Road Trip: Happy New Year from Belgium

One of the realities of making friends in the expatriate community while living abroad is a higher than average likelihood that friends will move on without you. The upside, of course, is that you have friends all over the world. Here are a few photos from our recent day trip to Gent:

Oh, and the chocolate? I'll try to bring back some for sharing, but I can't guarantee its safety on the trip home. 

When in Reims...

It was 1o o'clock in the morning and raining when we arrived at the Gonet winery, but my friend C and I weren't complaining. We'd been in the Champagne region less than 24 hours, and already we'd feasted on prosciutto di Parma and Gouda on French baguette, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee as black as peat. The bus had arrive à l'heure at our lovely hotel on the outskirts of Reims (pronounce a bit like the Engish word 'rince' with your nose pinched), setting in motion the answer to a silent promise we'd made ourselves not so many years ago: we would visit Champagne, husbands be damned. But raining it was, and quiet. The house, completely dark. But we were exactly where we were supposed to be: on the cusp of fulfilling a dream.

Minutes later an elderly man appeared. Monsieur Godet himself, hair still slick from his shower.

"I am sorry," he said, his r's rolling with utmost French civility. "It is a holiday in France today. It is the day we visit the graves. Between my wife's family and my own, we have five to visit. I did not expect you."

He had me at, "I'm sorry." The gentleman was forgiven.

Monsieur Godet escorted us past his large steel vats of this year's stewing juice, to the elevator that took us into his cellar. He showed us the cages where he loaded hundreds of bottles at a time so that the sediment from the wine's second fermentation, that which produces the wine's characteristic bubbles, would settle down to the cork. He showed us the machinery that would later uncork, fill and recork the bottles; the forklift that stacked the cases; and the nooks and crannies where his workers didn't come often enough.

"They work 35 hours per week," he said. "No more." His sigh spoke volumes.

Shortly thereafter he escorted us to his lovely banquet room reserved for tastings. Its windows overlooked rolling hills of vineyards as far as the eye could see. The tables were adorned with handpainted bottles of conspicuous vintage; the walls bore certificates of honour. On a long central table lay a tray of nearly two dozen champagne flutes. Along side were four bottles he'd painstakingly chosen for our pleasure. At the table's center was a large silver spittoon beside a plate of the infamous pink biscuits of Champagne. Let the tastings begin.

He poured his Champagne Reserve Brut to start. It was lovely with fine bubbles and a pale colour. The glasses were filled more than the typical drab afforded by Swiss caves. I was impressed by his generosity. Half way through, I heard the pop as the second bottle opened. Curious to compare, I scanned the room for a place to empty my glass, still half full. I found my way to the center of the table and tipped my flute into the silver spittoon.

The second glass had a remarkable nose. "Honey," we all agreed. I sipped slowly and appreciatively, but when third bottle made it's appearance I turned again for the large silver vessel. I was mid-dump, past the point of no return, when our charming host cried, "Not the vase!"

I can only be grateful that he'd not cried, "Not the urn!" Had I poured his lovely cuvé over the ashes of his dearly departed belle-mère I fear I might not be here to write this post.

I honestly never noticed that I was the only one pouring off my glass. I apologized profusely and for the rest of the day never once poured my coupe into anyone's precious family heirloom.

It was a lesson that I will not soon forget: when in Reims, one drinks.

Road Trip to Andermatt

Andermatt, in the Swiss German part of Switzerland, is 280 kilometers from Geneva. It should have taken three and a half hours to get there by car. It took us seven.

The roads were awful, but manageable with chains.

The Furka Train was the highlight of the journey, burrowing through the mountain as the pass was closed for winter.

But the snow was indeed the highlight of the destination--50cm of fresh powder.
What more can a family of skiers as for?

Snow Day

Avoriaz, France 3:30pm

Potato Week in Barcelona

The tradition of Potato Week or Vacances d'Automne dates back to when children required a week's holiday from school to help out with the harvest. While the demand for child labour has gone the way of the dodo, the week's holiday hasn't. Normally we pass the time in Geneva as the week habitually does not coordinate well with Kirk's work schedule. But this year, with my parents planning a trip to Spain, we decided to 'profitter' and join them.

I had never set foot on Continental Europe prior to moving to Switzerland. Arriving here with two toddlers did little to ignite my desire to travel. Maneuvering strollers over centuries-old cobblestone and tread-worn steps was exhausting. Add to that the innumerable unfenced-yet-oh-so-inviting deathly hazards endemic to European tourist attractions, I was agreeable to day trips, at most. But now that the girls are older I have little excuse. (Apparently being a self-professed homebody doesn't hold water.) So Friday last, Honey was off to the kennel and the following morning we were headed for Spain.

Barcelona is a fabulous city for families having enough to interest both adults and children, often simultaneously. It is the capital of Catalonia, a region of Spain that boasts its own language and culture, much like Canada's Quebec. More than a few times I wished I had a Catalan-English dictionary instead of my inadequate Spanish phrase book. People were friendly and helpful, though, regardless of what language I was butchering.

We visited almost every place on my list of must-see attractions which included the zoo, the aquarium, Parc de Monjuic, La Rambla, Mercat de La Boqueria, and Gaudi's awe-inspiring La Pedrera and Sagrada Familia. We traveled mainly on foot, taking the public metro or the Barcelona Bus Turistic when we wanted to cover a lot of ground quickly. Unfortunately we missed the Palau de la Musica Catalana. Better planning on my part might have had us in the balcony for Mozart's Requiem performed on Tuesday night. Live and learn. But all these attractions aside, Barcelona was about the food.

While there are a few restaurants whose kitchens run non-stop, as a rule dinner is served from 8:30pm onwards. Our girls are normally fast asleep by then, so this required some adjustment on all our parts. The first night Mighty Mouse fell asleep with her head on the table before eating a bite, then almost fell off her chair. The next night she made it until dessert. By Friday we were all accustomed to her after-supper siestas from which she would awake refreshed and ready for the walk home.

As restaurants went, Sinatra,(C/ Heures, 4-10 , Tel. 93 412 52 79) was by far our best find. Tucked down an ignorable little side-street in the Barri Gotic,we would never have found this small Spanish treasure if not for the man handing out flyers at a nearby corner. After a somewhat damp ride atop a double decker bus, we went to Granja M Viader (4 Carrer Xuclà, El Raval. Tel. 93 318 3486) for the most amazing, spoon-coating hot chocolate I've ever had. A few nights later we went to Senyor Parellada (37 Argeneria. Tel. 93 310 50 94) where I savoured L'Arroz Senyor Parellada, their divine version of paella. And as for the sangria, fresh squeezed orange juice and tapas--don't get me started.

Finding food that we thought the girls would like was a bit more challenging. Of course, they were more than willing to live on doughnuts, ice cream and olives had we let them. Unlike Tuscany, menus in Barcelona did not offer kid-friendly pizza or pasta dishes, so we had to experiment, often with success. That said, their favourite restaurant was Trobador where they dined on mounds of pasta bolagnaise. Let's just say their week was a bit lacking in the vegetable department but no one went hungry.

All feasting and frolicking aside, when Saturday morning came I was ready to go home. I missed my book that I'd conveniently forgotten on my bedside table, my well-equipped kitchen and, of course, my dog. It was an incredible week that my taste buds won't soon forget.

Adios amigos!

Oh, Canada

It's hard to beat trans-Atlantic air travel for its ability to keep one seated before a blank page. Perhaps that is what my office at home is missing: a seatbelt and altitude.

Nestled in the heartland of economy class, I am highly aware that I share precious armrest space with Goliath, my row mate. At least I'm on the aisle, I think, until I discover that Goliath has a bladder more befitting of David. To be truthful, I can't complain. No one who's ever done this daytime flight with two preschoolers can really object to having to void one's seat periodically for the retention challenged. With no bottoms to wipe or meat to cut, I am plagued by the decisions of the independent traveler: comedy or thriller? Chicken or beef? Red or white? I'm relaxing already.

In six hours I will be landing in Canada, the country that still means home to me. My cousin is getting married, hence my foray into international travel. When we moved to Switzerland three years ago, my husband and I promised that we'd go back whenever we felt we should. Well, I've been 'feeling' a lot this year, as our credit card statements can attest. But family is family and some things cannot be missed. On my return I expect to be grounded for the balance of the year. Maybe... The chicken curry was delicious.

So, with that I bid you farewell. My in-flight entertainment awaits.