A Picture Tells a Thousand Words

Courtesy of Freebs and Madelene, check these photos out at the Franco-Bogan Tumblr

The One That Got Away

And everything was going so swimmingly.

A four hour drive South from Annecy (spitting distance from the Swiss border) saw Lady Penelope steer us towards the mighty Alpilles mountains, and sitting atop a rocky outcrop, the medieval village of Les Baux de Provence.
Now Les Baux was something Madelene, Freebs and I were all looking forward to, as we had booked a couple of nights in a cave. Well a B&B in a rocky outcrop carved into a cave, but a cave none-the-less. More cave-like than anything you get around Melbourne's suburbs. I'm sure you get the drift.

Something special.

And the drive up, and up, and up to Les Baux was terrifying, exhilarating, and busy, given this is smack-in-the-middle of olive orchard and grapevine country, with little dogs, the odd tractor and not much else around in respect to civilisation. The views were drop dead gorgeous too.

What we found at the top was a medieval village alright, but it was more of a tourist attraction than an historic site, complete with tour buses, herds of meandering seniors, with ice cream and trinket shops at every turn. I then noticed a sign that clinched the deal on my opinion of the place. On weekends, they had jousting demonstrations.
Jousting.

This wasn't France at all.

This was Kryal Castle.

If I had found a glass-blower somewhere shaping dogs and teddy bears, I would've thought for sure that I had been transported back to Ballarat. A mock whipping of some lowly street urchin, and some busty wenches serving pints of ale in commemorative beer mugs would've sealed the deal.

But this was France, and it was definitely 12th century, and it was beautiful.

We wandered up to the very top of this rocky crag, and found our home for the next 48 hours, Le Prince Noir. Ute our hostess showed us to our rooms, which immediately gave us that feeling of "Uh oh!", as the booking we had made was for one room. As the rooms we were shown were all part of a wing of the B&B though, we thought maybe our expectations had been a little low, and this was what we had booked.

As you can't drive to the top of the mountain during the peak tourist times, we had left the Peugeot in the main carpark, and as such had no luggage to book in with, so we spent the next few hours wandering all over the village, soaking in the medievalness of it all, and secretly thinking to ourselves, what the Hell are we going to do here for two days, as a few hours of dawdling had us covering the village completely.
We decided to return to Le Prince Noir, only to be greeted by Ute saying, "We have a problem". She went on to tell us that these were indeed not our rooms, and that her husband had double-booked our room, the day before.

The rat I had smelt earlier stood up and winked at me with glee.

So, what to do?

Freebs was disappointed, and I was pissed off, but Madelene was shattered, as this had been the one place she was really looking forward to staying.

Benoit, Ute's husband was apparently in the office making feverish phone calls all around the village (and beyond) to see what alternatives could be offered, but all I could think of was the perilous drive up the mountain (in broad daylight), and the prospect of going back down the mountain in the dark.

Not Happy Jaques!

Benoit proceeded to explain that he had indeed found us lodgings for the night in the nearby town of Saint-Remy, a mere 15 minute drive, and handed me some printed Google Maps directions. It was a 4-star place, and he would cover the cost of our first night there. He then told us not to hesitate to contact him if we wanted his assistance in finding something else for our second night. Fair enough I thought, but I was still unhappy.
We trundled back down the village (which from this point shall be named "that which shall remain unnamed"), fired up Lady Penelope, and 15 minutes later were driving into the walled village of Saint-Remy-de-Provence.

Saint Remy is a quaint fairytale come to life. A ring road surrounds the village, with shops and restaurants occupying the circumference, and dozens of small cobble-stoned lanes occupying the interior. Each of these is packed full of the usual Tourist stores, but also a plethora of other curios to explore. Apparently Van Gogh lived and painted here at one point, and as Freebs pointed out, was institutionalised here too. Nostradamus came from here.
We checked into our 4-star suite, consulted our Concierge (Phillip from Kalgoorlie - true story!) re dinner recommendations, changed, and then headed out for dinner.

Now, I'm assuming that you noticed the "...de-Provence" reference to this town's name, as this is in the heart of Provence, home of provencal cuisine, about 50 kms north of Marseille and the Mediterranean, and as such, although a little pricey, Le Bistrot de Marie was a knock out. Matched perfectly with a gorgeous red wine of the Cote du Rhone, just like Paul said, "...all our troubles seemed so far away".

Funny how some good grub and booze will round the edges to an otherwise shitty day.

By the way, we hold no grudges against Ute & Benoit from Le Prince Noir, and can say honestly that although it's a beautiful, beautiful B&B in an amazing setting, two nights there would've been murder, as, OK, I'm going to say it, the town was dull after four hours!

(Definitely not) Burke's Backyard

"Give me a home among the gum trees, with lots of plum trees..."
Oh how those words filled me soul with dread on a Friday night when Don Burke would grace our screens. So believe me when I tell you that my interest in gardens generally ends when I turn my BBQ off, clean up, and go back inside.
Then a dozen or so years ago on a trip to Canada, Madelene and I visited the famous Butchart Gardens, in Victoria, British Columbia, and my mind was changed forever about what a garden was, or could be. No plain rows of roses here - no sir. This was serious, cutting edge garden landscaping on steroids, and man it was impressive!
But that was then and this is now, and your intrepid journey-folk are in France, and you know what? They know what they're doing here too.

Monet's Garden Giverny
It was at Freeb's request which saw us jump in the mighty Peugeot, set Lady Penelope (our trusted GPS) to Giverny, and then navigate our way to this small village 75 kms West of Paris. Prior to visiting the Musee L'Orangerie, I was blissfully ignorant of Claude Monet's work, but afterwards, was as keen as mustard to have a bo-peep at Claude's joint, and more importantly, his garden.

When you first enter the garden, you are confronted with rows and rows of flowers, which was almost overwhelming given the blue of the sky, and the brightness of the sun. These rows lead to the bottom of this formal, structured garden and then via a subterranean walkway, you are led to the water garden, home to the famous water lilies and pond, complete with weeping willows, all traversable via a shaded ringed track around the pond.
This was such a respite to the stress of travelling here (I'll cover the whole driving in France thing on another post), and was bliss.
We then meandered to Monet's house itself, which was surprisingly modest, but unsurprisingly filled with 100,000 geriatric tourists, all vying for the best spot to take one million photos of Monet's hat stand, Monet's curtain rods, or the all important, Monet's kitchen sink (I kid you not).
I joked to Mad and Freebs, that we could've made a fortune offering a while-you-wait hip replacement service out the front, as the next youngest tourist in this place from us was wearing an "I was at the crucifixion, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" t-shirt.
All in all though, well worth the semi-nervous breakdown to get there from Paris.

Chateau Villandy
Whilst in the Loire Valley, amid the picturesque Chateaux, the fairytale Castles, and the countless grapevines of the region, is the granddaddy of them all, the Chateau and gardens of Villandy, about an hour's drive West from our base in the Loire, the village of Nazelles-Negron.

We visited Villandry on a road trip our host Oliver suggested, first taking in the tiny hamlet of Brehemont, the Chateau of Azay-le-Rideau, and then arriving at these amazing gardens late in the afternoon, so as to miss the throngs of people whom visit this site all year round.
As a result of our timing, we got the George Costanza "Rock Star" car park out the front of the place, and meandered into a near-empty garden.
As Keanu would say, "Wo!", this place was the most - more layers of garden bed action than Sara Lee puts in her Blueberry Danish. Just incredible colours, and remember, we are at the start of Autumn here in France, so gardens are starting to die off.
Indeed, the legendary fields of sun flowers we've all seen watching the Tour de France on SBS, have all been wilted, and sorry-looking, but here in Villandry, the only thing lacking are the amount of superlatives you can use to describe this place. The gardens are in sections, and the only lack-lustre area was, in my opinion, the Maze. Then again, Mad & I had recently watched The Shining, so anything without Jack Nicholson running amok with an axe was going to be an anti-climax.
If you ever get to the Loire, and you want a garden to visit, this is the one. Unmissable and unforgettable.

Chateau D'Amboise
The real surprise package of our time in the Loire Valley was our good fortune at selecting the village of Nazelles-Negron in which to stay. Massive props to my co-worker Ros whom stayed here with her family a few years back (good work Ros - I owe you a big one). Veronique and Oliver were not only great hosts at the Chateau de Nazelles, but their suggestions re what to see and do whilst in their little patch of paradise was priceless.
The village is a 5 minute drive from the town of Amboise, which is fairytale beautiful, and filled with happy, smiling folks, all willing to help you out with our useless take on French, and their equally crap English. And the wine. To quote myself, "OH MY GOD!".

What's all of this got to do with the theme of this post? Amboise's main attraction apart from the wine, the sunshine and the hot air ballooning (that story's coming soon), is the Chateau d'Amboise, which is a regal-enough massive fifteenth-century stone Chateau. It houses a chapel containing the last remains of Leonardo de Vinci (whom retired and later died here), as well as some beautiful gardens on the upper slopes of the property.

Chateau Versailles
I've left the most impressive until last, though strictly-speaking, I don't actually know whether the gardens at the Palace of Versailles qualify as being in the same league as the others I've spoken about, as the gardens (or park lands more appropriately) located here have the stamp of King Louis the XIV and XV all over them. Meaning that because of places like this, 20,000 people (including XV) lost their heads in the French Revolution, such is the grandeur of this place.

In terms of elaboration, I guess it'd be a little bit like if Gina Rinehart, Clive Palmer and Andrew "Twiggy" Forrest all pooled the tax money they should've been paying for the last dozen or so years, then they could afford the front gate of this place. It's made of gold. The front gate is made of gold.

This place is just incredible, and it's so large, I'm sure you could see it from space. I'll put it to you this way, we walked for what felt like an eternity to reach the smaller, pink marble Grand Trianon (Louis XIV's love shack), and we were not quite half way through the gardens.

With fountains galore, forests to hunt in, and sculptures at every angle, this is hardcore gardening porn, and it's not for the feint-hearted. A beautiful place, perhaps one of the most beautiful places in the world, but it's a beauty tinged with sorrow given what the opulence of this horticultural Disneyland brought about.
Hey - France needed the revolution, and you need to visit this, or any of the places listed here.
As they say in the music world, these gardens are "...all killer, and no filler!".

Slide Show

After a few furious phone calls back home (thank you Skype), it seems that the masses of Franco-Bogans out there don't care too much about what I post, as long as there's photos.

So whom am I to disappoint my public?

Go to http://franco-bogan.tumblr.com/ for all the goodness...

Segway to Heaven

I was sure I was going to die. I'd awoken this morning with a blocked nose, congested head, and a razor-blade cough. I guess changing climates will do that to you.

But that's not why I thought I was convinced of my impending death.

Your three amigos were about to partake in a 3 hour tour of Paris on Segways, and the cold and flu meds I'd bought earlier in the day had just kicked in, leaving me feeling dazed, light-headed and convinced that I'd fall off my segway in the heart of Paris.

Our guide Moko, made it sound so simple - a segway is controlled by a series of gyroscopes, which providing you stay centred on the riding platform, will stay balanced. By leaning forward or back from your hips, you are propelled forward or backward.

Simple.

Practice had me driving into a tree. Then I couldn't stop the damn thing. And parking? Fuhghedabowtit...

Freebs and Mad seemed to have very few problems with it, but I had this feeling deep inside that this would be my undoing. That our grand French adventure would be cut short by a foolish tourist lark, that someone like me should be old enough to know better than to try.

As Han Solo would say, "I have a very bad feeling about this".

So onto the streets of Paris we went, in a very ritzy neighbourhood near the Champs de Mars. I stayed at the back of the group figuring I could conceal any altercations with small dogs, cracked sidewalks, and my general battle with gravity from the rest of the tour group. This would also allow me to pace myself, and not feel pressured to keep up with the rest of the group for the sake of those behind me.

What this also gave me was the advantage of watching everyone else fall off their segways, see what they did wrong, learn from their mistakes, and slowly build my confidence. This proved to be the second best idea I'd had all day.

The best decision was to go on this tour in the first place - what a blast!

As the sun set, I soon discovered why Paris is called the City of Lights, as just like a teenaged girl before her Year 12 Formal, Paris dresses up at night.

Wow! We segwayed our way across town, along the Seine, across the Pont Alexandre III bridge, just in time to see the Eiffel Tower do it's "Hippy Hippy Shake" of sparkling lights on the hour.

From there to Le Louvre, and then back again to Champs De Mars, all the while building my confidence and generally having a blast.

The Segway. I want one.

I couldn't resist the urge to show off a little being at the back of the group, as the one thing you get whilst rolling though town is plenty of attention, and the one thing Paris has in abundance is very attractive women, so I could not help myself from greeting each and every one of them whom seemed to grant me a quizzical glance with a polite "Bon Soir!" and a big smile.

I shot the video below while driving one-handed along the Seine - it's a little on the dark side, but you'll get the idea.



If visiting Paris, Berlin, or Budapest City Segway Tours offer 3 hours of the most fun you'll likely have. It wasn't the cheapest tour you'll encounter, but what you get for your money is a real experience.

And the chance to show off in front of beautiful woman whom you'll never meet again.

The Incarceration, The Indoctrination, and The (just) Incredible.

Extremes.

I always forget about the extremes of economy travel. Couped-up in a plastic cocoon, fed semi-regularly, and deprived of sleep, comfort, and privacy. In return, you are transported from lower case point "a", to upper case point "B" - a transformation from the humdrum, the known, the safe, to the unknown, the uncertain.
So here I find myself, Madelene, and Freebs, a little over 24 hours since arriving from dusty, delayed, and dry Doha, sitting in a (literally) red apartment in the uber-fashionable Le Marais district of Paris. That'd be Paris with a capital AWESOME.

I won't bore you with details of the horrid journey, as the destination has more than made up for it. Mind you though, as I tucked into a chicken kebab and chips last night, having slept about four of the last 36 hours, I really was wondering what the Hell I was doing leaving wet and cold Melbourne, and flying to France, where I knew none of the language, only a cliched version of the culture, and was filled with the great uncertainty of overseas travel.

Then I had a beer.

Suddenly the world came back into focus. My anxiety lifted, and the chicken kebab became the finest meal I could recall. Sleep deprivation will do that to you. Oh the honesty of a hoppy elixir to bring one to one's senses.
Suffice it to say, after knocking back a traditional breakfast of coffee, baguette, and croissant this morning, your three happy campers ventured out of Le Marais, and into the streets of Paris. Our appointment was with that tower you've all heard of, and between us and it, was the incredible.
We hit Rue de Rivoli, and headed East. And we just kept on walking. I know Freebs had a map, but personally I felt like I was being drawn in the right direction - kind of like when you take the plug out of a bath, the water can only go one way. I didn't think about it much, just kept on walking, and the next thing I know, the three of us are standing in a virtually empty Louvre forecourt.

I mean empty.

There was no one really around at all. Just us, the scammers, and the first of a few eager tourists.

That's the other thing we learnt. Nothing happens too early in Paris, so being on a mission, we'd left home early, and inadvertently beat the crowds. Best I write that lesson down, because as the hours passed, the crowds started to build up, and before we knew it, there were hundreds of people everywhere.

Next stop, the Champs-Élysées, which started off tree-lined, with loads of public space, and ended with Chapel Street on steroids, and this unassuming little thing called the Arc de Triomphe. Wow! How big? If you've only seen it on TV, then you haven't really seen it at all.

From there, with the sun blazing on a beautiful autumnal afternoon, was our hot date with the great one. A couple of wrong turns had us heading a little out of our way, but there was no way that Mad, Freebs or I would possibly allow ourselves to get lost looking for the most obvious and visible landmark in the world.
As we headed for the Trocadéro (OK, sure, we ended up asking for directions - thanks Mad), Freebs made the comment, that as soon as we saw the splendid Eiffel Tower, that we'd hear angels harmonizing, and you know what? She wasn't too far off.
As the tower came into view, I'm sure I could hear the angelic calling of cherubs, because this sucker is just incredible. And large.
We had our lift tickets pre-booked for months, so we had the pleasure of joining the short queue, and an hour or so later, after having my personal space invaded by pushy Germans, (or were they Salvic?), I was hugging the walls, trying to convince myself that there was no way I could fall of this thing.
The panoramic views of Paris one gets from the top of the tower are well worth the planning and the queuing, and the running the gauntlet of pick-pockets. It sounds like a cliche, but if you've been up to the very top of the tower, you'll know what I'm talking about. Amazing.

After this, I can honestly say that the ladies and I were spent, so after a late lunch, some drinks, and some people-watching, we headed home via the 72 bus, and found ourselves back in Le Marais.

This has just been the beginning, but even after just 24 hours in this city, I can honestly say that all three of us feel far more oriented, far more comfortable, and far more blistered than when the day started.

Bon Soir Paris, and we'll see what feasts you provide for us tomorrow.