Rasteau

        I wasn’t struck by the impact on France of the recent terror attacks until I got to Chambéry. It’s a lovely city: the Alps provide a majestic backdrop, and the handsome shuttered buildings in the old town are draped with the red and white flag of Savoie. Such were my thoughts as I sat in the Place du Théâtre drinking a strong coffee. Then three soldiers in fatigues and berets who looked as hard as nails walked past bearing automatic weapons. It was a jarring reminder of France’s troubles.

        Perhaps I should have been prepared, though. While I was staying in a guesthouse in the Provençal wine village of Rasteau, a few hours south of Chambéry, the owner told me that the number of foreign guests had gone through the floor. They were afraid, she said. It was a shame, I agreed. And it really is, for Rasteau is a wonderful place.

It’s hard to believe that Rasteau belongs to the same country as Paris and Nice. It feels isolated from the stresses of the outside world. Very little happens, and the chimes of the bell tower every half hour seem designed to rouse the locals from their reveries. In the late afternoon, when the baking August heat has slackened off a little, old men take over the dusty square for games of pétanque. Other wizened figures sit on benches to observe them.

Off the square is a no-frills bar, the inside of which is likewise the preserve of elderly gentlemen. The drinks list is eccentric. I wanted a glass of Rasteau’s Vin Doux Naturel (a delicious and sweet local specialty similar to Port). They didn’t have any. The nearby post office only does business in the morning and the grocery shop has irregular opening hours. The bakery was shut because the owners had gone on holiday. You wonder how the owners and employees of these establishments can possibly make a living.

I went to Rasteau because of its wine. Its reds are concentrated and spicy. I spent hours wandering around the arid and empty vineyards (the farmers were all on holiday, like the bakers). The soil was dark brown, becoming lighter the nearer you got to the village. Pudding stones, or galets, were spread over the surface, in some cases covering whole rows. Massive bunches of Grenache and Syrah grapes drooped from the vines, looking ripe enough to harvest even at this early stage of the growing season.

 At night the vineyards were so peaceful; nothing was audible except for the relentless croaking of cicadas. On a ridge across the flat and deserted plain I could see the orange lights of the wine villages of Séguret, Sablet and Gigondas. They stood out like beacons in the darkness, and I could almost imagine I had stepped back into the past. For surely this night view has enthralled moonlight walkers for centuries.

A Farewell to Hostels

          The single room in Florence’s Archi Rossi hostel was slightly spartan: in addition to the (soft) bed, there was a desk and a large wardrobe with a lot of hangers. Not bad at all, I told myself. I was only there to sleep, after all. Then I opened the door to the bathroom. It was large and looked well-maintained, but it smelled of drains. It wasn’t unbearable at first, and a walk along the street outside revealed that this was in fact the neighborhood scent, but it got worse during the 18 hours of my stay. By the time I checked out it was intolerable. Like Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo (my travelling companion) I swore a solemn oath: never again would I stay in a hostel. 

          I used to like hostels. I had some unforgettable experiences in them when I was a lot younger, in Australia and Canada. Now I don’t belong in such establishments. It’s not just that my back kills me after a night on a cheap mattress. I'm just too old. As I sat down for breakfast in the Archi Rossi I surveyed the dining room and realized I was old enough to be the father of most of my fellow guests. It was a miserable thought, and I felt wholly out of place. 

The Archi Rossi was the last hostel I stayed in in Italy, but earlier in my trip I had spent a couple of nights in another one in Rome. It was very conveniently located about 5 minutes walk from Roma Termini train station. Privately I congratulated myself on this piece of forethought, for my backpack now felt like it contained a human being. The area wasn’t too bad either: multi-ethnic (kebab shops, mini-supermarkets run by Indians, Chinese and Korean restaurants), with lots of cafes and restaurants; a bit dirty, but with no sense of threat. 

          I busted a gut climbing two or three flights of steps to reception. The name of the hostel sounded Italian enough: it was called ‘Alessandro Downtown’. The staff were in consequence a surprise, for they were all Asian. Maybe they were Thais; it doesn’t really matter. Still, they had broad smiles and I was pleased with my reception. The communal areas were clean and, more importantly, my room was spacious and pretty modern. I took a quick shower and walked into the centre of Rome with the sense of excited expectation that all travelers feel the first time they see a great city. 

          When I returned near midnight I was deadbeat. I opened the large window, had a nightcap (a can of Birra Moretti), lay down and gamely attempted to read my French copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. As I wasn’t wholly sober I gave up after a couple of lines and crashed into sleep. 

I woke up a couple of hours later to use the bathroom. After getting back onto the bed (not into it: the room had no air-con and was sweltering) I realized my body had sunk into the middle of the mattress. As I lay there sweating it gradually dawned on me that there was an unpleasant odour in the room. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was – damp, sweat, mould? All three, perhaps? It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there, and unavoidable. I assumed it was from the cushion-like mattress. I came up with a solution which I had never before employed: I doused my neck with eau de toilette (Allure by Chanel), which just about cloaked the mephitic mattress smell. 

          Next time I woke up it was bright. My back felt like it belonged to an 80 year old. I was aware of a sort of panicked desperation to get out of my room as fast as humanly possible, so after taking a shower I plunged into the boiling streets of Rome. I didn’t go back to my room for about fifteen hours, and only then to sleep – aided by another dose of Chanel. 

          My hostel low-point had occurred before this, however. I had booked a different hostel in Florence on my way south. Exhausted from the heat and my journey from France, I plunged the wrong key into my bedroom door where it became firmly lodged. It was irretrievable and I had to pay 20 euros to have the hinges taken off the doorframe. I cursed my stinginess – the Scottish side of me, I suppose – and wondered why on earth I had elected to skimp on accommodation. 

          So why did I do it? For a couple of reasons, I suppose. First, to save a bit of cash. Second, to meet some fellow backpackers. Only when I arrived in these hostels did I become aware of my folly. The only friends I made on my trip in France and Italy were a Swiss couple whom I met over breakfast in a B & B in the Provençal wine village of Rasteau. They were in their fifties.

The Waiter

            I have tried to write this post many times. Each time I gave up, because I just couldn’t find the right words. Then I came across this sentence in a novel by Stephen King. It captured the essence of what I wanted to say perfectly: 

If you’ve ever been homesick, or felt exiled from all the things and people that once defined you, you’ll know how important welcoming words and friendly smiles can be. 

As I read these words a series of memories flashed through my memory; I think the hairs may even have stood up on the back of my neck. 

And yet, when you read my story, you may wonder why on earth it mattered so much to me. If so, I guess you’ve never felt like Jake Epping, the protagonist of King’s novel 11.22.63. Or like me, for that matter. 

I was travelling alone in the north of Japan in the summer of 2014. I wouldn’t say I was homesick – it’s been about 17 years since I felt that way – but I wasn’t in a good frame of mind. I can’t find a better way to express it than to use King’s words: I felt exiled from all the things and people that once defined me. 

I journeyed down the north-west coast of Honshu, Japan’s main island, one day that July. I think the three local trains I took only covered about 200 kilometres, but the trip lasted eight hours, give or take. I remember it vividly: the apple fields of Aomori, the Sea of Japan, the vastness of Mount Choukai. 

Ikarigaseki Station, in Aomori

My destination was a city called Tsuruoka. I cannot remember ever visiting a place that was more dead on a Friday evening. It was deserted, despite having a population of over a hundred thousand. I walked along the shoutengai (arcaded shopping street) in the fading light, but the shutters were down and the people gone. 

It was sweltering and my Achilles began to seize up as I gloomily wandered the streets, desperately seeking somewhere I could at least have a good dinner. I did a circuit, eventually returning to the station area, which is usually a good option in Japan. 

Yamagata prefecture

In the corner, across from the station entrance, was a sign advertising gyoza. My Japanese stinks, but I do have some reading ability, and my heart lifted at the prospect of a plate of these delicious fried dumplings. I climbed the stairs and entered what appeared to be an empty izakaya (a bar-restaurant type place).

My mood lightened further when the woman who greeted me actually seemed pleased to see me. (In Japan you get used to people panicking when they catch sight of a foreigner.) She ushered me to a curtained off area with a low table on tatami mats and gave me a menu. 

She took my order (nama-biiru (beer), furaido poteto (fries), edamame (green soybeans) and pizza. I stretched my legs out as I had nearly lost feeling in them within the 5 minutes I had been sitting on the floor. Two Japanese guys came in and sat at the table next to me, where they chatted about Germany’s victory in the World Cup. 

A young man’s voice came from outside the curtain, along with the sound of slippers being kicked off. “Excuse me”, he said confidently, and entered my little dining area. He was incredibly thin, like a lot of young Japanese men, with his hair held back by a bandana. He was also smiling. As he put my beer down on the table, he said “this is nama”. 

As he left he said something else in English, though I can’t remember what. I do recall that it wasn’t the correct thing to say. I drank the wonderful beer, which was served in a freezing glass, in double-quick time. The young waiter then returned with my edamame. He went through the same routine, placing the dish on the table with the words ‘this is edamame’. I ordered another beer. 

And so it continued throughout my meal. Everything was presented with the same formula. It appeared his English amounted to little more than ‘excuse me’ and ‘this is’, but he said it with enthusiasm and without fear. I drank four beers, had some excellent food and left feeling enormously uplifted. 

I’m sure that young waiter had no idea how much I appreciated his simple friendliness and effort to speak my language. He was just doing his job and, this being Japan, I couldn’t even leave a tip by way of thanks. It made an enormous impression on me, though, and cheered me to a degree that is difficult to express. Hopefully, with Stephen King’s help, I’ve succeeded.  

Eating in Spain

          In 1935 W. Somerset Maugham, my favourite writer, wrote a book about Spain called Don Fernando. One of the chapters was devoted to food. 

In Andalucía, Maugham observed, ‘you eat romantically rather than to the satisfaction of your palate.’ This, I would say, is no longer true. Take the example of Pepa y Pepe, a pleasant tapas bar that spills on to one of the streets in Málaga’s Old Town. The food there is very good: you can have albóndigas (meatballs) in a rich tomato sauce, and they do good fried fish like gambas pil pil (prawns with garlic and chilli cooked in lots of oil). 

There’s little romance about Pepa y Pepe, though. Most of the diners are foreigners and it’s a magnet for the street performers and beggars of this fine city. In the space of an hour one Tuesday evening six men of varying degrees of misery asked me for money outside this establishment. 

My interaction with one of these individuals had an element of comedy about it. He was a dirty, odd looking man, with a yellow tie round his neck but no shirt. His trade was shining shoes. After a rebuff from another group, he approached me and we locked eyes. I shook my head. He then looked down at my feet, shrugged his shoulders and looked me in the eyes again. He had an aghast expression on his face, as if to say ‘Come on! How can you walk around like that in this beautiful place?!’ I refused a second time, though, and he trudged off in search of less stubborn tourists. 

While the albóndigas in Pepe y Pepe were tasty, I would say that ordering meat dishes in Andalucía is not necessarily a wise move. In Cádiz, for instance, I ventured into a quiet place one evening and ordered a media ración (half portion) of meatballs in Pedro Ximenez sauce. The meatballs bore the awful signs of having been microwaved: some were lukewarm, others cold. I guess they’d been hanging around for a bit too, for they had an off-putting discolouration in the middle. The PX sauce had an unpleasantly gloopy texture, too, kind of like mint jelly. The only thing that was hot was the fried potatoes. I’ve rarely been in such a hurry to leave a restaurant. 

I also had a cold plate of rabo de toro (stewed oxtail) in Málaga, which left me crestfallen, for it’s a thing of beauty when done properly. Another dish which is hit or miss is patatas bravas. These can be great, as long as the sauce that is served with the fried potatoes is spicy and based on tomatoes. Too often, though, you are presented with an unappetising mixture of spicy sauce and mayonnaise. 

 These experiences lead me to think that Maugham was wrong when he advised his readers ‘to make your meal out of a single dish’ when in Spain. It’s better to order a few tapas, or small plates, because then there’s more chance of getting something you like. And the best options in Spain are cured meats like jamón ibérico and fried fish dishes. I don’t think I’ve ever been disappointed when I ordered those. 

Maugham made the rather wild claim that ‘you eat much better in the north of a country than in the south’. Still, in the case of Spain, it may be true, although I have limited experience of the north. The finest meal by far that I have eaten there was in a place called Casa Zanito in the beautiful walled town of Olite in Navarra. As a general rule, though, it has to be rubbish, as anyone who has travelled in Scotland could tell you. Just try finding a decent meal in the Highlands.