Oooh la la Lance....I mean FRANCE!!!!!!

As the most popular tourist destination on the planet, I was surprised at my own feelings of apathy at the prospect of visiting France. Acutely aware that some 80 million other tourists must be onto something, I banished my indifference and entered with arms and eyes wide open. But most especially I prepared my stomach for what could be the defining moment in our gastronomic journey!

Our daily ritual!

Fittingly for Julia and I, the first place we visited was Lyon – the gastronomic capital of France. Despite some notable tourist attractions, we genuinely were there for the food, much to the delight of the locals we spoke to who pride themselves on their renowned gastronomy. After doing some research into where to blow our backpacker budget away, we were left severely underwhelmed and decided to hit the streets for some local insight. We quickly worked up an appetite and stumbled across an unassuming pâtisserie, hindsight would later prove it to be the best pâtisserie we visited in all of France. An energetic and friendly young lady served us and conveniently spoke a little English. Combined with little French we managed to secure the name of a local eatery, bouchon, which she thoroughly recommended. For the remaining hours we were forced, agonisingly to wait for our fateful appointment with French cuisine at its finest.

France easily produces the best baked goods and pastries in the world!

Arriving in the finest threads our backpacks allowed, we were greeted by a genial and enthusiastic host. Unable to contain our excitement, we fumbled around for the menu and were surprised when the waiter declared that there was no menu – that he was the menu. He proceeded to sit down at our table and in, at best, broken English describe what was available. I should mention he did this for every single table for the remainder of the night. All amused at the mutual lack of understanding, the waiter headed for the kitchen and we began to discuss what we thought we had ordered. As we waited for the food, the smells emanating from the kitchen reminded us of our near total ignorance of what we had ordered, yet they seductively comforted any misgivings. To our delight, our entrée arrived and we were excited to see the chef straddling the kitchen and restaurant doorway in order to witness our reactions. He must have been quietly confident as the food, service, ambience and dining experience was quite truly incredible. Easily one of the best meals of our lives.

Escargots - bon appetit!

Tasted much better than it looks! 

Saucisson brioche, or less eloquently put, sausage in bread

Julia and I have an uncanny, albeit convenient, knack of arriving in towns and countries during large and significant cultural events. So arriving in Marseilles we were surprised/not really to find out that their famous and annual 'Fête du Panier' street festival was on. People would ask us, “Oh you have come for the festival, no?,” to which we most often replied, “of course, we are so excited!” Situated in the old town, the festival sees people open their doors and fashion small stalls where they sell home made food and alcoholic mixtures. An OH&S nightmare, but a dream come true for frugal backpackers. For little more $1 we consumed lots of beer, punch of varying quality, liver skewers and crepes prepared by children. More than just a chance for austerity hit Europeans to make some extra cash, each town square also hosts a free music festival. A fully professional outfit with some allegedly big names performing too. What's a good night without some football I hear you say? Well France happened to be playing in the European championship that evening too, so the night was intermittently broken up into football viewing too!

'Punch,' or punch in English!

Genuinely OH&S worst nightmare

One of the many concerts strewn across this small part of town!

The famed 'Fete du Panier'

Aside from food, another reason Julia wanted to visit France was for Le Tour de France. The pinnacle of bike racing and endurance sport. Also the race was won by an Australian, Cadel Evans last year. Luckily for Julia we would be witnessing four stages. Two of which bought us to the small town Pau, just outside the Pyrnees - a famous and harsh mountain range that straddles the border of France and Spain. Luckily for Julia, I was also desperately keen to see the race in person as for many years I have spent countless hours and many sleepless nights watching the SBS coverage from Australia. Standing on the side of the road, the excitement all around is palpable. Free promotional goodies are literally thrown into the masses, often resulting in skirmishes for the hurled goods and children weeping at missing out on something that their sibling got. With patriots waving flags and cycling enthusiasts craning their necks around in anticipation of the psychedelic glow of the oncoming peloton, the atmosphere was electric! The sheer logistics of the event; road closures, settling up grandstands and not to mention a mini athletes village in each town, everyday for three weeks are quite impressive. Needles to say as an avid cycling fan, witnessing the event in in person was quite a big deal for me and really something to tick of my bucket list!

Wiggins in the zone before the start of the stage

Excitement at the finish!!

World Champion, Mark Cavendish blazing past!

Absolutely bursting with freebies from the Tour, merci beaucoup!

Despite their rugged looks, I witnessed these guys crying as we waited for the race...On account of some ridiculously hot French mustard!!!

Fittingly our final stop in France was it's most famous city Paris. A polarising city depending on who you talk to, we were lucky enough to have a small one bedroom apartment. We were also lucky to be sharing the apartment with a friend from Australia, Tom. Located outside the city centre we seamlessly slotted into local life. Heading to the unrivalled pâtisseries to buy fresh baguettes and crossaints. Stopping by the shops to buy is-this-shit-fo-real delicious camembert cheese and stumbling upon one of the best wines in all of Europe for a princely $2.50. From the outside looking in we probably looked quintessentially French. As soon as we opened our mouths and butchered the language we were clearly foreigners. Regardless, Paris is a truly special city. Despite its inherent touristy drawbacks it's big enough to escape the masses, allowing yourself to be mesmerised by its majestic and varied offerings.

Bursting with excitement at the final of le Tour de France

Yummy, delicious, absolutely scrumptious French sweets

Jump if you adore Paris!

Parlez vous Francais?

The city of love - Thomas hearts Julia!

Bonjour from the summit of le Tour Eiffel

After ticking off most of the touristy sights, Tom decided to spoil us and had arranged a day of, out-of-the-ordinary, Paris tourist sights. So we quickly found our selves watching pornography at the erotic museum. Tom said the weirdest thing for him was the fact that he was watching pornography with somebody else and standing up too. He said he usually watches it alone, seated on a computer chair. Shortly after this sexual enlightenment we made our way to the vampire museum. We were picked up at the station by an immediately obviously eccentric man who walked us to his house, the museum. We were sat in a small room full of vampire memorabilia and for the next two hours, indoctrinated in all things vampire from folklore to modern representations. Far from weirded out, Tom and I were genuinely intrigued and chatting with such a passionate and knowledgeable man made the whole experience at once amusing, insightful and just plain fantastic!

But the whole day was topped off when Tom took us to a restaurant where you eat the entire meal in the pitch black dark. You are served by legally blind waiters and the food served varies in texture, temperature and taste. Overall the meal itself was quite good but the experience of essentially (although temporarily) losing your sense of sight was quite unique and incredible. For me, each mouthful of food was filled not only with food, but immense apprehension. Where is the plate? Is this a knife? What is this? Have I just dropped it? I don't know! After getting over the bizarre sensation and bouts of anxiety I began to have some fun. Stealing Tom and Julia's cutlery. Smearing ice cream on Tom's supple skin. After starting the day watching pornography and being exposed to bizarre sexual fantasies and fetishes, it was as if the whole day had done a complete u-turn as we frolicked and flirted in this intimate and romantic Parisian setting.

Is it a bird....is it a plane....?

....no it's an incredibly big crowd visiting Mona!

So sparkly!!

Wwoof!

Picture this: a remote Spanish goat farm, surrounded by arid, olive-lined hills. No electricity or hot water, thus making refrigeration of dairy products produced at the farm impossible. This doesn't phase us though, because we're looking forward to having an experience that will challenge and get us out of our comfort zones. However, when you add in all of the unbelievable dysfunctional, unhygienic and flat-out what-on-earth-is-going-on-here moments we experienced, you get one of the most bizarre weeks we've ever had!

The farm!

Before going on, I'll explain a bit about the concept of Wwoofing. Basically, it's an organisation where volunteers offer their labour in exchange for food and accomodation for the duration of their stay at a Wwoofing farm. On average, Wwoofers will work for 5-6 hours daily at the discretion of the farm owner.

Before getting to our farm, we had a feeling things might be challenging given our farm owner, Rafa, didn't speak English. But we were excited to give it a go, learn how goat's cheese is made, and pick up a bit of Spanish.

Within the first few hours of arriving at the farm, we knew we were in for a strange week. The fact that empty liquor bottles were strewn all over the property should have rung alarm bells, but we turned a blind eye in the name of optimism. Pierre, another Wwoofer who had been at the farm for 9 months, had recently 'adopted' a pet baby hawk called Pippa. We became very well acquainted with Pippa over lunch. Plopped in the middle of the already grimy lunch table, Pippa would flutter and hop among all the food which was meant for us to eat. Not to mention that she'd also sporadically poo, while on top of the table of course, with her projectile faeces always missing our plates by centimetres. Not quite how we were expecting to spend our first meal at the farm. That first day ended with us being shown to our bedroom and being told that it was most likely flea ridden, due to a recent infestation at the farm. I can confirm that indeed this was the case, with flea-bite scars still present on my legs as proof of this fact.

Our first real 'work' day at the farm was marred by a very avoidable issue. At around lunchtime, and consequently the hottest part of the day, it was declared that we would go and visit the goats. As we still hadn't seen them and we were supposedly at a goat farm, we were very excited about this. Thinking we were off for a meet and greet, we obviously didn't feel the need to fetch water bottles, hats and sun protection in general. Might I say neither were we told to bring any of the aforementioned essentials along. Much to our surprise, on arrival we were told that along with another wwoofer, we would be taking the goats for a walk, herding them along a 5 km look around the property. Not that hard I hear you say? Well in baking 37 degree heat, without water, hats and suncreen the task is very daunting indeed.

As it turned out, this wasn't a 5km saunter around the property. Goat herding is tough work, keeping your eyes on around 80 goats, making sure they don’t stray too far from the pack and giving them sufficient time grazing in certain fields. After roughly an hour and a half of trudging through the heat, again with no water or sun protection, we arrived at a dense, shrub ridden forest. With literally nothing resembling a path, immediately it was obvious that keeping track of the entire herd would prove testing. Pretty quickly Jay and I were distracted with rescuing a mother and baby goat who couldn’t yet grasp the idea of grazing amongst the herd. Whilst Jay and I stuck together the other WWOOFER continued with the rest of the herd and it quickly dawned on us that whilst we were preoccupied with these two goats we were getting further and further away from the other wwoofer. Concerned Jay started yelling out and whistling in order to maintain some kind of contact. The reply we got was deafening silence. Shit.

Still trying to get these two errant goats on track but now well and truly lost we reluctantly decided that our safe return was more important than the goats. So we left them behind and began to try an locate the rest of the herd and other wwoofer. Quite simply we were lost. Very lost. By this stage we had been walking in the scorching sun for nearly 3 hours. We were dehydrated beyond anything either of us have experienced and both starting to get very scared. After finding a dried up stream we decided to follow that. Reaching the end and now in an open valley, I remained whilst Jay trekked up one of the nearby knolls to try and locate the farmhouse. Jay returned with the bad news – we were seriously lost! Both conscious of increasing levels of anxiety, we tried against our will to 'keep it together.' Finally with no other choice we decided to back track along the dried up stream. We reached a fence line, followed this and found our way onto a road!!!!!!

Sighting a nearby house, we entered the property in the hope of finding water. We were literally desperate. Our mouths sticking together with each word spoken, throats beginning to dry up too. Racing to the nearest tap, to our horror we discovered that the water wasn’t running. The mains had been turned off. Devastated and not taking no for an answer we found ourselves lying underneath the tap, mouths wide open, while the other person shook the hose above the other persons mouth, trying to milk any water that remained in the hose. Even though we both only managed to consume two or so drops of stale water, it was a mental victory and we felt prepared for our walk back to the farm - which turned out to be 15 minutes away. We slowly made our way back, incredulous at the situation we had found ourselves in. Along the way we managed to stop a car who gave us a bottle of warm, it's-been-in-the-boot-of-the-car-for-too-long, water. The pure and utter joy we experienced whilst sculling water which we otherwise wouldn't dare drink made us question whether the whole saga was worth it simply for that very moment.

Finally arriving back at the farm, a good four or five hours since we'd departed, nobody blinked an eye as we entered the room and found everyone sitting around the table smoking weed with not a care in the world (actually, now that I've mentioned it, I may as well add that the rest of the wwoofers smoked weed from 8am every morning to late at night, all-day every day for our entire stay. Occasionally they would crack open a bottle of wine over breakfast too). Flabbergasted but so exhausted we made our way up to our room. From then on we shepherded the goats alone, early in the morning, with lots of water on us and in a field close to their barn – no more crazy shrub routes for us!

Where's Julia??

You can call me Shepherd Jay

Despite trying to stay positive, our week unfortunately did not improve. If anything it became more and more bizarre. At one point we ran out of toilet paper, and when Jay asked whether there was any more he was met with a grunt and shrug of the shoulders as a reply. Luckily for Jay and I, we had bought a jumbo-pack of tissues with us, so we were all set. Meanwhile, the rest of the wwoofers resorted to using waxy baking paper instead, which gave a whole new meaning to the saying 'smoother than a baby's bottom'.

Most annoyingly of all was the full-to-the-brim bucket of dirty toilet paper which sat in front of the toilet. Since we weren't supposed to flush any toilet paper, the bucket was used to dispose of it instead. Not only was this fact disgusting enough in itself, but when you consider that this said bucket was full on the first day we got there, and not emptied the entire duration of our stay, each visit to the 'throne' was anything but relieving. Especially given that 6 people were staying at the property at once. And did I mention that there was no button to flush the toilet? Instead, we had to dip our fingers into the slimy water of the lidless cistern and manually pull the lever each time we had to flush – not an ideal way to finish off each toilet visit!

Gross, mouldy cheese!

Less mouldy, though the cat has has nibbled some!

Goat's cheese in its liquid infancy

There were some perks to the week though. We did enjoy herding the goats every day for a couple of hours, picking up goat-shepherd sayings such as 'Ale!', 'Eh!', 'Gah!' and 'Vamos!'. We got to help make some goats cheese as well, scooping handfuls of fermented goats milk into containers that would compress the liquidy mass into solid cheese overnight. Occasionally we visited the chickens to see if there were any eggs to collect from their coop, and we harvested a bucket-load (or 5) of garlic earlier in the week.

After a few days, it dawned on us that no one was willing to do any work on the farm, and were instead treating it as some sort of spiritual retreat. Our purpose for being there was to work, so in its absence, and along with a few other contributing factors which I won't bore you with at the moment, we decided that one week was enough and we said adios to the farm.

I will finish off with highlight of the week, which funnily enough didn't even occur at the farm; watching Spain skilfully obliterate Italy in the final of the European Championship. We could not believe our luck when we discovered we would be in Spain for this momentous match, with Jay bursting with excitement at this fact. Sitting down at a dingy, local country pub, with local kids gawking at us and asking us questions in Spanish which we couldn't answer, it was such an exciting atmosphere to be a part of. We were even served free tapas with each beer, making this night even more quintessentially Andalucian. The chaos that erupted when Spain won was electric, with people hooning around in their cars waving Spanish flags and drunken crowds of people chanting until the early hours of the morning. What topped the night off was when an excited Spaniard insisted on swapping  T-shirts with an equally ecstatic Jay!!! Viva Espana!

Both very excited, both very drunk, swapping shirts - priceless!

The hills are alive with the sound of...cow bells!

This trip, by way of nature and sheer experience, has obviously taught me many things. Too many things to delve into on this humble blog. However, one thing that I've had reinforced and will happily rhapsodise over is my love of the mountains. I can't tell you why, but I can tell you how I feel about mountains. I'm actually beginning to believe that I must have had some intimate connection with mountains in my past life.

Initially their sheer size is obviously what grabs your attention. For me, their colossal nature demands a certain amount of respect, a resignation that there are forces and elements to them that are so powerful and beyond our reckoning. Then there is their ruggedness. The jagged edges that from afar can look like symmetrical and clean peaks and slopes but up close present as dangerous serrated edges. In Spanish the word sierra or mountain range actually means the 'teeth of a saw.' The breathlessness at their beauty from afar is only rivalled by their breathlessness up close. The lack of oxygen and sharp ascents literally do take your breath away. Despite the enormity of these gentle giants, one cant help but be mesmerised by their inherent vulnerability. Themselves victims of force majeure, they effortlessly and beautifully get covered by layers of innocuous and delicate snow. Much like a beautiful woman; stunning albeit intimidating, the snow capped mountains easily capture your attention, but despite flirting constantly with it it's obvious that you will never become intimately acquainted!

Flying into Bern, Switzerland, I was like a kid on their first day of school. Both nervous and excited. Nervous, at the small plane and proximity of the mountain peaks. And excited, though not having adequate enough control over my vocabulary, to convey my utter joy. The views from the plane where a moment to savour and my inability to convey my joy was replaced by a child like grin and uncontrollable fidgeting.

The excellent view from our disconcertingly small double-prop propeller plane!!!!

Setting foot in Switzerland I immediately felt more at home than I've ever experienced in a foreign country before - with the imposing and ominous mountains like the reassuring eyes of a family member. Bern is the small but picturesque capital of Switzerland. The glacial river that flows through the heart of the town has the most brilliantly pristine turquoise water I've ever bared witness to. I was so drawn to the natural beauty of the water that had it not have been for the furious current, I would have braved the freezing waters for a swim. As the capital, patriotism ran strong through Bern with the streets adorned in Swiss flags. So strong was the nationalism that we felt compelled to purchase a Swiss army knife each. Conveniently, I'd lost mine the week before in Italy and although Switzerland is easily the most expensive place I’ve ever visited, Swiss army knives are the exception and are at least 40% cheaper than back home.

Brilliant!

Very quickly we learnt the Swiss do two things extremely well; chocolate and cheese. Unfortunately their prowess at cheese making was somewhat lost on us. Australians are not know for their cheese production so for our unaccomplished palates most of the cheeses we tasted were simply too strong for us to enjoy. Much to the disappointment of the lady we stayed with in Bern who actually worked at a cheese research lab and subsequently had a fridge full of cheeses for us to try. What we lacked in cheese tasting ability we made up for in chocolate tasting. And, speaking from experience, I can assure you that Swiss chocolate is the best I've ever had. If you're one of our regular blog readers, I'm sure you're well and truly satiated with food related anecdotes. Therefore you'll be pleased to know that the actual purpose for our trip to Switzerland didn’t revolve around food but rather hiking. However, conveniently we had two hikes planned that involved both chocolate, cheese and wine factories. Didn’t think you could get away that easily did you?

Photo A

Cailler chocolate factory

Oh I should also briefly mention that with three official languages; German, French and Italian, the proficiency of languages in Switzerland is very impressive. Our first host spoke German, English, Spanish and French. But most strikingly is the geographic language switch. In Bern, Swiss German is most widely spoken but after a one hour train ride to a town call Fribourg, French predominated. More than the verbal swap, the cultural swap is what surprised us. We could now see French street signs, French advertising not to mention the French conversations surrounding us. Truly quite astounding for an Australian, where language proficiency is generally quite poor.

Photo B - Please vote which photo, A or B, is better?!

Back to the hiking. Our first hike was broken up into two legs. The first leg ending at a chocolate factory, the second leg ending in Gruyère at a cheese factory - the home of Gruyère cheese. But to focus solely on those two deliciously happy endings would be irresponsible. The terrain and surrounds of our first hike where stunning in every sense of the word. Quintessentially Swiss, the 'pre-alp' area we were hiking in had it all; rolling hills carpeted in the most verdant grass I've ever seen, black and white dairy cows conspicuous by the chimes of their cow bells, air so fresh and crisp that my diaphragm egged me on to inhale more, more, and traditional wooded homes. The only thing missing from it truly being the scene of a Swiss tourism commercial was some yodelling in the background. Huffing and puffing up the steep tracks, we couldn’t have asked for better motivation than the very real thought of a Swiss chocolate factory. Quickly enough we arrived, enjoyed an interesting tour but the real reason we were there was for the tastings. No different to a scene straight from Willy Wonka, the tastings did not disappoint as we were surrounded by trays and trays of chocolate. I'm not talking plain milk chocolate but an assortment of luxurious pralines and truffles. Ironically as quickly as we had devoured the seductive goodies we were feeling sick from pure gluttony and vowed not to eat chocolate for at the rest of the day.

The town of Gruyeres

So much outrageous cheese!!

Our next hike was through the picturesque Laveux region. Situated adjacent to Lake Geneva, the rolling hills were literally covered with vineyards as far as the eye could see. When we averted our gaze from the unique scene before us and peered across Lake Geneva we were actually looking at mainland France. Quite simply walking through 12 kilometres of vineyards proved to be a fantastic day with photo opportunities galore. Needless to say that by the end of the hike we had developed quite a yearning for some wine and purchased a bottle to rehydrate ourselves later that evening.

Stop fighting, I love you both!

The view from our apartment. That's France on the other side of Lake Geneva!!

Our final stop in Switzerland was its most well known city, Geneva. Most famous because it is the home of the United Nations. Though as far as a tourist destination goes, Geneva was quite lacking. Nevertheless we embraced the opportunity to visit the headquarters of the UN and enjoyed an insightful tour of the premises. Rubbing shoulders with diplomats and dignitaries, it was easy to imagine big decisions and important meetings taking place behind the closed doors around us.

Our final memory of Switzerland is in contrast to the utilitarian ones we hold of the UN. Led by Julia and in search of some cheap food we took a wrong turn and ended up in the red light district of Geneva. Not that big a deal you sneer? Well I've never seen such scantily clad prostitutes roaming the streets, nor have I ever been hit up for drugs so frequently along a street not more than 80 metres long. Regardless, Switzerland as a whole was an incredible destination and we left with mild cases of wine, cheese and chocolate overdose.

Laetitia our coach surfing host! She was very welcoming and even took us to a festival! Thanks!

I thought it tasted weird!

Julia the packaging is still on! So wild!

Cheese fondue - probably the worst meal I've ever eaten. Eww.