A pear-fect day

Our hostel is on the Île de Barthelasse, an island in the Rhône river that is larger than the entire city of Avignon. Strangely, our guidebook has nothing to say about the island, or what can be found on it besides our hostel. This piqued my curiosity immediately, and when yesterday dawned overcast and without the usual oppressive heat, we decided to take the day and go exploring. Walker stocked his day pack with water, crackers, and Rondelé (which is embarassingly cheap here) and we set off along the water, heading vaguely northward. We eventually merged onto a bike trail, which we lost and found several times, though we weren't making any real effort to stay on it. After an hour or so, we decided to cut across the island toward the other branch of the river. Having neither map nor compass, it was not apparent to us at the time that we'd chosen the widest part of the island as our crossing point. As the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds that we'd known were too good to last, we wandered through several dozen hectares of apple and pear orchards, marvelling at the picturesque scenery.

After wanding in this aimless fashion for some time, Walker spotted a sign for a distillery. Needless to say, we changed course immediately. Another half hour brought us to the site, where a Frenchman napping under a pear tree told us the tasting room would open in under an hour. The sun was out in force by that point, so Walker and I found a spot under a tree and tucked in to our meager lunch. As the designated time approached, we headed back to the building, only to have the formerly sleeping arborist wave us toward the orchard, muttering incomprehensibly. I asked him to repeat himself, and he did, louder and even less decipherable, shooing us impatiently into the trees. Walker and I obendiantly wandered into the orchard, silently wondering which direction the axe murderer was most likely to come from, when Walker spotted that which we were supposed to be looking at. Strapped to the trees in twos and threes were bottles with pears growing in them!

Some were barely the size of a fingernail, while others were larger than golf balls, but all of them were growing merrily in glass bottles of all shapes and sizes. We explored and took several photos before heading to the tasting building, where we met the owner--a short, dark-haired man in work clothes who opened up immediately when it became apparent that we wanted to know the processes behind the products. We sampled l'eau de vie ("the water of life," indeed), which is made by fermenting fruit--like we do when making cider--and then distilling that fermentation like a whiskey mash. The result is a clear, aromatic liquid lightly flavored by the fruit it was made from. Not that the process is confined to fruit. The distillery also makes eau de vie from beer and absinthe. The French seem to be inordinately fond of sweet beverages, and we sampled several prime examples, including crème de peche (an alcoholic syrup that would taste amazing on vanilla ice cream) and the local appertif: Pastis, an anise-flavored liqueur that you dilute heavily with water.
All of this sampling (and more, I'm pleased to say) took place alongside "spirited" conversation ranging over topics as diverse as American fraternity drinking habits, water pollution in the Middle East, and the possibility of humans eventually living in other solar systems--an idea our host embraced wholeheartedly, pointing out that our own sun is scheduled to blow up in just a few million years.

It was a trip-completing experience for me. This is why I came to France: to wander sideroads among sprawling orchards, taste fine local produits, and argue educational reform in French. Come what may, I count this trip a success as of now.