Money Buys Happiness...

The vineyards are beautiful, even in winter

Courtesy of Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn

To end my year around the world on a high note, I chose to take myself to the Willow Stream Spa at the Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn for my birthday. The last time I was there was for my daughter’s high school graduation—we each choose two treatments (I had an herbal wrap and a massage, and she had a facial and massage). No doubt about it—it was an indulgence then and now.

As a die-hard researcher, I checked out all the local spas to see what each offered, including the Claremont in Berkeley, The Carneros Inn and Meadowood in the wine country. Luxury does not come cheap anywhere, but Sonoma Mission Inn offered the best options for the money. 
I booked the Guided Journey package ($385) that included a massage, chardonnay-olive oil-sugar polish and a pedicure among several choices. The services would have cost $165, $175 and $65 if purchased individually.

I drove up the morning of my birthday, anticipating a soak in the famous mineral water of the “bathing ritual” portion of the spa before my first treatment. I fondly remembered the pools and hot tub from my long-ago visit. After paying and asking for envelopes so I could tip in cash rather than add the “required” 18% tip for services to my credit card bill (I know it’s European and old-fashioned, but I believe in tipping according to service received), I popped down to the locker room (ultra clean and pleasant with showers, toilets and mirrored make-up room) and changed into my fluffy white robe and comfy slippers. There was supposed to be a concierge to show me around when I went downstairs, but there was no one in sight, so I wandered around for a while perusing the two outdoor swimming pools until I found the door to the bathing rooms. That’s when I received the only unpleasant news of the day.

Bathing Ritual Pool
Courtesy of Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn

I’m afraid the spa and my own memory share the fault—the bathing tubs and steam rooms that were once sex-segregated were now co-ed, and bathing suits (which I definitely did not bring) were required. I looked longingly at the body-temperature pool, the 104-degree pool, the steam room scented with eucalyptus and the dry sauna—all off-limits to naked me (though I could have worn my robe into the saunas). Nobody mentioned bathing suits when I booked, so better communication would be a plus. Two former attendees of the spa I talked to later said communication between the hotel and spa isn’t what it should be, but I booked directly with the spa, so no excuses.

The spa has a small boutique, so I spent the better part of my free hour trying on several $90 bathing suits, none of which fit properly. In a sour mood, I trundled back down to the locker room and grabbed my underwear—which (thank goodness) matched, and was a comely shade of brown, even though a bit lacy. I changed into it, and proceeded to the bathing area. Fortunately, the tubs had few people, and I ducked into a shower stall whenever spa personnel (the missing concierge!) came by. I got to try all the tubs and saunas, and fell madly in love with the wet sauna—my sinuses jumped for joy.

Wrapping up in my robe, I waited in the pleasant relaxation area (almonds, apples, bananas, tea and flavored water all available) for my masseur. Simeon L., handsome and British, guided me up to the massage room, where he proceeded to give me one of the best massages I’ve ever had, working out a periformas muscle kink I’ve had for more than a year. Simeon was exceptional, and I wholeheartedly recommend him to all—I’ll certainly go back to him in the future (visitors can book their favorites).

While lounging around, I got a tip that the Church Mouse thrift shop right across the street from the entrance to the Sonoma Mission Inn had a few new bathing suits on hand for situations like mine. I scurried over (well, as fast as my liquefied self could scurry), and bought a new Speedo suit for $23. Across the road, the Inn’s Big Three restaurant, though nearly deserted, served up a fine menu for everyone from the gluten-intolerant to full vegetarians and in-between. I had a bowl of truly homemade chicken noodle soup ($10), and made my way back to the spa for my next treatment.

Jennifer M. led me into a darkened, warmed-up treatment room and encouraged me to inhale deeply each of the scented potions she was going to use on me. Willow Stream has a signature blend of essential oils that includes lavender, neroli (bitter orange), sweet orange and a few other things, and it smells both comforting and energizing. The “polish” portion of the chardonnay/olive-oil/sugar-polish is like getting a rubdown with scented sandpaper—fantastic for taking off dead skin, but not for the sensitive. After being thoroughly scrubbed, I rinsed off in the in-room shower, and returned to a clean-sheeted table for the lotion potion. Olavie Chardonnay Body lotion smells incredible. I asked for a relaxing massage (as with a regular massage, you can specify what level of pressure, specific areas of need etc.), and I practically oozed back into the waiting area, where Rudolfo was waiting to prime and polish my toes.

Rudolfo is a charmer—he led me back to the salon where I was soaked, sanded and prepped—and allowed to nap a little in the massage chair during the process. The result: model-worthy feet.

Floating back to the changing room, I (very) slowly got myself together for the drive to a nearby restaurant to meet with friends for dinner. A darn-near perfect day all around!

Entrance to the hotel
Courtesy of Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn

Underground - the Caves of France and Spain

Horses, Lascaux II, Montignac, France

I've wanted to visit the caves of central France and northern Spain since I was an undergraduate in Physical Anthropology. The human and animal populations of Northern Europe took refuge in the Aquitaine basin of France during the last Ice Ages; the Vézère valley of the Dordogne was a refuge for both Neanderthal man and Cro-Magnon man between 80,000 - 14,000 years ago. In Spain, the populations near the sea in Cantabria also moved to the caves to survive. Though they lived only in the entryways in man-made rock shelters (inside the caves, rock lamps fueled by animal fat with herb wicks provided minimal light), they moved into the interior caverns long enough to made fantastic, anatomically correct drawings of certain animals (chiefly bison and horses, but also deer, woolly rhinoceros, and other species that no longer exist or inhabit the area), and a few symbols: dots and hand prints made by blowing ground ochre pigment through a bone. 

Humans are seldom represented, and when they are, it’s with an animal head or features. Why early humans left these marks on the walls no one knows. I imagine a family finding their way into the still darkness, guided by the animal representations which usually faced into the depths of the cave, marking which passage to follow, and finding a wonderland of animals, a zoo of drawings on the wall lit by a succession of flickering lamps. What a wonder then! And today, too. What a privilege to be able to see the real thing in this lifetime, and to feel the presence of those who passed through these magical spaces so long ago.

Standing on the balcony of Gaudi's Casa Batllo, Barcelona

Not all was ancient art: During this trip, I enjoyed seeing the work of three contemporary artists I greatly admire: the whimsical architecture of Antonio Gaudi in Barcelona, Dali’s sometimes bizarre drawings and constructs in his home town of Figueres, and Richard Serra’s monumental steel structures in the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.

And I have to get some jamon, and soon!

This trip started on October 12 - to see the whole thing in order, click on "October" to the right.

The Strange Incident of the Beaten Man

The ghost of Antonio Gaudi says "Hi there!"

Thieves are always on the look-out for opportunity, and an older woman alone is less likely to chase or hit when victimized. While sitting, eating my burger with bacon and corn chips in the Barcelona Airport before catching a shuttle to my hotel, a strange young man appeared directly in front of my face, across the table from me. "Do you speak English," he said, with an obvious accent.  What was also obvious was that he had the living crap beaten out of him, the left side of his face an enormous swollen bruise complete with open gash.

"Yes," I said.

"Do I have to speak slowly, or can you understand me"

"I understand. You want money. No."

"Why do you say that?"

"Go away"

"No, please, why do you say that"

"Because I get hit up all the time" I started to stand up. "Do I have to call someone?" I said, looking for airport security. He took off like a shot.

I looked down and my formerly zipped cross-body bag, which is held very close to me on my left hip, was wide open. Nothing was taken, but damn, they are good at what they do, and he obviously had an accomplice who was behind me. I saw him approaching another older woman who was alone a few minutes later, but she said she didn't understand him. Creating a distraction is a primary method, and you really couldn't look away from this guy's face.

Dali's "Living Room"

The life-size "easy chair" in Dali's "Living Room"

Wanting to spend the night close to the airport, I chose Frontair Congress Aeropuerto (Alberedes, 16, Sant Boi del Llobregat), which had an excellent shuttle service to and from the airport, plus a shuttle into town during the day (this must be reserved--I didn't use it, but it's the only option to get downtown if you don't have a car). The hotel was was very sleek and modern--worth three or more stars--with a spa and pool (at extra expense). There was a popular restaurant/bar on the first floor. This was a surprisingly nice stay overnight close to the airport, though the strange location--in a shopping/industrial area far from Barcelona city—made walking around not possible. The hallways really carried noise, so people leaving or coming in the middle of the night were quite loud; generally though, it was very quiet. In the morning, I took the shuttle to the airport—far too early, I found, because the Barcelona airport is incredibly efficient with each of the three gauntlets travelers must run (passport check, security check, checking in/passport check again). 

Twisted trees outside a small market, Barcelona

There’s a fancy shopping area on the middle floor that can be entertaining. At last my flight was called—another hellish middle seat for nine hours, a three hour wait in Newark (I used my last free pass to the United lounge, and took advantage of their plush seats and minor munchies), then the last 5+ hour flight home between a linebacker and a sleeping teen. I completely understand why a strange look settles in the eyes of someone who has made a habit of flying standby—no direct flights, the worst seats, possible long waits for a seat at all, and way too much time spent in airports. But without the gift of stand-by this year, I never would have made it to all the fabulous destinations I’ve always dreamed about—and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Part of the facade of the Sagrada Familia

Killing Time in Santander; What’s with the Caves and Lighthouses?

Santander Bay with assorted flying saucers disguised as clouds

Santander is a pretty old city on its own, though there’s nothing sadder than a beach town off season. A ferry from Portsmouth, England stops here, but this still-warm-and-humid autumn, only Spanish tourists were on the streets and pristine golden beaches, and not many of them.

I drove to the lighthouse and hiked around, taking in the views of the Atlantic and the town and the irregular shapes of the mountains behind it. The gentleman at El Laurel suggested a stop in the town’s park, with it’s former royal palace, beaches and little zoo; it was as well-maintained and pleasant as advertised. Sunday is not the best time to visit a Catholic country--everything is closed except for a few restaurants.

The former royal palace in Santander

I drove to the old fishing village, the original port of Santander; though the city is trying to turn this into a tourist destination, that goal is a long way off. I buzzed the tiny airport, knew I had at least an hour and a half before my flight, and decided to break my promise to myself of No More Reproductions.

Artist Henri Bueuil's drawing of an Alta Mira Horse, 1902

I drove out to Alta Mira Museum, the reproduction of the area’s most famous cave. It was as slick and Disney-ish as Lascaux II, though not quite as large or well organized. One striking thing about the Alta Mira ceiling: the bison herd. The large bumps in the ceiling, formed by the mud and limestone, had been transformed into a herd of nearly life-size sleeping bison, curled up in various positions, their standing brethren arranged around them. My favorite drawing was there, too—the Alta Mira rampant horse. I was glad I went.

I returned to Santander, and caught the flight on RyanAir to Barcelona. Long known for cheap flights in Europe, RyanAir gets you on the luggage—if you check a bag the day before the flight, it’s 22 Euros—at check-in, it’s 60 Euros ($32 - $87)—a lot of money for one suitcase. I understand their policies are changing to be more user friendly—I hope so.

Hanging out in Santander

La Fortunata at the Horn of Sorrow

A tiny casa in the mountains near the entrance to El Hornos de la Pena cave

I headed out to my first cave, El Hornos de la Pena (the horns of sorrow--I have no idea where the name comes from) for a noon appointment I booked online. It was quite far out on narrow country roads, but my GPS had recovered (perhaps it felt threatened by the purchase of the map), and got me there most of the way. On the tree-shrouded, partially paved road, cyclists in stylish gear rode by every few minutes--it's a huge sport here. I was an hour early, and passed some folks coming down the mountain. When I got to the small hut at the top, no one was there, and a sign on the building said tours at 10 and 2 only (oh oh—direct conflict with the website). I was worried. Then I met an American fellow coming up the trail, Mike, who said he was waiting for his wife who was inside the cave on a National Geographic tour--and that the entire day was booked for the NatGeo people. The cave only permitted four visitors at a time. Oh joy. Fortunately (la fortunata!), another NatGeo group was coming along for a tour at 12:30--one of them dropped out, and I was able to join, thanks to their wonderful local guide who negotiated my way into the tour. I wish I had gotten her name so I could thank her in print!

Genuine ancient cave dirt

This was a most interesting cave, very primitive in both structure and content--we often encountered low ceilings, and had to sidle through narrow passages a couple of times--the art consisted of rude carved outlines of animals. El Hornos was one of the most ancient sites I visited; the cave art was from two different periods, 18,000 to 13,000 years ago. Our guide, Danny, was a young man who obviously liked taking all the old farts around; he helped us contort around stalactites and move along half-bent under ancient limestone formations, columns and glittering towers of crystalline material.

El Castillo hand prints, courtesy of National Geographic

After we emerged, I drove down the hill and ate another half a bocadilla (tuna this time, with egg--i never really know what I'm ordering since the language barrier is only semi-permeable) at a cafe, then joined the tour of El Castillo, back in Puente Viesge. At more than 40,800 years old, El Castillo is currently Europe's oldest dated art by at least 4,000 years. If the new dates are correct, El Castillo art would be the oldest known well-dated cave paintings in the world—a title previously held by France's Chauvet cave paintings, which is closed to the public. The El Castillo tour was in Spanish, though I understood a surprising amount, thanks to the guide who would throw in an English word here and there. El Castillo is aptly named—the rock formations, carefully lit, are phantasmagorical—the guide pointed out the resemblance to Gaudi’s cathedral in the intricate limestone formations, and I agree. The cave is sealed, and entirely temperature and humidity controlled; the technology is working, and gives hope to the rumor that Alta Mira, and possibly Lascaux, may be open to the public again.This cave had the largest number of hand prints I’d seen: men, women and children’s hands, outlined in red blown ochre on one ceiling. I held my hand close to one of the ones on the wall; the fingers were short and the palm was much wider, but I felt an immediate connection to a person who lived and died at least 35,000 years before humans began to record history. What a sense of continuity; it left me feeling peaceful, as though the world--and possibly humanity itself--will endure in spite of us.  As I left the building, Danny showed up to deposit my three euros from my visit to El Hornos de la Pena, and I was able to tip him an extra two.

View of Santander and the green mountains of Basque Spain

The GPS guided me (with only a slight out-of-the-way deviation) to the Escuelas las Carolinas hotel in Santander, a school for the hotel professions. The girl at the desk was extra-sweet, printing out my flight confirmation for the next day and a receipt. The building was an old one, but the room was spacious and clean and faced the ocean; it was quite noisy, but that’s what earplugs are for. The girl at the desk also set up the included breakfast the next day—truly a Jane of all trades. This place was a good deal for 52 Euros ($75.40).

Really BIG Art in a Time Warp

Giant spider heads for nest in large bent tin can

I made for the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, an hour and a half west, parking in a lot near the museum: I don’t know what the surface of this underground lot was, but it made the most peculiar squealing sound under tires. I suspect people enjoyed this, because several drivers drove in circles round the lot, squealing madly.

The Guggenheim was impressive—the beautiful building, completed in 1997, revitalized the former industrial port of Bilbao and initiated a modern building revolution that’s a treat for the eyes. This museum holds extra-large artwork, including pieces from one of my favorite series, “The Matter of Time” by Richard Serra. The Serra works are monumental, as big as two-story houses, made of structural steel curving into ovals and other shapes, inviting the viewer to walk through and experience the changing light--i saw other pieces from this series in upstate New York and had the same amazed, spacey-visceral reaction. 

Light patterns inside one of Serra's works

The Guggenheim is all about monumental works, including a Jeff Koons 15-foot-tall “Puppy” covered in seasonal plants out front.

On to the village of Puente Viesge and El Castillo cave--the GPS went weird here, and I turned off Beauty, tired of her political persuasions (“Turn left ahead. Why left? Left is better! Ask the communists!”), and moved on to bland Susan. I was led down a series of dead-end roads--at one point, I had to back up 500 feet on a narrow roadway, only to come to a complete block--a one-ton granite block in fact--at the other end. There was a metal post standing upright on one side of the road, and faced with the prospect of backing up again for a quarter mile, I got out of the car, uprooted the post, laid it by the side of the road and pulled around the granite block. I didn't replace the post—take that, powers of darkness! I figured the block would discourage the less-disgusted just fine.

Flag mannikins pump their arm up and down
along the roads to warn of hazards

 Got back to the main road, and into the village of Vargas, once again resorting to the ask-a-human method.  I stopped at Bar Charles (named for the singer Charles Aznavour) at the crossroads of N634 and N623, and the very pretty bartender took me outside and indicated the direction I was to go in with her perfectly lacquered red nails. It was all so uncomplicated, I cursed the GPS and shut it off. Early for my tour time of the cave, I had a bocadilla at a nearby tavern.  This bocadilla, a baguette sandwich made with various fillings, was the size of a small raft; the filling consisted of a layer of potato pancake a half-inch thick covered with my beloved Serrano ham. I downed some of it, then rushed up the hill to park, and walked the remaining few hundred feet to the ticket office for my tour. It was then I found I was an hour late. I had been relying on the car clock, which was set in the previous time zone where I had picked it up. Modern machines failed me.

I returned to Vargas and tried to buy a map in several places with no luck. I followed the road back to Santander and finally found a gas station with a hideously expensive (priceless to me) Michelin map of Catalan, this part of Spain. Everything became clear, and I backtracked east to the hotel I had booked.

The Hostería El Laurel (Barrio Solegrario, 26, Hoz de Anero) is REALLY in the country, set amidst verdant farms. The area is beautiful and peaceful, and the clouds are fantastic. If you want to get away from it all, finish your novel, or spend some quiet time, this is the place. The "hotel" is really a home-stay, and an unmarked one at that. There is no address--I drove around for half an hour trying to locate "Barrio Solegrario" (this is not a street, but a small group of houses on unmarked roads, two meters west of Hoz de Anero, a crossroads), and another half hour quizzing locals as to the house (no number). Once you find it, it's easy--it's the big white driveway door, second house west past the road marked "vente marin". Finally, I reached the gate and was let in to be greeted by a large black dog, a nervous chihuahua, a pony and her foal, and the lady who  lived there. I was led into the office--the smell of mold was so strong I got dizzy--and hauled my suitcase up a flight of stairs. The room itself was modern and pleasant, with a private balcony that looked over the peaceful fields. There are no restaurants or any other services nearby--this place is only reachable by car. My biggest difficulty was the musty smell that permeated the entire house (this part of Spain is extremely humid—almost Hawaii-like tropical during the day and chilly at night). Though the guest rooms were completely modern and very clean, the rest of the house has spent decades in the damp climate of that part of Spain--not for folks with respiratory challenges. The isolation was also a problem--not ideal for the solo traveler. The owners couldn't have been more gracious, however.

I took my shower n the cold bathroom (during the day, the humidity was so high I sweat through everything--at night it was windy and cool) and went to bed early after finishing the remains of my bocadilla (glad I saved it!). A few hours later I awoke to the most god-awful smell of mold. It was everywhere: in the mattress, in the room; it had seeped up from the office below, and soaked into everything. I opened the door, and felt relieved enough to fall asleep until the door closed and the odor woke me up again. I was finding it hard to breathe. I knew I couldn't spend another night there--the smell was the worst, and I was so far from everything I wanted to see. The sheer beauty of the place-so green it hurt your eyes, shrouded in magnificent clouds--wasn't enough. I explained through my iPhone translator that I would be sick if I stayed the next night as I planned and payed them an extra five euros for their trouble. The husband kindly wanted to make sure I had complete directions into Santander and the hotel I had researched as a possible option that we sat in his office for 15 minutes while he drew me diagrams and printed maps out. It was really quite sweet.

Clouds near Hoz de Anero

A Cadeau and Wooly Rhinoceroses

On the way to Rouffignac

The market was under the church tower and only had a few stalls, which I cruised. Truffles came in various forms, mainly oil or a type of tapanade--pricey! The tapanade went for $30 for about 1/2 cup. I bought some truffle oil from a sweet man who gave me a little bottle of truffle vinegar--a cadeau, he said, a gift. He touched his heart when I thanked him. I popped in the car and started driving--it became evident pretty quickly that I wasn't going to have time to hike the extraordinary group of stairways and caves I had seen just past Les Ezyies (near Grotte de Grand Roc) and make Rouffignac in time for the last tour at 11:15. I hate not being able to clone myself. Rouffignac was worth the sacrifice; this cave was completely different from Font-de-gaume in terrain and artwork.  Font-de-gaume was more like my mental picture of a cave, with limestone formations, narrow walls and very tall “ceilings”--more than 20 meters high in some places. Rouffignac was wide and low--it looked and smelled like an inverted lakebed—cement-like mud with hard lumps of reddish material made of silicone that looked for all the world like half-dug potatoes. The ceiling had several large dome-like structures. Being inside, on the little train that takes people through this deep cave, was both creepy and thrilling—I could imagine the roof caving in far too easily. The drawings were simple lines, drawn with fingers in the mud thousands of years ago, but made with considerable finesse and individuality, particularly the grand ceiling that had a zoo’s worth of bison, woolly rhinoceroses, and horses swirling overhead. A frieze of woolly rhinos marching along wrapped around one wall (their existence, along with mammoths, ended with the ice age).

Artist's rendition of the woolly rhino frieze

But I had to leave for Spain. Since I loved the Dordogne, I opted to take back roads rather than the expensive and monotonous highway. I passed through numerous villages made of yellow stone, and the farmland changed to vineyards farther southwest--this was Bordeaux wine country.

View from a country road near Rouffignac

Time was tight, so i eventually opted for the highway, and made it to Bayonne around sunset. The Ibis hotel I planned to stay in was not an Ibis but a creepy discount hotel right off the road. Nope. So I continued on, guided by the faithful Beauty on my GPS which had proved so reliable up to now. I crossed the border and continued on to San Sebastian in Spain--i don't know what I expected, but this was a big, grand city—the largest in Basque country, and a major destination for holidays.  I was swept along with traffic into the town along one side of the bay. My blurry impression was of an ornate bridge and hundreds of people on the streets, cruising the pincho (tapas) bars in the old town. It was warm and humid--we were definitely back in Spain. 

Country road, France

I couldn't go slow enough to really find a hotel, so I guided myself back to the highway. I was growing more tired with each passing mile, and finally pulled off the road in the hope of finding a hotel in the dark.  What I found was a nameless port town with no facilities at all. I finally wised up, set the GPS to take me off the highway and through the small towns, and to indicate hotels (it does that). Then I did it the old-fashioned way--i pulled into a gas station and asked. I was directed to a hotel a few blocks away. it turned out to be a lucky choice, though the lobby wasn't very promising as it reeked of fried fish, an odor that managed to reach and permeate my fifth floor room. We pause here for a word of gratitude for room fans and the super-strong bottle of lavender oil I brought with me! In short order, the room was pleasant.

Autumn leaves, on the way to Basque Country

This section of Spain is the land of Zs—nearly every town name and string of words has the letter in it. My haven for the night was the Hotel Zarauz, (26 Nafarroa kalea, Zarautz (Gipuzkoa), quite a pleasant place for 47 Euros ($68—cheaper if you book online). Euskara, the Basque language, is as difficult to pronounce from the spelling as Welsh; take this snippet  from the welcome page of the Guggenheim Museum: “Esku artean duzenen aldizkariak 2013-14ko udazken-neguko denboraldian Musepoan egingo den programzio artisikoaren....”

The Handsome Thief of Sarlat

A love letter on a back street in Sarlat

Got up at my usual ridiculous hour (5 AM—thanks, jet lag!) planning to go to the public market in the nearby church at 9AM). Antsy, I walked up the hill to where I left the car parked overnight (the desk clerk at the Remparts assured me it was OK to leave my car in the public lot on the main road. “it's a small town, nothing happens”, he said, and he was right—at least about parking). I drove down, circled a bit until I got a space right in front, loaded up and went in search of truffles. This region, the perigord, is famous for a couple of things, first and foremost, foie gras. It's everywhere, usually accompanied by statues or drawings of happy geese (obviously before they got “the treatment”—being force-fed through a funnel to fatten the liver). Duck comfit--duck parts preserved in their own grease--is big, and the area produces a lot of noisettes—filberts/hazelnuts--hence a lot of oil. But I was after the white truffle.

I walked around the nearly deserted streets and waited for shops to open. My only companion was a well-dressed young man who was also window shopping. I saw him 20 feet away, across the lane, then 10 feet away on my side of the street. I bent to look at another window display, turned around suddenly, and he was about 10 inches from my face. I apparently had foiled yet another pick-pocket. We excused ourselves, and I didn’t realize what had happened until later.

The Velvet Underground at Last

A rainy day in old Sarlat

The Hôtel Les Remparts (48 Avenue Gambetta, Sarlat-la-Canéda) was a charming, small, stone-fronted hotel on the edge of lovely old Sarlat. It had a welcome and handy elevator, and free parking (though it was a bit of a hike up a hill). My second floor room was small and cozy, and looked out on a neighboring roof covered in moss. There were plenty of restaurants and shops nearby in the old village, and easy walking everywhere. I based here to see the caves in the region, the most well-known of which is Lascaux II, a reproduction of the actual cave, which has been closed to the public for decades. However, I planned to see the REAL thing, as there are other caves in the region with prehistoric art that are open to view.

Huge limestone formations loom over the narrow roads

At the entrance to Font-de-gaume; I'm psyched!

After an early wake-up, I drove to Les Elyzies (pronounced LA zy—the French make fun of the way most English speakers pronounce it: LEZ ZE, as it sounds like zi-zi, a child’s term for pee.) I arrived at Font-de-gaume in the dark, much too early for the 9:30 opening, but only 40 people per day are allowed in, and it was first-come, first-served. While waiting, I had a great conversation with a Dutch/French lawyer/wedding planner. 

I got to be La Fortunata again, as my friend’s husband, Christoph Kusters, had arranged an English-speaking tour at 10 (he runs a multi-lingual tourism company, Taxi a la Carte), and they let me come along. Font-de-gaume was a fantastic introduction; the cave opening was at the end of a steep quarter-mile trail up a hill. The cave itself was narrow and tall with genuine cave paintings and carvings made 18,000-14,000 years ago. Bison butted heads and elk-like creatures stood together on the walls. Incredible. In the dark, the guide lit the paintings from the side with a flashlight and traced the outlines with a laser pointer to make it easier for us to see; the paintings were part of the wall, and often used features of the walls, such as cracks or bulges, as part of the painting. 

Font-de-gaume wall painting

Artist's rendition of the same bison

After the 45-minute tour ended, I tried to reach the cave of Rouffignac—about 40 minutes away--before it closed. I didn’t make it, but the drive on country roads through late October farm fields was spectacular. I was in love—not only with the presence of the people who marked these walls so long along, but the Dordogne in general; verdant and peaceful, dotted with towering limestone ramparts. 

Chez Fany

I went to Montignac, had lunch in a local non-tourist cafe, Chez Fany Bistrot du Marche (where the public market is held, behind the church at Place de L’eglise, 05 53 51 23 78) for 14.5 Euros (about $21)--soup, salad, lamb couscous, no room for desert. Then I went to nearby Lascaux II,  (quite a nice website) the reproduction of one of the original prehistoric art caves. As a repro, they did a pretty good job, but after Font-de-gaume, I was underwhelmed. The original artwork must have been stunning—I tried to take a few pictures on the sly (absolutely no photography was allowed, either in the repro cave or the real ones), and was rightfully harassed by a fellow tourist.

My bad

I returned to Sarlat, and attempted to book tour of El Castillo in Spain on the hotel computer (a two-day advance is required). I was falling hard for the Dordogne, and considered staying longer rather than returning to Spain, but El Castillo was only open on Friday, according to the website (which was consistently wrong, by the way). Walked around Sarlat old town in the evening, and had perfectly awful Thai soup for dinner; I banished the memory of it with an amazing apple tart from the patisserie across from hotel.

A Speedy Dali-ance (dalliance: noun: a casual romantic relationship)

Dali's wife, Gala, served as model in many of his paintings. Nice swan, too

The next morning, I walked early to the market in the center of town next to the rambla, Figuere's central public park--got lost of course, and did the grand tour of the part of town most tourists don’t see. Figueres has a wonderful open-air public market—I bought fantastic pears, figs and hazelnuts (they all grow locally), and a portion of dark red aged Serrano ham--nearly 30 euros ($43.50) a kilo, but worth every penny. I became addicted very quickly—it’s often served as a breakfast item on a super-fresh baguette, nothing else needed; it is its own butter, and I have to find a source in California. Soon.

Let there be light! My favorite Dali lamp--and so practical, too

Later, I went to the Dali Museum, the main reason for my stop in Figueres, Salvador Dali’s hometown. Though the museum—fashioned from a theater that was bombed out during Spain’s civil war—had few of the exquisitely detailed and finely drafted paintings I had seen in art collections around the world, the building held many of his drawings, sculptures, and early paintings along with a few delicately wrought jewels.

In the early afternoon, 

I began the drive on the thruway to France. Though there are plenty of two-lane roads that trace the routes of the thruways, speed limits are low, and I was anticipating a 6 1/2 – hour drive, so I toughened up and prepared to pay more than $38 in tolls between Figueres and the turn-off for Sarlat-en-Caneda in central France (over the next week, I dropped $100 in tolls). The thruways are incredibly well-maintained, nearly empty, fast (average speed, 120km/hr; about 85mph) and boring, boring, boring. But did I mention they’re fast? I had a hard time keeping up in my Volkswagen Passat. The rest stops, which are frequent and clean, usually offer a variety of questionable fully packaged food in plastic. In fact, plastic packaging was everywhere I went in both Spain and France—it made northern California look like eco-heaven.

As I got further north, The terrain became greener and hilly. I turned off the thruway to Sarlat in the last of the light; a misty rain was falling. Along the road, buildings of yellow stone stood among the fields and trees. I arrived to a very pretty old town, and a nice hotel, the Remparts.