Author: p_c_neary@hotmail.com

As a friend, you know we travel a lot. We like to go places, and we like the places we go, and we enjoy the experiences of new lands, new foods, new adventures. But many places, while being nice to visit, just fail to live up to the hype. Which makes others stand out even more.

Mont St. Michel is in the latter category. There’ll be no Mont St. Michel replica in Vegas. It just wouldn’t work. The real thing is so amazing on so many levels: visually, historically, religiously, environmentally, that it simply stands alone.

Literally:

Bishop Aubert directed monks to start building the first abbey and church here in the 10th century. They kept building it higher and grander, first by expanding the footprint of the original site, then adding in domed and reinforced rooms to act as support for another level of larger church on top of the existing one. After many modifications and three levels, they ended up with the site as we see it today.

It sits atop a rocky island at the mouth of the Coueson river, which divides the Normandy peninsula from its Brittany counterpart. It became a national symbol of France when it withstood attacks for thirty years during the Anglo-French Hundred Years War. During the Middle Ages, it was an important center for learning and manuscript writing, but later its influence waned. During the French Revolution, it was seized (as was all Catholic church property), ransacked, and gutted. The Revolutionary government turned it into a prison for priests, a function for which it was to continue for seventy years of neglect.

During a French cultural renaissance in the late 19th century, the government began the long and difficult process of restoring the abbey. They built a causeway and tramway to the island to enable tourism, and started repairing the buildings. In 1969, Benedictine monks returned, and in 2001, sisters and brothers of the Monastic Communities of Jerusalem took over.

The aforementioned causeway had several negative effects. It greatly increased tourism, leading to a rash of tawdry shops and cafes along the single main street. The causeway changed the silting deposits of the river, threatening to turn the island into a part of the mainland. The French government spent millions determining a solution, which involved a new dam/sluice gate and a new casueway, which leave the island with its unique blend of massive sandy tidal flats at low tide.

I whined a bit about things that went wrong when we visited Chartres; here everything went right, with a nod to the French government for its well-designed and executed plan for the abbey. We bought tickets online (timed) and arrived in the parking lots (huge) on schedule. The free trolleys kept on schedule and got us to the base of the island quickly, if crowded. We managed the less traveled back road up to the abbey and got seats in the main chapel for Sunday mass. Lucky us, for a group of French Catholic Scouts had arrived, with two Bishops in tow (nary a rook or knight in sight)! Afterwards, we completed our “timed” visit to the abbey at our leisure, just before the holiday crowds jam-packed the main street.

It was an unexpected, albeit wonderful time. One caution: There is no French-with-disabilities act. The abbey was built as an agglomeration of several styles and editions, so there are literally about five hundred stairs (both up and down) within the abbey itself, after doing another five hundred or so to get to the abbey. And these are ancient stairs, with odd sizes and shapes, sometimes with added hand rails but more often none. It’s a challenge to the young and healthy, so you need to plan extra time; there is no hurrying along at the Mont!

For such a small town in an out-of-the-way place, Bayeux is at the center of so much history. Bayeux lies just inland from the English Channel in the Normandy peninsula, where great apples, great cheese, and great history collide.

First off, it was a seat for the Norman Duke William (the Bastard), before he set off in 1066 to conquer the Anglo-Saxon throne promised him by King Edward, but subsequently denied him by Edward’s brother-in-law, Harold. At the battle of Hastings, Harold got an arrow through the eye and William got the English throne, which came with a great improvement in nickname, as in William the Conqueror. Take that, Conan the Barbarian!

All of this history is captured in the Bayeux Tapestry, a real work of artistry in embroidered linen which tells the tale in seventy illustrations which make the story come alive even for an illiterate audience, as it was completed (probably) shortly after the Norman Conquest to celebrate William’s victory and substantiate his claim to the throne.

Next there’s the fact that Bayeux lies at the center of the line of beaches which gained World War II fame as the site of the Normandy invasion (great trivia question: how many US Marines landed in the largest amphibious invasion in history? None. The Marine Corps fought the Pacific campaign, while D-Day was a European Theater operation. No slight intended; just a great bar bet!).

We took a tour of all the famous American sites (sorry, only had one day, so we neglected our British and Canadian allies, let alone the Germans!). Random thoughts and photos:

Everyone has heard of the hedgerows in Normandy. They feature prominently in D-Day films and accounts of the battle. I never realized what made them so special. Nor did the Allies. Seems the simple translation for the French term bocage is “hedgerow,” something common also to England. But in England the hedges are purpose-built as fences. It seems the hedgerows in Normandy serve the same function, but they are the remnants of the original forests which covered the peninsula in antiquity. As farms and fields and roads were built, the builders simply cleared to the edge but left the forest strip at the edge: instant hedge. Except it is entirely natural, so it grows extremely dense, as in impenetrable. People can’t see through it, and have difficulty traversing it. Vehicles bounce off; even tanks are forced into an unnatural elevation which exposes their weaker belly-armor. Which made Normandy a battlefield with close-in surprise engagements. Enough of that!

You can easily see the differences between the US landing beaches. Utah has a gentle dune with less fortification. Omaha has a steep bluff with interlocking German military positions. My Omaha picture is the pathway made famous as Dog Easy Sector in Saving Private Ryan.

I was really excited about visiting St. Mere Eglise, the first town liberated in France. But it’s become some kind of Paratrooper-Disney production, complete with a paratrooper dummy hanging from the belfry! Now that really did happen the morning of June 6th, but why is the square filled with tourist kitsch, US Army Jeep rentals, and military surplus stores?

On the other hand, the American military cemetery is a treat: well-planned, manicured, with excellent monuments and art, all set on the bluffs overlooking the beaches. This is a can’t miss site, and make sure and visit for the flag lowering/taps at 5:00 pm sharp!

Normandy is famous for its apple ciders (especially Calvados) and Camembert cheese, a decidedly delicious combination! And of course seafood galore!

We thoroughly enjoyed our days in Normandy, which by chance happened just before the annual commemoration of the June 6th landings. While a few sites were closed for preparations, and the crowds were beginning to swell, the weather was excellent (helpful hint: it’s the coast, there are always tremendous winds, so the temperature usually feels 10-15 degrees colder than it reads).

You may never have heard of it. Or know why it’s famous. But it’s a story worth sharing.

Once upon a time, in the late 19th century, there was a young girl named Marie Françoise-Thérèse Martin. She went by Thérèse, and grew up in the little French town of Lisieux. She decided to enter the Carmelite convent at age fifteen in 1888, following the path of her two older sisters. There she served the quiet, dedicated life of personal and collective prayer of the Carmelite order. After nine years of working, reading, and praying, she endured an eighteen-month battle with tuberculosis, from which she died. And she would have passed unnoticed into the hereafter. Except she also wrote, and her writings held great signifcance.

Thérèse had always felt a call to be holy, but as she learned more about her Catholic faith and the lives of the Saints who went before her, she felt discouraged. She was not called to lead armies like Jeanne d’Arc, or to counsel Popes like Catherine of Siena. She simply followed the rules set down by Saint Theresa when she reformed the order, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed. But she pondered her situation mightily, and wrote down those thoughts she developed. She called it her “little way” and described it thusly:

“I will seek out a means of getting to Heaven by a little way – very short and very straight little way that is wholly new. We live in an age of inventions; nowadays the rich need not trouble to climb the stairs, they have lifts instead. Well, I mean to try and find a lift by which I may be raised unto God, for I am too tiny to climb the steep stairway of perfection. […] Thine Arms, then, O Jesus, are the lift which must raise me up even unto Heaven. To get there I need not grow. On the contrary, I must remain little, I must become still less.”

St. Thérèse

She committed to doing everything she did so as to show love to others. No great deeds, no miracles, no deeply-developed theology. Just her little way. She lived by this creed, and wrote about it in a journal which was published posthumously as The Story of a Soul. Her final months were agonizing but she embraced the suffering with the same joy she embraced her life.

After her death, her “little way” became an international sensation. She was canonized (recognized as a Saint) only twenty-eight years after her death. The meaningful way she relates the call to holiness to everyday life has found welcome reception among the faithful on every continent. Then-Pope John Paul II named her a Doctor of the Church (one of the four women so honored out of thirty-three total doctors), a title given to those Saints whose development of theology or doctrine has special authority.

The little girl from Lisieux has a profound worlwide following, and a great basilica in her honor. She answered the question “what has prayer ever done?” by changing millions of lives with hers. She also proved that while being great may be good, being good is always great.

When you travel, you have many plans, with many options and even more contingencies. You try to put all the pieces together, and you work hard to make all the various components fit. Sometimes it all works perfectly. Other times, well, were today.

We got an early start from the Meuse valley and headed across Paris to visit Chartres, home of the famous 12th Century Gothic Cathedral. Not just any church, or even any Gothic Church: THE crème de la crème of Gothic Cathedrals: Notre-Dame de Chartres. We planned to arrive around noon, tour the Cathedral, eat late dinner, catch the evening illumination, and be off the next morning. This was certainly a one-and-done leg of our trip, consciously so, but it was also the only such leg.

Alas, we were using two forms of driving directions: Waze (which includes traffic) and a rental car GPS system (which doesn’t). Unfortunately, we had the latter (not the former) on for voice instructions, and the GPS took us straight into a massive traffic jam. We recognized our mistake and switched, but by then we were only one of many Parisians and tourists trying to maneuver down backroads, across parking lots, heck trying anything to get where we were going. This should have been a clue: why so much traffic around noon on a Thursday in France?

Thus we ended up arriving closer to two in the afternoon, but still with plenty of time to tour the Cathedral. We went to a little cafe across the square, obviously a favorite of locals and tourists, to get some lunch before the tour. While we were lunching, I glanced at the visiting hours for the Cathedral, which read: “Holiday: some hours may be changed or restricted.” “Holiday? What holiday?” I mused. Now as serious Catholics (Judy & I liken ourselves to Shi’ite Catholics, to borrow comedian Jim Gaffigan’s line), we knew it was Ascension Thursday, but this is secular France, for Godssake! Even back in the States most of the dioceses have conveniently moved the celebration from Thursday to the next Sunday, to avoid putting too much burden on the faithful.

But in France? It’s a national holiday! Holy day? Maybe. Holiday: Tout à fait! So there was heavy traffic headed out of Paris in all directions (especially to Chartres, which is just an hour away by autoroute). And there were crowds and tour groups all over the place. English-langauge guide books: nope. Guided tour headsets? No. Wait, what if we wait for some to be turned in? Nope, no more today (at 3:30 pm). There was free concert planned due to the holiday, so the Cathedral was closing early. Mind you, we weren’t missing out on the tour because obligatory Mass was planned on a holy day; we were missing it for a public concert on a holiday!

We were able to walk around with the crowds and get some happy snaps:

The Cathedral is as impressive as advertised. Built with flying buttresses around the sides, it enabled the ceilings to be higher and the walls to be thinner, and to include larger windows, which were filled with original stained glass. Despite its antiquity, the building is mostly “as was,” never bombed out and replaced like so much of Europe.

Even our room was unique, and had a view:

In the evening, the town illuminates twenty-one different historic structures, but of course the Cathedral is the main attraction. The illumination was about twenty minutes long and took on several different (sometimes whimsical) themes. They were all amazing, as you’ll see:

In the end, we had a good meal, got to experience the Cathedral–if not learn much about it–and witness the illumination. Worth the marginal pain and suffering!

After a quick rental car pick-up from the Mediterranean coast, we reversed our river cruise up the Rhône valley, then continued north (eight hours on autoroutes or toll roads) into the Meuse valley and ended up in the little village of Ancemont. There we chose to stay at Chateau Lebessiere while we visited the Verdun battlefield. First, the chateau. Run by René and his wife Marie, the chateau was a real ducal retreat even unto the 1950s, when US Air Force Colonels used it as quarters for the then-American airbase at Étain-Rouves. But the Americans left (President DeGaulle impolitely asked them to go) and the Chateau fell into disrepair, until René decided to buy it (it was a wreck filled with squatters). It took him and his wife seven years to evict the squatters and restore the chateau to its former glory. And glorious it is!

If you ever decide to visit Verdun, or the American World War I battlefields near St. Mihiel, or Bastogne, or the Meuse river valley, stay here. It is spectacular, fairly priced, and incredibly welcoming. And the food (dinner & breakfast included)? Beyond belief!

But one does not travel to this area for the food (although it is good), the wine (ditto), or even the cheese; one travels for the histoire. Americans should be forgiven for not knowing too much about the Great War. Our experience was late and short, and it shows even in our language. We refer to World War I or the First World War, making this epochal event into some kind of prequel. An American version of the history of this period, if it is taught at all, goes something like this: corrupt, tottering European kingdoms stumbled into a disastrous war which stupidly cost millions of lives, but eventually the Americans joined in to save the day and democracy flourished. All of which has elements of truth. But the history is so much more than this.

Verdun is firstly a battlefield, and there is quite a story there. By 1916 (two years in to the war), the trench lines on the Western Front ran from the Swiss border to the English Channel. There was literally nowhere to maneuver, so the Germans decided to launch a massive attack on Verdun, a French fortress city which the Germans had managed to surround on three sides earlier in the war. The German high command hoped to use suprise and an unprecedented artillery bombardment to take high ground overlooking the city itself, which they believed would goad the French into suicidal counterattacks that would bleed the French Army dry.

The little village of Fleury was the deepest penetration by the Germans, and it changed hands sixteen times. Nothing is there today but archeological markers, like it was a settlement from a thousand years ago, not one hundred years ago.

The German offensive began with four million artillery shells: that is not a typo. The sound of the unrelenting multi-day bombardment was heard one-hundred miles away as a continuous thunder. Everything along the French front lines was destroyed: forests, towns, bridges, trenches. The Germans made steady initial progress, but the French rushed reinforcements and counterattacked before the Germans secured the high ground. The battle went back and forth for ten months: the longest single battle of the war. In the end, the German plan failed, with unfathomable results: over 700,000 dead or wounded on both sides along a thirty-mile front. In the end, little territory was gained or lost.

That is the military story of Verdun, but there is a world-historical story, too. Verdun represented the high-water mark of a civilization. The apogee of European civilization wasn’t found in the enlightened salons of Paris, nor in the hedonistic cabarets of post-war Berlin. It was found among the forests, farms, and villages of the Meuse valley near Verdun. People of that day and age were cosmopolitan: they travelled, imported items, argued over new ideas. They followed the current scientific breakthroughs and sought to perfect mankind and men. The governments may have been monarchies, but the armies were thoroughly democratic: doctors and doormen, poets and plumbers. The rich may have sought officer ranks, but they served on the frontlines nonetheless. The soldiers were not brutes: they knew early on what the war was like, and yet they continued to show up, and serve, and die.

They enlisted for something bigger than themselves, they fought for each other, and they died for little reason. But the armies which fought around Verdun in 1916 were still committed to causes, and they refused the “there’s nothing worth dying for” sentiment. Level any criticism you want at the inept political leaders. Do the same for the Generals. But what can one say about a culture that can produce such young men?

On 9/11, a few Americans aboard Flight 93 took matters into their own hands, and heedless of the consequences, they stopped the slaughter in one day and at something less than 3,000 dead. Now imagine that slaughter continued: new flights, new fights, more crashes, more deaths, every day for ten months. And with that outcome, you would equal what the French and Germans experienced at Verdun.

All subsequent 20th Century history grows from the Great War: America’s rise, Russia’s instability, the “German problem,” the end of the British Empire, France’s loss of elan, de-colonization, the rise of fascism and communism, demographic catastrophe, the roaring ’20s, therapeutic psychology, consumerism, atheism, and on and on. We very much live in a world determined by what happened during the “war to end all wars.” Europe was never the same after the Great War, and Verdun was the battlefield where its heroes became the ghosts who haunt it to this day.

Our last port on the river cruise was the ancient city of Arles, on the Rhône river but also practically on the Mediterranean coast in Provence. The Romans first saw the strategic value in a settlement here, controlling the river route into Gaul. The city lies near marshes and a nature preserve (the Camargue) that helps it retain a certain out-of-the-way, reserved character.

Arles is proud of its Roman heritage, and the ancient local language, Provençal, is more akin to Latin then French, although of course French predominates today. Arles retains a Roman coliseum, a theater, baths, an aqueduct: all the trappings of Imperial Rome. Its coliseum has an interesting history. In the Middle Ages, it was occupied by locals who made it into a small walled-town-within-the-town, full of little houses and shops. Eventually, the city government evicted everyone and re-established the arena. In fact, they still use the coliseum for bull fights, either of the Spanish (killing the bull) or French (irritating the bull) variety.

Arles is as charming as a painting, as in a van Gogh painting. He spent a few troubled months here (as everywhere) generating over 300 hundred paintings of landmarks still visible today. Oh, and yes, he cut off his ear here, too. Picasso and Gaugin also spent productive time here, but left bodily intact. Few if any of these great artists’ work remains here.

We also visited the remains of the historic fortress village of Les Baux de Provence. This was an independent town nestled in formidable, rocky hills north-east of Arles. This one-time principality held out for hundreds of years before finally being sacked and destoyed by the French under Cardinal Richelieu. To keep the fort from ever proving a problem again, the French army leveled it, although the town itself remains. Unfortunately, to add insult to injury, the town has become a tourist trap where only a few people actually live, the prices are high, and the tour groups run non-stop. C’est la vie! At least real history happened here, and the views are amazing. There was one hidden gem: we found a small 12th century church (intact) with some amazing stained-glass windows, donated by the Prince of Monaco (who once held title to the area) as a peace gesture. Somehow the modern glass fits perfectly well in the ancient setting:

Arles and Provence have much to offer. We didn’t get to visit any lavender fields, but we did get to taste some Provençal olive oil, which is hard to find outside of France. They export some (to the States) but mostly produce fresh for the French markets, as locals prefer the lighter, softer tastes (compared to Italian or Greek olive oil). Hard to blame them, but I guess that makes them, well, provincial and Provençal!

Q: what do you call the action of going on excursions?

As we’ve sailed down the Saône and Rhône, we’ve had the chance to take several group tours (excursions in the parlance of cruises) and a few personal side trips, too. This being France, and wine country to boot, we’ve done a few vintners.

The first was called Château de Chasselas, near the town of Mâcon. The village of Chasselas lies literally on the dividing line between the Bourgogne (Chardonnay) and Beaujolais areas. One could look at the hillside fields on one side of town and see grapes destined to be Chardonnay, while on the other side of town the grapes were headed to Beaujolais. We tasted Chardonnay while learning of the travails of the vintner, who left the high-intensity world of Paris fashion to start a family-run winery, which is also high-risk. I guess the grapes are less temperamental than Parisian fashion critics!

Next we tried Beaujolais at a winery called Domaine Paire, a family-run affair for over 400 years! Jean-Jacques recently turned over the business to his son, but he happily gave us a lesson in Beaujolais, especially the difference between the Nouveau (which has turned into something of an event despite being of, shall we say, “fresh” quality) and Cru Beaujolais which has all of the body, depth, and aroma of great French wine. We practiced the subtle art of wine tasting (first eye, then nose, then mouth) under the master’s friendly tutleage. Nothing beats a little learning reinforced with practical exercise. I looked forward to the homework!

Of course, excursion tours also involve following the flag (your cruise tour guide), while listening to a receiver hanging from your lanyard connected to an earpiece in your ear! We visited the tiny hamlet of Oingt. Bonus if you guess how to pronounce it: like a baby’s cry: “WAAH.” Once an abandoned medieval ruin, Oingt was gradually reclaimed and rebuilt by artisans and now serves as charming–albeit touristy–photo op. Still, it does provide amazing set-pieces, so why not?

Another mandatory tour stop was at Les Halles de Lyon, to which the name of chef Paul Bocuse was added after he died in 2018. This market is filled with the very best of wine, meat, fish, cheese, chocolate, bread and all things culinary. You can shop, sample, or just browse, but I guarantee you will gain five pounds even just looking!

We went off on our own to brave the wild transport system of Lyon (actually very easy to use) and visit la Maison des Canuts: the silk-weavers museum. It was a small affair, jam-packed with information about the centuries-long history of silk weaving associated with Lyon. The Canuts, or weavers, were mainstays of Lyonnais working culture, and even famously rebelled in the 1830s over government regulation (such rebellions are a passion in France). Canut culture inaugurated the bouchons (which we covered previously), the traboules (ditto), and are essential to understanding Lyon, although the Canuts themselves are in the main long-gone.

In Avignon, we ditched the crowd to find a church for Sunday Mass. Now you might think finding a church in Catholic France, let alone the one-time seat of the papacy (French Kings held various Popes hostage in Avignon for sixty-seven years) would be easy, and you would be . . . right. Despite France’s increasing secularization, we easily found the 10:00 am Sunday Mass at Avignon’s Cathedral Notre-Dame Des Doms.

Just another 12th Century Cathedral!

And we did another wine-tasting! This time Chateauneuf du Pape at the Bouachon vineyard in the heart of Provence:

Even my Irish liver needed a rest from all this rich French food and wine!

A few fleeting shots of Avignon as we near the cruise end:

We’re on a long-delayed (two years) Avalon Waterways river cruise down the Saône and Rhône rivers in France. If you’ve never taken a river cruise, or especially if you have done only ocean cruises, you owe it to yourself to try out a river cruise, especially in Europe.

What’s so good about them? First off, it lacks the bag-drag (in common with ocean cruises). You unpack once, then visit multiple places. However, unlike ocean cruises which often drop you via a tender or in a slightly seedy port area, river cruises (especially in Europe) often leave you in the middle of town, with easy access to everything.

Next, river cruise ships are smaller, so they are manageable. You can’t possibly get lost on one, and they’re easy to navigate. The other side of this is they lack some of the extravagant attractions of ocean cruises: no climbing walls, water slides, or go-cart tracks. Maybe a tiny gym, a single closet-sized spa, no casino, no art auctions, no shops. Depending on your tastes, these may all be good or bad.

Unlike ocean cruises, which usually cruise overnight, leaving you to visit a new port each day, river ships cruise both during the day and night. Seeing the countryside is part of the experience (the ocean view rarely changes, except when entering/leaving port), and it is not at all unusal to go on an excursion from one place and meet back up with the ship in another place. There are also opportunities on river cruises to go out on your own (picnic, ride bikes, etc.) and meet up with the cruise down the river (of course, with prior coordination).

Because of the smaller size, the river cruise experience is more intimate. With 1-200 people on board, you may literally meet everyone during the cruise. There are no assigned seats, but there are assigned meal times (snacks and quick bites are available other times), where you choose your meal companions (or dine alone). Menu options often include regional fare bought that day, so it’s fresh and authentic, but that means fewer choices, too.

Like ocean cruises, lines have reputations (party boats, specialty themes, more or less formal) so it pays to research. Also, lines offer wildly disparate options, so comparing prices is a chore: free drinks versus Wifi packages versus free excursions, for example. And on river cruises, the itinerary is far more important than the ship. There are no “days at sea,” so your cabin is mostly a bed and place to freshen up, and the ship a means to get from here to there. Which is not to say it’s any less luxurious: the crew to passenger ratios are very similar, depending upon the line.

Some of the oddities of river cruising? Your cabin may have a balcony or floor-to-ceiling windows. But when you dock in a town, the cruise ships all line-up side-by-side, connected. Which means when you throw open your window, you may be looking directly into the cabin on the ship next door! It does make embarking and disembarking interesting, as the crews make sure you get to the correct ship.

Long ago in Europe, news that the Vikings were coming spread terror throughout the land. Now that river cruising in Europe has exploded–with Viking Cruises leading the way as the mass-market choice–history repeats itself. One doesn’t get the frenzy that accompanies several ocean cruise ships disgorging all at once (ever see Venice during this experience? It’s worse than a flood!), but you can find yourself hitting the same tourist sites at the same time, all following along your designated flag and getting the same packaged tours. But river cruises often allow you to skip off on your own, too.

Like ocean cruises, there are options to fit every budget and traveling style. Want a weeklong cruise in a wine region where you only go one hundred kilometers? They got that. Want the grand tour from the Atlantic to the Black Sea via the Rhine, Main, and Danube? Got that too. Cruises aimed at local foods, wines, history? Check!

The river cruising set skews even older than the ocean cruising demographic. River cruises are generally more expensive, and they never attract the hard partyers, Spring-breakers, or casino enthusiasts. They are more sedate, more seasoned travellers, and more independent. Most Americans are familar with ocean cruises due to the numerous Carribean and Pacific cruises; river cruises in the States are just starting to take hold.

It’s possible (but highly unlikely) that you may get seasick on a river cruise. Weather plays out differentlythan on ocean ships: you’ll see no videos like those of ocean cruises which encounter heavy seas or hurricanes, but very-low or high water on a river cruise can result in bus transfers (around bridges) or even hotel stays. If it disrupts the cruise significantly, I have heard of cruise lines offering full refunds (in the form of future cruise credits).

Like ocean cruises, you’ll only get a taste of the towns you visit. It’s great if you want to try out a region, or if you already know a place and just want to make a quick re-visit. You will be well-fed (and drink-ed), pampered, and there are plenty of opportunties to go off on your own. Most lines have pre- and post-cruise extensions, which often give you a few days in major cities like Prague, Nice, or Barcelona, which aren’t on the cruise. We find river cruising an expensive but efficient form of travel vacation; hope you enjoy one soon!

Everybody knows, and goes to, Paris. Less well-known is the former Roman capital of Gaul: Lugdunum. Never heard of it? Perhaps in its French form: Lyon? Lyon prides itself as France’s gastronomic capital, and as such, it is also arguably the world capital of gastronomy. We’re starting our three week tour of France and Italy with a stop in Lyon.

Long before Paris was much of anything, Lyon was a bustling city. Its strategic position at the confluence of the Rhône and Saône rivers was quickly assessed by the Romans, where they chose first a fortified settlement then built a city. Its navigable rivers–far into Gaul (France)–made it a trade port, and it eventually became a center for silk weaving, which had an unusual effect on its culinary traditions (more to follow).

It’s a beautiful city, with an impossible number of fine restaurants. Paul Bocuse, the legendary French chef who died in 2018, set up shop here, and his influence is deeply felt. Hundreds of aspiring chefs still train at his Institute, and the quality of culinary artistry in the city is very high. So we decided to spend a few days in Lyon before heading off on a river cruise down the Rhône.

After a day-and-a-half of flight delays and diversions (nothing serious), AeroMexico and Air France finally got us and our luggage to Lyon. Adjusting our eating habits to the French style was as difficult as overcoming jet lag. We arrived at 7:00 pm: early dinner time for the French. Our bodies were on -7 hour time (or lunch), and we had had a series of meal and snacks on the plane. So we went out for a light meal before bed. We stopped at Food Traboule, which deftly combines two Lyonnais traditions.

The first is the traboule, a series of secret or non-obvious passageways which honeycomb the city. They developed in the Middle Ages as covered routes for deliverymen to bring fresh products across town without being exposed to the elements (or thieves). They doubled as covert smuggling routes (or for liaisons of a sort) from then on. The second is the tradition of the independent chef. Put those two together, and about five years ago some aspiring chefs bought row houses, knocked down adjoining walls, and opened Food Traboule. You enter into a series of rooms with single-chef stalls, preparing a limited menu which you order directly from the chef. Sit wherever you want, and order whatever you want and pay the chef directly; waiters drop by to get you drinks from a central bar. It’s a cross between a Michelin star restauarant and a Mall food court! The beauty is you get to try out new concepts from up-and-coming chefs, cheaply and easily, without commiting to a full meal or menu. Just in the room we visited, you could find a stall with South Asian-Middle Eastern fusion, another with French gourmet hot dogs, and a third with French-Mexican mixes.

The next morning, we went out to join the French breakfast tradition: an espresso with a croissant or baguette on the way to work. We found many cafes did not open until 8:30 or 9:00 (when does work start?). The fresh pastry was delicious, the coffee strong but very good. After breakfast we got in some sight-seeing, visiting the main Cathedral for Lyon, then taking a funicular line up to the newish (19th Century) Basilica Notre-Dame de Fourvière (with Romanesque and Byzantine flourishes). It resides next to the well-preserved Roman amphitheater, each a unique architectural structure with bold views of the city below.

Now we normally eat one large meal a day (around 2:00 pm), with a small snack in the morning or evening. The French eat lunch between 12:00 and 2:00 pm, and don’t start dinner before 7:00 pm, so there was no way to square that with our style. We decided to go all in at 12:00, so we tromped in to the legendary bouchon Chabert et fils. There are many origin stories for the term bouchon, but the concept is firmly rooted in the silk-weaving story. Wives of the silk workers banded together to buy cheap meat parts (think brains, tripe, sweetbreads) from local butchers, then slow-cooked them into hearty meals for their husbands to return to after work. Eventually this evolved into a culinary tradition of family-owned businesses featuring a daily prix-fix (set price) menu of such hearty fare, a tradition which continues to this day.

As starters (entree here, a matter of some confusion for Americans), we chose a warm goat cheese pastry and a cold pâte pastry with a tart side salad:

Next, we had a pike quenelle ( a creamy pastry) and garlic flank steak with hash browned potatoes:

For dessert, a Guignol (named after a Lyonnias marionette character, but this dessert is a puffy cake with flamed crème and candied oranges) and a chocolate cake, both drenched in cream:

With espresso to cleanse the palate:

A statue of the Sun-King (Louis XIV) with appropriate backdrop:

In the Place Bellecour, a huge central plaza

The city has twenty Michelin-star restaurants, but more importantly, thousands more excellent places to eat which draw upon the unique culinary history and the impressive modern example of chef Paul Bocuse. You don’t have to spend a fortune to eat well, and the fine cuisine does NOT come with a side order of attitude one might encounter elsewhere (at least in our experience). My mauvais français was warmly received as an attempt at communication, and every waiter seemed to know more than enough anglais. As we like to say, when in Lyon, make sure and wear your eatin’ pants!