sitting in front of me, genuinely grinning and sharing a moment of doggy friendliness with my pampered pair.

When Clarence was called by the vet and made his way politely and quietly out of the waiting room, I was left with my two fidgeters to ponder.

The SPA recently held a huge adopt-a-dog show in Paris, and of course centres throughout the country are trying to rehome unwanted pets all year round.

But one point the organisation is really trying to drive home in the run-up to the holidays is that an animal of any sort is a responsibility. A dog or a cat really is for life.

Let's hope that's a message that will be remembered by all those tempted when staring at that oh-so-cute puppy in the store window.

Count yourself lucky if you don't speak French

2008-11-23T14:15:00.003+01:00

I'm a murderer. And I'm something of a polyglot. Or perhaps that should be the other way around.

Whatever, one thing's for sure. I can happily give several languages a jolly thorough oral and aural mangling - linguistically speaking, but somehow, somewhere along the line I manage to come out the other side to make myself understood.

But the one thing I can't get to grips with is numbers.....and more specifcally counting, especially here in France where they're a foreigner's nightmare.

Every time I try to give someone my telephone number or make a note of someone else's - particularly over the 'phone - it resembles a badly written scene from the very worst television sitcom. Exactly why will become clearer (I hope) in a moment.

Let me give you a little bit of background, and in the process a quick French lesson.

Apologies in advance if when you get to the "numbers" it all looks rather muddled and complicated in writing. Just imagine, as you're reading, how confusing it can be when speaking.

French isn't the hardest of languages to speak - well at least for a native English speaker.

There are plenty of words that are similar. It's just the pronunciation that can prove a little tongue-twisting at times.

But once you've got over the initial embarrassment of thinking that you're making a complete fool of yourself, it becomes quite easy.

And the French will even warm to you when you try your luck.

Oh and you know that thing the British, at least, have about how sexy a French man or woman sounds when speaking English with a foreign (obviously French) accent.

Well, it sort of works the other way around too - well almost.

Oh all right only partially if you're being generous, but it's getting there - and all the better if you make the odd vocabulary mistake or two.

"Endearing" "charming" "cute" and "funny" - one of this country's most famous Brits living in France, Jane Birkin, the long time partner of the late and great Serge Gainsbourg, plays on the fact that she has an accent - even though she has been here for donkeys years.

And many French find it "adorable".

Well that has perhaps established that speaking the language isn't really as difficult as it might at first appear.......except that is when it comes to numbers.

Time to take a deep breath (and a stiff drink perhaps wouldn't go amiss.)

Probably a fair few of you reading this will be more than able at least to start counting in French:

one
two
three

or

un
deux
trois

and so on.

Fine. A good, simple start.

And from one to 69 everything is pretty much OK - well apart from 17, 18 and 19, or dix-sept, dix-huit and dix-neuf respectively, which quite literally translate as ten-seven, ten-eight and ten-nine.

But at 70 it goes blindingly and confusingly bonkers.

70 you see is soixante-dix or sixty-ten, and 71 is soixante et onze or seventy and eleven.

By the time you get to 77 you're in for one almighty mouthful soixante-dix-sept (sixty-ten-seven)

And 80 could blow your mind - quatre-vingts (four-twenty).

90 isn't much better. Any ideas?

Quatre-vingt-dix or four-twenty-ten.

It comes as something of a relief to have made it past 99 (quatre-vingt dix-neuf or four-twenty-ten-nine) to Cent.

Yes, yes there's an illogical logic to it all, but it all seems a bit of a conspiracy for the hapless foreigner to make things even more difficult than they actually should be.

So how does this all play out in everyday life for the Brit in France - or any other foreigner come to that?

"With difficulty," is the short reply, and here's why.

It involves going back to trying to jot down somebody's telephone number - be it over the 'phone or face-to-face (the former is worse).

Imagine you're on the 'phone for example, talking to customer services and the person the other end gives you another number to call - say 01 77 87 92 71 (a completely random telephone number, and one containing 10 digits as all French ones do)

Now in English - well at least in Britain - they tend to be spoken digit for digit.

Hence the person the other end of the line would tell you to call "Zero one seven seven eight seven nine two seven one." Nice and simple, and pretty easy to follow.

But remember this is France, and "bienvenue" to the foreigner's nightmare.

As you've probably noticed from the way I initially wrote it, the habit here in France is it to break the telephone numbers up into pairs, making life unnecessarily difficult and leading to a situation where, when spoken aloud that same number becomes.

"Zero, un, soixante dix-sept, quatre-vingt-sept, quatre-vingt-douze, soixante et onze."

OR, if you haven't been paying attention while the person the other end of the line has blasted it out at terrifying speed could end up as being written down as follows:

01 60 17 4 20 7 4 20 12 60 11.

Of course by the time you've made it past the second seven and you have more than 10 digits scribbled down, you realise that you've made a complete hash of it, and either have to ask the person to repeat it (more slowly) or say it in individual digits (which it has to be said sounds particularly cumbersome in French)

Experience teaches anyone living here what to expect, but even so it can still lead to confusion as the person the other end of the line seems to delight in having a laugh at the caller's expense.

Ah, there speaks the voice of experience as it happened just last week when trying to re-arrange an appointment with the electricity board to come and read the meter.

I had misdialled of course, and the receptionist, rather than transfer me - which seemed not to fall within her job description - gave me another number to call.

After writing down the first 12 digits of the 10-digit number, I realised my mistake and asked her to repeat it, which she did.....in exactly the same supersonic manner so that I had a combination that any security company would be happy to affix to their safes.

After three attempts I gave up, asking in my best British-accented French (laying it on thick and hoping to appear charming) whether she could give me the number in individual digits (à l'anglaise).

The charm factor clearly didn't work (how does Jane Birkin manage it?) as I could hear the sharp and indignant intake of breath, and even though the words "idiot" weren't muttered, they were clearly audible in between each pause she made as she enunciated e-v-e-r-y d-i-g-i-t as though she were talking to a five-year-old.

I repeated it back - sounding equally infantile even to my own ears, thanked her and hung up.

The 'phone is perhaps the greatest barrier when it comes to noting or painfully giving a number here in France.

But it can be just as excruciating when face-to-face with someone.

How many times have I launched confidently into rattling off my mobile number rapid fire (I've learnt it like a mantra) only to be asked ever-so-politely to repeat what I've just said?

Of course going back in to the number and trying to make sense of something that defies logic in the first place is no easy task, and to avoid further frustration, there's nothing better than resorting to the rather old-fashioned pen and paper.

The real thing though is that in all of this confusion, it's hard to get over the impression that the French in France are simply trying to make life difficult for the rest of us trying to get to grips with their language.

After all, they could - if they so wished - choose to follow the example of their Francophone cousins in Switzerland and Belgium.

The Swiss-French make life that little bit easier - at least numerically - by substituting septante (70), ottante/huitante (80) and nonnante (90) for the more exhausting - well I won't repeat myself.

While in Belgium, true to form, they don't quite go the whole hog, opting for septante and nonnante, but sticking with quatre vingts.

Ah well.

Of course if you wanted to look across the border from France to German numbers, you would be faced with a whole different set of problems as they seem to have a fascination for counting back to front.

Twenty one? Ein und zwanzig (one and twenty).

But that, as they say, is a whole other story.

Comptez bien et bon weekend.

Food, glorious French food

2008-11-15T17:32:00.000+01:00

A word of warning before launching into this post. It should perhaps be read on a full tummy, because parts of it could quite literally whet your appetite and have you headed for the fridge to unhinge your jaw and tip back the contents.

So with that in mind and to use the opening phrase of childhood radio listening - and thereby run the risk of revealing my age.

"Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin"

There's been a fair amount of talk on the radio here recently about the standard of French cooking and whether it really lives up to its reputation.

Added to that there are moves afoot to slap in an official application next year to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (Unesco) to honour this country’s cuisine.

Whether the application is accepted is pretty doubtful, but it has given commentators quite literally "food for thought".

The whole debate coincided with my attempts to wow those around me with my culinary skills - or lack thereof.

In other words I had resolved to throw a dinner party.

The decision was two-fold.

Firstly it was based on my almost slavish devotion and deepest desire to emulate one of my favourite television programmes, which gives viewers step by step instructions on how to concoct and serve a full blown "perfect dinner" (if only).

And secondly I had promised to thank some friends for treating me to a slap up meal in Brussels for my birthday treat last month.

A promise made is a promise kept, and as last weekend stretched for many of us here in France from Friday to Wednesday (every time a national holiday falls towards the middle of the week, as it did this year with November 11 Armistice day, the French take full advantage and "faire le point") the timing seemed impeccable.

Now to be quite honest, if there's one thing guaranteed to scare me witless, it's the thought of having to cook.

I mean it's not as though I'm not reasonably handy at rattling the pots and pans, and making the kitchen resemble a modern-day Armageddon once I've finished.

But more than enough years living in France and being told how wonderful this country's cuisine is, has more than bashed my ego into shape.

Plus I'm British - worse English - and we've not exactly got the best of reputatations when it comes to what we've offered the world - gastronomically speaking.

Speaking of speaking - the French talk about little else - food that is - especially when they're chowing down on one dish or another.

Mealtimes are the occasion during which to talk about other meals, past and in the pipeline. The present just seeming to be an excuse to reminisce or plan.

And of course everything served up is "genial" - which although supposed to be polite encouragement, you know in your heart of hearts really means the same as "interesting."

Hence I wasn't really surprised that even during the starter - a Mousseline d'asperges à la pistache (asparagus mousse with pistachio) , which took hours of preparation - the conversation soon moved away from what was on the plate to gastronomical pastures new and old.

Guest one. "Hmmmn this mousse is delicious. It's just as light as the one that we had at Jacque's last weekend."

Guest two . "Yes but his wasn't home made. He bought it at Le Nôtre - pretty expensive"

Guest one . "I know but it really was worth it. After all they simply make the best cakes and desserts."

Guest three. "I'm not so sure about that. I find them rather overpriced. And besides there's a little patisserie just around the corner from me that's just as good and far less expensive."

Guest four. "Oh yes I remember. Last Cristmas you bought all those wonderful petit fours there....."

Host (that's me, in case you had forgotten). "So how's the starter?" as everyone seemed to be talking about dessert.

"Oh genial," came the collective response, and so the conversation continued in much a similar vain throughout the rest of the meal.

And what a meal - even if I have to say so myself - which clearly I do.

Now is neither the time nor the place to go into the ins and outs of the recipes - chef's secret and all that. Besides a quick surf on the Net will reveal a host of possible preparation alternatives and ingredients. But here's a guide as to what was on the menu.

To begin with there was that mousseline d'asperges à la pistache of course, followed by pintade au chou (pot roast guinea fowl with cabbage) cooked in Belgian blonde beer. Sélection de fromage (cheese platter) and Charlotte au chocolat (Chocolate Charlotte bought from Le Nôtre - as I'm not too good at making desserts).

Ever noticed how even the most unappetising sounding dishes in English can appear mouth watering when written in French?

The cheese in particular seemed to go down a real treat, which is hardly testament to my cooking abilities it has to be admitted.

Mind you, it's difficult to go wrong in a country whose former president, Charles de Gaulle, once famously asked how a country with 246 varieties could possibly be governed.

The choice is vast and as I live in the heart of Brie country on the outskirts of the capital, I knew from experience that the only way to serve it was by leaving it at room temperature for a couple of hours so that it would virtually make its way to the table by itself, by crawling off the plate and along the floor.

There was even an excellent "young" goats cheese (not too whiffy) and a rather sweet and mild Comté (one of my favourites).

But the "crowning glory" was to throw the British equivalent of a dairy spanner into the works with what only those across the Channel could tell the French is the "King of cheeses" - a deliciously ripe (read mouldy) blue Stilton.

Cheese apart, throughout every course I would continually enquire as to how the food tasted and whether the wine I had chosen was appropriate. Getting that right is never easy as the French clearly have their own thoughts on which wine goes with which dish, and woe betide you to contradict or break the rules.

The response may always have been more or less the same "genial" yet I knew, and felt pretty chuffed, that everyone seemed to enjoy the meal, even if they spent a great deal of it talking about other dishes.

As the evening gradually drew to a close, there were the inevitable longest goodbyes, before I was finally left alone to face the disaster zone of a kitchen and had the chance to reflect on the previous few hours.

And I realised - not for the first time - that this fascination or almost social obsession the French seem to have with food and chattering about other dishes virtually to the exclusion of the one they're currently "enjoying" has nothing to do with bad manners.

It's not even done intentionally. It simply seems to be what happens at the dinner table here in France. Even that "genial" isn't really as bad as it might at first seem.

The French love eating and are very appreciative of good food. So much so that they can't help talking about it.

Next time though, maybe I'll get caterers in - and let it be known beforehand.

That way, I too can participate in gastronomic gossip without the effort or worry of whether what I've actually served up has been in the least bit "genial".

Bon appétit et bon weekend.

Nicolas Canteloup's 2ème Couche - a French impersonator on tour

2008-11-08T14:42:00.001+01:00

Have you ever had that feeling that perhaps you're from another planet? You know, when all around you say and believe one thing and all your senses - physical and emotional - tell you that can't be the case.

Such was the sensation on Friday night for some (oh all right then - at least one, although there was a couple in front of me who from all appearances seemed to be on the same wavelength) at one of the last dates of Nicolas Canteloup's show at Olympia in Paris.

Canteloup is probably this country's most talented impersonator, although he has recently come in for some mighty competition from Liane Foly. Earlier this year she added another string to her entertainment bow, by launching her own one woman show based entirely on singing her way through a medley of voices from the French music scene - past and present.

But back to Canteloup. He really is the man of many voices, and he has a proverbially rapier wit to boot.

This guy is immensely popular.

Every morning he can be heard on national radio as he spends around 10 minutes racing through news and current events in France and abroad in a myriad of spot-on imitations.

Of course his (and probably everyone else's) favourites and best received are the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife Carla - yes he does both. Ségolène Royal (the Socialist party candidate from last year's presidential election) and her former partner, François Hollande, who's about to stand down as leader of the Socialist party, are high on his repertoire, He does a cruelly more than dumb blonde take on a former Miss France and Miss Europe, Alexandra Rosenfeld, a caterwauling French-Canadian version of Mylène Farmer - and many, many more.

You can see a list here - although it's far from being complete.

During the US election campaign, he even added Barack Obama and John McCain to his collection of voices.

The 10 minutes or so every morning are hilarious, and often much more informative and incisive than the real news that follows shortly afterwards.

So it was with all that in mind that I had managed to buy some much sought-after tickets for one of the last performances of his "2ème Couche" (Second coat) at that grand old music hall in Paris, Olympia.

Even as I entered the hallowed foyer of the world famous building from the late 19th century (seriously in need of a spruce up by the way) there were dozens of people outside asking if there were any spare tickets available.

And this was Canteloup's second time around at Olympia (he was there for two weeks in the spring) on a tour that got underway in October 2007 and will continue making its way around the country until June 2009.

After a warm-up act (some wannabe jazzy-woman, who crooned her way through a number of original songs whose English lyrics were a string of meaningless clichés) Canteloup finally came on to the stage - almost one hour after we had sat down, and this is the bit where I began to feel like an alien.

In spite of all my expectations, mainly from the simple enjoyment of listening to him every morning, I was bored. Even though the impersonations were as expected, excellent, the sketches were for the most part overlong and tedious.

Sure I could be forgiven for perhaps not "getting" some of the cultural references, I'm not French after all. But I did, and what's more, for the main part, I didn't find them at all funny.

There seemed to be no flowing script that meant one character segued into another. Instead we were treated to some rather weak lampooning of admittedly silly television programmes, presented by Canteloup's caricatures of the hosts. An overlong satire on the Olympics - actually more the Paralympics was quite bluntly, tasteless and it just never seemed to have an end - although thankfully at some point it did.

The show progressed, my yawns continued, and my tummy rumbled (I hadn't managed to grab something to eat beforehand).

Most of the rest of the audience (apart from that couple in front of me) seemed to be lapping it up. I was clearly in from Planet Zog for the evening, and kept checking my watch.

Only towards the end did the show really gather pace, as within the space of a quarter of an hour (the "ad-lib" encore) he rattled through politicians and singers at breakneck speed.

Finally the ushers moved into place at the exits, the lighting technicians orchestrated their usual circus seal approval from the audience, Canteloup bid farewell and I was released into the Parisian night.

My advice - if you want to listen to some truly excellent impersonations of famous French people and you're in France, tune into Europe 1 on the radio every morning at around 8.40am. Nicolas Canteloup is in his element, and he's very, very funny.

As for his show. Well as you can probably tell, it's not really something I would recommend - go and see Liane Foly instead.

Bon weekend.

French fashion faux pas - a ripping yarn

2008-11-01T12:01:00.002+01:00

Sometimes we all take what we write about far too seriously, and occasionally it's surely no bad thing to be able to laugh at ourselves and not be afraid to share with others some of the slightly more embarrassing events in everyday life.

So it's with that in mind that I'm man enough to admit the following and give everyone a jolly good belly laugh at my own expense.

First a little bit of background. Twice a year here in France there are the sales (les soldes) Once in January-February and again in July-August. They last for between four to six weeks and the exact dates vary according to each departement or locality.

It used to be a pretty rigid system, but there has been government talk of extending the periods and frequency to help boost "high street sales" and stretch the money of the average Monsieur et Madame Français(e) just a little bit further.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not much of a fan of the sales - too many ill-behaved people in too small a space forgetting about manners (never a priority in the Paris, some would say) in the hunt for bargains.

But this year I thought why not? I needed (or rather wanted) a new pair of smart-casual trousers and I had a bit of spare time while the sales were on so I thought I would try my luck.

This was in mid-July towards the end of the sales period.

And it was in one of those enormous department stores in the centre of the capital, that I found what I was looking for: A charcoal grey, subtle needle-pinstriped pair - the last on the rack so it appeared and just......only just......the right size.

I checked with one of those rather fierce-looking, snooty assistants (aren't they always?) just in case there was a slightly larger pair lurking in the back somewhere, only to be told, "Sorry sir, those are the last available. This is a sale you know, and we don't carry extra stock."

Well that told me.

"But perhaps sir would like to try them on," he seemed to smirk ever so censoriously.

"Yes I would thank you," I replied, and headed to the changing room.

They were - well snug. But otherwise perfect. I mean the colour, the cut and the length. Plus the added bonus they were a snip, a steal, a bargain. There was a designer label (although thankfully not showing - call me a snob - yes, but not a show off) and exactly what I was looking for.

I threw back the curtains and asked, no challenged the assistant as to whether he thought they were a good fit.

"How do they look" I demanded. You see I was already having my doubts as to whether the material was a little on the "thin" side (unlike my figure).

He stared at me, probably trying to work out the most polite way of telling me that I maybe needed to have my eyes tested and a reality check on indeed how I really looked.

"Is sir absolutely sure he's comfortable in that size?" came the (I thought under the circumstances) rather diplomatic response. Always answer a question with a question. This fellow will go far if he ever decides to enter politics

"Well perhaps they're er.....a little close fitting, but I think I can get away with it," I replied.

"And besides they're exactly what I'm looking for, and you don't have them in another size."

It was probably at this point that Monsieur Snooty gave up on offering me any more advice as it was clear that I had already bought them, and besides he was more than likely working on commission.

"Very well sir. Is there anything else you would like to try on?"

There wasn't. I had found my trousers. I had found a bargain in the sales and that was enough for me. I changed, paid and headed home.

That was all a few months ago. I hadn't worn the trousers since buying them. I hadn't really had the opportunity as work doesn't require me to dress up too smartly and I can normally get away with jeans.

That was until this week when I had an important (Monday) morning meeting and was expected to "look the part".

So I took the trousers from where they had been hanging. Left leg, right leg hitched them up and......Isn't summer supposed to be the time when we eat a little less and lose some weight?

Clearly I hadn't been reading the instruction manual for August and September eating habits, and that previously cosy fit from the sales was now most definitely a "who-needs-a-belt-with-these-trousers?" moment.

All right maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but they definitely were tighter than I remembered. Either they had magically shrunk or I had - um - grown. But I looked - well all right. So I pulled on the rest of my clothes and rushed downstairs to grab my car keys and head out of the house.

And that's where it happened. One of those dreadful moments all of us of a certain age probably fear, but never think will happen.

The "Culprit"

Just as I was bending down to pat one of my dogs "goodbye" I heard one almighty "riiiiiiip" as my lovely trousers split in two, totally beyond repair.

Somehow I had managed to do what I had only seen happen to others in the movies.

The only saving grace (if there should be one) is that it happened before I had made it out of the door and into the world outside. For such small mercies, I should perhaps be grateful.

I was going to take a photograph of the trousers complete with Eurotunnel-style hole. But you probably don't need the picture, and besides 1001 words plus will have more than told the story.

So instead I'll include an accompanying photo' of the culprit (blame has to be laid somewhere, as I'm clearly not willing to accept it myself) - the dog to whom I was bidding farewell as the mighty tear occurred.

The trousers have since been recycled as dusters.

Bon weekend.

French fashion faux pas - a ripping yarn

November 1, 2008

Sometimes we all take what we write about far too seriously, and occasionally it's surely no bad thing to be able to laugh at ourselves and not be afraid to share with others some of the slightly more embarrassing events in everyday life.

So it's with that in mind that I'm man enough to admit the following and give everyone a jolly good belly laugh at my own expense.

First a little bit of background. Twice a year here in France there are the sales (les soldes) Once in January-February and again in July-August. They last for between four to six weeks and the exact dates vary according to each departement or locality.

It used to be a pretty rigid system, but there has been government talk of extending the periods and frequency to help boost "high street sales" and stretch the money of the average Monsieur et Madame Français(e) just a little bit further.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not much of a fan of the sales - too many ill-behaved people in too small a space forgetting about manners (never a priority in the Paris, some would say) in the hunt for bargains.

But this year I thought why not? I needed (or rather wanted) a new pair of smart-casual trousers and I had a bit of spare time while the sales were on so I thought I would try my luck.

This was in mid-July towards the end of the sales period.

And it was in one of those enormous department stores in the centre of the capital, that I found what I was looking for: A charcoal grey, subtle needle-pinstriped pair - the last on the rack so it appeared and just......only just......the right size.

I checked with one of those rather fierce-looking, snooty assistants (aren't they always?) just in case there was a slightly larger pair lurking in the back somewhere, only to be told, "Sorry sir, those are the last available. This is a sale you know, and we don't carry extra stock."

Well that told me.

"But perhaps sir would like to try them on," he seemed to smirk ever so censoriously.

"Yes I would thank you," I replied, and headed to the changing room.

They were - well snug. But otherwise perfect. I mean the colour, the cut and the length. Plus the added bonus they were a snip, a steal, a bargain. There was a designer label (although thankfully not showing - call me a snob - yes, but not a show off) and exactly what I was looking for.

I threw back the curtains and asked, no challenged the assistant as to whether he thought they were a good fit.

"How do they look" I demanded. You see I was already having my doubts as to whether the material was a little on the "thin" side (unlike my figure).

He stared at me, probably trying to work out the most polite way of telling me that I maybe needed to have my eyes tested and a reality check on indeed how I really looked.

"Is sir absolutely sure he's comfortable in that size?" came the (I thought under the circumstances) rather diplomatic response. Always answer a question with a question. This fellow will go far if he ever decides to enter politics

"Well perhaps they're er.....a little close fitting, but I think I can get away with it," I replied.

"And besides they're exactly what I'm looking for, and you don't have them in another size."

It was probably at this point that Monsieur Snooty gave up on offering me any more advice as it was clear that I had already bought them, and besides he was more than likely working on commission.

"Very well sir. Is there anything else you would like to try on?"

There wasn't. I had found my trousers. I had found a bargain in the sales and that was enough for me. I changed, paid and headed home.

That was all a few months ago. I hadn't worn the trousers since buying them. I hadn't really had the opportunity as work doesn't require me to dress up too smartly and I can normally get away with jeans.

That was until this week when I had an important (Monday) morning meeting and was expected to "look the part".

So I took the trousers from where they had been hanging. Left leg, right leg hitched them up and......Isn't summer supposed to be the time when we eat a little less and lose some weight?

Clearly I hadn't been reading the instruction manual for August and September eating habits, and that previously cosy fit from the sales was now most definitely a "who-needs-a-belt-with-these-trousers?" moment.

All right maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but they definitely were tighter than I remembered. Either they had magically shrunk or I had - um - grown. But I looked - well all right. So I pulled on the rest of my clothes and rushed downstairs to grab my car keys and head out of the house.

And that's where it happened. One of those dreadful moments all of us of a certain age probably fear, but never think will happen.

The "Culprit"

Just as I was bending down to pat one of my dogs "goodbye" I heard one almighty "riiiiiiip" as my lovely trousers split in two, totally beyond repair.

Somehow I had managed to do what I had only seen happen to others in the movies.

The only saving grace (if there should be one) is that it happened before I had made it out of the door and into the world outside. For such small mercies, I should perhaps be grateful.

I was going to take a photograph of the trousers complete with Eurotunnel-style hole. But you probably don't need the picture, and besides 1001 words plus will have more than told the story.

So instead I'll include an accompanying photo' of the culprit (blame has to be laid somewhere, as I'm clearly not willing to accept it myself) - the dog to whom I was bidding farewell as the mighty tear occurred.

The trousers have since been recycled as dusters.

Bon weekend.

There’s more to Brussels than just sprouts

2008-10-25T16:33:00.005+02:00

All right so the title of this post is a tad misleading. It has nothing to do with the much maligned vegetable, which – call me weird – is one of my favourites – and everything to do with the Belgian capital, and a fair bit to do with food.

But more on that in a moment.

Brussels, home to Nato, the wannabe and de facto “capital” of the European Union (it’s where the Commission sits and the parliament too, when the latter isn’t schizophrenically transported to Strasbourg in Eastern France every month for a week) and the place I decided to spend my birthday (that’s THE news value as far as I’m concerned - call me vain).

Anyway, film buffs and those among you old enough might remember the film "If it's Tuesday it must be Belgium."

It's a romantic comedy from 1969 in which a group of US holidaymakers takes a whistle-stop tour through Europe, visiting seven different countries in just 18 days. A bit of a cliché at the time perhaps on how Americans see the world, but nonetheless an image that sticks in the mind as vacation time is limited and there's just so much to see on this side of the Pond.

Well it wasn't Tuesday, but Wednesday, and I'm certainly not American, but British. All the same it was most definitely Belgium and to be more precise the capital Brussels that took my fancy.

The joys of high-speed train travel means that it only takes one hour and 20 minutes to cover the roughly 300 kilometres from Paris.

Thalys (pronounced Tallis)

As Thalys (the equivalent of the Eurostar service only it connects Paris with Brussels rather than London – obviously) leaves Gare du Nord, it doesn’t waste much time in picking up speed and zapping through the notoriously flat northern French countryside.

In fact the landscape passes in such a giddy blur that it's just as well passengers can fit in a spot of work during the journey. That's made easier by the wifi Internet connection (free in first class, a small supplement in second) which is a must-have for a service that has become the usual way for businessmen and politicians to travel - almost "commute" between the two cities.

In peak hours, trains leave from Paris every 30 minutes - and it has become an even more important link between the two cities since Air France stopped flying the route because it simply couldn't compete.

All right enough of the journey. It’s fast and comfortable and gets you conveniently from city centre to city centre. Full stop.

Now Belgium might seem an odd sort of destination for a "treat". Maybe the title of the film said it all in a way, as the country suffers somewhat from an identity crisis, and isn't high on most people's lists of places to see.

Mind you, that identity crisis is one with which the country is struggling internally and is hardly surprising perhaps given the French-Flemish linguistic, geographical and political divide. Furthermore the country's image abroad wasn't helped much when the Flemish Christian Democrat prime minister (as now is) Yves Leterme was asked by Belgian television to sing the country's national anthem before celebrations to mark its National Day on July 21, 2007. Leterme broke into the opening bars of La Marseillaise - the French national anthem.

While the country is undoubtedly famous for a number of things such as chocolate, beer, waffles and chips (fries - not crisps) it's also the target of some ridicule (name ten famous Belgians - I can, but can you?) and the butt of many a joke such as:

Question:Where is the biggest chip shop in the world?"
Answer: "On the border between France and the Netherlands."

A word of explanation, chips in British English are the equivalent of French fries. And a quick look at a map of Europe will show you that France and the Netherlands don't share a common border - because Belgium is in the way.

All that of course is the stuff of clichés, as is the snootiness with which France seems to view the cuisine of its smaller neighbour.

As you've probably gathered by now, this was no culture-vulture trip - or even the pretence thereof (well a quick gander at the Mannekin Pis - disappointingly small - and a wander around Corneille's gallery to look at his cats) but the main attraction was most definitely gastronomic.

Belgian food has the (deserved) reputation of being rather hearty, so it's not for those counting the calories or worrying about the waistline. And one of its specialities (well in northern France too to tell the truth) is moules-frites (or mussels and chips, which sounds decidedly less appetising maybe) washed down with a local beer.

My short but determined eating extravaganza was to take place in La Grand Place in the centre of Brussels - probably the first stop for many a tourist. It's an enormous open space surrounded by beautiful gabled buildings, including City Hall. And in summer most of the restaurants and cafés have seating outside.

La Grand Place

In one corner of La Grand Place is something of a mussel Mecca - if you will - for tourists and locals alike. It's the T'Kelderke, a small and very cosy (read noisy and elbow to elbow) cellar, packed with atmosphere, the service is fast and the food delicious.

In season of course moules-frites are the thing to go for, Perhaps moules marinieres. And be warned, when it comes to the chips, we're not talking about those skinny little efforts you might find at any fast food joint. These are the proper thick, fat, luscious things - a complete meal in themselves - almost.

And as promised, all washed down with one of those famous beers - blondes or brunes the choice is amazing and the list to a non beer drinker, bewildering.

When mussels aren’t in season, there are always those other Belgian specialities (I hesitate to call them delicacies as any meal here will leave you full). There's seafood , waterzooi (a light chicken or fish stew with cream) and carbonnades a la flamande (beef stew with beer)

If you cannot get in to that particular bar, or you haven't the patience to wait - and you haven't a clue where to eat, wander along the rue des bouchers (just a stone's throw from La Grand Place) and the adjoining streets, where you'll be spoilt for choice. Turkish, Greek, Lebanese, Chinese, Thai and of course restaurant after restaurant serving up those Belgian dishes.

You'll be accosted in the friendliest of manners by waiters encouraging you to come and eat inside - and there's more of that beer of course. You can even eat outside on the chilliest of nights as there's external heating.

Finally - and this is definitely the order in which to do things, as you roll out of the restaurant - is a meander through the covered galleries, Galerie du roi and Galerie de la reine, perpendicular to rue des bouchers. Simply put they are chocolate heaven (as is much of Brussels) and even with a full tummy you still run the risk of tripping over your tongue as it’s likely to hit the ground at the obscenely delicious displays of chocolate in shop window after shop window. Cruelty written big time for those counting the calories – and don’t even think about entering one, because you won't come out empty handed.

Should you still feel a bit peckish by the time breakfast comes around, there's always another Belgian special on offer - waffles. But that might just be pushing the limits of what one person can eat in the shortest period possible.

One word of warning when arriving and departing by train. Both Eurostar from London and Thalys from Paris arrive and leave from Gare du Midi – De Zuid and not Central Station.

Worth remembering when you’re late and in a hurry to catch your train – only to pitch up at the wrong station. There speaks the voice of experience.

France-Britain and the whiffy Wifi language divide

2008-10-19T11:11:00.001+02:00

A word of warning before you launch into a rapid read of this post. Much of it probably won't make any sense until you've made it to the end. And even then you might need to start all over again.

To begin with, I would like to say that I think I have a pretty good grasp of the English language.

Well I should do. It's my mother tongue and I was born and brought up in Britain, although I've spent the best part of the last couple of decades living and working abroad and alternately murdering and mangling other languages with abandon.

Throw in the fact that I have a teaching qualification (although no longer used) and actually do a fair amount of talking for a living, and I should have a handle on "proper" pronunciation.

As I stress, "I would like to say." Sadly that's not always the case.

All right so I know that Britain and the US are supposed to be two countries divided by a common language (among other things). And I'm well used to be gawped at with almost total incomprehension when I open my mouth in a restaurant on the other side of the Pond and ask where the loo (restroom) is or request the bill (check).

Even though I know Americans "stand in line" the devil in me means that I still cannot resist asking where the "queue" is for tickets at the cinema, and I know that someone, somewhere is going to tell me that my plummy accented way of pronouncing tomato (tommarto) is either "cute" or completely "foreign".

But never, ever in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my fellow Brits would have a problem with the way I talk. Well apart from once in Scotland, when I was told that my accent was too "alienating" to be heard on the local radio station. Harrumph.

Now though, I have to own up that perhaps I no longer have a grip on the language I used to claim to be able to master.

And it's all the fault of modern technology. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

You see, a couple of months ago I had the local Internet provider here (Orange) install a Livebox in my home. It means that I can log on from my laptop anywhere in the house. Yes that's right Wifi is now available "chez moi".

It's great and means I'm not desk-bound to the study but can use my computer anywhere in the house; perched on my knees while I goggle at the box if I fancy, or (weather permitting) even outside in the garden.

All right, so it's not the hottest of news. I mean, I've been using Wifi all around France at various hotels and airport lounges for quite a while. But to have it within my own four walls has been rather a novelty.

Anyway, on a recent trip "back home" to London, I took my rather overweight laptop along for the journey, and while checking in at the hotel I naturally asked - as I always do here in France - whether they had Wifi available.

The receptionist gave me a rather puzzled look, but asked politely, "Wifi sir? What exactly would that be?"

"Wifi," I replied helpfully. "Wifi. Do you have Wifi available here?" Repetition seemed to be the best way of making myself understood, I thought.

"I'm sorry sir. I don't understand what you mean. What precisely do you want?" She asked.

Even after the shortest of exchanges, the conversation was becoming more than a little tedious for me. I'm not renowned for my excess of patience especially when faced with an idiot.

I mean Wifi is Wifi isn't it? Everyone knows what it is, even a technophobe such as myself. Either the hotel had it or it hadn't. The receptionist really couldn't be as dim as she appeared.

That at least was what was passing through my mind.

Fortunately as it turned out, I held my tongue and rather slowly, but with clinical precision enunciated, "W.I.F.I - you know the thing that allows me to connect to the Internet without those interminable wires and wotnot."

Silence. Then.

"Ah," came the reply. "Wye - Fye (proper English mother-tongue pronunciation of Wifi). Yes of course we have Wye-Fye sir," she added with a smirk.

It was one of those "please-let-the-ground-open-up-to-swallow-me" moments as I realised that too many years in France and the fact that I've only ever used the word here, had led me to believe that the correct pronunciation was "wiffy" as in "whiffy" (meaning smelly) and not wye-fye, as I've since learned much of the rest of the world calls it.

I sheepishly admitted defeat, not daring to look her in the eye as she could clearly see I had arrived from Planet Zog, albeit with an English accent and a seemingly dippy IQ.

So now I know how to pronounce the word, there should be no stopping me - at least not when I'm either in Britain or next visiting the US.

But for the moment there is - something stopping me I mean.

I just can't bring myself to say it.

And even as I double check the spelling and grammar here, I'm mouthing the word "whiffy, whiffy, whiffy" in my head as I read.

Quelle horreur.

Fontainebleau - a fabulous slice of French life

2008-10-14T11:57:00.002+02:00

It's maybe not as well known as it's more famous cousin Versailles, which lies to the south-west of Paris, but Fontainebleau is definitely a town worth more than a casual visit.

Fontainebleau rue Grande

And it has probably been given an extra boost - in terms of tourism here in France - by being featured in this week's edition of one of the country's leading news magazines.

L'Express sells around half a million copies each week, and is a pretty good read, bringing anyone who's interested, bang up to date with what's happening here in France.

Of course it has a political bias, but that can be balanced by maybe reading one of its competitors such as Marianne or Nouvel Observateur.

Anyway I have a subscription and receive my copy every weekend.

Imagine then my combined horror and surprised delight as this week's edition popped through my door, and there emblazoned on the front was a banner headline "Fontainebleau and its surroundings" with the promise to reveal 60 top names and addresses of "must sees" and "have-to-go tos" in the town itself and the neighbouring villages.

One of those neighbouring villages is the one in which I live, and about which I wrote here a couple of weeks ago.

Without waxing too lyrical, it's a great place. It's home to around 1,500 people, sits on the edge of one of the largest forests surrounding Paris and is chocolate-box pretty while retaining a real soul.

Any thoughts I might have had when I first moved here a year ago that it was one of those "best kept secrets" we all like to look for, were quickly dispelled when I realised that it attracted bus loads of Japanese tourists - come rain or shine - who visit to pay homage to a hotel in which Emperor Hirohito once stayed.

Add to that the fact that it also has a school of painting named after it (one of its most famous sons was Jean-François Millet), has numerous artists' ateliers, restaurants and hotels and a calendar jam-packed with cultural events, then it's no surprise perhaps that it pretty much acts as a magnet for tourists all year round.

Still it was a bit of a shock to see the face of the local butcher staring back at me from the cover of L'Express, with the recommendation to all readers within driving distance that this was the place to buy some of the juiciest and most tender cuts.

I mean it's not as though I disagree - far from it. It's just that I feel a little protective towards a man I've come to know and like over the past year. He's MY butcher and I don't want anyone else muscling in.

Philippe Auguin. is the guy from whom I buy some of the best meat available - all of which is organic, top quality and simply delicious. So much for my "find". Now the rest of the world (or at least those who read L'Express) are likely to make a beeline for the village to stock up

Mind you, his popularity and great reputation are more than fully deserved, and it's hard to begrudge him his new found notoriety. He's the kind of fellow who is very much the heart of the village, always has a smile for his customers and makes the chore of shopping a pleasure, by offering a personal and personable alternative to the anonymity of the "Grand Surfaces" superstores.

Philippe loves his job, works a long day and takes the shortest of holidays simply because as he told me recently he "loves being back home and at the centre of what's happening."

Somewhere in that is a lesson for all of us perhaps.

His is not the only "address" featured in L"Express. The special pull-out lists 60 of them, all in villages surrounding the main town of Fontainebleau - just over 50 kilometres south east of the French capital.

For sure It's less well-known that Versailles but that doesn't make it any less worth a trip out to the "sticks".

By no stretch of the imagination is it poorer architecturally, culturally or in terms of setting.

Château de Fontainebleau (from Wikipedia, Carolus)

It too has its own chateau, which although less ornate that the one in Versailles is actually older. With its trademark horseshoe staircase, the château de Fontainebleau was the largest one built be François 1 in the 16 century.

For French history buffs, François 1 was prone to building chateaux all over the shop, leaving them empty and instead just moving the royal court (complete with furniture) around when he fancied a change of scenery.

For those planning a visit, the opening hours are a bit haphazard - depending on the time of the year - and it constantly seems to be undergoing renovations of one sort or another, but it's definitely a must see.

Fontainebleau also boasts one of Europe's premier business schools, INSEAD, and during the 1950s and 60s was home to Nato's HQ allied forces central Europe - until that is the former French president, Charles de Gaulle, took the country out of the organisation.

What really sets it apart though from many other towns in or around the French capital is its forest.

It's enormous - more than 250km2 and hugely popular with Parisians looking for a weekend break in the countryside while not wanting to face the dubious delights of spending huge chunks of Friday and Sunday evenings sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

At the moment of course there are guided crack-of-dawn tours to help those that are interested in identifying and collecting edible mushrooms. There are huge boulders for rock climbers to tackle, cycling pistes for the lycra-clad cross-country enthusiasts, bridle paths and a criss-crossing network of footpaths for the serious or even more humble rambler.

Throw in the enormous variety of fauna and flora, the stags currently roaring their night time rut and wild boar rampaging through the place, and you have an ideal cocktail of preserved nature just a 40-minute train journey from Paris.

The townsfolk go by the delightful name of Bellifontains or Bellifontaines and are well used to foreigners dawdling around the centre of town with maps in hand and phrase books at the ready.

While their English might not be the most robust, they're a pretty friendly bunch with none of the infamous arrogance for which the French, and in particular those living in the capital are often accused.

Fontainebleau café

And if all you want to do is sit outside a brasserie or café and watch the world go by or see what a "proper" French market is all about (three times a week) it's all here (and more) in living technicolour.

So there you go. L'Express has done its bit at telling the rest of France a little more about Fontainebleau, and now I've chipped in giving readers here a taste of what they can look forward to.

Just promise though that you won't all be descending on Philippe and depriving me of the joy of bagging the best cuts for myself.

A slice of life in France - shopping on a Sunday

2008-09-30T16:38:00.001+02:00

In case you're wondering you can't - shop on a Sunday. Not normally that is. Many of the big stores are closed, apart from some "home improvement" places, gardening centres and a chain of supermarkets (but only in the morning). For the most part, retail therapy is contained to popping along to the local market where there's a range of fresh produce on sale.

Oh yes, there's the run-up to Christmas of course when the exception proves the rule and everyone is shoulder-to-shoulder in the last minute rush hunting for "that" present.

Today was different though, as the nearby hypermarket threw open its doors for a Sunday shopping special. Hooray!

When looking for a house a couple of years ago in this part of France, just 50 kilometres south of Paris, we were told by the estate agent that the place we were going to look at (and would eventually buy) was just minutes away from the largest Carrefour in the country.

I did something of a double take as my literal mind translated back into English

"Carrefour (meaning "crossroads" in English) - You mean as in a motorway intersection?" I asked innocently.

"That's hardly a unique selling point. We were rather looking to escape the daily grind of the city for a bit of piece and quiet in the countryside, but still be within commuting distance of Paris," I continued, digging myself further into a hole.

"The idea of being right next to a major road junction doesn't seem very appealing."

There then followed a moment of complete blankness from the agent and she took a deep breath, obviously wondering which planet I had just arrived from. She then went on to explain that she meant the chain of hypermarkets - the largest in France, and pretty well-known around the world and NOT a crossroads.

Um.

Since then I've been an infrequent visitor to the place. Sure it has everything you could wish for under one roof; all manner of electrical appliances, DIY-til-you-die equipment, its own garden department, clothes, and a food hall that offers just about everything, including a whole range of organic produce and a section "produits du monde" which contains usually unobtainable goodies from back home that I've missed in my years living abroad.

But it's all just a little too large for my liking, and whenever I've been dragged there in the past, I've usually come away with far more than I had initially intended buying, a maxed-out credit card and a foul temper. I'm not the world's most patient shopper.

So when the store started posting leaflets through our door, advertising its "special" Sunday opening and low prices on a range of products for one day only, I wasn't too enthusiastic. And besides there were a whole host of better ways I could think of spending my free time rather than doing battle with the hoards of bargain hunters.

That was until I was reminded that there would also be a Foire aux vins, the time every year when there's a rush to fill up the wine cellar with some of the best this country keeps for itself - at reduced prices.

Plus Carrefour had helpfully pushed all the right buttons as far as I was concerned by providing us with a voucher for the princely reduction of €10 if we bought wine totalling more than a certain amount on this special opening day.

Remain restrained and focused - just wine

We've all been encouraged here in France over the past year to tighten our belts and watch our spending, especially as prices have been rising and there basically seems to be less money all round.

My mind did a quick bit of maths and it didn't take long for it to dawn on me that if I remained very focused and only bought what I needed, I could be on to a good thing.

That's when the alarm bells should have started sounding. Special offers and loss leaders, I knew were a ruse to get us all happily spending our hard-earned centimes. I mean it's not as though any hypermarket - let alone this one - had suddenly "seen the light" and decided to become a charity. They were hoping of course that once inside the cash registers would start kerchinging (or whatever it is they do in these electronic days) merrily.

Plus, I thought, there were probably plenty of others out there who had exactly the same idea as me. There again a bargain is a bargain, so why not go along and take a look? It couldn't do any harm and there might be some surprises. All that was called for was restraint.

Of course I wasn't far off the mark about the number of people who had come up with the same brilliant idea.

We pitched up at 11 o'clock, and already the car park was heaving. Once we had found a space and grabbed a trolley (how interesting that they call them "chariots" here - it almost describes how the French behave when put behind one) we made our way into the store where....the world and its mother seemed to have had exactly the same notion of the ideal way of NOT spending a relaxing Sunday morning.

Still I had only one thought in mind, wine - as I pushed my way past the music section.

"Ooh the latest by Carla. Yes. Why not?"
Well there were plenty of reasons but.

On through books. "Another on Sarkozy, Go on then, I'll add it to the other dozen or so that I've bought and not finished reading over the past year."

The automobile section. "There's that emergency triangle that became compulsory in all cars in July, but which I haven't been able to find yet. Oh it's good we came."

Household. "Are those GENUINE Laguiole knives? Wow. They're good value."

Then my nose paused in front of the bakery. " Ah the smell. Wonderful. Fresh bread and those gateaux. That'll be a treat for tea this afternoon."

A quick glance at the produits du monde. "Branston pickle. Yes. Oh and salt and vinegar crisps". In fact we hadn't even made it anywhere near to the wine section and le chariot was already half full. I had better get away from the food hall quick.

So I took a left at the next aisle.

And there it was.

Shelf after shelf.....

..... of computers, including that beautiful creature, the MacBook Air. I had been drooling over its photo for weeks in magazines. I had read every review. But I had never seen one up close. Breathtaking. Sexy. Gorgeous. The pictures didn't nearly do it justice. And now I was well and truly and lustfully in love. Cue romantic music and misty lens.

Except suddenly I had a blinding light, a revelation and an elbow shoved into my reverie.

"We are here to buy wine." I was informed from the one who knows better. "Not buy more equipment that you'll never be able to work out how to use properly."

That jolted me back to reality. And sheepishly I had to agree. So with a long last look over my shoulder at what was never meant to be, I bade a fond farewell to my dreams and soldiered forth to the wine.

Now I have to admit that we did in fact manage to pick up quite a few good bottles - er......enough to last us until Christmas (2009) and beyond probably. And it was by no means plonk.

But as we stood for what seemed like hours in a queue at the checkout with our heavily laden chariot and then paid (crikey where had that focus and restraint gone?) I couldn't help thinking back to that lovely little aluminium-clad number which obviously had my name written all over it.

Alas though not for now. In fact probably not for a long time.

And there's be no return to Crossroads in the near future as temptation might jut prove too strong.

But at least come next Sunday - when it won't be open - I'll be able to dream of what might have been as I crack open the first in a long line of bottles to drown my sorrows.

Making a mountain out of a mole hill

2008-09-27T14:37:00.003+02:00

For the green-fingered brigade among us, autumn is the season when it's time to get our hands well and truly dirty as the great garden clean up begins - if that's not something of a contradiction in terms.

Pruning, uprooting, thinning, replanting, and as the leaves are just about to tumble, the boy-toy joy of leaf-blowing will come into its droning own any weekend now, and of course there's the last mow of the grass before Jack Frost nips in.

In general gardening is supposed to be a rather genteel pastime. All right some heavy lugging is at times required and there's that obstinate flora that still lives by the old aphorism "there's no such thing as a 'weed' just a plant in the wrong place." But nothing really to get the temper-thermometer bubbling to maximum apart that is (in my case) from the Mole.

Now I'm not a violent person. My friends and family will attest to that. I marched in peace demos during my idealistic youth, there's no gun in my home (it's not exactly the fashion here in France unless you're heavily into hunting - I'm not) and I try to avoid physical conflict at all costs. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.

I'm also as environmentally conscious as is possible to be - within limits. And I love animals - even the boars who come a gruntin' at the gate during the night, scaring me witless and making me rush daringly out with the dustbin twice a week for the overnight collection, half afraid of meeting them face to snout.

May all "sentient beings of the world be blessed to live happy and contented lives" could almost be a family motto.

But sometimes all good and honourable intentions go flying out the window as exasperation threatens to speed up the process of hair loss almost as quickly as advancing years are doing.

And the culprit for those of you who missed it first time around is the Mole - intentionally capitalised.

He's most definitely not that loveable and good-natured creature who graced the pages (with others) of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows from my childhood reading.

Instead he just has to be a conniving, forward-thinking, all-round bounder, hell bent on turning the garden into an Alpine landscape.

Oh - perhaps I ought to say here that I'm clearly being very sexist in anthropomorphising the Mole as a "he." Obviously I haven't had a close up look - in fact I've yet to see the blighter in the flesh. But in Grahame's novel "Mole" is most definitely a "he", even if in French interestingly enough the noun is female "la taupe."

But I digress.

The Hills are alive

I know there's a Mole about of course because a couple of days ago "the Hill" appeared.

An innocent little beginning at face value, but the start of my travails in reality.

When that Hill first formed, I asked neighbours what to do about it - prevention being a little late and a cure now required before the problem mountained out of control. And the reply always seemed to be the same (in French) "set up some traps and kill the little critters." But that doesn't really fit into the way things should be done as far as I'm concerned.

"Poison 'em," recommended another equally unhelpful and non-too tender minded person.

I couldn't. I mean apart from the fact that my dogs would probably end up scoffing any bait I laid, it's unethical. No chemicals on my grass, not for fertilizing purposes nor even to drive a “pest” away.

So the solution a couple of Hills later - a few centimes “well spent” at the recommendation of an assistant at the local garden centre, who most clearly read the words “Le Sucker” emblazoned on my forehead when I innocently asked whether there were any “humane” ways of getting rid of "Bert."

Yep, having decided that the Mole had to be male, I had also made the mistake of naming him too. Don't even ask why.

“This is just what you’re looking for sir,” he said pointing to a rather innocuous green plastic toadstool-like thing.

"The new 'virbrasonic' mole deterrent – complete with a sonar signal guaranteed to drive them away.

“You simply stake them into the ground where you spot a fresh molehill, and within a couple of weeks they will be gone.”

He then proceeded to give me all the scientific explanations as to how I would be rid of my problem (Bert) with no pain to the animal.

I was sold. All right so I would just be moving Bert to someone else’s garden, which wasn’t very socially responsible of me I know, but he and friends (I refused to believe there was only one) were severely testing just how neighbourly I was feeling (the Hills were alive), and I would quite happily have them move on to pastures new (the Moles not the neighbours).

So complete with rechargeable batteries(eco-friendly) and planted firmly at strategic positions - (in the centre of the newest Hills) hopes were high.

The high pitched intermittent wailing that both 'toadstools" emitted became all the more noticeable in the still of the night when the bedroom windows were flung open. It was certainly unpleasant enough to give me a pretty restless sleep.

Still at least I had the consolation that the sound must seem equally disturbing to "les taupes" (they're French after all, so let's call them by name), and it was with that expectation that I looked out the next morning to see.....

.....the Hills had spread and multiplied - again

Welcome to Mole paradise

The sonar deterrent seemed to have had no effect on Bert et al, well not the desired one at least. In fact rather the opposite as they appeared to have spent the night busy tunneling and constructing to their hearts' content.

And (as you can tell from the photo) the alarms, far from discouraging them seemed to be rather Attractive.

I've since read up on Moles and discovered to my horror, they don't actually hibernate as I had thought. They just dig deeper for food as the cold sets in.

That in itself might mean fewer mounds appearing over the next few months, but of course the problem will still be there - underground, waiting, lurking and threatening to turn a rather wild and natural looking garden into (in their minds only) a beautifully bumpy topography.

In fact should they not decide to move house and garden and if France as planned, or more specifically la région parisienne (nowadays known as Île-de-France), were to bid for the 2018 Winter Olympics - I know just the spot where the moguls competition could be held.

Suddenly those smoke bombs, poisons and traps are beginning to look like an ugly attractive option.

My only hope for salvation is a few months of torrential downpour as that would flood the burrows and drown Bert.

Somehow though that doesn't exactly make me feel any happier.

A double dose of Brazilian dance for France

2008-09-21T15:55:00.010+02:00

Ladies and gentlemen readers welcome to a couple of minutes of dance floor magic.

For the men, put aside any juvenile images you might still harbour of male dancers being nothing more than "men in tights." And for the women (and the male of the human race who appreciate dance) feast your eyes on the accompanying videos and remember it as you read the following review.

For here we go. Brazil meets France "en dance" - just for a couple of days - and the result is ASTOUNDING.

Nope, it's not the world renowned samba or even capoeira, that mix of martial arts and dance whose roots are African but was developed in Brazil's regions centuries ago. There are doubtless those better placed out there to tell us more about those particular delights.

Instead it's the "sensual and generous" - so the blurb runs - performance of the Brazilian dance troupe Companhia Sociedade Masculina.

And believe me - that description wasn't far off the mark

It’s an all male dance company (just eight of them) from the Brazilian city of São Paulo and it was making a return engagement in France at the weekend, appearing at Lyon’s biennale dance festival, which is running at venues throughout the city from September 6 until the end of the month.

In total 42 different companies are performing from 19 different countries, and I had plumped for the Companhia Sociedade Masculina after reading the rave reviews it had received during its last appearance in Lyon in December 2007.

Now anyone who read a previous piece I posted on “Tanguera” – an Argentinian musical currently running in the French capital tracing the origins of tango and performed throughout almost exclusively in that dance style – will remember that I “outed” myself as one of those talentless back-to-front footed no-hopers with little sense of rhythm and no dance floor timing.

But that certainly doesn’t stop me, or anybody else out there in the same position from being able to appreciate “poetry on legs.”

In fact that’s probably not even doing the performance given by Companhia Sociedade Masculina nearly enough justice.

It was an hour’s worth of being transported from the trials of everyday life into a completely different world – that of dance.

The mainly French audience must have known they were in for something special before the performance even began. Apart from the company coming with a reputation from previous visits, there was also a large contingent of Brazilians in the orchestra seats, chattering animatedly and even for those who couldn't speak a word of Portuguese, it wasn’t difficult to understand that they were all waiting, excitedly, impatiently. That had to be a good sign.

The lights dimmed and a hush descended upon the audience to be replaced by the strains of an immediately recognisable Latin beat.

First up was the 30 minutes of Um Olhar, created by the man who is considered by many to be one of his generation’s most talented choreographers, the 44-year-old Brazilian born and bred Henrique Rodovalho. It's his interpretation of the work of Hélio Oiticica.

The piece is basically a look – through dance – at the musical scene in Brazil during the 1960s when the country was ruled by a military dictatorship.

But forget the politics – that’s really just to place Rodovalho’s creation in its historical context.

The tunes are familiar and what the eight dancers actually do with the choreography and to the music is in the words of one local newspaper critic ”complete engagement” combined with ”technical prowess". And it certainly makes them a marvel.

Actually it’s hard to believe that there are only eight men in the company. They’re not always all on stage at the same time, and it’s not easy to keep track sometimes as in this piece in particular they all seem to be dancing different routines at the same time.

Even when they form couples there’s little synchronisation among them. But far from being distracting, it all seems to blend together marvellously.

And as for the sheer power and masculinity of the performance, well any doubts anyone might still foster that an all-male troupe would somehow seem effeminate, are soon dispelled.

That power is also tempered with a grace and an athleticism that would put many better paid professional sportsmen to shame. They leap, gyrate, tumble and turn through a series of moves that show the diverse roots of the company.

Founder Vera Lafer said when she started the company at the beginning of 2000 that she wanted it to challenge the clichés that surrounded males dancers by choosing them from a number of backgrounds (classical, modern, jazz and even capoeira) and having them tackle pieces created by daring contemporary choreographers.

And that’s the ethos that has been maintained by the company’s artistic director Anselmo Zolla in both pieces presented in Lyon.

After 30 minutes it was over – well the 100 per cent Brazilian part of the evening anyway. There was the inevitable rapturous applause as the lights went up allowing a short pause to recover – for both the dancers and the audience.

Just a quarter of an hour later though the troupe was back, this time to perform Palpable by the Greek choreographer, Andonis Foniadakis.

This was from the opening note far less accessible and a real challenge to both the dancers’ abilities and the audience’s ears.

The “music” was what some might unkindly consider quite a generous term for the accompanying “sound” that belted out of the loudspeakers.

It was a clanking, mechanical and industrial noise that initially irritated but through the brilliance of the choreography soon won you over.

All right so it’s never going to be the sort of thing you’ll flip on to your CD player in the comfort of your sitting room. It certainly wouldn’t help you relax. In fact it’s perhaps more likely to make Bjork sound decidedly old hat and completely in tune.

It was simply one continuous grinding, thumping, intensely disturbing combination of sounds that built to a crescendo. And somehow, sitting there watching and listening, it all seemed to make perfect sense as once again the dancers leapt and spun through the performance.

Sometimes individually, often in couples and occasionally all together. And every move was executed with incredible speed and finesse as the music and the dance flowed and married.

Then once again it was all over – this time for good.

A standing ovation, beaming smiles from the Brazilians in the audience, even more animated chatter than at the beginning, and the French seemed to have lost any inhibitions they might have had as they cheered what they had just been treated to.

And one particular member of the audience picked himself up from an exhausted heap in his seat and headed out into the night to savour and recapture in his mind exactly what he had just seen.

As (I think) the Brazilians would say, "Um abraço."

The brighter side of French village life - it exists

2008-09-19T11:53:00.006+02:00

A couple of weeks ago I reported on how a young farmer in central France had faced a systematic hate campaign from someone in his village bent on trying to ruin his attempts to build a successful organic cheese business.

It was a miserable tale that showed the darker side of the French rural mentality and can probably be found in communities large and small in many other countries.

For the sake of balance though, I thought I would also take a look at how village life, or living in a small community can have its up side of course.

This is also a simple tale of how just when you need a hand, you find "good". Someone steps in to help out others, and it's proof perhaps that what makes the world go around is not money or self satisfaction but good old "helping a stranger in need."

As summer winds down into autumn and the days noticeably shorten, the village where I live - just 50 kms from the French capital - throws open its doors to the rest of the world to celebrate its annual "la fête du village".

Actually although only 1,500 people live here, it's generally an all-round hospitable place. It sits on the edge of one of the largest forests surrounding Paris, is home to a well-known school of painting, has numerous artist's ateliers, restaurants and hotels and is a regular stopping off point for those visiting the stunning town of Fontainebleau and its chateau - just a stone's throw away.

Enough waxing lyrical about the village, enough to say it's beautiful and I'm very fortunate to live here. Back to the fête.

It took place last weekend, everyone was welcome, the main street was closed off to traffic, restaurants moved tables outside, there were stalls for those who wanted to stock up on local produce, organic honey, goats cheese and most of all Brie as this is also the heartland of that particular type of cheese.

The local butcher even put on a spread - two sittings, lunchtime and evening - and cows from one of his suppliers were tethered to a spot in the centre of the action as he ran a "guess the weight" tombola. The prize - free prime cuts for a year - not from the cow on show I hasten to add.

And to top it all off the weather remained gloriously sunny.

Among the visitors was a young American couple with their two small children. They had arrived early morning (I later learnt) and left their rental vehicle in a car park on the outskirts of the village to spend the rest of the day wandering up and down the main street sampling everything that was edible and drinkable and generally enjoying the festive atmosphere.

On returning to their car in the late afternoon, they discovered that it had been broken into and some of their belongings stolen. Not speaking much French, they asked around for help "Who should they contact?" "Where was the nearest police station?" "We don't speak the language what are we supposed to do?"

There was soon a cluster of local people, many speaking less than perfect English, but eagerly gesticulating and willing to help out the family with suggestions. This was after all big news in such a small place.

To the couple's relief there was one man who spoke perfect English, and after quickly understanding their predicament, he took matters in hand.

Pulling out his mobile 'phone, he called the nearest police station (10 kilometres away) explained what had happened and afterwards informed the couple that they would have to go and file a report for insurance purposes at the station.

They looked appreciative but still a little concerned, and the man, sensing their apprehension said, "I'll drive ahead of you to the police and act as an interpreter if you like.

"And in the meantime if you need to contact the car rental company to tell them what has happened, you can use my phone."

A simply gesture, a little time taken out at the end of the day to help a family who were clearly somewhat out of their depth linguistically and bureaucratically (this is a country ruled by rules) and what could have been a miserable memory was turned around into something they probably won't forget - for all the right reasons.

I know all about this, not because I was the good Samaritan on the day (although I would wish to have reacted in a similar way had I been around) but because the person who came to the couple's assistance in their time of need, is a close friend of mine - a local. He didn't tell me himself what had happened, but someone else did. After all this is a small community and news (of any kind) travels quickly.

So to him, and all others who have the presence of mind to think about helping those out without a second thought, I say "chapeau".

It leaves a warm glow in the heart.

By the way, I entered the tombola, but didn't win the year's supply of prime cuts. My guess of 526 kgs for a Charolais cow was way out. She actually weighed in at a whopping 738 kgs.

Maybe next year I'll fare better.

Anyone for tennis? (All right, but just make sure nobody's watching)

2008-09-15T09:54:00.003+02:00

There's a campaign on here in France at the moment to get people - young and old - to eat better, cut down on the takeaways and fast food while reducing their intake of fats. We're exhorted to eat more fruit and veg, and definitely get off our backsides to play more sport.

Television commercials for any food or drink products even carry a reminder to check a government-sponsored website. They want us all to lose weight and be healthier.

It was with that thought in mind that I decided as local sports clubs were now recruiting for new members, I would follow such pearls of wisdom and sign up for something. Tennis perhaps - although it was donkeys years since I had last held a racket, let alone put my best foot forward and ventured on to a court.

So I joined a club. Actually it's pretty much the way things happen here. You can't just decide on the spur of the moment that "ooh a gentle spot of hitting the ball back and forth with a friend is just what I fancy doing." You cannot pitch up any time you like - unless you join. So that's exactly what I did.

Except of course once you join something like a tennis club, it doesn't just stop at that. You then have to have all the paraphernalia that goes with the burden of membership. Well at least the racket.

Although I knew I used to own one - way back when - I wasn't convinced that after several house moves I would ever be able to find it.

Besides, if I wanted to be taken at least half seriously, I would need one of these new-fangled carbon whatever things, that looked at though it meant business (even if I didn't) rather than a piece of antiquity more resembling something that had probably last seen action some time just after Queen Victoria ascended to the throne.

So it was with that thought it mind that I headed off to the local sports shop.

I would be restrained. Just a racket. No fancy garb, oh and some balls of course. You can't play without those (although it might in my case have been easier).

And it didn't take me long to find just what I was looking for. Second hand with a big open-headed frame that would surely mean I couldn't miss a thing. It looked brand new and it only cost - well I'm not saying, because the price made me gulp a bit. The balls - well balls are balls aren't they? So six of those yellow ones with the flashy brand name.

Anything else? Oh did I have any shoes to wear? Perhaps my Timberland walking boots would look a little out of place, and you can't really wear sandals on a tennis court.

All right then, perhaps a pair of shoes. But what sort? There were dozens of different pairs to choose from. For beginners, intermediate and experienced, and then broken down into how often you intended to play. Once a week? Once a month? Once in a blue moon? What sort of surface, hard, grass, indoor?

Crikey what ever happened to pulling on a simple pair of gym shoes and being done with it?

Shorts - no I didn't need those. I had several pairs that I had worn on the beach over the summer. But would they really be appropriate? Red, yellow, blue and green stripes sort of 70s psychedelia meets "what does he think he looks like." Perhaps I had better buy some shorts after all.

A shirt? Surely I had a tee-shirt that would fit the bill. But there again as I had already decided to buy a new pair of shorts, why not the shirt as well? And that little navy blue number apparently had special ventilation flaps that would keep me cool as I lunged around the court. Oh and socks. Burlington knee lengths don't really look good with shorts, and six pairs of white ankle-lengths for the price of four seemed to good of a bargain to pass up.

Anything else? How about one of those smart bags the professional always carry around with them at the Grand Slams? Go on then? Shop 'til you drop. And then I was done. And so was my credit card. But at least I had all the gear necessary to make myself look the part, even if my skills were definitely lacking.

I had rung around my friends and found someone who claimed he was just as out of practice as me and we had both registered with the same local tennis club. That meant we could use the court whenever we liked.

So we did, and the big day came this weekend. Everything was packed and we were ready to go.

The courts were free, and there was nobody else around (thank goodness) and we could pretend we had both taken to the Centre Court for the all-important final to determine the end of season rankings.

A gentle warm up - where the longest rally involved successfully being able to return the ball over the net - once. I remembered how to serve though - and 40 per cent of the time it went cracking over the net and remained inside the tramlines - impossible to return. Eat your heart out Pistol Pete.

But I clearly hadn't got the knack of actually hitting the ball very accurately when it was headed towards me. It ricocheted off my racket and headed skywards behind me more often than not. Sort of reverse slice.

Or I made a desperate swing, missed entirely and ended up on my bottom. I could lob though - into the next court. I could even hit a double-handed backhand - straight into the net and although my playing partner didn't appear much better, I foolishly agreed to try to play a set - heck a match.

It wasn't so much the Grand Slam occasion I had somehow pictured in my mind. More Laurel and Hardy taking to the court and doing their best to show just how bad they were.

Except that both Laurel and Hardy were on my side of the net. I was both of them at once to my opponent's sudden transformation into Roger Federer.

I fired off serve after serve. He suddenly remembered how to return. I wheezed my way from one side of the court to the other, arms flailing and temper fraying. He just converted every shot of mine that trickled over the net into a winner.

And it didn't get any better. "Practice makes perfect," goes the old saying - yeah a "perfect fool out of me," I thought.

After 45 minutes the inevitable had happened. I had lost. Actually not just lost, I had been annihilated. 6-0, 6-0. But apart from the score, there wasn't much love on my side of the net.

I couldn't stand the thought of another set, and besides there were now a couple of teenagers who had arrived on the adjoining court and I didn't really want to make a complete fool of myself in public.

So far I had got away with just humiliating myself in front of my friend. There was no need to labour the point.

But boy did I feel better? That was the most fun I'd had in a long time wasn't it? The heart was beating faster, the pulse was racing. I was perspiring (men perspire don't they, it's horses that sweat, so I've been told) and I was feeling good about myself wasn't I?

Well the answer to all of those questions was a big fat NO. So why then did I agree to put myself through it all over again the following weekend? In the hope that I might just win one game perhaps.

Anyone for tennis? (All right, but just make sure nobody's watching).

Sex on legs - not the last Tango in Paris

2008-09-15T09:40:00.001+02:00

I can't dance - well not really. All right so I can do a pretty good arm-flailing impression of a latter-day Travolta when the light's right, and the mirror ball is deflecting attention in the opposite direction. But I ain't really got rythmn and there's no tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor for me.

As for the mysteries of the Cha Cha, the Fox Trot or the Salsa - well when it comes to feet, my two aren't left. They're simply on back to front. Thank goodness there's no Little Person's version of "Dancing with Stars" here in France, because I wouldn't even make it to the auditions.

But one thing I do recognise is Hot Stuff on the dance floor. And that's exactly what Parisian audiences are being treated to at the moment with the exhaustingly energetic but sublimely sensual "Tanguera" playing at the Théâtre du Châtelet.

It's a musical but told in dance - the Tango of course.

And what makes it especially compelling and innovative is how it manages to tell the history of its own roots by going back to its beginnings and at the same time combining it with a love story typical for any era, but that was very much part of the milieu in which the Tango was born.

Set in the poor quarter of Boca in Buenos Aires at the end of the 19th century, Tanguera tracks the tale of Giselle, a young woman from France, who has recently arrived as part of the wave of immigration from Europe to South America at the time.

She cannot find legitimate work and gets drawn into prostitution under the "comforting arm" of Gaudencio, a gangster, pimp and drug trafficker.

From prostitution she moves into the seedy world of cabaret, controlled by Gaudencio, and discovers the Tango. It becomes her drug almost, and she in return becomes a star of the scene, quickly attracting the attention of the virtuous Lorenzo, a docker.

He of course at the end finally takes his courage in his hands and challenges Gaudencio to a fight, where the two men slug it out in mortal combat - all for the love of a woman.

Directed by Omar Pacheco, the choreography of Mora Godoy is phenonmenal. and after 18 months of playing to packed houses back in Argentina, it has been brought to Paris as part of an international tour.

Exceptionally for the performances in the French capital, there's a live orchestra playing alongside the dancers, which only adds to the authenticity of the programme - no mean feat given that the sumptuous setting of the Théâtre du Châtelet is a world removed from the poorer districts of late 19th century Buenos Aires.

The 20 couples who keep the action flowing are seductive and sensual without being vulgar. There's a vibrancy, energy and speed that leaves the audience feeling just as exhausted as surely the dancers must be by the end.

And as the national daily Le Monde said in its review, the dancing shows how "a heavy tale can be made easily digestible."

"Tanguera" is just under two hours of electrifying moves and wonderful music that left even the most heavy-footed member of the public panting for more and almost ready to throw all caution to the wind and run on to the stage to be part of the performance.

It draws you in, keeps you transfixed and simply put it's sex on legs. Not to be missed if you're planning a visit to the French capital.

It's playing at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris until September 21.

The future is Orange - or so they would have us believe

2008-09-07T18:22:00.006+02:00

How many of us in this modern world rely on our mobile 'phones? A fair number I bet. They have surely become an addiction, a must-be, a can"t-be-without. I couldn't be without mine - or so I thought until recently, when I was - for one whole week.

The thing didn't work. I couldn't make or receive either calls or messages, which I'll freely admit was something of a pleasure. A real holiday break away from that little electronic device that has so successfully wheedled its way into our everyday lives.

But all good things have to come to an end, and I knew I wouldn't be able to remain happily "out of touch" for too much longer. So I resorted to the good old-fashioned landline to put in that call to "get it sorted."

A little bit of background before I proceed any further. Here in France there are basically three main mobile operators, SFR, Bouygues and the biggest of the lot Orange - the all-powerful, customer-loving arm of the former state-owned but now private telecommunications company France Telecom.

I, along with millions of others, have the "pleasure" of being a subscriber to the last one.

In Ye Olden Days, the chances were that you when you wanted to get something done (about a 'phone) you would hang on the end of someone else's line for hours on end waiting to talk to someone, and the company might or might not send a man round to "fix it".

At the very least there was a fair chance of talking to a real live human being (eventually) and even perhaps being able to put a face to the company.

Nowadays of course we have the one click computerised online solution (well maybe one click is a little bit of an exaggeration especially for those of us who are lifelong members of Technophobes Anonymous) which allows you at least here in France to "handle' your own account.

Or the multi-buttoned digital 'phone service which initially offers you tinny muzak followed by that belovéd computerised voice telling you to do something resembling the following:

"Press one for customer services, two for technical issues, three for billing, four for queries regarding the internet, five for mobile 'phones and six for other inquiries.

" If you would like to speak to one of our agents, please press nine."

Whatever happened to seven and eight you might well ask. Presumably they're still in the planning phase.

Anyway, as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself.....

So of course I put in that call to Orange customer services, listened to the lovely muzak, pressed what I thought were all the right buttons and eventually got through to a human voice to explain my "plight".

After asking me innumerable questions and checking through my records, I was informed that in fact my problem (or that of the 'phone) was a technical one and I would have to talk to someone from that department.

"Please hold the line and I'll transfer you," followed by some more muzak.

Moments later up pops another person, to whom I relate my story, same questions but different record. Apparently they had no trace of my having changed my 'phone or forfait the previous year and as far as they were concerned I still had my old Motorola.

Before proceeding with my problem I would "have to contact customer services for them to update my details."

Ah yes privatisation and modern technology have certainly been compounded by French bureaucracy and simple human error - a lethal cocktail at the best of times. As far as Orange is concerned it would appear that it's up to the customer to check that the records the company has are up-to-date and not the other way around.

C'est la vie.

So another call, more number pressing and of course a different person back at customer services to whom I can tell my story for the third time.

There then followed an interlude - no muzak this time around just that eery silence that is the prelude to the creeping realisation that even in this modern era it is still possible to be "cut off" in one's prime.

The fourth attempt to an inevitably new voice actually yielded some results. Yes their records said I currently had a Nokia and they would ensure that the technical department was informed. Moreover if I had a problem with the 'phone they (customer services) could send me a replacement and would I like them to do that?

Well yes, that might be the solution I thought, and hastily agreed.

"But in the meantime you might want to check your SIM card in another 'phone (as if I had access to multiple mobiles) just to test whether that's where the problem lies. In which case you would need to contact the technical services to have them issue another one - SIM card that is."

Ah that little devil, the delightfully tripping-off-the-tongue named Subscriber Identity Module aka SIM card was perhaps at the root of my problems.

I thanked voice #4 for her assistance, hung up and called on the generosity of a friend to allow me to try my SIM card in his 'phone. It didn't work, which meant that the problem lay not with my soon-to-be-replaced, in-perfect-working-order 'phone but with my SIM card.

Call number five, a by now automatic explanation which I pretty much had off pat and within minutes a new SIM card ordered which "Would be with me by the end of the week sir."

"So as I don't need the new 'phone, how can I cancel its delivery?" I asked.

"That's no problem sir, we'll do it for you," was the cheerful and helpful response.

Perhaps I should have known better, as this was after all from the same department that had absolutely no record of my having changed my 'phone a year ago. But still having faith in the spoken word leading to the deed, and that everything would be resolved by others, I waited for my new SIM card.

Next day "You have a new message" pops up on my computer and there's an email telling me that my new 'phone and SIM card are ready for collection at the nearest tobacconist (don't ask) on presentation of proof of identity and in exchange for my old 'phone.

Did I miss some vital aspect along the way? Did I not make myself clear enough during my five calls I wondered?

Did I have the strength, patience and fortitude to make yet another round of calls and explain the situation all over again.

Did I heck as like. Better not to tempt fate, I thought.

So now, I'm the proud owner of a new mobile 'phone - same model - complete with new SIM card, which also means of course that I have to reprogramme all my old numbers.

And the moral in this story.

Well there isn't one I suppose, apart from revelling in the glory of how a formerly public enterprise is so obviously on top of things since privatisation.

Of course this is probably just the modern day grumble of a communications problem that has existed for a long time - especially of all things for the telecommunications industry.

Somewhat ironic n'est ce pas?

Hang on, I think I have "call waiting."

The day after a night at the opera - Verona

2008-08-21T16:39:00.004+02:00

This year's outdoor summer opera festival in Verona may well be coming to an end, but even though the northern Italian town is world famous for its wonderful Arena it's not just a place worth visiting from June to August.

The town has a rich cultural year-round diary of classical music, ballet and theatre, as well as all the charm and historical interest you would expect from much larger Italian cities.

There's great food and wine of course, and - it goes almost without saying - virtually endless possibilities to shop until you drop.

And if you want to catch some breathtaking scenery, then the picturesque Lago di Garda is just under an hour's drive away.

One stop, non-stop culture

Of course, opera may dominate during the summer months, but plenty of people visit for other reasons.

The town might only be home to just over 260,000 people, but it has a long and rich history and more than its fair share of Romanesque and Medieval architecture to warrant its inclusion as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Grab a guide and wander around the Basilica di San Zeno where Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet were secretly hitched, or go it alone and join the rest of the tourists who flock to Juliet's famous balcony. Meander over the fortified 14th century Ponte di Castelvecchio or visit the Roman amphitheatre, the Arena in Piazza Bra during the day.

Verona is a place that impresses big time, and leaves you knowing that you've only just scratched the surface.

And if old ruins and warbling tenors are not really your thing then there's always the Teatro Filarmonico - also in Piazza Bra - most of it destroyed by bombs during World War II but rebuilt in the 1960s and now home to (more opera) ballet and classical music.

Retail therapy

Verona is quite simply culture "pure" but that's not all of course. If you want a break from exercising the grey matter and feel more inclined for a spot of shopping, you'll be spoilt for choice.

It's always a treat in Italy and Verona is no exception, although the main pedestrian streets of Via Cappello and Via Mazzini are heaving with tourists for most of the day.

Nipping in and out of the shops can prove very expensive, especially if you've brought along your "flexible friend" for a little bit of retail therapy and it can be easy, oh so easy to get carried away with the madness of all those gorgeous things to buy.
And when the stores are closed, it doesn't mean the streets are deserted. Far from it. Instead it’s time for that time-honoured Italian tradition of passeggiata.

It's the chance for the locals to stroll noisily and ostentatiously, strutting their stuff putting the tourists to shame. You know the kind of cliché for which the Italians are famous; "beautiful people" seemingly plucked straight from the pages of a glossy mag, who make we pasty-faced northern Europeans look, well pasty-faced.

Italians in general would make wearing a sack look figure-huggingly trendy as they stylishly sway down the street going nowhere and the Veronese are just as fashion conscious as their counterparts in Milan or Rome.

The espresso effect

As far as eating and drinking in Verona is concerned, you can basically never go wrong. This is after all Italy and there is a huge choice of feeding stations and watering holes for the hungry, thirsty and foot worn traveller.

Of course Italy means coffee - the real McCoy and none of that coloured water that might be passed off elsewhere as an unacceptable alternative.

Even to a non-fanatical coffee drinker there can be no denying the glorious effect a small shot of the rich, thick stuff the Italians brew up can have as it hits the back of the throat. It just has to be one of the simplest but most enjoyable pleasures of life and it doesn't cost an arm and a leg.

If you want to go native, prop yourself up against the bar and down one in double quick time before venturing forth revitalised. Should you wish to make the most of it though, simply plonk yourself down somewhere, order a drink and spend a moment just watching the world pass by.

Wining and dining

For a full blown evening meal you could try the delightful and elegant Ristorante Antica Bottega del Vino in the Vicolo Scudo di Francia. There are plenty of local specialities and an enormous wine cellar to fit anyone’s purse.

In fact Verona in general is a virtual lake of good regional wines with an international reputation – Soave, Valpolicella, Bordolino and of course sparkling Prosecco. And everywhere you eat you'll probably be offered a free glass of the bubbly stuff.

More great dishes can be found at the Cantina di San Rocchetto in Via Mondo d'Oro, and especially tench and (carpaccio of) trout caught from the area around the Lago di Garda.

If you don't have time for a meal because you have tickets for the opera (at 9.00pm) but fancy a pre-dinner drink, try the little bar (there's just one) in the Piazzetta Antonio Tirabosco. It's just behind the busy Piazza Erbe, and is much quieter - a wonderful place to kick back and relax before tripping off to the Arena for the performance.

And don't worry that you won't find anything to eat after the performance. Even at midnight there are a heap of places on the Piazza Bra itself, bang opposite the Arena, and they all offer a full meal and superb service. The best place has to be the Tre Corone, but reserve a table.

Small is beautiful

There aren't really any well kept secrets in Verona. The town is too small and nothing is really too far away from the centre.

Even if you slip off into the side streets to avoid the crowds, the chances are you won't have "discovered" anything that hasn't already been visited by thousands before. More than likely the people at the next table will be tourists themselves, Germans British or French - and there are a fair number of Italians too. But it is possible to get away from the heaving masses and relax.

Sure tourists are everywhere – that’s part of what makes the city tick – certainly in summer.

But most importantly perhaps, the townsfolk are friendly and welcoming. They're obviously well-used to tourists and there's none of the superior arrogance that you might find in some of the country's larger cities.

It helps if you have a smattering of the language, but even if you don't, the staff in shops, restaurants and hotels are more than willing to help you muddle through.

Verona as a town is Italy at its best. Not too large to be overbearing, and far from being too small to become boring.

So whether you're an opera buff, a history-lover, a shopaholic or in search of a great meal and drink, you could do worse than schedule a stopover in Verona.

Buon viaggio e benvenuto.

A night at the opera à la belle étoile

2008-08-18T14:20:00.003+02:00

Summer for opera fans here in France means the delights of open-air concerts in one of the country’s most sumptuous outdoor settings, the théâtre antique in the southern town of Orange.

This year there was even the chance to catch one of France’s most popular tenors, Roberto Alagna, singing the principal role in Gounod’s Faust. A treat under the balmy mid summer night skies, guaranteed to tickle the fancy of any opera buff. For those not lucky enough to be there in person there was the possibility to see it on public television as it was transmitted live.

But arguably Europe's principal outdoor opera festival is to be found in the northern Italian town of Shakespeare’s immortalised lovers Romeo and Juliet at the Arena di Verona.

Now in its 86th season, the first summer festival of operas performed at Verona was in 1913 to celebrate the birth a century earlier of one of Italy’s greatest composers, Giuseppe Verdi.

The Arena itself is a Roman amphitheatre dating back to AD 30, and if filled to capacity could seat 30,000.

Verdi

There is of course the official blurb about how the thing was built and how it’s just about one of the best-preserved sites of its type.

But nothing, no picture no film can really do it justice or beat the thrill of being there, seeing it, doing it, hearing it and just letting it all wash over you.

The backbone of the programme has of course been Verdi. The three-month season, which begins in June and finishes at the end of August opens and closes with his Aida and other mainstays include work by other Italian composers, Puccini and Rossini, along with Bizet’s Carmen.

Alongside Aida and Carmen, this year's selection also included Tosca, Nabucco and Rigoletto. And for 2009 the first three will be back again, joined by Turandot and Il Barbiere di Siviglia.

So what of this year’s offering. Well this is not an exhaustive review of all the performances (you'll probably be pleased to discover) but just a taste of the one I managed to see - Nabucco.

Scaffolding

As far as the plot goes - well if you want one, here it is. But as with any opera, taken out of its musical and dramatic context it seems quite implausible, especially when offered in a nutshell. You have been warned.

Nabucco, King of Babylon defeats the Jews. His youngest daughter, Fenena falls in love with Ismaele, nephew to the King of Jerusalem. Meanwhile his elder daughter, Abigaille, discovers she isn't really his daughter at all but that of a slave. She of course is also in love with Ismaele

While Nabucco's away at war, Abigaille attempts a coup claiming he's dead. In the meantime Fenena has converted to Judaism, just as Nabucco has ordered all Jews to be killed. He's hit by a thunderbolt and loses his senses and Abigaille grabs the crown.

When Nabucco awakens from his madness, he sees the error of his ways, rescues Fenena from certain death at the last minute, tells the Jews a temple will be raised to their God, which all proves too much for Abigaille who poisons herself - sings her final aria and dies. The End.

Denis Krief's staging offers metallic structures which might to some look more like "interestingly" lit scaffolding lying on its side. But it has won rave reviews and plaudits from the cognescenti over the years and is supposed to represent the settings of the court of Babylon, its Hanging Gardens and Jerusalem.

What is slightly disconcerting in this production perhaps is that most of the “action” seems to take place somewhat off centre, so that the audience is as one, slightly twisted left in their seats.

The choreography is at times rather creepy, especially the almost goose-stepping marching into war. And the hairdos (or hairdon'ts) of Abigaille's "henchwomen" (and her own styled locks for one scene) look something like a tribute to rock star Rod Stewart's 1970s static-electricity charged and challenged coiffeur.

Rules. What rules?

At the best of times, opera crowds can be notoriously badly behaved in the sense that if they don’t like a performance they’ll have no hesitation in booing and hissing their disapproval at the end. And it hasn’t been unknown for a performer to march off stage in protest.

There was none of that at this performance, quite the opposite in fact as the Arena audience - a mix of those who love the music and those who come for the spectacle, or both - comes knowing what to expect and is seldom disappointed.

The organisers requests for the public to “abide by the rules” however only received in some circumstances, cursory acknowledgement.

While there was “no smoking” inside the Arena – it’s banned in public buildings throughout most of Europe – the appeal for mobile ‘phones to be turned off during the opera was only partially respected, as proven by the occasional muffled ring.

As for the request for no flash photography during the performance – well the organisers might just as well have whistled in the wind for all the notice that was taken.

Every time there was a scene change, it was accompanied by a barrage of flashing cameras. When a singer made an entry, it was to a flurry of clicking and mass beeping.

And the whole audience seemed to go into digital overload as the chorus shuffled eerily into place for “Va pensiero” before it launched into the enormous and celebrated rendition – complete with encore - accompanied by flash, flash, flash.

Even when a horse appeared on stage in Act II – yes the Arena likes live animals as it adds to realism apparently – there was another frenzy of shutters as though the audience had never seen a four legged beast before.

A voice to raise the roof

The whole principle of the Arena seems to be one of audience and performers alike enjoying themselves. In fact the whole atmosphere at an outdoor opera is not quite the same thing as at the great Houses, and the spectacle is far less rigid and more laid back.

So when Leo Nucci – appearing this season not only in the title role of Nabucco, but also Rigoletto – led the main singers hand in hand around the stage at the end of Acts I and II before each intermission, there was rapturous ovation and whoops of appreciation.

In fact it might seem unusual for the singers themselves to be orchestrating their own applause – that’s usually the prerogative of the lighting technicians – but it seemed to be very much par for the course during the opera.

Nucci might have had the biggest cheers of the night - he has had a long career as one of the world's leading baritones especially for his roles in Verdi operas. But the performance of the soprano Alessandra Rezza in the role of Abigaille, also had plenty of people sitting up and taking notice.

The 33-year-old has a large voice which would probably have been able to raise the roof off the place had there been one. And the sheer power was matched by the gentlest of touches in her closing aria as she died the inevitable death.

An event to relish

If you can stand the thought (or perhaps under the circumstances that should read “sit the thought) of numbed buttocks for a couple of hours then there are always the cheap seats on the amphitheatre’s stone steps. While you might feel a little like being up in the Gods of one of the major opera houses, the views are never restricted, even if you might be a little far away from the action, and you have a bird’s eye view. For a little extra comfort, you can also bring along or buy a cushion.

If you’re ready to break the bank (almost €200 a throw) and want some serious leg room on a padded seat, then you can be virtually sitting in the orchestra pit and feel almost at one with the singers.

You pay your price and take your pick, and certainly won’t be disappointed.

This version of Nabucco might not have had all the finesse that one of the world’s great opera houses might be able to afford a production, but that’s really open to discussion and a matter of opinion.

What can’t be denied is the sheer spectacle involved and how well the Arena does in producing an event to relish.. So much so that it could probably put on a musical version of a Japanese telephone directory and it would still be a delight to enjoy and savour. There really is little that can beat the atmosphere of opera performed à la belle étoile.

To follow: The day after a night at the opera

Proving politeness can go a long way

2008-08-18T09:30:00.004+02:00

This might well read like one of those seemingly interminable reports often found in the French press, where all the pomposity and flowery language comes at the beginning of the piece, and somewhere towards the end the actual "news angle" kick in. There again maybe I'm giving myself too much credit for prose that simply isn't there.

Whatever the case may be, my apologies in advance. And for those wondering what the "Charles Dickens" I'm on about, maybe they should skip the beginning and head straight towards the last couple of paragraphs (A surprise in the post). Alternatively of course, they could pass on to the next story.

For anyone else with a little bit of patience, bear with me I'll get to the point - eventually.

I've lived in France for nigh on a decade now, and at the beginning tried to "fit in" by assuming that I could appear as arrogant and rude as at least those in the nation's capital are reputed to be.

Living the cliché

I took my chances, and priority, when crossing the road as oncoming traffic threatened to mow me down. Regular sessions of practising becoming fractious and enraged behind the wheel of a car when I negotiated the rush hour traffic home, made me feel almost as though I "belonged".

And then of course I did battle with shop assistants, many of whom are typically and often not inaccurately portrayed as believing the customer, far from being king, is only there at the sufferance of the staff.

Sure I found it helped to speak the language, but only to the extent sometimes that I was really able to appreciate when people were being rude.

Then of course I had to get used to what most of us would call "staring", but the French insist is just "looking interested".

Let's forget about the bureaucracy, as the way things are done here is justified as being "because that's the way things are done" and any sort of complaint is met with the hugest of shrugs.

Cliché following cliché perhaps, but there is some truth in it. And I quickly learned to accept, ignore, behave and observe as the situation required.

But things are changing apparently - so we're told - and sometimes there's the proof that makes you sit up and take notice as you're forced to re-evaluate all your prejudices.

The country of 350 + cheeses

Last October I celebrated my 40-something birthday. No, I'm not going to give away my exact age, but it's definitely the wrong side of the big four-oh. And no, that's not the "news" bit yet.

My birthday treat was a mystery trip somewhere not too far away. It couldn't be. I don't much like flying and limit myself to as few visits beyond the clouds as possible.

So I realised that anyone who knew and cared for me, would not spoil the surprise by making me haul myself inside that hunk of flying metal. After all, if we were meant to fly we would have wings - right?

Turned out I was correct (not about the wings) as the destination was none other than Venice, on the overnight train from Paris - First Class sleeper. Luxury. Extravagence. Bliss!

Except it wasn't any of those things. First class on what proved to be an Italian train, even though the booking had been made through SNCF - France's state-owned rail operator - was 12 hours of "four-to-a-cabin, cheesy feeted, non-communicative strangers" time.

A great start to a birthday weekend and guaranteed to blight my time in Venice at the thought of having to make the return journey in similar conditions.

Now I'm no snob - oh all right maybe a little of one then - but I like my creature comforts and I "did" all the budget backpacking, hauling my life around with me for a couple of months back in my teens, when I still had the energy.

Plus I've lived in France long enough to delight in what the first president of the Fifth Republic, Charles de Gaulle, famously referred to as the country of at least 350 cheeses, not to want to spend my R&R cooped up in the smallest of spaces exposed to a smell reminding me of the very ripest of Bries, dripping off the plate.

So somehow even though the train was full, we managed to sweet talk the conductor into finding us an empty cabin, where I then spent the rest of the journey wide awake, cursing SNCF for having mixed up the booking, wondering how I would survive the return journey and feeling much, much older than my 40-something years.

When we pulled into Venice at nine o'clock the next morning, I had made a monumental decision. We would indeed - at huge expense - book a flight back on the Monday so that at least I could enjoy my time not worrying about another 12 hours spent in potentially intimate and unwanted contact with pieds du fromage. The alternative of girding my loins and full of alcohol-induced Dutch courage suddenly made the thought of flying seem much more "appealing"

Moaning politely

And that's exactly what we did, enjoying three fabulous days and two nights gorging ourselves on pasta, overdosing on culture, travelling everywhere and anywhere the excellent Vaporetto would take us and otherwise walking ourselves. silly.

On our return to France, I was determined not to let the matter lie - best to get these things off my chest immediately, I thought. And as politely as possible - as is my philosophy in life - I whipped off a letter to the customer services section of SNCF.

"Very disappointed", "My birthday treat" (thought I would play the emotional card and spread it with the thickest of knives) "Felt we had been misled" blah, blah, blah. Nothing mean. Nothing untrue and no "outraged of Paris" sort of stuff. Just a simple moan.

Once signed, stamped and delivered, we basically thought nothing more of it. After all there were still the fabulous memories, some great photos (none of them taken by me, I hasten to add) and a self-bought present or two I purchased along the way.

The months passed and we basically forgot all about it. And besides I've since attended another fear of flying course to get my act together and am almost able to remain sane when aboard a 'plane.

A surprise in the post

Imagine then last week, how completely floored we were when we received by recorded delivery the nicest possible response in the form of an apology.

"Dear Sir, we were sorry to read of any discomfort you may have incurred during your trip, blah blah blah.

"We apologise for the any unnecessary inconvenience, blah blah blah

"We appreciate and value your custom, blah, blah, blah."

All very proper and polite.

Even better, there was a voucher included for €130, "to be used on any SNCF train within France at your own pleasure."

Compensation, which we hadn't even asked for.

Now that's after sales service at its very best, and was quite a slap in the face for all those clichés about French businesses not really caring about their customers' needs.

So there you have it. One dissatisfied customer (well two actually) complaining politely about something and receiving a response. Perhaps it really is as my late ma used to say "manners (and clothes) maketh man."

Bon voyage et merci.

"All the world's a stage"

2008-08-10T10:18:00.007+02:00

“And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.”

Ah yes the Bard’s words indeed. So rushing through childhood into middle age, if “life begins at 40” what happens a decade later?

Well if you’re a play it would seem, not only do you have some sort of cultural backbone, but it also means perhaps you can go on a world party.

And such is the case with the 50th anniversary production of West Side Story, currently in mid run at London’s Sadler’s Wells.

It’s a pretty weird feeling watching something that was first performed over half a century ago with the creeping realisation that in a very real sense it’s still bang up-to-date.

But that’s a sensation hard to get away from at the 50th anniversary production of West Side Story, currently in mid run at London’s Sadler’s Wells.

It has all the potential on paper at least, to be spectacularly dated. After all it’s a modernised version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet set in the 1950s in New York’s Lower East Side. Hardly the stuff of the 21st century.

But in a very real sense that’s exactly what it is.

Yes it’s American – very much so. Yes it’s a musical, from which some more “discerning” theatregoers might conclude it’s not really highbrow enough. And yes it’s full of songs to which probably many of us could in our finest Karaoke moments do a pretty fair caterwauling injustice.

But all that said, it also tells a universal story that of course still resonates today and is as frighteningly bang up to date in the saddest of ways.

Violence, street gangs, recent immigrants fighting territorial battles, and deprived inner city suburbs are after all not confined to New York in the 1950s. And the same old problems still exist in cities around the world.

But one thing couldn’t have escaped the attention of the London audience, and that was how much the plot revolves around two tragic incidents; a shooting at the end of the second act, and more poignantly perhaps for a British audience, a knifing in a gang battle between the Jets and the Sharks in the first.

That will surely have struck a nerve among a public, which has become all too used to reading or hearing reports of a spate of senseless stabbings in the capital and around the country over the past year.

Romance of course is as integral a part of the plot as violence, and just as in Shakespeare’s “original” there’s no happy ending.

Much has been written over the years about Leonard Bernstein’s wonderful score and Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics. They are and remain simply a joy.

What perhaps sets this musical aside from others though is the choreography, which is simultaneously classical and modern, pushing bodies to perform over two-and-a-half hours a series of moves that shouldn’t be humanely possible – but clearly, somehow are.

West Side Story is well into the European leg of its world tour and after stops in Vienna, Paris, Zurich, Leipzig, and Baden Baden, it’s now playing to packed houses at London’s Sadler’s Wells until the end of this month. Extra matinee performances have recently been added, but the chances are all the tickets have already been gobbled up. Still, if you’re visiting London and have the right contacts, you might be lucky.

If not, fear not as it’s then scheduled to go on tour around Britain, playing in half a dozen or so towns and cities, ending up in the northeast of England in Newcastle-upon-Tyne in February 2009.

Poppy's plight

2008-07-08T18:36:00.002+02:00

She first came to our attention after we had visited a local show at the village hall organised by a nearby refuge for abandoned dogs and cats.

At the ripe old age of eight Poppy, we were told, had been "rescued" from owners who had over time collected more than 30 dogs, many the result of interbreeding, and who understandably had found themselves no longer able to cope.

A little less easy to comprehend perhaps was how come these people had never heard of the possibility of spaying their animals and instead had kept an ever-increasing pack in the most miserable of conditions. When Poppy arrived at the rescue centre, she was undernourished, unhealthy and desperately in need of some TLC.

Over the next three months she was nurtured back to good health, neutered and vaccinated, but time and time again passed over by curious visitors as a likely pet because of her age and her less-than-generous helping in the looks department. Even by canine standards Poppy is no beauty.

Surrounded by larger and more aggressive dogs at the shelter, this mild-mannered dog, who apparently never barks, had even sustained a nip in the rump which had required a few stitches.

We've kept dogs for several years now, always buying puppies with pedigrees longer than your proverbial arm and pampering them as befits any of man's best friend and perhaps oftentimes more than a little OTT.

Although harbouring some doubts, we both felt it was about time to return some of the affection and joy we've received over the years to a dog less likely to find a home - in other words one entering dog dotage.

After first contacting the shelter directly a couple of weeks ago, we had spent hours discussing the pros and cons of another dog - especially one whose past and character were still a little fuzzy to us.

We poured over the sites of all the nearby rescue centres, looking at one "I need a home" face after another, reading the profiles of dogs who had spent far too many years chained to a post, kicked, beaten, abused and neglected, or whose owners had died and there was nobody willing to take them on, or pedigree bitches thrown on to the scrap heap after years of factory breeding, or puppies that as adults had outgrown, outchewed and outeaten their initial cuteness, or simply those handed in because someone in the family had discovered after a couple of years that they suddenly had an allergy.

Each story seemed more chilling, more moving and certainly sadder than the last.

So with more than a little reticence, we made the one hour journey to Poppy's shelter - just for a visit - and although we didn't exactly "crack" for her on the spot, her plight certainly tugged at our animal-lovers instincts.

Still there was the unresolved issue of how she - or any other adult dog for that matter - would fit in with our "pack". So we bid farewell and promised to return a week later with a couple of our hounds for the sniff 'n tell session.

And return we did, taking Poppy and our two beasts for a spin in the car to see how they all travelled together, followed up by a romp in a nearby field. All seemed hunky dory, even if Poppy looked more than a little confused by our imploring requests to "come" "sit" "heel" and "lie" (she is French after all) but after half an hour of doing only what dogs can reasonably do in public, all three appeared to be happy with the natural order of things and we decided in the time honoured tradition to say, "We do."

Poppy is now settling in to her new home, probably still completely confused as to what has happened and who the heck those two jibbering idiots are who insist on interrupting her sleep and barking gentle commands at her that she has never in her life heard before.

It's early days yet, and it'll doubtless take time for her adjust and to join in all the fun, but the early signs are encouraging.

Still we can't help sparing a thought for the thousands of other dogs here in mainland France (and of course elsewhere), abandoned through no fault of their own. And apparently it's especially a problem in Summer, as owners suddenly discover they have nobody with whom they can leave their pet during the holidays and instead decide to abandon them at motorway service stations.

Even worse is the fate of abandoned dogs in some of this country's overseas departments, such as La Reunion, where they're used as shark bait, as the person in charge of Poppy's shelter reminded us after she had received a consignment of half a dozen dogs from the Indian Ocean island.

Yes I know there are probably more important things in the world, and I'm not advocating that animals be put above human beings. But as the supposedly superior species on this planet, we have an obligation to protect and treat our environment and all creatures accordingly and it's a sad fact of life that we so often fail.

And I'm not looking for back-slapping praise nor do I intend to come across as all sanctimonious.

But if there's anyone out there thinking about getting a dog - or any animal come to that - why not take a trip to the local pound and see what really requires a home. And listen to some of those heart-wrenching stories of exactly what we're capable of doing while remembering if you have even the slightest doubt that - in the words of that campaigning slogan - "A dog (or a cat) is for life.

One woman's French Foly

2008-06-30T14:00:00.002+02:00

Right up front it has to be said that this is far from being a hard-hitting news piece. And what's more it'll probably only have a limited appeal bearing in mind that among the roll call of names are those that will only be familiar to the French, or French ex-patriots, Francophiles, Francophones and France-watchers.

There again there are some that will strike a chord around the globe, so forgive the indulgence. And if you’re in the slightest bit curious keep reading to discover an account of a rollicking good evening spent watching a performance that had the audience proverbially “rolling in the aisles”, whooping with laughter and grinning from ear-to-ear for more than two solid hours.

All right it was probably a public easily won over and which had come to see the launch of a very special sort of one-man show. Or perhaps better said, a one-woman show, performed by Liane Foly.

She's no stranger to the French and it's as a singer that the 45-year-old has made her name over the years, releasing her first album in 1988 and following it up with a string of hits and the occasional appearance in films made for television.

But in her one-woman show "La Folle Parenthèse" Foly makes her first real venture into another area of entertainment entirely as an impersonator and she pulls it off with professional aplomb.

In it she single-handedly assembles some of the greats - past and present - of the French music scene, with some international artists thrown in for good measure along with politicians, television stars, and actresses.

The 19th century Théâtre Marigny just off the Champs Elysées in Paris, with seating for over 1,000 was packed to the rafters every night of Foly’s recent opening run as she sang, strutted, croaked and danced her way through 30 plus characters, interspersing her performance with rapier wit and wicked social and political comment.

Whether it was as a swooning parody of France’s first lady Carla Bruni- Sarkozy, or as a majestically strutting Socialist politician, Ségolène Royal, Foly slipped effortlessly from one imitation to the next with a minimum of costume changes, no gimmicks, and a simple mimic of gesture and mannerism to convince the audience that she really had brought along a whole cast of characters.

Accompanied by just two musicians – the pianist Jean Yves d'Angelo and his brother, Pierre, on the saxophone and percussion – Foly presented a simple plot to hold everything together.

She bantered as the gravel-voiced actresses Muriel Robin and Line Renaud, and later as Celine Dion in her rapid-fire French, with the imaginary Pedro somewhere at the back of the theatre.

Pedro wanted her to provide a possible line-up of improbable stars for a cabaret to be performed the following evening in St Etienne, a less than fashionable city in central eastern France better known perhaps as the former capital of this country’s bicycle industry and for its soccer team which in the 1960s and 70s dominated the French league.

A most unlikely venue for some of the past and present greats of the French music and film world and certainly not a place international stars would put high on their list of performance dates.

The scene set, Foly used the “audition” as a vehicle for some spot-on satire, political and social comment and some belting good songs - never letting the audience forget that not only can Foly hold a tune as herself, she can do it as a host of other people too.

As France Gall she warbled some French evergreens and as Sylvie Vartan she flounced about the stage, dangling a wandering microphone and flicking her non-existent lavish blonde locks

Actress Jeanne Moreau growled, the late Serge Gainsbourg's English-born wife, Jane Birkin, sang a tribute to her husband in her much-beloved and heavily accented French, Canada’s very own Mylène Farmer intentionally left everyone wondering exactly what she was singing about as she pirouetted mindlessly around the stage and had her ethereal music mocked for its incomprehensibility. Madonna went in for a touch of S&M just for a change.

Carla Bruni-Sarkozy flirted with the pianist as though he were the incarnation of her "Nicolas" and to the strains of la Marseillaise and huge applause on strode last year's defeated Socialist presidential candidate, Ségolène Royal, promising not to talk politics and then proceeding to do just that.

Into the mix Foly threw Christophe Willem - a former winner of France's answer to American Idol and the voice of music producer Orlando.

After performing non-stop for just over two hours, Foly was dragged back for the inevitable but hugely welcome encore to perform as two icons of French music no longer around – Barbara and Dalida.

And then, just when you thought there could be no more, France television’s own very dippy and often inappropriately-dressed 50-something meteorologist, Catherine Laborde, came on to give us an update on what weather would lie ahead for tomorrow, the night of the “real” performance.

Foly's run at the sumptuous Théâtre Marigny in Paris ended at the weekend and she’ll now be taking her show on the road around the country for the rest of the year – ending up back in the French capital in December for an encore at Olympia.

If any of the names here have meant anything to you, and you’re planning a trip to France at some time this year, this is one act – or a multitude of them – that you would be well advised not to miss.

Spring-cleaning in the summer at the local brocante

2008-06-16T13:25:00.003+02:00

It was an opportunity that was too good to pass up - a chance for a jolly good clear out of all the junk that had been gathering dust in the attic forever with the added bonus thrown in of making a few cents into the bargain.

There’s a tradition here in France every summer for villages and towns up and down the country to throw open their doors so-to-speak and welcome the world to their brocante, or vide grenier.

Basically it’s a glorified sale – jumble, garage or car boot – call it what you will – in which local residents can get rid of some of their clutter and visitors might pick up something at a snip.

Of course there’s bound to be plenty of rubbish on offer, but there again one person’s junk is another’s treasure.

And it was with this in mind that we loaded the car with our assembled assortment of less than tasteful tat.

Old riding boots fought for space with a mess of holiday knick-knacks. There was a pair of mismatching Russian oven gloves - pretty to look at but far too thin to fit their purpose. In went a decorative bread bag and a 25-volume encyclopaedia – a little underused and outdated for a generation that prefers to Google anything and everything. Trays, a Rubik’s cube – one side finished, four matching eggcups, and much, much more.

So with the vehicle virtually bursting at the seams, off we headed for the village main street.

Now this wasn’t going to be totally unfamiliar territory for us. While not exactly being frequent visitors to brocantes we had nonetheless picked up a few bits and pieces over the years.

But we had never really been fired up with the fervent “collection fever” that seems to motivate many who go out treasure hunting. No, we remained more fair-weather friendly in our enthusiasm.

Still it was with a certain amount of trepidation and a healthy dollop of naivety that we approached our first brocante from the other end – as sellers.

What prices should we set for the battered briefcase? Would anyone really want that ghastly set of three porcelain geese with yellow ribbons tied around their necks that we had been given many years ago? And wouldn’t that picnic set – never used – complete with plastic plates and cutlery not look a trifle out of place among the costly booty of the professional stand holder?

Our last fear proved to be largely unfounded as most of our fellow “brocanteurs” turned out to have attics full of riches similar to ours.

Of course you can’t keep the professionals away entirely and there was the odd stand heaving with antique treasures, trinkets and dubious wannabe Old Masters at inflated prices. But on the whole a quick glimpse around was enough to reassure us that we “belonged”.

It might have been indecently early – in fact far too early really, especially for a Sunday morning, but that wasn’t going to stop the real bargain hunters from pitching up.

Moments after we had finished arranging our hoard to maximum effect (we thought) there they were in all their glory intent on proving exactly what the early bird really can catch. Welcome news to us as business got off to an unexpectedly brisk start.

It was at this point that we quickly realised just how keen some people are to haggle – no matter how low the starting price is – presumably just for the sake of having done a deal. Apparently it’s all part of the fun.

Hmmmn. That’s sometimes a hard fact to hold on to. We were there to sell, and enjoy. Even the shyest buyer (a group I would have fallen into had the roles had been reversed) seemed galvanised to ask for our best offer so we learned not to set ridiculously low prices to begin with. But occasionally some customers overstepped the mark.

Such as the woman who spent 10 minutes minutely pouring over a largish suitcase – well known brand, robust and, even if I say it myself, in pretty good condition - pointing out that it had been used (what did she expect at a jumble sale?) complaining that it was too heavy (then don’t buy it, I wanted to scream) and wasn’t large enough (don’t even think about how I was supposed to counter that one).

She asked how much it weighed, its capacity, why it wasn’t larger, lighter, a different colour. And of course she made full use of all negotiating tactics in trying desperately to bring down the asking price (€15) even further. Mind you, it seemed to pay off as we kept our cool and eventually settled on €12 - as much to get shot of her as sell the case.

Ah keeping our cool wasn’t always easy as we listened to all manner of excuses as to why the sale couldn’t be made. They ranged from “I don’t have enough money” (response: ”The cash point is just behind you.”) through “I don’t have any small change only a €50 note” (response: “That’s all right we stocked up on coins ahead of time.” We really had) to “I’ve only just arrived and don’t really want to carry it around with me.” (response – obviously: “If you like it, pay now and we’ll keep it for you until you pass by again.” It worked.)

Then there was the Carrier Bag Hunter, presumably something of a familiar phenomenon at this kind of event. We had the forethought to take along a pile of used bags with us. And they seemed to be among the hottest items, even if we didn’t charge for them. Perhaps we should have done. Of course they certainly came in useful for the excuse “We have nothing to carry it/them in”.

The mad early rush soon became the midday lull as the French headed off for lunch, so some hastily prepared sandwiches and a thermos of coffee hit just the right spot at we sat back to enjoy the break. We resisted the temptation of wandering up and down ourselves to see what “steals” we could make as we really didn’t want to end up packing more into the boot of the car at the end of the day than we had arrived with at the start.

Even though the weather held, there simply weren’t the visitor numbers around after lunch, so we decided to call it a day.

Of course we hadn’t sold everything although most of the larger items had gone and believe it or not someone actually bought the encyclopaedias and bravely hulked them off.

But we headed home less heavily weighed down AND a whole €98 better off.

We’ll be back at the next brocante in September, with more of our junk (yes there’s still more cluttering the attic – isn’t there always?) and hopefully a little wiser into the bargain.

Lyon - there’s no “s” in French

2008-06-03T09:40:00.005+02:00

It’s about 450kms from Paris to Lyon (or Lyons if your prefer in English) but forget about the four-and-a-half hour drive and instead save money, time and the environment by taking the high-speed TGV train service. After all, the journey time is just under two hours.

Added to which there’s a regular service, although you’ll need to reserve your seat in advance – a requirement when buying a ticket on a TGV - as even though ours was one of those double-decker jobs, it was packed. Clearly proof that plenty of people regularly commute between the two cities.

This was my first trip to Lyon – primarily to see a production of Porgy and Bess at the opera house. But it was also a chance for a glimpse at what’s reputed to be one of the most beautiful of France’s cities (the country’s third largest) and something of a gastronomic paradise. Although I knew a late arrival and an early departure the following day wouldn’t really give me the chance for any fine dining.

As fate would have it our arrival at Lyon’s Part Dieu station was heralded by the opening of the skies as the heavens fair chucked it down. This was a case of “April showers bringing forth more showers in May.”

No it doesn’t scan properly and it deviates from the original, but sadly it was the case and arriving umbrella-less meant standing in line for a taxi to take us to the hotel.

After checking in and freshening up it was time to jump into another taxi – yes it was still pouring - to make the short hop to the Opera house.

Now Lyon’s Opera house is a grand old building, dating back to 1831 although it had a bit of a facelift in 1993 as part of a “modernisation” drive.

Unfortunately that seems to have resulted in a pretty dated look in the bits that have been updated with the interior of both the downstairs bar and the main auditorium boasting a wonderful black-red colour scheme - very much of its time.

Then there are the tiled shiny floors of glossy marble that turn into a veritable skating rink for those wearing leather-soled shoes the moment a spot of rain hits the surface.

No prizes for guessing who had squeezed himself into a brand new pair that turned into skates once his feet hit the ground.

On to the performance - which was sold out – and our third row black (plastic-backed of course) seats gave us a splendid view of the stage, a definite plus given the rather special nature of the production, because it wasn’t just all about singing – as fabulous as the voices were.

The directors of this particular version were the choreographers José Montalvo and Dominique Hervieu, whose contemporary dance company would add an extra element to the opera.

That proved to be vital factot especially as George Gershwin’s opera is long – very long – very far too long even for my opera-intolerant companion for the evening who insisted on trying to listen with eyes (and presumably ears) wide shut.

Mind you, I had to have some sympathy as apart from the frequently reprised “Summertime” and “Ain’t necessarily so” there aren’t a great deal of instantly familiar and hummable-alongable tunes.

The music was as brooding as ever and the vocal performances marvellous but what really sold this production – to me and most of the rest of the audience – were the dance and visual effects.

Both were spectacular. There were some exhausting yet evocatively hip-hop moves to reflect mood changes and interpret both the music and lyrics. A sort of double effect, complementary rather than repetitive.

The performances were electrifying and although sometimes they appeared perhaps a little clichéd they kept (most of) us on the edge of our seats mesmerised by not just the power and strength but also the grace and beauty.

An extra visual effect was the video backdrop – something of a Montalvo- Hervieu speciality.

It was sometimes a little disturbing particularly when showing recordings of the dancers doing exactly the same routines they were performing live, but purposefully just a little out of synchronisation.

Maybe it’s just an age thing but there seemed to be a few too many assaults on the senses at the same time – very much an “MTV generation comes of age” sort of thing with the ethos seeming to be “let’s sling everything at them (the audience) at once and see how they manage.”

Mostly though the video worked magnificently, especially when it complemented something that was happening slightly off stage such as a bloody murder or a torrid love scene.

The bottom line was that the production wasn’t one that could be listened to with eyes closed and fully deserved the rapturous applause it received at the end.

Ravenous after the performance it was up to the seventh floor for a late night, two-course meal. The set menu at €30 was all right but nothing special. There again at almost midnight there wasn’t really any other alternative, so a return trip to Lyon will have to be made just to confirm that it lives up to its gastronomic reputation.

Fed and watered, strolled back to the hotel – hallelujah it had stopped raining.

If the Opera house left me questioning the tastes of Lyon’s interior designers and architects, then our hotel - Beaux Arts - left me flummoxed.

It’s officially now the Mercure Beaux Arts – part of the Accor group and therefore second only in the category of hotel to the chain’s Sofitels. Maybe the price - €99 for a double room – should have signalled what to expect – nothing special.

While it describes itself as an Art Deco hotel, unfortunately it manages only offer a very poor copy of what could be the real thing. The sad fact is that the heart and soul of the place have been ripped out with no real thought of aesthetics.

Our room should have been a delightful tribute to the past. Instead it had been stripped of all its original features to the point where it was almost devoid of character. True it was vast in volume with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides opening out on to small balconies. But a stale, musty smell hung around even with the windows flung wide open and the room wasn’t made any more appealing by the mustard coloured, plastic lined full-length curtains.

The functional, durable, dull blue carpet only inspired a desire to tear it up to check whether it was hiding some glorious old parquet and the bathroom – well it really isn’t worth mentioning. So I won’t.

And it wasn’t just our room that had been thoughtlessly “made-under.” There were signs everywhere in the hotel of what “might have been” if only a little more TLC had been spread in renovating.

The winding staircase could have been creakingly magnificent but instead it had been thoughtlessly painted over. There was rendering on the indoor walls, which had then been daubed in a nondescript colour and even the tiny old-fashioned lift seemed sadly neglected although it should have been full of charm. There was just the occasional glimpse of what was missing in some of the original giant wooden frames.

But overall the impression was a miserable one. Shame on Accor hotels!

The group could and should take another look at what could be done to a fabulous old building to bring it up to the promise of the blurb.

On the plus side, and thankfully there is one, is its location. The hotel is bang in the heart of the peninsular between the cities two rivers (the Rhône and the Saone) and a few minutes walk from many of the tourist sites and some fabulous shopping.

The service was a bit hit and miss. Front desk had only one person on duty when we arrived and the poor guy, while friendly and efficient, had to split his time between answering guests’ queries (such as booking us a taxi) and serving behind the bar.

Breakfast the following morning was rather a “unique” experience, which can best be described as offering “service with a grimace”. The two ladies greeting the guests certainly seemed to be full of attitude – which from an onlooker’s perspective was mildly amusing -although simultaneously they appeared totally overwhelmed by the number of people stumbling in to eat. Almost as though this was there first morning on the job. Perhaps it was.

They bustled about quite determinedly marching in and out of the kitchen with lists. But apart from taking down our room numbers (breakfast is never included in the price of a room in France and is always charged separately) seemed to do very little else.

Apart that is from scolding one guest, presumably still half asleep, for taking a cup from a pile next to the coffee machine.

“There are cups already on the table to use,” was the information given by one “waitress” as she almost ripped the cup from the poor guy’s hands.

Yikes. I guess nobody DARED question why there was a pile next to the coffee in the first place.

The food was passable. But for €14 a pop, I had been expecting something a little more wholesome than rubbery lukewarm omelette and manky sausages. Two words spring to mind RIP and OFF.

There was just time for a quick coffee outside the hotel and a spot of window shopping – on the whole stores open up for business at 10 o’clock - before taking a taxi to the station to catch our train back to Paris

And here’s a word of warning when looking for a taxi in Lyon. Don’t. It can be a real hassle for the visitor.

If you turn up at the nearest rank there’s no guarantee you’ll find a taxi. Even if there are a couple waiting with “available” lights illuminated, the drivers might simply not be around.

As there seems to be nothing to hail down on the streets of course, your best bet is to ask your hotel reception to book one for you.

A Foodie in St Barth - Le Gaïac

2008-05-22T08:29:00.002+02:00

Le Gaïac promised to be a real treat - proper French gourmet dining at the restaurant of the four-star Relais & Chateaux hotel, Le Toiny. Following an afternoon spent drooling over the menu listed in the pages of the Saint-Barth Tables, we jumped in the car and headed towards the east of the island. Expectations were high, palates tuned, and appetites at the ready. Without giving the game away from the start, we were not to be disappointed.

The restaurant made a great impression from the outset. The classic décor and concealed lighting were just right and the welcome was polite yet warm as we were guided to our table, which was bedecked with a crisply starched white linen tablecloth and napkins, always a good sign.

We were also facing the open window and had the full benefit of the cool sea breeze.

Prices at Le Gaïac are in keeping with the menu; so don’t leave home without your credit card. Even though there is a €75 set menu – forget that and go for the full à la carte blow out. It’s well worth treating yourself and if you follow the maitre d’hôte’s advice – as we did – you won’t regret it.

Here it’s worth mentioning a word or two on the level of the service before going into raptures over the quality of the food.

Quite simply it was, what the French would probably call “impeccable”. The restaurant was only one third full and it was very late in the season, but this had no impact whatsoever on the professionalism of the relatively young team on duty. There was certainly no evidence of end-of season “service fatigue” we had encountered elsewhere in St Barth.

They remained unobtrusively in the background, but were always attentive just at the right moment. When a diner returned at a neighbouring table after having presumably been to “powder her nose”, there was a waiter on hand to push her chair gently back into place.

At the beginning of every course there was a brief but complete explanation of what we had ordered and an enquiry afterwards as to whether the food had lived up to our expectations.

Most extraordinary and simultaneously refreshing perhaps, was the procedure involved in the ordering and especially the opening of the wine.

There was none of that frantic sloshing it into our glasses and grinning inanely while we were expected to nod with approval. Instead it was the waiter who made sure that our choice was served at the correct temperature and not corked - by sampling it himself before allowing us to taste it. A simple gesture, which makes complete sense really - especially when drinking a wine priced at more than €60.

All the time, the service was carried out under the reassuringly watchful eye of the maitre d – just to ensure everything went smoothly.

Now to the food – and here is where it really is hard to find fault.

Even before getting around to ordering our meal we were presented with some delightful, home made amuses gueules and shortly afterwards a mise en bouche of tuna tartar with pumpkin purée. Both bode well for what was to come, but while taking the edge off our appetites didn’t really make the choice any easier.

A quick glance at the menu – after an afternoon spent pouring over it - sent the taste buds tripping into their own little fantasy world once again with the names of the dishes rolling off the tongue and leaving us wanting to try just about everything.

There was aubergine mille-feuille with grilled and marinated vegetables, black truffles and a Parmesan wafer. Or perhaps a fillet of red mullet in a Provencale tomato sauce, steamed vegetables and pineapple pearls. Then there was the lobster bisque lightly flavoured with aniseed-aged rum or golden fried fillets of sole with a citrus sauce and green salad. And those were just the appetizers.

In the end we plumped for crayfish and foie gras ravioli served in a chicken consommé seasoned with truffle oil, and home made foie gras served with fig wine aspic and a citrus walnut vinaigrette.

Needless to say the foie gras – totally politically incorrect but joyously delicious – melted in the mouth, and there was an accompanying peppered wafer than allowed me to decide just how seasoned I wanted it to be.

Even thinking about the food now, it’s hard not to smack my lips once again in appreciation.

A pause followed in the proceedings, filled with an individually tailored sorbet to cleanse the palate – chosen for us to ease the transition from entrée to main course.

And what a powerhouse, humdinger of a main course. For a full listing of what’s on offer at La Gaïac grab yourself a copy of the 2008 edition of Sainth-Barth Tables and flip to pages 12 to let your eyes do the walking.

Just for the record, we plumped for a skilleted beef fillet (best quality US import) once again mouth meltingly prepared, glazed in tamarind sauce and served with a vegetable tempura and sautéed potatoes. And the most amazing lacquered lime fillet of grouper with bananas and served with ginger sautéed potatoes.

I thought I had been so clever in ordering fish for my main course with the intention of leaving some space for a dessert, but sadly – or perhaps happily – I was perfectly full and happily passed on the crèpe suzette for another time.

After all this was just the first visit to Le Gaïac, and without doubt will not be the last.

Ratings: Ambience – 15.5/20, Service – 15.5/20, Food -16.5/20

A Foodie in St Barth - Eden Rock

2008-05-21T08:16:00.001+02:00

Eating almost back-to-back at gourmet restaurants was always going to be more than a little extravagant, but this is St Barth after all, renowned for its quality and breadth of its cuisine and a holiday is the best time for a self-indulgent blow out.

So following an evening tantalising our taste buds at Le Gaïac, we decided to bust the budget once again, this time at Eden Rock in St Jean.

This was a return engagement of sorts as we had eaten at the same restaurant the previous year, and quite enjoyed it. But at the back of my mind was the nagging memory that Eden Rock tried just a tad too hard to be trendy without necessarily having the real style to match.

The setting is breathtaking it has to be admitted - overlooking the bay at St Jean and offering a superbly illuminated view of the sea and the fish below. Without doubt it’s a magnet for honeymooning couples and there’s probably a certain romance to dining there. But even though it’s undeniably impressive, you know deep down it has something of Las Vegas about it.

It’s a little too easy to come away with the feeling that you haven’t really been offered the real thing – even though the remake is stunning.

Take the staff for example. Needless to say they all had winningly white smiles and wore the ever-trendy black you would (still) expect to find in a place that most obviously considers itself on the cutting edge of fashion.

But the waiters were in tee shirts one size too small to show off their pecs and the waitresses opted for the more classic look, the omnipresent little black number. They were efficient and polite but all the same seemed to be strutting and just a little too hip and sullenly distant to be waiting at tables.

And that was a feeling that sort of spilled over to the menu as well.

To begin with, what was on offer certainly wasn’t what I had been reading hungrily in my “bible” of the island’s restaurants Saint-Barth Tables. It was instead a shortened end-of-season version presented in a super (here’s that word again) trendy metal packaging. Why? Search me.

And here’s a reflection of the kind of place you’re dealing with. Eden Rock is not just a restaurant, a place to go to enjoy a meal. It’s also a hotel and runs a timeshare property business, as one whole page of the menu reminds you with listings that include the offer of a one-bedroomed apartment at a mere €400,000. A snip.

On the food front, which after all was the real reason we went, it turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. It has gourmet-style pricing, that’s for sure, but the chef apparently cannot resist the temptation to mess around with classic dishes that simply don’t need any improvement, and even the abbreviated menu had been altered to fit the day.

The sashimi and maki starter for example included sashimi that had been totally over marinated and maki with a layer of cream cheese. Huh?

And a main course that promised sea bass in a spicy lemongrass sauce was scrapped in favour of monkfish. Last minute changes according to the availability (or not) of fish are not uncommon in any restaurant, but for the prices Eden Rock charges such information should be available to the diner as they are ordering and not five minutes later.

More fiddling around with the dessert left me feeling a little disoriented. It was an admittedly delicious Black Forest gateau, but presented in such a way that it no longer resembled the original in any way. Four corners to the plate with each corner playing host to a separate ingredient.

It struck me as being a little like offering a bowl of ice cream with ice on one side and cream on the other. Why bother – apart from showing that you can be different? Apparently because the chef can I suppose.

For all my criticisms, Eden Rock is probably still worth a visit – perhaps lunch would be a better prospect. This is not a gourmet restaurant in the same league as Le Gaïac. The prices and the setting may be, but the food is just a little too silly and the service is just too slick.

It’s a place to see and probably be seen, a smoothly run enterprise that will clearly attract clientele because of its unique location, but not necessarily those for whom food really matters.

In short, it’s TRENDINESS writ big with food writ small.

Ratings: Ambience – 13/20, Service – 13/20, Food -13/20

A Foodie in St Barth - K’Fé Massaï

2008-05-20T17:23:00.004+02:00

The K’Fé Massaï in Lorient is a restaurant-lounge bar decorated with an African theme offering three set menus ranging from €29 to €52 with of course an à la carte alternative.

As it’s the only restaurant we’ve eaten at every year, there’s a certain familiarity about it albeit on an annual basis and we went there with definite expectations.

Perhaps though we should have known from the moment we entered that we were going to be disappointed. The music had been turned up just a tad too loud to make conversation at a normal level possible.

A member a staff hurriedly seated us at our table and asked us whether we would prefer still or sparkling water, returning five minutes later to quench our thirst while one of her colleagues brought the blackboard with the day’s recommendations…..to another table of diners who had sat down shortly after us.

We were left for another five minutes before a similar board was brought and the waitress rushed through the “specials” at breakneck-speed French. Not a problem for me, but there had apparently been no recognition that at least one of the people at our table was a non native-speaker and would have appreciated a more pedestrian pace.

Be that as it may, no sooner had she finished her 60-second patter, than another black-clad member of staff hopped to attention to take our orders. And we had hardly had time to read, by the restaurant’s dim light, what was written on the blackboard.

We asked for, and were granted, five minutes more grace after which time back he popped

Now this is the mouth-watering part, even as I write what we ordered. It sounds delicious and it should have been. But to put it succinctly, it wasn’t.

For starters;

Lobster ravioli with champagne cream sauce – too sweet and not hot enough.
Three styles of tuna – Tahitian, sashimi and tartar rechristened by me rubber, gristle and boring in that order. The Tahitian tuna was simply inedible, the sashimi required a jolly good chew and the tartar was just tasteless.

Our main courses followed a similar pattern. Monkfish with chorizo, risotto and broccoli and
Seared tuna with soy sauce and wasabi – served with a side dish of rice, aubergines and broccoli

This was not so much fusion food so beloved apparently of many a restaurant owner (but perhaps not by many foodies) as it was mushy, overcooked, bland and oddly combined dishes often only lukewarm and served at such a speed that it was obvious they had not been prepared to order but probably lined and plated up in advance, blasted quickly (when necessary) in the microwave and hauled out in front of the diner.

So when I left at least a third of my (tuna) starter uneaten, and then most of my (monkfish) main course, it was obvious I hadn’t really enjoyed the food and the waitress bravely asked why.

“How was the monk fish?” she asked

“Lukewarm and tasteless,” I replied. “The hottest thing about the dish was the plate”.

“The risotto?” she persisted.

“Far too mushy, more like rice pudding and also barely warm,” I responded.

“What about the broccoli?” was obviously her last attempt to salvage some praise from me for the meal.

“I love broccoli,” I replied. “It’s one of my favourite vegetables – normally. Unfortunately this was almost puréed. So no it wasn’t very nice either.

“But apart from that the meal was perfect,” I added kindly

I politely declined her offer to bring me a new portion.

Dessert and coffee followed – profiteroles and pistachio ice cream – relatively safe territory although if I were being exceptionally critical I could say a few words on the choux pastry. But I’m feeling generous.

Maybe we just made bad choices, although I don’t think that would have improved the welcome we were afforded – very end of season, “let’s get the guests fed, watered and out of here as soon as possible so we can all go home,” was the feeling I was left with.

A group of Americans at a neighbouring table seem to be relishing the burgers and steaks they had ordered. Maybe that’s a safer bet at the Massaï, although it’s not really what I had come to expect from the kitchen.

Overall impressions then were disappointing – staff and especially the food, even if we didn’t end up paying for my main course. We shan’t be returning, which is a shame as obviously this meal has overshadowed memories of all those we’ve eaten there in previous years.

Ratings: Ambience – 5/20, Service – 5/20, Food -5/20

St Barth foodie special - La Mandala

2008-05-19T10:58:00.004+02:00

La Mandala, Gustavia

Being told that the restaurant was under new ownership sent alarm bells ringing as I took the plunge and made a reservation.

But my fears proved to be ungrounded as both the food and the service lived up to expectations. The place might have change hands, but the food is still good and the location of course well worth the effort.

La Mandala is in the island’s capital, Gustavia, perched above the harbour, so parking will be a bit of a hassle, especially in high season. And be prepared for a steep last 50metre legs akimbo climb, which at least will help you work up an appetite.

It’s also probably a good idea to leave any fancy shoes behind unless someone’s prepared to drop you off right outside the door.

The new owners haven’t really done anything to spruce up the interior – they didn’t really need to as it’s pretty much modern and classic for its setting. The roof is a sort of stretched beige canvas over an exposed wooden frame. There’s decked flooring with the occasional water feature – so mind you step.

There’s a light and airy feeling to the whole restaurant even in the evenings as it’s open on two sides. And be sure to try to book a table overlooking the town as you’ll benefit from any sea breeze, which can be something of a relief especially when the humidity rises.

Background music is kept low, so conversation at a normal volume is possible although it’s more than likely that once the place gets really busy, and you’re sitting right in the middle, it might get a little difficult to make yourself heard.
So the location and the decor haven’t changed and neither has the food – it’s still good quality and there were no unpleasant surprises awaiting us. La Mandala is yet again one of those places describing its dishes as “fusion food” – clearly THE culinary buzzword of the moment.

Bur fear not, you won’t find anything too “off-the-wall” on the menu as its real specialities remain sushi, sashimi and Thai cuisine, and that’s really what it excels at.

We shared two starters one from the chef-recommended €39 set menu, offering freshly made crab and shrimp spring rolls, with noodle rice,Thai sauce and seaweed. And the other à la carte selection of sushi, sashimi and maki – all good quality.

The main course was fish curry, grilled fish and chicken – all part of the set menu and much tastier and belying its simple description. A la carte was chicken served in a coconut, mango and lemongrass sauce and Thai rice – a tasty and harmonious combination and definitely a generous sized portion. So often in these sorts of dishes you have poke around a while to find any hint of meat on the plate. This was certainly not the case – a scrumptious choice with no place left for dessert.

The set menu though included the wickedly delicious moelleux au chocolat and somehow I managed to sneak a spoonful - and that hit just the right spot.

The restaurant was not exactly heaving the night we were there. That’s perhaps not surprising really as the season is definitely drawing to a close. Nonetheless we were still given a warm welcome and the service was friendly, smiley and efficient. A definite thumbs up.

One thing worth mentioning perhaps is that La Mandala also does sushi, sashimi and maki to go – yum yum.

Ratings: Ambience – 11/20, Service – 13/20, Food -12/20

Second class service at first class prices

2008-05-11T16:01:00.002+02:00

Travelling first class on the Eurostar from Paris to London (or vice versa) isn’t really anywhere close to the romantic vision of a more genteel bygone era. It certainly isn’t luxury by any stretch of the imagination and is in fact much more oriented to the business traveller eager to cut down journey time and cram in a couple of hours work on the computer – or God help us all – shouting into the mobile ‘phone.

The trip becomes even less of a luxury and more of an indulgence if you’ve bought a discounted ticket to treat yourself to a hoped-for touch of comfort. There are definite shortcomings.

For the not inconsiderable sum of more than €200 you’ll have a non-exchangeable, non-refundable ticket, so woe betide you if you miss your train.

There’s not even the chance of jumping the queue to go through either ticket control or both sets of passport control before entering the huge waiting hall in an attempt to find somewhere to sit before boarding.

In addition you can’t use the business-premier class lounge at Gare du Nord station. It’s reserved exclusively for those who have coughed up the full asking price.

So right from the start then there is a sort of Orwellian selectivity even among first class trippers – ie; they’re all equal but some (full-payers and Eurostar employees) are more equal than others.”

You won’t be allowed to enter the hallowed halls for free drinks and nibbles – them’s the rules and there’s absolutely NO bending room.

Still in theory at least the service aboard the train should be in keeping with the price tag. But London-bound May Day early morning travellers were in for a disappointment.

First class was not exactly packed and the crew – charming to the nth degree it has to be admitted – were able to be terribly attentive. In fact sometimes it was just a touch too much.

As the train started its journey they came rattling through the carriage with the drinks trolley. Now although it’s never really too early in the day for a glass of champagne, even this far from teetotal passenger had to refuse several of the repeated offers to top up his glass over the next hour.

Perhaps it was a ploy by the staff to ply travellers with as much booze as possible so that they wouldn’t notice the paucity of the food on offer and the lack of choice.

When the meal tray arrived we were presented with a sad-looking salad embarrassed presumably at being undressed. Moments later a rather self-conscious steward looked even more ashamed than the salad as he offered us the CHOICE of salmon or cheese for the main dish – but obviously NOT both as would befit the normal course of a meal in France.

Dropped jaws all round as we plumped for the rubber-soled salmon and the beautifully British-stewed vegetables.

And even more astonishment when the steward had the gall to ask whether we had enjoyed the meal – or the literal French translation “Did it please you?”

Maybe the lack of food was simply a public holiday aberration as on the return trip three days later at exactly the same time of day we were offered a full lunchtime choice of rubber lamb or rubber salmon.

Finally one rather curious fact is that travelling first class does not actually get you through the barrier at the other end any faster as for some reason the carriage always seems to be the furthest away.

And you quickly realise that the extra cost hasn’t just failed to give you very much more comfort during the two hour 15 minute trip, it has also given you no time advantage you had hoped to gain over fellow passengers as you pigeon-step your way slowly to the exit.

Sophie’s voice

2008-05-10T16:24:00.006+02:00

It should have been clear from the very outset after Sophie, our train manager welcomed us all aboard the London-bound Eurostar from Paris that this was not going to be a regular, uneventful trip. There was something just a little too sing-songy in her tannoyed “bienvenue”, wishing us a pleasant journey and volunteering to answer any questions we might have had, to augur any thing other than premonitory misgivings. But those were easily ignored.

Although it’s generally meant as a polite yet ultimately meaningless platitude, such an invitation awakes the pedant in even the most mild-mannered traveller, especially one with a low concentration threshold, and to whom questions spring to mind which would tax the genteel patience of the undoubtedly delightful Sophie, even if she were a Saint.

Did the woman really know what sort of Pandora’s box she was opening I mused to myself. After all to anyone with even the slightest smidgeon of sophistry, Sophie’s was an incitement to full blown pedantry.

Dangerous territory indeed, particularly as the burning question on my lips that morning - after I had been roused from my slumber by the dawn chorus, - was why do cuckoos cuckoo? And nobody had as yet been able to provide me with a reply.

Staring out at the scenery as we hurtled through northern France at a mighty 300km per hour, I was mulling over the possibility of seeking out Sophie to find out whether indeed she had any idea of the answer. But before I could give it another thought, the train unexpectedly ground to a halt.

Now the Paris-London Eurostar trip is something of a modern marvel. It only takes two hours and 15 minutes to complete the around 400km trip, city centre to city centre. That’s thanks largely to the British finally having got their act together after more than a decade to build a new high-speed track running in to St Pancras.

From 1996 until November last year, the trains used existing lines into Waterloo and after zipping through northern France, the Eurostar would then trundle along the remaining 90kms the other side of the channel at an embarrassingly almost 19th century speed.

Thankfully that’s all been confined to the pages of history, although the recent opening of the new link hasn’t been without its hiccoughs. In April passengers from London to Paris spent a night discovering the joys of low speed travel on the high-speed link when the journey turned into a 12-hour nightmare with two changes of trains.

So when the unscheduled stoppage was followed-up moments later by Sophie’s dulcet tones, a warning bell rang out.

She informed us ominously that the train had not yet been cleared for entering the tunnel – exactly the same explanation that had eventually been offered to passengers of that 12-hour marathon. In fact Eurostar’s operators, must have learned something from that incident, because Sophie promised she would get back to us with more news as soon as possible. The lack of information had been one of the major criticisms levelled at the company back in April.

And sure enough, moments later, she was on the tannoy to say that there had been an “incendiary incident’ – obviously Eurostarspeak for a “fire” - in the service tunnel, and the train would be held in position until cleared to go through – estimated to be around 50 minutes.

More insincere platitudes followed but delivered with such heartfelt apologies that clearly Euroastar must be doing something right in its recruitment policy for train managers. And then we were left with deafening silence.

The seconds quickly yawned into those promised 50 minutes with murmuring passengers wondering why the train hadn’t been stopped at a station rather than in the middle of nowhere. At least then the nicotine-hungry would have been able to pop out for a quick cigarette break or others could simply have stretched their legs in the fresh air.

Ah no, obviously Eurostar couldn’t possibly know what was happening further down the line as the hopeless lack of communication had proved back in April – especially in these days of instant messaging. And if to prove such a point, an initial call to those waiting to meet me at the other end, resulted in my discovering that according to the notice board the train was still scheduled to arrive on time.

Time up and waiting over, the incendiary incident appeared to be under control and we were on our way again. Minutes later our train manager piped up to confirm that we were moving – just in case we had had any doubts presumably. “Attagirl Sophie, there’s nothing like telling us what we wanted to hear and already know.”

Sadly the sing-songy note had disappeared from her voice to be replaced with a slightly embarrassed tone and the offer to contact her if connections had been missed. The implied and fervent hope seemed to be that passengers wouldn’t prevail too much for the proffered information.

As the train pulled into St Pancras just 70 minutes after it had apparently already arrived, Sophie was back on the tannoy for a final time to thank us for our understanding – as if we had been given any choice in the matter – and not to offer us any compensation.

Thanks Eurostar, and thank you Sophie. And by the way, why do cuckoos cuckoo?

Hallelujah for the remote control. Zap

2008-04-21T17:15:00.002+02:00

It must be hard work being a television addict in the US. Not only are there far too many channels to choose from, but you can turn on the box just about any time of the day or night and be guaranteed to find something that’ll keep you watching – even if you don’t really want to.

Mind you, much of it seems to be regurgitated reruns that weren’t that spectacular first time around. Of the more up-to-date stuff available there’s an unlimited supply of semi-talent shows that come in all shapes and sizes, endless reality programmes trying to out-vulgar one another and so-called complex cutting-edge dramas whose plots are so contorted it becomes impossible to decipher what’s going on.

On top of all that of course comes the constant barrage of commercials guaranteed to break whatever concentration was needed to follow what was happening on the small screen. They’re so invasively pervasive that it’s difficult not to shake off the feeling that perhaps there’s some subliminal undercurrent at play.

But the really disturbing thing about US telly is that as easy as it is to criticise what it has to offer, it makes compulsive viewing. And for this particular jet-lagged European traveller on a recent visit to the Big Apple there was only one thing to do ahead of a day that was to be spent tanking up on culture.

Grab the remote control and settle back for some wild zapping. All right it was only 3 o’clock in the morning local time. But this was too good an opportunity to miss and with more than 30 channels at the ready, a voyage of discovery was about to begin.

First up – and I kid you not – was one of those wonderful half-hour advertorials. Unwittingly I had got to the very heart of what makes US television tick without even trying. But boy was I surprised by the content, which was clearly only for adult consumption.

It was all about some product that promotes growth in the male “appendage." Yes that’s right. Here in what is normally considered to be one of the most puritanical Western nations, there was a whole 30 minutes devoted to advertising the fact that apparently “size does matter”, with the show’s winsome brunette hostess “spontaneously” vox-popping couples to discover the results of the “wonder drug.”

I was transfixed. Does this work I pondered? No not the product, but the sales pitch. To that question, I knew I would never find out the true response so after about 20 minutes (yes I’m ashamed to admit I was glued to it for that long) it was time to Zap…

…into a blast from the past as “Roseanne” made me question why on earth I had ever found it funny back in the 80s. Still, it didn’t take forever to drag me back in time and somehow I managed to catch the best part of two episodes-worth of gale force yelling before Zap...

…Some sort of CSI nonsense – Miami, New York or Las Vegas - whose plot I couldn’t fathom after five minutes. So as soon as the next commercial break came up it was Zap…

…At last, one of New York’s local news channels complete with mandatory over-coiffed anchors (one of each sex) and a rather orange looking weather forecaster who was surely wearing a wig that had seen better days.

This was just what the complete news junky in me needed. I had heard about the influence of Fox News on other television networks – its tendency to redefine journalistic objectivity into one-sided conservative rants. But I hadn’t really had the opportunity to experience it first hand. Now was the chance to witness for myself what stories Americans were being served up for breakfast on a regular basis, and make a decision for myself what I felt about it.

This is where I’ll have to own up to not remembering which of the local morning shows I was actually watching or when. Perhaps I saw them all. It’s hard to know as they sort of blurred into one another as I channel hopped, and appeared to have (for the uninitiated and unfamiliar) a lot of letters, which supposedly meant something to regular viewers.

But to me it seemed that whatever they were called WCBSTV, WABC, WNBC, WNYWFox, the bottom line was just about the same. Lots of fast-paced banter, grins and perfect teeth as crime, crime and more crime followed hot on the heels of one another to keep my attention well and truly grabbed.

“And this just in from our out on-the-spot reporter in Harlem, where a man was found stabbed to death this morning after three men allegedly tried to stop him from urinating in the vestibule of a building. A live report coming up.” Indeed. Zap…

…America’s Next Top Model series 9. Or was it series 8? Apparently the whole thing was going to be shown over the course of the day, so even if I flipped the remote now, the chances were that late evening I would still be able to discover who turned out to be the next Tyra Banks' protégé.

Alternative viewing on one morning on the same channel I think (to be frank it became a little hard to tell) was the delightfully tasteful “Parental Control.” Mom and Pop were given the task of setting up their goofy son with two alternative dates to the foul-mouthed monster he had been “seeing” for the past eight months. Son has a great time with both lasses but of course when asked to choose he dismisses Miss Perfect and Miss Perfecter in favour of the tearaway his parents had been trying to steer him clear of. It was (in)credible TV with a vengeance. Zap…

…Straight into a commercial for a vacuum cleaner that the manufacturer promises sucks with the “power of a hurricane.” Pardon? And it comes complete with a 21-year guarantee. Why? Zap…

… Slap bang into yet another commercial this time for refinancing home loans and allowing up-to-their-necks Americans to “consolidate” all their credit in one place. Um is the US Advertising Standards Authority living on a different planet or has it simply not heard about the country’s subprime lending debacle that has sent shockwaves reverberating through the international financial markets? Zap…

…Back to the orange-faced guy still wearing a rug and waving his arms about energetically as he goes into raptures over Highs, Lows, Fronts and other magnificent meteorological marvels that await me outside.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly 8 o’clock. I’ve been watching nothing and everything for almost five hours, armed only with my new best friend and constant ally – the remote control.

I’ve discovered that there’s forever something to watch and always nothing worth watching. And I’ve revelled in the delightful couch potato pleasure of serial zapping.

It has been the very best start to the day I could have imagined and at least I now know I’m not an addict. I’m a snobby, cultivated, intellectually superior European…who will be back same time, same place tomorrow for another healthy Zap…

An Erotic Reading Room

2008-04-19T18:11:00.004+02:00

When you’re looking for a hotel in New York, you’re rather spoilt for choice. The range can be mind bogglingly confusing and first-time or just occasional visitors might feel just a trifle overwhelmed.

Well here’s a tip. If you are looking for something slightly different, and are prepared to dig a little bit deeper into your pockets to treat yourself and your family, consider booking a couple of nights at the Library hotel.

When staying in such a great city of course you don’t want to spend all your time stuck in your room. But by the same token you do want and need somewhere welcoming and relaxing to kick back your heels after a day pounding the streets. And of course there’s that sensational service for which the Americans are so famous.

The Library delivers on all fronts, with the added bonuses that it’s a fabulously unique place to stay, is an essential stopping-off point for any bookworm and won’t leave you bankrupt.

Billed as a concept hotel and bordering on the boutique, the worry is that it’ll fail to live up to expectations.

After all both are rather catch all phrases to which many hotels aspire, but few achieve. They can often leave travellers not only disappointed, but also wondering why on earth they shelled out so much money for so little.

This is so clearly NOT the case of the Library hotel.

First up it’s situated in midtown Manhattan on Madison and 41st (it’s easy to slip into the foreigner’s wannabe impersonation of NYC locals). That means it’s perfectly central for everything and anything. Broadway and the theatre district are a very un-American walk away, and the major museums, stores, opera, tourist sites, trendy quarters - in fact you name just about everything for which the Big Apple is famous – are just a few stops along on the subway.

Then of course there’s that “concept” – worrying perhaps to the uninitiated. But it works – 100 per cent.

The whole place is stuffed to the gills with over 6,000 books and each of the 60 well-sized rooms has its own theme. Those range from classics to fairy tales, music to fashion design, maths to dinosaurs, political science, journalism, ancient history, health and beauty, medicine…. and so the list continues. Oh yes and of course not forgetting that erotic literature! Everything’s organised using the Dewey Decimal System of classification practised in libraries around the world.

In short there’s something for everyone’s tastes, and you’re guaranteed never to be bored. If you are, then just flip on the flat screen TV, borrow a DVD or go surfing the Net. At long last, a hotel that doesn’t charge for Wifi access.

OK so no matter how “neat” the idea of the hotel might be, guests also want to feel pampered and looked after. A good hotel needs to balance efficient and friendly service with a smile and obvious pleasure.

And again, for fear of waxing just a little too lyrical and sounding like a commercial for the place, the Library hotel delivers.

Front desk are charming and delightful, responsive to the jet-lagged needs of a couple recently arrived Europeans and pointing them in the right direction for restaurants, shows, shopping and just about anything else that can be packed in to a long weekend.

Breakfast is only a letdown if you’re looking for an American-type fried-up blow out. But as that’s available just about everywhere else in the city seemingly at any time of the day, what the Library has to offer doesn’t really come as a disappointment.

Fresh pastries, proper real coffee or tea while leisurely browsing through the New York Times set just the right tone and don’t leave you feeling bloated and sleepy before venturing forth into the rest of the day.

Drop back in mid-afternoon and there’s another extra special treat awaiting guests on the second floor – wine and cheese - something this particular resident of France was not going to pass up on lightly.

And in the evenings there’s a great bar on the top floor, the Bookmarks Lounge that mixes some killer cocktails including the Great Gatsby, the Capote and this particular guest’s favourite Tequila Mockingbird. Of course if your tastes run to the more genteel then there’s always the Writer’s Den combining all mod cons with the luxury of quiet comfort. Bliss.

Let’s be straight up about this – it all comes at a price – and it ain’t cheap. But there are deals available and let’s face it, you get what you pay for. The service, quality, food, décor – in fact the whole package is top notch. And it’s definitely a hotel to recommend.

Go along and find out for yourself - just keep it a secret and don’t tell anyone else.

No Guns, No Drugs and Not a Terrorist

2008-04-10T12:00:00.002+02:00

It can be a bit of a gruff experience trying to enter the United States as a tourist, and there’s one thing certain on arrival at New York’s JFK airport – a surly welcome awaits the visitor.

And unless you’ve been lucky enough to make it off the ‘plane at double-quick speed, the chances are the first sight of the good old US of A will be from the back of a mighty queue agonisingly snaking its way back from passport control.

There’s no chance of line hopping. This is democracy at its most intense. Everyone seems to be a potential alien and is treated with the same suspicion. Young, very young, old, very old and of course all those in between, patiently awaiting their turn.

Odd really for a country that prides itself as a cultural melting pot and service at a speed. Somehow rather than greeting holidaymakers with outstretched arms, the US seems to have gone to the other extreme and it’s easy for the infrequent traveller to feel unwanted or even guilty for no reason whatsoever.

Without doubt September 11 has left its mark – not that immigration and customs was a cakewalk beforehand. Now however, there’s a tinge of the slightly offensive - at least to continental Europeans used to having their individual rights enshrined in data protection laws - all in the name of Homeland security.

The procedure is fairly straightforward, but be warned, these guys are not ones to be messed with. Clearly one prerequisite for becoming an immigration official is to have a low humour threshold.

Not even a winsome smile or tapping into the charm factor can raise the glimmer of good intent from these guys. They are serious with a capital “S”, so it’s best to say as little as possible and follow the posted instructions to the letter.

“Left index finger on the digital fingerprint screening pad, followed by right index finger. Look into the camera and don’t smile too hard. And when asked the purpose of your trip, don’t even think about a clever reply.”

And woe betides if there’s an error on the visa waiver application form or the customs declaration. No mistakes, no crossed-out corrections – otherwise it’ll simply be rejected; no questions asked no appeals accepted.

Everyone has been forewarned before disembarking from the ‘plane and there have been several chances to check and double check just in case.

All these regulations certainly made the news when they were introduced, but it has been fairly easy to dismiss them as just another daft US idea - along with the constitutional right to own a firearm, which is basically just unfathomable to most the other side of the Atlantic.

But when confronted with them for the first time, the realisation hits home as to just how seriously they’re being taken here.

While getting in to the States might require a struggle with patience, leaving is in wonderful contrast made so much easier.

Is the traveller being told something here or is that just paranoia setting in? But there was just a tad too much pleasure from the ground staff as they checked passports and boarding passes. Smiles all round and a delightful “Y’all have a good day” send-off.

Of course the security strip-off check is a bit of a palaver – no shoes, no belt and laptop, coat and carry-on all shoved through the scanner. Then with trousers making their own way southwards, it’s a hasty stagger through to the other side.

When all is said and done, even though the security checks – especially on arrival - might be a real pain and not an entirely pleasurable experience to say the very least, there is a point to them. And this is one visitor at least, who’ll bite his lip and patiently wait in line next time around.