Wanaka. It rhymes with Hanukkah.

We left Franz Josef after a night of pounding rain. When we reached Fox Glacier, about 30 km south of Franz Josef, the clouds were low and threatening. We drove up the short gravel road to the glacier lookout, stepped out, snapped a few photos of the nearly-invisible glacier, and hopped back in the car.


We drove south along the west coast through alternating periods of rain, mist, and gloom. If there were any spectacular views of the nearby mountains, they were obscured by clouds and fog. We stopped briefly at the Munro Beach track, but the time of day, the tide, and the weather conspired against us and we had no hope of spotting the Fjordland Crested Penguins that occasionally emerge from the surf.




So we drove on, stopping for gas and a dispiriting search for a healthy lunch in the scruffy little town of Haast. When we reached the lone cafe, the only thing on the menu that wasn't battered and deep fried was the spaghetti sandwich. New Zealand has fresh, innovative food at the high end, but at the fringes, it's thoroughly old school British. After a greasy pub meal the night before, we just couldn't handle it. We opted for an apple and some crackers in the car instead. We were getting a little grumpy.

Then we turned east and followed the Haast River valley up and over Haast pass. Although we drove through a snow-covered landscape for a few miles, the roads were clear and - as we've experienced throughout our trip so far - mostly deserted.



Within a few miles of the summit of the pass, it was clear that we'd passed from the tropical luxuriance (and near constant rain) of the west coast into a drier, sparer environment. The snow peaks surrounding us were no longer choked with vegetation - instead, long expanses of open range land were interspersed with occasional copses of trees. A Great Basin-type landscape, if you ignore the occasional stand of giant cabbage trees.

The unrelenting overcast thinned, shattered, and bright sunshine beamed down as we zoomed down the empty road. We found ourselves driving beside an enormous, deep blue lake, utterly empty for as far as the eye could see. Lake Wanaka, which stretches for over 40 km in length and over 10 km at its widest point. Looking at that enormous, empty body of water, I was reminded of Pyramid Lake in Nevada.


A quick left turn of the road and suddenly an entirely new vista presented itself to us: Lake Hawea lies in a glacier-carved valley parallel to Wanaka. It's not as large as Wanaka, but even more spectacular, with jagged, snow-covered peaks surrounding all but its narrow southern end. Under the sunny skies, the water in Lake Hawea was as blue as I've ever seen at Crater Lake. We stopped several times to gawk at the spectacular landscape.






We rolled down from the mountains and into the busy resort town of Wanaka. Our motel room (more on this later-- motels are a whole 'nother thing here) is typical NZ style: spacious, squeaky clean, and perfectly comfortable - and outside our back door, there's a narrow, rushing stream full of absolutely enormous trout.





After exploring Wanaka, which is a ski town through and through in the winter, we found a great little Indian place for dinner. We settled in by the fire with a bottle of Otago "Misha's Vineyard" Riesling, and raised a glass to our delicious curries-- which were neither battered nor deep fried.

That bottle of Riesling prompted us to add a detour through Otago to tomorrow's drive to Mount Cook. Riesling is often dismissed as sweet and unserious by casual wine lovers, but among hardcore oenophiles, it's treasured as the finest, most transparent in character, and longest-aging white wine in the world. The best examples usually come from Germany, Alsace, and Austria. We've yet to find a New World Riesling that can compete on quality or price with a $20 Mosel Kabinett, but the bottle we had last night hinted at a strong effort to do precisely that.

Off to Otago to test that idea.

Location:Upton St,Wanaka,New Zealand

Marlborough

Blenheim, at the center of the Marlborough wine-growing region, is among the warmest spots on the South Island. That said, it’s still winter here, and last night the temps approached freezing. High overcast on Saturday morning revealed snow on the mountains that surround the Wairau River valley that is the heart of the Marlborough region. We avoided the early morning chill through the simple strategy of staying in bed until it was really late. We put together a do-it-yourself breakfast with silky, free-range chicken eggs with yolks the color of mangos, toast with home-made grapefruit-lemon marmalade and quince jelly, some fresh OJ, and coffee. Delicious.

Thus fortified, we packed up and headed out for a short round of wine-tasting. Let it be noted that we know virtually nothing about New Zealand wines beyond the fact that they’ve managed to make sauvignon blanc drinkable – a not insignificant accomplishment. Nevertheless, when in Rome…

We made three stops, all within a few kilometers of our B&B. At each winery, we were offered a similar lineup: a sparkling wine, Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, Riesling, Gewürztraminer, and Pinot Noir. Also at each winery, we were the only visitors on this winter Saturday. In summer, crowds are three and four deep at the tasting bar, but wine-tasting is evidently a summer sport here in New Zealand. We ended up buying a classic Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc at our first stop, a slatey bottle of Riesling at the second, and a bargain-basement Pinot Noir at the third stop.

The Marlborough region is remarkably compact: perhaps 15 km from east to west, and half that from north to south. Grapes are planted on the valley floor as well as surrounding slopes, mixed with pasture land and the occasional copse of evergreens. In mid-winter, it feels and looks not unlike the Willamette Valley, although the surrounding mountains are considerably higher and more rugged.



One thing we enjoyed (and which was certainly a result of our off-season visit) was the casual friendliness we encountered at each stop. It amuses me that our accent throws Kiwis off: they don’t immediately peg us as Americans and typically ask where we’re from. Without exception, people have shown a charming (and justifiable) pride in their country and seem genuinely pleased that we’re visiting. I don’t doubt that in the midst of summer tourist season, that natural friendliness gets strained, but in the doldrums of mid-winter, New Zealanders’ inherent hospitality is on full display.

Amazing day

This is far too short a trip for self-indulgent jetlag woes, so we requested a 7AM wake-up call and scheduled an all-day tour of Iceland's famous Golden Circle.

We hate tours. We hate tour buses, tourists, and smarmy tour guides. We prefer to do our own research and explore on our own. With only three days in Iceland however, we compromised: we signed up with a smallish tour group for the eight hour trek through some of Iceland's most dramatic natural wonders. Andre from Iceland Horizons proved to be an excellent tour guide-- genuinely enthusiastic, and with extensive knowledge of history, geology, mythology, and comparative languages. There were only nine other people in our group, and they were very good company.

We left Reykjavik at 9 AM on a rain-free but very windy morning, and our first stop was the Nwsjavellir power plant. Icelanders get their power and hot water from super-hot volcanic steam under the Earth's crust. The plant is located in the middle of a thousand year old lava field, and except for a sparse carpet of arctic moss, it looks like Mars - utterly inhospitable and decidedly un-Earthly.

From there we drove into a peaceful agricultural valley lined with greenhouses and field after field of wind-blown Icelandic horses. These stocky little creatures were developed as a distinct breed and are protected by law in Iceland - no other horses are allowed on the island. In their heavy winter coats and long manes, they're a picturesque feature on the landscape.

Our next major stop was Kerið, a beautiful volcanic crater lake. It looks like an ampitheater-- so much so that a few musicians, including Björk, have played concerts on the lake.

One of the highlights of our trip was a stop at Geysir, the eponymous body that gives all geysers their name. Geysir itself is now extinct, but we followed signs a mere two hundred or so meters up hill to Strokkur, a large, active, and frequent belcher. You could see Strokkur's spray from the road, yet this short walk felt sort of like an ascent of K2. The wind was like a solid wall that made it hard to move forward. It left us gasping for air, but it whipped our faces with such force that it was hard to breathe. It felt like an endless pool or a hamster wheel. Once we made it there, It was literally difficult to stand still for pictures of Strokkur; we had to brace ourselves against the wind with our legs slightly apart to get these shots. We looked absolutely ridiculous, which is why there are no pictures of us in front of Strokkur. It probably sounds miserable, but it wasn't-- it was thrilling! The geyser's spray is less impressive than the flash-boil that precedes it when the gray, spritzy flat surface of the water rises into a breathtakingly vivid blue dome.

Like all the larger sites along the Golden Circle, Geysir has a comfortable, modern cafeteria/gift shop. Our group stayed for lunch to give our extremities a chance to thaw. The bathroom stalls are painted flat white, and visitors are encouraged to leave an autograph. Based on an unscientific sampling around one particular potty, the majority of tourists here are from Norway and Sweden. I may never be in the Olympics, but now at least I can say that I represented my country on a bathroom wall somewhere in Iceland.

After lunch, we got back in the van and left for Gullfoss,a waterfall along the Hvitá river. We thought we'd be jaded after spending a day at Iguazu Falls in '08, but Gullfoss was beautiful. The falls descend in two stages, cutting through the landscape and forming a deep, steep-sided gorge. Gulfoss doesn't approach Iguazu's scale or magnificence, but it's impressive and exciting and not at all the sort of falls you'd see on a hike back home. The wind picked up speed (you can hear it in the video below) but thankfully, it didn't come straight at us as we worked our way to the top of the park high above Gullfoss.

Final stop, Þingvellir national park, which straddles the rift between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. You can see right at the surface just how the Earth's pulling apart here. It's scenic in a spooky way, but it's also very beautiful. I've never seen such fundamental geologic processes so plainly displayed - the Þingvellir valley is scored with hundreds of fissures, clear evidence that this is the youngest land on the planet.

We got back to the hotel at about 5:30, wind-whipped, sore, and exhausted. The cumulative effect of several hour-long stops in the freezing breeze was a deep-down core-level chill that permeated our bodies. The perfect antidote: steamy-hot sulfurous water pounding on our muscles. Fortunately, Reykjavik hotels suffer no shortage of hot water.

We had low expectations for Reykjavik's dining scene even after our wonderful Indian meal last night, so we didn't put a whole lot of effort into finding a restaurant for dinner. We walked to Argentína Steikhús, which looked and sounded like an expensive tourist trap, but had the virtue of being half a block from our hotel. Steve ordered the chef's menu; I ordered a plain old steak. Hey, it's a steakhouse. We knew our meals would be slightly out of synch, but I wasn't hungry enough to care.

Within minutes we had a bottle of 2001 Gruaud Larose and an amuse bouche. I wish I'd paid more attention to the waiter's description, because whatever it was, the amuse was delicious. Bresaola, perhaps? Rolled and stuffed with something nutty, bright, herbal, and yummy. Our jaded palates perked up, and for good reason: what followed was an utterly delightful, lovingly prepared, perfectly paced meal.

The four-course special menu started with a ravioli filled with spinach and an egg yolk, drizzled with an oxtail ragout. The waiter brought out two servings: we waved off the second plate, explaining that only Steve had ordered the multi-course meal. The waiter shrugged and offered the extra ravioli to Melissa as an offering on the house. We both agreed the ravioli was delicious: unctuous yolk melding with the sharp spinach and tender pasta, the entire dish punctuated with the deep, earthy richness of the oxtail ragout.

The second course was a small portion of Icelandic salmon, cold-cured in salt and lemon zest. Two small squares of salmon were topped with arctic char roe and a drizzle of creme fraiche. Once again, our waiter brought two plates and offered the second to Melissa, explaining that "it didn't make sense to wait without eating" for the steak she'd ordered. What a gracious way to insure that we both enjoyed a harmonious dining experience. The fish was buttery tender, wonderfully delicate. The roe and sauce added an extra dimension of texture and flavor, but the fish itself was the standout: utterly fresh, faintly briny, just perfect fresh salmon.

And Melissa ate it. Melissa ate fish. As she explained, the presentation made her decision fairly easy: the dish was beautiful, a jewel-like presentation that was as much art as food. In any case, delicious as the food was, the big celebratory moment was when Melissa voluntarily tried it!

Our main courses were a couple of nice steaks accompanied by stir fried veggies. Melissa had a baked potato, Steve was served some complimentary french fries with garlic and rosemary. Probably the most pedestrian part of the meal - a steak is, after all, just a steak.

For dessert, Steve's meal included three mini-servings: a creme brulee, tiramisu, and a lemon sorbet. Melissa ordered a pavlova meringue served with mango and passionfruit reductions.

By the time we finished our desserts, we'd polished off the Bordeaux as well, and things got a little silly. We decided we had to try brennevin, the local Icelandic liqueur: a caraway-flavored brandy that's traditionally used to wash down local delicacies like sour sheep testicles. After we downed our shots of brennevin, our waiter (perhaps sensing an opportunity to laugh at impulsive tourists) suggested we next try "Opal", an herb-infused vodka that ranks among the worst alcoholic concoctions I've ever tried. Melissa claims to enjoy it, and backed up her claim a day later by purchasing a bottle of the stuff at the airport duty-free store.

We rolled out of the Argentina Steikhús several hours after entering - satiated, a little buzzed, and utterly charmed that we'd stumbled into such a pleasant and enjoyable meal in this quirky northern capital. The frigid wind that had howled all day during our tour had finally subsided, and we walked through the chilly night air back to our hotel. A very full, very fun day.

We like their wines.

Home sweet home.

We've enjoyed so many wonderful trips together over the years, but this one was unique. Most vacations are about what you see-- museums, landmarks, natural wonders. This trip certainly included those things in abundance, but what defines it in our memories won't be the Louvre or the Alps-- it will be the inexplicable generosity, hospitality, and enthusiasm we encountered at every tasting appointment. Over and over, busy winemakers took several hours of their time to not only taste their wines with us, but to show us through their facilities, their vineyards, and even their towns. They seemed as interested in teaching us about their land, their grapes, and their practices as we were in learning about them. We're not distributors, retailers, winemakers, or even big spenders. Winemakers in France do not generally sell their wines directly to visitors. Most don't even have formal tasting rooms. So the best we can tell, they gave us their time for the simple reason that we like their wines.

Paris (finally!) Day Ten.

So as far as I can tell, Charles de Gaulle airport is the only airport of any size whatsoever that doesn't feature a fleet of hotel shuttles - you know, the independent vans that scoop up a half dozen frazzled visitors and deliver them one by one to their respective destinations. Nope, at CDG, the only people taking vans into Paris are the people who have made reservations ahead of time. We've been in France for a week and a half and it never occurred to me that we'd need to reserve a ride into the city. Oh well, live and learn. After a half hour of trying to score a shuttle ride, we ended up taking a cab that was not much more than the shuttle's cost for two people.

We arrived at our hotel, in the 5th arrondisement directly across the street from the Pantheon museum. We're surprised and delighted by our room: although it boasts a view of some fake bamboo and a blank concrete wall, it's surprisingly large by Paris standards, comfortable, and nicely decorated. The hotel is in an 18th century mansion and has some interesting architectural remnants of its age - including a tiny, winding hallway to our room, and some massive, hand-carved beams on the ceiling of our room. The lobby smells like tuberose, so we tend to linger on our way through.

We were sort of fatigued after a long day of travel, so we decided to find dinner in the neighborhood. We're on the edge of the Latin Quarter, so it wasn't difficult to find a bunch of choices. We settled on a small place that featured an interesting wine list posted on their window - Bistro Laplace. It was a tiny, fun place - basically a one-man show. The menu du jour featured gazpacho, a slow-braised hunk of beef with baby potatoes, and chocolate mousse. We both went for it, and tried to accompany our meal with a Lapierre Morgon, but it was out of stock. Our waiter directed us to a Cotes du Rhone as an alternative. The wine was unexceptional, but the food was wonderful.

After dinner we walked a few blocks down to the river and admired the view of Notre Dame.
We crossed over to the Ile de France and watched a group of amazing skaters who'd set up in front of the cathedral. There were musicians, dancers, and the skaters - all the street entertainment you could ask for. Finally, we wandered back to our hotel, well aware that for many Parisians, the night was just beginning.

Zermatt to Strasbourg, Day Nine.

En route from Zermatt, Switzerland to Colmar, France, our navigation system asked us to drive on to a train. We resisted at first, but a kindly toll-booth operator told us in flawless English: GPS knows best!

Switzerland has one of the best systems of roads we've ever seen, with endless kilometers of perfectly smooth highways. In the mountains, they've constructed a series of options for travelers to shave hours off certain trips. There are tunnels, bridges, and trains, all with fairly high tolls, that cut right through mountains instead of looping around them. Thrilled at the idea of shaving 90 minutes off our drive to Alsace and having more time to spend in the region, we paid a $25 toll and drove our rental car on to an "auto train". The open-air train holds a single row of cars and nothing else. You drive on, engage your handbrake, turn off the engine, and the train does the rest. At first it felt like a gentle ride at Disneyland. Then the train moved into the tunnel-- a tunnel with no lights whatsoever.

And that’s how it continued: approximately 20 minutes of utter blackness, accompanied by the clacking roar of the train. We sat bemusedly in the dark until suddenly we emerged into bright sunshine and stopped. In less than a half hour of total elapsed time, we cut an hour and a half of driving – around 150 km – by means of a single 15 km tunnel. It’s known as the Lötschberg Tunnel, built over a seven year period from 1906 to 1913. Since diesel costs over a Euro per liter, and since we have been averaging a bit over 6 liters per 100 kilometers, our gas savings alone were about 10 euros – add in the time savings and the toll-booth operator was right: our GPS gave us some good advice on this one.

We continued to roll down through the Alpine foothills and into the rolling hills that make up much of Switzerland’s northern half.
We crossed over the Rhine River into the Alsace region of France and made our way to the small city of Colmar – a previously unknown destination, but one that was recommended by a couple of our European friends. Colmar lost its "hidden gem" status the moment we learned it had not one but two Sephora stores. Sephora's a plague on the landscape here, like McDonald's, and it's such a massive bummer to see one built into the ground floor of an otherwise beautiful old building. Nevertheless, the Germanic, half-timbered, car-free center of town was a scenic place to spend the afternoon. Thanks to our Rick Steves guidebook, a map, and a little help from our phone's GPS, we found L'un Des Sens, a delightful wine bar hidden on one of Colmar's winding side streets. We needed a break from meat, so we ordered a cheese plate and what looked like a salad on the day's chalkboard. The owner explained that it was not a salad but rather "seasonal vegetable caviars". We couldn't imagine what that meant, but we were interested to give it a try. We mentioned that we liked Riesling, so she also asked if she could select some wines for us. Her choices were excellent. One young German, one older Alsatian. The vegetable "caviars" were like pestos... or tapenades... one was made with juicy olives. Another had tomato and oregano. One had zucchini, another had eggplant, and our absolute favorite with a bright red pepper "caviar" that was similar to romanesco. The cheese plate included Delice de Pommard, a cheese that we'd never had before this trip but has quickly become one of our favorites. It's a triple cream goat cheese rolled in mustard seeds, and the piquancy of the mustard is beautifully balanced by the freshness and richness of the cheese. Our fingers are crossed that we can find this one at home.

We said goodbye to L'un Des Sens and then stopped at Pâtisserie GILG for macarons. We weren't sure how long it would take to get to Strasbourg in Friday afternoon traffic, so Melissa decided to give Colmar's pay toilet a whirl. Yup, she's in there in the picture. It's an interesting concept. It's like a vending machine, only you pay to leave something behind. It's not a bad deal for €0,30. Each time someone exits, the interior self-cleans. It doesn't self-dry, so it's important to convince yourself that in this case, a public toilet covered in droplets won't kill you. On to Strasbourg.

Strasbourg lies at a geographical, political, and cultural intersection between Germany and France.
It looks German, smells German, and feels German, but it sounds French. We booked one night at L'Hôtel Cathédrale, just steps from the magnificent Cathédrale Notre-Dame-de-Strasbourg. The 1980s era decor in our room was badly outdated, but the room was huge and the view was amazing. We took that picture to the right from our room's window. Later that night when the whole town converged on the square to watch the Cathedrale's light show, we had a front row view from our room. The show itself was both beautiful and bizarre, with multicolored lights pulsing in tune with classical music. It's the gothic cathedral's answer to Laser Floyd.

And on to Paris.

Italy, Day Seven

Every time we engage the navigation system in the rental car, it reminds us that it's not perfect and we should use common sense. In other words, don't make a left turn off a cliff even if the computerized voice sounds really confident that it's the right direction. The navigation system in our rental car has done a remarkably good job of getting us where we need to be, but yesterday it screwed up. We were about three hours into the French Alps on our way to Valle d'Aosta, Italy when the navigation system tried to send us back from whence we came.

We tried to re-enter our hotel's Italian address a few times, but no matter what we did, the car insisted we should go back to France. Slightly panicked, we resorted to a map. We found the perfect scenic mountain road-- the Petit St. Bernard Pass-- and started up the steep, winding incline into Italy. Several kilometers into the pass, we decided to try the navigation system one last time. It flashed an electronic map of our location, and said "make a U-turn as soon as possible!" We pressed on, but we had a "light bulb" moment when we passed a few cyclists: the Tour de France blazed through the Petit St. Bernard Pass the day before, so the road was closed. The navigation system just hadn't caught on that the stage was over and the road was open.

We arrived in the small town of Saint-Vincent at around 6PM and checked into our hotel. We opened up the window and gasped... we were right above the action in the town square, with views of the mountains in every direction. We enjoyed the view for a bit and then set out to explore Saint-Vincent.

We've been (mostly) satisfied with our ability to communicate basic needs and requests in French, but we were confident we'd do better in Italian. We didn't. We bombed in a big way. Italian may look like Spanish on paper, but the spoken word is Martian to our ears. Thankfully, almost everyone we encountered was willing to speak with us in the universal language: gesticulation.

We bought a few postcards from a very nice shopkeeper who spoke English, and asked him if he had a favorite restaurant in town. To our delight, he suggested the place we had our eye on anyway-- a tiny Osteria with a "menu staggioni" featuring fresh porcini mushrooms. It was a delicious, inexpensive meal, and we were happy to find a wine on their list from the producer we planned to visit the next day-- Grosjean.

Tangential aside: we had the freshest, creamest buffalo mozzarella either of us has ever seen, and we learned that the Italians call heirloom tomatoes "tomatoes". Imagine that!

We went for a walk, checked out the Church, people-watched, and then decided to turn in for the night at about 11PM. We opened up our window and listened to the soundtrack of Saint-Vincent four stories below: Children play. Dogs bark. Mothers call to them both. Fathers laugh, a bit buzzed. Water spills from the fountain. An a capella choral group practices in perfect harmony. The sounds continued for another hour or so, and then faded one-by-one until the fountain stopped and the square was silent.

Italy, part due.

After a quick breakfast at our hotel, we set out to find Frères Grosjean in the town of Quart. In a fortuitous moment shortly after we planned this vacation, we spotted a Grosjean wine on the list at one of our favorite restaurants in Portland. We'd never even heard of Valle d'Aosta wines before, but it seemed like a fun thing to trace this bottle back to its source in the hills above Aosta. With a few Google Translator-assisted emails, we confirmed a visit.

Although Grosjean bottles manage to get all the way to Portland, they are a fairly small producer, creating a portfolio of about 10 wines, all produced from grapes grown on their adjacent properties. The wines include several varieties indigenous to the Aosta Valley and rarely seen in the US.

When we arrived, after twisting and turning through narrow lanes in the small town of Quart, we were greeted by an old fellow who looked like a charicature of an Italian winemaker: dusty trousers, suspenders, a sun-wrinkled face, and toting an enormous triangular spade. He smiled, greeted us, and asked us if we spoke Italian - we said no. He asked if we spoke French - we admitted to un petit peu. He gave up, grinned widely at us, and pointed us into the winery where he introduced us to a couple of younger people who spoke some English.

A bit later on our tour we saw a family portrait of three generations of winemaking Grosjeans, and realized that the old man we'd met was the patriarch of the family: Vincent Grosjean himself. Our English speaking guides were Vincent's grandson, granddaughter, and their cousin. We took a brief tour of the winery, tasted the Grosjeans' current line-up of wines, and then hopped in their car to visit their vineyards.

Grosjean doesn't make blockbuster wines: only 25-30% of their production goes for export - the rest is consumed in Italy. Prices for most bottles were around 10 Euros. This isn't special occasion wine, it's wine meant to be consumed casually,with food and friends. And on that it succeeds very well: the wines are well-balanced and easily approachable. We particularly enjoyed trying the ones we've never seen in Portland: Torrette, Premetta, and Petite Arvine.

This was another wonderful visit, and as we walked through the vineyards with the younger Grosjeans, we realized something: every winemaker we've encountered in Europe is far more animated in the vineyard than in the tasting room. Perhaps it's because we've chosen to visit producers who make unspoofulated wines, but they really do seem to treat wine as a natural agricultural product and not a chemistry experiment.

We thanked the Grosjeans for their hospitality, and pointed ourselves down one mountain and up another. Next stop: Zermatt, Switzerland.

Beaujolais and beyond, Day Five

This morning we bid a sad farewell to Burgundy and drove south to the tiny village of Villie-Morgon for our 11AM appointment at Domaine Marcel Lapierre. Villie-Morgon was a surprise to us. We tend to associate Beaujolais with Burgundy, but it could not be farther removed. It looks and feels far more like the Mediterranean here than the Côte-d'Or! We were very excited about this visit, because year in, year out, Lapierre Morgon is one of our favorite 'everyday' wines. We were supposed to meet with Monsieur Lapierre's English-speaking son Mathieu, but Mathieu and the Lapierres' english-speaking employee were both very busy with winery operations. Rather than pull them away, Monsieur Lapierre decided to give us the tour himself. He warned us at the beginning that he does not speak much English, but his English was actually quite good.

We started at the winery, and walked through the cellar, the fermentation and crush facility, and then the bottling line. Right now, the wine's being bottled and corked, then allowed to rest (albeit very briefly) outside in pallets on a warm day while the corks expand to seal the bottles. Then the bottles are quickly loaded into a climate controlled locker so the wine won't be damaged by the summer sun.

After showing us the winery operations, Monsieur Lapierre took us on a tour of the vineyards. He showed us the granitic soil, and then explained to us that he was pulling some grapes (and a few clusters) off the vines because they were damaged by fungus. 2009 has been a wet year here so far, and immature fruit is far more susceptible to fungal damage. Since the damage is not extensive and it's already July, Lapierre considers it a small problem and is not concerned that it will significantly compromise the vintage. One of the things that's really fascinated us (well, Steve anyway) is how specialized the equipment has to be in a winery or vineyard. While we walked up and down the vineyard rows, we watched a special machine move through the rows ahead of us. It was designed to fit perfectly between two rows, and had two functions-- the front trimmed the wines to let more sunshine reach the grapes, and the back cultivated the soil and removed weeds. From the top of the vineyard high above Villie-Morgon, Lapierre pointed out each of the Beaujolais Crus to us, and explained how each site's location contributes to the wines' characteristics.

After the vineyards, Monsieur Lapierre took us back to his home and set up the picnic table off the kitchen for a tasting. He, Mathieu, and Nikolai all joined us for a round of tasting. The setting was absolutely perfect and we had a great time. Several of the wines that we tasted were ones we've had at home, but we also had the opportunity to taste some wines that are not distributed on the west coast (or in the U.S. at all). Once again, we had an experience that far exceeded our hopes. We were sorry to leave, but we had an hour's drive to the Northern Rhone for our appointment at Domaine Phillipe Faury.

The GPS system in our rental car (more on this later) has been an invaluable tool here, but it was no match for the steep, narrow roads in Chavanay. We took a few wrong turns and showed up fifteen minutes late to our 3PM appointment. We enjoyed the line-up at Faury, but we were both pretty tired from a long day in the car and our three hour visit in Beaujolais. A lot of wine enthusiasts will visit three or four wineries in one day, but from now on, we'll limit ourselves to one.

If you blink, you'll miss Cliousclat.

From Chavanay we headed south to the tiny village of Cliousclat,
where we'd reserved a room at the lovely La Treille Muscate hotel. Our room has a panoramic view of the picturesque valley below. Well, sort of. It's picturesque most of the way across the horizon, but we were curious about the steam rising off in the distance to the right. Through the camera's telephoto lens, we found a landmark you don't see everyday: a nuclear power plant. With no oil resources of its own, France gets 75% of its energy from nuclear power. Hey, we're all for clean-green energy and all, we just didn't expect to vacation so close to the control rods.


Our hotel's restaurant is closed on Mondays, so we walked down into the village and found a casual place with its own sweeping view of the fission factory. We settled into two bowls of absolutely delicious gazpacho, a charcuterie plate, and a pitcher of rosé.

Tomorrow, a big detour.

Beaune, Day Four

Today we got priceless dirt on our pants.

The Domaine de la Romanée-Conti (DRC) produces breathtakingly expensive red and white Burgundy from several Grand Cru vineyards, but none more coveted than the wine produced from the Romanée-Conti vineyard itself. The vineyard dates to 1232 AD, and many consider it the best site for Pinot Noir in the world. We looked into procuring a single bottle from our wedding year, but even a young bottle from an average vintage like 2004 commands prices in excess of $4000. In lauded vintages, the price can double. A great vintage that's been cellared to perfection can cost more than a car, and we're not talking Kia. According to the Domaine, it takes three full vines to produce a single bottle of DRC Romanée-Conti, and the vines are over forty years old each. Their value is measurable, but just barely. And unlike most vineyards in Burgundy, which are divided into parcels with many owners, Romanée-Conti is a monopole. The DRC owns the whole thing.

From Vosne Romanée, we drove through several other villages in the Côte-d'Or. We saw a magnificent Romanesque Church in Nuits-Saint-Georges, the fourteenth century Eglise St. Symphorien. Parishioners filed past four hundred year old graves for Sunday services-- an interesting glimpse of France's living history. Maybe it's because there are so many old things here, or maybe it's just a different view of history, but the French don't try to hermetically seal 'old' things the way we do. They use them!

From Nuits-St.-Georges we passed through vineyards in Pommard and Meursault, scattered fields of Charolais cattle in Orches and Evelle, and then we stopped for a break in Puligny-Montrachet. In Puligny-Montrachet (and Chassagne-Montrachet next door) Chardonnay is king. There are dozens of Premier Cru Chardonnay vineyards here, and a handful of Grand Crus. Among the Grand Crus is Le Montrachet, which lies between both villages. Le Montrachet is to Chardonnay as Romanée-Conti is to Pinot Noir. There are more than 20 parcels that are farmed by different producers (like the DRC, which owns part of Le Montrachet) and many of them can command prices well over $1000 per bottle. In a "blockbuster" vintage like '05, DRC Montrachet prices can exceed $5000.

Almost everything is closed on Sundays in France, so when we spotted an open café in Puligny-Montrachet, we decided to stop for lunch. The buzzed, happy French guys in the middle said to tell you 'hi'. This little place had a great lunch menu, which used many local, seasonal ingredients in non-traditional ways.
The chevre-chaud salad combined warm discs of creamy goat cheese with tomato, basil, and pine nuts for something more Mediterranean than Burgundian. The pizza-type thing was Burgundy's answer to flammekuchen-- toasted boulé with époisses, lardons, onions, and a touch of brandy. We debated for a while whether to order a white Burgundy since we were in Puligny-Montrachet, or a red Burgundy to pair with the époisses. We hemmed, we hawed, and then we did what we always do when we're flummoxed: we ordered a Provençal rosé. We shared everything but the wine with this guy, who batted his big brown eyes at us. He had impeccable table manners and didn't try to grab anything until we offered it. It's not obvious in the picture, but he was the size of a St. Bernard!

We're in love with the Côte-d'Or. Unlike Reims, which is littered with international chain stores at eye level, most of the Côte-d'Or still looks and feels purely French. This may be a popular destination among travelers, but it's not the canned, Disneyland experience you'd find in Napa Valley. Beaune welcomes its visitors, but does not dumb itself down for them. This makes it the purest and most authentic wine-centric travel experience we've ever had.

Beaune, Day Three

At some point this afternoon, we had the unmistakable feeling that we were dreaming. We were bouncing around off-road in a Renault Expert amidst some of the most famous vineyards on the planet with the sun shining through intermittent clouds, a panorama of Burgundy spread out beneath us. It seemed almost too good to be true.

We woke up early this morning and decided to make haste from Reims to Beaune in order to catch the last hour or so of Beaune's extensive Saturday market. We zoomed out of Reims at around 7:30 AM and motored south, following the prompts our our invaluable GPS system. After a couple of hours of driving through one village after another, we discovered that our GPS directions were set up with an option to avoid toll roads. Normally we prefer the scenic route, but in this case we really wanted to cover the 200 or so kilometers between Chammpagne and Burgundy in as short a time as possible. Shortly after we changed the GPS options, we found ourselves roaring along a French toll road at 130 k/h, making far better time, and ultimately reaching the center of the Burgundian wine region shortly before noon.

At a friend's recommendation, we're staying at the Jardins de Loïs. We'll be hard-pressed to stay at a nicer place during this vacation. Ostensibly a B&B, JdL includes just four guest rooms in a beautifully renovated structure. Our room is big and bright, with a terrace overlooking the gardens. Another perk is our location: we're three minutes by foot to the center of Beaune. We never got around to eating breakfast today, so after we checked out the market, we settled into a cozy brasserie for coq au vin, boeuf bourguignonne, and a cheap '93 Jadot Passe-Tout-Grains. This place was completely generic-- indistinguishable from any one of a dozen places just like it in this town, but we absolutely loved it. It was barely 60° F this afternoon, and the food was just what we wanted-- simple, hearty, and authentic. The staff made our day by speaking French to us slowly and deliberately in a way that made it possible for us to understand every word.

After lunch we headed to Savigny-lès-Beaune for our tasting appointment at Domaine Pierre Guillemot. Pierre's son Vincent represents the sixth generation of his family to make wine in Savigny-lès-Beaune with the Guillemot name. He looked like a kid to us, maybe 20 years old or so, but he's been groomed to make great wine for his entire life. He took us into his cellar and pulled fresh bottles of all of his current releases for us to try. We've only tastes Guillemot's wines back to '01, so Vincent also pulled an '86 Savigny-lès-Beaune Dessus Les Golardes and a '73 Serpentieres so that we could see how these wines evolve. It was fascinating to speak with Vincent about his family's vineyards, and how each parcel of vines expresses Pinot Noir differently in the glass. He graciously loaded us into his car and drove us up into the vineyards above the village. By visiting each site, we were able to actually see the differences in the vines and the soil. Vincent's tour gave us a sense for Burgundy that we've never gotten from books. Compared to the U.S., where a person or corporation buys a parcel of land, gives it a name, grows grapes on it, and then makes wine, Burgundy is very fractured and confusing. From the eleventh century on, Cistercian Monks identified and demarcated vineyard sites based on the hundreds of soil types that exist here. With centuries of experience, they were able to study trends, and they found that some vineyards produced consistently superior wines. Fewer than forty vineyards in all of Burgundy are classified as "Grand Cru", and the wines made from those grapes represents only 1% or so of all the wines produced in Burgundy. Over the centuries, those vineyards have been divided many times among heirs, and now a single vineyard might be owned by dozens of producers. Vincent took us to Le Corton, where we saw for ourselves how this Grand Cru vineyard is divided into many parcels, including the portion that belongs to his family.

Vincent's English was infinitely better than our French, but we discovered that there were certain concepts, like the passage of time, that he could not express in English and we could not express in French. It forced all of us to choose our words more carefully. After hours of tasting and touring, we invited Vincent to join us at a local bar for a beer. We sat outside, and he told us about his travels to the U.S.-- his impressions of cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco, and his fondness for some decidedly modern-styled Pinot Noir from California (especially Etude) that's the polar opposite of his family's traditionally-styled wines.

Maybe it's because we've visited small producers who are neither selling wine in a tasting room nor hosting hordes of tourists, but our tasting experiences in France have been remarkable-- far beyond what we ever dreamed possible.

We made our way back to Beaune for dinner. Several friends have told us that despite the Michelin-starred restaurants in town, their favorite place to eat in Beaune is Ma Cuisine. The menus in the window looked superb, but we were sorry to learn that Ma Cuisine is closed on Saturdays and Sundays-- the only nights we'll be in Beaune. On a whim, we headed to Piqu'Boeuf, a popular restaurant among locals that specializes in Charolais beef. We spent the rest of the evening there, with courses that featured several local specialties. There was raviole d'escargot... potatoes cooked with a very rich, pungent local "moutarde", a deeply beefy Charolais entrecôte with cèpes, and wedges of Brillat-Savarin and Époisses de Bourgogne that were fabulous with our Pommard. Again, there was not an English speaker in the place, but the staff were very gracious about speaking slowly and deliberately to help us understand. Note: it looks innocent enough, but Snails lurk beneath this pretty puff of pasta.

Reims, Day Two

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, really.

The hot, humid weather here in Reims broke at about midnight last night with a fierce electrical storm that woke up pretty much everyone in the hotel. In its wake, it left cool, breezy weather. We're pretty happy about that.


We started the morning with a low-key breakfast in the hotel lobby and then we headed back to the Cathedral to get a better look. We were in such a jet-lagged haze yesterday that we missed all the details. This is gothic architecture, beautiful and creepy, with flying buttresses and headless bishops. We're a little blasé about old churches. They're beautiful, but we've seen a lot of them and we don't linger. We were more interested in this one for a couple of reasons... its sheer scale, and Marc Chagall's stained glass windows. The facade, the windows, the pulpits, and the organs (the largest of which was so big that we couldn't tell, at first, that it was an instrument) stand in stark contrast to the spaces provided for worshippers. Unlike the beautiful pews at a newer Cathedral like St. Patrick's, this one has row upon row of simple wood chairs that lack in ornamentation and are nailed together in rows of various sizes. Really, we were fascinated by this place. It took several generations to complete, and as grand as it seemed to us, we can't even fathom what it looked like to the medieval peasants who built it.

Our only commitment for the day was a 2:15 PM tasting appointment in Vertus, so we decided to spend the morning and early afternoon touring the surrounding areas. Our first stop was the amusingly and appropriately named village of Bouzy, a tiny, quiet collection of Champagne houses with many familiar names on the walls. We toured the village on foot, and then drove up a path through the vineyards to a lookout spot high above Bouzy for a panoramic view. The vines seem to go on forever, in perfectly manicured and delineated sections owned by God knows how many growers.

From Bouzy we drove to Epernay and Le Mesnil Sur Oger. We passed a few of the larger Champagne houses and spotted tour buses in their lots, but we knew we wouldn't see any buses where we were headed. We made our way to Vertus, where we killed a baguette and a wedge of raw milk brie de meaux on a park bench before our appointment at Veuve Fourny et. Fils. We had no experience with Fourny's wines before our visit, but since they're distributed by Kermit Lynch, we knew they'd be up our alley. We were early, so we walked up a block to the village cemetery. In a small village like Vertus, the names on centuries-old tombstones are the same names you'll find on local mailboxes. Ancient graves are as well tended as new ones. This cemetery is older of course, but it reminded us of the old McBride Pioneer Cemetery outside Carlton. If you have to be dead, what better place to rest than in the shadow of great vineyards?



One stone in particular caught out attention: a memorial to members of the French resistance who were killed by the Nazis during WWII. Many vignerons in Champagne went to great lengths to protect their wine during the Nazi occupation, even building hidden tunnels and vaults to keep their best vintages from being stolen or destroyed. They considered their wine a national treasure, and we've seen several monuments here that commemorate their efforts. As we learned during our tour at Fourny, many of the caves survived, but most of the buildings above them did not.

When we made our way to Fourny, we were nervous. We've visited many wineries over the years, but always in Oregon and California. French and German wines are our true loves, but the language barrier is intimidating. The moment Charles Fourny greeted us with a huge smile and fluent English, we relaxed.

In American tasting rooms, you usually pay a fee to taste the wines, and then the fee is refunded with a purchase. Sometimes the tasting rooms are staffed by people who participate in the winemaking process, but generally they are not. We had no idea what to expect here, but we were absolutely blown away by the experience. Charles, who is both an owner and vigneron at Veuve Fourny, spent more than three hours with us, showing us every aspect of how he produces his Champagne. He walked us through the vineyard, through the winemaking facilities, through the caves, and then into a diningroom to try the wines. We learned so much from him about Champagne in general, but also about the distribution process. We learned about how the chalky soil contributes to the outstanding minerality in these wines, particularly the ones that are 100% Chardonnay. We also learned why distributors serve an important purpose in the post 9/11 world.

We did not see any wine for sale in the tasting room, and the topic never came up. To our surprise, though, he gave us a bottle of vintage Blanc de Blancs to take home. From start to finish, it was our own personal Euro Disney.

It was dinnertime by the time we made it back to Reims. We were too tired and disheveled for anything formal, so we settled into a casual brasserie for a long, relaxing meal. They were kind enough to provide us with an English menu. The translations were imperfect, but absolutely charming. We both started with the "droppings of goat" (actually a goat cheese crottin atop puff pastry and ratatouille) and they were de-lish.

Off to Beaune...

Reims, Day One

Another year, another mostly uneventful flight through Frankfurt. We like Lufthansa for its no-frills teutonic efficiency, and we were sorry to hear they discontinued direct service from Portland to Europe as of next month. The flight's always full, but somehow, it loses money. Oh well.

Frankfurt is Lufthansa's hub, with non-stop flights from Germany to pretty much every part of the world. Every time we took that flight, I couldn't help but notice the odd collection of travelers it attracted. There were always a lot of passengers from India-- Lufthansa was the primary link between India's skilled labor force and Intel. This particular flight was chock full of Eastern Europeans. I usually get cranky when the passenger in front of me reclines for the duration of a ten hour flight, but it's truly impossible to be annoyed with a woman in a drab, Ceaucescu-era muumuu and a flouncy babushka who peeks back every hour or so to ask me if I mind that her chair's in my lap. Shucks.

An hour after we boarded our connection in Frankfurt, we were in Paris with our luggage. It took slightly longer than that to get our rental car in Paris, but we were out of the airport and headed to Reims in our surprisingly spacious Citroen by about 1PM local time. The drive was wonderful. The grass was greener, the sky was bluer, the clouds were fluffier. We delighted in it! We passed through long stretches of empty space punctuated equally by modern industrial or agricultural sites and beautiful, ancient villages. A few minutes after we passed a Home Depot-sized garden emporium, we passed a tiny village surrounded by medieval stone walls.

Our first hotel here, the Hotel Azur, is clean, comfortable, and exceptionally basic. After we showered and got into some fresh clothes, we set out on foot to see Reims. It was about 85° out-- stifling in the bright, midday sun, but perfect in the shade.


First stop: Cathedral of Notre-Dames. The current building dates to 1211, but it replaced an older building that was destroyed in AD 496. Note: this picture is from Wikipedia. There's some scaffolding in front of the Cathedral that made it impossible for us to get a decent shot.

Our next stop was a pedestrians-only stretch of Reims lined with shops and restaurants. The architecture was beautiful, but at eye-level, this area was an eyesore. It reminded me of the Leidseplein in Amsterdam-- a collection of international chain stores (including Le Golden Arches) and mediocre restaurants that are absolutely teeming with tourists.


By 6PM we were absolutely certain of two things:
1. we wanted to find a place to sit and have a drink, and
2. we'd be asleep as soon as possible.

We found a neighborhood place called Le Bistrot Henri IV near our hotel, and settled into a bottle of mineral water and a € 9 liter of unnamed rosé from Aix en Provence. We sat inside, but just by the door so we could listen to the loud, jovial group of locals seated outside. They were... fantastic. All smiling, all laughing, all shouting over each other with a guttural passion that's only possible in French. We didn't speak. We listened to them the way you listen to music-- you don't have to understand a word of the lyrics to enjoy the song.

After our liquid dinner, we went back to the hotel and fell asleep by 7:30. We're not quite on local time, but at least we didn't sleep through our first full day in Europe like we usually do. Hey... it's progress!

Up next... the real reason to be in Reims. Champagne!