air. sky. wind. ocean. peace.

This is what I came for, and this is what I found. (I congratulate myself on my research and travel planning, it took me a while to find this spot.)

I left Porto at 11 am this morning and took the train to Aveiro, a town 15 km south. The trip took one hour and a round trip ticket cost me 7 euros. From Aveiro station I took a 15 mn taxi ride to this small beach resort called Praia da Barra where I am right now. From the moment I stepped out of the taxi to the moment I fell onto my hotel room bed from sheer and happy exhaustion, my mouth has been hanging open in awe. I’m awestruck.

First impressions? Everything is super clean and orderly. Friendly laidback people. Zero stress/tension. The smell of brine and grilling fish. The ocean up close. Fine white sand beaches … uncrowded!

I checked into the hotel and literally ran straight outside again, so eager I was to walk the long jetty past the lighthouse and feel the wind in my face and hair – a strong, cool wind blowing in from the ocean – while the sun hammered down from a cobalt-blue sky. Fantastic! I wish you could see the photos I took. I’ll post them when I get back.

The concrete jetty was long, and as I walked waves crashed onto the rocks on either side. Gulls wheeled and screeched overhead. This isn’t the lazy langourous Mediterranean you get in the south of France, this is the wild unleashed Atlantic, a different beast altogether. Posted on the jetty were signs warning people of high winds. Further down the coast are some of the best surfing spots in the world with monster waves.


Then I turned back and walked along the miles-long wooden walkway that runs parallel to the beach. I walked for a long while in the sunshine and then, starving, returned to the hotel restaurant. I was in for yet another surprise. Because it was 2 pm and I hadn’t eaten all day, I ordered brunch. You should’ve seen my face when the smiling waitperson carried an enormous platter to my table.

‘”Is that all for me?” I gasped, and she laughed. There were scrambled eggs and bacon. A fresh fruit salad of mango, melon, kiwi and strawberries. Freshly squeezed orange juice. A basket filled with croissants and rolls. Jars of locally made peach jam, strawberry jam, honey and Nutella. And a large caffe latte.

I sat for an hour and worked my way through that delicious bounty of food, and no I didn’t finish it all.

It’s now 10:30 pm and as I sit in my hotel room reading the world news on my tablet and learning of the rise in Covid numbers, especially in France to where I return on Friday, I experience a niggling feeling of unease. If I could, I’d like to be able to stay here, in this little slice of paradise.

chillin’ in Porto

Yesterday, I left the rental apartment at 10 am and returned, happy hot and tired, at 6 pm. In every way, it was a perfect day in Porto. First, the weather: hot, sunshine galore and a constant cool wind blowing in from the ocean. Yes, Porto is a coastal city, and those same screeching seagulls that I encountered in Rome last year are here too.

I walked for 7 hours yesterday, up and down hilly streets and all over. It turned out that the Serralves Foundation is not smack in the center of town, but on the west side, so I went by taxi and strolled in the beautiful gardens. They were just as gorgeous as the images I had seen on the internet. I’ve taken lots of photos of my Porto wanderings, but I’m writing this on my tablet and cannot upload photos.

Porto is not a glamorous city, but rather a real down to earth working city. The denizens are frank, no nonsense folk which I appreciate. Unassuming, no one hassles you in the street. Helpful and friendly if you approach them. The language? Really hard to speak or understand, it in no way resembles French, Italian or even Spanish. Lucky for me, many speak English or French because all I can say is obrigada (thank you), por favor (please) and bom dia (good day). Porto is a lot cleaner than Paris (the streets). I’m revelling in the fresh unpolluted air here.

The flight from Paris was perfect. Only one hour and 45 minutes. The plane was half full which made distancing easier. I still swear by the comfort and efficiency of EASYJET. We flew west to Nantes then all the way down the Atlantic Coast of France to Bilbao then onwards to Porto airport  where I had pre-ordered a car service through for only 16 euros. Food is cheap. It’s not haute cuisine, but tasty, especially the desserts and pastries. The beer is good. Self serve cafeterias dot the city, clean and convivial, where you load up your tray with a hot meal, dessert and drink for as little as 6 or 7 euros. No wonder many people choose to retire here.

Friday is my last full day in the apartment (super nice with a garden patio hemmed in by high stone walls upon which resident cats sit and stare down at me), then the week-end at the beach resort south of the city, then back to Porto on Monday to stay in a hotel for 3 nights.

No stress here, Paris and my job seem far away …

I’m wondering if I could live here.




the return of night trains!

Nothing gave me greater joy, all throughout the 1990s, than to climb aboard a sleeper at Paris’s Austerlitz station at around 10:30 p.m., crawl into my little berth and wake up the next morning on the Riviera. Popular and cheaper than day trains, they were, in fact, hotels on wheels when you think about it. But I liked them for the romantic notion. I was in Europe, after all, and wanted to experience European train travel. Oh, not the grand and legendary Orient Express, the Trans-Siberian Railway or the Danube Express, but rather snuggled in a sleeper aboard one of the French trains: the Océan-Riviera (Nantes to Nice), the Rhône-Océan (Quimper to Lyon), the Flandres-Riviera (Lille to Nice), the Blue Paloma (Paris to Toulouse to Hendaye) or the ever-popular Blue Train (Le Train Bleu), named so because of its dark blue sleeping cars. (I thought it was named after the blue of the Mediterranean Sea, its final destination.)

Nothing was more exciting than to wake early, lie on your berth and glimpse the sea and the characteristic umbrella pines and palm trees through the window. Upon arrival on the coast, the stations the train passed through were Marseille, Toulon, Saint-Raphaël, Cannes, Juan-les-Pins, Antibes, Nice, Monaco, Monte-Carlo and Menton, the terminus. Further along was the Italian border and Ventimiglia.

In these photos below: First class on the left, only four couchettes, and Second class on the right with six couchettes. The best bunks were the ones up top. In the early 2000s, the train company, SNCF, introduced cabins reserved exclusively for women.

But why am I talking about this in the past tense? With the arrival of the high-speed TGV (train à grande vitesse) trains and the new low-cost airlines, those reliable yet clunky night trains began to lose their lustre. No longer profitable, the entire night-train network in France (except for two lines) was slowly phased out then dismantled, leaving behind a whole slew of train orphans, myself included.

In the 1980s, more than 500 cities in France were served by a night train. In the early 2000s, sixty-seven were still in circulation daily. Today, only two lines are still operating: Paris-Briançon and Paris-Toulouse.

But guess what? They’ve become fashionable again! Anxious about our ecological future, who would have thought that instead of looking forward for solutions, the government is looking backward. Suddenly, those night trains don’t seem to be such a bad idea after all.

Slow travel is in, flying short distances in Europe is out. The train’s carbon footprint is fifteen times lower than that of the airplane. In June 2019, I travelled by train all the way from Puglia (the heel of Italy) to Paris, stopping off in Bologna, Milan and Nice. It was great. I was ready to do it all over again this year, but then COVID came.

I’m thinking of taking the night train to Venice this Christmas.

Tous à bord!   All aboard!

Here’s an extract from my memoir relative to the night train:

I don’t know who said ‘living well is the best revenge’, but as I savored a mouthful of grilled fish served with fennel and artichoke and washed it down with a swirl of chilled Puligny-Montrachet ’92, I felt inclined to agree with this maxim. I was lunching on the beach in Nice where only the French can turn this otherwise commonplace act into a sybaritic event.

The waiter removed my empty plate and brought a crème caramel for dessert, a tiny cup of espresso at its side. I sat contentedly in my chair and observed the sight before me. The listless sea lapped twenty yards from my table. The sun shone from an azure sky. Parasols as white as ship sails fluttered in the gentle breeze. Shading my eyes, I peered across the Mediterranean for a glimpse of North Africa beyond. All was right with the world. I felt sated and at peace.

Every June I’d steal away on Le train bleu, the night train that leaves Paris’s Gare d’Austerlitz for the Riviera. I had explored other towns along the coast: Cannes, Juan-les-Pins, Antibes, Cap Ferrat and Menton near the Italian border, but Nice was my pleasure station, my secret destination, my sybaritic delight. In the sleeping compartment, I’d climb the little ladder to the top berth and, mindful not to bump my head against the ceiling, fold myself into the narrow space under the thin SNCF-stamped train sheets. There was something simultaneously romantic, dangerous and thrilling about those night trains. You never knew who you were going to meet in the corridor at two a.m.; you never knew with whom you were going to share your sleeping compartment; you never knew if you were actually going to arrive at your destination.

I loved the idea of leaving Paris at midnight and waking up the next morning on the Côte d’Azur. I loved the rocking motion of the carriage and the rhythmic clacking of wheels on rails as we sliced through the blackness, past sleeping towns and hamlets, across fields and vineyards. From time to time a blur of electric lights would whip past the window and, peering through the glass, I’d glimpse empty stations: Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, Dijon, Chalon-sur-Saône, Mâcon – their lonely platforms lit up like stage sets. Then dark again as we sped on towards the south.

Swaying gently in my bunk, the soft glow of the little night light above my head, I could smell and hear the five sleeping strangers around me. I felt alone and crowded at the same time.

Copyrighted Material


kick the bums out, all of them!

I just read this heart-wrenching, eloquent opinion piece in Sunday’s The Guardian.

Beirut resident, Lina Mounzer, is seething mad.

As she rightly says, these people are referred to as the “ruling elite”. There’s nothing elite about them. They’re the dregs of humanity. What did they do, in the past, with the millions and millions of dollars of aid to help the people of Lebanon? Those in the Ministry of Finance and elsewhere siphoned off millions for themselves, stashing their booty in offshore bank accounts.

The astonishing exploit of President Macron

Flying in on his glistening white jet with the words République Française emblazoned on its sides, President Macron arrived in shell-shocked Beirut yesterday like Jesus the Saviour riding on a white horse.

Then I saw the heavens opened, and behold a white horse! And He who sat on him was called Faithful and True. He administers justice and wages war righteously. His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many royal crowns.

Revelation 19:11-16, The Bible, New King James version

Here in France, we watched our TV screens with stupefaction as the President of France walked through the crowded streets like the Messiah, surrounded by weeping, clapping, lamenting and visibly distressed citizens.

“Please help us!”

“Don’t give money to our politicians, they’ll keep it for themselves!”

“They’re all criminals!”

“Macron for President of Lebanon!”


“The Lebanese people are suffering an emotional, moral and financial crisis,” Macron proclaimed, “And we are going to help them.”

#EmmanuelMacron showing 10x more leadership than ALL Lebanese politicians combined.

Nothing could underscore more the ineptitude of the government as 2,750 tons of highly explosive ammonium nitrate was left to languish in a ramshackle portside warehouse for years despite repeated warnings.

The oddity of yesterday’s situation was the glaring absence of Lebanon’s leaders. Where were they? Too scared to show their faces for fear of being physically attacked by their own people or even killed, the cowards beat a hasty retreat to hide in their luxurious, air-conditioned homes and offices. How odd to see a foreign leader mingling with and comforting these beleaguered people when, in a real world and not this dysfunctional one, it should be the Lebanese leaders themselves.

For decades, the tiny country of Lebanon has been ruled by a mafia-like gang of thugs and thieves. The administration of the country has been compared to a feudal system, the lords being family clans, former war lords and militia leaders who provide housing, jobs and services to vassals in exchange for protection, subservience and allegiance.

They are, in truth, criminals who should be tried in a court of law and thrown in prison. For too long the country has been mired in government corruption, patronage and favouritism. Untold millions have been stolen from the public coffers by these thieving factions/gangsters/criminal families.

Home to 18 different religious confessions, ethnic groups and tribes, the President must be a Maronite Christian, whereas the Parliament Speaker and Prime Minister must be a Shi’a and Sunni Muslim respectively. In addition, 64 of the 128 seats in parliament are reserved for Muslims, while the other half is for Christians.

The Shiite coalition is composed of Hezbollah and the Amal Movement. Both are Iran-backed and trace their roots to the civil war era.

Wearing a black tie in mourning, Macron promised angry Lebanese crowds that French aid would not go into “corrupt hands”. “I want a new political pact and I’ll come back in September,” he said, adding “Without deep structural reforms, there will be no financial aid.”

But back in France, the French were not overly-impressed with Macron’s humanitarian mission. In the office this morning, the topic was discussed around my espresso machine. My French colleagues grumbled. (The French are always grumbling.)

“We have enough problems here in France; Macron should look after his own people.”

“It’s up to the Lebanese people to force change, not an outsider. Otherwise, that’s just called meddling.”

Quelle arrogance ! Have you noticed how arrogant all of our presidents are here in France? What right does he have to go to a foreign country and lay down the law? Lebanon is no longer a French protectorate. I mean, seriously, with what legitimacy is he able to do that?”

(In 1923 and after the Partition of the Ottoman Empire, the League of Nations mandated that Lebanon would be administered by France. Lebanon officially became part of the French colonial empire. The French mandate lasted until 1943, when two independent countries emerged, Syria and Lebanon. French troops eventually left Syria and Lebanon in 1946.)

In Beirut a petition was signed with 60,000 signatures: that Lebanon returns to French mandate for ten years.

Whatever Macron’s strategy, it took a lot of courage for him to do what he did, and I applaud his efforts.


As I later wrote in the Comments section, here’s the primary reason of his visit:

One thing is sure: the country can no longer continue down this path. Most importantly, if it wants to receive financial aid from outside, it needs to clean up its act. That was the main reason of Macron’s visit. Serving as spokesperson for international organizations such as the IMF, the World Bank and the EU who are behind him (and poised to send billions to Lebanon following this recent crisis), the president went to Beirut to reflect the exasperation of the international community. No more subsidies until you provide us with complete transparency! There are conditions attached to receiving aid, and it will be outsiders now, not the crooks from within, who will monitor and distribute the funds. Don’t forget that before becoming Prez, Macron was a banker.

the continuing tragedy of Lebanon

I work with a dozen different nationalities in my office. It is a truly multicultural, trans-national environment that I go to five days a week. Four of my friends are Lebanese. They sit in the open space around me. This afternoon it was quiet, everyone working, each absorbed in his or her task. Suddenly, cell phones rang and people spoke Arabic, their voices raised and worried. My Lebanese colleagues rose in one movement and moved into the corridor to talk amongst themselves and make phone calls to their families and friends back home.

A terrible thing happened this afternoon. If you have Lebanese friends, colleagues, clients, neighbors (or your local hairdresser, shop or restaurant owner) reach out to them. Already, the country is on its knees what with COVID, corruption, the economic collapse and the influx of millions of refugees over the past decade.

Is it any wonder that one of the largest diaspora populations in the world is Lebanese? The majority of them are of the Christian faith.

Lebanon remains the country hosting the largest number of refugees per capita, with Government estimate of 1.5 million Syrian refugees, some 20,000 refugees of other origins, in addition to the Palestine refugees under UNRWA’s mandate. Lebanon has contributed immensely to the response by giving refugees equal access to the public schools, hospitals and social development centres. (source UNHCR – The UN Refugee Agency)


Quintessence house tours in France, London and all over

This is what I do to relax, usually on Sunday afternoons, usually with a glass of chilled rosé and a salad. This is what I’m doing right now, as a matter of fact. I think I’ve mentioned previously that I’m kind of hooked on YouTube. I enjoy watching these house tours, some in the city, some in the country.

This morning I walked to my local market and bought a beautiful head of lettuce, some ripe tomatoes and a bunch of other produce. At home I whizzed up an anchovy-garlic-honey mustard-cider vinegar-olive oil vinaigrette in my mixer. Then I threw together a simple lettuce tomato salad and poured myself a glass of chilled rosé. The weather is perfection at the moment: cool and sunny.

The definition of Quintessence is “the most perfect or typical example of quality or class.” (I looked it up.) I find these house tours super interesting. With her natural curiosity and questions, Susanna brings freshness and candor to the table. Here are two in London and in Paris, but if you look on YouTube – and if you like this sort of thing – there are lots more in the USA and elsewhere.