Jacqueline Swartz

Chateau Lynch-Bages

2009-04-16T12:55:00.000-07:00

CHATEAU LYNCH-BAGES
Savouring the Bordeaux Culture of Wine

by Jacqueline Swartz

In the tasting room of the Bordeaux winery, Chateau Lynch-Bages, I raised my glass, noted the dark brick colour of the wine and inhaled its aroma. There is nothing like sipping ten year old Bordeaux at its source.

But how to access the Bordeaux experience beyond an afternoon’s tasting? How to experience the deeply authentic wine culture, where the seasons lead to the harvest, and where centuries-old expertise is respected? The wine culture of Bordeaux is its own world, and to me it seemed like a magic kingdom with a locked door. The key? A stay at Cordeillan-Bages, a hotel housed in a restored l8th century monastery near some of the most prestigious vineyards in the world. At the hotel, in the Medoc area near Pauillac, the visitor is connected to the Chateau Lynch-Bages winery, surrounded by rolling green hills and mist-covered vineyards.

Wine lovers know Lynch-Bages as a fine Bordeaux, complex and elegant, and with a peculiar history. During the landmark wine rating of l855, which classified Bordeaux wines in various crus (or growths) it was put in the fifth cru. But the rating, devised by wine brokers, depended on the market value of the wine at the time. Today, more than 150 years later, experts believe Chateau Lynch-Bages belongs in the second cru, just behind (first cru) wines like Chateau Latour and Chateau Mouton Rothschild.

You can taste Chateau Lynch-Bages wines, sign up for wine and cooking classes, and visit nearby wineries in a chauffered Mercedes, all part of a program called Bordeaux-Saveurs.

During the harvest, the culmination of the wine cycle, I had the thrilling experience of being in the vineyards alongside the people who were hand- picking and sorting the grapes.

“Our aim is to find ways people can discover a kind of art of living in the context of wine”, remarked Sylvie Cazes-Regimbeau, who owns the winery with her older brother, Jean-Michel Cazes. Seated on the plush red chairs in the lounge, over a chilled glass of Moet & Chandon champagne, Sylvie explained that they began with the hotel, Cordeillan Bages, now a Relais & Chateau property with 24 rooms and four suites. Under the same l8th century roof is a restaurant that earned two-Michelin stars.

The restaurant’s minimalist decor and Asian-influenced food reflects the passions and travels of guiding light Thierry Marx, one of the most lauded chefs in France. The cuisine is classically French, but at the cutting edge of inventiveness and artful presentation.

I tried the tasting menu, and found it to be a peak culinary experience - for the palate, the eye and the imagination. Think of a risotto made not with rice but soy, accompanied by a briny oyster and an earthy truffle. Chef Marx is a master of contrasts, and one of the of the appetizers was a cauliflower foam garnished with caviar, the salty beads playing off the white airy cauliflower. The parade of appetizers continued with a “virtual” sausage of lentils, and then a glossy strip of pressed smoked eel. The portions were small, each exquisite morsel asking to be savoured, and it was up to me to restrain myself when the bread, in its many fresh-baked varieties, came around with three different kinds of butter.

The main course was a filet of Acquitane beef cooked in cellophane with vines from Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, served in its package like a present to be unwrapped. Succulent and full of flavour, it came with potatoes crusted with the reduction of the sauce. The pairing with a 2001 Lynch Bages Puillac was enough to want to make me want to burst into tears: this, I thought, is the zenith of Bordeaux eating and drinking. The signature dessert, recommended by Sylvie that afternoon, was lightly cooked paper thin apples with a granite sorbet, served with a Muscat de Rivesaltes wine. Each dish, of course, is accompanied by a different wine – not a problem when your bedroom is a few steps away from the restaurant.

On Sundays, there is an experimental tasting menu; afterwards guests are asked for their feedback and a discussion follows - with this kind of involvement, you feel like you belong. Cooking, wine appreciation classes and history are also offered at a second location, at the Ecole du Bordeaux. Approximately a 55 km drive from the chateau, the l8th century port city of Bordeaux has, in the last decade, experienced a remarkable restoration of its buildings and waterfront. Designated as an UNESCO heritage site, it is well worth a visit.

The Ecole du Bordeaux, which covers many aspects of wine, food, and history, was the idea of Jean-Michel Cazes, Sylvie’s brother, and the senior presence at the winery. Long respected as an informal ambassador for Bordeaux wines, he is delightfully accessible and fluent in English. The school came about after years of being asked to arrange tours to legendary estates like Chateau Mouton Rothschild and Chateau Latour.

Four years ago, Jean-Michel began another project: to restore Bages, the village at the doorstep of the winery, where his grandparents lived and where he recalls playing with the children of artisans and people working at the winery. Like so many villages in the area, Bages was deserted in the l950's. When Jean-Michel’s architect suggested using it as storage space, he knew he had to do something. “I could not turn the village where my grandparents lived and where I grew up into a warehouse” he told me as we strolled the cobblestone street of the village. After considerable restoration of largely intact buildings, some of them two centuries old, the village of Bages now has a working central fountain and a bakery that supplies bread to the public and the restaurant. A thriving bistro, Café Lavinal, draws local winegrowers and visitors alike, while the boutique Bages Bazaar sells wine and table ware. Future plans include a small hotel, theatre, and art centre. “We want to reverse the trend of depopulated villages”, Monsieur Cazes explained.

During the summer, there are film festivals and art exhibits. On my next visit, I hope to join the Marathon Medoc, my kind of run. Billed as one of the slowest marathons anywhere, it welcomes happy participants as they pass through the village, offering them oysters, beef - and of course wine.

If you go: http://www.bordeauxsaveurs.com/, email contact@bordeauxsaveurs.com

Stalking the White Indian Rhino

2009-02-03T09:57:00.000-08:00

By Jacqueline Swartz

“Tomorrow we’ll see the rhinos up close”, said my guide, Sanjoy. We were in a jeep ambling down the road bordering the Kaziranga Wildlife Preserve in northeastern India. Elephant, wild buffalo and tigers roam this 260 square mile preserve of tall grasses, marshes and the mighty Brahmaputra river, but the prize sight was the rare Indian one-horned rhino, brought back from near extinction in the last 100 years.

Kaziranga, an UNESCO World Heritage Site, is in the province of Assam, which is unfamiliar even to most Indians. It lies in the un-touristy northeast of India, near Bangla Desh and Myanmar. Half the tea in India comes from this area, but it has only been open to tourists since l995 because of separatist violence. But here all is peaceful and lovely. In the summer, orchids, sprout from trunks, I saw mango, tamarind, teak and pepper trees. Bird watchers are drawn to the 500 species of birds, including the rare hornbill. The birds here tend to be big: egrets, herons, storks, fish-eating eagles and pelicans.

If there is any danger it comes from poachers who kill the rhino for its mythically potent aphrodisiacal horn (even in this age of Viagra). Powder made from the horn is worth two to three times the price of gold, and the animal’s skin, fat and even dung are sold. That’s why the other guy in the jeep is carrying a rifle. If anyone is heartless or desperate enough to poach a rare one-horned rhino, they are warned; if they persist, they are shot. End of story.

It was almost the end of the rhino story a century ago. In 1905, Lady Curzon, wife of the then British Viceroy to India, visited the area, expecting to view the great Rhino. What she saw was a few hoof prints. Fast forward a century, into one of conservation’s greatest success stories. Now the rhino population has grown to l600, by far the largest in the world.

The best way to see the one-horned rhino is up close - and high - from the back of an elephant. And a big part of the Kaziranga story is about elephants. Wild ones in the game preserve, and tame ones who carry passengers while the driver, or mahout, sits on the elephant’s neck. At first I was wary - tamed suggested abused, like elephants in the circus. But in the land of the elephant-headed Hindu god, Ganesh, elephants are regarded with a certain reverence; these elephants, at least, are treated decently and not overworked. Young ones keep close to their mothers, some trotting after them on the rhino-viewing rides.

It starts at five and six in the morning; when everything, including the distant Himalayas, are covered in mist. There are several tourist lodges and guesthouses in the area. I stayed at the Aranya, large and somewhat spartan. I awoke to the soft knock on the door and was served tea. Then I was driven to the outskirts of the preserve. Except for one British bird watcher I was the only non-Indian. .We waited around while the elephants, looking ghostly in the dim light, were saddled. Then we walked up the stairs onto a bare concrete viewing platform and climbed onto the elephant’s back. It felt like a very large horse - with a very primitive saddle.

From my perch high up on the SUV of the animal kingdom, I was high above the tall grasses and I could see the plains beyond. And then the heart-pounding first sight of the prehistoric-looking rhino. There he was, with his skin looking like droopy pieces of armour. We got so close that I could see his rheumy eyes and grumpy expression. Munching on the tall grass (rhinos are vegetarians), he didn’t seem to mind the elephants moving closer. Then we saw another rhino and another, a group of them chewing like cattle. And then out of the mist appeared wild buffalo, with their large horns in the shape of handlebar moustaches. There were deer, too. In this other-world, garden of Eden, all the animals seemed to co-exist peacefully. Even the humans were benign, silently aiming their digital cameras. (rest of the story on request).

INDIA: Shopping for Silk in Mumbai

2008-09-18T07:57:00.001-07:00

Appeared in The Globe and Mail

MUMBAI — If there's anything coherent about Mumbai, where poor shacks stand next to luxury high-rises and property values are higher than in Tokyo, it's the constant buying and selling that pulses through this chaotic metropolis of 15 million souls. The city formerly known as Bombay is the marketplace of India -- its jewelry, textiles, handicrafts, furniture and leather goods come from all over India and around the world.

What better way to experience the place, then, than to shop?

Besides, I had a mission: "Fabric wanted," said the e-mail from my sister in New York. She needed silk for curtains, and her colour sense was both exacting and daring. "I want diaphanous iridescent orange or blue with yellow or orange tinges," she wrote. "Should be high quality. For $50 or so you should be able to get almost 10 yards, which, if you mail it, won't be a hassle." In addition, she wanted a scarf: "a beautiful, long, floaty scarf with gold or silver threads -- main colour should be in orange or green."
Luckily for her, I was in the centre of the Indian silk universe. How hard could it be?

I avoided Mumbai's sprawling suburbs, which include both Bollywood studios and wretched slums, as well as a multitude of malls. The real Bombay, as far as I was concerned, is the oldest part of this island city, the southern part, the business and media, academic, cultural and government centre. This is where the British built their still-towering public buildings. Take the neo-Gothic railway station, still called the Victoria Terminus, but officially renamed Mumbai Chhatrapati Shivaji (or CST). Here, you have it all: the politically correct name change, the continuing use of the old, and the propensity for acronyms. Completed in 1887, it is adorned with turrets and buttresses, domes and spires, and carvings of gargoyles and monkeys. The post office and the town hall are also fine symbols of 19th-century colonial grandiosity.

I headed to the Colaba Causeway, where vendors line the streets and bargaining is the name of the game. From Indian blouses, known as kurtas, to costume jewelry, belts and sunglasses, this is the place to get good stuff for cheap prices. For a few dollars, I bought a black-beaded evening bag and blouse for a friend. But no silk.

A short walk from the chic Ambassador Hotel, where I was staying, is the Oberoi Centre, a cluster of boutiques adjacent to the Oberoi Hotel. The shiny granite and hushed air-conditioned halls are the antithesis of the noisy Colaba scene.

Who could have guessed that bargaining is also the norm here? I found this out as I was leaving the Farheen Collection store, and was asked by the salesman what I'd really like to pay for the fringed brown and beige silk-and-cashmere shawl I had tried on. I bought it for half the original price, then went to the nearby boutique of noted Indian designer Ritu Kumar. There were jewelled T-shirts, embroidered skirts -- a very local take on fashion.

But nowhere could I find the right silk. "What you want is just not here," I e-mailed my sister. Still, I had to keep searching.

The government-run Central Cottage Industries Emporium was supposed to be a good bet. It's a dimly lit place with rugs and carved wood, jewelry and brass -- and fabrics. There is no bargaining, and it's relatively expensive. But I was getting anxious. I bought my sister a scarf of buttery silk that I suspected was not quite right. It came with a lesson in public-sector bureaucracy. How many people does it take to sell you a scarf? Probably about four. One to help you choose it, one to write it up, one to take your cash, one to stamp the receipt and hand it over to you.

(complete article on request)

PARIS: Museums Feature the Art of Dining

2008-04-21T14:42:00.000-07:00

appeared in The Globe and Mail

by Jacqueline Swartz

When it comes to museums, Paris is experiencing a Great Reawakening, with one museum after another reopening after what seemed like ages of renovation. With the visual art has come the art of dining, whether it’s in a serious restaurant or a smart cafe. You can still get simple fare and sit unhassled over a coffee while you rest your weary feet; terraces lure you outside to meditate over stunning views. But the new eateries, both casual cafes and Michelin-star aspiring restaurants, present a certain awareness of their location in temples of art. Some of the restaurants have lives of their own and are open evenings, when the museum is closed.

It’s doubtful that most the media scenesters who dine and dance at the Café de l’Homme have ever been to the Musee de l’Homme. Its all about Anthropology and education while the Café is about celebrity watching and decor - dark wood Art Deco panelling, gold highlights, and glass beaded chandeliers that cascade down from two storey ceilings. No museum hours here - you can dine on sea bass tartare or chanterelle mushroom risotto and dance until 2am.

Musee du Quai Branly, home to 300,000 artifacts from the civilizations of Africa, Asia and the Americas, is the largest museum to open in Paris since Musee D’Orsay 20 years ago. Branly, as it’s called, is the megastar of both new museums and new eateries in Paris. From the summer day it opened its doors, the complex of buildings was immediately heralded for its design by architect Jean Nouvel, who also designed the restaurant, Les Ombres, down to its last plate. Described by the architect as the carapace of a tortoise, the sixth-floor rounded space is capped by a domed ceiling with ironwork that’s supposed to echo the Eiffel Tower beyond. The rest of the wraparound vista covers much of the inventory of Paris landmarks: the Arc de Triomph, Sacre Coeur, the Pantheon and Invalides.

The dark oak tables suggest a low key almost rustic atmosphere, but the food and service are haute cuisine with a contemporary, multicultural touch. Starters include lobster and leek en gelee, fresh sardines with spinach leaves stuffed with almond pesto; main courses include lemon grass flavoured mullet, calves sweetbreads with leeks and a bean ragout; desserts feature Mille Feuilles with Tahitian Vanilla on an apricot coulis. Parisians don’t even think of booking less than two weeks in advance at this, the hottest new restaurant in town.. Fortunately, there’s also a no-reservations ground floor cafe.

Across the river on the right bank is the redone Musée d'Art moderne de la Ville de Paris. It was built for the International Exhibition of l937, which may explain the building’s gargantuan size. The museum has major collections of works by Georges Rouault, Robert and Sonia Delaunay, Raoul Dufy, Marcel Gromaire and several monumental paintings including the Henri Matisse triptychs of La Danse (1931-33), and La Fée Electricité (1937) by Raoul Dufy.

Closed for two years, it reopened with a new café. You buy your food inside a cramped cafeteria, step outside, and voila, an oversized terrace invites you to sit and watch the changing weather around Eiffel Tower.

In the next building, which shares the same address, is the Palais de Tokyo, Paris’ answer to edgy: exposed concrete, contemporary installations , and a restaurant called Tokyo Eat that has attracted the art and fashion crowd since it opened in 2002, along with the reopening of the Palais de Tokyo. Not a sushi bar, Tokyo Eat serves French food with hints of Asian fusion. It’s best known for it’s decor - oversized coloured globes suspended from the ceiling, an open stainless steel kitchen, and tables decorated by some of the contemporary artists who have shown at the museum. “The food is better than the art”, sniffed one French newspaper.

Is there a newly opened museum café or restaurant without a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower? Yes, if it’s in a former railway station. At the Restaurant in the Musee D’Orsay, epi-center of the Impressionists, diners marvel at the ceiling frescoes of blue and pink cherubs.. Reopened after major improvements (the kitchen was redone, the walls re-gilted), the Belle Epoque grandeur now contrasts with new square stone tables and light-colored wooden chairs.

(complete article on request)

LUTETIA: the biography of an hotel (appeared in the Toronto Star)

2008-01-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

In France writer Pierre Assouline is a literary star. He has a weekly column in the daily paper, LeMonde where he also writes the most popular literary blog in France. He has published well received biographies (Cartier-Bresson, Simenon, Gaston Gallimard) and four novels. His best-selling novel, Lutetia, about the legendary left bank hotel, won the Prix Maisons de la Presse, last year.

But when he came to read from Lutetia at the Author's Festival (there was an English translation addition to the French), Assouline was a foreign language novelist whose book was not available in English.

That could change soon. When I met Assouline in Paris at the lobby/bar of theHotel Lutetia, where the entire novel takes place, he had just come from signing a contract - the book will soon be made into a motion picture in France.

It’s not hard to imagine it as a film. Narrated through the voice of a hotel detective, Lutetia begins in the l930's, when wealthy regulars would arrive with their trunks and stay for a month. Then the guest list turned sinister, as the Abwher, the Nazi counter intelligence unit, took over the palace on the left bank, as the hotel is called. In Paris most grand hotels were occupied, but after the war only the Lutetia was given the chance to cleanse itself - it was designated the main receiving station for concentration camp survivors, who received medical treatment, identity papers, food and clothing.

RESEARCH

Assouline had long wanted to write a novel about a grand hotel.

“It has everything - you eat and sleep there, you can shop, there’s a post office, a fitness centre, you can buy newspapers - it’s a whole world”, he said, sitting in a red plush chair, nattily attired in a suit with a silk pocket handkerchief.

“The book is really a biography of the hotel”, he explained.” But with a novel you can express things you can’t in a biography. With a novel you are free to describe the madness of an epoch, of people.”

Assouline was trying to decide which grand hotel he’d write about - the Ritz, the Crillion - when something clicked. “I stopped and thought, this is crazy, the hotel I know best, the one I go to the most because it is the rendez vous of French writers and publishers, artists and actors - it was there but I couldn’t see it. “

The Lutetia, the only grand hotel on the left bank, has long been a hangout for creative types. Hemmingway used to drink at the bar, Matisse and James Joyce slept there. As if on cue, Assouline pointed to a blond woman sitting at the other end of the lobby/bar.. “Do you know who is the actress Catherine Deneuve?”

He chose the war years because he has been obsessed with that troubled time from the age of l8, when his late father showed him books about the German Occupation. Volunteering from Algeria, he fought with the Free French in Italy, and the book is dedicated to him. His son went on to read for decades on the subject. “This is the synthesis of all my research into that time,” he said.

Assouline is archive-obsessed - even when he writes a novel that takes place in the present he researches every detail. “It’s a sport, a hobby,” he grinned, his large expressive eyes softening. For the first part of the book, he looked into vintage l930's Hermes luggage, and was delighted to find a book on the topic. He wanted to know grand hotels work, and was drawn to archives of various hotels because there was no book on the subject.

For the second part, the Nazi Occupation of the hotel, he researched not only the Abwehr, or counterintelligence unit that occupied the hotel; he located the concierge who was there at the time, who in turn gave him a precious gift, a memoire of l5 handwritten pages written by the then sommellier. It included the inventory of all wines in the cellar. Comparing the list before and after the war, Assouline discovered that the Germans drank mostly champagne. “All the wines in my book - the year, the cru - are all true, so when you read this book you drink real wine,” he added, chuckling. While he did create the moral dilemmas of the hotel staff forced to serve the Nazis ( “I have to be a novelist sometimes “), Assouline did not invent the oenophile’s act of resistance - the best wines were hidden behind a false wall.

It’s the third part of the book, the return of the skeletons, as he called them, that is the most anguished and that has drawn the most praise from readers. Assouline interviewed numerous survivors of the camps. They told him about people who insisted on wearing their stripped concentration camp garb, and about how the doctors treated them (some were extremely sensitive, others were visibly repulsed). “There are books on this period but I preferrred to listen to the people,” he said, “ to see the look in their eyes..their words still ring in my ears.” This is the first time in his life as a writer that he cried while writing. “When people write to me saying they were in tears while reading the book, I write back saying there were tears in my eyes while writing it”

The book includes some unexpectedly happy endings, like the staunch mother who arrived in front of the hotel, bragging about her 21 year old son, and insisting he would arrive soon. At that moment, the book recounts that 21 year old Georges Charpak, ex Dachau inmate, stepped off the bus. Almost fifty years later, in l992, Charpak won the Noble Prize in Physics.

The location of both joy and excruciating loss was the bulletin board, which had notes and photos of those who were missing. “It was there” - Assouline points to the corridor just beyond the lobby, where glass cases display jewelry and other luxury items. “There were happy families who were reunited and people who lost everyone - all of humanity was in this room”.

CORSICA, A HIDDEN TRAVEL TREASURE WRAPPED IN MISCONCEPTION (appeared in The Toronto SUN)

2007-12-30T07:46:00.000-08:00

“Corsica, that’s in Sicily, isn’t it?”

Not true, but my well-traveled friend’s mistake is typical. Few North Americans know much about Corsica and most have strong misconceptions about this Mediterranean island that is much closer to Sardinia than to Marseille. Corsica, first of all, is a part of France as much as Nice is. It is not a colony. Here are some other common misconceptions that I too - at least partly - shared until I visited the place.

1. It’s mostly mountains, and the coastline is rocky. It has dramatic vistas but nature here is austere.

Totally false. No Mediterranean island is as gorgeous, lush and varied. On the thousand kilometre coastline are secluded rocky coves and white sandy beaches with the most alluring colors of the Mediterranean - turquoise, cobalt and translucent emerald green.

Some of the best beaches are on the half hour drive from the Southern port of Bonifacio to the island’s ultra chic village of Porto Vecchio, a magnet for French movie stars. But people swim in the clear waters around ports like Ajaccio, the regional capital..

There are farms, orchards, citrus and olive groves, each producing essential parts of the robust local cuisine. There is a town named for chestnut trees, and their fruit is made into everything from flour to feed chestnut creme brulee. The early Greeks and Romans planted vineyards, and today there are Appellations Controllees and winetasting.

Magisterially towering above everything are the mountains - 100 km of them, with 117 peaks over 2,000 meters high. Just as astounding are the houses vertically implanted into the walls of mountains and hilltop villages that were once accessible only by donkey. The mountains come in striking varieties. Along the west coast are the Calenches, burnt orange coloured rocks that seem sculpted by a divine hand. You can see them close up because they impose themselves on each side of the narrow, winding roads. In the centre of the island, near Corte, the former capital, are pine forests, mountain lakes and rivers, along with waterfalls and natural gorges.

At the Hotel Colonna, facing the Restonica Gorge, rooms look out on the rushing river; at the restaurant next door, you eat local trout.

The island’s limestone and granite peaks have shaped the very soul of Corsicans. They lived in theses mountain fortresses for hundreds of years because it was too dangerous to live by the sea.

2. It’s a violent place, of bandits and separatist terrorists.

Bandits, no. Not even the pickpockets who prey on tourists in so many parts of Europe. Crime is very low. Separatism, which started in the l970's, is pretty much dead. What people want is a recognition of their culture and language. So why are bombs aimed at real estate offices that sell land to foreigners? The bomb throwers - no one knows who they are - send messages claiming their motive is to keep Corsica for the Corsicans, but most people say there’s more to it than that.. There is big money and mafia-style power grabs. Most of the time, the bombed property is empty of people, so there is no sense of fear of being hurt.

“There are rackets and protection money, yet we live in a laid back environment,”, says Tamara Antonini, a tour guide and singer of traditional Corsican music. “The old idealistic revolutionaries retired decades ago; now they’re involved in culture, things like teaching traditional songs, or the crafts movement”, she explains. We are sitting outdoors in a cliffside café in the tiny hilltop village of Pigna. Restored 30 years ago, it has become a center for musicians from around the Mediterranean. They come for the music festivals and some use the recording studio. Pigna is a showcase for Corsican culture, including the traditional polyphonic music, said to be linked to Gregorian Chants and Eastern Orthodox cantorial music. In this minuscule mountaintop village, with its stone steps and blue shutters, stores sell crafts and artisanal food products like olive oil and preserves. The place is a cultural reserve, just as half of the island is a protected nature reserve.

3. The people are stubborn and suspicious. Certainly, if you encounter only hotel clerks and waiters anywhere, you’re going to find some who are rude. But talk to the people, and you find wit and a certain sophistication. Many have traveled, especially to “le continent”, as they call mainland France.

“We are basically Mediterranean”, says Tamara Antonini. “We are not Italians but we feel close to them. We are an island with a complicated history”. No kidding. After being attacked by one regional power after another - the Romans, the Carthaginians, the Goths, then pulled into the Byzantine Empire, Corsica was raided by the Moors for hundreds of years. A five hundred year rule by the Genoese started in 1284 and continued until the island was given to the French in 1769, the very year Napoleon was born. In towns like Bonifacio and Bastia, the local bilingual tourist office will most likely point you to the citadel - many were built as protection from invaders. And along the coast, are a series of Genoese watch towers.

During WWII, the Corsicans fought bravely, and their island was the first part of France to be liberated from the Nazis.. The maquis, the tough but fragrant underbrush of broom, lavender and myrtle that covers half the island became the name for the French resistance.

Today, I wonder if perhaps the 750 years of French and Italian influence accounts for some of the innate style and good taste that I see everywhere. There’s the food - fresh fish and vegetables, prosciutto and other smoked ham products, goat and sheep cheese. It’s country cuisine that combines the best of French and Italian cooking. And there’s the way women dress - not so different from St. Tropez or Capri. Advised to bring only sensible clothes, I felt the need to spice up my suitcase with a little shopping. In the major towns of Ajaccio, Bastia and Porto Vecchio, I found wildly stylish Italian clothes and French boutiques, from Sonia Rykiel to Etam.

4. Most people speak Corsican, a form of Italian.
Not any more. The Corsican language was all but wiped out by the French government. In l991 the Frrance did an about face, and now Corsican is taught in the schools. Everyone speaks good French but there’s not a lot of English on the island; not surprisingly, most of the tourists are from France and Italy.

5. Napoleon is the favorite son. Yes and no. He’s the island’s superstar, its eternal claim to fame, and his home, which is now a museum, draws crowds of Bonaparte worshipers to the capital city, Ajaccio. But ask about the founding father of Corsica and you’re likely to hear the name Pasquale Paoli. Unlike Napoleon, who was happy to see Corsica become part of France, Paoli tried to liberate the island and give it a constitution. In l755, he made Corte the capital. Corsica fought successfully against Genoa until 1769, when it was defeated and handed over to the French. Paoli went into exile in London, where he received a pension from George III. In January of 1794, encouraged by Paoli, Britain, led by Lord Nelson attacked and occupied part of the island, but this lasted little more than a year.

There is one thing people say about Corsica that is very much the truth: driving means navigating a dizzying series of hairpin turns. It’s not that the roads are bad - it’s just that they curve and curve. Like elsewhere in Europe, you either pass or get passed. Still, it’s a small price to pay for an unspoiled Mediterranean island mostly undiscovered by North Americans.

HEALTH: SECOND HAND CAT (appeared in the Globe and Mail)

2007-12-29T15:01:00.000-08:00

“I got rid of the kids ‑ the cat was allergic”, reads the sign in the allergist’s office.

It’s a rueful reminder of the denial, verging on hostility, to cat‑caused sufferings ‑ the itchy eyes, sneezing , and even severe asthma that afflicts up to 40% of allergic people exposed to cats.

The public might be vigilant to the perils of second hand smoke, but when it comes to the victims of second hand cat, the attitude is one of indifference at best. “We get more and more calls from people allergic to cats,” notes Maxine Trusty, information counsellor at the Canadian Allergy and Asthma Information Association. Unfortunately, she adds, they get little sympathy or understanding.

“Some people seem to like their pets more than people”, she remarks. The allergic are often blamed for being anti‑cat, or not taken seriously. There is still some dark age thinking around that says the problem is all psychological.

When it comes to cat allergies, disinformation rules. One false notion is that somewhere, somehow, there is a cat that doesn’t cause allergy. No allergist would agree with this ‑ it’s not the hair but a protein in the saliva, tears, urine and the oil glands that adheres to dander (minute skin particles) and causes the symptoms.

Even a bald cat has the allergy‑triggering protein, but that didn’t stop the Toronto Humane Society from distributing a press release (later discontinued) from naming certain cats “suitable for mild allergy sufferers”. They also advised patients to “find an allergist who is supportive of your goal ‑ living with a pet despite your allergies”. Maybe smokers should seek respirologists supportive their goal of smoking.

Then there’s the totally erroneous notion that with enough exposure to kitty, the allergic victim will somehow become desensitized. The very opposite is true: when it comes to cat allergies, familiarity breeds worsening symptoms. At the cruelest extreme is the damage done to asthmatic children, up to 50% of whom are allergic to cats, whose parents nevertheless keep the animal.

“There’s no public awareness of the hazards of cat allergen”, Dr. Robert Wood, Associate Professor of Pediatrics at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.”

And yet the allergen (the substance that causes the symptoms) is everywhere. Wood was part of a Johns Hopkins University study that found cat allergen in schools, office buildings, even hospitals. The levels might be low, noted Dr. Wood, but, they add up. “People are being exposed every day to a great deal of allergen. This is one of the reasons our patients are staying sick and continuing to have high medication requirements.” Avoidance of the poison that triggers allergy is the main strategy for living with this chronic condition, he explains. Yet there is no escape for the person who works or studies in a sealed building near people with cat dander on their clothes, or the apartment dweller exposed to cat allergen through shared heating systems and carpeted hallways.

The true captives, though, are airline passengers. The space is sealed, the air recycled and there’s no escape. On some airlines, cats are welcome ‑ not just in the belly of the plane, but in the cabin, next to passengers.

(complete article on request)

FAIRMONT GOES FORWARD TO ITS PAST (appeared in The National Post Nov/2007)

2007-12-29T14:59:00.000-08:00

The most vivid memory I have of my senior prom is not the boy (it was a date of convenience) or the place (a downmarket hall for a blue collar high school). It's the post-prom party at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. This palace high atop Nob Hill was out of the question for teens who were not on the debutante track - much too expensive and intimidating ritzy. But there was one exception: the Tonga Room, every inch of it decorated in South Sea kitsch, from hanging coconuts to a floating band and intermittent rainstorms. Prom-goers still go to the dimly-lit restaurant bar, with its over-the-top decor. The oversized umbrella-covered fruit drinks can still pass for Mai Tais or something alcoholic, useful when the drinking age is 21.

Of course, the room, converted in l947 by MGM set designers, is a relatively new add-on (and oddity) to this grand hotel. The world's first Fairmont was built 40 years before, with money from James Fair's silver fortune. It, along with other Fairmont Hotels around the world, is winding up year-long 1907-2007 centennial celebrations to mark the occasion this year.

With unbeatably bad timing, the hotel was only two weeks away from opening when the l906 earthquake struck. Its sturdy Italian Renaissance- style exterior withstood the shock, but the fires (in many places worse than the earthquake) severely damaged the interiors. The controversial choice to oversee the renovations was Julia Morgan, the first woman architect in California, who later went on to design the Heart Castle.

Exactly one year after the earthquake, on April l8, l907, the Fairmont opened its doors, the first hotel in San Francisco to reopen after the earthquake. To celebrate the occasion fireworks illuminated City Hall, hundreds of ships clustered in the Bay and the hotel had an enormous banquet. San Francisco as well as the Fairmont had come back.

The fortunes and traditions of the city and the hotel have remained connected. The hotel, perched on one of the highest hills in the city, could not have been built without San Francisco's first cable car, which hauled building materials up the hill too steep for horses to climb.

Throughout the years the Fairmont was the location for debutante balls, Yehudi Menuhin's first violin concert, and the drafting of the United Nations Charter (hence the multiple flags flying outside the entrance). The first concierge in America, Tom Wolfe, has worked for the Fairmont for decades. The Venetian Room, once considered the best supper club on the West Coast, was where Tony Bennett left his heart;. Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole often played the room. Flamboyant owner Benjamin Swig not only hired black entertainers, a daring move the late l940's; he was one of the first to let them stay in a major hotel

The co-existence of high society and social conscience is typical of ths city of second acts, which cherishes its traditions and takes on adversity with stylish resilience. When the Loma Prieta Earthquake shook the city in l989, it traumatized citizens and scared away tourists. San Franciscans seized the moment, voting to demolish the damaged double-decker Embarcadero Freeway. The result was a new life for the neglected l898 Ferry Building, now a major foodie destination for locals as well as tourists.

San Francisco might be known for its iconoclasm and its next new thing, but this is a city that can be formal as well as freewheeling, often at the same time. It's a place where women wear a long gowns to opera galas, and where even in the l960's white gloves were de rigeur for downtown shopping in the city's elegant department stores. When the beloved I Magnins store was acquired by Macy's l996, its spacious marble powder room (considered the best in town) was preserved intact, right next to Macy's shiny new one.

The Fairmont, despite all the requisite high tech upgrades, is also preserving its past, even returning to it. During an $US 85 million restoration, decades of decor were peeled back to reveal murals and marble floors. In the mid-l940'ss, it had been redone with red carpets and black lacquer. The rakish decor made a splash in the post-war era, but by the l990's some were describing it as Gold Rush bordello. Thanks to an historically meticulous restoration, the lobby, with its marble floors, Corinthian columns, gold trim and velvet sofas, looks much the same as it did in l907. The adjacent Laurel Court, covered for decades, is once again serving high tea. Of course, the bread is sourdough and there is Sonoma goat cheese in the sandwiches.

The restoration team was helped by blueprints and century-old photos; some hang in the main corridor, next to photos of movie stars, European royalty and US Presidents (every president since William Howard Taft has stayed at the hotel).

Looking at the city from my room at the Fairmont, I see a panoramic view that scans the Golden Gate Bridge, Coit tower, the twin steeples of St. Peter and St Paul Church in North Beach, and mostly low rise buildings. Incredibly, this side of the city looks strikingly similar to the photos of SF in the early part of the century.

The Fairmont was bought and sold many times, and the last decade brought a Canadian connection. In l999, Canadian Pacific Limited acquired the hotel and it joined with such landmarks as the Chateau Laurier and Empress. The company sold the Fairmont a few years later. Now the company that manages the Fairmont and the one that owns it are both based in Toronto The name Fairmont now is plural, and includes 51 hotels in ten countries.

Yet for anyone who grew up in San Francisco, there is really only one Fairmont. Its bumper sticker might read, My Fairmont includes the Tonga Room. A few years ago, word got out that the Polynesian decor might be scrapped. San Franciscans spoke up, as they always do, and tradition won out. The Tonga Room stays the same. It's worth a toast, with a real Singapore Sling.

ANGUILLA - FANTASY ISLAND (appeared in NUVO Magazine)

2007-12-29T14:57:00.000-08:00

I stepped out of my hotel room onto a near-empty beach with eggshell-coloured sand. About twenty steps later, I was in the pristine, turquoise waters of Meads Bay, on the island of Anguilla. No rocks,no slimy seaweed, no dead things on the beach or inorganic matter like plastic bottles. Just soft white sand and embracing blue water, so translucent you can see the sand below.

Is this a Caribbean cliche, I wondered? Who cares, I thought, wading waist-high into the warm, glittering water: this is the beach of dreams.

The island, only 16 miles long and four miles at its widest, is reputed to have the best beaches in the Caribbean.

There are 33 of them, each one different. Some dock the boats of this sailing-crazed place; others lead scuba divers out to an l8th century sunken Spanish Galleon. There are beaches you can access only by boat.

But Mead’s Bay is beach at its purest and gentlest. Anguilla? Most people have not heard of this spit of land on the northern edge of the lesser Antilles, where the Caribbean Sea merges with the Atlantic Ocean.

They’re more likely to be familiar with its neighbours - the island of St.Maarten is only 25 minutes by ferry; an hour away by boat is the chic French island of St. Barts. These are where day trippers go shopping, because although Anguilla is decidedly upscale, shopping is not a big deal.

There are some tiny freestanding boutiques that sell bathing suits and sarongs; and in recent years, some wine stores have opened. There are galleries showing the work of local artists (www.anguillaart.com). But you don’t come here for malls or duty free emporia.

You do come for the rich and diverse marine life, which is conscientiously protected. One of the most impressive unbroken coral reef chains in the north-eastern Caribbean yields hard and soft corals, with bouquets reaching 20 feet.

As you would expect, there are lots of aquatic activities. Scuba divers can take resort courses, the more experienced can explore Anguilla’s seven intentionally sunken ships, each one completely covered in coral.

Snorklers can marvel at parrotfish and turtles in Shoal Bay East. You can see the fish from a glass-bottomed boat, go sailing or kayaking.

Bird watchers can train their binoculars at the snowy egrets, blue herons, red-legged stilts and pelicans and other sea birds.

Some people come to sit under a palm tree and read. For this is a place to let go of all anxiety, including worries about danger.

On this small but uncrowded island there is a sense of more than enough space and privacy. Yet you’re not fenced in, and the local population of fewer than 12,000 resourceful, amiable people, neither servile nor surly, are not fenced out.

They seem to know each others’ business, but they’ll give you a blank look if you ask where the celebrities are staying. Sara Jessica Parker, Robert DeNiro, Mariah Carey and Kevin Bacon come here regularly and rent villas at tens of thousands of dollars per week.

Others are drawn the island’s glamorous resorts, where sorbet is brought to you on the beach. Yet Anguilla’s upscale image obscures the fact that there are reasonably priced hotels and guest-houses. The state of the art spas are open to everyone, and the beaches are public.

The island is flat and arid, with an interior of hardy green scrub that is nothing to look at. Beauty, aside from the beaches, comes from the tropical blooms planted by human hands: Oleander, hibiscus, frangipani, mahogany trees, papaya and mango.

Then there ‘s the food, an artful French and West-Indian inspired fish-based cuisine. There are over 100 restaurants on this small island, from simple beach side bistros to grand dining rooms run by celebrated chefs, drop-outs from some of the world’s gastronomic capitals.

But what makes this island distinctive is also what it doesn’t have: a coastline crammed with hotels and people, all inclusive resorts, cruise ships and casinos, jet skis and topless sunbathing.

They were nixed by the government when Anguilla began its ET, era of tourism.

Before that, life was a hardscrabble attempt to make ends meet on this tiny limestone piece of land with its thin, barely fertile soil. There was fishing, boat building and a salt mill. Amazingly, as late as the l970's, there was no electricity or phones.

Thousands of people left, some to work temporarily on nearby islands, others for good. But there was one thing even the poorest Anguillan was likely to have: land.

At the Heritage Museum, a house with a half dozen rooms, Colville Petty OBE, the museum’s founder, will explain why. Petty, the island historian, will direct you to the exhibit on the slave era, which started in the l650's, when the British arrived to set up sugar plantations. They found the soil was far from ideal, and so slavery gradually faded away; by the time the British left in the l830's, most former slaves owned land.

The last room completes the chapter, with displays of newspapers and other mementoes devoted to what is reverentially called The Revolution. In l967, the proud Anguillans, fed up with the forced union with the British territories of St. Kitts and Nevis, an arrangement that yielded almost no funds, mounted a revolt.

Britain sent a warship to quell what they thought would be trouble - and were met with people waving the Union Jack. The island returned to the bosom of England, and is now a British Overseas Territory.

Fast forward to today. Super stylish, award-winning resorts, luxury villas designed by architects like Myron Goldfinger; skilled and inventive cuisine everywhere. Tasty’s, a casual cafe painted purple and green, looks like the kind of Caribbean eatery where everything is fried. What a surprise to taste chef Dale Carty’s curried snapper, lobster salad and, one morning for breakfast, eggs benedict with fresh mushrooms and the lightest hollandaise sauce on earth. This casual place seems to downplay Carty’s stratospheric credentials: working as a chef in Paris and Antibes in the Michelin-starred restaurants of his mentor, Michel Rostang, who fell in love with the island and took over the kitchen of its first upscale hotel, Malliouhana.

Building that hotel was the start of what hotelier and former tourist board director Alan Gumbs calls Fantasy Island. He was referring to the visionaries who poured millions into building some of the islands extraordinary luxury hotels.

"Building here had nothing to do with the reality of business”, Gumbs said dryly, looking out at the sea beneath his open air restaurant.

“In terms of a sound investment, it was a joke. People built here because they fell in love with the place.” Good thing the major players had already made their fortunes before they started following their bliss

(complete article on request)

www.go-anguilla.com www.dreamanguilla.com

AFRICA ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS (appeared in NUVO Magazine)

2007-11-15T13:26:00.001-08:00

It was night in the Botswana bush and everything seemed hyper real: the blackout sky was crammed full of stereophonically bright stars, and our open jeep swayed like a camel on the sand path that served as a road. The daytime palette of lion-colored savannah punctuated with acacia trees had morphed into a ghostly green, and the sounds gave eerie hints of invisible bird and animal life.

An elephant nonchalantly crossed in front of our jeep - was it real? To the left, we could make out hippos standing by a marshy pond. The dark bulky animals are much more dangerous than people think, our guide was telling us when we stumbled upon a jaw-dropping sight: lions, lots of them, sprawled out just ahead.

“It was touch and go for awhile,” I said a few days later, expansively recounting the event over a fine local Pinotage, a South African blend of Pinot Noir and Hermitage wines. .“All these lions were blocking our path; we couldn’t just shoo them away so we had to veer left, and we woke them from their sleep. There were branches in our way, and worse, there were the hippos. We had to fjord the river in the jeep....”

The lions were there all right, but they did little more than raise an eyebrow before going back to their snoring. (My deepest fear was of cat allergies - what if lions had dander) Fjording the river? My safari mates grinned at the tall tale. We were in the perfect place to tell safari stories - the brocade and chintz covered couches in the spacious lobby at the Mt. Nelson, Africa’s oldest and most renowned hotel. We had flown to Capetown after our safari in neighboring Botswana, where peace reigns and animals roam free.

Decades ago, we might have arrived at the hotel in pith helmets, high boots and shotguns. Add to that steamer trunks and valets, for this, after all, was the Orient Express.

It’s a company run by an epicure who made his fortune in shipping containers and who keeps collecting hotels, and other “experiences”. James Sherwood’s UK-based train collection includes the signature Orient Express trains, which he bought in l977. The Venice Simplon-Orient Express runs from London to Venice and from Paris to Istanbul, carrying passengers who take seriously the advice in the brochure that “you can never be overdressed on the Orient Express”......