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.

Pinch me!

Allo!

Picture this, one happy camper on a two seater, chilled Lillet Blanc in hand, Gillian Welch singing The Revelator in the background and quiche Lorraine warming in the oven.

“Pinch me?” I said to Michael as he stoked the wood heater in our cottage in Mairy sur Marne.

Argh. I got a head of myself. I haven’t even spoken to you about Paris yet.

Paris was... superb. We stayed in the 18^th, close to the Cimetiere Montmatre where Edgar Degas is buried. We didn’t visit, but I sent them my regards through the ether. We did the usual traipsing of the city. The Louvre, Jardin du Luxembourg, Champs Elysee, Le Marais (felafel is still to die for (TDF)) and Musee d’Orsay. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say Ingres and his friends are all safe and well.

For me, Paris is a city I will keep coming back to. It’s not for everyone, but I find the mix of culture, history and joie de vivre, bracing and mesmerizing.

One story I will share with you took place at our local bar, La Fourmi. On our second visit to this tremendously trendy bar we found ourselves a table for two on a crowded Friday evening. As it turns out, our quiet couple of beers coincided with a local celebration. Bloc Party were had a gig locally that night and somehow this resulted in free Bingo at all of the coolest venues across town.

Our neighbour introduced himself and his companion to us. In French at first then practically flawless English (he had spent a year in Sydney) “My name is Jerry and this Sara”, she corrected him “MAGGIE!!” Laughter and bonding ensued.

Jerry and Maggie guided us throughout the evening, translating the Jason Schwartzman (in his I Heart Huckabees days) lookalike host and his Barbie-esque assistant as they animatedly called the bingo numbers and side competitions throughout the evening. It felt like we were foreigners who had stumbled backstage at a Eurovision song contest. Totally surreal.

Ok. Back to currents events.

We left Paris this morning and drove ourselves (in the most luxurious Citroen you’ve ever seen, two tier upgrade!) towards Reims. Our village is on the outskirts of Chalon en Champagne. At this point we don’t even know where we are located in the greater “Champagne” scheme of things (not a vine in sight) but that is not dampening our mood.

We are bunking for the week in a caretakers cottage come gite at Domaine du Chateau de Mairy. A bee-ute-ti-full Chateau complete with orchard, lake and chickens etc. It looks like it was quite run down before the current owners moved in, which only adds to its charm. It’s the kind of place that one can only dream of. White washed walls, vintage glass chandeliers, quasi-vintage eclectic furniture (my favourite) and a claw foot tub.

I just did some maths; I was a little concerned that we were splurging with this place. We’re not. It works out at AU$86, which is expensive as far as gites go in this area but compared to what we were paying in London and Paris (approx AU$115 for a miniscule hovel), a steal.

We don’t have many plans past this evening’s meal. Tomorrow morning we will visit the Chateau after breakfast in the gardens and use the internet to plan our week.

Missing you.

Radio Silence.

Blog blog blog. No I haven't fallen off the bandwagon. We were merely forced into radio silence for three days while we were in London. We didn't find free internet anywhere and we weren't about to pay for it. One pound for a measly 20 minutes? I think not.

We somehow made an uber-blunder with our travel plans which resulted in us "losing" a day in London. Neither of us is sure what happened, but it resulted in a hotel room paid for and not used for a night. Money down the drain (expensive London money!).

We arrived on Monday morning, after not having slept in 30-ish hours and were confronted with the knowledge we had a long held booking at St John that evening. Knowing that we looked as deathly tired as we felt, the thought of frocking-up (Mick wore slacks and a shirt FYI) was not very attractive. We were in more of a sleep for a week kind of mood.

We slept, only for three hours though, energy-drinked ourselves and got psyched up enough to call a cab. The bright lights and bustle of London's streets perked us up, so by the time the cab had creeped it's way through a busy peak hour we were excited and eager for a big night out.

The interior was minimalist, with stark white walls, high industrial ceilings and dark wood furniture. Clean and crisp, befitting of the ex- London Marxist Headquarters (1960s).

For entrée we ate fresh whole crab with house made mayo and broccoli with anchovy. These simple sounding dishes are typical of the restaurant's style. Fresh local (ish) produce prepared with minimal intervention, in what I would call a pared down traditional English style. The combination of the al dente broccoli with a fine anchovy sauce was astonishingly good. With this we drank a glass of house Blanc de Blanc. I'm not sure of it's provenance, but it seemed a bargain for a cleanskin Champagne.

For our main course we enjoyed roast beef and mallard. The latter served with confit duck leg and mixed braised veg. The beef was mouth-wateringly tender and served with creamed spinach (with horseradish (we think)). We enjoyed yet another bio dynamic bottle with dinner, Trinch!; a cab franc from the Loire Valley. Lighter in style than what we are used to, it still maintained enough punch to pair well with the flavorsome roast meats. The name Trinch! is apparently a play on the sound the French hear when they clink their glasses together in a toast. To me and Google it sounds more like a misspelling of trench.

Now I held back on the main meal descriptions, purely because the desserts were mind-boggling. We had Eccles cake with Lancashire cheese and treacle tart with Jersey cream. Now I'm no Eccles cake expert but one taste of this and I don't need to be. All the Eccles cakes in the world should aspire to be like this. Flaky buttery pastry erupting with slightly caramelised currants. This was served with what looked liked an unachievably large wedge of Lancashire cheese. It was like when Harry met Sally or when Bart met Milhouse. George and Jerry even. The combination worked so well. Lancashire for those who don't know it (I didn't) is a cows milk cheese that is zingy with lemony flavour, crumbly and fresh.

The treacle tart was equally delicious. Short and crumbly pastry housed a frangipane-esque filling rich with treacly goodness. The "cream" it was served was just short of being butter, Richie Rich would have been jealous of it's richness. *drool*

The restaurants menu changed twice while we were there. As produce was used up and new ingredients were hurried across the dining room. Seasonality, freshness and quality the star.

We left London on Wednesday afternoon via the Eurostar. It was astonishingly fast. Getting us to Gare de Nord in just over two hours.

So now we are in Paris (a city after my heart) eating ham and cheese baguette while a ferocious speed queen does our dirty laundry.

More on the city of love in tomorrow's entry. We have much to discuss.

Chaleureusement,

Annie

West Sunset.

We weren't looking forward to arriving in Los Angeles. After the devastating beauty of the forest, the mesmerising waves of open pasture and the striking cliff bordered beaches, the thought of tackling a busy metropolis did not appeal.

We forlornly made our way south along the coast from Arroyo Grande. Our first pit-stop was the adorable town of Solvang (sounds like something out of Twilight). It's basically a taste of Denmark in California. Windmills, a replica Little Mermaid, thatching and cutesy garden beds.

We browsed the Solvang Antique Center and lustily pointed out all the things we would buy if money was not an problem. Sadly money is a problem, so we disappointed the lovely sales staff by leaving only with an antique embroidered handkerchief $2.50.

We ditched the car on our first morning in LA and bravely joined the throng of locals and bewildered looking tourists on the cities bus service. The city has this weird thing going on where you think it's quite a small place. You try walking what looks like a small distance on a map and all of a sudden it feels like you've walked for days. Space time continuum? I bet David Tennant would have a witty explanation.

We are staying in a nifty part of town called Silverlake. When we first arrived I had one of those "Oh god, what sort of shitty neighbourhood have I got us into to?" moments. Turns out the harsh light of day does nothing for this place. Come dusk we saw it in a new (less sunny) light. Funky unsigned Pho restaurants, a Local restaurant rife with trendsetters and Latino food stands dotting the carparks in between. To us, much more appealing than the ritzy neighbourhoods of Beverly Hills or Hollywood.

We know we probably only saw a fraction of what LA has to offer. Rodeo Dr, Venice Beach, Santa Monica and Beverly Hills were as you'd expect. No wow from us. Entertaining, sun drenched and manicured. You might need more than two days to find the substance lurking underneath- we only caught a hint of potential.

Since arriving we have been desperate for Sunday to roll along, with it comes another epic flight. It's almost as if out trip won't actually start until we arrive in London. This last fortnight, only been a debrief. We start tomorrow (Sunday for us) with an early bus trip across town. No, not to the airport. To a British Pub, to watch Liverpool destroy Birmingham (or so we hope).

Now I must go, I have to work on my tan and I have a mani/pedi at three thirty.

Love.

Living the life of Zin.

We forgot to take the camera out with us yesterday. But you've seen one winery you've seen them all right?

We cruised the vineyards and wineries of Paso Robles. I'm trying to think of an analogy to describe it. Paso Robles is like the Cinderella of the Cali wine scene. Sorta'. Napa being the step-sister. Dressed up like a hussy, snooty and mean.

We visited four wineries Peachy Canyon, Adelaida Cellars, Wild Horse and Tablas Creek. Each made us feel welcome and had serving staff keen with information, without being pushy. Well, all bar Adelaida, the lady behind the counter described each of their highly rated wines as either "really nice" or "my favourite". They can't all be your favourite honey.

In the '70s the appellation of Paso Robles (PR) was identified as having similar growing conditions to the Rhone Valley. A collaboration between a local family, a US wine importer and Chateau de Beaucastel led to the introduction of Rhone varietals and the establishment of Tablas Creek winery.

We liked the Cotes de Tablas Blanc 2009 ($25), light hay in colour, fresh melon and honey on the nose, ripe apricot on the palate.

They LOVE Zinfandel in California, Peachy Canyon produces one from eight different vineyards. We liked the Especial 2007 ($40), rusty crimson in colour, rich vanilla and spice on the nose and black cherry on the palate.

We decided the blog wasn't going to continue as a daily post. On the days when we take a breather (today) there just isn't enough "stuff" to stretch out into something worthwhile.

Sorry this post has been a bit scattered. Mick is channel surfing and it is very distracting.

Love.

On the road again.

Sitting on the bed in Arroyo Grande, watching the hundredth episode of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations, eating fresh mango, papaya and pineapple salad and planning our winery tour of Paso Robles for tomorrow. Don't be jealous. We are miserable. Seriously.

*wink*

A big thank-you to all of those who receive the blog via email. I appreciate the fact that not one of you pointed out my grammatical errors. My faithful proof-reader had already crashed for the evening and I was at the point of having to pin my eyelids up with bobby pins.

One thing I forgot to include yesterday was an amusing conclusion Mick and I came to on the drive out of Yosemite. Our combined knowledge of the US wilderness and it's wild inhabitants is directly linked to the number and variety of American cartoons we watched as children. Woody Woodpecker, Heckle & Jeckle, Mac & Tosh and the Looney Tunes family. These shows probably set the groundwork for our developing funny bones as well.

So, to the point, today was another driving day. From the Sierra Nevada ranges West back to the coast. A comfortable 300 miles (482km).

We both enjoy the open road and the Californian "dust bowl" was stark but dazzling. Undulating ranges, bereft of trees as far as the eye can see. The dry pastures glowed like golden velvet. The flatlands are planted with uniform rows of corn, almonds and stone fruit. They were irrigated in a manner strange to my eye. The trees appeared to be flooded, water a foot or more up their trunks. Not something I've seen back home.

Off to bed now. Sitting in a car all day is draining.

Wrackin' Frackin' Varmint

What a day. It's almost as if we have crossed something off our bucket list we didn't even know existed.

Yosemite National Park.

The national park is approximately 750000 acres and the main tourist area is the Merced River Valley. It sits about 5000 feet above sea level in the Sierra Nevada ranges. Originally home to the Ahwahnechee Native Americans. Who, according to Wikipedia, were evicted from the valley numerous times by the US federal government as recently as 1969. We walked the valley floor covering about eight kilometres of moderate terrain.

We were amazed at the bustle of people coming and going throughout the day. Day-trippers, picnickers, walkers, hikers and rock-climbers. Hundreds upon hundreds. Interestingly most visitors we saw seemed content with just catching the shuttle to and from the key sights and taking a few happy snaps. We were virtually alone on the walking trails. Thank God.

Home to the famous giant Redwoods (Sequoias) the scenery was absolutely spectacular. The river valley was bordered by staggeringly beautiful rock faces and waterfalls, which dwarfed the gargantuan trees. Although we didn't see any bears *tears* (but also "phew"!) we managed to spot deer, squirrels and a number of different bird species. Squirrel!

Exhausted (but elated), we staggered back to the car and joined the queue of day-trippers winding their way out of the ranges.

Dinner was at a road side Taqueria (boy, does the Melbourne restaurant scene have some holes). CC's on HWY 108. Cheap tex-mex style. I ate a Supreme Burrito, shredded beef and rice in a tortilla with guacamole, fresh salsa, beans and rice. $7.95. Mick had a Pork Chimichanga, basically a deep-fried burrito (as above) with cheese and salad. Muy bueno.

I don't think this post has done Yosemite justice, however I am so tired I just can't put anything more into it.

We don't actually have a bucket list by the way. I was just making a point.

Peace.