Getting a rheum in Paris, then Django Fest week in Fontainebleau
Jul 20th, 2015, 07:05 AM
#23
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Ann, mercy. I mean merci. There goes that bossy and incorrect autocorrect again.
TD, I can't say I noticed insincerity in "désolées" I might have heard, grateful as I was for even faux courtesy. I'd say the French I encountered were ~ 55% charming, 44% perfectly polite, the remainder the kind I'd have liked to reply to (but didn't) with expressive hand gestures. Calvin Trillin has a fun essay where he advises using English when necessary to upbraid someone abroad, because you won't be able to pull it off in the foreign language. I never went that far in Paris.
cigale, thank you; your reports are among memorable ones.
kovsie, I'm looking forward to reading about it, and I hope the pedestrian underpass is really there after all.
Northie, I must find yours. I think by May and June I had imposed a trip-report-reading moratorium on myself. I sat under the awning of Branly's café that afternoon while Hannah looked at the tattoos, enjoyed the looming Eiffel Tower view, overtipped the server in gratitude. (Most of the trip we made an effort not to overtip, but allowed ourselves exceptions.)
Di, aren't they fascinating? I could have gone back every evening, but only managed it twice.
hetismij2, thanks! Glad to hear from fellow Django fans.
TD, I can't say I noticed insincerity in "désolées" I might have heard, grateful as I was for even faux courtesy. I'd say the French I encountered were ~ 55% charming, 44% perfectly polite, the remainder the kind I'd have liked to reply to (but didn't) with expressive hand gestures. Calvin Trillin has a fun essay where he advises using English when necessary to upbraid someone abroad, because you won't be able to pull it off in the foreign language. I never went that far in Paris.
cigale, thank you; your reports are among memorable ones.
kovsie, I'm looking forward to reading about it, and I hope the pedestrian underpass is really there after all.
Northie, I must find yours. I think by May and June I had imposed a trip-report-reading moratorium on myself. I sat under the awning of Branly's café that afternoon while Hannah looked at the tattoos, enjoyed the looming Eiffel Tower view, overtipped the server in gratitude. (Most of the trip we made an effort not to overtip, but allowed ourselves exceptions.)
Di, aren't they fascinating? I could have gone back every evening, but only managed it twice.
hetismij2, thanks! Glad to hear from fellow Django fans.
Jul 20th, 2015, 07:08 AM
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I just read my first paragraph, realize that auto-correct made me write "Samois-sure-Seine" I wonder if there's a way to make it realize that we occasionally dabble in a foreign language?
Jul 20th, 2015, 08:49 AM
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Hannah got scolded once in Paris, but it was my fault. She and Bob were shopping at the rdl Verrerie FreePStar vintage clothing store where a few years earlier our older daughter found gorgeous Bally boots for a song. I was in poor-little-invalid mode, and never much of a shopper, so I sat on the sidewalk at Troquet du Temple café and sketched a street scene including the entrance of BHV. I ordered a coffee-based beverage of some sort, which seemed to displease the server. (was I supposed to have ordered food or wine?) It's the kind of outdoor seating where your shoulder is inches from the next patron's, and I sat next to a couple of attractive young men as they chatted and I drew.
Eventually, H came and stood next to me for a minute to report. She started to take a drink from my water glass, but I stopped her on germ-quarantine basis, told her to drink from the small water bottle instead. I didn't want her to come down with anything if I could help it. So she drank the last couple of ounces from the ~ 8 ounce bottle and the server dashed out and laid into her for that street faux pas. I loved it when the adjacent young men rolled their eyes sympathetically at us, as if to say Oh Come ON. Kind of rough on young H, of course, but their reaction saved it for her, too. My tip that time was a punitive penny or two.
Speaking of BHV, it is now my favorite department store in the world. One afternoon Bob and H went off somewhere ambitious while I hung around the Seine, sat at the little café on the cobblestone passage behind St.-Gervais and sketched the church until it started to rain. H and I wanted to try for The Magic Flute at Opera Bastille that evening, so I was walking down rd Rivoli in that direction when I remembered that Bob would need a folding stool at Samois so he could sit and play guitar during the campsite jams. BHV, the very thing. I went up a floor or two to the luggage and household area, and was delighted to see feather dusters, brooms, and wood polish. What a great store. It's not perfumes or fancy domes that win me over, but solid good quality everyday things. Art supplies! an excellent art supply department, which I would never have expected. The clerk there was a gem: funny, charming, happy to talk about music and tourism, happy to give me a discount on the stool based on my passport. I came out with a wood-and-leather tripod stool, nicer and cheaper than what I'd hoped for, and carried it happily. Bob pronounced it good, and was glad to have it later.
Eventually, H came and stood next to me for a minute to report. She started to take a drink from my water glass, but I stopped her on germ-quarantine basis, told her to drink from the small water bottle instead. I didn't want her to come down with anything if I could help it. So she drank the last couple of ounces from the ~ 8 ounce bottle and the server dashed out and laid into her for that street faux pas. I loved it when the adjacent young men rolled their eyes sympathetically at us, as if to say Oh Come ON. Kind of rough on young H, of course, but their reaction saved it for her, too. My tip that time was a punitive penny or two.
Speaking of BHV, it is now my favorite department store in the world. One afternoon Bob and H went off somewhere ambitious while I hung around the Seine, sat at the little café on the cobblestone passage behind St.-Gervais and sketched the church until it started to rain. H and I wanted to try for The Magic Flute at Opera Bastille that evening, so I was walking down rd Rivoli in that direction when I remembered that Bob would need a folding stool at Samois so he could sit and play guitar during the campsite jams. BHV, the very thing. I went up a floor or two to the luggage and household area, and was delighted to see feather dusters, brooms, and wood polish. What a great store. It's not perfumes or fancy domes that win me over, but solid good quality everyday things. Art supplies! an excellent art supply department, which I would never have expected. The clerk there was a gem: funny, charming, happy to talk about music and tourism, happy to give me a discount on the stool based on my passport. I came out with a wood-and-leather tripod stool, nicer and cheaper than what I'd hoped for, and carried it happily. Bob pronounced it good, and was glad to have it later.
Jul 21st, 2015, 08:45 AM
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Peter Sellers and his RHEUM! This TR reminded me of that theme song that would not leave your mind:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OPc7MRm4Y8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OPc7MRm4Y8
Jul 21st, 2015, 09:59 AM
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Thank you, taconic. (New-York-Ignorant auto check decides you are "laconic.")
Gma and kovsie: oh, good. Glad my misspelling was not in vain. Here's a 1 minute 42 second reminder, and pretty much the only things I remember about the movie besides theme song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnXtuktNdlM
This is a scene played out across Europe: foreigner enters business establishment, greets native in local language. Counter person detects foreignness in those short words, replies in English. Dog bite much less frequent.
Gma and kovsie: oh, good. Glad my misspelling was not in vain. Here's a 1 minute 42 second reminder, and pretty much the only things I remember about the movie besides theme song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnXtuktNdlM
This is a scene played out across Europe: foreigner enters business establishment, greets native in local language. Counter person detects foreignness in those short words, replies in English. Dog bite much less frequent.
Jul 21st, 2015, 06:08 PM
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We were lucky to be there on the summer solstice for La Fête de la Musique. Near St-Sulpice church that afternoon angelic choral music floated out from somewhere, but not the church. It seemed to come from a parking garage, or from heaven. It was that kind of day: music everywhere.
We had limited ambitions that evening, though, after running around all day. Café Hugo had reopened the previous morning, and we knew there'd be music in the Place des Vosges, so we had a light supper under the loggia. The waitress won my heart by her tactful way of correcting our pronunciations. Two young women dressed vaguely like belly dancers stood nearby performing a capella arias. At the corner near Victor Hugo's house a crowd sang along with evidently well-loved French tunes.
We walked down to Quai Saint-Bernard past more street music. That night there weren't as many tango or salsa dancers, though I recognized a few stalwarts from the previous evening. It must have been difficult anyway to hear the tango beat with a large brass band nearby. After tango ended we stopped to enjoy the brass, and Hannah was mystified at how many of the young crowd, and also her old Ma, whooped and warbled along with a "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Me with head thrown back. How fun.
The nice young BHV art supply man told me the next day that the Fête de la Musique is spreading around Europe, "and the world!" Love that guy. Go buy a paintbrush from him if you get the chance.
We had limited ambitions that evening, though, after running around all day. Café Hugo had reopened the previous morning, and we knew there'd be music in the Place des Vosges, so we had a light supper under the loggia. The waitress won my heart by her tactful way of correcting our pronunciations. Two young women dressed vaguely like belly dancers stood nearby performing a capella arias. At the corner near Victor Hugo's house a crowd sang along with evidently well-loved French tunes.
We walked down to Quai Saint-Bernard past more street music. That night there weren't as many tango or salsa dancers, though I recognized a few stalwarts from the previous evening. It must have been difficult anyway to hear the tango beat with a large brass band nearby. After tango ended we stopped to enjoy the brass, and Hannah was mystified at how many of the young crowd, and also her old Ma, whooped and warbled along with a "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Me with head thrown back. How fun.
The nice young BHV art supply man told me the next day that the Fête de la Musique is spreading around Europe, "and the world!" Love that guy. Go buy a paintbrush from him if you get the chance.
Jul 25th, 2015, 05:20 PM
#32
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Thank you, Nikki. If I lived in Paris I'd want to take tango lessons. On the Quai St-Bernard even the really good dancers switched partners, which is nice for giving new arrivals a chance.
Here's a five-year-old Guardian article about Paris gypsy jazz venues:
http://www.theguardian.com/travel/20...ango-reinhardt
Our previous visit we enjoyed the Sunday afternoon scene at La Chope des Puces on the rd Rosiers at St-Ouen (not the Marais street of the same name), had a pleasant light lunch whiel listening to a guitarist whose name impressed Bob quite a bit, but I promptly forgot. It's fun to look around the alternately funky and fancy flea market while you're there. Haggle if you dare.
Bob and Hannah went to Clarion des Chausseurs in the Place de Tertre, Montmartre, a couple of times this visit, and enjoyed the excellent music and setting. As I mentioned above, that touristy crowd was not as into the music. We like L'Atelier Charonne for a combination of appreciative crowd and good music, but check online to see who's playing.
One day we took the bus up rd Turenne and up Rue Oberkampf then rd Ménilmontant, got out not too far from the Peripherique, then walked a lot of the way back downhill. We priced apartments from the realtor's windows, just in case.
At one park in the 20th we stopped to watch children playing, saw a young boy agressively squirting other boys and girls with a soaker type squirt gun, making a menace of himself. Finally he annoyed the wrong ~ 7 year old boy, who lit into him with violent gusto and knocked them both to the ground. At this point both mothers intervened, long after US parents would have. I noticed less maternalistic hovering than ours in general, as at the Place des Vosges where diapered tots climbed down stone steps to the sandbox, seemingly unnoticed by any parent within 20 yards. They did just fine.
I'm reading Andrew Roberts' Napoleon: A Life, thanks to flanneruk suggestion, and wish I'd read it before this visit. Even at the risk of boring my family with Bonaparte anecdotes. A fascinating life. In Paris I'd have liked to visit the church where Josephine was imprisoned during the Terror, for instance, and would have paid more attention in the Bonaparte rooms at Carnavalet Museum.
Construction on Canal St-Martin, where Hannah and I walked on Monday while Bob took a guitar lesson, was started during Napoleon's time. On the way there we walked past and admired the Cirque d'Hiver, formerly Cirque Napoleon (III), a fun building. At the canal, we leaned on the fence and watched as a houseboat named Adeline lowered down the last of the locks before entering the underground tunnel down past the Bastille to the Seine.
Sunday we'd wandered around the wonderful Richard Lenoir outdoor market, now called Marché Bastille. The market stretches a long way, several blocks north up over the underground canal. I finally figured out that those pyramid-shaped objects in the middle of Richard Lenoir parks must provide the tunnel ventilation and light.
And so on Tuesday to Samois-sur-Seine, a sleepier stretch of the river, and imperial amounts of fun in Fontainebleau.
Here's a five-year-old Guardian article about Paris gypsy jazz venues:
http://www.theguardian.com/travel/20...ango-reinhardt
Our previous visit we enjoyed the Sunday afternoon scene at La Chope des Puces on the rd Rosiers at St-Ouen (not the Marais street of the same name), had a pleasant light lunch whiel listening to a guitarist whose name impressed Bob quite a bit, but I promptly forgot. It's fun to look around the alternately funky and fancy flea market while you're there. Haggle if you dare.
Bob and Hannah went to Clarion des Chausseurs in the Place de Tertre, Montmartre, a couple of times this visit, and enjoyed the excellent music and setting. As I mentioned above, that touristy crowd was not as into the music. We like L'Atelier Charonne for a combination of appreciative crowd and good music, but check online to see who's playing.
One day we took the bus up rd Turenne and up Rue Oberkampf then rd Ménilmontant, got out not too far from the Peripherique, then walked a lot of the way back downhill. We priced apartments from the realtor's windows, just in case.
At one park in the 20th we stopped to watch children playing, saw a young boy agressively squirting other boys and girls with a soaker type squirt gun, making a menace of himself. Finally he annoyed the wrong ~ 7 year old boy, who lit into him with violent gusto and knocked them both to the ground. At this point both mothers intervened, long after US parents would have. I noticed less maternalistic hovering than ours in general, as at the Place des Vosges where diapered tots climbed down stone steps to the sandbox, seemingly unnoticed by any parent within 20 yards. They did just fine.
I'm reading Andrew Roberts' Napoleon: A Life, thanks to flanneruk suggestion, and wish I'd read it before this visit. Even at the risk of boring my family with Bonaparte anecdotes. A fascinating life. In Paris I'd have liked to visit the church where Josephine was imprisoned during the Terror, for instance, and would have paid more attention in the Bonaparte rooms at Carnavalet Museum.
Construction on Canal St-Martin, where Hannah and I walked on Monday while Bob took a guitar lesson, was started during Napoleon's time. On the way there we walked past and admired the Cirque d'Hiver, formerly Cirque Napoleon (III), a fun building. At the canal, we leaned on the fence and watched as a houseboat named Adeline lowered down the last of the locks before entering the underground tunnel down past the Bastille to the Seine.
Sunday we'd wandered around the wonderful Richard Lenoir outdoor market, now called Marché Bastille. The market stretches a long way, several blocks north up over the underground canal. I finally figured out that those pyramid-shaped objects in the middle of Richard Lenoir parks must provide the tunnel ventilation and light.
And so on Tuesday to Samois-sur-Seine, a sleepier stretch of the river, and imperial amounts of fun in Fontainebleau.
Jul 27th, 2015, 08:14 PM
#33
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DJANGO AT SAMOIS
Django Reinhardt lived and died, according to the plaque, in a modest house just around the corner from the river road. He moved to Samois in 1951, and died there in 1953. France can't have been much fun for a Gypsy and a jazz man during the war, and it's too bad he didn't have more peaceful retirement years.
(Django, bless him, apparently died after walking home from the Avon train station; it's around an hour walk, downhill then flat.)
The Petite Île du Berceau is a narrow island 50 feet off the Samois bank of the Seine, and is connected by three bridges during the Festival Django.
Shoot sorry, can't finish the music part tonight after all. Tomorrow.
Django Reinhardt lived and died, according to the plaque, in a modest house just around the corner from the river road. He moved to Samois in 1951, and died there in 1953. France can't have been much fun for a Gypsy and a jazz man during the war, and it's too bad he didn't have more peaceful retirement years.
(Django, bless him, apparently died after walking home from the Avon train station; it's around an hour walk, downhill then flat.)
The Petite Île du Berceau is a narrow island 50 feet off the Samois bank of the Seine, and is connected by three bridges during the Festival Django.
Shoot sorry, can't finish the music part tonight after all. Tomorrow.
Jul 28th, 2015, 09:02 AM
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Part of my distraction last night involved wondering what the war was like for Django and his family. This online article, infuriating in spots, spells some of it out:
http://fromthebarrelhouse.com/2012/1...ris-1940-1944/
I've always loved Django's music and that happy style he helped create. (Got to see Grappelli and his group play at Jesse Hall, U of Missouri, still great his last years.) But I had gone on this trip thinking I'd go to maybe one of the festival nights. Hannah wanted to go for a couple of nights, attended the last two, and now wants to go back every year.
I won't maintain that my man is a manuoche monomaniac, but generally I get to listen to my share of it around the house and at his gigs. (He plays rhythm guitar for a group he assembled, his share of the pay mostly applause and love of performing.) He brought a "cheap" guitar he'd traded down for, anticipating buying a handmade one at the festival. He transported the travel guitar using a soft case/gig bag that was his carryon luggage, plus a small backpack and using some of my carryon bag. He thought he had someone in Paris lined up to sell his travel guitar for him if need be, but that person didn't materialize until an email days after we got home.
The island opens to the ticket-buying public at 18h00 each of the five festival nights, so you can visit the luthiers' and other tents before the MainStage music starts. Bob's strategy was to be there first thing the first day so he could test every possible guitar and find his unique favorite, and he even had to miss some of his favorite Romane's set so he could continue that pursuit. He ended up buying one from a 25 year old luthier named Jordan Wencek, said to be France's youngest, his 16th ever. It sounds fine to me, but what do I know?
We'd heard in advance that the real action for a musician was in the Samois and Samereau campgrounds and in the luthier's tents on the island. This turned out to be true. The Saturday night I was there, I sat on the ground next to Django's grandson Simba Baumgartner and a young man said to be Stephane's (maybe great-?) grandson Sacha Laporterie as they jammed with a (rare) female guitarist and Montreal's Dennis Chang. A tiny Roma grandma and grandpa type sat near Simba and watched over him. Simba's on the left in this video, trading leads, and Sacha is in the middle on rhythm. (Samba's brother Dallas is on the right.) They both talked with us afterwards, and were just lovely young men.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JvyXZnM6Lw
The MainStage action might disappoint someone who thought they were paying for Django type music; 2015 tended towards an American theme. I liked the first group, loved the next three, and we got up and leave after the fifth group's third song, when the bass set Hannah and my sternums vibrating. I left on the last shuttle bus to Fontainebleau halfway through the last group's set, by that time getting a lot on my nerves.
I heard that last year's focus was manouche, but also that it rained most of the time. We were blessed with perfect weather this year.
I discovered my new favorite jazz singer, Indra Rios-Moore, a young New Yorker now based in Denmark. She was fine:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inPQhvHnjl8
Two different groups played the Curtis Mayfield song "People Get Ready", and one group that we like a lot -- can't remember the name but featured a French (the Mississippi flows through his blood per program notes) jazz harmonica and two young black American singers -- did two Crosby, Stills etc songs. An implied theme, that evening anyway, was racial inequality in the US.
There was a secondary stage at the southern end of the island where we heard some exciting groups, too. Two of the evenings when Bob was at the festival, Hannah and I took the shuttle bus there then sat on the bank listening to music over the water, at just the right volume for me. Friday night an enchanting Flamenco guitar solo floated across, starlight clear above the Seine.
http://fromthebarrelhouse.com/2012/1...ris-1940-1944/
I've always loved Django's music and that happy style he helped create. (Got to see Grappelli and his group play at Jesse Hall, U of Missouri, still great his last years.) But I had gone on this trip thinking I'd go to maybe one of the festival nights. Hannah wanted to go for a couple of nights, attended the last two, and now wants to go back every year.
I won't maintain that my man is a manuoche monomaniac, but generally I get to listen to my share of it around the house and at his gigs. (He plays rhythm guitar for a group he assembled, his share of the pay mostly applause and love of performing.) He brought a "cheap" guitar he'd traded down for, anticipating buying a handmade one at the festival. He transported the travel guitar using a soft case/gig bag that was his carryon luggage, plus a small backpack and using some of my carryon bag. He thought he had someone in Paris lined up to sell his travel guitar for him if need be, but that person didn't materialize until an email days after we got home.
The island opens to the ticket-buying public at 18h00 each of the five festival nights, so you can visit the luthiers' and other tents before the MainStage music starts. Bob's strategy was to be there first thing the first day so he could test every possible guitar and find his unique favorite, and he even had to miss some of his favorite Romane's set so he could continue that pursuit. He ended up buying one from a 25 year old luthier named Jordan Wencek, said to be France's youngest, his 16th ever. It sounds fine to me, but what do I know?
We'd heard in advance that the real action for a musician was in the Samois and Samereau campgrounds and in the luthier's tents on the island. This turned out to be true. The Saturday night I was there, I sat on the ground next to Django's grandson Simba Baumgartner and a young man said to be Stephane's (maybe great-?) grandson Sacha Laporterie as they jammed with a (rare) female guitarist and Montreal's Dennis Chang. A tiny Roma grandma and grandpa type sat near Simba and watched over him. Simba's on the left in this video, trading leads, and Sacha is in the middle on rhythm. (Samba's brother Dallas is on the right.) They both talked with us afterwards, and were just lovely young men.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JvyXZnM6Lw
The MainStage action might disappoint someone who thought they were paying for Django type music; 2015 tended towards an American theme. I liked the first group, loved the next three, and we got up and leave after the fifth group's third song, when the bass set Hannah and my sternums vibrating. I left on the last shuttle bus to Fontainebleau halfway through the last group's set, by that time getting a lot on my nerves.
I heard that last year's focus was manouche, but also that it rained most of the time. We were blessed with perfect weather this year.
I discovered my new favorite jazz singer, Indra Rios-Moore, a young New Yorker now based in Denmark. She was fine:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inPQhvHnjl8
Two different groups played the Curtis Mayfield song "People Get Ready", and one group that we like a lot -- can't remember the name but featured a French (the Mississippi flows through his blood per program notes) jazz harmonica and two young black American singers -- did two Crosby, Stills etc songs. An implied theme, that evening anyway, was racial inequality in the US.
There was a secondary stage at the southern end of the island where we heard some exciting groups, too. Two of the evenings when Bob was at the festival, Hannah and I took the shuttle bus there then sat on the bank listening to music over the water, at just the right volume for me. Friday night an enchanting Flamenco guitar solo floated across, starlight clear above the Seine.
Jul 28th, 2015, 07:05 PM
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Thank you, Nikki and Ann.
First we had to get to Fontainebleau/Avon train station from the Gare de Lyon. It took awhile to find the correct Ile-de-France ticket booth, two levels down. It's possible to use a machine on the main floor, but I stood in line awhile before my turn, then realized it would take neither bills nor my Barclay's chip credit card. Once on board it's a 45 minute ride and a short wait for the Number 1 bus marked "Chateau."
We loved our airbnb house in the center of Fontainebleau: right in the center of town, a block from the Chateau and the Festival shuttle bus stop, and on a quiet passage to a pedestrian area of shops and restaurants. The house is very old, with one room on each of the four floors connected by a spiral wooden staircase. Spare and clean, immaculate, good quality kitchen and bathrooms. The host could not have been nicer.
We went right away to the Petite Reine bike shop and got bikes for a week for us three, and the woman gave us a family deal. Originally I got what I'd call a girls' bike with seven gears and a chain that fell off twice. I traded it later for a dream bike: a hand made LaPierre.
That evening Bob wanted to check out the festival site and his route for the next day. The three of us followed the bike shop woman's non-bike-savvy directions and headed out the main road alongside buses and trucks, past the Avon Gare and down to the Seine. It might be an 8 km ride. Once off the main road, you see the big lazy river, then vacation villas of varying grandeur, a couple of riverside cafes, docked yachts, and the island. We stopped to take it in, and Hannah spotted the "Adeline" houseboat we'd seen in St-Martin Canal lock, now moored in a privileged way to the island. Since dusk was approaching and we didn't have lights (or helmets for that matter) we headed back up the long hill past Avon, and home.
Wednesday H and I went to the tourism office to ask the bike route to Barbizon. The nice young tourism lady showed us how to find the trail through Fontainebleau Forest, and made a big circle on the city map that showed the approximate trailhead. Very specific directions to that big circle, and after it, but vagueness in the middle. We stood around perplexed for awhile in that limbo, then backtracked to the edge of INSEAD, an English-speaking business school whose summer students anyway seem to share an inability to speak French. Cute though. Finally we got on the busy road, made a left at the roundabout and up to where the trail crosses. On the way back we realized how easy it would have been if we'd just stayed north on the street that goes past the tourism office.
It is a leisurely hour's ride to Barbizon through the forest, and very much worth it. Mysterious stands of ferns, tall trees, wildflowers, boulders, the ghosts of noblemen pursuing ghost stags. Past the Gorge you descend a long winding hill and then you are in charming Barbizon. A sweet place for an artists' colony. Mosaics of famous local painters' work, including Millet's peasants lounging on haystack, show up along town center walls. We passed a picturesque inn where Robert Louis Stevenson lived and wrote. We had crepe, delicious, at a flower-filled térasse d 'été, along with a version of cappuccino that resembled espresso with canned whipped cream on top. No coffee snob, me. I drank it and liked it, and we sketched the scene in our travel journals.
On our way back up the gorge-view hill, a team of spandex-clad cyclists whizzed down in tight formation. If a child or dog had strayed into their path it would have been curtains for someone. They must have a guardian angel riding point.
Bob came home that day from his bike ride to Samois saying a truck had roared past and nearly creamed him as he tried to hug the curb. Yow. The next day I studied the tourism office map until I found a sweet and easy bike route to Samois.
First we had to get to Fontainebleau/Avon train station from the Gare de Lyon. It took awhile to find the correct Ile-de-France ticket booth, two levels down. It's possible to use a machine on the main floor, but I stood in line awhile before my turn, then realized it would take neither bills nor my Barclay's chip credit card. Once on board it's a 45 minute ride and a short wait for the Number 1 bus marked "Chateau."
We loved our airbnb house in the center of Fontainebleau: right in the center of town, a block from the Chateau and the Festival shuttle bus stop, and on a quiet passage to a pedestrian area of shops and restaurants. The house is very old, with one room on each of the four floors connected by a spiral wooden staircase. Spare and clean, immaculate, good quality kitchen and bathrooms. The host could not have been nicer.
We went right away to the Petite Reine bike shop and got bikes for a week for us three, and the woman gave us a family deal. Originally I got what I'd call a girls' bike with seven gears and a chain that fell off twice. I traded it later for a dream bike: a hand made LaPierre.
That evening Bob wanted to check out the festival site and his route for the next day. The three of us followed the bike shop woman's non-bike-savvy directions and headed out the main road alongside buses and trucks, past the Avon Gare and down to the Seine. It might be an 8 km ride. Once off the main road, you see the big lazy river, then vacation villas of varying grandeur, a couple of riverside cafes, docked yachts, and the island. We stopped to take it in, and Hannah spotted the "Adeline" houseboat we'd seen in St-Martin Canal lock, now moored in a privileged way to the island. Since dusk was approaching and we didn't have lights (or helmets for that matter) we headed back up the long hill past Avon, and home.
Wednesday H and I went to the tourism office to ask the bike route to Barbizon. The nice young tourism lady showed us how to find the trail through Fontainebleau Forest, and made a big circle on the city map that showed the approximate trailhead. Very specific directions to that big circle, and after it, but vagueness in the middle. We stood around perplexed for awhile in that limbo, then backtracked to the edge of INSEAD, an English-speaking business school whose summer students anyway seem to share an inability to speak French. Cute though. Finally we got on the busy road, made a left at the roundabout and up to where the trail crosses. On the way back we realized how easy it would have been if we'd just stayed north on the street that goes past the tourism office.
It is a leisurely hour's ride to Barbizon through the forest, and very much worth it. Mysterious stands of ferns, tall trees, wildflowers, boulders, the ghosts of noblemen pursuing ghost stags. Past the Gorge you descend a long winding hill and then you are in charming Barbizon. A sweet place for an artists' colony. Mosaics of famous local painters' work, including Millet's peasants lounging on haystack, show up along town center walls. We passed a picturesque inn where Robert Louis Stevenson lived and wrote. We had crepe, delicious, at a flower-filled térasse d 'été, along with a version of cappuccino that resembled espresso with canned whipped cream on top. No coffee snob, me. I drank it and liked it, and we sketched the scene in our travel journals.
On our way back up the gorge-view hill, a team of spandex-clad cyclists whizzed down in tight formation. If a child or dog had strayed into their path it would have been curtains for someone. They must have a guardian angel riding point.
Bob came home that day from his bike ride to Samois saying a truck had roared past and nearly creamed him as he tried to hug the curb. Yow. The next day I studied the tourism office map until I found a sweet and easy bike route to Samois.
