Delicious Expeditions

(Titled lifted from Ruth Reichl’s book of the same name.)

The moment the man said, “In Normandy, we butter our bread before slathering on the cheese,” I knew I was in the right place. The heavy cream and Calvados-laden dishes only confirmed it. But even though I love butter and can eat my share of Camembert, I was actually in Normandy for another reason—to experience D-Day exactly where it happened.

As a World War II history buff, who spent a university year studying the subject in Germany—on the ground, in the camps, and with the people who lived it from the other side, I had already covered a lot of central Europe. However, still missing from my education were the beaches where on June 6, 1944 Allied troops landed and changed the fate of the world.

French Cheese Plate

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It started at an early age—my fascination with the ins and outs of the good life. It wasn’t my upbringing per se. I’m the product of middle class Texas, however in-between visits to BBQ joints and pulling up to the Jack in the Box drive-thru, I did cross a few imposing thresholds…and I paid attention. Wandering the hallways of the Plaza, while my parents had a drink in the bar, I studied discarded room service trays and unattended maid’s carts. If this predilection came from a past life it wasn’t one of luxury, rather service—I was Carson, managing the intimate details of Downton Abbey. There could be no other explanation.

Sacre Coeur in Paris

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The email arrived that morning: Your flight has been cancelled due to an airline workers strike. I was just about to leave my small hotel near the Marseille airport, but the message stopped me in my tracks.

After more than an hour on hold the airline representative gave me two choices: take the next available seat–a week from Tuesday, or receive a full refund.

“But I have to get to London in order to catch my flight home. I can’t wait until next week!” No one seemed to care, so I took the refund.

Perched Villages

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I had a companion in France, a co-pilot of sorts. We met in the rental car parking lot and parted ways three weeks later at the Marseilles airport. His name was Jean Claude. He was high strung and easily agitated–a drama queen, if truth be told. We drove though Provence together, following a trial of medieval castles and crystal clear rivers.

Jean Claude loved the open road, but parking lots made him nervous. He would screech if I came too close to another car, and was always on my back when I maneuvered into a tight spot. Watch the front bumper! No, the side door! He loved telling me what to do. I can’t say I liked it, but I learned to appreciate it. The one time I chose to ignore his rants I hit the wall of a building–no damage done.

Nyons with its Roman Bridge

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Most of you know by now that I’m a proud member of homeexchange.com. I often boast of my month in Prague living next door to the Prime Minister, my summer in Vermont lazing around a picturesque 18^th century farmhouse, and let’s not forget my posh apartment in Manhattan.  I don’t look for these experiences–they find me.

Wanted: a place in San Miguel in exchange for our home in Provence, or our beach house in Bali.

I’ve more than once sprained my finger hitting the reply button. (It’s a contest you know, getting to your fellow exchangees before anyone else does.)

I chose France, three weeks in the foothills of the Alps, near the Luberon, the region made famous by Peter Mayle and his book, “A Year in Provence.“ It’s home to the Cote du Rhone wine route as well as numerous lavender farms, ancient olive trees and quaint medieval villages.

Lavender Before The Bloom

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In June of my 17^th year I went to Germany on a summer exchange program. I lived with a family in a large house on Lake Constance, a picturesque body of water that borders Germany, Switzerland and Austria. My German father was a former movie director turned naturopath, my temporary mother an ex-movie star. The children slept in a separate wing of the house, connected by a kitchen that was the realm of a full-time cook who showered us with cakes and tortes, three-course lunches and late night snacks.

There was a pool and a sauna, as well as a patio and a garden that backed onto a French army barracks. It was a relic from World War II when the Allies divided the conquered country into zones. I loved waking to the sound of soldiers singing as they passed by on their morning run.

My German family usually gathered in the sauna after dinner and I joined them… once, excited and eager in my one-piece bathing suit. They were there waiting, as promised, but had forgotten to dress for the occasion. To say I was shocked by their naked bodies would be an understatement. After all I was a quiet, somewhat conservative girl from Texas who had never sat around naked with anyone before, much less my own family. It’s just not something we did. I remember looking at the ceiling as we discussed who killed JR. They assumed, as a Texan, I had all the answers.

I can’t show you my naked German family, so here’s some fresh garlic at a market in Provence instead.

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