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.