We take the train to Clermont-Ferrand, about four hours south from Paris into the heart of the country. We share a compartment with kids on their way to a summer language camp in Vichy–two from Mexico City (a girl about 13 and her brother), one from Venezuela (maybe 18, with her father, a professor of engineering at the university in Caracas) and a very tall teen from Austria, who speaks English and German).
Conversation is animated and in Spanish. After two weeks of French, it takes my ear and brain a few minutes to switch gears and I am amazed how much I understand. The Mexicans and the professor also speak English, which lets the Austrian girl in on the exchange. The professor dislikes journalists and very politely asks how I can do what I do. It’s a challenge to explain the failings of some reporters to get the story straight, fair and balanced. His experience has been otherwise. Sounds familiar.
In Clermont-Ferrand we stay with friends, Gary, a tuba player from Santa Monica who has married a French woman. They live with their two small children in a newer (about 25 years old) high-rise condo complex, one of the few modern buildings in this very pretty, old city. Neither drives. Bus service is good. One can walk almost everywhere, and other members of Gary’s band have cars to take him and his tuba to gigs, which may be as far away as Normandy or as close as Mont Dore.
An old friend, Karine, invites us to dinner at the apartment she shares with Pierre, who manages a theatre company. She is still studying to become a teacher and has already passed a portion of the rigorous examinations for certification. Teachers here enjoy job security and many benefits. The apartment, in an older building in the center of town, is beautifully restored, with two fireplaces and wood floors, above shops on a quiet street. Karine has prepared a green salad with salmon, chicken in a piquant curry sauce, served with a bowl of coconut milk to put out the fire, red wine, country bread, three local cheeses, a lemon tarte, coffee and Armagnac to finish. Magnifique.
A huge cathedral with two spires is a tourist attraction and a visible point by which to find your way. Nearby is some of the best shopping in France, although the art galleries and design shops all seemed to be closed for August. All except restaurants are closed between noon and 2 p.m. My favorite store for children’s clothes, Le Petit Bateau, is at 42 Rue Gras, and with everything but the new fall line on sale, I went a little crazy buying gifts for the grandchildren. The best lunch is at La Chaumiere (just off the corner of Rue Saint Dominique and Ave des Etats Unis. For the special quiche and salad lunch, get there before 2 p.m. After that, it’s pastries and tea, with chocolate and cookies to take away.
The musicians play a concert in the park at La Bourboule, a small village with a river running right through the middle. Tonight it is the funk band, Mojo, which attracts a large crowd with children playing and dancing on the grass. The city pays the band and dinner at a nearby cafe. The menu’s English subtitles were harder to translate than the French: fromage de chevre becomes “cheese’s goat,” sliced duck and liver pate are “duck fume and spray of liver,” and the dessert mousse is “chocolate moss.”
The following night the jazz band plays at Mont Dore, a popular vacation spot for French families and German tourists. We meet early for a huge picnic alongside the Dordogne River, its source at Puy de Sancy, the highest peak in the Auvergne. The trombone player has brought his wife and three children, and his parents have driven up from Vichy, where his mother, a noted psychoanalyst, teaches at the university. We have a long discussion about why French children are so well behaved and apparently happy. I never saw a child reprimanded or a mother who appeared angry or overwhelmed. I think it has something to do with a more relaxed attitude and less hurried life. There’s something to be said for the sanctity of the two-hour lunch.
The picnic included the best potato salad I ever had, tomato salad with olives, French and Spanish sausages, local cheeses (bleu d’Auvergne and St-Nectaire) and Gary’s “American” sandwiches (they have lettuce and tomato).
The band plays at Au Petit Paris (affectionately known as Chez Mimi, after its owner, a longtime jazz fan) beginning at 5:30. The room has a huge bar, 10 small tables, old black and white photos of jazz artists on the walls and an upright piano in the corner. The terrace seats another 20 or so, where ice cream and crepes are served all day. After two sets they break for a long dinner of trouffade (specialty of the house), ham, salad, bread, wine and dessert crepes. Mimi lives on the third floor and used to rent out two or three rooms on the second floor, but now has someone else take care of that part for her. Across the street is the Hotel de la Paix; double rooms with bath are only 220 F – 250 F (at current rate of exchange about $35).
The town hosts a huge jazz festival in February, at the height of their ski season. Bands play at most of the cafes, where there is no cover charge, but if you are at a restaurant during dinner hour, you are expected to eat. Music is from 5:30 p.m. to 11 p.m., leaving the day free to ski. Skis and bicycles can be rented at Bessac Sports for less than 130 F per day. Thermal baths (warm mineral water seeps through cracks in the lava) are said to cure everything from arthritis to plain old fatigue.
You can take the train to Mont Dore and get about easily on foot or by taxi. If the weather is good you can rent a car in Clermont-Ferrand and drive the 45 km through the valley of extinct volcanoes (Puy de Dome is the largest). On the way you will pass Guery, a small lake with a quaint hotel at the water’s edge. Very romantic. Tourist information: 04 73 98 65 00 or www.ot-clermont-ferrand.fr. TI for Mont Dore is 04 73 65 20 21.
They speak English and are very helpful.