My daughter Sasha on the bench

Dear Friends,

Having spent the first half of my life changing homes every two years, there was only one constant place in my world: Folly House, Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland. This was the house my parents bought in 1972 to allow their four daughters to escape the oppression of Algerian summers. This was the house in which we spent innocent summers surrounded by pastures, overlooking the Bandon River, sunbathing on the dry barn’s roof and listening to Billy Joel and The Eagles under the surprisingly hot Irish sun (when it appeared). This was also the house of my parents’ retirement after my father’s career in the US Information Service. Here we spent many a warm, cozy Christmas before peat fires in the cast iron fireplace, played board games on the great oak refectory table, and heard the mysterious sounds of the beloved Folly House ghost late into the night.

A Kinsale Institution: Max's

In 1998, we all said goodbye to Kinsale, Folly House was sold, and my parents settled in suburban Maryland to be within reach of their daughters’ care and comfort as life wore down their ageing bodies. Eleven years later, after both my parents had left this world, the four daugthers felt it time to return to Kinsale. Our mission: to commemorate our parents’ lives in the place they loved so much and to dedicate a park bench in their honor.

I had mixed feelings setting out for Kinsale–a place so familiar and yet so distant. I knew one can never go back, never relive the joys of the past. So I set out with measured expectations, keeping in check my hope that it would be, in fact, magical.

As my sisters and I gathered, with several children and one brave spouse, we marveled at the comfort of our fisherman’s cottages overlooking the harbor. We toasted our return as the yachts sailed in past the 17th-century forts guarding the town, we smiled at the delighted giggles of our children playing on the small zip line in the gardens below and we reveled in the familiarity of it all.

Our bench dedication took place in a blustery storm (“ah, sure, it will clear by this evening” had reassured several of our Irish friends when we tried to rethink our plan), where my sister Lisa and I stood with umbrellas, perched on the bench itself, attempting to deliver a commemorative address. The wind caught hold of us at one point and threatened to transport us, Mary-Poppins-like, across the Bandon River. The ceremony ended early and we all headed to the shelter of our cars and the reception at my parents’ good friends, the Doyles.

An evening of poetry readings and addresses followed, with memories being shared liberally of my parents’ joie de vivre, their unmatched hospitality, their devotion to friends and family, and their unfailing respect and love for each other.

The following days, we settled into Kinsale like longtime residents. We met for coffee with Irish friends, we went sailing on the harbor, we ran into people we knew in bakeries and pubs, we took the children into town for “99s” (soft serve creamy ice cream pierced by a Cadbury’s Flake), and we went for a stroll along the Salmon Walk to Summercove.

Yacht in front of Charles Fort

One day, sitting perched on a rock above James Fort overlooking both inner and outer harbors, my daughter Sasha remarked “this is so beautiful, Mommy.” I took in the dark blue sea, the sculpted apple-green grass dappled with wild flowers on the hills above us, the rustic grey stones of the fort, and the saturated Irish light and had to agree–yes, this is very beautiful.

In this moment, when my own child stated the obvious, I realized I had never fully appreciated the place of my childhood. I had taken it for granted and made Kinsale a backdrop, rather than a centerpiece.

I had fully expected to close the Kinsale chapter in my life through this one commemorative trip. Yet, I found that, through connecting with old friends, seeing the place through the untainted eyes of my own daughter, I had, in fact, opened a new chapter. Kinsale will always be a part of my fabric, and I now know that I can and want to weave new tales into this tapestry.

Our friend, Mareta Doyle, is chairman of the annual Kinsale Arts Week.  International and local artists of all kinds come to Kinsale to share their talent and enliven the town. This sounds like the perfect enticement to return to Kinsale in summers to come.

As my sisters and I prepared our departure, it became clear that we had come to the same conclusion: we will return–not to commemorate the past, but to make new memories and carry on a family tradition. And if you are ever passing through Kinsale, the “Gourmet Capital of Ireland,” stop by the park on your way out of town, by the “new” bridge, and settle yourself on the only bench there. Take in the beauty of the lush green grass, the wind-bent trees, the deep blue river, and lonely Ringrone tower in the distance. My parents will surely make you feel welcome.

Below is the latest blog from Kate Simpson, President of Academic Travel Abroad as seen on the Smithsonian Journeys blog page:

China: Understanding Etiquette

July 1st, 2009 by Kate Simpson

Kate Simpson is President of Academic Travel Abroad, where she began her career as a China Program Manager in 1998 after completing a degree in East Asian Studies from Yale and a post-graduate fellowship in Chinese literature. Kate loves to travel to hidden corners of the countries she loves most, like Haute Savoie in alpine France or the Ming villages near Huangshan in China. Click here for more on Kate.

A James Cox gilded birdcage clock in the Forbidden City's Hall of Clocks and Watches, Beijing. Photo: Flickr gruntzooki.

I always chuckle when I visit the Hall of Clocks and Watches in Beijing’s Forbidden City, which features gifts to Chinese emperors presented by foreign envoys. In Mandarin Chinese, the words “give a clock” (song zhong) can also mean “sending one to one’s end.” For this reason, traditionally, clocks and time pieces are not considered the best choices as gifts for Chinese friends. Diplomacy without language comprehension or an understanding of proper etiquette can pose challenges!

As a student of China, I loved using the Mandarin skills I had to navigate cultural differences with Chinese counterparts. However, language alone doesn’t always help. As with all cultures, body language, actions, and rituals convey more information than words alone. And when it comes to eating and drinking, the Chinese are emperors of protocol! Certainly, formal banquets are different from a casual meal with friends, but generally, here are some tips that help me keep my relations with the Chinese untainted by faux pas:

• At a banquet, hosts and guests have very clearly defined places at the (usually) round table. The host always sits in the seat facing the door. His or her guest of honor sits to his or her left. To the host’s right, the next important guest is seated (or the interpreter if there is a need).

• If toasts begin, make sure to lift your glass so that it touches below the rim of the person’s with whom you are toasting. This is a sign of respect.

• If you have had enough to drink and your hosts are insisting on another “gan bei” (dry your glass: a shot), say the two words “sui yi” (as you wish) and take a modest sip. This is usually something women can get away with more easily than men and it indicates that they respectfully decline to down their glass.

• Always leave something on your plate to indicate you have plenty to eat. Make it clear that you consider the meal very ample. This gives your host “face.”

• If the dinner is not a banquet, when the bill comes, it is customary to fight noisily over it with the other party, and let the party who did not pay for your last meal together pick up the tab eventually. But you need to put on a good show of it! This play-acting takes place regularly in Chinese restaurants across the world. You’ll know it’s your turn after the next meal—and fight.

• When your guest leaves the banquet hall or restaurant, the host should walk them out to the door, often repeating “man zou, man zou” (go slowly).

Many of the more traditional protocols are fading with China’s more relaxed approach to relations with foreigners. However, erring on the side of formality is never a problem in a country whose pride in its heritage and traditions runs deep.

Now that you know, try these tips for yourself. Click here for travel to China.

Dear Friends,

St.-Cirq-Lapopie: The Ideal or Authentic French Village?

On a recent trip to the southwest of France exploring the culinary delights of foie gras, truffles, duck and walnuts, a question kept occurring to me: what can be described as “authentic”?  Is a truffle farm authentic because its owners hunt for its precious fungi in a traditional way passed on for generations and does it lose that authenticity if science and technology allow a more efficient cultivation for commercial ends?  Is a walnut oil mill’s authenticity in question if the owners establish a restaurant to accommodate visitors curious about the mill’s production process and anxious to sample some dishes the walnut flavors so delicately?

In Merrion Webster’s, the definition of authentic is genuine, bona fide. In other words, what is described as authentic is actually and exactly what it claims to be. The designation of “authentic” implies the subject is fully trustworthy and presents itself truthfully.  Authenticity means the actual character of something is not counterfeited, imitated, or adulterated in any way.

So when one imagines an authentic farm, is one that belongs to the 21^st century with all its technological advantages less authentic than one that has lingered in the 20^th century?  Both are representing themselves truthfully, and are not counterfeits of the farm concept. With a successful restaurant added to its services, has our romantic image of a walnut oil mill been tainted, leaving us doubting its authenticity?  By definition, only if the farm or mill pretend to be something they are not do they lack authenticity.

I believe that, as we travel, we yearn for the nostalgia of yesteryear and the romance of simpler times.  When we encounter a magical place that meets these romantic expectations, we are thrilled and feel we have come in contact with authentic culture.  And sometimes we have. Yet, it is when the image in our mind’s eye is challenged by modern reality that we truly learn about the world, about its diversity of culture, about what the future may hold. 

 I welcome a dialogue on this subject, as ATA’s commitment to cultural, educational travel is tied to our ability to seek out and explore authentic experiences—whether they conform to travelers’ established preconceptions or not.  We want to share the world as it is, not as we expect it or imagine it to be.

 Kate Simpson

Dear Friends,

 

It seems like an eternity ago when I was a young China program manager for ATA and spent my time running tours with titles like “Decorative Arts of China,” “To The Edges of the Empire,” and “History through the Dynasties.”  That was back in the 1980s, before Tiananmen Square took place.

 

Two years went by and ATA had no China tour business whatsoever.  Americans felt strongly about what had happened on June 4, 1989, and expressed their outrage by turning their travel interests elsewhere.  Then slowly, travel to China began again, and soon, Li Peng announced in 1992 at the National People’s Congress that the Chinese government was going to build the largest hydroelectric dam in the world on the Yangtze River.

 

It didn’t take long for the China National Tourism Office to apply this news to a brilliant new marketing campaign: “Come to China and see the Three Gorges before they disappear!”  Few promotions indicated that the project would not be completed until 2009—a mere 17 years later.  The buzz spread like wildfire—cruising the Yangtze River before the landscape changed forever became a top priority for Americans traveling to China.  In fact, this keen interest eclipsed all other destinations within China.  The Yangtze River sucked most American tourists away from many of the traditional cities and towns, and took them up and down the roiling waters between Chongqing and Yichang.  No more visits to Qufu, Confucius’ home town; to Jingdezhen, where the kilns of ancient dynasties produced so many ceramic masterpieces; to Huangshan’s misty peaks and the surrounding Ming Dynasty villages; to Kunming and its lush tropical climate and rice paddy fields; to Kashgar and its intriguing history at the crossroads of the Silk Road; to Xishuangbanna and its colorful Water-Splashing Festival, and even to Hong Kong, whose glamor unjustifiably diminished after 1997.

 

So here we are: it’s 2009 and the Three Gorges Dam is essentially completed (2011 is when it is expected to be fully operational).  The water level has risen to its maximum anticipated level of 175 meters above sea level (574 feet).  Goddess Peak in Wu Gorge now stands less lofty; some Ba hanging coffins (believed to be 2500 years old) are now submerged; the reservoir is full; the roiling, muddy waters have calmed; and the Yangtze River sturgeon continues to fight for its life.  The river is still a fascinating place and shall remain so throughout time. But I think it’s time for a change…

 

Without diminishing the interest the Yangtze River holds, I urge American travelers to venture off the beaten path of the past 17 years and explore the rest of this magnificent country!  There are wonders to behold in China that have long been neglected by our compatriots.  Go, discover a China beyond the Yangtze.

Dear Friends,

Reading the daily news has become an increasingly depressing exercise of late. We, in the travel industry, have our fair share of woes, as discretionary spending slows, retirement funds are halved, and consumer confidence wavers.  So it was a surprise and comfort to me when I attended a meeting in Savannah last week and discovered that the outlook is not doom and gloom in all parts of this nation or world.

Last week, the National Tour Association Leadership team, comprised of tour operators, convention and visitor bureaus, hotels, tourism sites, and travel suppliers met in Savannah. As a member of the NTA’s Leadership team for the past three years, I was delighted to reconnect with some old friends and hear their news.

There’s Luca from Italy who reports Italians are used to a slow economy and he is still selling high-priced trips to affluent compatriots.  David from Ireland tells of large European choral and agricultural groups still going strong.  Student tour operators, who recently met in Colorado Springs, seem to agree that numbers are not dropping for 2009. (Parents continue to make their offspring a priority!)  Midwestern U.S. tour operators credit the fiscal conservatism of their demographic for a steady influx of business.

The energy and enthusiasm that pervades the travel industry was as present as ever in this group–whether wandering the streets of Savannah in search of pirate treasure (!) or sharing ideas in small group or plenary meetings. An outside observer would never doubt that we all love what we do and put our hearts into every endeavor.

It is this positive spirit and passion for travel that will see us all through yet another challenging period in our industry’s history. The human spirit loves to explore, connect and experience new sights and sensations. And we–tour operators, hotels, CVBs, DMOs, and travel suppliers–stand ready and able to fulfill that undeniable human urge–now and well into the future.

Dear Friends,

We share in the grief and sadness that has gripped India and the world in the aftermath of the monstrous attacks in Mumbai that began on the eve of our Thanksgiving.  I cannot conceive of a more cowardly act than attacking and killing unarmed, innocent human beings.

Given the location of the attacks, in Mumbai’s financial districts and leading hotels, it is assumed that the terrorists’ goal was to undermine and weaken India’s economy.  The nation earns most of its foreign exchange from U.S., U.K. and European visitors. Now analysts predict India will lose as much as 40% of its annual tourism revenue–up to 20% due to the global economic slowdown compounded another 20% by the recent attacks.  And this all at a time when India’s tourism was expected to experience rapid growth between 2007 and 2011.

Unfortunately, we at Academic Travel Abroad have too often over the past decade been asked by travelers to cancel their participation to a given destination in the aftermath of an attack.  We completely understand and validate their fears and decision. Yet, more often than not, those who proceed with their plans end up experiencing a very grateful and welcoming destination and people–at a time when foreign friends’ support is more needed than ever.

Taking a trip to a place that has been through a recent trauma is an intensely personal decision which involves many considerations, including risk assessment based on the facts available.  For example, we generally discourage travel to destinations where the U.S. Department of State has issued a Travel Warning, though we do feel some Warnings are very politically motivated and inconsistently applied. 

In India’s case, our Department of State issued a Travel Alert today. This is described on the official website as designed ”to disseminate information about short-term conditions, generally within a particular country, that pose imminent risks to the security of U.S. citizens. Natural disasters, terrorist attacks, coups, anniversaries of terrorist events, election-related demonstrations or violence, and high-profile events such as international conferences or regional sports events are examples of conditions that might generate a Travel Alert. “  This does not warrant the same caution as a Travel Warning when Americans are actively discouraged from traveling to the country in question.  These Warnings are “issued to describe long-term, protracted conditions that make a country dangerous or unstable. A Travel Warning is also issued when the U.S. Government’s ability to assist American citizens is constrained due to the closure of an embassy or consulate or because of a drawdown of its staff.”

The Mumbai attacks have hit at the worst possible time for India’s peak tourism season that runs from October through February.  For those of you who had planned a visit to India in January and February, I would recommend caution and careful study of the news, particularly the India-Pakistan relations front, but would hesitate to cancel right away.  With increased security across major cities and airports in India, it is likely that travel to India is safer than it was a month ago. So barring any further violence erupting in cities on your itinerary, and heeding the State Department’s advice, proceed with your India travel and remain vigilant.  And discover a culture like no other in all its splendor and diversity.

As Lalia Rach, dean of the Tisch Center for Hospitality, Tourism and Sports Management at New York University, was recently quoted as saying:  ”… if we were held captive by the possibility of terrorism, Americans wouldn’t be flocking to D.C. for the presidential inauguration. We know we have to go on with our lives.”

Kate Simpson

Academic Travel Abroad

Men contemplate Kasbah of Ait Benhaddou

Dear Friends,

Not long ago, my three sisters and I gathered around my mother’s bedside and held her hands as her life slowly slipped away. Here was a Nevada woman who had headed out in 1950, single and in search of adventure, to Vietnam, at the time a French colony. There she met my father and there began a lifetime of travel and cultural discovery that traversed the world, including stays in Nigeria, France, Algeria, Australia, and Ireland. Fittingly, that life ended in the city of Washington, D.C., the perfect resting place for a lifelong expatriate.

Days after saying a final goodbye to my mother, I headed out on a research trip to Morocco, accompanied by my very good friend and colleague, Sarah Erdman of National Geographic Expeditions. I admit I had misgivings about picking up and leaving at a time when a gaping hole had suddenly developed in my heart. Yet my instincts told me that it was the right thing to do. I soon discovered that, for me, travel proved to be the perfect antidote to grief.

Traditional bride or groom carrier.

 

There is no doubt that lingering in places that have sharp associations with the loved one you have lost can cause pain. I found that a change of scenery was beneficial—a clean slate that allowed me to build new memories: a busy souq in Marrakech, a donkey cart hauling Coca Cola, the rose-colored sand castles of Ait Benhaddou Kasbah, and the dappled night light of a lantern on a table strewn with rose petals…

Certainly, there is always time to return to places that evoke the memory of a lost family member, but immediately after the intense pain and haunting images of life’s end, there is comfort in seeing a new world.

I am not sure any of us truly rid ourselves of the child’s eternal question: “Why do we have to die?” I had answered this question many times in the month leading up to my mother’s departure. My daughter was persistent. So the discourse on the “cycle of life,” “you can’t have light without dark, life without death, sun without shade” had been rolled out and pondered at length. Observing life in a new and exotic location provides the perspective on humanity that comforts rather than disturbs, that validates and celebrates this cycle in a way that is reassuring.

Whether watching an old man performing ablutions at a mosque, a young father tickling his daughter in an olive shop, young boys playing a vigorous game of soccer in the alleys of a medina, or a white-bearded Berber heading to market on his mule—youth and old age commingle and enrich the world.

In front of Ait Benhaddou Kasbah

Nature anywhere can provide solace to broken hearts, to grieving souls. On this trip, we dismounted camels in a sea of dunes before the sun rose one day, and each of us claimed a dune-top for contemplation. Somehow the purity of this landscape brought me closer to my mother than I had been since her death. I felt a transcendence lift my spirits.

Finally, I believe travel is a life-affirming pursuit. It intensifies and enhances the most mundane. And to truly commemorate a loved one who has passed, one must live—and live passionately. Make the dead live anew, not just through old memories but through new ones you forge–moving forward.

To see my slideshow on Facebook of my tour through Morocco, CLICK HERE.

Dear Friends,

When I think back on the success of our family vacation this summer, I realize that there are key elements that contributed to our enjoyment. I wanted to share these with you:

1. My Children’s Ages

We’ve traveled to Europe many times before with Nick and Sasha. This time, at ages 10 and 14, their stamina, their sense of adventure, and their flexibility made it more relaxed and enjoyable.

Outside a mini glacier on La Tournette

2. A Variety of Activities

Let’s face it, in this day and age, neither adults nor children have long attention spans. Making sure to plan days that include both active and cultural outings helps keep everyone engaged. A museum in the morning (when everyone is fresh) and an afternoon of sailing, for example. In our case, we went to the Chateau Musee d’Annecy and then rented a sailing boat on the lovely lake that afternoon.

3. A Home Base–with good meals and a pool!

Moving around from hotel to hotel and spending long hours driving or traveling between points is not recommended on a family vacation. There is a reason why European families often return every summer to the same hotel. Settling in to one hotel for multiple days (in our case, five) allows the family to feel a part of the place, to get to know the hotel staff, to return after a long day with a sense of home. Even better, book yourselves in “demi-pension” (half-board), withbreakfast and either lunch or dinner included. Given our daily schedule, we opted for dinner. The children love the certainty of a full meal, with dessert, every night. Furthermore, it relieves the stress of finding an appropriate, good restauarant every night-one that your children will agree upon unanimously, especially.

Our Hotel Pool, Les Grillons, Talloires

A pool during the summer makes your home base even more appealing. On some days, when my daughter was dragging a little, I would hold out the promise of a swim before dinner as a reward for her perseverance. This carrot usually had the desired effect!

4. Experiential Activities

Whether cultural or active, the kinds of activities to plan for a family vacation must be interactive and engaging. This is, of course, fairly easy with active options like hiking, riding horses, kayaking, and zip-lining. When choosing a museum, for example, seek out any special visit days that involve more creativity in the presentation. On our trip, I waited for a weekend day to take the family to Chateau Menthon St Bernard (http://www.chateau-de-menthon.com/) because they featured a costumed tour done by actors who portray the various family members (including 11th-century St. Bernard himself) and introduce each room in the Chateau. The actors spoke French, and I am lucky my children are bi-lingual, so the experience ended up being doubly educational for them. They even translated for their father at times!

5. Flexibility

Any time you travel as a group, it’s important to gauge members’ energy and interest level, and remain flexible on timing and the order of activities. The first day we arrived, I reviewed the various options we had before us and had each member of the family state their priorities. It became clear that we wanted to: hike, paraglide, sail, see Annecy, take a cruise on the lake, swim, ride horses and do a forest parcourse. We managed to fit it all in, except for the paragliding (which my husband decided, after the 2300-meter hike, he’d have difficulty jumping off a cliff).

Ready for some zip-lining!

Though I know France and this region fairly well, I did feel that I missed having the more in-depth educational input in places like the cheese farm, the Chateau Museum of Annecy and elsewhere–context that we provide to our groups on our travel programs. And certainly, having someone else do the planning for such a trip would have been a wonderful relief. In short, even with my insider’s knowledge of travel planning, the value of an organized family program was not lost on me!

Dear Friends,

A week after our Ste. Victoire adventure, I was fortunate to bring my children and husband to another favorite peak of my past–La Tournette, in Haute Savoie, France.

I had discovered this corner of France 15 years earlier when David Parry, ATA’s chairman, and I conducted R+D for a hiking tour I had designed for the Smithsonian. Few foreign travelers visiting France head to this region, nestled below Lake Geneva. Few French who are not Savoyard venture into Savoie. (My sister, who has lived in Provence most of her life, has never been nor even considered it!)

Talloires Bay

And yet there lies this turquoise jewel of a lake, the Lac d’Annecy, touted as the cleanest in Europe, set amid ridges and peaks, high verdant pastures, and ringed by inviting towns like Annecy, Talloires, Duingt, Menthon St Bernard, and more. The tableau created by this Tahitian-blue lake, its mountains and low lying, fast-moving cotton clouds evokes the South Pacific, not the Alps.

Turning our attention to La Tournette (or, as my son dubbed it, after our expedition–the “Never Retournette”), I did little to prepare my husband and two children for the rigors of the hike, knowing that the rewards would be great and seeing little value in discouraging them beforehand. A locally produced hiking guide rated it “pour randonneurs experimentes” (for experienced hikers) and my troops had only done Sainte Victoire. I am a firm believer in pushing the limits of what one thinks one can do. So all I said was, “This is a great 6-hour hike–you’ll all love it!”

La Tournette is a peak on the east side of the Lac d’Annecy, sitting high above the gorgeous lake. Towards the center of the peak, a rocky outcropping takes the form of a giant armchair (“le fauteuil”)–that is our lofty 2,300-meter goal.

View of La Tournette

After a winding drive up from Talloires, we reach the Col de la Forclaz, one of the main launch points for the avid paragliders that fill the skies above the peaks and the lake. Not far from here, we take a sharp left on to small country road and pass a chalet restaurant. Some hardy hikers disembark their cars here, adding another 40 minutes to their hike. I assure my crew that I am sparing them the extra steps and hit the dirt road that leads onward in our awful rental (a Citroen Picasso) to bump our way up the mountain to the Chalet de l’Aulps.

The Chalet is a cheese farm cum restaurant/bar on a piece of land that brings memories of the Sound of Music rushing to the fore. Walking past the barns, cheese-making rooms, restaurant and terrace, you find yourself standing in a green open pasture that juts out like the bow of a ship over the valley below. To the north are the Dents de Lanfon, jagged stone teeth that form a surreal frame to this idyllic scene. To the south are sloping fields full of wildflowers and moseying cows whose imposing bells resonate with a pleasing cacophony across the landscape.

I can tell from my children’s faces that they are already impressed. My son Nick was the first to walk out as far he could to the edge to view the scene below. He notes how high we are, and I refrain from pointing out how much higher we have to go.

We watch a group of fellow hikers start up the path. They have brought their silky-haired dog with them, and he lunges ahead with an ease that would make any human jealous.

Our turn: we begin our ascent. It’s 9:45am. The morning and altitude bring us cool, sweet air. Perfect weather for a hike. The path is a trench dug out of the pasture, with thick tufts of grass lining both sides and occasionally forming islands in the middle. The pitch is steep and the path is straight. We can see the hikers in front of us disappearing as they make seemingly easy progress upward.

After an hour and a half, the path has changed, and we have begun to climb wide, dirt paths filled with loose rocks that make us skid downward every once in a while. After a few long switchbacks, we come around a corner to behold a surreal landscape. A small valley is home to the Refuge de la Tournette where hikers can enjoy a refreshing “panache” (sparkling lemonade and beer) while taking in glorious views. Behind it lies a scattering of huge, truck-size boulders strewn across a meadow where some goats bleat in the distance. As a backdrop, an imposing wall of sheer cliffs isolate the scene, making it look eerily like a stage set. As we wind our way down and through this secluded vale at a happy pace, we note a large patch of white.

Nick & Sasha in mini-glacier

My children speed up–snow in summer! Their delight doubles when they discover it’s a mini-glacier that one can actually enter as a cave. The refrigerator effect on the inside is a hit after our climb, and the oddly shaped roof (as if a giant melon baller had scooped out chunks) makes the experience particulalry “awesome,” in the words of my daughter.

The hike continues, and the vistas and altitude do not fail to stun each one of us. The terrain becomes a little tricky in parts: narrow, rocky paths with sheer drops to the right; a huge steep slope of slushy, slippery snow that makes it hard to avoid hurtling downward; some rock climbing portions where loose stones pose a threat to those following too closely and more.

I knew we may be in jeopardy of not making it to the top when my daughter, who is a hearty soul, started trembling and shielding her eyes with her hand on the drop side of the mountain. Finally, she uttered shakily “I think I am going to die,” bringing our progress to a halt.

We took a rest, assuring her we could turn down. She looked to her father for guidance. He smiled and said encouragingly “I think we can do it, Sasha.” That’s all she needed. Up she got and onward we went.

Sasha's close-up of a chamois

Soon we were in chamoix country–where delightful mountain goats prance gracefully across vertical slopes and rocky voids. This is their territory, but they share it willingly, coming rather close to hikers. We picked a spot surrounded by the chamois in a field of “trolles d’Europe” (golden globe like wildflowers) for a picnic of jambon beurre sandwiches.

Looking up from our picnic site, my son Nick noted how unattainably high and far the “armchair” seemed. I reassured him that the hike really became fun now…

Sure enough, we embarked on a hike dominated by basic rock climbing, aided by chains and ladders nailed into the rock. The variety of challenges made this more of a game, so we all tapped into new energy and pushed upward.

Along the way, a hearty French “montagnard” descending the mountain stopped to address my daughter. He said he was proud of her for attempting the climb and spoke of the rewards ahead–the views of the Aravis chain, of Mont Blanc and even of Lake Geneva in the distance. Sasha smiled politely but clearly wanted to move on.

Finally, we reach the last leg of the journey–the base of the armchair. The children are delighted they’ve made it. We skirt a bank of snow and ice and some boulders and find ourselves in front of the final ladders. My daughter is reading one of three plaques on the back side of the gargantuan boulder that forms the “armchair.” Her eyes widen. She turns to me with a swish of her red-haired pony tail: “Mommy, someone DIED here?!” Well, yes, I confirm, “but they came here in March, which is really not smart.” Sasha points to the other plaque–”That person died in July!” Touche. I re-direct her and the gang to the ladders.

Up we go, and within minutes we are standing at 2300 meters, sitting in the grandest armchair of our lives. We head toward the cross and have to excuse ourselves as we pass across the picnic spread set out by a family with three children (there is limited room on this high armchair).. Stuart whispers to me “Did you notice–they roped their kids together?!” I shrug the comment off.  I pointed out there had been a couple of young children coming down the mountain who were not attached to their parents.

View of Lac d'Annecy from atop La Tournette

We breathed in the fresh air, soaked in the tininess of our once-extensive lake of Annecy, observed the insanity of the para-gliders filling the afternoon skies, and captured the majesty of Mont Blanc on our digital camera. We basked in our accomplishment.

The descent was speedy–a little too speedy at times, as scree created a conveyor belt of pebbles that carried us down several feet at a time. But euphoria had set in after five hours, and we felt like flying! So we did.

Only once did my heart stop, as I led the pack down and heard Sasha scream “Mommy!” behind me. I could hear the movement of rock and turned, fulling expecting a boulder to be coming my way. I felt something brush past my hair and looked upward to catch glimpse of a hoof. I had startled a chamoix who had been sleeping on a ledge to my left. He’d bolted up and over me, barely missing my head, and had landed on an outcropping to our right. He was trembling with fear and immediatley proceeded to empty his bowels, much to the delight of my son who announced I had scared the poop out of the poor creature.

We returned to the Reblochon cheese farm at the base of La Tournette and bought ice cream to reward our efforts and celebrate the day. As we passed the display of massive decorative cow bells on their studded leather belts, my husband resolved to possess one as a trophy for our ascent to la Tournette’s grand armchair.

Victoire!

Dear Friends,

As many of you know, I was born in Marseille, France, and many of my childhood summers were spent enjoying Provence, with family and friends, from perches in cherry trees overlooking vineyards, swimming in the turquoise waters of Cassis’ calanques or picknicking in the dappled shade of the plane trees at Le Tholonet.

When I return to Provence now, as a mother, my mission is to share my affection for this place with my children and hope they will fall in love in turn. When my son Nicholas was 7, we made our first attempt to climb Provence’s peak of Cezanne renown–Montagne Ste Victoire–from the south side, early one morning. It was not to be, as poor Nick’s little legs were not up to the challenge and the scree soon sent him sliding down several feet in a cloud of gravely dust. Another time, I said, wiping away the blood from his scraped knees and the tears from his reddened cheeks.

That time finally came last week– after 7 years of anticipation. We have tried three times since the first over the years, but have been thwarted by weather or threat of forest fires, when the park service closes down the whole mountain.

We set out from Vauvenargues, a peaceful hamlet folded into a valleyside and dominated by Picasso’s castle and its extensive lands. We numbered six: my two children (Nick and Sasha), my husband Stuart, my French nephew Cedric, his father Didier and myself.

The trail was called Chemin des Venturiers and is classified as “easy.”  When we had trouble finding it at first, we interrupted the gardening of a lovely elderly lady in a sun hat and shell necklace to ask for directions. In her lilting Provencal accent, she assured us we were very lost and redirected us, informing us warmly that the hike takes only an hour and a half to the top and “you’ll be protected by the shade of the pine trees most of the way.” Lovely!

The merciful shade was short-lived. As we started to ascend, we noticed tracks of forest cleared, evidently for fire management purposes. The smell of hot pinewood perfumed the area, and our temperature rose as we passed through.

The trail was wide (5 to 10 feet) and for the first hour presents a substantial pitch, made all the more challenging by loose gravel and large stones. In three or four places, the slope is actually paved with rough concrete, marking particularly steep areas where ascent (and descent) was perhaps deemed too tricky if one’s footing was not on firmer ground.

The heat was dry and unforgiving. We stopped frequently to rehydrate and catch our breath. Those pines provided only partial shade on such a wide path. The smells of Provence sweetened the air–the pines mixed with rosemary, thyme, yellow broom, thistles, and a few hardy red poppies.

Three quarters of the way up, we lost two of our party. Stuart had broken his toe the day before playing soccer with his nephew and his discomfort had soared, and Didier may have been having bad memories of his time in French military service when a long hike without enough water cost him a kidney. Or he was simply showing solidarity to my injured husband. They decided to wait for us to return.

I gave the rest of the party the option to summit or remain, and was delighted to have all children vote to proceed without hesitation. En avant tous!

Twenty minutes more of a steep ascent on gravelly wide paths, now and then with the pines parting to reveal sweeping views of Vauvenargues and the ridge on its north side. Then a change of pace–the path widens to a clearing with a bench (where someone has written “2 heures de marche!” as if in warning that the widely held claim of an hour and a half is not accurate).

From here we step up into a narrow path through brush and white rocks. The children quicken their pace. Sasha’s spindly legs fly ahead: she’s giddy with the relative ease of the new path. We spy the cross atop Ste Victoire. It seems far and high-but within reach somehow.

Soon we are on easy switchbacks up the mountain, clear from obstruction, with views that make even monosyllabic Nick, a normal teenage boy, stop, stare, and utter quietly “wow.” To the west now we can see the Barrage de Bimont, a large reservoir that serves the area–baby blue water in a parched landscape.

Back and forth across the mountainside we go, gauging our progress by the increasing size of the cross above us. Nick takes shortcuts, scrambling and jumping ahead of Cedric, then Sasha.

We arrive at the old priory, where an ancient olive tree grove casts welcome shade over its stone cool entrance. The place is closed and a hardhat area and piles of stone tell a tale of renovation in progress. Another group of three (French) hikers is resting and sharing some bread and saucisson. They compliment us on our pace–it’s true, we had hit a second wind on those open-air switchbacks! They haven’t been to the cross yet-they tell us they are “restauring” themselves first, as the French say, revealing the origin of the word “restaurant.”

I check in on my young hikers–we have to pace ourselves on water. We are running low. They all vote for not stopping. They want to reach the cross before any “restauration” takes place. Off we go!

Around the priory, the hike becomes a rock scramble. Again, rather than discouraging the troops, we’re invigorated by the challenge and what lies ahead. Large white rocks provide uneven, unintentional “pele mele” high steps to the top platform and its prize: the cross of Sainte Victoire.

Nick is the first to reach it and throws his arms up in victory, singing the “Rocky” theme song, as the wind whips up the sheer rock of the south side and buffets his hair. Sasha gazes in awe over the landscape around us, staying safely away from the precipice. Surprisingly, we have cell phone reception (which we hadn’t for most of the way), and Cedric makes a call to his father and hour away beneath us to pronounce the mission accomplished.

The victory of Sainte Victoire is particularly sweet to me. The mountain has long been a familiar, yet distant, vision in my life, resurrected every time I stood before a Cezanne painting. Now I feel a certain intimacy with this massive rock, a closeness that was not there before. Most importantly, I have shared her beauty, her colors, and her smells with my children. This time we leave France with a little Provence in our pockets.

Kate Simpson
President
Academic Travel Abroad