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Camping Europe in an RV
The Milavsky RV Letters
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Camping Europe in an RV |
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Hello again. We are aware of what is happening in the U.S. through the BBC
World News Network. The coverage of he disaster in New Orleans is always
one of the top stories of the day. We and the rest of the world have heard
about Katrina, the terrible damage "she" caused, the mounting
but as yet unknown number of deaths, and the poor performance by the
American authorities in alleviating this suffering. As we wrote this, we had begun an adventure. We were looking
for a way to get to that part of the coast that is called Cinque Terre. In
our English camping guidebook, there was a listing for a private person
who rents space to four or five motorvans at a time. We have liked these
kinds of places, so we decided to try this one. Getting there was a story.
We came up on the autostrada, got off at the correct exit, found the
marker on the main street where our instructions said you should turn, and
found ourselves in tiny streets going up the mountain. After a long ride,
we decided to ask for directions at a bar. The young man spoke no English
but he made us a tiny map. Even with this, it was a frightening trip!
First of all we could hardly believe that we could drive on these roads.
Secondly, we were not sure the place was still there, because there were
no signs. Third, it was quite obvious that we would not be able to turn
around for many miles. When we did find the site, we could hardly believe
it. And what a place it turned out to be. It is a private establishment – a hillside farm where they
keep all kinds of poultry and grow olives, figs, grapes, and vegetables,
attractive to so-called agri-tourists. It was situated high on a terraced
hill. There were three or four buildings, including huge dining rooms with
seating for 40 or 50 people. It took us a while to figure everything out
because our 82 year old host spoke only Italian. His wife spoke both
Italian and French, but no one spoke any English at all. But in the end,
we found that they rented rooms and also apartments as well as space for
motorvans. Apparently they also get busloads of people on some kind of
agri-tourism, so they sometimes need the big dining room to feed their
guests. Those in the rental units eat with "the family" and we
were offered dinner too. Of course we accepted. (Picture 1 shows the view
from our camp site.) The long table was set for 20. At every third place were
three bottles – one green soda bottle with red wine in it, one clear
soda bottle with white wine in it and one blue bottle of mineral water. In
addition there were periodic cruets of their own first pressed olive oil.
The Signore also had made the wine. He kept on indicating that it was just
vino tavolo - table wine - but Ron thought it was better than the table
wine he has been buying. Our host poured himself wine, and then put a
slice of bread into the soup bowl in front of his place. Then he drizzled
the olive oil onto the bread. We followed his lead. Then we were served
family style: primo piatto was gnocci with ragu sauce; secondo was
bracciole in a tomato sauce with capers and mushrooms. Cucumber salad in
some kind of cream sauce; roasted, herbed zucchini; and a tomato and
lettuce salad accompanied this. All the vegetables were grown on the farm.
For dessert, we had extremely sweet figs from their trees and then an
artful-looking fruit tart. The Signora prepared all the food. The other guests were French, Italian or German. When we
explained what were doing in Europe to those who understood English, we
became the focus of the conversation – with others translating what we
said. It was quite an evening. At the end of dinner, the guests returned
to their quarters. But a teen-aged guest and his mother, both of whom
spoke English, came over to talk to us. We sensed that the young man in
particular was very interested in seeing the inside of the RV so we
invited them in. We had a wonderful time that evening, with lots of
laughing and tasty food. It took us a long time to find that place, but it
was certainly worth it. The next day we left early. The road down was much quicker
than the drive up the hill because the instructions we had been given went
the long way round. We drove to the mainland town called La Spezia where
you get either the train or the boat to visit the five towns that are all
built into the mountain next to the sea (which is why they are called
Cinque (five) Terre (land). We had been told we could leave our motorhome
at the railroad station, but that did not seem like a good idea to us.
Someone might decide to see what things we have in it. Instead we planned
to leave the vehicle at a secure campsite that was supposed to be right
near the ferry dock. We drove a long time in that town and could not find
the waterfront, let alone a campsite. There were almost no signs and those
that were there had very small print. Without a safe place to leave the
RV, we decided we’d have to leave that visit for another time, and we
left for the last town on the Italian Riviera before you enter France. We
had been told that on Monday, Ventimiglia would be a huge outdoor market
– and you don’t have to tell us that twice. We love outdoor markets. So we drove to the town, heading for a resort-campground in
the outskirts that was listed in one of our books. On the way we passed a
campground right in the middle of the town – so we changed our plans and
stopped there for the night. We washed our clothes and hung them out to
dry. Then we took a walk. We found the beach – all pebbles and no sand
– and walked around the beach area, had our daily gelati and generally
acted like tourists. After all, we’ve never been on the Riviera before. One of the things that struck us both about Italy in general
was that there are so few birds or other animals. We see pigeons and
wrens, though not many, and don’t hear songbirds. But just as Adelle
noted that there were no birds in the water, we walked back from the beach
where there was a large area of brackish water on which were swans,
several kinds of ducks and a few terns. It just goes to show that you
should never make broad generalizations. But the fact is, we hardly see
any animals – domestic or otherwise although there were some as we moved
south. The farm landscape is nearly all crops. Next morning we got ready to go to the market only to find
that our original information was wrong. The market is only held on
Friday. Disappointed, we walked downtown to go to the supermarket, and
bumped into an indoor market that was nearly as good as any outdoor
market. We bought too much stuff, walked a short way, and then found the
supermarket. Ron still wanted to get a few things in the supermarket, so
Adelle sat down with all the packages in a café across the street, had a
cappuccino, and watched everyone go by. There were very few tourists in
this area. Many passers-by were greeted by name, and most were locals. The
time passed very pleasantly watching people go by. So what conclusions did she reach from her observations from
the café? First, that babies are adored by older siblings. It is a
pleasure to watch them interact. The older children take care of the
little ones, often kissing them. Second, that all those old stereotypes
about elderly Italian ladies wearing black is a myth. There seem to be a
lot of well dressed, swinging old ladies in Italy. Before we left Italy, we had to buy some salami and a
pannetone. That was the least we could do. There was a lot left to taste,
but we couldn’t taste everything we saw because we just can’t eat fast
enough! Arrivederci, Italia. From the Italian Riviera, we drove onto the French Riviera
over the really beautiful hilly shore, past many very fancy villas in
places like Menton, Monaco and Cannes. (See Picture 2 which shows the road
to Nice.) Many times it was a nightmare, despite its beauty. Think of the
Pacific coast highway with densely populated towns hugging the hills every
few miles. Consider the traffic from those towns plus the traffic from all
the tourists that come to gawk at those hillside towns overlooking the
sea. Add a goodly proportion of Italian and French drivers going at
breakneck speeds on narrow lanes with hair-pin turns, and a great dearth
of signs. That ought to give you a good idea about driving through this
area. Suffice it to say that we drove into places we would not have
believed possible and followed signs that indicated campgrounds but never
came to any that were useable. Once we followed signs for
"Camping" just before Nice. It was up a high hill overlooking
the Mediterranean, at least a seven kilometers steady climb. The view was
spectacular but there was no bus stop to Nice nearby. So we passed and
drove back to Nice. We stopped at other sites but again there was no way
to get into the city. Then we tried long and hard to find at least one of
several campgrounds listed in our guides without any success. We finally
found ourselves at an intersection where there was a sign for a different
campground. This very nice campground wasn’t listed in any of our books.
There was no bus service there either, but it certainly was a safe haven
for the night. The name of the facility was the St. Paul Campground
(although it was not really in St. Paul). The owner spoke terrific
English, and he talked us out of visiting Marseilles and into visiting the
town for which his facility is named. St. Paul of Provence is very famous
according to him, although we had never heard of it. It deserves to be
famous. It is a medieval town perched high on a hill. They allow no cars.
Everywhere you look is just beautiful. Although the buildings in town were
all shops, the stores had beautiful and interesting things for sale,
almost all of it for the "economically advantaged". We both
loved it and were really glad that the man at the reception desk had told
us to go. (Picture 3 is a shot of a St. Paul street.) This drive through the French Riviera was necessary in order
to get us on our way to Avignon. We didn’t get to town until quite late,
since we had spent the morning in St. Paul. As we drove into the city, we
happened to see a huge Auchon Supermarket. Since we feel that shopping in
either Auchon or Carrefoure is as much fun as anything else we can do, we
went shopping. Besides, we knew we could not have walked around in Avignon
that afternoon. It was raining very hard. An Auchon is a great place to be in the rain! These huge
markets are usually part of a mall, and this mall had a great aisle
exhibit. A woodworker extraordinaire had made wonderful things out of
wood—all live size – cars, motorcycles, irons and ironing boards, even
the clothes that were waiting to be ironed. (Picture 4 shows a wooden
racing car, complete to the last detail. We didn’t get into the campground until about 7:30 that
night to settle in. That night the rain turned into a deluge. In the
morning, we were amazed to see that we hadn’t developed any leaks from
the driving rainstorm. The weather looked better and we were off to see
the Pont D’Avignon (the bridge over the Rhone River made famous in the
child’s song), and the old town. This walled city included the Palace of
the Popes. This town had been the headquarters of the Papacy when the
Popes left Rome in the Middle Ages. We weren’t planning to visit
anything. We had done all that last time we were here in 2002. We just
wanted to walk around. Several times during the day, we found ourselves in
pouring rainstorms but we managed to walk for miles. We spent time at an
internet cafe going through our e-mail messages and sending out a letter.
We went into a post office, an experience that reminded us that when we
did that the last trip, Adelle said that a French Office du Poste was a
lifetime commitment. That was correct! To buy two stamps took way over
half an hour although there were only six people in line. (Picture 5 was
taken of the city wall and the towers of the Pope’s Palace and other
buildings in Avignon.) We finally gave up on walking about 5:30 pm and came back to
the RV. That night, we had another deluge. We were warm and dry, but the
International Herald Tribune had a story about a town in Provence that had
flooded from all that rain. That town was on the route that we were
planning to drive through on the way to the ancient walled town from which
the 13th century Crusaders shipped out to "The Holy Land". So
few of them came back that the town acquired the strange and mysterious
name of Aigue Mort—Agony of Death. We tucked that information away for
use in a day or so. On our way, we decided to visit another of our favorite
cities – Arles. Here again, we didn’t plan to go into any monuments.
We just like Arles. And it has one of our favorite museums. The Museum of
Antiquities is small but beautifully laid out. All the artifacts on
display, from large statues and lead pipes to jewelry and tiny needles
made of bone were found in the area although many of the originals are now
in the Louvre. They also have wonderful dioramas illustrating what the
ruins of the Roman buildings looked like when they were new. We drove
there from the campground. After going through the exhibits, we asked at the desk if we
could leave our motorhome parked in their lot, and received an okay. So we
took a bus into city center where there would be a Festival of Camargue
beginning at noon. The Camargue is that part of France on the southern
shore just before the Cote D’Azur. It is kind of marshy, and there
really are black bulls, white horses and pink flamingos running around.
Apparently it also grows olives and rice. We had no idea what to expect
but attending the opening ceremonies seemed like the right thing to do.
(Picture 6 shows the square in Arles. The band is playing. The background
shows rice stalks in front of white ornamental glass with the food tents
behind.) There were a modest number of people in traditional outfits,
a band, displays of the products of the area – and free samples thereof.
We had a rice dish made with vegetables, a taste of beef cooked the
traditional way, salads of rice with shrimp and mushrooms, rice pudding
and a drink. Total cost: zero. And we saw the four white horses the
organization of horse owners brought. They were small horses, and I
managed to say so to one of the men, and his reply was great. They may be
small but they are bigger than you are! After I finished laughing, I
explained to him as best I could that my daughter raises large horses and
that’s what I am used to! Adelle & Ron Adelle and Ron Milavsky, Authors © Adelle and Ron Milavsky, 2005
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