Tag Archives: international travel

Raclette – a Franco Swiss Favorite For 400 Years

Natives living in the French Savoie region or in the Swiss Alps will argue ’til the cows come home over who first invented raclette, but everyone who tries this traditional cheese/potato dish agrees it’s great. Raclette is thought to be at least 400 years old and remains popular today.

For centuries, herders in Europe’s mountainous regions have survived on this simple dish of boiled potatoes covered in melted cheese.

During its production, the raclette cheese is washed with salted water and bacteria smears. It must rest in a cave (real or man-made) with 100% humidity and a temperatures of about 60 degrees F,° which accelerates the breakdown of the protein and fat, creating different flavors, nutty, creamy and a bit buttery and aromatic when heated.

On every visit home to Switzerland, my adult kids request raclette. Instead of the traditional equipment meant for the half cheese, we use an electric grill with individual serving trays and raclette cut into portions. Since moving to the mountains, we decided to try the authentic dish.

As you enter our village of St. Cergue, the Beef’n Cheese Restaurant is easy to locate off the round-about. A giant, red ceramic cow with a white cross symbolizing the Swiss flag, stands on the balcony. Locals stop for a beer at the cafe table out front.

The interior of the restaurant is a bit kitsch, but charming with its spotted cow upholstered chairs, long wooden tables, a wall-sized hearth and local decor. Cow bells hang from wooden beams, antique skis stick out of giant milk jugs and ski posters from the 40’s decorate the walls.

Our waitress brought us a half a wheel of cheese melting on the authentic raclette machine. Gerald tilted the wheel and scraped the top layer of cheese onto our plate of unpeeled potatoes. Raclette comes from the French word "racler," which means to scrape.

A basket filled with giant, marble-sized spuds are served with finger-sized vinegary cornichons and white cocktail onions. We ordered a side of charcuterie, a wooden cutting board laden with ham off the bone, jambon cru (dried beef) and dried saucisson à l’ail (garlic).

The “all you can eat” meal costs 31CH ($35) per person, which for a Swiss tourist town, is not unreasonably expensive. Traditionally, raclette is served with white wine, but our Frenchman ordered a Scramble Noir, a sublime red blend of five different grape varieties. Red or white wine, whatever, the French and Swiss agree never drink water with raclette. It will make your stomach bloat in indigestion!

Raclette was added to the 2024 World Championship Cheese Contest in Madison, Wisconsin.
”I personally love it," John Jaeggi, a contestant, said. "When it's cold, it's OK. But melted, oh my gosh, it's really good."
Though less well known in the US, I’ve yet to meet an American that didn’t enjoy raclette.

“Trader Joe’s stocks this cheese around the holidays,” my best friend, who moved back to the States, says, “I call and order ahead before it even hits the shelves, so I can throw raclette parties all winter.”

Whenever anyone visits us in Switzerland, we share this convivial meal and create memories for guests to take home.

No matter how many visitors we’ve served, we will never beat the new record!

In Martigny, Switzerland on April 5th, organizers of 'The Biggest Raclette Party in the World` brought together 4,893 people, including 361 raclette- scrapers, to claim the title.

Proper British Tea in Warwick’s 500-year-old Oken Tea Rooms

On a recent trip to England, our son took us to visit historic Warwick, an enclosed city. The highlight of the afternoon for me was going for a proper English cream tea at the Oken Tea Rooms.

The Tea room is actually several quirky rooms of the 500 year old house where the wealthy merchant and former mayor, Thomas Oken, once lived near the Warwick Castle. The house of yesteryear is enchanting for its’ old world charm.

The walls of the half-gabled house slanted and the roof sagged, looking like a picture in a fairytale. When we walked into the reception area by the till, sacks of 30 different loose leaf teas - jasmine, lemon grass, mango, Japanese cherry and others - could be purchased along with other sweet treats like caramelized clotted cream nuggets.

The waitresses, donning aprons over casual slacks, shorts and T-shirts, bustled about looking like they stepped out of the back kitchen where they baked homemade cakes and scones. Patrons spilled out of the ground floor tea rooms, so our waitress led us up a rickety, winding, ancient staircase that made me feel like I stepped into the old nursery rhyme.

“There was a crooked man…He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all liv'd together in a little crooked house.”

We ducked under the doorway and stepped into the past of what looked like a parlor from the eighteen hundreds. Stuffed sofas and antique chairs surrounded wooden tables where families whiled away time sipping tea.

We squeezed around a low table designed for short-statured folks of earlier times. We folded our long legs; our knees knocked into the furniture.

The tea was served on crockery that looked like it came straight out of great granny’s china cabinet. The tea, served in individual pots, included a strainer to separate the tea leaves. Fist-sized, fluffy, light scones balanced on trays alongside ceramic bowls, one laden with strawberry jam and thick, clotted cream in the other.

One bite of a cream topped scone was bliss.

Hungrier visitors could enjoy a full lunch or dinner or you could make a meal out of Tea for Three option, presented on a cake trolley, with a tiered glass plate towering with scones, cakes and finger sandwiches cut in triangles.

The only thing missing from our traditional tea was our lovely British daughter-in-law. I wished she had been with us to explain the difference between low tea and high tea. She’d probably say what any British person would tell you, anytime is a good for “a cuppa.”

Riding Through a Lock on a British Narrowboat

Awe-struck by the sight of the colorful, long house boats, I peppered the people floating past with questions. Friendly folks answered all of my silly inquiries.

‘One guy, Pete, even offered to let me ride through the lock with him. I hopped aboard and sat on a tractor seat in the stern where he guided the boat with a tiller. As we went through the lock, I waved like the queen to the boaters on the shoreline waiting their turn to go through the locks.

After we went through the lock, Pete suggested, “Fancy a walk-through tour?”

His 11-year-old son, Alfie led me through the narrow galley of their boat that reminded me of a skinny RV without the wheels.

The average 7 foot by 50 foot narrow boat has about 350 square feet of space for a bedroom, kitchen, living area, toilet, and cockpit. A small refrigerator, stove, cupboards and a narrow table squeezed on one side of the boat. Most have electric heat or a wood burning stove.

In the mid section, Alfie proudly showed a lounge area. His comic books were scattered on the coffee table along with checker board.

“Me ’n dad sleep on the couch that folds out into a bed right in front the telly,” he added. “Granddad sleeps in the bow and this here is the toilet and shower.”

Unlike most, their boat had the luxury of two bathrooms, one in the bow and another in stern. Across the narrow walkway was a built in washing machine.

“We’ve been with my grandparents for three weeks of holiday. Wish I could live on the boat forever,” Alfie told me, “except when granny yells at me for sitting on the roof! She’s afraid I’ll fall through.”

When the canal transport of goods was replaced by trains, holiday makers began renting 'narrowboats' and roaming the canals, visiting towns and villages they passed. Waterside pubs and village shops cater to boaters. Most towns along canals have free moorings that can be used for 1 to 2 days. Boaters lasso mooring posts along the canal side with heavy braided ropes. Then they hop off and head to the nearest pub.

Much like the English cottages in the village, each boat on the canal has its own name and unique identity with eclectic collections of artifacts, various potted plants and flower boxes decorating their colorful painted exteriors with names like Athena, Beulah Mae, Lady Anne, Jemima, Tubby Bunny, Rollin Along, Bubbling Billy, End and Beginning

Trying to decipher the lingo of canal boaters is like learning a foreign language. References include: Back pumping. Blow - a warning of collision. Bow, or fore end. Deck. Fore and aft.

Cruising the canal can be enjoyed by all ages and “boat” people were an eclectic groups of families, retirees, free spirits and throwback hippies

For some canal boat living has become a way of life. Getting back to nature and rural living, riding the canal is a great escape from our frantic modern-day pace and offers slower way of life that everyone envies at times.

For more information follow adventures of The Rum Wench vlog here

My First UK Walk in Wellies

I was excited as a two-year-old to take my first walk in wellies across the beautiful British countryside (I am easily amused.) Wellies, the symbol of British culture, reflect the lasting legacy of the Duke of Wellington and the term carries a sense of tradition, practicality, and British identity.

Wellies, aka. Wellington boots, date back to the 18th century. Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, enlisted his shoemaker to modify a military Hessian boot. Originally designed for battle, wellies were later used by farmers and outdoorsmen.

In the early 19th century, they became a staple of practical foot wear for the British aristocracy and middle class and a popular choice for various occasions, including evenings out.

“Everyone in England has a pair of wellies, “Larissa explained. “In the UK, the public has the right away to cross the fields. It’s known as Public Bridle Way.”

When our son, Nic, bought me a pair, I thought they looked so chic that I could wear them as dress boots, which many people do these days. Wellies evolved from being purely functional to becoming fashionable accessories with many brands offering trendy designs, colors and styles.

“Don’t you have wellies in the US?” my British daughter- in-law asked surprised at my exuberance.

“In the Midwest, we swap out tennis shoes directly for winter boots,” I said, “Only thing close to your wellies was the clunky, buckle up galoshes we wrestled on over shoes in grade school.”

The British waterproof gumboots are usually made from rubber or PVC. Traditionally Wellies come in black, olive green, tan color or print and hit just below knee level.

Walking in wellies looks simple, but it takes dexterity. Larissa’s family maneuvered the rough terrain far better than me or Gerald. Could advancing in gumboots be skill passed down from one generation to the next?

Fortunately, before we left home, Larissa advised, “Wear heavy socks to prevent blisters.”

“Slip your orthopedics inserts in the boots,” Nic, the chiropractor added. “It may help your back.”

Nothing helped my spine; I winced every step forward. The UK family, even Lari’s sister lugging her ten-month-old child in a baby carrier, glided across the uneven terrain gracefully. I lumbered along behind, as if on two left feet, stumbling every step of the way.

Wellies, designed to protect feet from getting muddy or wet in damp environments, are the quintessential symbol of British footwear. To the non native, they feel awkward and offer little support for someone with like me with crooked toes, poor balance and a bad back.

Today's wellies, with varied color options and patterns, permit people to add personal style to functional footwear. They can be paired to match every outfit and occasion.

But no one wears wellies with greater style and aplomb than five-year-olds. Larissa and Nic’s nephew mastered the skill. In his “dinosaur” wellies, with a jagged flap along the spine of boot, he galloped ahead, circled back and jumped in every puddle along the way.

For me, slipping on a pair of “wellies,” sloshing along the sublime English countryside and singing with our UK side of the family made me feel like a kid again.

Endless Challenge Flying Internationally

For me, a seasoned traveler having lived abroad nearly half a century, air travel has never been more challenging. Especially internationally. Especially for mixed nationals.

I have lived in Europe so long, I may becoming one of those historic icons tourists love to visit!

 

With my savvy, I should be cool as a cucumber. Instead, I hyperventilate weeks before flying, knowing “what can go wrong will go wrong.” And more!

I have experienced every disruption possible except, thankfully, a plane crash.

Our latest travel saga started at the Delta counter at Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport where we waited to check baggage for our return flight to Switzerland via Amsterdam. Due to a technological glitch between code sharing companies Delta (MSP hub), Air France (Paris hub) and KLM (Amsterdam hub), my husband’s luggage could not be registered even though we mastered check-in online 24 hours before without a hiccup.

“Sorry Mr. Lechault, our computer flagged your name in red with DO NOT ALLOW TO TRAVEL status”

The desk agent's colleague saw our distress and offered his assistance by staring at the screen another ten minutes.

“Call the manager,” he insisted.

The manager arrived repeated the identical process and demanded, “Call the supervisor.”

An hour later, a starting line up of aviation personnel glared at the computer in front of us, while behind us the line grew down the terminal and out the door.

I searched for more documentation to permit our authorization to board the plane. International travelers never go to a airport anywhere on the planet without the mandatory paperwork. (ie.birth certificate, marriage license,US tax payment proof, children’s birth records, COVID vaccination card)

Uh oh. Dual citizenship?

Bring French and American passport. Swiss residency card.

Do multi-nationals qualify for an extra carry-on bag to haul aboard aforementioned official documentation?

Whaaat? You want to see a valid driver’s permit?

In the event of unforeseeable, adverse circumstances, you want me to pilot this plane with a Minnesota vehicle license?

Finally we board. Seven hours later, our flight touches down on Schiphol tarmac “on schedule.”

“It took so long to reach the gate,” Gerald said. “It’s like we landed in Belgium and taxied across the border to the Netherlands.”

With only an hour to catch our KLM flight to Geneva, we anxiously fidgeted in line at the customs gate. At the booth, I presented my US passport.

“M’am how long will you be staying in Switzerland?”

“I live there,” I said.

“Then I must see a Swiss residency permit,” she said. I dug out the darn document, issued under my French citizenship, which aroused suspicion. “Where is your other passport?”

“Madame, enter only the US with American passport,” the Dutch border official stipulated,“When arriving in the Netherlands or any other European country (except the UK) you must present your European passport.”

Aiihh the last time, I was reprimanded for switching passports during transit. However, never argue with the official in front of you, even if you cannot understand rules that change overnight.

Starting in the near future (supposedly May 2025), American passport holders traveling to 30 European countries will need an authorization via the European Travel Information and Authorization System (ETIAS).

This is similar to the ESTA requirement that the US has always demanded of European visitors. Tit for tat or part of the legitimate security regulations in ever increasing unsafe world.

We hurried to the boarding gate just before it closed. I flashed my ticket and French passport and slipped through the turnstile. As I headed down the tunnel, I heard,

“Pat, wait. I can’t fly!” my husband hollered on the other side of the gate. “My passport’s gone! I’m going back to see if I dropped it where we last stopped.”

Naturally traveling with me, our last stop was the ladies room.

As he sprinted back through the terminal, I searched the pouch of my old fashioned bum bag. (I know. Does anyone wear those anymore?)

Voila!

From my magic money belt, I retrieve not one, not two, but three passports.

How did Gerald’s passport jump in my fanny pack? I never carry his passport, credit cards, cell phone, wallet or keys. Never.

I dashed back through the terminal and smashed into my husband racing toward me.

“My passport is lost!”

“I found it!” I screamed, waving the priceless booklet like a billion dollar lottery ticket.

 

At last, we boarded the Geneva flight. Still, I wondered, what happens to the poor beleaguered passengers that lose passports in transit?

Could we apply for asylum in Amsterdam?

How long does it take to build a house in Holland?

International Family Reunion on the French Riviera

Family reunions across state lines may seem difficult, but imagine the complications trying to unite international ones like mine, living in 3 different countries. It is never easy for a French-Normand father and Norwegian-American mother sans home, in a mountain hut in Switzerland to meet up their Franco-American kids.

Our daughter settled in the land of 10,000 lakes. Our son married a pretty British-Irish-Ukrainian woman and moved to the countryside near Warwick, England. Recently, we united on the glamorous French Rivera. Whenever we gather, it is magical!

Our daughter flew to Europe for her spring vacation. We picked her up at the Geneva airport and drove south through France to La Croix-Valmer halfway between Le Lavandou and St. Tropez on the Cote D’Azur. Meanwhile, our son, Nic, and daughter-in-law, Larissa, flew to Nice from England to be with us.

Our Airbnb was perched on the cliffs above the Mediterranean Sea on the Blue Coast, one of the world’s most famous coastlines offering sunshine, blue skies and the sparkling sea.

We woke up in the morning to birds singing from flowering bushes and the famous umbrella trees so prolific in southern France and to a spectacular view of the Bay of Cavalaire and the islands.

Every day was a feast for the senses

Each meal was a party for the palate.

Every moment was a priceless celebration.

For breakfast, over coffee, we enjoyed pain au chocolat, pain au raisin and patisseries from the bakery down the hill. At lunch, we savored salads, while Nic scarfed down giant Dagwood sized sandwiches on fresh baguettes.

Every evening, Gerald, our favorite French chef, offered the region’s finest fare. One night, we savored succulent lamb with risotto, the next night we enjoyed a rib of beef with green beans and Lari’s rosemary baked potatoes. The last evening, we dined on a giant sea bass in white wine and lemon butter.

We started each dinner toasting one another with an aperitif of chilled Prosecco. We finished each meal with fresh fruits dipped in cream — currents, cherries, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, a go-go. One night we splurged and enjoy a rich chocolate lava cake. We are all confessed chocoholics.

How Nat endured sticking to gluten free diet everyday amazed me. Although, I am also gluten intolerant, I cheated every meal.

On sunny days, we hiked the rugged coastline, swam in the icy sea, read our Kindles and dozed on the beach.

On our last day, Nic hugged his big sister goodbye .

“See you soon,” he said. “Maybe this summer, maybe at Christmas, or maybe next year at this time?”

For us, family reunions can never be taken for granted. Surely, we must somehow make this first family trip a new tradition.

Who knows where or when we will meet up again? A Frenchman, Gerald, is only allowed to stay in the USA for 90 days, as a British citizen Lari, due to a quirk in rules had her ESTA revoked, will not be allowed to enter the states for a couple years.

I regret that we live so far apart in separate countries each with its’ own red tape. Yet, we are lucky to be open-minded enough to embrace one another cultures, to have the wherewithal to afford travel and the knowledge to navigate crazy rules limiting border crossing.

Even now with the conveniences of modern travel and connections of technology, many immigrants, like my Norwegian grandparents, never had the chance to return to their homelands, due to immigration status, political asylum rules, and economic constraints.

On the way to the airport, before flying back to England, our daughter-in-law, Larissa, bless her little cotton socks, insisted Gerald stop off to check out the local real estate, and begged him to buy a place in southern France for us to meet up regularly.

One way or another, in spite of the challenges, obstacles and inconveniences, we will gather together again, somewhere, some way, somehow.

I will move mountains to make it happen!

Because that’s what mom’s do.