Road trip to Norway

Most people who have just moved to the south of France wouldn't necessarily consider a road trip to Norway, 2,500 km (or 1555 miles) away.  That's about the equivalent of driving from Washington, DC to Colorado. But then most people aren't part of a family that includes a road warrior driver and a maps-obsessed teenager who happens to have a friend in Stavanger, Norway.

Plus, Norway is on The Places, a list we created after visiting Val & Menno and the boys in St. Martin a few years ago.  We started the list shortly after Menno dropped us off at the airport -- by dinghy -- when we started to fantasize about what our version of their sailing adventure would look like.   It was the genesis of our year here. 

So with two weeks before we could move into our house in the south, we headed north to Paris, through Hamburg, two nights in Copenhagen and then over (and through) the Oresund Bridge, the longest highway and railroad bride/tunnel combo in Europe that connects Denmark and Sweden.  We drove up the coast of Sweden to Oslo -- where we swooned over The Scream and other works by Edward Munch -- and then headed across Norway to the fabled fjords of the western coast.  And to Oystein, the Norwegian boy whom Luke befriended two summers ago during a holiday to Crete (also one of The Places).   

We drove across the top of the Hardangervidda, one of Europe's largest mountain plateaus, an oddly lunaresque landscape dotted with the occasional lake but not much more, and stopped in Geilo, about halfway between Oslo and Bergen. 

 Geilo had been billed as Norway's' most popular ski resort, but, to our surprise, the mountains were more Deep Creek Lake than Deer Valley.  Plus, we seemed to be the only people in town who weren't part of a Korean or German tour group, and we were having trouble finding a room.  [I,  planner-in-chief, had made a critical hotel mistake and we ended up fleeing the "rustic" motel that I'd booked in the middle of nowhere.] We finally found a very plain but adequate room and wandered aimlessly, a bit disappointed, until we stepped into an alluring little restaurant, Hallingsteune -- the epitome of the Norwegian word, koselig, the root of our English word, cosy.    We skipped the Reindeer Filet and Sheeps Head, but heartily enjoyed the meat sausage from a local farm, cod and salmon.  We started feeling more kindly towards Geilo... and towards each other.  The restorative power of  good food in a koselig place!  

Sanremo, Italia

Paddie flew in to join me in taking Lindsay and Jenn on a trip to Italy.  (Because, after all, she was spending a week in the U.K. from South Africa so why not take a short jaunt to the south of France and the Italian Riviera?) The Italian border is less than an hour away via a breathtaking route over deep ravines and into tunnels burrowed through mountains that rise above the sea.   Both Jenn and Lindsay have Italian ancestry (from northern Italy and Sicily respectively), and they quickly felt the love from the Italian men.  "Bellisima!"  "Brava!"   

[I, other the other hand, did not feel the love from the Italian drivers.  It didn't help that Sanremo is especially hilly.]

But Sanremo -- a seaside resort that was once a Roman settlement -- reminded me of why I love Europe.  You can stumble blindly into a little town, wind down narrow cobblestone streets, and find yourself in the middle of Piazza San Siro drinking cold white wine with a little antipasti and gazing at a 12th century cathedral. 

We roamed the old town for hours and ended the evening with a good dinner of fresh pasta and seafood in a lively area filled with outdoor tables and strings of white lights. 

 And, of course, the girls wanted to shop.  They were in luck. Italy has the same sales policy as France, where twice a year-- in January and July -- shops across the country mark down their merchandise and mark their windows with one glorious word:  Saldi!  

 Shopping highlights:  dresses, jewelry, a sweater, and gelato -- the last not on sale but we didn't mind paying full price.   

Our first guests! Jenn & Lindsay arrive on the Cote d'Azur

Our niece, Jennifer, and cousin Lindsay, arrived in Nice undaunted by a massive flight delay, unfazed by jet-leg, and ready to rock the Riviera.


We zipped off to Cannes for a swim in the Mediterranean, a walk down the Croisette, and dinner on an old square in the center of town where our American beauties sampled the local fare of fois gras, escargot, rabbit and duck, and the local Rose. There's no drinking age in France -- even children drink wine in their homes and at restaurants on special occasions. This was, indeed, a special occasion, although, as my dad says, moderation in all things is a good thing.


Their whirlwind week included a day spent exploring Nice (and shopping: blouses, dresses, jewelry), another day exploring Vallauris (and shopping: pottery, gifts), and an evening visit to Mougins, possibly one of the loveliest hill towns anywhere. And, yes, we did some shopping there, too. I was impressed at how quickly Jenn and Lindsay can make their way through a shop, select just the right items, and emerge wearing them.

But we didn't just shop! We visited the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Nice where Lindsay and Jenn's enthusiasm for all things new bounced off the otherwise austere museum walls. Highlights included Cai Guo-Quiang's gunpowder drawing Travels in the Mediterranean ("Wicked!"); a number of works by Robert Rauschenburg ("Sick!"); Yves Klein (the same artist who captivated Luke, Anthony and the Baars boys at the Hirschhorn - "Cool!"); and Niki de Saint Phalle ("Look, the women are wearing clothes.")

Luke's Photos of Nice (taken while we were shopping...)

                          

Cannes on the 14th of July

The 14th of July is La Fete National for France, also known as Bastille Day, or, simply, La Quatorze Juillet, the 14th of July. Like our own national holiday, they celebrate with fireworks. "You must go to see the fireworks in Cannes," our landlady said. "They're really something." Having just seen incredible fireworks with Katherine and Mark and the girls in Washington, DC, I smiled politely.

But we decided to head to Cannes, and being Cannes, it wasn't enough to have an ordinary fireworks display to commemorate the day. The City of Festivals, it turns out, hosts an annual International Festival d'Art Pyrotechnique, and on the evening of the 14th, they were showcasing the prize-winning display by the Austrian team, Pyrovision. We settled in at a restaurant along the Bay of Cannes that opens up to the sea and joined the throngs gathered to see the show. As the sky became suitably dark, loudspeakers blared the French National Anthem and we stood with the crowd as they sang along. (They also played the Austrian National Anthem in honor of Pyrovision.) It was a spectacular spectacle of music and lights and lasers and color all to the theme of Voyage dans l'Ouest Sauvage -- yes, that would be the U.S. of A!

The show ended with Green Day's 21 Guns, and in the words highlighted by the fireworks designers:

"Wild wild west" se termine par une interprétation haute en couleur du titre du groupe de rock Green Day "21 Guns" (2009), point culminant de cette envolée sauvage.

"... Baisse les bras
Renonce au combat...
Lève les bras au ciel,
Toi et moi..."
(Greenday)

Lay down your arms

Give up the fight

One, 21 Guns

Throw up your arms into the sky

You and I ...

As Madame Moufflet said, it was really something.

Sophia Antipolis

No one would really go to France to spend time in Sophia Antipolis unless they had to. Referred to as a technology park, it's mostly a series of industrial buildings centered loosely on an unfortunately (and one could say aptly) named residential community, Garbegaire. This is not where we're going to live, but this is headquarters for the ISP tennis academy and where Luke's future school is located at the Centre International Valbonne (CIV). It's where we've landed for the first two weeks at the Grand Hotel Mercure where Luke will play tennis for hours every day while Jeff and I adjust to.... to what, I wonder? The next two weeks in Sophia Antipolis? The start of a grand adventure in Europe? Or, what it feels like the most, the fact that we've just packed up and left a house we love, an incredibly supportive community and all of our best friends and family. And why did do we do that exactly? After living most of my life overseas, I've become a home girl.

Sophia Antipolis is a complicated mass of carrefours (roundabouts) and steep streets that lead one way but not the other. The car we've rented -- like most cars in Europe -- is a stick shift, and I've forgotten how to drive one. Jeff is patient, but I just can't conquer the delicate balancing act that involves the gas pedal and the clutch. For the most part, I make my way up and down the hills of Sophia Antipolis, although I'm moving at half the posted speed limit. The first time I go to pick Luke up from his French lessons by myself, I panic. We're heading towards one of the gates that regulates entrance/exit to the CIV. If you're already inside the CIV, the gates lift up automatically when a car approaches. My problem is that this gate is uphill. I stall on the way up and the barrier, that had opened up so willingly upon my herky-jerky approach, slams back down into place. We're trapped. Luke looks at me in that uniquely 13-year-old boy way. "Really, Mom?" He rolls his eyes. Finally the gate opens again and with a dramatic rush of noise and gas, the car lurches through the gate.

Ken E. once wrote a very funny piece about driving in France and the warning at the roundabouts: Vouz n'avez pas la priorite! I see this at almost every carrefour. I know, I know. I do not have the priority. I barely have any standing whatsoever to be out here navigating these hills.

The hotel is near a forest and a large park that stretches from the tennis courts to the CIV. Charlie and I walk there together, missing our CCW pack. But at least no one honks at me.

Limbo at Terminal 2

We spent out first night in France at the airport, sleeping off jet-lag, looking for a grassy spot for Charlie (non-existent at CDG), and roaming down the moving walkways past throngs of weary travelers in limbo between one place and another. "Where do you think they're all going?" Luke asked. "Everywhere. Everywhere but here." "Except us. We're here." Yeah. We're here.

Arrival -- Crossing the Pond with a Golden in the Hold

I agonized for months. Should we bring Charlie with us or leave him behind? We wanted him, but would he survive the flight? My vet's airline expert assured me that Air France was the best at transporting animals across the Atlantic ("I just shipped the French Ambassador's dog," he explained); but then I worried about the more mundane issues connected with trapping a large beast in a crate for twelve hours during a potentially turbulent ride across the Atlantic. Even the logistics of moving the three of us, the dog, the crate and our suitcases to the airport seemed daunting.

I didn't need to worry. Laura HG drove Charlie and me and his massive crate to the airport while Jeff and Luke took the suitcases in a cab. The Air France reps behind the desk checked us in efficiently, even pleasantly, and told us we could stay with him until an hour before the flight. Charlie was calm when we finally lured him into his crate and turned him over to a kind-faced gentleman porter. "Are there any other animals traveling today?" I asked, hoping for a friendly canine face that he could peer at across the aisle. "Just a couple of cats," the man replied, gesturing to two cages stacked behind us. A mournful mew emitted from one of them. It was going to be a long flight.

On board, a flight attendant informed me that Charlie had made it safely onto the flight. I took a breath, and a sip of the pre-flight champagne that had been brought just in time. (Spending miles to bump up to Business Class seemed a necessity given the extra stress of the situation...)

On the ground at Charles de Gaulle, Jeff touched my arm as we entered the walkway towards passport control. Out the window we could see Charlie's crate being loaded off the plane. At the sight of his black-tipped, prematurely whitened snout sticking out of the meshing, we cheered! "He made it!" At baggage claim, my name was called and I rushed to where two women stood by his crate. When I let him out,they gushed. "Il est tres mignon!" "Magnifique!" I put my arms around him and fed him a couple of treats. " I hope it wasn't too bad down there!" He smiled and pushed against me. "Down where?" I imagine him thinking, perking up as he caught sight of Jeff and Luke across the way. He started pulling towards them. I happily followed.