Month: August 2017

Despite being humiliated at the last wine tasting effort, or perhaps because of it, I was determined to get back on the horse and go and find some vinyards.  This time I was bringing not one but two wing men.  One older and wiser, Rick, and one young and impressionable, Zach.  This I felt would either keep me out of trouble and lend a guiding hand or will show me to be a caring father to the French whose children are presumably indoctrinated to the world of wine when on the bottle of the baby kind.  After scanning the google and relying on recommendations from Rick’s landlady we lined up a couple of vintners to see. Reservations not required.  We were just going to roll up.

GPS set we left in search of Domaine Ruffinatto.  The fact that their website did not have their exact address and that the Holy Grail is better sign posted should have warned us of a potentially frosty reception.  After a few wrong turns we managed to find the place and pulled in.   As our research had suggested this is a no fanfare vineyard which was exactly what I was looking for.   Tractors in the yard, bits and pieces lying around and at least four barking dogs tied up at various places.   No doubt guarding the vintners secrets.

As we pulled up, a wife beater wearing man in his late 70’s, to be generous, came up to us and in what I assume to be French seemed fairly pleased to see us.  Arthritic hand outstretched he enthusiastically welcomed us to his vineyard.  After sufficient smiling and nodding we managed to convey that we would love to taste his wine.  Biensur he replied and took us to a small table outside the farmhouse kitchen.  This was fantastic.  Authentic, geniune.  A real experience.  Oh how I had no idea what was coming.

He seemed to ask if we were from a restaurant, should have given us a warning, no we replied.  He disappeared and out came his wife to take over.  She said lots to us but little made much sense.  She gave us our first wine to taste and kept talking pleasantly.  Her son usually did the tastings apparently but he was very busy.  Just then a young women arrived and without missing a beat the lady of the house explained the women was here to do her hair. The wine business must be going well when one’s hairdresser makes house calls!  The husband was now back in.  Out came another four bottles or varying colors and tastes and all very good.  Rick became great friends with the red.  Thinking that I should ask a question I attempted to find out what grapes the wine was made of.  Clearly I did a poor job of this because the answer that came back took me on a journey through his family tree and how he was from Spain but his wife from Italy, or the other way round.

All was going well.  Zach was being introduced to his first grapes and Rick and I were settling in.  After a while it became evident that we were not going to get out of here without buying couple of bottles so Rick stepped up. We are asked if we could buy some and our landlord enthusiastically stood to attention with pen and paper at the ready.  Rick listed out his two bottles and then everything went black.  The air went cold, the clouds blackened and the wind picked up.  I promise you have never been cussed out until you have had a few choice words from a disapproving Provençal / Spanish / Italian vintner. Two bottles was clearly not enough.  In and out of the house he stormed coming back each time more heated than the last.  He delivered the bottles with force and the tyraid continued.  I felt the blood vanish from my face and my palms go cold.  If it came down to it, Zach was on his own.

The benefits of having a wingman is that they compensate for your shortfallings.  Rick had spent his life in the Navy dodging bullets and looking after the Queen. A disgruntled wine grower was apparently nothing to be alarmed about.  In Fringlish, that is only ever spoken after a few glasses of wine, Rick calmly pointed out that we would have loved to buy more wine but we were leaving on a plane and couldn’t take any more with us.  Like the parting of the Red Sea, the winds calmed, the clouds parted and the warming sun reappeared.  This was apparently absolutely understandable.   We got up, Rick called into the kitchen to bid the wife (who was by now laidned down with curlers) farewell and we all parted as best of friends.

As Tom Cruise reminds us, never leave your wingman.

The tougher than expected transition into French life cannot be shaken and no matter what we do we, or perhaps more accurately I, seem to be push us further down hill as we attempt to claw our way up the ladder of acceptance.

We had heard about a fantastic winery that had a wine store where one can buy a 5 or 10ltr drum and with literally a gas pump hose in hand fill it with your favorite plonk. This holy grail is called Sylla. (Aptly familiar sounding name of an enthusiastic wine drinker I know).

Arriving at this winery gas station I left the crew in the car and entered. Wine out of a gas pump shouldn’t be a tough place to navigate but I had clearly underestimated how serious the French take their wine. As I walked in I was surrounded by the full Sylla spread in bottles, boxes and gas pump. There were people lining up bottles to taste, others eating a wine pairing lunch and others talking knowledgeably to the sommelier on hand. Showing up in a sweaty t-shirt and dirty shorts with sunglasses balancing on my head left me much to be desired and consequently few people came running to ask if they could help.
It was time to take the matter into my own hands and so I walked up and asked it I could taste the gas pumped wine. Disapprovingly she sent me the bar. I straightened my t-shirt, centered my sunglasses and confidently headed over. The som looked round and with a sigh asked if he could help. I asked for a taste of his very best gas pumped rose and reluctantly he poured the smallest tasting he could. I had seen a Belgium couple in action who were swigging and spitting with confidence so I was keen to get this right. I took a sip, squelched, sucked and grinned and then as delicately as possible spat in the very fashionable oversized Bordeaux glass next to me. The som gave me a look that would flatten Medusa and sarcastically pointed to the actual spit bucket located 12″ to my right. I had spat in the decoration.

I needed to regain some kind of face so asked to try the more expensive rose. This did little to gain me brownie points as I was now clearly classified as the “cheap-bastard-who-has-no-idea-what-he-is-doing-and-is-going-to-make-me-work-even-harder.” More squelching, sucking and grinning took place until thirty minutes later I departed with two bottles of the good stuff and five liters of the pumped stuff. The women at the checkout was clearly not fooled and was happy to see me leave.

It had been a hot day and so it was time for the communal pool in St Martin de Castillon. The boys were over excited which meant stern conversations about good behavior followed by unrealistic threats if they failed to do so. As we approached the pool we noticed how few board shorts were being worn but having spent four weeks in Italy we were used to this. We paid our dues and walked into the changing area. One is then required to walk through a toe bath of sorts and a sign that clearly states you required are to shower prior to entering the pool. Having been dealt a tough hand in the wine store I was keen to get this right but had lost all confidence. We waited for someone to walk through first and in true form someone barged past us and walked through toe bath with flip flops on ignoring the shower sign. Wearing ones shoes did seem counter productive to attempts to stay clean but pretending like we owned the place we marched forward with flip flops on and never stopped to shower.

As we came through the other side you could feel heads turn and glare. To make matters worse we were rather unceremoniously flagged down by the life guard. With confidence I said bonjour. He looked at me pointedly and in a grave tone asked if I had les shorts courts. What should have been a simple question to answer I suddenly found myself having an internal dialogue on how does one define “short shorts.” This surely is a matter of perspective. The best answer I could come up with was j’ai ces shorts. He shook his head sadly but told me that he would let us swim today but tomorrow we would need to have our own short shorts. Realizing that this was not a question of fashion but a legal requirement I was keen to get this conversation over with though I had to ask “why?” Was this a hygienic thing? I should never had asked. All I heard was non, mais… followed by mumbling that went on for eternity. At some point before closing he stopped and released us to find a spot in the shade.p and the onlookers returned to whatever they were doing before we arrived.  We were back down to ignorant tourist status.

Trying to anticipate further upsets we sent off four rather bemused boys to enjoy the pool as long as they did not jump, run, talk, breath, swim or even get wet.  It didn’t take long until we came across a couple from Battersea whose husband’s family grew up here and he told us that short shorts were required at public swimming pools.  Why, you may well ask but it seems few have the answer. Certainly no Battersea or lifeguard. After much research Camilla found this pocket of information. Despite this set back we thought we would try our luck again the next day and via a quick trip to the hypermarche we arrived fully clad in our family “budgie smugglers.” We came, we saw, we swam.

Feeling that we were starting to blend in we didn’t want to upset this delicate balance so we thought it best that Zach change in the changing rooms when it was time to go home. The changing rooms were co-ed with co-ed restrooms to boot. This, I thought was progressive, but then so were some of the female swimsuits around the pool. As I was finishing getting changed a women came into the changing room and Nico suddenly appeared as if by magic loudly announcing his desire to pee.
“So go pee” I rather unhelpfully said.
“But where do I go” said Nico
“In the loo, dear Liza, dear Liza in the loo” I equally unhelpfully retorted.
“But I don’t want to go in the loo” came the reply. I was quickly losing ground and as I was grappling with the logic that all of a sudden my son could only pee in a urinal Zach upped and left. Zipping up my shorts I demanded he come back.
“No!” He shrieked back. Feeling my temperature rise as the farce that was starting to unveil in front of our new community I insisted on knowing why. “Because you change these cubicles here Dad!”

A child that couldn’t use the loo and a father who changes in public. Our status sank to new lows.

 

 

“You do that again and I am sending you back to America.” It was only a matter of time until these hallow words would be uttered…or yelled. Clearly as these syllables echoed around the house our collective minds were filled with a few logistical questions, one of which was probably how do we get a lawyer to bail us out.

It had been a long-ish day as somehow we are struggling to find our groove in France. Ironically I thought this would be easier than Italy. We had an ominous start with a delay leaving Genova that forced us to change tickets for our connecting train. Interestingly as we finally pulled into Nice the driver of the train was quick to point out the delay was due to issues in Milan where the train started and not due to his slow driving. This was the same tactic that was used when I was delayed coming back from the states. The pilot of Air France was quick to blame the delayed take off on airport logistics. Nothing like a good washing of one’s hands to ensure that blame is fairly and squarely placed elsewhere!

Our first dinner in St Martin de Castillon was a perilous one as meals took about an hour and half to arrive but thanks to UNO and a liter of wine we struggled through. With pent up excitement the next morning I ran down to the village shop and loaded up on French sugared cereal, pain au chocolat and a fist full of croissants. After receiving what could only be described as questionable looks from my marie the kids loaded up with sugar and I felt content in that it was at least French sugar. We spent the rest of the day paying for it and so I suppose the later threats of being sent home were inevitable.

One would think that the morning’s sugar fest punctuated with the immanent change of airline tickets would be enough to call it an early night but apparently the idea of going to a village fair where one can burn off the huge amounts of cotton candy available on two different bouncy houses and a buckin’ bronco is irresistible. Camilla opted to stay behind and re-group.

We headed down to the fair ground and found everyone sitting waiting for dinner and no one on the rides. I saw a notice that said tickets needed to be booked by August 5th. On breaking this news we had four melt downs of varying degrees. Niko went quiet which made me nervous, Rufus was upset he missed the parade despite me telling him this was a fair and there was no parade and hoping desperately that that would fix concern. He didn’t catch on. Jake fell apart as wailing and gnashing of teeth proceeded the bad news and Zach kept telling me to go ask someone if we can still go. He annoyingly keep making very valid points about how one typically pays on a per ride basis so the ticket thing didn’t make sense and that perhaps they take walk-in reservations anyway.

The thought of trying to ask a carnie in my broken French if, of all people us Brits, could gate crash their party filled me with dread and a longing to be the one sent back to America. For about the 27th time that day I caved and went to find the least intimidating carnie to ask if the fair was pour tout le monde to which she replied  “biensur.”  Clearly wondering if I had never been to a fair before she laboriously explained that we paid on a per ride basis just like any other fair in the world and  upon finding out that I had four children proceeded to enlighten me to the benefits of her ride.

I politely excused myself and went back to the kids who were standing with fingers crossed. Rufus was quick to announce that he had crossed his fingers so hard they had turned white. I delivered the good news to a huge roar and was greeted as a hero for about a second and then boys ran to their first ride. I was overcome with a wave of guilt of how close I had gotten to not even trying to ask.

The rides were a hit. What had seemed like another questionable parenting decision to go in the first place was paying off. Euro after Euro was shed. I was bouncing back from one carnie to the next having lengthy conversations about what I am not sure desperately trying to understand their thick accents. Whatever was discussed must have gone well as they never flinched when the Beevor Boys came bounding up for another turn and at one point we even scored four free bracelet decorating kits. As our college fund was going down, their’s was going up.

The inevitable was about to happen; we had to leave but to soften the blow another dubious parenting decision was made as promises of a return visit were delivered. Just as we turned to leave Camilla arrived having been released from her self imposed timeout and we are all back to flying home on the same day….until the next fair night.

The Italians have style, panache and finess and this allows them to get away with proverbial murder.

Take the very small espresso. A drink that is as critical to their very survival as tea is to the Brits, it is not the most manly of beverages but yet the gruffest of men turn this dainty beverage into a frat boy slammer.

At our local Gelateria we are welcomed with the same level of dread as the cafe at the top of the hill. Those working at the Gelateria, being more eloquent than Rufus, are not concerned about language barriers but rather the Herculean effort it will take to have orders placed. Apparently 25 minutes is the standard amount of time required for four boys to settle on one flavor each before we can take our customary seat at the long table in the back. The very back. Out of site. Out of mind. There, four gelatos, one espressina fredo (don’t challenge the spelling) and one large bottle of fizzy water are consumed with a fever and attention that is rarely seen.

On one such occasion I heard the door of the café open and in strolled four boisterous lads, each well over six feet, looking like they were ready to down a few pints. With chests puffed they march up to the bar and ordered four itsie-bitsie-teenie-weenie espressos. The dichotomy of these massive human beings ordering a drink in a toy sized cup did not go unnoticed. As the drinks were poured four massive hands came out and with pinky fingers standing to attention they took their first delicate sip.
Somehow what should have looked ridiculous was as imposing as shots of tequila.

I would never be able to make  Emma Bridgwater look this rebellious!

While Italians do swim in a pool of style and charisma they have some questionable choices of clothing, but when the pool is deep and you can swim who cares! We are all guilty of bad clothing. Take the take top. A small amount of cloth that is rarely washed and under which is an alleged six pack and out of which protrude alleged defined arms; the result of a dedicated gym goer….. or moonshine distiller. The Italian counter part in contrast chooses the speedo which in interchangeable with running shorts, though he would never dream of actually running. Now, the problem with many small items of clothing is that they are not good for holding one’s wallet and iPhone. To overcome this indisposition the Italians proudly carry their man’s bag.  Some carry an option that is slung on a diagonal across the shoulder while others, in an attempt to avoid tan lines, choose what looks suspiciously like a re-used camera bag that is strapped to their hip and then lashed around their upper thigh as if they are ready for war. It is not uncommon to see the door to the cafe swing open and there with light beaming down upon him and the sound track of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly playing a bronzed shirtless man will enter the room and with the swagger of Clint Eastwood saddle up to the bar to order his macho espresso….with his man’s bag strapped to the hip. If there is a female at the bar she will inevitable swivel on her stool, eye his pouch and swoon. No sunburned Brit could pull this off and for sure no German or Dutch has ever triumphed.

Espressos can be enjoyed everywhere and anywhere and the quality is never in question even at highway rest stops. While driving to Siena from Puglia we found that these rest stops were far more than a place to empty bladders and fill tanks. Here one can buy snacks, souvenirs, toys, and in fact do most of your grocery shopping. If, however, it is stifling hot and your nerves are frayed from near fatal crashes you may be inclined to trade the afternoon espresso for a long cold Peroni.  Indeed these rest stops welcome you with a full bar ready to help you unwind. It is quite normal to see a couple of old timers leaning casually against the bar blowing off the heads of a couple of cold ones. This doesn’t in anyway seem to be a conflict of interest to road or personal safety and beers are consumed at a slow and leisurely pace. If, after your beer, you suddenly realize that you are fresh out of hair gel, condoms and cream for your herpes, don’t panic, the rest stop has you covered. It is truly full service and only plausible in Italy.

With confidence and grace, the Italians prove you can get away with anything.