Like a whirlpool that never ends.

So, dear friends, the inevitable has happened. Within a week of one another, my betrothed and I have both fallen ill. Not seriously so, just enough to ruin sketchy plans and annoy us.


Mick just has a cold.


Pfft.


My childhood motion sickness has reared it's ugly head and joined leagues with a bout of gastro. Unpleasant. Combine the two with a rather insensible ride on the Grand Canal water bus in Venice and the result has been three days of constant dizziness and "whirlpool" gut.


Not ever having suffered from motion sickness before, Mick asked what it feels like. I replied "You know when you've had FAR too much to drink, you lie on your bed and close your eyes and the world starts moving around you." "yeah, that's the feeling". Maybe I'll look into psychiatric treatment or hypnosis therapy when we get back. In my (medically educated*) mind, motion sickness indicates a weakness of character. Why can't my stomach, brain and the horizon just sort it out?


Onto more pleasant things. Lake Como was stunning, much larger than I imagined and we found ourselves once again in the good graces of Zeus. On Tuesday we took to the Greenway del Lago di Como, walking about 8 kilometres along the curving coast roads of the west bank. The paths take you down steep cobbled alleys, past crumbling stone piers and extravagant villas (George Clooney has a place on the lake).


On Thursday we drove east, through Lombardia to the region of Veneto. Veneto covers most the northeast corner of Italy, including Verona (where they laid their scene), Padova and most famously Venice. Somewhere in the middle of all that is the hillside village of Arqua Petrarca, a spot that has been inhabited since the Bronze Age. It is currently (the locals have their fingers crossed, or the Italian equivalent) on it's way to becoming world heritage listed.


Venice was one of those places that fell on my "Should probably visit, but can be sacrificed if necessary" list. I'm super pleased we didn't sacrifice it. Despite the tourist throng and the nasty tourist targeted shops, the city itself was lovely. Slightly worn looking, in a pre-loved way, the buildings lining the canals looked warm and sun drenched in spite of their cool blue roadways.


Taking a hand drawn map our host made for us, we headed off the beaten track and wandered through the Jewish Ghetto, visited Madonna dell'Orto (church with divine frescoes) and hunted down an antique jewelery store in the Dorsoduro. We sipped Spritz; prosecco, Aperol and soda (I think) while munching tiny tiny single ingredient panini's in a Campo for lunch.


Gaja Sperss 2000 (nebbiolo, half bottle)- C- deep purple, with a garnet edge, N- surprising rose petals and smokey oak, P- amazing length, liquorice and herbs


*high school biology

Slump

I think I've hit a blogging wall. I'm not sure what's exactly at the root of it, but I have an idea.

I think it stems from the sameness of our last five destinations. Since leaving Champagne the towns we have visited have been beautiful, scenic and historic. Troyes, Bruges, Brussels, Antwerp and Strasbourg. Each rich with museums, cathedrals, famous town heroes and local delicacies. Yet, the semblance of them nags at me. "Didn't I walk this same cobbled road last week?"

Nothing sparkles or inspires me.

That's not to say we're not enjoying ourselves. The food is tasty and the fresh produce markets make us both feel like kids in a candy store. Mouths open in wonderment.

Or maybe it's not them, maybe it's us. Maybe we have been away from home for just on a month and are starting to miss the comforts of familiarity. Perhaps the joy and exhilaration of the unknown is beginning to wear us thin.

Mick remembers a line from the tour-bus tour he did of Europe four years ago, "ABC" Another Bloody Church. I feel like they are sucking the awe out of me.

Woe is me.

Spreekt u Engels?

Goedeavond!

We crossed a border; well at least we think we did. There was no line in the sand, no customs and no passport control. Only ghostly stands of abandoned booths. Quite unnerving really. This is now the norm across the EU and for us, our crossing from France to Belgium could have almost gone unnoticed, if not for the sudden change in language on road traffic signs.

We drove to Belgium today. It’s only an hour from Lille (north east France) and is a UNESCO world heritage listed town. We haven’t had time to explore yet, so I won’t go on too much. Only to say that as we arrived in town the sun was shining down on the biggest antiques fair I’ve even seen. I think I’m going to like it here.

Back to Champagne for a minute.

On Thursday we were hosted by the generous people at the Martel Champagne Group at their winery in Reims. They own the likes of Pol Roger, Taittinger, Ruinart and two big local brands Casanove and Martel. Not having heard of Martel in the Champagne sense (there is a non-related Cognac of the same name) we weren’t sure what to expect.

We were welcomed by the Asia Pacific brand manager Renaud, the wife of the group’s owner Angeline and the facility manager Thierry (a cellar-master-esque role). A surprisingly illustrious trio for two lowly office types (no baby, your role is not lowly, I was just making a point).

As the introduction was made through work, there was a fair bit of shop talk. Highlights for non-industry types include a tour of their expansive underground cave system, a taste of whatever we wanted (I wanted the delicious oak aged (it works) premier cru Victoire) and a walking tour of Reims by Renaud.

The caves under Reims are an astonishing reminder of grand feats of the past. The ones we visited were up to 18 metres under the heart of the city and parts of them date back to the third century. The caves were dug out for the mining of chalk which forms the subsoil of the region. This chalk is also attributed to the mineral tang often found in Champagnes finest.

On our tour of the streets with Renaud, he pointed out the Reims Cathedral. Reims was the capital of France for a while (I have no idea how long for, or when) and the Cathedral was the largest in the country. When Paris was made the capital in (insert your researched date here.) a replica of the Reims Cathedral was built in Paris. Now the more famous and larger of the two, Paris’s Notre Dame was built in part, in the image of Reims Cathedral (don't quote me).

It was breathtaking and awesome (in the traditional sense of the word) and I was particularly taken with the Chagall windows in the back. His work always reminds me of a book I read as a child- The Thief and the Blue Rose.

Renaud recommended we try a local delicacy for lunch, so we headed to a local Bistro for a late meal. We ordered Andouillette, a pork sausage that is a speciality of Troyes (see previous post). I won’t go into to it too much; the thought of it alone makes my stomach churn. Only to say, to our untrained, close-minded Australian noses, the sliced sausage smelt of a particularly disgusting pig transport truck on a stinking hot day. Another awkward French to Aussie conversation ensued about why we didn’t eat it. Le sigh.

Always look on the bright side of life.

We are just back to the cottage after spending the afternoon in Troyes. A picturesque town (aren’t they all?) that claims in all of its tourist hype to be shaped like a Champagne cork. To both Mick and I it had a more phallic silhouette.

It was the birthplace of two popes (maybe that’s why they went with the cork) and in 13.2 square kilometers it has one Cathedral, one Basilica and seven churches. "He's not the messiah. He's a very naughty boy!"

Slim alleys and roads are bordered by wooden framed buildings, three and four storeys high and painted in beautiful sundrenched hues. Très magnifique!

Now that we are in self-catering mode we set out yesterday to create a portable pantry or Movable Feast, if you will. Our local supermarché is Carrefours in a neighbouring town. Carrefour’s is like a blend of a K-mart, Coles and Liquorland all in together. It’s a shame our GPS couldn't help us out inside, we found it far more difficult to navigate in the store than on the local roads.

After we had loaded up a sizeable trolley of essentials, we made our way to the busy registers. We could feel a sense of dread coming on. It’s a certain type of dread reserved for those attempting to communicate with someone in a language that is different from their own. The feeling mounted as we got closer to the cashier, though we were still halfway to the front of the queue.

Just then, a woman sidles up to the line and joins it two spaces in front of us. She just joined the line! With no-one else looking like they had any concerns with this outrageous behaviour I spoke up (in broken French) “excusé moi madame” gesturing to the growing queue behind me. She looked at me in surprise (and a hint of hostility) and spoke quickly in French. I still have no idea what she said, but as my cheeks went red and the other shoppers tuned into listen, she placed her hands on her pregnant belly and gestured to a sign above the register.

Yes folks, I had tried to boot a pregnant woman out of a “priority lane”. My shame and embarrassment scale went through the roof. Merde!

At least she wasn't blind.