Champagne
Mistletoe, merriment, and mulled wine this holiday season.
I stood apart from the rest of the group, my fingers lingering over the dull ridges and faded graffiti made by generations of mischievous workers, tense citizens, and bored children.
One morning, a few weeks ago, I found myself in Reims, the champagne capital of the world, on an impromptu adventure with a friend. Desperate for a little getaway and a bit of Christmas spirit, we jumped on a train the day before, happily clouded with visions of mistletoe, merriment, and mulled wine.
We arrived in Reims and were dropped off in the middle of a Christmas market. After leaving our stuff off at our hotel, we wandered the streets, taking in the sights and watching our step on the uneven cobblestone characteristic of old cities. We rushed amid the holiday decorations and cars, desperate to catch the last of the sunlight. An unsuspecting corner gave way and we were absolutely blinded by the golden hour light, which eventually revealed the Reims Notre Dame Cathedral. We stared, mesmerized at the light dripping down the Cathedral and illuminating every crevice and intricate detail. The Cathedral opened up, dimly lit with thousands of dispersed candles, to immensely high ceilings and an air that imposed history and reverence.
After taking shelter in the warmth of some food in a cozy tavern, we braved the cold once again and made our way to the Christmas market. With a hot wine warming our frozen hands and reflective conversation on the mind, we inspected each little cabin; each soap and chocolate and tchotchke were worthy of our attention on that night.
Only women can multitask so well as to make life-decisions and shop simultaneously.
The next day
The next morning we rushed off to explore a little French flea-market, long-forgotten treasures cluttering the floor. We munched on what we decided was a responsible breakfast of a granola bar and headed off to our only planned event of the weekend, a cellar tour and champagne tasting at G.H. Mumm.
A tour is always an serendipitous event. A group of strangers, brought together by various adventurous travelers, type A personalities, and what must be reluctant parties, all happen to meet. We descended into the dark cellars, several centuries old, and inhaled the musty odor of the past. The history geek inside me hung on the tour guide’s every word and gawked at the thousands upon thousands of bottles.
I could see history – I could see the workers in the 1800’s turning the bottles to unstick the yeast, the villagers taking refuge during the world wars, the thousands of other feet that had walked along the same path as mine. After the tour of the cellar, complete with a tad more science than my brain cared to retain, we went upstairs for a tasting session. The granola bars were no match for the champagne tasting and we giddily chatted with an Italian couple, swapping stories and recommendations in a way that restores your faith in meeting strangers.
Bundled up in our fuzzy war armor, we confronted the cold and spent the rest of the day wandering. We wandered in and out of cathedrals, museums, gardens and cafes, leisurely taking in the past and present of the champagne city. The streets that we were wandering on were some of the same streets that kings of France had walked on, that military had battled on, that Romans had toiled on.
Keep traveling.
I was originally reluctant to make this little trip, but as I ran my hands over centuries-old graffiti, I remembered why I liked to travel so much. For me, travel isn’t just about connecting with people and places from all over the world (although that’s an obvious plus). Travel is also about reaching into history to the little boy who etched his name on the wall, pleading to be remembered, and saying ‘Hello you… I see you’.
Keep traveling.
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