The Venice of The Alps

All of us have a favourite place we like to escape to, right? You know, the sort of place you catch yourself daydreaming about on a mid-week afternoon, wishing you could drop everything and just be there.

For Kel and I, such a place is a mix of natural, coastal vibe with good food and wine - the Noosas and Dunsboroughs of the world are legitimate candidates - if only they weren't so posh and we could afford them. But, ladies and gentlemen, there is now an elephant in our room of dream destinations, and this elephant happens to wear a beret, bites the ends off baguettes and plays a mean accordion. It's Annecy, it's French, and it's very, very beautiful.

It was, in truth, our second visit to Annecy, which lies an hour south of Geneva in the Haute Savoie province of the French Alps. We had camped there for a few days in the sweltering summer of 2003. I remember leaving our poor little tent to bake in the sun to frolic in the clear waters of the alpine lake that borders the city. This time around we pondered over another bout of camping, but once hotel accommodation in the heart of the historic old town district was secured, the tent never stood a chance.

Our hotel, Le Royal Résidence de Tourisme (http://www.le-royal.fr/), was perfect. It is clean, has a modern fit-out, and while our room was small, it featured a kitchenette for self-catering. Sandra and Elodie, two of the hotel's three concierges, were friendly and immensely helpful - recommending restaurants, a good boulangerie (vital) and laughing politely at French spoken with an Australian twang. In fact, the night we arrived, Kel and I ditched our bags and took a late dinner at La Freti - a 'must' for regional specialties according to Sandra. It didn't disappoint. I ate enough Reblochon cheese (in the fondue and tartiflette) to be constipated for a year. Seriously delicious, as you can tell from our smiles (and I already appear to be sitting uncomfortably).

It is ridiculously easy to fill in a day at Annecy. You can wander the cobbled streets of the old town, crisscrossing a canal that connects to the lake. There's loads of cafes and restaurants, boutiques (that have a bizarre penchant for white linen outfits) and, most importantly for Kel, an assortment of glace artisans (ice creameries). You can stroll around, sunbake by, or jump into, the picturesque lake. If you're feeling adventurous and need to be relieved of large sums of cash, you can hire a pedal boat or motor boat. There are enormous mountains nearby that you can hike to, climb up or ride over the top of. Some words of warning though: don't expect to be able to navigate a vehicle in the city centre's one-way road system (I became trapped in a bus-only zone and almost picked up a group of ticket-waving pensioners), and be prepared to drive halfway to Marseilles before you can find a free carpark.

Annecy had successfully bid for a stage in the 2009 Tour de France - a individual time trial around the lake, no less. The crazy travelling circus that is 'Le Tour' had permeated the atmosphere of the city well ahead of it's actual arrival - shop windows were full of posters and yellow streamers, while laneways were adorned with flags made from replica yellow, green and red-polka dot jerseys signifying the leader, best sprinter and best climber of the race.

While the tour had lured us back to this lovely piece of France, Kellie and I came to the conclusion that there are many more reasons why we should return - including a visit during winter to tackle the snow-covered slopes of the Alps. To paraphrase Arnie "The Governator" Schwarzenegger (and because I couldn't be arsed coming up with something original): "We'll be back".

Fun & Games on French Roads

France is obsessed with roundabouts.

I happen to think the roundabout is a pretty nifty bit of road furniture as well, but not when you tackle it an anti-clockwise direction like your average Frenchie. It's even weirder when you are obliged to reach for the gear-stick on your right hand side mid-roundabout, and then signal to exit the roundabout using an indicator lever to the left of the steering wheel rather than your right.

Therefore I firmly believe it was through some benign Act of God that, over the last 10 days, Kel or I did not wind up stalled in the middle of a French roundabout, peering at a stream of oncoming traffic through a frenzy of windscreen wiper blades.

On Saturday the 18th, about 10.30pm at Charles De Gaulle Airport (Paris), a foolish Budget Rental Car employee gave me the keys of Opel hatchback. I reckon it took me 30 minutes to muster enough courage just to start the engine. On the centre console lay a hand-written list of directions to Troyes, a city 2 hours away and host to our Formula 1 hotel for the night. The list suddenly looked more complex than a quadratic equation. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. Nervous sweat flooded my t-shirt. Why was I making such a big deal of this?

Out on the road, anxiety was replaced by a growing confidence. Indeed, we made it to the hotel almost on time. Motorway directions were ignored and intuition trusted. I clambered into our bed that night feeling exhausted from an overload of nervous energy, but also secretly proud of myself.

Without doubt though, my crowing moment on French roads came the next morning after Kellie and I left the hotel carpark. Rounding a corner, Kel spotted a Gendarme by the side of road. The Gendarme had just finished speaking to another motorist, and glanced at our vehicle as he stood up. Kel was sure he wanted us to pull over. I wasn't completely convinced, but visions of a high-speed police pursuit followed by 24 hours in a cell with a smelly man called Jean-Pierre encouraged me to follow Kellie's urgings.

I stopped the car and wound down my window. For the next 2 minutes, Mr Gendarme and I went on a wonderful verbal mystery tour together.

He started by looking down at me in a bemused fashion, blurting out several indecipheral French phrases, and waiting expectantly. Not one to be outdone, I tried to wow him with my best Austro-French, stating confidently that I was from Australia and was going to Annecy. I was genuinely surprised when these two facts failed to impress him. He shot me the sort of look a father might give to a son who has wet himself in public.

With some expansive hand flourishes, Mr Gendarme tried again to communicate to me, rattling through a host of French words that sounded like friendly questions, but to my ears they could have been the rantings of the Swedish chef from The Muppets. I put on my best confused frown and stared at the dashboard. It was apparent that neither of us had any chance of understanding each other, and a small, awkward period of silence followed. Mr Gendarme and I pretended to looked off into the distance, searching for any distraction that might excuse ourselves from an increasingly bizarre situation.

I faked a cough, he smiled thinly, Kellie let out an nervous chuckle. Taking my cue, I fired up the engine and drove off, almost stalling the car in the rush to disappear. What's more, I'm pretty sure the Gendarme didn't even bother to turn and watch us go.