Bonjour Mes Amis!

From the moment we drove through our first French village almost eight years ago, Kristeen and I fell in love with France - its enchanting villages that took us back in time, its beautiful, ever-changing countryside, its warm and gracious people. In these pages, it is my hope to convey some of the magic of France - to relate some of our impressions, as well as some of the many adventures we've had in our travels to "La Hexagone". We invite your comments, experiences, stories and questions as we go, and hope you enjoy "Chez Philippe"....

On our first trip to France in 1998, we'd carefully planned out our itinerary, and lined up most of the places we'd be staying well before our departure date. We'd decided to start our journey with a week in the southern-most province, "Les Pyrenees Orientales", and picked out a "gite" in a town that seemed like an ideal location - not far from the Mediterranean. By the time we had driven the long, winding road up the mountain and pulled into the tiny village of Rabouillet, we realized our map skills needed some work.

This place was nothing if not remote. Each day, it was a good 45 minute drive down the mountain just to get to a town of any size. Nevertheless, I still look back on our week in Rabouillet as one of the most memorable in all of our trips to France. I remember waking up each morning to the sound of the village rooster and the peal of the church bells. We'd take walks along roads lined with centuries-old stone walls, crumbling in places and draped in ivy. Farther up, past the rusty, bent iron cross, a relic from some bygone age, farmhouses lay tucked away under the trees, old Citroens huddled against fallen wood piles, dogs curled up on front porches, too old or tired to bother barking at the strangers walking by. Fields of freshly cut hay stretched out below us, lined with hedges bent by the Tremontaine winds sweeping down the mountain.

After the bustling, noisy streets of Seattle, I felt like I was in heaven. We spent that week making daily forays down the mountain, trying to keep our 16 year old son from feeling too bored. We visited many charming villages, lay in the sun on the beaches of Collioure, wandered the streets of Perpignan, and tortured many a native with our incomprehensible french, but it was the mornings and evenings in Rabouillet that will always remain with me. When people ask me what it's like in France, I always go back to that tiny village nestled in the broom-covered hills high above the Mediterranean. That was France.