France's own little bit of Americana - Disneyland, Paris

Here are a couple of questions for you.

What do you get when you put a 13-year-old German boy intent on enjoying himself together with his 40-something (grumpy) Godfather equally resolved to relax on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Paris?

A) A visit around a museum for a dose of culture?
B) A stroll through one of the capital's beautiful parks to soak up the Spring sun?
C) A trip along the Seine on a bateau mouche
D) None of the above.

The answer of course is D) as His Grumpiness made the mistake of asking his Godson what he would like to do, and there was sadly only one answer.....DISNEYLAND.

Ah yes, Disneyland, Paris - that bastion of US culture planted just 32 kilometres from the French capital and a place that has been packing 'em in for over a decade and a half now.

Just the job for really getting to grips with what makes the younger generation tick.

So join me as I leave planet Earth for a couple of hours and transport myself (plus 13-year-old Godson) to what for all intents and purposes is another world.

First up here's a really good tip.

If, like me you have a rather "delicate" tummy, a fear of heights and a dislike of anything other than being on terra firma, twist the arm (ie bribe) a couple of gullible friends to join you, with the promise that it'll be a "wonderful day out" and you'll treat them to a meal in a posh restaurant later in the month.

It works wonders.

You can insist that "you're doing a photo reportage for posterity" (oh yes, my Godson has to have something in "hard copy"to remember his trip by) and your "friends" can let their locks down and behave like the teenagers they've always wanted to be.

Plus of course you have the added (cowardly) benefit of remaining aloof and superior and decidedly "above" all that nonsense.

Now I could try to give the trip a gloss of the "significant" by pretending it was a pilgrimage of sorts to check out the place where at the end of 2007 the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, first "went public" about his whirlwind romance with the now first lady, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, when the couple chose Disneyland as their first "spontaneous" photo op.

But that's old news, and besides, I've already rather admitted that the visit was far from treading on hallowed ground.

There's something decidedly odd about making the drive east from Paris to see rising in the distance the form of what appears to be a fluffy pink castle.

It requires something of a double take to say the least. Can this manufactured chocolate box fantasy image really be perched so close to arguably one of the world's most beautiful capitals?

And in the same country which is stuffed to bursting point with the real thing - chateaux galore?

Ah but this is Disney, where anything is allowed.

The world is just one big dream - or nightmare depending on your perspective - and you kind of know that you've left planet Earth, any semblance of sanity and above all France - not necessarily in that order - once you arrive at the Disneyland toll booth if you're arriving by car.

As you pay you'll receive that gushingly hearty "ENJOY YOUR STAY AT DISNEY. HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY."

Yes the welcome really was that loud

"Onkel Johnny," a voice piped up from behind me. "Why was that man grinning so much and shouting?" it asked.

"And what did he say?"

Ah yes. Only children would dare to utter the thoughts adults might politely keep to themselves.

"He has just been told to be extra polite," I replied, deciding that it was probably better to refrain from adding that it had been something of a shock to my own sensibilities to hear a French person bellowing away such platitudes in an obviously unnatural way.

Once through the admission turnstile (€51 for each adult - "fun" doesn't come cheap - and children over the age of 12 are grown-ups according to Disney) it was off to the first attraction "A ride through Hell in the Dark" otherwise known as Space Mountain 2.

Queues - or standing in line - are very much part of the Disney experience and to avoid too much waiting around twiddling your thumbs, the best advice is to get hold of some Fast Pass tickets which will give you an allotted time for returning and in the meantime you can try out some of the other attractions.

But don't be fooled by the helpful signs that tell you how long you can expect to wait. They're not always entirely accurate.

As we sought refuge at Automania for example, while we awaited our allocated trip to Hell and Back, we sailed past the "75 minutes from this point" marker to join the back of the queue.

An hour later and we still hadn't made it anywhere near the front and Space Mountain was beckoning.

So the party of three (other) adults and one teenager made their way over to where they had started, while the "photographer" was left to snap away at some rather grotesquely dressed dancers.

Similarly as we hotfooted our way afterwards to another area of the park we passed Star Tours with the sign happily announcing "zero waiting minutes".

"Cool, let's check this one out," I enthused, and of course it was only 40 minutes later that we finally boarded the ride with the maniac first-time pilot.

It's rather like being in a flight simulator (I know because I tried one out during a course to overcome my fear of flying) only in outer space.

And here's where I have to admit (in the smallest of letters) that a certain grumpy geezer actually spent the whole time belly laughing madly. A hoot.

Talking of tummies (love the segue) it was time to top up the fuel tank and find some food.

Once again it's a case of Disneyland Paris leaving the visitor somewhat aghast. Remember this is France, a country with a rich gastronomic palate and a culinary tradition of which it is rightly proud

So what did we end up eating at Toad Hall restaurant? Fish and chips! No comment.

Replete and feeling more than slightly bilious, I claimed "photographic reportage" yet again as my excuse for sitting out Indiana Jones, but I managed to record the screams of delight (?) as the rest of the party did a full circle on the Temple of Peril ride.

There were some distinctly paler than white faces that emerged a couple of minutes later, apart from one who wanted to "do it all again."

By this time of course even the other adults had had more than enough of the thrills and spills of Disneyland, and somehow I knew that I owed them big time.

Still there was one final, slightly more sedate ride left, and of course the inevitably long queue for Pirates of the Caribbean.

Even though the warning signs are there that "maybe you'll get wet" that wasn't enough for one still over-excited teenager who ensured that an extra helping of water was flicked over those sitting behind him.

There are of course many more rides and delights to experience at Disneyland, Paris, but as that well worn phrase goes "all good things have to come to an end" (bad ones too).

Back to the car and home.

Oh yes, Disneyland, Paris allows the (European) visitor to feel culturally superior and terribly snooty about the whole experience.

And of course the music is tacky, the parades completely over the top and the dancing ridiculous.

But when all is said and done, what the heck. It's just a bit of fun.

Actually, no, let's correct that - it's not just a bit of fun.

It's clearly a serious business making equally serious bucks - or should that be euros?

Disneyland, Paris is a major employer in the area and a whole infrastructure has developed over the years to support it. There are hotels, cinemas, towns and commercial centres that have been built alongside it.

There's a rail link for both the highspeed TGV service and the local RER.

And in 2002 a second theme park opened - Walt Disney Studios.

Sure there were the initial teething problems when Disneyland first opened its doors on French soil; the workforce issues (this is France after all) political opposition and low attendances. But that all seems to have been turned around.

It's essential for the local economy and there's the added bonus that like it or loathe it, the thing is bringing pleasure to millions.

But perhaps the lyrics of the song "One God" from the British group the Beautiful South best sum up for this particular visitor his feeling of a trip to Disneyland, Paris.

"The world is turning Disney and there's nothing you can do
You're trying to walk like giants
but you're wearing Pluto's shoes."

Strasbourg - a superb slice of French life

Seasonal greetings from the eastern French city of Strasbourg in the heart of Alsace.

It's the setting of what is probably the best known and longest running Christmas market here in France - a time when the city, which has more than enough to offer visitors all year round, really comes alive as the place is packed solid for four weeks.

This will just be a (personal) taste of the place at this time of the year, embellished (hopefully) with the most potted of history by way of background.

There is of course plenty of information available out there on the Net or in books - just click on some of the links for a pointer, or better still, come here to discover it for yourself.

The TGV train from Paris has cut the journey time down to just two and a half hours, and there's also an airport - for all those European parliamentarians, amongst others, who shuffle between Brussels and Strasbourg for one week every month.

The city is just the proverbial stone's throw from the French-German border, and its geographical location has seen it switching between the two countries pretty regularly over the last century or so.

Not surprisingly perhaps the influence of both can be felt strongly - culturally, linguistically, architecturally, politically, religiously and not least gastronomically.

Indeed, the Christmas market in Strasbourg - widely found in towns and cities throughout Germany - is very much a prime example of how much the whole region of Alsace is most definitely French, but with a certain German twist.

Actually there isn't just one Christmas market - but several - spread throughout the city.

While they might not offer nearly some of the true Christmas spirit that can be found in their German counterparts, and the stalls for the most part are full of what could politely be termed "imported tat" there's still the chance to hunt out some regional edible specialities and locally produced crafts.

If that's what you're after, then the best starting point is probably Place Broglie.

Honey from local apiculturists, gingerbread galore (not too dry and ideal for the foie gras)
cinnamon biscuits, lebkuchen - ah yes it has probably dawned on you, those with a sweet tooth will not go far wrong.

Waffles, bretzels, tarte à l'oignons, and of course because it's just slightly brass monkeys temperature-wise, vin chaud - white or red - the Alsace equivalent of Glühwein or mulled wine (of sorts) guaranteed to intoxicate against any chill factor.

There's another market around the cathedral, but you might want to put in a spot of culture too and pop inside the city's most famous landmark.

It's VERY Gothic - parts of it dating back to the 12th century - and it houses the fabulous 18-metre astronomical clock, one of the largest in the world.

You want Gothic - you've got it

Moving along to Place Kléber is where you'll find the Christmas tree (from the nearby Vosges mountains) more stalls, more tat, more food and more vin chaud.

And so it can continue from one market to another.

It's not the most enormous of city centres. Even though Strasbourg is the regional capital of Alsace with around 270,000 inhabitants (which almost triples when taking into account the urban population, making it this country's seventh largest city) walking around (or staggering after too much vin chaud) isn't too difficult.

If you're feeling especially lazy, there's always the state-of-the-art tram to take you from one market to another.

Walking is probably your best bet though, to build up an appetite (you'll need it) and to appreciate the true beauty of the city.

There's Petit France, with its quaint timber-framed houses, some of which almost seem to be leaning from different sides of the street to greet each other.

Much of the area is pedestrianised and the streets cobbled, so sensible shoes are the order or the day.

Mixed in with the timber-framed houses elsewhere in the city is an eclectic mix that has thankfully survived the centuries - and wars - in no particular order there's German renaissance, French Baroque, French Neo-Classicism,

Alongside the river Ill, there are some grand tree-lined boulevards, with even more grandiose housing - and if you feel really brave you can "Shanks pony" it all the way to the more modern stuff such as the European parliament or the Richard Rogers-designed European Court of Human Rights building.

When you need a break from the cold and the crowds and want to grab something "proper" to eat and drink - this is where Strasbourg comes into its own, and especially at this time of the year.

Remember this is France - so food and drink are high on any region's list of priorities - Strasbourg and Alsace are no different.

In a sense what's available is "real" fusion food, in that it brings together arguably the best of French and German tables. But be warned, there's none of that prissy pretence or wannabe trendiness. What's on offer is hearty and substantial to say the least, and not for those counting the calories or who baulk at the size of the portions.

Whatever you plump for, be it baeckeoffe, wädele (veal or pork hock), tartes flambée (flammeküche), choucroute garnie (dressed sauerkraut), coq au Riesling or a host of other regional specialities, you'll be presented with a wholesome serving that'll leave you with a suitably warm glow.

Everything of course can be washed down with a regional wine from a Riesling to a Gewürtztraminer, a Pinot gris to a Sylvaner or a beer if you must.

Replete, you might need to walk off some of those extra pounds, and as you wander through the streets, you might still be in need to another slosh of vin chaud.

No problems, the place is still buzzing late into the evening - so one last shot and then back to the hotel to collapse.

There's so much more to write and say (and indeed it has been done so frequently over the years) but perhaps it's best left to the words of the mayor of Strasbourg, Roland Ries, in his introductory welcome to visitors to the Christmas market.

Although he might have a vested interest in promoting the city as its top elected official, he's probably not far off the mark, as he just about sums up what Strasbourg has represented throughout the centuries and continues to do today in a way quite unlike any other European city.

"Every year, when Christmas comes, Strasbourg adorns itself in its very best finery." writes Riess.

"I am particularly aware of the importance of this presence which symbolises the Europe which we want to build; a Europe which laid its foundations in Strasbourg, a Europe which promotes the meeting of peoples and cultures and unites citizens."

So on behalf of him and from the glorious city of Strasbourg, here's one chilled-out, vin-chaud drinker wishing you a very warm "cheers".

There’s more to Brussels than just sprouts

All right so the title of this post is a tad misleading. It has nothing to do with the much maligned vegetable, which – call me weird – is one of my favourites – and everything to do with the Belgian capital, and a fair bit to do with food.

But more on that in a moment.

Brussels, home to Nato, the wannabe and de facto “capital” of the European Union (it’s where the Commission sits and the parliament too, when the latter isn’t schizophrenically transported to Strasbourg in Eastern France every month for a week) and the place I decided to spend my birthday (that’s THE news value as far as I’m concerned - call me vain).

Anyway, film buffs and those among you old enough might remember the film "If it's Tuesday it must be Belgium."

It's a romantic comedy from 1969 in which a group of US holidaymakers takes a whistle-stop tour through Europe, visiting seven different countries in just 18 days. A bit of a cliché at the time perhaps on how Americans see the world, but nonetheless an image that sticks in the mind as vacation time is limited and there's just so much to see on this side of the Pond.

Well it wasn't Tuesday, but Wednesday, and I'm certainly not American, but British. All the same it was most definitely Belgium and to be more precise the capital Brussels that took my fancy.

The joys of high-speed train travel means that it only takes one hour and 20 minutes to cover the roughly 300 kilometres from Paris.

Thalys (pronounced Tallis)

As Thalys (the equivalent of the Eurostar service only it connects Paris with Brussels rather than London – obviously) leaves Gare du Nord, it doesn’t waste much time in picking up speed and zapping through the notoriously flat northern French countryside.

In fact the landscape passes in such a giddy blur that it's just as well passengers can fit in a spot of work during the journey. That's made easier by the wifi Internet connection (free in first class, a small supplement in second) which is a must-have for a service that has become the usual way for businessmen and politicians to travel - almost "commute" between the two cities.

In peak hours, trains leave from Paris every 30 minutes - and it has become an even more important link between the two cities since Air France stopped flying the route because it simply couldn't compete.

All right enough of the journey. It’s fast and comfortable and gets you conveniently from city centre to city centre. Full stop.

Now Belgium might seem an odd sort of destination for a "treat". Maybe the title of the film said it all in a way, as the country suffers somewhat from an identity crisis, and isn't high on most people's lists of places to see.

Mind you, that identity crisis is one with which the country is struggling internally and is hardly surprising perhaps given the French-Flemish linguistic, geographical and political divide. Furthermore the country's image abroad wasn't helped much when the Flemish Christian Democrat prime minister (as now is) Yves Leterme was asked by Belgian television to sing the country's national anthem before celebrations to mark its National Day on July 21, 2007. Leterme broke into the opening bars of La Marseillaise - the French national anthem.

While the country is undoubtedly famous for a number of things such as chocolate, beer, waffles and chips (fries - not crisps) it's also the target of some ridicule (name ten famous Belgians - I can, but can you?) and the butt of many a joke such as:

Question:Where is the biggest chip shop in the world?"
Answer: "On the border between France and the Netherlands."

A word of explanation, chips in British English are the equivalent of French fries. And a quick look at a map of Europe will show you that France and the Netherlands don't share a common border - because Belgium is in the way.

All that of course is the stuff of clichés, as is the snootiness with which France seems to view the cuisine of its smaller neighbour.

As you've probably gathered by now, this was no culture-vulture trip - or even the pretence thereof (well a quick gander at the Mannekin Pis - disappointingly small - and a wander around Corneille's gallery to look at his cats) but the main attraction was most definitely gastronomic.

Belgian food has the (deserved) reputation of being rather hearty, so it's not for those counting the calories or worrying about the waistline. And one of its specialities (well in northern France too to tell the truth) is moules-frites (or mussels and chips, which sounds decidedly less appetising maybe) washed down with a local beer.

My short but determined eating extravaganza was to take place in La Grand Place in the centre of Brussels - probably the first stop for many a tourist. It's an enormous open space surrounded by beautiful gabled buildings, including City Hall. And in summer most of the restaurants and cafés have seating outside.

La Grand Place

In one corner of La Grand Place is something of a mussel Mecca - if you will - for tourists and locals alike. It's the T'Kelderke, a small and very cosy (read noisy and elbow to elbow) cellar, packed with atmosphere, the service is fast and the food delicious.

In season of course moules-frites are the thing to go for, Perhaps moules marinieres. And be warned, when it comes to the chips, we're not talking about those skinny little efforts you might find at any fast food joint. These are the proper thick, fat, luscious things - a complete meal in themselves - almost.

And as promised, all washed down with one of those famous beers - blondes or brunes the choice is amazing and the list to a non beer drinker, bewildering.

When mussels aren’t in season, there are always those other Belgian specialities (I hesitate to call them delicacies as any meal here will leave you full). There's seafood , waterzooi (a light chicken or fish stew with cream) and carbonnades a la flamande (beef stew with beer)

If you cannot get in to that particular bar, or you haven't the patience to wait - and you haven't a clue where to eat, wander along the rue des bouchers (just a stone's throw from La Grand Place) and the adjoining streets, where you'll be spoilt for choice. Turkish, Greek, Lebanese, Chinese, Thai and of course restaurant after restaurant serving up those Belgian dishes.

You'll be accosted in the friendliest of manners by waiters encouraging you to come and eat inside - and there's more of that beer of course. You can even eat outside on the chilliest of nights as there's external heating.

Finally - and this is definitely the order in which to do things, as you roll out of the restaurant - is a meander through the covered galleries, Galerie du roi and Galerie de la reine, perpendicular to rue des bouchers. Simply put they are chocolate heaven (as is much of Brussels) and even with a full tummy you still run the risk of tripping over your tongue as it’s likely to hit the ground at the obscenely delicious displays of chocolate in shop window after shop window. Cruelty written big time for those counting the calories – and don’t even think about entering one, because you won't come out empty handed.

Should you still feel a bit peckish by the time breakfast comes around, there's always another Belgian special on offer - waffles. But that might just be pushing the limits of what one person can eat in the shortest period possible.

One word of warning when arriving and departing by train. Both Eurostar from London and Thalys from Paris arrive and leave from Gare du Midi – De Zuid and not Central Station.

Worth remembering when you’re late and in a hurry to catch your train – only to pitch up at the wrong station. There speaks the voice of experience.

A double dose of Brazilian dance for France

Ladies and gentlemen readers welcome to a couple of minutes of dance floor magic.

For the men, put aside any juvenile images you might still harbour of male dancers being nothing more than "men in tights." And for the women (and the male of the human race who appreciate dance) feast your eyes on the accompanying videos and remember it as you read the following review.

For here we go. Brazil meets France "en dance" - just for a couple of days - and the result is ASTOUNDING.

Nope, it's not the world renowned samba or even capoeira, that mix of martial arts and dance whose roots are African but was developed in Brazil's regions centuries ago. There are doubtless those better placed out there to tell us more about those particular delights.

Instead it's the "sensual and generous" - so the blurb runs - performance of the Brazilian dance troupe Companhia Sociedade Masculina.

And believe me - that description wasn't far off the mark

It’s an all male dance company (just eight of them) from the Brazilian city of São Paulo and it was making a return engagement in France at the weekend, appearing at Lyon’s biennale dance festival, which is running at venues throughout the city from September 6 until the end of the month.

In total 42 different companies are performing from 19 different countries, and I had plumped for the Companhia Sociedade Masculina after reading the rave reviews it had received during its last appearance in Lyon in December 2007.

Now anyone who read a previous piece I posted on “Tanguera” – an Argentinian musical currently running in the French capital tracing the origins of tango and performed throughout almost exclusively in that dance style – will remember that I “outed” myself as one of those talentless back-to-front footed no-hopers with little sense of rhythm and no dance floor timing.

But that certainly doesn’t stop me, or anybody else out there in the same position from being able to appreciate “poetry on legs.”

In fact that’s probably not even doing the performance given by Companhia Sociedade Masculina nearly enough justice.

It was an hour’s worth of being transported from the trials of everyday life into a completely different world – that of dance.

The mainly French audience must have known they were in for something special before the performance even began. Apart from the company coming with a reputation from previous visits, there was also a large contingent of Brazilians in the orchestra seats, chattering animatedly and even for those who couldn't speak a word of Portuguese, it wasn’t difficult to understand that they were all waiting, excitedly, impatiently. That had to be a good sign.

The lights dimmed and a hush descended upon the audience to be replaced by the strains of an immediately recognisable Latin beat.

First up was the 30 minutes of Um Olhar, created by the man who is considered by many to be one of his generation’s most talented choreographers, the 44-year-old Brazilian born and bred Henrique Rodovalho. It's his interpretation of the work of Hélio Oiticica.





The piece is basically a look – through dance – at the musical scene in Brazil during the 1960s when the country was ruled by a military dictatorship.

But forget the politics – that’s really just to place Rodovalho’s creation in its historical context.

The tunes are familiar and what the eight dancers actually do with the choreography and to the music is in the words of one local newspaper critic ”complete engagement” combined with ”technical prowess". And it certainly makes them a marvel.

Actually it’s hard to believe that there are only eight men in the company. They’re not always all on stage at the same time, and it’s not easy to keep track sometimes as in this piece in particular they all seem to be dancing different routines at the same time.

Even when they form couples there’s little synchronisation among them. But far from being distracting, it all seems to blend together marvellously.

And as for the sheer power and masculinity of the performance, well any doubts anyone might still foster that an all-male troupe would somehow seem effeminate, are soon dispelled.

That power is also tempered with a grace and an athleticism that would put many better paid professional sportsmen to shame. They leap, gyrate, tumble and turn through a series of moves that show the diverse roots of the company.

Founder Vera Lafer said when she started the company at the beginning of 2000 that she wanted it to challenge the clichés that surrounded males dancers by choosing them from a number of backgrounds (classical, modern, jazz and even capoeira) and having them tackle pieces created by daring contemporary choreographers.

And that’s the ethos that has been maintained by the company’s artistic director Anselmo Zolla in both pieces presented in Lyon.

After 30 minutes it was over – well the 100 per cent Brazilian part of the evening anyway. There was the inevitable rapturous applause as the lights went up allowing a short pause to recover – for both the dancers and the audience.

Just a quarter of an hour later though the troupe was back, this time to perform Palpable by the Greek choreographer, Andonis Foniadakis.





This was from the opening note far less accessible and a real challenge to both the dancers’ abilities and the audience’s ears.

The “music” was what some might unkindly consider quite a generous term for the accompanying “sound” that belted out of the loudspeakers.

It was a clanking, mechanical and industrial noise that initially irritated but through the brilliance of the choreography soon won you over.

All right so it’s never going to be the sort of thing you’ll flip on to your CD player in the comfort of your sitting room. It certainly wouldn’t help you relax. In fact it’s perhaps more likely to make Bjork sound decidedly old hat and completely in tune.

It was simply one continuous grinding, thumping, intensely disturbing combination of sounds that built to a crescendo. And somehow, sitting there watching and listening, it all seemed to make perfect sense as once again the dancers leapt and spun through the performance.

Sometimes individually, often in couples and occasionally all together. And every move was executed with incredible speed and finesse as the music and the dance flowed and married.

Then once again it was all over – this time for good.

A standing ovation, beaming smiles from the Brazilians in the audience, even more animated chatter than at the beginning, and the French seemed to have lost any inhibitions they might have had as they cheered what they had just been treated to.

And one particular member of the audience picked himself up from an exhausted heap in his seat and headed out into the night to savour and recapture in his mind exactly what he had just seen.

As (I think) the Brazilians would say, "Um abraço."

The day after a night at the opera - Verona

This year's outdoor summer opera festival in Verona may well be coming to an end, but even though the northern Italian town is world famous for its wonderful Arena it's not just a place worth visiting from June to August.

The town has a rich cultural year-round diary of classical music, ballet and theatre, as well as all the charm and historical interest you would expect from much larger Italian cities.

There's great food and wine of course, and - it goes almost without saying - virtually endless possibilities to shop until you drop.

And if you want to catch some breathtaking scenery, then the picturesque Lago di Garda is just under an hour's drive away.

One stop, non-stop culture

Of course, opera may dominate during the summer months, but plenty of people visit for other reasons.

The town might only be home to just over 260,000 people, but it has a long and rich history and more than its fair share of Romanesque and Medieval architecture to warrant its inclusion as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Grab a guide and wander around the Basilica di San Zeno where Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet were secretly hitched, or go it alone and join the rest of the tourists who flock to Juliet's famous balcony. Meander over the fortified 14th century Ponte di Castelvecchio or visit the Roman amphitheatre, the Arena in Piazza Bra during the day.

Verona is a place that impresses big time, and leaves you knowing that you've only just scratched the surface.

And if old ruins and warbling tenors are not really your thing then there's always the Teatro Filarmonico - also in Piazza Bra - most of it destroyed by bombs during World War II but rebuilt in the 1960s and now home to (more opera) ballet and classical music.


Retail therapy

Verona is quite simply culture "pure" but that's not all of course. If you want a break from exercising the grey matter and feel more inclined for a spot of shopping, you'll be spoilt for choice.

It's always a treat in Italy and Verona is no exception, although the main pedestrian streets of Via Cappello and Via Mazzini are heaving with tourists for most of the day.

Nipping in and out of the shops can prove very expensive, especially if you've brought along your "flexible friend" for a little bit of retail therapy and it can be easy, oh so easy to get carried away with the madness of all those gorgeous things to buy.
And when the stores are closed, it doesn't mean the streets are deserted. Far from it. Instead it’s time for that time-honoured Italian tradition of passeggiata.

It's the chance for the locals to stroll noisily and ostentatiously, strutting their stuff putting the tourists to shame. You know the kind of cliché for which the Italians are famous; "beautiful people" seemingly plucked straight from the pages of a glossy mag, who make we pasty-faced northern Europeans look, well pasty-faced.

Italians in general would make wearing a sack look figure-huggingly trendy as they stylishly sway down the street going nowhere and the Veronese are just as fashion conscious as their counterparts in Milan or Rome.

The espresso effect

As far as eating and drinking in Verona is concerned, you can basically never go wrong. This is after all Italy and there is a huge choice of feeding stations and watering holes for the hungry, thirsty and foot worn traveller.

Of course Italy means coffee - the real McCoy and none of that coloured water that might be passed off elsewhere as an unacceptable alternative.

Even to a non-fanatical coffee drinker there can be no denying the glorious effect a small shot of the rich, thick stuff the Italians brew up can have as it hits the back of the throat. It just has to be one of the simplest but most enjoyable pleasures of life and it doesn't cost an arm and a leg.

If you want to go native, prop yourself up against the bar and down one in double quick time before venturing forth revitalised. Should you wish to make the most of it though, simply plonk yourself down somewhere, order a drink and spend a moment just watching the world pass by.

Wining and dining

For a full blown evening meal you could try the delightful and elegant Ristorante Antica Bottega del Vino in the Vicolo Scudo di Francia. There are plenty of local specialities and an enormous wine cellar to fit anyone’s purse.

In fact Verona in general is a virtual lake of good regional wines with an international reputation – Soave, Valpolicella, Bordolino and of course sparkling Prosecco. And everywhere you eat you'll probably be offered a free glass of the bubbly stuff.

More great dishes can be found at the Cantina di San Rocchetto in Via Mondo d'Oro, and especially tench and (carpaccio of) trout caught from the area around the Lago di Garda.

If you don't have time for a meal because you have tickets for the opera (at 9.00pm) but fancy a pre-dinner drink, try the little bar (there's just one) in the Piazzetta Antonio Tirabosco. It's just behind the busy Piazza Erbe, and is much quieter - a wonderful place to kick back and relax before tripping off to the Arena for the performance.

And don't worry that you won't find anything to eat after the performance. Even at midnight there are a heap of places on the Piazza Bra itself, bang opposite the Arena, and they all offer a full meal and superb service. The best place has to be the Tre Corone, but reserve a table.

Small is beautiful

There aren't really any well kept secrets in Verona. The town is too small and nothing is really too far away from the centre.

Even if you slip off into the side streets to avoid the crowds, the chances are you won't have "discovered" anything that hasn't already been visited by thousands before. More than likely the people at the next table will be tourists themselves, Germans British or French - and there are a fair number of Italians too. But it is possible to get away from the heaving masses and relax.

Sure tourists are everywhere – that’s part of what makes the city tick – certainly in summer.

But most importantly perhaps, the townsfolk are friendly and welcoming. They're obviously well-used to tourists and there's none of the superior arrogance that you might find in some of the country's larger cities.

It helps if you have a smattering of the language, but even if you don't, the staff in shops, restaurants and hotels are more than willing to help you muddle through.

Verona as a town is Italy at its best. Not too large to be overbearing, and far from being too small to become boring.

So whether you're an opera buff, a history-lover, a shopaholic or in search of a great meal and drink, you could do worse than schedule a stopover in Verona.

Buon viaggio e benvenuto.

A night at the opera à la belle étoile

Summer for opera fans here in France means the delights of open-air concerts in one of the country’s most sumptuous outdoor settings, the théâtre antique in the southern town of Orange.

This year there was even the chance to catch one of France’s most popular tenors, Roberto Alagna, singing the principal role in Gounod’s Faust. A treat under the balmy mid summer night skies, guaranteed to tickle the fancy of any opera buff. For those not lucky enough to be there in person there was the possibility to see it on public television as it was transmitted live.

But arguably Europe's principal outdoor opera festival is to be found in the northern Italian town of Shakespeare’s immortalised lovers Romeo and Juliet at the Arena di Verona.

Now in its 86th season, the first summer festival of operas performed at Verona was in 1913 to celebrate the birth a century earlier of one of Italy’s greatest composers, Giuseppe Verdi.

The Arena itself is a Roman amphitheatre dating back to AD 30, and if filled to capacity could seat 30,000.

Verdi

There is of course the official blurb about how the thing was built and how it’s just about one of the best-preserved sites of its type.

But nothing, no picture no film can really do it justice or beat the thrill of being there, seeing it, doing it, hearing it and just letting it all wash over you.

The backbone of the programme has of course been Verdi. The three-month season, which begins in June and finishes at the end of August opens and closes with his Aida and other mainstays include work by other Italian composers, Puccini and Rossini, along with Bizet’s Carmen.

Alongside Aida and Carmen, this year's selection also included Tosca, Nabucco and Rigoletto. And for 2009 the first three will be back again, joined by Turandot and Il Barbiere di Siviglia.

So what of this year’s offering. Well this is not an exhaustive review of all the performances (you'll probably be pleased to discover) but just a taste of the one I managed to see - Nabucco.

Scaffolding

As far as the plot goes - well if you want one, here it is. But as with any opera, taken out of its musical and dramatic context it seems quite implausible, especially when offered in a nutshell. You have been warned.

Nabucco, King of Babylon defeats the Jews. His youngest daughter, Fenena falls in love with Ismaele, nephew to the King of Jerusalem. Meanwhile his elder daughter, Abigaille, discovers she isn't really his daughter at all but that of a slave. She of course is also in love with Ismaele

While Nabucco's away at war, Abigaille attempts a coup claiming he's dead. In the meantime Fenena has converted to Judaism, just as Nabucco has ordered all Jews to be killed. He's hit by a thunderbolt and loses his senses and Abigaille grabs the crown.

When Nabucco awakens from his madness, he sees the error of his ways, rescues Fenena from certain death at the last minute, tells the Jews a temple will be raised to their God, which all proves too much for Abigaille who poisons herself - sings her final aria and dies. The End.

Denis Krief's staging offers metallic structures which might to some look more like "interestingly" lit scaffolding lying on its side. But it has won rave reviews and plaudits from the cognescenti over the years and is supposed to represent the settings of the court of Babylon, its Hanging Gardens and Jerusalem.

What is slightly disconcerting in this production perhaps is that most of the “action” seems to take place somewhat off centre, so that the audience is as one, slightly twisted left in their seats.

The choreography is at times rather creepy, especially the almost goose-stepping marching into war. And the hairdos (or hairdon'ts) of Abigaille's "henchwomen" (and her own styled locks for one scene) look something like a tribute to rock star Rod Stewart's 1970s static-electricity charged and challenged coiffeur.

Rules. What rules?

At the best of times, opera crowds can be notoriously badly behaved in the sense that if they don’t like a performance they’ll have no hesitation in booing and hissing their disapproval at the end. And it hasn’t been unknown for a performer to march off stage in protest.

There was none of that at this performance, quite the opposite in fact as the Arena audience - a mix of those who love the music and those who come for the spectacle, or both - comes knowing what to expect and is seldom disappointed.

The organisers requests for the public to “abide by the rules” however only received in some circumstances, cursory acknowledgement.

While there was “no smoking” inside the Arena – it’s banned in public buildings throughout most of Europe – the appeal for mobile ‘phones to be turned off during the opera was only partially respected, as proven by the occasional muffled ring.

As for the request for no flash photography during the performance – well the organisers might just as well have whistled in the wind for all the notice that was taken.

Every time there was a scene change, it was accompanied by a barrage of flashing cameras. When a singer made an entry, it was to a flurry of clicking and mass beeping.

And the whole audience seemed to go into digital overload as the chorus shuffled eerily into place for “Va pensiero” before it launched into the enormous and celebrated rendition – complete with encore - accompanied by flash, flash, flash.

Even when a horse appeared on stage in Act II – yes the Arena likes live animals as it adds to realism apparently – there was another frenzy of shutters as though the audience had never seen a four legged beast before.

A voice to raise the roof

The whole principle of the Arena seems to be one of audience and performers alike enjoying themselves. In fact the whole atmosphere at an outdoor opera is not quite the same thing as at the great Houses, and the spectacle is far less rigid and more laid back.

So when Leo Nucci – appearing this season not only in the title role of Nabucco, but also Rigoletto – led the main singers hand in hand around the stage at the end of Acts I and II before each intermission, there was rapturous ovation and whoops of appreciation.

In fact it might seem unusual for the singers themselves to be orchestrating their own applause – that’s usually the prerogative of the lighting technicians – but it seemed to be very much par for the course during the opera.

Nucci might have had the biggest cheers of the night - he has had a long career as one of the world's leading baritones especially for his roles in Verdi operas. But the performance of the soprano Alessandra Rezza in the role of Abigaille, also had plenty of people sitting up and taking notice.

The 33-year-old has a large voice which would probably have been able to raise the roof off the place had there been one. And the sheer power was matched by the gentlest of touches in her closing aria as she died the inevitable death.

An event to relish

If you can stand the thought (or perhaps under the circumstances that should read “sit the thought) of numbed buttocks for a couple of hours then there are always the cheap seats on the amphitheatre’s stone steps. While you might feel a little like being up in the Gods of one of the major opera houses, the views are never restricted, even if you might be a little far away from the action, and you have a bird’s eye view. For a little extra comfort, you can also bring along or buy a cushion.

If you’re ready to break the bank (almost €200 a throw) and want some serious leg room on a padded seat, then you can be virtually sitting in the orchestra pit and feel almost at one with the singers.

You pay your price and take your pick, and certainly won’t be disappointed.

This version of Nabucco might not have had all the finesse that one of the world’s great opera houses might be able to afford a production, but that’s really open to discussion and a matter of opinion.

What can’t be denied is the sheer spectacle involved and how well the Arena does in producing an event to relish.. So much so that it could probably put on a musical version of a Japanese telephone directory and it would still be a delight to enjoy and savour. There really is little that can beat the atmosphere of opera performed à la belle étoile.

To follow: The day after a night at the opera

Proving politeness can go a long way

This might well read like one of those seemingly interminable reports often found in the French press, where all the pomposity and flowery language comes at the beginning of the piece, and somewhere towards the end the actual "news angle" kick in. There again maybe I'm giving myself too much credit for prose that simply isn't there.

Whatever the case may be, my apologies in advance. And for those wondering what the "Charles Dickens" I'm on about, maybe they should skip the beginning and head straight towards the last couple of paragraphs (A surprise in the post). Alternatively of course, they could pass on to the next story.

For anyone else with a little bit of patience, bear with me I'll get to the point - eventually.

I've lived in France for nigh on a decade now, and at the beginning tried to "fit in" by assuming that I could appear as arrogant and rude as at least those in the nation's capital are reputed to be.

Living the cliché

I took my chances, and priority, when crossing the road as oncoming traffic threatened to mow me down. Regular sessions of practising becoming fractious and enraged behind the wheel of a car when I negotiated the rush hour traffic home, made me feel almost as though I "belonged".

And then of course I did battle with shop assistants, many of whom are typically and often not inaccurately portrayed as believing the customer, far from being king, is only there at the sufferance of the staff.

Sure I found it helped to speak the language, but only to the extent sometimes that I was really able to appreciate when people were being rude.

Then of course I had to get used to what most of us would call "staring", but the French insist is just "looking interested".

Let's forget about the bureaucracy, as the way things are done here is justified as being "because that's the way things are done" and any sort of complaint is met with the hugest of shrugs.

Cliché following cliché perhaps, but there is some truth in it. And I quickly learned to accept, ignore, behave and observe as the situation required.

But things are changing apparently - so we're told - and sometimes there's the proof that makes you sit up and take notice as you're forced to re-evaluate all your prejudices.

The country of 350 + cheeses

Last October I celebrated my 40-something birthday. No, I'm not going to give away my exact age, but it's definitely the wrong side of the big four-oh. And no, that's not the "news" bit yet.

My birthday treat was a mystery trip somewhere not too far away. It couldn't be. I don't much like flying and limit myself to as few visits beyond the clouds as possible.

So I realised that anyone who knew and cared for me, would not spoil the surprise by making me haul myself inside that hunk of flying metal. After all, if we were meant to fly we would have wings - right?

Turned out I was correct (not about the wings) as the destination was none other than Venice, on the overnight train from Paris - First Class sleeper. Luxury. Extravagence. Bliss!

Except it wasn't any of those things. First class on what proved to be an Italian train, even though the booking had been made through SNCF - France's state-owned rail operator - was 12 hours of "four-to-a-cabin, cheesy feeted, non-communicative strangers" time.

A great start to a birthday weekend and guaranteed to blight my time in Venice at the thought of having to make the return journey in similar conditions.

Now I'm no snob - oh all right maybe a little of one then - but I like my creature comforts and I "did" all the budget backpacking, hauling my life around with me for a couple of months back in my teens, when I still had the energy.

Plus I've lived in France long enough to delight in what the first president of the Fifth Republic, Charles de Gaulle, famously referred to as the country of at least 350 cheeses, not to want to spend my R&R cooped up in the smallest of spaces exposed to a smell reminding me of the very ripest of Bries, dripping off the plate.

So somehow even though the train was full, we managed to sweet talk the conductor into finding us an empty cabin, where I then spent the rest of the journey wide awake, cursing SNCF for having mixed up the booking, wondering how I would survive the return journey and feeling much, much older than my 40-something years.

When we pulled into Venice at nine o'clock the next morning, I had made a monumental decision. We would indeed - at huge expense - book a flight back on the Monday so that at least I could enjoy my time not worrying about another 12 hours spent in potentially intimate and unwanted contact with pieds du fromage. The alternative of girding my loins and full of alcohol-induced Dutch courage suddenly made the thought of flying seem much more "appealing"


Moaning politely

And that's exactly what we did, enjoying three fabulous days and two nights gorging ourselves on pasta, overdosing on culture, travelling everywhere and anywhere the excellent Vaporetto would take us and otherwise walking ourselves. silly.

On our return to France, I was determined not to let the matter lie - best to get these things off my chest immediately, I thought. And as politely as possible - as is my philosophy in life - I whipped off a letter to the customer services section of SNCF.

"Very disappointed", "My birthday treat" (thought I would play the emotional card and spread it with the thickest of knives) "Felt we had been misled" blah, blah, blah. Nothing mean. Nothing untrue and no "outraged of Paris" sort of stuff. Just a simple moan.

Once signed, stamped and delivered, we basically thought nothing more of it. After all there were still the fabulous memories, some great photos (none of them taken by me, I hasten to add) and a self-bought present or two I purchased along the way.

The months passed and we basically forgot all about it. And besides I've since attended another fear of flying course to get my act together and am almost able to remain sane when aboard a 'plane.

A surprise in the post

Imagine then last week, how completely floored we were when we received by recorded delivery the nicest possible response in the form of an apology.

"Dear Sir, we were sorry to read of any discomfort you may have incurred during your trip, blah blah blah.

"We apologise for the any unnecessary inconvenience, blah blah blah

"We appreciate and value your custom, blah, blah, blah."

All very proper and polite.

Even better, there was a voucher included for €130, "to be used on any SNCF train within France at your own pleasure."

Compensation, which we hadn't even asked for.

Now that's after sales service at its very best, and was quite a slap in the face for all those clichés about French businesses not really caring about their customers' needs.

So there you have it. One dissatisfied customer (well two actually) complaining politely about something and receiving a response. Perhaps it really is as my late ma used to say "manners (and clothes) maketh man."

Bon voyage et merci.

"All the world's a stage"

“And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.”

Ah yes the Bard’s words indeed. So rushing through childhood into middle age, if “life begins at 40” what happens a decade later?

Well if you’re a play it would seem, not only do you have some sort of cultural backbone, but it also means perhaps you can go on a world party.

And such is the case with the 50th anniversary production of West Side Story, currently in mid run at London’s Sadler’s Wells.

It’s a pretty weird feeling watching something that was first performed over half a century ago with the creeping realisation that in a very real sense it’s still bang up-to-date.

But that’s a sensation hard to get away from at the 50th anniversary production of West Side Story, currently in mid run at London’s Sadler’s Wells.

It has all the potential on paper at least, to be spectacularly dated. After all it’s a modernised version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet set in the 1950s in New York’s Lower East Side. Hardly the stuff of the 21st century.

But in a very real sense that’s exactly what it is.

Yes it’s American – very much so. Yes it’s a musical, from which some more “discerning” theatregoers might conclude it’s not really highbrow enough. And yes it’s full of songs to which probably many of us could in our finest Karaoke moments do a pretty fair caterwauling injustice.

But all that said, it also tells a universal story that of course still resonates today and is as frighteningly bang up to date in the saddest of ways.

Violence, street gangs, recent immigrants fighting territorial battles, and deprived inner city suburbs are after all not confined to New York in the 1950s. And the same old problems still exist in cities around the world.

But one thing couldn’t have escaped the attention of the London audience, and that was how much the plot revolves around two tragic incidents; a shooting at the end of the second act, and more poignantly perhaps for a British audience, a knifing in a gang battle between the Jets and the Sharks in the first.

That will surely have struck a nerve among a public, which has become all too used to reading or hearing reports of a spate of senseless stabbings in the capital and around the country over the past year.

Romance of course is as integral a part of the plot as violence, and just as in Shakespeare’s “original” there’s no happy ending.

Much has been written over the years about Leonard Bernstein’s wonderful score and Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics. They are and remain simply a joy.

What perhaps sets this musical aside from others though is the choreography, which is simultaneously classical and modern, pushing bodies to perform over two-and-a-half hours a series of moves that shouldn’t be humanely possible – but clearly, somehow are.

West Side Story is well into the European leg of its world tour and after stops in Vienna, Paris, Zurich, Leipzig, and Baden Baden, it’s now playing to packed houses at London’s Sadler’s Wells until the end of this month. Extra matinee performances have recently been added, but the chances are all the tickets have already been gobbled up. Still, if you’re visiting London and have the right contacts, you might be lucky.

If not, fear not as it’s then scheduled to go on tour around Britain, playing in half a dozen or so towns and cities, ending up in the northeast of England in Newcastle-upon-Tyne in February 2009.

One woman's French Foly

Right up front it has to be said that this is far from being a hard-hitting news piece. And what's more it'll probably only have a limited appeal bearing in mind that among the roll call of names are those that will only be familiar to the French, or French ex-patriots, Francophiles, Francophones and France-watchers.

There again there are some that will strike a chord around the globe, so forgive the indulgence. And if you’re in the slightest bit curious keep reading to discover an account of a rollicking good evening spent watching a performance that had the audience proverbially “rolling in the aisles”, whooping with laughter and grinning from ear-to-ear for more than two solid hours.

All right it was probably a public easily won over and which had come to see the launch of a very special sort of one-man show. Or perhaps better said, a one-woman show, performed by Liane Foly.

She's no stranger to the French and it's as a singer that the 45-year-old has made her name over the years, releasing her first album in 1988 and following it up with a string of hits and the occasional appearance in films made for television.

But in her one-woman show "La Folle Parenthèse" Foly makes her first real venture into another area of entertainment entirely as an impersonator and she pulls it off with professional aplomb.

In it she single-handedly assembles some of the greats - past and present - of the French music scene, with some international artists thrown in for good measure along with politicians, television stars, and actresses.

The 19th century Théâtre Marigny just off the Champs Elysées in Paris, with seating for over 1,000 was packed to the rafters every night of Foly’s recent opening run as she sang, strutted, croaked and danced her way through 30 plus characters, interspersing her performance with rapier wit and wicked social and political comment.

Whether it was as a swooning parody of France’s first lady Carla Bruni- Sarkozy, or as a majestically strutting Socialist politician, Ségolène Royal, Foly slipped effortlessly from one imitation to the next with a minimum of costume changes, no gimmicks, and a simple mimic of gesture and mannerism to convince the audience that she really had brought along a whole cast of characters.

Accompanied by just two musicians – the pianist Jean Yves d'Angelo and his brother, Pierre, on the saxophone and percussion – Foly presented a simple plot to hold everything together.

She bantered as the gravel-voiced actresses Muriel Robin and Line Renaud, and later as Celine Dion in her rapid-fire French, with the imaginary Pedro somewhere at the back of the theatre.

Pedro wanted her to provide a possible line-up of improbable stars for a cabaret to be performed the following evening in St Etienne, a less than fashionable city in central eastern France better known perhaps as the former capital of this country’s bicycle industry and for its soccer team which in the 1960s and 70s dominated the French league.

A most unlikely venue for some of the past and present greats of the French music and film world and certainly not a place international stars would put high on their list of performance dates.

The scene set, Foly used the “audition” as a vehicle for some spot-on satire, political and social comment and some belting good songs - never letting the audience forget that not only can Foly hold a tune as herself, she can do it as a host of other people too.

As France Gall she warbled some French evergreens and as Sylvie Vartan she flounced about the stage, dangling a wandering microphone and flicking her non-existent lavish blonde locks

Actress Jeanne Moreau growled, the late Serge Gainsbourg's English-born wife, Jane Birkin, sang a tribute to her husband in her much-beloved and heavily accented French, Canada’s very own Mylène Farmer intentionally left everyone wondering exactly what she was singing about as she pirouetted mindlessly around the stage and had her ethereal music mocked for its incomprehensibility. Madonna went in for a touch of S&M just for a change.

Carla Bruni-Sarkozy flirted with the pianist as though he were the incarnation of her "Nicolas" and to the strains of la Marseillaise and huge applause on strode last year's defeated Socialist presidential candidate, Ségolène Royal, promising not to talk politics and then proceeding to do just that.

Into the mix Foly threw Christophe Willem - a former winner of France's answer to American Idol and the voice of music producer Orlando.

After performing non-stop for just over two hours, Foly was dragged back for the inevitable but hugely welcome encore to perform as two icons of French music no longer around – Barbara and Dalida.

And then, just when you thought there could be no more, France television’s own very dippy and often inappropriately-dressed 50-something meteorologist, Catherine Laborde, came on to give us an update on what weather would lie ahead for tomorrow, the night of the “real” performance.

Foly's run at the sumptuous Théâtre Marigny in Paris ended at the weekend and she’ll now be taking her show on the road around the country for the rest of the year – ending up back in the French capital in December for an encore at Olympia.

If any of the names here have meant anything to you, and you’re planning a trip to France at some time this year, this is one act – or a multitude of them – that you would be well advised not to miss.

Spring-cleaning in the summer at the local brocante

It was an opportunity that was too good to pass up - a chance for a jolly good clear out of all the junk that had been gathering dust in the attic forever with the added bonus thrown in of making a few cents into the bargain.

There’s a tradition here in France every summer for villages and towns up and down the country to throw open their doors so-to-speak and welcome the world to their brocante, or vide grenier.

Basically it’s a glorified sale – jumble, garage or car boot – call it what you will – in which local residents can get rid of some of their clutter and visitors might pick up something at a snip.

Of course there’s bound to be plenty of rubbish on offer, but there again one person’s junk is another’s treasure.

And it was with this in mind that we loaded the car with our assembled assortment of less than tasteful tat.

Old riding boots fought for space with a mess of holiday knick-knacks. There was a pair of mismatching Russian oven gloves - pretty to look at but far too thin to fit their purpose. In went a decorative bread bag and a 25-volume encyclopaedia – a little underused and outdated for a generation that prefers to Google anything and everything. Trays, a Rubik’s cube – one side finished, four matching eggcups, and much, much more.

So with the vehicle virtually bursting at the seams, off we headed for the village main street.

Now this wasn’t going to be totally unfamiliar territory for us. While not exactly being frequent visitors to brocantes we had nonetheless picked up a few bits and pieces over the years.

But we had never really been fired up with the fervent “collection fever” that seems to motivate many who go out treasure hunting. No, we remained more fair-weather friendly in our enthusiasm.

Still it was with a certain amount of trepidation and a healthy dollop of naivety that we approached our first brocante from the other end – as sellers.

What prices should we set for the battered briefcase? Would anyone really want that ghastly set of three porcelain geese with yellow ribbons tied around their necks that we had been given many years ago? And wouldn’t that picnic set – never used – complete with plastic plates and cutlery not look a trifle out of place among the costly booty of the professional stand holder?

Our last fear proved to be largely unfounded as most of our fellow “brocanteurs” turned out to have attics full of riches similar to ours.

Of course you can’t keep the professionals away entirely and there was the odd stand heaving with antique treasures, trinkets and dubious wannabe Old Masters at inflated prices. But on the whole a quick glimpse around was enough to reassure us that we “belonged”.

It might have been indecently early – in fact far too early really, especially for a Sunday morning, but that wasn’t going to stop the real bargain hunters from pitching up.

Moments after we had finished arranging our hoard to maximum effect (we thought) there they were in all their glory intent on proving exactly what the early bird really can catch. Welcome news to us as business got off to an unexpectedly brisk start.

It was at this point that we quickly realised just how keen some people are to haggle – no matter how low the starting price is – presumably just for the sake of having done a deal. Apparently it’s all part of the fun.

Hmmmn. That’s sometimes a hard fact to hold on to. We were there to sell, and enjoy. Even the shyest buyer (a group I would have fallen into had the roles had been reversed) seemed galvanised to ask for our best offer so we learned not to set ridiculously low prices to begin with. But occasionally some customers overstepped the mark.

Such as the woman who spent 10 minutes minutely pouring over a largish suitcase – well known brand, robust and, even if I say it myself, in pretty good condition - pointing out that it had been used (what did she expect at a jumble sale?) complaining that it was too heavy (then don’t buy it, I wanted to scream) and wasn’t large enough (don’t even think about how I was supposed to counter that one).

She asked how much it weighed, its capacity, why it wasn’t larger, lighter, a different colour. And of course she made full use of all negotiating tactics in trying desperately to bring down the asking price (€15) even further. Mind you, it seemed to pay off as we kept our cool and eventually settled on €12 - as much to get shot of her as sell the case.

Ah keeping our cool wasn’t always easy as we listened to all manner of excuses as to why the sale couldn’t be made. They ranged from “I don’t have enough money” (response: ”The cash point is just behind you.”) through “I don’t have any small change only a €50 note” (response: “That’s all right we stocked up on coins ahead of time.” We really had) to “I’ve only just arrived and don’t really want to carry it around with me.” (response – obviously: “If you like it, pay now and we’ll keep it for you until you pass by again.” It worked.)

Then there was the Carrier Bag Hunter, presumably something of a familiar phenomenon at this kind of event. We had the forethought to take along a pile of used bags with us. And they seemed to be among the hottest items, even if we didn’t charge for them. Perhaps we should have done. Of course they certainly came in useful for the excuse “We have nothing to carry it/them in”.

The mad early rush soon became the midday lull as the French headed off for lunch, so some hastily prepared sandwiches and a thermos of coffee hit just the right spot at we sat back to enjoy the break. We resisted the temptation of wandering up and down ourselves to see what “steals” we could make as we really didn’t want to end up packing more into the boot of the car at the end of the day than we had arrived with at the start.

Even though the weather held, there simply weren’t the visitor numbers around after lunch, so we decided to call it a day.

Of course we hadn’t sold everything although most of the larger items had gone and believe it or not someone actually bought the encyclopaedias and bravely hulked them off.

But we headed home less heavily weighed down AND a whole €98 better off.

We’ll be back at the next brocante in September, with more of our junk (yes there’s still more cluttering the attic – isn’t there always?) and hopefully a little wiser into the bargain.

Lyon - there’s no “s” in French

It’s about 450kms from Paris to Lyon (or Lyons if your prefer in English) but forget about the four-and-a-half hour drive and instead save money, time and the environment by taking the high-speed TGV train service. After all, the journey time is just under two hours.

Added to which there’s a regular service, although you’ll need to reserve your seat in advance – a requirement when buying a ticket on a TGV - as even though ours was one of those double-decker jobs, it was packed. Clearly proof that plenty of people regularly commute between the two cities.

This was my first trip to Lyon – primarily to see a production of Porgy and Bess at the opera house. But it was also a chance for a glimpse at what’s reputed to be one of the most beautiful of France’s cities (the country’s third largest) and something of a gastronomic paradise. Although I knew a late arrival and an early departure the following day wouldn’t really give me the chance for any fine dining.

As fate would have it our arrival at Lyon’s Part Dieu station was heralded by the opening of the skies as the heavens fair chucked it down. This was a case of “April showers bringing forth more showers in May.”

No it doesn’t scan properly and it deviates from the original, but sadly it was the case and arriving umbrella-less meant standing in line for a taxi to take us to the hotel.

After checking in and freshening up it was time to jump into another taxi – yes it was still pouring - to make the short hop to the Opera house.

Now Lyon’s Opera house is a grand old building, dating back to 1831 although it had a bit of a facelift in 1993 as part of a “modernisation” drive.

Unfortunately that seems to have resulted in a pretty dated look in the bits that have been updated with the interior of both the downstairs bar and the main auditorium boasting a wonderful black-red colour scheme - very much of its time.

Then there are the tiled shiny floors of glossy marble that turn into a veritable skating rink for those wearing leather-soled shoes the moment a spot of rain hits the surface.

No prizes for guessing who had squeezed himself into a brand new pair that turned into skates once his feet hit the ground.

On to the performance - which was sold out – and our third row black (plastic-backed of course) seats gave us a splendid view of the stage, a definite plus given the rather special nature of the production, because it wasn’t just all about singing – as fabulous as the voices were.

The directors of this particular version were the choreographers José Montalvo and Dominique Hervieu, whose contemporary dance company would add an extra element to the opera.

That proved to be vital factot especially as George Gershwin’s opera is long – very long – very far too long even for my opera-intolerant companion for the evening who insisted on trying to listen with eyes (and presumably ears) wide shut.

Mind you, I had to have some sympathy as apart from the frequently reprised “Summertime” and “Ain’t necessarily so” there aren’t a great deal of instantly familiar and hummable-alongable tunes.

The music was as brooding as ever and the vocal performances marvellous but what really sold this production – to me and most of the rest of the audience – were the dance and visual effects.

Both were spectacular. There were some exhausting yet evocatively hip-hop moves to reflect mood changes and interpret both the music and lyrics. A sort of double effect, complementary rather than repetitive.

The performances were electrifying and although sometimes they appeared perhaps a little clichéd they kept (most of) us on the edge of our seats mesmerised by not just the power and strength but also the grace and beauty.

An extra visual effect was the video backdrop – something of a Montalvo- Hervieu speciality.

It was sometimes a little disturbing particularly when showing recordings of the dancers doing exactly the same routines they were performing live, but purposefully just a little out of synchronisation.

Maybe it’s just an age thing but there seemed to be a few too many assaults on the senses at the same time – very much an “MTV generation comes of age” sort of thing with the ethos seeming to be “let’s sling everything at them (the audience) at once and see how they manage.”

Mostly though the video worked magnificently, especially when it complemented something that was happening slightly off stage such as a bloody murder or a torrid love scene.

The bottom line was that the production wasn’t one that could be listened to with eyes closed and fully deserved the rapturous applause it received at the end.

Ravenous after the performance it was up to the seventh floor for a late night, two-course meal. The set menu at €30 was all right but nothing special. There again at almost midnight there wasn’t really any other alternative, so a return trip to Lyon will have to be made just to confirm that it lives up to its gastronomic reputation.

Fed and watered, strolled back to the hotel – hallelujah it had stopped raining.

If the Opera house left me questioning the tastes of Lyon’s interior designers and architects, then our hotel - Beaux Arts - left me flummoxed.

It’s officially now the Mercure Beaux Arts – part of the Accor group and therefore second only in the category of hotel to the chain’s Sofitels. Maybe the price - €99 for a double room – should have signalled what to expect – nothing special.

While it describes itself as an Art Deco hotel, unfortunately it manages only offer a very poor copy of what could be the real thing. The sad fact is that the heart and soul of the place have been ripped out with no real thought of aesthetics.

Our room should have been a delightful tribute to the past. Instead it had been stripped of all its original features to the point where it was almost devoid of character. True it was vast in volume with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides opening out on to small balconies. But a stale, musty smell hung around even with the windows flung wide open and the room wasn’t made any more appealing by the mustard coloured, plastic lined full-length curtains.

The functional, durable, dull blue carpet only inspired a desire to tear it up to check whether it was hiding some glorious old parquet and the bathroom – well it really isn’t worth mentioning. So I won’t.

And it wasn’t just our room that had been thoughtlessly “made-under.” There were signs everywhere in the hotel of what “might have been” if only a little more TLC had been spread in renovating.

The winding staircase could have been creakingly magnificent but instead it had been thoughtlessly painted over. There was rendering on the indoor walls, which had then been daubed in a nondescript colour and even the tiny old-fashioned lift seemed sadly neglected although it should have been full of charm. There was just the occasional glimpse of what was missing in some of the original giant wooden frames.

But overall the impression was a miserable one. Shame on Accor hotels!

The group could and should take another look at what could be done to a fabulous old building to bring it up to the promise of the blurb.

On the plus side, and thankfully there is one, is its location. The hotel is bang in the heart of the peninsular between the cities two rivers (the Rhône and the Saone) and a few minutes walk from many of the tourist sites and some fabulous shopping.

The service was a bit hit and miss. Front desk had only one person on duty when we arrived and the poor guy, while friendly and efficient, had to split his time between answering guests’ queries (such as booking us a taxi) and serving behind the bar.

Breakfast the following morning was rather a “unique” experience, which can best be described as offering “service with a grimace”. The two ladies greeting the guests certainly seemed to be full of attitude – which from an onlooker’s perspective was mildly amusing -although simultaneously they appeared totally overwhelmed by the number of people stumbling in to eat. Almost as though this was there first morning on the job. Perhaps it was.

They bustled about quite determinedly marching in and out of the kitchen with lists. But apart from taking down our room numbers (breakfast is never included in the price of a room in France and is always charged separately) seemed to do very little else.

Apart that is from scolding one guest, presumably still half asleep, for taking a cup from a pile next to the coffee machine.

“There are cups already on the table to use,” was the information given by one “waitress” as she almost ripped the cup from the poor guy’s hands.

Yikes. I guess nobody DARED question why there was a pile next to the coffee in the first place.

The food was passable. But for €14 a pop, I had been expecting something a little more wholesome than rubbery lukewarm omelette and manky sausages. Two words spring to mind RIP and OFF.

There was just time for a quick coffee outside the hotel and a spot of window shopping – on the whole stores open up for business at 10 o’clock - before taking a taxi to the station to catch our train back to Paris

And here’s a word of warning when looking for a taxi in Lyon. Don’t. It can be a real hassle for the visitor.

If you turn up at the nearest rank there’s no guarantee you’ll find a taxi. Even if there are a couple waiting with “available” lights illuminated, the drivers might simply not be around.

As there seems to be nothing to hail down on the streets of course, your best bet is to ask your hotel reception to book one for you.