Day 2

The day started with one of those embarrassing moments that you see in films and imagine that it has to actually happen to someone in real life. well it did. Yoni just ducked out of his room in order to wake Phil up in the neighbouring room. Boom, Yoni's hotel room slams shut, leaving him  standing in a hotel corridor,at 6 a.m. in his boxers and nothing else. Unfortunately there is no photographic evidence of the event, but perhaps in the name of public decency, its just as well. He cajoled Phil into going downstairs to get another key. I'm a crueler person than Phil...I would have insisted that Yoni front up in his undies, himself, to the reception girl.
Once Yoni was back in his room, we were all dressed and ready to go by 6.30. We wanted to get going early in order to fully exploit the day and beat the Paris peak hour traffic.
Once we were sure that we were out of Paris and clear of potential traffic jams, we set our sights on our usual (perpetual?) activity. Finding something to eat. Leaving Paris without breakfast was a necessary evil, but an evil all the same. The first service station and roadside restaurant we came across would allow us to get some well needed calories. For those that have followed previous adventures, or our on-going trans Israel trek, you will already know that any opportunity, no matter how small, to get either lost or confused, will immediately be grabbed. And here too, looking for a place to eat, we found ourselves in the entrance to the trucks only carpark. We were told over the intercom (which was 2 1/2 metres above the ground...truck height) that we couldn't park there. We didn't see any other trucks there, but I suspect that this place was actually a secret French torture compound. How else could I explain that the entrance was guarded not only by a Fort Knox style gate, but by a metal wedge barrier that rises and falls, similar to those used in .
embassies around the globe in order to protect them from car bombs entering the compound? When we parked in the adjacent CARpark, the food in the restaurant looked dodgy, to say the least. Worse, the clientele looked like a Marseilles trucker gang. The leader of the gang was a particularly dangerous looking character that had a dotted, cut-here line tattooed around his neck. The 4 out-of -place and scared foreigners spun around and sprinted towards the exit. A few km down the road we found a Shell petrol station, where Pierre was happy to serve us coffee, hot chocolate and Cola Zero for Phil, chocolate croissants, brioche and ham and cheese baguettes to our heart's content.
Next stop, Auxerre. It's the regional centre of the Yonne department within Burgundy and sits on the Yonne river. (We suspect to this day that Yoni chose this region because of its similarity to his name. He vehemently denies the accusation). It's a charming town, with cobbled stone streets, old buildings and a relaxed buzz. At least the old town is like that. The majority of the town resembles any grey newish town in any country in the industrial world. But we tourists stuck to the pretty bits. There is also the obligatory world famous Gothic church and another couple of almost famous yet just as impressive looking churches. Unfortunately, since I was the only one interested in seeing them, my heathen friends outvoted me and I can't describe to you the magnificent 17th century stained glass windows or the fine example of Gothic flying buttress engineering. You'll have to read about it somewhere else.

We did wander around the old town for a bit, helping Phil in his indecision as to whether to buy a new coat to replace the one he left on the plane. We actually would have saved a fair bit of coat searching had Yoni not invoked the Sigal first rule of shopping...never buy the first thing you see. You'll always find something better or cheaper along the way. If not, come back to where you started. Phil found a coat he liked in the first shop, but didn't buy. In the end he can thank Sigal, via Yoni, for saving him some Euro. He took Yoni's coat to Prague, rather than buy a new one.
The most important purchase during our wandering was the first of many tart citron. This came at the heavy cost of a very difficult cultural lesson for Garry. Whilst waiting in line at the patisserie artisinal, Garry found the tart citron he wanted in the display case. He innocently slid the glass door open and started to take out the tart. . This is an absolutely acceptable thing in Israel. Well deary me. In France, you do not touch the merchandise in a cake shop. He was treated to the murderous glance and stern admonishment of the lady at the counter. We thought for a moment the dear little lady was going to physically attack our bemused friend, or that the gendarmes were about to take him away to the local lock-up for crimes against French culture. In the end Garry slinked out, crestfallen, but with the first of many lemon tarts in hand. I would like to add that it seemed Garry had decided that if the French didn't know or care too much how to properly feed a vegetarian, he would at least get his nutrition in these coming days from these delicious tarts. We actually tried to make a Garry's tart citron to Phil's Cola Zero ratio, but as time progressed it became apparent that the ratio kept changing and that Garry had no hope in keeping up with Phil's consumption of Cola Zero...we're talking in terms of litres per day. Instead, we searched for the perfect tart citron...the one where the base was just thick enough, just crisp enough and the lemon custard was just the right mix of sweet and sour. Lemony scent and custard viscosity were other parameters to be taken into account. We may not have been able to decide on which was the best, but we had lot's of fun sacrificing our waistlines in the name of science.
Eventually, as we always do, we found the local market and were reminded how quality and authenticity are not traits that the French have to search for or even endeavor to achieve, it's just there, naturally. There were stalls that only sold a few different varieties of potatoes, or onions, because that's what they know to grow or buy. Cheeses of the finest quality are accessible not to the Paris, or New York connoisseur, but to the local, everyday Auxerrian.  The butcher stalls were not squeamish about their product. A duck might be in the vitrine with it's head and feet still attached. It's not "yuck" or "gross". It's an admission that this is an animal that we want to eat and there's no reason to sanitize that fact. It's part of life, it's just the way it is, and I admire the French and Italians for it.

On previous trips, in such a market, we would have bought 4 different cheeses, 2 styles of baguette and fine Corsican horse sausage just to taste it, whether we were hungry or not. This time we exercised self control and a policy of "look but not touch". Sigh. I guess it was the right thing to do.

After wandering Auxerre's charming old city, it was time to wander down Auxerre's charming river, the Yonne. We parked the car opposite one of the churches we weren't going to visit and started walking upstream. The idea was to find a rustic country restaurant on the banks of the river, waiting just for us to stroll by. After half an hour or so we had passed the Auxerre football club stadium, the local public swimming pool, a few grand old manor houses and a number of canal locks and were pretty much out of Auxerre. We were getting hungry (of course) and it was becoming obvious that the restaurant that we were dreaming of was just that, a dream. We decided to walk back to the car and drive further upstream, to the next village along the river. If in Australia they build the pub first, then the town around it, in France, it's the restaurant they build the town around. We would eat and continue walking after lunch. Nice theory, but the first hamlet we came to, Augy, seemed to be too small to support a restaurant. At Champs-sur-Yonne, the next village down, there was a supermarket. No way would a town in France have a supermarket and not a restaurant, and sure enough, we stumbled upon Chez Gillou, the local brasserie. It was a charming, no frills village eatery, a Burgundy version of an Australian R.S.L.club.  Nothing fancy, just locals eating good simple local fare.  As we entered the upstairs dining room, the restaurants patrons, in unison, turned to see the 4 Americannes that had dropped in from Mars. A momentary confused hush came over the room, until they realized that it wasn't really worth the distraction from the general eating, drinking and socializing that they'd been doing before we entered the room. Monsieur smiled and showed us to a table. The menu cost all of 13 euro and for that you got the salad bar, main course and desert or cheese platter. Who said you can't get bargains in France? Monsieur, after the usual mirth of actually having a vegetarian in his restaurant, happily suggested an omelette for Garry, who would have been quite satisfied with the quiches and vegetables at the salad bar. Yoni, Phil and I were happy with the charcuterie and a few dead plants to go with it from the salad bar. Yoni and I had the local dish of  Belgian endive wrapped in ham and cooked in a bechamel sauce as main course and it was very good. Phil was very happy with his Burgundy roast chicken and Garry, well, as is the case for vegetarians in France, had his omelette. For desert, Garry naturally opted for the tart citron, Phil spotted a chocolate eclair that had his name on it, whilst Yoni and I, just as naturally, opted for the cheese platter. The obligatory carafe of local vin rouge rounded off the meal that was exactly what we had wanted.

It was unanimously agreed that we needed to walk off the newfound calories and there was no place finer than along  the banks of the Yonne. We ambled down the river, not a care in the world. Conversation ranged between trip democracy (or lack of it), old world vs Asian vs new world sightseeing, people we hadn't thought about for 30 years and things that are said in Burgundy stay in Burgundy. All under blue, late winter skies and besides the slow flowing picturesque river. It's a hard life, but someone has to do it.

By the time we got back to the car it was getting into late afternoon and time to head to our lodgings in the village of Lindry. And what lodgings. From the entrance it looks like an old manor house, with a magnificent green lawn in front and gravel courtyard behind. Inside it's all dark wood paneling and stone. Our hosts, Julia and Stephane, welcomed us warmly and happily shared of themselves. Over pre-dinner kir, we talked as if we'd been friends for years, catching up on the goings-ons of this past week.
 http://www.la-bichonniere.com

Stephane recommended we try L'eko in nearby Bleury. It's a funky place with cool young owners, in a tiny, out-of-the-way hamlet. The customers included older couples, young families, bikers, young girls on a night out...and us. The young waiter\owner seemed to be of North African descent, and the food reflected that. It wouldn't surprise me if he had his mum cooking out back in the kitchen.We ordered over-sized barbecued skewers threaded with lamb, beef and chicken (no pork on the menu) which came accompanied by a giant communal bowl of couscous and chunky vegetable soup. Harissa comes automatically. We weren't really that hungry, but since when has hunger and eating been linked on these trips? And as we wearily sat back in our chairs, we once again repeated our mantra...it's a hard life...