On a spring or summer day, when you find yourself seeking a unique experience after enjoying many of the sights and sounds of Cannes, drive away from the Riviera and enter the interior of the French Riviera. With the windows open and less-traveled country roads, you will soon sense a change in the air. The enticing and invisible scents of jasmine, mimosa, lavender and others assail your senses as you drive past open fields and gardens of flowers bathing beneath an intensely blue Provençal sky. You will turn a bend in the road and feel a slight disappointment while leaving the fields behind, but will soon see rising on a hill before you, the celebrated town of Grasse. You are about to enter The Perfume Capital of France.

Grasse

Grasse is a modest-appearing town, but it has a rich heritage in French history and a reputation par-excellence in the world of perfumery.

But Grasse wasn’t always noted for its pleasing scents! During the Middle Ages, it was a major tanning center, renowned for the quality of its leather goods. Much of that success was due to the small canal that ran through the city, providing ample water for the tanneries and a route for selling the tanned leather to distant markets. Unfortunately, a rather powerful, nasty and invasive odor was the bi-product of the tanning efforts. Here, major leather accessories were created. Most popular were belts and gloves needed to fuel the fashion trends led by Queen Catherine de Medici. She complained – according to legend – about the stench from the tanning processes coming off the gloves!

Jean de Galimard, a tanner in Grasse, came up with the idea of scented leather gloves. He gave a pair to Catherine de Medici, who was enraptured by them. Quickly, scented gloves spread throughout the Royal Court and high society, creating a powerful reputation for Grasse. As a result, many farmers around Grasse turned to growing a variety of scented flowers to combat the stench of the tanned leather products, leading in 1614 to the king officially supporting a corporation of “glovers perfumers.” However, high taxes on leather and competition from Nice brought a decline for the leather industry in Grasse, and production of leather fragrances ceased.

Perfume capital

By the middle of the eighteenth century, the perfumery industry became a genuine business able to use innovative production methods adapted to increasing market demands. The perfume industry became a profitable and formidable force in France. Several of the earliest companies are still major economic forces today. Galimard, established in 1747, is the oldest French perfumery and the third oldest in Europe.

Due to increased consumer demand and limited supplies, by the nineteenth century, the factories began to import raw materials. The ever-increasing demands from the public led to synthetic products being used in the creation of perfumes, as well as in related products such as deodorants, hand lotions and body creams, shampoos and detergents. Scents were also added to various dairy products, pastries, creams and soaps as well as syrups and preserves, drinks, and ice cream, among many others.

The rare scents from the fields and gardens of Grasse led to the town becoming known as The Perfume Capital of the World. The town still enjoys an international reputation in the perfume industry and is the home of dozens of fragrance companies. Even the flowers used for making the world-famous Chanel N°5 are grown and harvested there.

Explore the world of perfume

The best way to appreciate Grasse and the perfume industry is to take a guided group or personal tour through one of the ursines (factories). This way, you gain an in-depth understanding of how perfumes and other fragrances are created and revel in the scent of exquisite samples available for purchase at the end of the tour.

You can even create your own fragrance. Several of the perfumeries offer workshops, including Galimard, Fragonard, and Molinard. A perfumer or “Nez” (Nose), an expert in the field of creating essences, after studying and training perhaps longer than a doctor, will help you. They possess exceptional skills at identifying several thousand unique scents. To protect that specialized talent, they must not smoke, drink or eat foods which might affect their olfactory skills. Workshops may include the process of deciding from among more than 100 scents: Peak Note (top note), Heart Note (middle note), and Base Note. The Nez will then have you smell several perfumes or fragrances and decide which you prefer. With each step, the added scents change the fragrance; also, over a few weeks, the overall fragrance will evolve.

At the end you are given a bottle of your custom fragrance. You can even order more of it as your ingredients are recorded.

What to see in Grasse

Learn more about the history of perfumes in the Musée International de la Parfumerie (International Museum of Perfume) covering more than 3,000 years of perfume history.

You can also explore Old Grasse, which has medieval ruins, 17th and 18th century buildings, enclosed town squares and the Cathédral Notre-Dame-du-Puy containing paintings Rubens and Fragonard. Other sites include the Hôtel de Ville (former Bishop’s Palace, now City Hall), the Monument aux Morts (war memorial), and the Jardin de la Princesse Pauline (garden).

There is also a Musée d’Art et d’Histoire de Provence, which covers the art and history of eastern Provence, while the Musée Provençal du Costume et du Bijou has a collection of Provençal clothing and jewelry from the 18th and 19th centuries. There is also the Jean-Honoré Fragonard Villa-Musée, once the home of the French artist Fragonard. The Musée de la Marine offers insights into the life of the 18th century Grasse seaman, François-Joseph Paul; it also details his role in the American Revolution.

Two annual festivals are also worth enjoying. In May is the international Expo Rose and in early August the Fete du Jasmin or la Jasminade which celebrates the jasmine flower.

By John Pekich  producer, director, actor and writer, especially of original Sherlock Holmes and Victorian Mysteries in Cape May, New Jersey, USA

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Mike Zampa, an American in France, takes a tongue in cheek approach to famous French haute cuisine!

I’ve discovered a new eating disorder. It’s called France. I’ve been here seven weeks. I’ve gained eight kilos.

How have I done it?  By overindulging in the three basic French food groups:

• Charcuterie – processed meats chased with cheese
• Patisserie – desserts spiked with custard and cream
• Misery – the course that comes after charcuterie and patisserie

In my long career as a human, I’ve eaten a lot. And I’ve learned a few things: 1: Quantity…not quality. 2: Start with the outside fork – unless you’re eating mashed potatoes and peas, then moosh them together with your knife. 3: The only perfect food in nature is macaroni and cheese.

But nothing prepared me for France. Lunch can last four hours. Dinner could take five. And that’s if you don’t eat the little chocolate nibbles that come with the check.

Yet, it sometimes seems that the French all weigh 120 pounds. How do they do it? By not eating between meals. The French pride themselves on freshness. They shop daily for basics: olives marinated in oil and garlic, tapenade marinated in oil and garlic, garlic marinated in oil and garlic. That last one is no joke. The garlic neutralizes the garlic.

French cuisine is regional. In the Southwest, it’s duck or cassoulet. Brittany has mussels/oysters. Paris features haute cuisine. There’s no comparable term in English, but haute cuisine refers to the bill. Probably.

Eating in France can be perilous. You’ve got to know what you’re doing. Here are three hints to help you avoid common pitfalls.

No. 1 – Speak a language you know. I used fractured French to order the local aperitif Lillet. They brought milk. “Mon dieu!” I exclaimed. They brought two more milks.

No. 2 – Study the vendors at outdoor markets before approaching. We wanted honey from a local producer. She held out a squirt bottle of hand sanitizer as I browsed. Only it wasn’t hand sanitizer. It was the honey. Insider tip: don’t wash your hands in honey on a hot day. It attracts flies.

No. 3 – Leave extra time when shopping for yogurt. The super marché near us has two cold boxes filled with yogurt. Each is 25 yards long. Each is five shelves high. Using the Pythagorean theory of quantum cultured dairy product calculation, that’s 6,289 kinds of French yogurt. Insider tip: stick with cottage cheese.

The French will cook anything. And it’s usually good. But sometimes, a little marketing helps.  For instance, snails are called escargot. Gizzards are gesiers. They don’t have a name for tripe, but then they can’t explain why anyone would cook a cow’s intestine.

French cuisine is considered the world’s finest thanks to one ingredient: butter. I’m told it makes any dish taste better. I wouldn’t know. I eat it straight out of the wrapper. Sometimes I spread croissant over it to add complexity.

In conclusion – white asparagus. This is a revered French delicacy. It’s cultivated under black plastic to achieve the bloodless color.  “We’re raised on it from childhood,” explained our young French friend Joseph from Strasbourg. “But it’s not healthy because of the three dipping sauces we have with it.”

He didn’t elaborate on the sauces but here are my guesses: chocolate, crème fraiche and chocolate with crème fraiche.

You see the problem? Even legumes cause hardening of the arteries in France. So, it’s time for a break. We’re going to northwest France. We’ll order Tripe a la Mode de Caen. You can’t get fat on something you can’t eat.

Mike Zampa is a communications consultant and retired newspaper editor and columnist splitting time, along with his wife, between Southwest France and the San Francisco Bay Area

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Our home is perched overlooking the Dordogne River in the small hamlet of Vitrac Port in Southwest France.  Life and conversation are centered around the river and as the seasons change there is much discussion about whether the river has ever been this high or this low or this full of canoeing tourists or swans. We never have to worry about flooding, well… never say never, but the house sits on a rocky cliff endowed with the view of the river and a large island that is the home to hundreds of ducks, herons, geese, and countless other birds with their litany of bird song, peeps, and squawks; a certified bird sanctuary thanks to one of our neighbors.

The lure of fog is hard to resist even if the light peeking through the bedroom curtains makes it seem a lot earlier than seven in the morning. I grab my camera, put on my rubber boots, bundle up, and head down to the river.

The Dordogne River in winter is a monochromatic dream of overhanging dew-laden dark woods surrounded by thick fog which hovers tenderly over the river’s banks. Shooting black and white is clearly the way to go when nature has already dictated the palate. The film gives the pictorial a timeless feeling, capturing one of nature’s glorious gifts which for eternity has taken place on the river’s edge.

You might get lucky enough if the light breaks through just right to get that perfect reflection in the river where a half-submerged boat poses for you.

I was not the only one braving the mist and the chill, a boatman committed to his old river friend is giving him a tune up, stripping off the peeling varnish and wood and bringing the boat back to life, ready for new adventures on the river. I peek around a tree hoping to get a few shots and not disturb his solitude much like one would when photographing a rare bird. And just a few bends in the river away, luck is with me as I spy a boat just barely floating amidst the reflection of wind-swept trees.  Click, click, click.

As the sun starts to peak through, I venture further down the road and find an estate with its imposing entrance gates wide open, revealing a tree-lined driveway, offering a glimpse of the wealth and prestige of the mansion inside from a bygone era. I focus on the massive pillars which support the ornate gates and have welcomed visitors for centuries and rise like monuments from the giant front lawn that is several hectares.

The fog filters the sun just enough to make it a large spotlight casting a soft mysterious light over the landscape, giving the driveway, the imposing gates, and columns the timeless feel of another era.

The blue sky starts to dispel the fog and the sun wins to make it another beautiful Dordogne day. The magic time has passed and I am proud of myself for getting out of bed and not putting it off for another day. I hurry back to the house and jump back in bed to get warm and shut my eyes to dream of my memories of mist.

By Cynthia Royce, photographer and co-author of The Road to Villa Page (read our review here) a memoir about buying a dream home in Dordogne and the adventures that follow.

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The Musèe des Beaux-Arts Nancy is an art gallery of serenity and charm, situated amid the 18^th century classical magnificence of the Place Stanislas. The gallery features a number of paintings by Émile Friant, an artist who was born in 1863 in the nearby north-eastern Commune of Dieuze. Never heard of Friant? That’s understandable today, but during his own lifetime Friant’s career as an artist was crowned with public acclaim, culminating in the award of the Legion of Honour when he was just 25 years old.

By the time of his death in 1932, Friant’s artistic star had dimmed and he became a somewhat forgotten man – a relic of the once-fashionable style of Naturalism, which typically portrayed in a realistic mode the lives of ordinary French people at work and at leisure. Although artistic taste and fashion moved on, the enduring qualities of Friant’s artistic talent have retained their ability to move and involve us today. That is, if only we can pause to really look and contemplate, which the tranquil atmosphere of the gallery in Nancy enables us to do.

La Petite Barque

A painting of Friant’s that richly rewards such contemplation is La Petite Barque (or The Little Boat) from 1895. True to his individual Naturalistic style, the focal point of the painting – the two figures seated in the boat – are near-photographic in their clarity, indicating their central importance to the composition. The further we move outwards in all directions from the two figures, the softer the focus becomes – for instance, the top of the hoisted mainsail becomes quite fuzzy as our eyes travel upwards.

In terms of colour, the sails – presumably made of flax canvas – are just off-white, but it’s the dazzling white outfits of the figures, who we might take to be sweethearts, that really enliven the whole scene. We might speculate that the sweethearts are sitting before a blank canvas upon which they can create and illustrate their future lives together – in their own ‘little boat’ – beginning from a position of tranquil optimism.

As part of his Naturalist outlook in painting, Friant spoke of his desire to capture quietly expressed but profoundly felt emotions. That aspiration finds its artistic expression in La Petite Barque, where Friant presents us with a momentary mood of complete serenity. Yet we can see that the boat is not becalmed: there is a perceptible wake in the water behind the tiller and the sails are taut in a light breeze. That is to say, life is not static, it moves with nature, but we can exercise a degree of influence over our direction. While their boat gently progresses – literally towards the water outside of the picture frame – the sweethearts might be sharing a few soft words and we can see from their postures that they are utterly relaxed in each other’s intimate company. Incidentally, in this instance and unusually for the era, it’s the female who has her guiding hand on the tiller.

The art of togetherness

In the Russian language, there is a small but evocative word pronounced as ‘mir.’ It can be taken to concurrently mean ‘peace’, ‘village’ (or ‘community’) and ‘world.’ Through many generations in the past, the multiple meanings of ‘mir’ provided ordinary, provincial Russian people with a sense of well-being and shared experiences in their small worlds. In La Petite Barque we are, of course, in France rather than Russia. Yet there appears to be a pronounced feeling of the multi-layered ‘mir’ in this painting, projecting as it does the loving peacefulness of two people who inhabit a small world of their own, sailing together into a future they will create with and for each other.

The Musée des Beaux-Arts is located at 3 Place Stanislas, Nancy, Grand Est. Being somewhat removed from the conventional tourist trails in France, Nancy offers a less hectic French experience. ‘Crowds’ at the Musée des Beaux-Arts tend to number in the dozens rather than the thousands, giving you the time, space and the opportunity to contemplate some highly accomplished works of art.

By Brad Allan, writer and wine tasting host in Melbourne, Australia and frequent visitor to France…

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I jog occasionally. Friends call that an overstatement. More slog than jog, they say. Nevertheless, I like to slip on trainers, work up a sweat, then wait for the paramedics. I’ve jogged all over Asia, Europe and North America. But here in France I get incredulous stares. You’d think they’ve never seen fuchsia sweatshirts or day-glo leggings.

Not many people jog where I live in the Dordogne Valley. It’s hilly. In French, Dordogne means land that oxygen forgot. The hills above our valley are high. From the top, you can see all the way to consciousness. Sherpas train there off-season. One doesn’t so much run up these hills as do the walk of the living dead.

The rivers of France are perfect for jogging alongside. Almost. Take the Dordogne River near our house. It has an idyllic dirt path along the bank. Low-hanging trees shade it. One of them garrotted me the other day. Spreadeagled in the sylvan countryside, I could hear the river babbling. Or my throat gurgling – in that condition one can’t distinguish.

Lyon has two rivers. Some people ask why. I think it’s so joggers have options. The only other route goes straight up 10,000 steps to the Basilica of Notre Dame de Fourviere. The view – and the climb – are breath-taking. Many people stop to pray at the Basilica – for an escalator.

Paris has the ultimate river run – the Seine. From the river’s edge you can jog past the Louvre, Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower. Surprisingly, not many do it. The reason: cobblestones. Vast stretches of the Seine’s lower bank are paved with cobblestones. Have you tried running on them? Imagine shooting the rapids in a buckboard. It’s the same thing.

There’s a scene in “Charade” with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn on a bateau mouche. They train a searchlight on lovers cuddled along the banks of the Seine. Only the clandestine couples aren’t canoodling. They’re rubbing ankles sprained on cobblestones.

But here’s the irony: Not too far from the Seine is jogger’s paradise – the Luxembourg Gardens. This is the exquisite, 56-acre, left-bank oasis beloved by Hemingway, Jean Valjean and Marie de Medici. That last one built a stunning palace in the Jardin that’s today the seat of the French Senate.

Nearly every jogger in France runs around the Luxembourg Gardens. With good reason. It has leafy glades, stunning fountains and patisseries across the street that open early. The path around the Luxembourg Gardens is 1.3-miles long. Police and military recruits circumnavigate the course daily. So do 90-year-old grandmas. They’re all faster than me.

So, I try to trick them. I jog before sunrise when they’re asleep. Sadly, the Jardin doesn’t open till 7:30 a.m. That leaves me running the sidewalks outside the stately wrought-iron fence. Even grand buveurs staggering down Boulevard Saint Michele after a long night zip past at speeds I can’t match. I don’t mind. There’s no better way to see this beautiful city – or country – than on foot.

Mike Zampa is a communications consultant and retired newspaper editor and columnist splitting time, along with his wife, between Southwest France and the San Francisco Bay Area

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François Mitterrand was in trouble. Elected president two years earlier, in 1981, on the promise of a “French road to socialism,” things had not gone as planned. Perhaps he had gone too far, too fast, but within a year the French franc had collapsed and he was forced to make a U-turn. Then came an austerity program, and his popularity plunged.

Mitterrand decided to do what many unpopular politicians have done: go on a foreign junket. He could strut about the world stage, show presidential leadership, and generally try to change the subject.

He picked neighboring Switzerland as his destination. It would be the first state visit by a French president in nearly 75 years—a nice way to capture headlines. And Switzerland being such a calm and safe country, what could possibly go wrong?

A Symbol of Friendship

Mitterrand visited several Swiss cities, including Zurich, Basel, and the capital Bern. And because the Swiss president was from Neuchâtel, he visited that city, too, where a grand dinner was held in his honor.

Neuchâtel is famous as the birthplace of absinthe, that anise-flavored liqueur with a reputation for causing madness—some claim it’s why Vincent van Gogh to cut off his ear! For many years, absinthe had been produced both in Neuchâtel and just across the border in France. Known as the “green fairy,” it had been a popular drink during the Belle Epoque, then banned early in the 20^th century before being legalized 20 years ago.

At the time of Mitterrand’s visit, absinthe was still illegal in both France and Switzerland. But the chef in charge of the dinner saw it as a symbol of the friendship between Neuchâtel and France. He decided to whip up a special dessert, using absinthe, of course.

A Close Call

When the guests arrived at the grand dinner, they were astounded to see soufflé à la fée verte (green fairy soufflé) on the menu. The Swiss president feared an international incident, but by then it was too late to change. And so the dinner began.

Luckily, with the help of some interminable toasts, the dinner ran long and Mitterrand had to leave before dessert was served. Still, the incident received a lot of press in both countries, and the chef later went to prison for his offense.

Unfortunately for Mitterrand, his big foreign trip did nothing to improve his popularity…except perhaps among some clandestine absinthe makers.

If you’d like to try a taste of the green fairy, here’s a recipe for the infamous dessert.

Keith and Val Van Sickle live part of the year in St-Rémy-de-Provence and have traveled widely throughout the region. Keith is the author of An Insider’s Guide to Provence (read our review).  

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At some time, you might have found yourself at the wrong end of some vigorous finger-pointing, along with an old saying being directed at you, ‘There’s a time and place for everything!’ Whatever it was that you said or did, you had apparently broken a convention – or an ‘unwritten rule’ – concerning acceptable behaviour in a situation. As we come to learn, while conventions give moral permission or blessing to some behaviours, they can also express disapproval and impose constraints.

Conventions have long been in place in European art: it has not always been the case that ‘(almost) anything goes.’ Let’s consider the conventions around smiling and laughter in art. Pause for a moment and think if you can recall any classic sculpture or painting that depicts a person laughing or smiling while showing their teeth. Difficult, isn’t it?

That’s because for several centuries in Western art, the convention in sculpture and most especially in painting was that any person depicted smiling, laughing or even simply with their mouth open was assumed to be either drunk, insane, a glutton, a sleeping snorer, a low life, in terror, possessed or suffering pain. Combinations of these characteristics were considered as being unsuitable for the creation of great art. There are no laws controlling techniques in art: no-one would have been arrested for producing creating a sculpted head with a toothy grin. But it rarely ever happened, because conventional art lovers (and buyers) would have been repulsed.

Maurice-Quentin de la Tour

But artists are often contrarianed and from time to time they take the opportunity to challenge conventions – sometimes in strangely subversive ways. The French painter, Maurice-Quentin de La Tour, was a talented ‘court painter.’ Around the middle years of the 1700s, he made a comfortable living by painting lively though conventional portraits of the French aristocracy in and around Paris. His famous sitters included King Louis XV, Madame de Pompadour and the philosophers Voltaire and Rousseau. With quite a few of them, La Tour managed to find a faint smile, although the lips were never parted.

La Tour himself was by all accounts a bit of an eccentric character with a madcap humorous streak in his personality. When it came to creating his self-portrait, he unleashed his sense of humour upon himself. In this case, he used pastels drawn on paper, mounted on canvas: for shorthand, we’ll call it a painting. His first subversion of convention began with the frame. As we can see, he is leaning out of an oeil-de-boeuf or bull’s eye window frame from which the glass has mysteriously vanished. He has thus provided himself with a painted circular frame inside the canvas, knowing that a squared-up wooden frame would be applied to the painting later. Hmm… perhaps a self-aware case of a being round peg in a square hole… or of providing a window into his odd personality.

Self-portraits are typically serious affairs, often being painted in a mirrored reflection with artists holding their own brushes. None of that for La Tour. His index finger is pointing literally out of the frame to a figure who is presumably himself, who is actually painting himself. At the same time, we can see that La Tour’s extended thumb is also pointing back at himself inside the picture, as if he is saying, ‘That’s me out there and that’s me in here, too.’ He seems to think this is a huge joke. La Tour is also pleased to show us that he has a well-worn face, complete with a bulbous nose, goggle eyes, a wart on his cheek, a ragged cap perched on his bald head and a seriously blistered bottom lip. To complete the joke (and the subversion of the convention) he has painted himself with a mischievous smile revealing his distinctly unglamorous teeth.

But this painting is not merely a subversive jest. La Tour was clearly a master of pastels and has created the most engagingly alive face and, even more impressively, a hand with stunningly successful perspective and subtle veins and skin creases. While this self-portrait might be a kind of self-referential joke, it’s a brilliantly told one – and along with the artist himself, we’re invited to have a laugh.

La Tour’s Autoportrait a l’oeil de boeuf ou a l’index or Self-portrait with Oeil-de-boeuf Window or with Index Finger can be viewed at the Musèe Louvre in Paris. You can see many of his spectacular pastels portraits in the Museum of Fine Arts, Saint-Quentin, Picardy.

By Brad Allan, writer and wine tasting host in Melbourne, Australia and frequent visitor to France…

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A perfect day in La belle France starts with a cafetière of strong coffee and a couple of those flaky buttery croissants that only the French can make. Followed by a relaxing time on the beach reading Nice Matin, Le Figaro and La Figaro. So says Peter Jones, a man who has taken so many holidays in France he’s practically a local…

A gentle stroll along the beach with my feet in the turquoise sea led me to the town of St Gilles. Here, overlooking the busy little harbour, a glass of pastis was followed by an excellent assiette of fruit de Mer, washed down with a couple of glasses of ice cold Muscadet. Wandering back to my hotel I stopped at a branch of Credit Agricole bank to replenish my euros. And stopped off at a Carrefour supermarket. Back at my hotel I enjoyed a supper of foie gras mi cuit and a perfect entrecote and frites, followed by a classic Rhum baba, all enjoyed overlooking the ocean.

Yes, a perfect day in la belle France.

But just une minute. The turquoise sea was not my French mother’s beloved Mediterranean Sea. It was the Indian Ocean. And not only was I south of the Equator – I was more than 9000 kilometres from Paris.

I was on the island of Réunion, a department of France.

A few useless facts:

• The currency of Réunion is Euros.
• The flight from Charles de Gaulle to Roland Garros airport is currently the worlds longest active domestic flight.
• The most expensive road in the world is here.
• And more people are eaten by sharks off Réunion’s coast than anywhere else in the world.

My base for my four nights was a rather elegant 5* hotel on the west coast, right on the beach. With a choice of several restaurants, it has all the trappings you would expect of a hotel of this class. Ironically my first meal was a beautifully cooked shark steak, which makes the current score one nil to me.

I am not a huge beach sitter, I normally like to just get lost, follow my nose and explore, but my time on the island was limited so I took a coach at 5.30 in the morning to take me to the Piton Maido which at 2190m high, AKA the Balcony of Réunion Island, offers truly spectacular views.

It was very cold; my pink seersucker shorts and Rolling Stones t-shirt may have looked cool on the beach but were totally inadequate up the mountain. Nevertheless, the views made the chill worthwhile.

Descending to sea level the coach dropped me and my companions at the weekly market in St Paul. Right on the beach it has everything you expect to find in a French market. Rotisserie chickens, mountains of saucisson and charcuterie and huge displays of cheeses. It’s what you’ll find in any French town…

…And then – quelle surprise! Piles of coconuts, pineapples, sugar cane and some of the weirdest looking vegetables I have ever seen. Some of them are so scary I would run a mile if I met them on a dark night back home in Oxfordshire.

But the big stars are the spices, great pyramids in every hue, filling the air with  sensational aromas. And of course the local speciality Vanilla is here. I couldn’t resist and filled my suitcase.

So if you want La Belle France with a tropical twist – head south, but take a couple of books it’s a long flight.

Peter Jones is a photographer and freelance writer who blogs at pinkshoesontour

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Smug travelers say the same thing ahead of departure: “We’re all packed up and ready to go.” Frantic travelers – us – say this: “We leave in two weeks and the toaster still won’t fit in the cosmetics case?”

We’re headed to France from our home in the US. Three nights Paris, seven weeks at our house in the Dordogne.  It’s time for that panicked ritual known as packing. We’re not good at it.

Last spring, we carried nine suitcases to France, one the size of the box a Prius comes in. We would have taken more but decided to leave the front lawn at home.

This time, we’re streamlining – two carry-ons and a backpack. Come November you’ll be able to spot us – dingy, disheveled, devoid of clean underwear.  But at least we’ll no longer be laden like an Amazon delivery van.

There are benefits to traveling light in France, starting with Paris hotels. Lodgings in the City of Light have charm. That means you won’t fit in the elevator with your luggage. So we have to send the bags up first. Nine times out or 10 they get off on the right floor. They’re what’s known in the airline industry as smart bags. But on that tenth time, they end up on a milk carton. Less luggage means less time spent solving the case of the missing case.

Fewer bags also mean fewer taxi skirmishes. Last spring at Gare de Montparnasse, five drivers scanned our luggage and drove away. “Jamais,” they shouted. It means never. “Jam this,” I said. The French don’t understand sign language.

Finally, there’s the French railway. Trains – even fast, luxury ones – aren’t luggage-friendly. Vestibules have meagre storage racks. Overhead spaces are for coats, if they’re lightweight and not folded over. Travel light and you won’t have to ride the rails with a refrigerator-size duffel between your knees.

Packing is fraught for us. We’re still stocking a recently purchased home in Dordogne. That means framed paintings are tucked in with dish towels. Butcher knives are wrapped in T-shirts. As for the 16-ounce spice jar? So it spills? So what? Most of it can be shaken out of the suitcase. Meanwhile, my socks have never tasted better.

Friends say this is nuts. They ask: Why pack things you can buy in France? We demure, reluctantly, and remove larger items from the bags. But don’t tell me we’ll find this same genuine imitation Naugahyde-upholstered recliner in Paris. French furniture technology just isn’t there, yet.

Packing a travel wardrobe requires sensitivity. To avoid looking like Americans, here are things we leave behind when traveling in France:

• Baseball caps: They’re fine at a tech start-up, not Chartres Cathedral.
• Matching sweatsuits: These belong on underworld crime bosses in the movies.
• Flip-flops: Frenchmen have dogs. They sometimes go to the bathroom in public (the dogs, not the Frenchmen).  The phrase “watch your step” was most likely invented in France.

There was a famous TV commercial years ago with a gorilla and a suitcase at the zoo. The gorilla ferociously slammed that suitcase off the bars of his cage.  The message was supposed to be about luggage durability. But I know better. He was just trying to cram nine pounds of stuff into an eight-pound bag.

And as any gorilla will tell you, less is more when it comes to packing for France…

Mike Zampa is a communications consultant and retired newspaper editor and columnist splitting time, along with his wife, between Southwest France and the San Francisco Bay Area

The post The perils and pitfalls of packing for a trip to France appeared first on The Good Life France.

Not only does Paris, city of light and romance, offer its visitors a wealth of paintings and sculptures in the city’s many museums, it also treats them to hidden art gems all over town. Simply walking around Paris is a joy for the architecture and history. Art is all around you in Paris says former tour guide Natascha Gordeau.

Metro art

An artistic entrance

When you think about art in Paris, the metro may not be what first comes to mind. But Paris wouldn’t be Paris without its metro stations. Some of the entrances are a work of art in their right, as is the famous Metro sign, marking many of the entrances.

The famous sign is even on display at one of Paris’ most famous museums, the Musée d’Orsay. This former train station houses a large collection of impressionist works from renowned artists such as Monet, Manet, Renoir and Degas. However, at the museum’s central level a wing is dedicated to the Art Nouveau movement.

In 1900, Paris held the Exposition Universelle, a world fair. To be able to transport the many visitors, the city created the metro system. Hector Guimard, a famous French architect at the time who was responsible for several large restoration projects all over France, was asked to create an entrance that would make it inviting for people to go underground and use the new form of transport. Guimard designed the still present green Metro sign.

The Kiosque des Noctambules

In 2000, to mark the metro’s centennial year, French artist Jean-Michel Othoniel, known for his monumental glass and aluminium sculptures, was asked to create a work of art for the metro. Two glass and aluminium balled crowns can be found on top of the Palais Royal metro entrance near the Louvre museum. The ray of blue, red and yellow glass balls are known as the Kiosque des Noctambules.

A futuristic metro station

The Arts et Métiers metro station is a piece of art on its own, named for the eponymous museum you can find above ground. It’s unique interior makes this a place worth visiting. Its Steampunk style, copper-covered walls, and submarine style windows, pays homage to a fictional form of art that refers to a time where steam power was still the main source.

Street art in Montmartre

Montmartre’s monkeys

When you’re looking to find a picture perfect place in Paris, Montmartre is your go to area. Its cobbled streets and gorgeous architecture are striking. Wander the Rue des Trois Frères, ‘street of the three brothers’. Under the typical blue and green street sign three red and orange coloured smiling sculptured monkeys by famous street artist Zorm look down at you. These fun monkeys can be seen in other cities all over  France.

Street art at the Moulin de la Galette

Sacré Coeur, Place du Tertre… the landmarks of Montmartre are many. The Moulin de la Galette, now a restaurant, was in the late 1800’s, the centre of all the buzz, dance and fun. Its lively vibe inspired several artists including one of Renoir’s most famous paintings, the Bal du Moulin de la Galette.

Across the street from the former windmill, you can find a colourful graffiti painting that perfectly captures the lively atmosphere that lures visitors to visit Montmartre and full under its spell

Former tour guide, Natascha Gordeau has a huge passion for travel, photography and storytelling. Living in the Netherlands she never misses an opportunity to travel to France where her ancestors are from. instagram.com/tash_travel_pics/

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