The Scent of Grasse

I was squeezed onto a tiny strip of sticky sand in Cannes, head heavy from the sun and the cloying smell of monoi suntan oil, when I decided I needed a change. After days on the famed beaches of the Cote D’Auzur, I felt less like a lounging beach bunny and more like a nervous wreck.

I was tired of fighting for space between the umbrellas, tired of having surly teenagers kick sand in my face, tired of battling pushy families, topless sunbathers and yapping pooches. This was the time to head inland, away from the packaged heat of the French Riveria. I would journey to the Provencal town of Grasse, where I could clear my head, inhale the country air, and find the holy grail of my trip: the perfect French perfume.
Fifteen km away from the ritz and glitz of Cannes and 30 km from the bustle of Nice, the French Provencal town of Grasse has always been a popular escape for locals and tourists alike. Known for its fresh air, fragrant meadows and small town charm, it is often described as the perfume capital of the world, which was the real reason I was going. With three famous perfume production plants (or “perfumuers”) offering free guided tours of their factories, I was determined to finally sniff out my signature scent, the kind that cloaked you in uniqueness, prompting those around you to ask what you were wearing.

My guidebooks had told me that the only way to reach Grasse was by car or bus, but when I arrived at the station in Cannes, I found out that the SNCF railroad had added a new route. I purchased a return ticket and hopped on the shiny double-decker train. While across from me a local girl ate noisily from a giant bag of peanut M&M’s, I was content with staring out the window and watching my first glimpses of the real Provence zip by. The stereotypical postcards were true, as rough stone houses, lined with cream and violet fields, framed both sides of the tracks.

Twenty-five minutes later, the train rolled into the modern Grasse station. The only problem was that the station itself was built on the outreaches of town, and the old town (“vieille ville”) was located at the peak of a looming hill, which presided over the train station like an ominous vulture. By the time I got my bearings, the train had rolled back to Cannes and the station was deserted.

Stubbornly refusing to waste my money on a cab, I trudged up the hill, having no idea where I was headed except up. I could feel the sympathetic stares from the local motorists and at one point an elderly lady offered me a ride. Not willing to be kidnapped by a crazy French woman, I politely declined and continued on my aimless way. With each step, the air grew thicker and a bank of dark clouds rolled in from the unseen sea to south. Finally, clothed in gray humidity, I reached the summit of the town. Before me, gracefully perched at the end of a steep flight of poppy-lined stairs, was the Fragonard Perfumuer, perhaps the most famous one in all of Grasse.

I entered the stately mansion and was immediately enveloped by a sense of stillness and the clean scent of white linen. It was strangely hushed and when I journeyed up to the reception on the second floor, I found only a handful of tourists milling around, poking at antique perfume bottles.

The perfumeur was closing soon and the last tour of the day was about to commence. It was held in French (the English tours had ended hours earlier) but I figured I could wing it and try and put my French classes to good use.

I joined a group of about ten other people, mainly French nationals in pastel clothing with a few confused Germans sprinkled here and there. Our guide was a smiling, young Korean girl who spoke fluent French with an Asian accent. Because of this, she spoke her words slowly and clearly, which thankfully allowed me to understand most of the things she was saying.

She took us into an echoing room filled with vats of sterile containers and briefly went over the history of the factory. There were only a few snippets of information that my mind could make sense of. The Fragonard building was one of the oldest in Grasse, built for the serious business of smells in 1782. Ever since then, they’ve produced perfumes and soaps on a daily basis, still steeped in the traditional ways.


Grasse was a great perfume producer because the climate nurtured delicate flowers such as jasmine and mimosa. 3000 people work in Grasse at the fragrance factories, which produce 50 per cent of France’s turnover and six per cent of the world’s turnover. And Queen Victoria once spent a few winters here on vacation. I tried to imagine what kind of perfume the Queen would have worn. Probably one of those headache-inducing stenches that overtake you in the elevator.

When the history lesson was over, she led us into another room, this one piled with
huge steel tanks. Each tank was given a name like Damask Rose and Vanille. These were used to distill the fragrances and we were shown aging copper tanks that were used in the olden, golden days of perfuming.

The next part of the tour was more interesting. Here, wooden crates were laid out around the room, each resembling a bee box. Only, instead of layers of collected honey, there were scatterings of delicate flowers between glass planes, all resting on what looked like a strip of gauze. We learned that the flowers would melt onto the layer of fat that lay beneath the gauze. Over time, the flowers and the fat would concentrate and what was left was called “absolute.” The primal essence of smell.

Near the end of the tour, after we were lead through the museum part, which housed ancient relics from the bygone eras, we had a glimpse at one of the “noses” hard at work. On the other side of a thick glass door, contained as if he were radioactive material, sat an doctor-ish man, scribbling into a notebook. Hundreds of tiny vials of perfume surrounded him on all sides like a scented congregation. The man looked over at us and waved, as he probably did for every other tour, then went back to work, peering over the vials like a mad French scientist.

Later, the guide told us that “noses” like him could differentiate 10,000 different smells. Most humans can differentiate between 4,000 and 10,000 different smells, though most of the time we aren’t aware of it. Expert “noses” go through years of training to achieve this level of awareness. But, enough about the sciences of odors and smells, I was itching to try on the perfumes and get down to smelly business.

And so, after the tour was over, I spent more time than I should have in the factory’s gift shop. I was trying to decide between Miranda, a warm, thick eau de toilette and Diamant, a spray that promised to “leave a luminous trail of desire” behind whoever wears it.

Finally, after my nostrils had gone numb and the shop clerks impatiently checked their watches for the billionth time, I hastily plucked the tiny bottle of Miranda from the counter, leaving the trail of desire for another time. Miranda was unique, a heady mix of coconut, amber and rich vanilla, perhaps “my” scent. I was so sure of my deciscion, I barely even winced when I handed over 22 Euros for the perfume no bigger than a tube of Visine. Satisfied with my purchase, I was ushered out of the factory and onto the street.

The satisfaction didn’t last very long. It was absolutely pouring outside, as if vast bathtubs of cold, gray water were being dumped from up high. It pound down on the streets, down through the North African palms, through the awning of the museum and on to me. I was drenched in two seconds flat.

I turned back towards the factory hoping to call a cab, but a white-cloaked guard had already locked the door after me (I must have been in that gift shop for a longer than I thought). I had no choice but to somehow book it down this tyrant of a hill to the train station, not an easy feat when you were wearing soaked linen pants, a singlet and flip-flops that slid out from under you with every step you took.

After almost falling on my butt a few times, fording overflowing sewer drains and being splashed by what looked like the little old lady who hours before had offered me a ride, I decided the most logical thing for me to do was catch a bus down to the train station. Down another tilted street, I spotted what looked like a bus stop, and, the holy grail of wet weather, a shelter of some sort. Excited at the prospect of getting dry, I scuttled over to it, only to find that the roof of the bus shelter was missing. I gritted my teeth.

The bus eventually came, but it resembled one of those miniature ones, like for school children with special needs. Which is exactly what I felt like after I tried to explain my predicament to the bus driver. Basic phrases in French I could handle but my French teacher never taught me how to negotiate bus routes. But the driver, who resembled a Provencal Joe Pesci, and the rest of the passengers on the bus, decided to humor me anyway.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of me awkwardly trying to hold on to the rail and not drip on the curious people seated around me, the bus driver pulled up alongside a fleet of cushy coaches that were idilyng on the side of the road. He pointed them and told me to take the first coach.

I thanked him profusely and slogged over to the first coach in line. The coach driver eyed me wearily as I splashed my way onboard. Not only did I resembled a scantily clad wet dog (in an outfit that I thought looked very “boho chic” when dry) but my face was straight from an impressionist film, with mascara running down my cheeks and a nose that was bright red from the cold.

“I need to go to the train station,” I mustered in my best French. He nodded dismissively and politely demanded four Euros.

Thinking it was odd that a five-minute bus ride would cost four Euros, I forked over the money anyway and found a dry seat to sit on near the coveted back of the bus. Thankfully the coach was almost empty and the snoozing teenager in the corner hadn’t noticed my arrival.

After puttering for a few more minutes, the coach finally lurched forward with a lazy groan. We coasted down the hill, splashing past crowded coral houses and wallowing Smart Cars. Then we drove past the train station and onto a country highway.

As the spanking new Grasse train station faded away in the distance, the water in my brain finally cleared. The reason the coach cost so much was not because it was taking me to the train station in Grasse, but because it was going to the train station in Cannes. (Of course, I didn’t realize that until the coach dropped me off in front of my hotel. I spent the whole bus ride trying to remember the French word for “lost.”)

I sighed and looked down at my soggy, wasted train ticket. I brought my petite bottle of Miranda out of the damp gift bag and sprayed a bit on my wrists. I inhaled the scent deeply and leaned back in my damp seat. At least I smelled good.


Details:
Grasse Office de Tourisme
Ph: (33) 4 93 36 66 66 Fax: (33) 4 93 36 86 36
info@grasse-riviera.com

Perfumeurs:
Frangonard – Blvd. Frangonard
Ph: (33) 4 93 36 44 65
Galimard – 73 Route de Cannes
Ph: (33) 4 93 09 20 00
Molinard – 60 Blvd. Victor Hugo
Ph: (33) 4 93 36 01 62

Hotels:
Mecure Grasse – Rue Martine Carol, 06130, Grasse, France.
Ph: (33) 4 93 70 70 70 Fax: (33) 4 93 70 46 31
Hotel L’Horizon – 100 Promenade Saint Jean, 06530, Grasse, France.
Ph: (33) 4 9360 51 69 Fax: (33) 4 93 60 56 29
Bastide Saint Mathieu – 35 Chemin de Blumenthal, 06310, St. Mathieu, Grasse, France.
Ph: (33) 4 97 01 10 00 Fax: (33) 4 97 01 10 09

Transportation:
STGA Bus Lines – provides daily service from Cannes and Antibes, stopping at local towns and villages along the way. Ph: (33) 4 93 36 37 37
SNCF – the new railway connects Grasse with Cannes (6.80 Euros, 2nd class return ticket, 25 minutes) and Nice (21.20 Euros, 2nd class return ticket, 1 hour) as well as Monaco, Menton and Ventimiglia, Italy. http://www.sncf.com/

All images, excluding the first two, courtesy of Grasse Tourism

No Siesta por 36 horas!

This is a story I have been meaning to write about for awhile but have never had the time or motivation. But, heck, it should be heard.

It was the first time I went to Spain.

The first time I went 36 hours without sleep.

The first time I freaked right out whilst traveling.

It was all of that and more.

The day started in Cannes, France. After spending a few days lounging on the beach, getting caught in the rainstorm in Grasse and generally just hanging about, it was time to go.

I had, truthfully, found Cannes to be a bit of a bore. It wasn't as "Hollywood-ish" or "exciting" like I had hoped. I have a huge interest in the "retro" filmworld and even then I was dissapointed I couldn't find much more about Bardot, Monroe, Montand or anyone else.

So, after spending the morning at this island, I went back to my hostel to collect my bags...um, and find my passport which I had forgotten under the matress of my bed. Oops.

Anyway, that evenings plans included an overnight train ride to Barcelona, where I would catch the train to Tarragona the next day. The train didn't leave for awhile, so I hunkered down at the Mexican bar underneath the hostel and helped myself to two strong Pina Coladas.


Suffice to say, that by the time I was ready to trek to the train station, I had quite the buzz going. No matter, I thought to myself, I've paid extra for the sleeping compartment so I should be fine to just pass out and wake up in Barcelona.

I get to the train station and am immediately confused. The only train leaving that evening was to Bordeaux. For you who don't know, Bordeaux is on the opposite side of France. Not in the direction I was going at all.

So I asked the conducter in my broken French where I was to catch the train to Barcelona and he told me to just take the one to Bordeaux, the same track.

Well, I went and waited by the track and just assumed that my train would be coming after. While I was waiting where I was supposed to board my car, I saw another young girl. She looked American-ish but was definetly NOT a backpacker since she was lugging the biggest piece of luggage I have ever seen. She could barely pick it up.

I sort of tsk tsked inside my head and then went back to worrying about the train. At about the time my train would have left, this train seemed to get going. The conducters were sorta yelling all aboard and that really annoying "do, dah dah dah" jingle from the SNCF came over the intercom (if you have ever traveled by train in France, you will know what I mean) and that woman's voice announced the train was leaving.

Not knowing what to do, I ran up to the girl with the luggage, who was having a hell of a time trying to get it on the train, and asked her if this was going to Barcelona.

"I hope so!" she said, exasperated. An American after all.

So, I jumped on the train and as it started moving down the tracks, we both kind of looked at each other, not knowing where the hell we were going.

Turns out though, that we were both in the same compartment. That is, until I got to the compartment...not a sleeping cabin at all but just reclining chairs out in the open. We were both pissed off at spending our money on nothing and sat down across from each other and got to talking.

Her name was Becky and she was doing an exchange program though the University of Washington (a Seattlelite, small world) and had been in Barcelona for the last 6 months with her friend Lucy, who was in another compartment on the train. They had decided to do some traveling before they were due to fly out of Madrid in a day or two. Hence, the huge suitcase she had been lugging around.

We talked some more, then sort of fell asleep, only to wake up in Marseille having people saying that if you were going to Barcelona you had to get off at Port Bou. I had no idea where Port Bou was and how far off it was, so we sort of just sat there, on edge, eyeing each train stop. By now it was well past midnight and my earlier buzz had just left me feeling drained.

Worried about Port Bou, I walked up and down the train, looking for a conductor or someone who knew what the hell was going on. But our part of the train was sanctioned off from the rest of train and we were stuck with having no one to inform of us what was happening.

Eventually we went and joined Lucy, who was further down the cars and together we thought about our possible scenarios. Where was Port Bou? Why aren't we going to Barcelona? Why does the train say Bordeaux? Where are we? Etc.

We weren't alone though in this dilemma, and it seemed a lot of people in this part of the train were going to Port Bou as well.

We found that out as the train stopped at some random railway station. And then the other half of the train took off. Heading to Boedeaux, I suppose, while our end was abandoned on the tracks in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.

Eventually though, there was a bit of commotion and I suppose our train was being attached to another train or something. All I know is that we started moving again, plowing steadily to Port Bou. Only....

We never made it to Port Bou.

We made it to Narbonne where we were promptly told to get off the train and go into the railway station.

By now it was 3 AM, we were confused and tired.

Then that train took off and we, meaning hundreds of people, were stuck inside this station. We couldn't escape the station because the doors were barred. We couldn't leave the other way because the tracks were there. We were station prisoners.

There were no train people in the station to tell us what was going on and why we were here. All we had was a sign on the tickets office telling us they would open at 6AM and that was it. The only sign that we were remotely in the right place was the schedule which said a 7 AM train to Port Bou was leaving in a few hours.

So what is a girl to do at 3 AM when you don't know where you are, aren't even sure if you are in France or Spain and you are stuck in a train station?

This:


Let me tell you, it's not as easy as it looks. There was no where to lie down and nothing to do, so all of us stranded passengers were just passing out on the floor and in corners, on benches, whatever we could find.

Me and my two American amigas found our own little spot and tried to get some rest. But despite my eye mask and seemingly relaxed pose, I didn't sleep a wink. All I could think about was the fact that I didn't know where I was and what was going on.

My new freinds had it no better since they had a flight to catch in Madrid the next day and they had no idea if they would even make it there on time.

And as the new day approached, things just seemed to go from bad to worse.

To be continued....(see post below :)

No Siesta: Continued

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Here.

The train station, trying to get some shut eye.

As you know, that didn't quite work.

So, as the sky began to lighten with the early pastels of morning, me and my traveling companions, Becky and Lucy, decided to call off this whole sleeping thing and make way to use the toilet, located outside, by the train tracks.

We heard rumours about this thing. That it eats you alive.

I was always prepared to tackle the Turkish toilet. I read it about. I heard about it. I cancelled hotel bookings when I found out that one would be present in my room (or even worse, communal). But it wasn't until I encountered this toilet face to face, in the wee hours of the morning, in some strange part of France/Spain, that I understood.

Turkish toilets aren't fun.

I went into the dirty room. There was a hole in the ground...a porceline hole, but a hole nonetheless. It was gushing water, spouting it, churning it like some out-of-control bidet/white water rapids, the constant flurry of a quickly-moving flood. Before I even had a chance to grasp what I had to do, Becky pointed out that the door didn't lock. No, it barely closed. I promised her if she would watch out for me, I would watch out for her.

I tackled that scary thing tentatively. I squatted, using my hands to hold on to the wall for balance. You couldn't get down too low or the rush of water would sweep up your bum and carry you down the drain. I nearly slipped on the wet tiles. Twice. Those were the most terrifying moments of my life.

But somehow I made it out of there, alive. I watched out so that no one ambushed Becky and we were on our merry way. Later on, we heard Lucy tell us her horrible story of her squatting over the toilet and peeing while some guy just opened the unlocked door and barged in. Eeeek.

I made a silent vow to not pee until I got on the train. If we ever did get on the train.

Soon the train station information desk was open and somehow we found out that our train was due to leave for Spain shortly. Since I was the one with the grasp of French, I had to translate. My translation leaves a lot for the imagination. But I got the idea that our tickets were still valid. However, since Becky and Lucy had to reschedule their train to Madrid, the French ticket office couldn't do anything about it.

Apparently, even though it's all the EU, the Eurail train system has some flaws, in that a delay in France due to France train troubles has no bearing on the trains in Spain (fall mainly on the plain....sorry). So even though the girls spent money on their spain trains, the fact that they had to miss them due to circumstances out of their control, they still had to pay for it. Had the delay happened in Spain, it would be fine but apparently the two countries trains don't converse with each other.

I felt badly for them, especially as they stewed over their situation for awhile.

Soon enough, it was time to board the train. We sat in our seats and headed off into the morning mist. I fell asleep for most of the journey, waking up only at scenic times to see a fog covered, milky green pasture alloted with phantasmic silhouttes of horses, grazing along still ponds.

Unfortunately this scenery came to a quick end as our train soon stopped in Who The Hell Knows Where, Spain. We were across the border, near the water....but again, nowhere near our destination of Barcelona.

We didn't have much choice but to get off the train and congregate in yet ANOTHER train station. By now, everyone was well pissed off (as if we weren't already). During our four hours in Buttfuck Nowhere part 2, I managed to call Kelly on the payphone and complain to her while she was in the middle of managing a shift at Swiss Chalet.

Meanwhile, the Seattle girls found out that this whole delay would not only cancel their stay in Barcelona - they had to take the overnight to Madrid that night instead - but that they would in fact not be reimbursed for the train ride they had involuntarily missed. I would have been right pissed off if I were them. In fact I was pissed off but I was also so sleep deprived I didn't care.

Which didn't bode so well for me and and my day in Barcelona.

See, I wasn't planning on staying the city (I had, foolishly, heard too many bad things about it) so I had booked a resort cabin in Tarragona for that night and the next few days. I had another train to catch from Barcelona, but as far as I knew it was just an hour long and left every hour as well.

So I decided to brave Barcelona with my two disgruntled tour guides.

We had a wonderfully Spanish meal at a restaurant on Las Ramblas, consisting of sangria, tapas and paella.

It was a superb introduction to Spain. If only I had the functioning mental capacity to enjoy it. Remember, at this point, it's three in the afternoon and I am on 40-minutes of sleep. Thankfully the rest of my time in the city consisted of staring down pickpocketers and perusing the Las Ramblas market, where I picked up a sweet bracelet for myself.

As evening approached, I said goodbye to my new friends and hopped the train to Tarragona. To safety and security, a roof over my head.

Oh Gawd, if only it was that simple.

I arrived at the Tarragona train station, dazed and confused. Ever think you have a town figured out in your head and then you arrive and realize that it is NOTHING like you imagined?

Someone could have told me that Tarragona had one bad ass hill and that the train station was nowhere near where I needed to go.

And where did I need to go? Well, after a quick check to my notes scribbled haphazardly in my journal, I knew that in order to get to the beach cabins that were 7 km out of town, that I had to catch the "9" bus from Hotel Imperial.

So I started up the hill, with my increasingly heavy backpack, praying for death or for some rich Spaniard to take pity on me.

Neither happened. What did happen was that I slowly realized that while I could get away with rudimentary French in France and guidebook Italian and Germany in Italy, Austria, Germany, I could not converse my way in Spain. None of the people I met on the street, when asking for directions, spoke English. It was Spanish all the way, or nothing at all. I had forgot that earlier I had been depending on my Seattle friends for their translation, without realizing how rare English was.

Somehow though, I made my way to the main street where the buses took off from. I waited. And waited. And waited. The old people on the bench next to me looked confused. I was confused. I did not know where this "9" bus was except that someone had directed me here.

Twenty-minutes into my waiting, a bus came by. The doors opened and I tried to explain my situation to the non-English driver. I combined all the Spanish words I knew but they didn't make sense. He did, however, get what I was saying, or so I thought, so he pointed at the next street over and nodded.

I took this as "Go to the bus stop on the street parallel" so I did. And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, I got out the resort's phone number and tried to give them a call to find out how best to get to them and where to get the bus.

There was no answer.

No, it even worse than that. There was a person saying that there was NO resort at all. Resort "non existo" or something.

This was the point I felt like crying. In fact I did cry. My bag was heavy, my feet hurt, I didn't know where I was going, I couldn't speak the language, I had no place to stay and worst of all, I had no sleep which meant I was not able to cope with any of the above like a normal person was. I felt completely, and utterly, helpless.

So, with my tears fallling behind my sunglasses, I slugged towards the water. I had no idea where I was going but figured at some point, I would find a way.

I soon spotted a large hotel overlooking the sea. The Hotel Imperial. And outside it, a bus stop.

Feeling bouyed by this discovery, I waited, hoping that the buses still ran since it was getting late and dark.

A bus stopped in front of me. It was the same bus driver from before. Once again, I tried to explain where I wanted to go. He shut the doors, refused to accept payment from me, and then acted like he was doing me a big favour. In some ways he was; he listened to me try and say "I'm sorry, I haven't slept in 36 hours" in Spanish, which came out as "No Siesta por trez seize horas"....um, not the same.

Anyway, the bus stopped at one point and he told me to get off. If I continued down the road I would reach the resort. I thanked him profusely....though never understood what the big deal was since that stop by the resort was one he would have made anyway and that the bus I actually had hopped on was bus "9."

At any rate, I limped my way to the main office, sweat-covered and dusty from the road. To my surprise the person at the front desk did not speak English, but he did speak French and for the first time, I felt relief. I was able to tell him - and the old French couple that was waiting in the office - about my horrible day....and all in French! They all understood and even laughed at the jokes I made about my sore feet. For once, I conversed without fear or misunderstanding. That moment was definitely a highlight of my trip.

Another highlight was yet to follow. The man gave me the keys and a tour of my cabin. Bliss! I have to do an entire post about this place and my relaxing days there because it truly is a gorgeous, unique place and I was beyond lucky to have found it.

Thankfully with my horrid day from hell, there was a pot of Spanish gold at the end of this rainbow.

Next post: The Best Deal in Spain - Supreme Accommodation in Tarragona

And in future posts (and in honour of so many people I know going off to the great city): A landmark tour of Paris. Stay tuned!