Some more politics

With the trend starting on yesterday’s post, I want to shill a little more for progressive politics.

Our (very cool) coworking space is hosting an Obama Call Party this Sunday:

Wondering what you can do to help in what might be the most important election of our lives? Come to the PariSoMa coworking space Sunday for a few hours to make sure Barack has enough volunteers to counter the smears, and get voters to the polls in the critical swing states.
NOTE: We’re sorry, but this space is not handicap accessible; it’s one story up with no elevator.

All you need to bring is your cell phone; we’ll provide scripts and lists of voters to call. For extra kharma points, bring a snack or drinks to share with your fellow volunteers. Better yet, bring a few friends. But at least bring yourself!

Don’t think we need help in the swing states?  Check out the the struggle on the ground in next upcoming This American Life episode.

Obama has a posse.  And it’s US!

Robert Mondavi: 1913-2008

Big news in the wine world – Robert Mondavi died today at 94. Say waht you want about Mondavi wines, he helped put Napa on the map. And helped slowly (ever so slowly) turn wine drinking in the US from elite and expensive activity to simple populist pleasure. From the Wine Spectator:

“To promote the marriage of food and wine, Mondavi and his wife,
Margrit Biever Mondavi, created the “Great Chefs” programs at their
Oakville winery in the 1970s. Each year, they hosted influential
culinary masters, such as Julia Child and Paul Bocuse, to cook and
experiment with different food and wine pairings.

But rather than limit wine to fine dining, Mondavi championed making
it a part of everyday life and of a healthy lifestyle. When wine came
under attack in the 1980s, Mondavi was a vocal critic of anti-alcohol
campaigns and advocated research into the benefits of moderate
consumption of wine.”

Good stuff from Vinography

I’ve not always agreed with Alder at Vinography, particularly around his views on wine as a product vs. wine as a cultural tradition (the latter being a very European- and grower-centric view).  That doesn’t mean I don’t read and enjoy his very popular and in-depth blog.  I just wanted to give a quick nod on two posts I read recently that had me giving the thumbs-up:

• Wine and food pairing – It’s a sham.  Yes, I happen to agree.  Some wine work better than others, for sure, but the current fear of mis-matching wines is way overboard….
• Wine and the recession – Something I’ve been thinking about as I see my favorite daily drinking wines go up several dollars in price over two years (and when some of my favorites started at $10 from Kermit Lynch, that’s a big percentage increase….)

Technorati Tags: vinography

Wine Stories

I’m far more interested in wine stories than wine reviews, and I wonder how many people share this feeling. (Wine blogger Pim apparently does, and points to a couple of good wine storytellers.) In fact, I’m pretty terrible at identifying and describing particular elements in the aroma and flavor of a particular wine, which is probably why I so much prefer to tell a long and involved story about a particular wine than try to review it out of context. 

Don’t get me wrong – I can pick out differences between wines, and can appreciate excellent wines that are not within my preferred “taste”; but accurately describing them in wine taster terms is beyond me (and completely frustrating for my friends).  I usually end up with some bizarre colorful comparison, such as recently “This one feels like a sword – light, thin but strong; and this one a bat – heavy and … heavy, big, hits you over the head…”

This touches on what Jancis Robinson describes as the difference between wine reviewers and wine writers.  (Given my scant record, I don’t put myself in either category).  Of course, most wine bloggers are a mix of the two:  they admit that their preferred memories of wine are very contextual – there’s a story that went along with the act of drinking that wine; but they still write tons of reviews, which seems to be the de-facto activity of wine bloggers.  I personally skip over almost all of the reviews and head for the stories.  I mean, I usually don’t buy a bottle of wine without some sort of personal connection to it, however tenuous. 

I’ve ruminated on this for a while, somehow feeling a little less assured in my wine experience since I not only was disinterested in reading wine reviews, but personally had a harder time defining all the tiny elements of a wine’s “nose and mouth”.

I ruminate still, but what brought this whole thing to a head to me was the sheer joy I had while reading a Port story that says nothing about the objective qualities of the port, but everything about the experience.  From a yoga teacher who doesn’t usually write about wine (and nod to Amanda for pointing this my way.)

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Keeping an open mind (and open taste buds)

One of the things about working on a wine project that focuses on the actual land and people who grow the wine is that – as part of the U.S. team for this – I’ll be checking out a lot more American wines than ever before.  That’ll be a return to my first wine experiences where I “got” it – driving around the gorgeous Alexander and Dry Creek Valleys, soaking in the sun and the wines.

It was on a couple of those trips through Sonoma wine country that I began to understand how different wines could be, even if made from the same grape; and I began to develop my own particular tastes.  For example, disliking Zinfandel and Chardonnay.  My thoughts on Zin perhaps later (it’s an amazing grape, pushed to high-alcohol over-intensity too often), but it’s no surprise that the butter-slathered-on-an-oak-slab over-alcoholic-paint-thinner trend of Chardonnays that was popular just 5-odd years ago turned me off.

Over the years, I’ve given Chardonnay the benefit of the doubt – particularly when it’s not an American Chardonnay, or when the Americans have eased up on the butter and oak (and alcohol).  Still, if given the choice in US wines, I would always grab a Sauvignon Blanc, or even a Viognier, first.

Which is exactly what I did for PariSoMa’s co-hopping event.  I ordered a case of Kalinda Sauvingon Blanc.  Kalinda is K&L Wines’ “white label” – they pick up extra grapes from high-end growers who need to reduce their inventory, in return for not mentioning who they are….  Not only do you and I get a deal, these are single-source grapes, which follows the basic premise of Mapovino.

Except that K&L messed up the order, and I ended up with a case of Anderson Valley Chardonnay, which in my mind immediately rhymed with dismay.

Turns out, though, that  (I’m guessing) the cooler weather and vinifictation of this chardonnay took it miles in another direction.  It’s a great white that can be drunk cool, not cold in order to temper the alcohol and butter wafting off of other chardonnays.  It even handily beat out a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc Amanda and I tried the other day – a U.S. Chard beating a non-US (albeit New World) Sauv-Blac. Wow – that was a new one for us.

I’m interested in exploring wines in the US (and everywhere) that are classic examples of what the land – and wine making tradition – produces.  My only nagging thought, though, is this:  Is the hot, buttery chardonnay a more classic example of the Californian Chardonnay tradition than this new, northern county style?

Credit Agricole – c’est nulle, nulle, nulle

Credit Agricole would have to go out of their way to try to suck worse than they do.  And maybe they do, on purpose, because boy, do they suck.  Add to that the nightmare of French bureaucracy, and you’ve got a clear winner in the loser department.

Two years ago, I discovered that if I was planning on visiting France with any regularity, I needed a French debit card.  There is a whole swath of transactions that can only be accomplished with French cards – specifically, French bank cards with the implanted chip.  Attempting to purchase gas without a human teller on a holiday is just one example, but the one that forced my hand.

Since my father already had a French bank account, we figured it would be easiest to avoid the red tape and open a joint account under his account, with the French credit union Credit Agricole.  I believe this is where things began to go wrong.  In the interest of time and space – and for maximum amusing readability – let me cut to the (goose) chase:

• My Dad lives in Africa (long story).  I live in San Francisco.  The bank, based in Normandy, sent all my documents to Africa – even after I explained (at the outset) that I needed my documents sent to me in the U.S.  I eventually did start receiving some documents (but never statements) in the U.S.  Notably, a questionnaire asking me about their customer service….
• I tried logging in to the online system, and I had my online password wrong.  Yes, this was my fault.  After three tries, the bank locks you out completely until you contact them and ask for a password reset.  Ah – they only send the new passwords by mail.  It went to Africa.  I had to contact my parents to get the code.
• I visited France this last June and I brought my bank card with me.  I used my card for the first time and was given the keypad for my code….. I had forgotten my French card’s PIN (as opposed to the online login password).  No sweat, I thought – I’ll ask them to process the purchase as a credit card.  No deal.  Even though the card says “Visa” on it, I cannot use the card as a credit card (with signature) – at least, if I supposed to be able to, I’ve been refused by stores so far.
• For the life of me, I could not remember ever even having received a PIN number – which is why I never thought of it in the first place.  (I discovered later that I never did – my parents brought me a bunch of bank mail, which included the PIN).  I went to the nearest Credit Agricole (I was in southern France by then) with my bank card, hoping to reset my code in person.  They looked at me as I had brought them a nose-trimmer.  “We can’t help you with that.  You don’t have an account here.  You have to call your local agency.”
• I call my actual bank in Normandy.  They could resend my PIN number – by mail.  Hmmm – you can probably guess how excited I was about that prospect.  I asked them to send it instead to my mother’s address, in the south of France, where I would be for the next week.  I should have guessed it would have sounded too fishy – even though I passed all the security tests on the phone, etc, they never sent it.
• This time around, on our trip in November, I go straight to the bank in Normandy.  First, what’s this new $20 “bank card” fee I’m being charged?  “It’s for the use of your bank card”.  I’ve had this card for over a year now, never a fee.  The assistant manager looks at the screen a moment, then says, “Don’t worry about it.”  I ask if he’ll remove it.  “Don’t worry about it.”  That’s not how we confirm someone will remove a bank charge in the U.S.  It’s “Yes, I will remove the fee.”  I’m suspicious.
• I wanted to confirm my card would work with my code.  The assistant manager stands beside me as I put the card into the ATM, enter my PIN.  Ah, the code is accepted.  I am able to take out money – or at least, I should say, get to the money screen, after which we cancelled the operation (mistake).  So it works…..
• C’est vrai?  Non…..  I try to buy gas with the card the next day, on our way down to Lyon, 600 kilometers away from my bank.  No luck – the card accepts the PIN, but then says the transaction is invalid.  The woman looks at the card, and says “Oh, your card is expired.  As of last month.”  I have not received a replacement card (I’m sure it’s in Africa – they were *still* tryng to make my U.S. address stick in their system when I visited them this time).  No one at the bank in Normandy noticed.
• I go to the Credit Agricole in Lyon.  I have my passport, and I have my check book.  Surely I can get money out that way….  You can guess where this is going, right?  The woman is all accommodating until she sees my checkbook.  On the cover, my dad’s name is printed, first initial and last name.  She says it’s not my name.  I show here an actual check with “G Beuthin” printed on it.  She pauses.  “But that’s not your full name. I can’t confirm this is you.”  Apparently, since “Gregory” is not printed on my checks, she refuses to let he have access to cash.
• My only solution is to call my bank, and have them wire transfer it to another branch.  But that will take 24 hours, and will cost me $20.  I go through a run-around of calling another branch further south where I will be the next day; making sure it will be open on Saturday morning so I can  actually get the money at that agency; then calling my agency again and requesting the wire transfer.  This all takes over 30 minutes.  What I can’t understand is why, if I can call my bank and have them wire transfer money to someone (anyone, apparently, as long as that person has a passport or formal ID) at another location, can’t I get money out for myself by calling my bank?!!!
• Finally, just to show that Credit Agricole is not the only bank that is giving me the French red-tape special (but certainly the worst so far), I visited BNP Paribas to finish setting up an account I had opened on my last trip.  The manager was apologetic as he told me the account was refused – he had submitted the request as a resident account (even though I was not a resident) and it had been refused because I did not provide any resident papers.  Yet when I was there over the summer, we had discussed all the supporting paper s I would need form my American banks since I was opening a non-resident account.   The manager even suggested I open an account with a resident family member (like my Dad, perhaps) and surreptitiously use the card with their name on it.  Are you kidding?  I can’t even use a card with my name on it!!!

So the saga is not over.  It’s just less painful when I’m not in France, not dealing with it.

Technorati Tags: creditagricole, france

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Restaurant Iberia – uh, Newark?

My wife and I went on a short trip to France this month.  It’s a mix of a much needed vacation for my wife, and a family plus business trip for me.  And yes, it isn’t a great combination since the vacation part gets short shrift, but this was our only time and opportunity.  On our way out, we had a 24 layover in Newark, New Jersey (long story) and we decided we should eat something that we wouldn’t find readily in France.  Being Californian, we figured we’d pick up some sushi – until we realized that Newark isn’t known for sushi, at all.  (Yes, that was obvious in retrospect, but we were tired and jet-lagged).  Instead, Newark is known for Portuguese food.  That didn’t fit our original criteria too well, but we opted for a reframing – we’d be eating a Newark “terroir” meal.

We ended up at Iberia Peninsula Restaurant, mainly because it was still open by the time we got there.  We balked at first because almost every dish hovered at around $20, and being from San Francisco, it’s tough (for us) to justify $19.95 for a plate of cod unless it’s sustainably caught, with a seasonal preparation featuring ingredients from farms we recognize, slow food blah blah.  But we were hungry, and this was the only place open.

And by the end of the meal, we were ecstatic, full, and not really that much out of pocket.  We had really had an amazing, and Newark “terroir” meal.  We started with deep fried calamari, which were fresh and soft, with a softer breaded covering than the usual pub-fare crisp. We originally figured we would split the house-special parrilhada (seafood platter) for two, but then saw one delivered to another table, and realized we didn’t have 4 more Newark constructions workers there to help us eat it, so we shared a paella marinera.

Sure, it’s technically Spanish, not Portuguese, but we were in an “Iberian” restaurant….  The thing came in a metal bucket 2/3 the size of a champagne bucket, the top overflowing with lobster.  There was so much lobster, it was as if we had ordered lobster for two, and paella for four.  Oh, and the paella was full of mussels, clams, scallops and calamari too.  Oh, and it was delicious.  We tried packing it down with a bottle of Portuguese white wine, but there was no way we could not eat it all – we couldn’t even finish the lobster!

The waiter was just as much part of the experience as the food.  Age indeterminate, he had salt and pepper hair and a perfectly understated way about him, the politeness and efficacy of Jeeves with the life-long-waiter appeal of a Parisian brasserie server.  Every choice of ours was a perfect choice, but recommendations were made if asked.  Affirmative was a slight nod and closing the eyes, all with a hint of a smile that indicated we were the smartest patrons in the room – or whoever he happened to be talking to at that moment.

I finished with a cappucino just to see the crusty guy behind the counter make one on the enormous espresso machine.  We grabbed a cab to return to our hotel, with our tub of remaining paella in hand (really, a metal tub so we could reheat it at home if need be).  We asked the cabbie on a whim if there was somewhere we could find some homeless people to give the food to.  He didn’t blink – he knew that they were usually around the train station, and yes, Iberia always gives you too much food.  We found a guy in a wheelchair, and I hefted the remaining meal into his hands, and then returned to our hotel, amazed at the experience we never expected to find in Newark, New Jersey.

Technorati Tags: restaurantiberia, newark

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Chambolle-Musigny (pt. 2)

[Don’t miss Grégoire’s fantastic photo series of Chambolle-Musigny vineyards. A lot of the area we covered on this trip is well documented in his photo series.]

We headed back down the hill, but around to the other side of the ridge. This is the Haute Cotes region, which produces a lighter wine – it’s much more remote, and the landscape reminds me of some of the back valleys of Sonoma. We were looking for an auberge restaurant that Gregoire knew in one of the villages – but turns out it was closed Monday and Tuesday. We headed on through the region, and came back out further south, towards Beaune – the next big town that marks the beginning of the Cotes de Beaune region (the entire “departement” – read state – is the Cotes d’Or, and the northern part where we were is called the Cotes de Nuits, and represents only a fraction of the area of Burgundy wines).

We parked downtown, near the Hospice of Beaune, which has a fundraiser every year selling it’s wines at elevated prices to support what is now one of the most well-equipped hospitals in France. We popped into a little bakery to get some simple sandwiches, and Gregoire went around the corner to pick up a bottle of wine. We were very much in the tourist district, so they had wine stores every three doors. He came back with a half-bottle of Cotes de Beaune (the most general regional appellation there above “Burgundy”) from 1995.

We jumped back in the car, and up to Aloxe-Corton, a small town to the north of Beaune (not quite back into the Cotes de Nuits region). This is where Gregoire did his first wine internships, and he has fond memories of the place. There are two main hills here – both large mounds rising from this side of the valley, a kilometre or so from the west ridge. One has vines on all sides, and a forest on the top, giving it the look of… a Beatles haircut?

The other is the same, except the Beatles haircut has a rectangle cut out of it for statues of a virgin or saint. We drove up to the top of the latter, and had our sandwiches and half-bottle overlooking the virgin and that part of the valley. The Cotes de Beaune was still pretty lively for a 12 year old wine, spicy like a pinot noir should be, yet very light. Gregoire said it was a great deal at the price (less than 10 Euros), and I believed him.

We headed back through the vines, again passing the crazy Clos Vougeot with its centuries old walls, and divvied up blocks of grapes, some of which fetch the highest prices in the world (OK, Screaming Eagle notwithstanding). We drove right by the wall of Romanee-Conti, and their jackass but polite bilingual sign encouraging people to stay out of their vineyard (Gregoire said that at the prices the wine goes for, a single grape comes to something like 20 Euros). Finally back to Chambolle-Musigny, to catch up with his friend Veronique, widow of and inheritor of the Roumier wines.

The Roumier cave was nice and cool after a long day of driving in the heat. It’s not an old brick style cellar, but more of an enlarged garage – in fact, where she keeps her barrels looks only just a little bigger than two 2-car garages. It’s very mellow – not a formal tasting, since she knows Gregoire so well (she leaves us alone several times to answer calls etc) – although she does have 5 bottles for us to try – since she’s basically open to anyone who comes, and it’s a weekend. The Roumier wines come in several different versions – an Hautes Cotes (the lighter wine from the backside of the valley), a Chambolle village appellation, a Premier Cru appelation, and then a Bonnes Mares Grand Cru and a Clos Vogeut Grand Cru. I didn’t know that a) we had looked down on some of her Bonnes Mares Grand Cru earlier that day on the slope visit, and b) that she had some property in Clos Vougeot. I was going to taste a Premier Cru and two Grand Crus. Holy crap.

And holy crap. The village appellation was already amazing. The Premier was a little tight – it needed some time to get over bottle shock, apparently. The Grands Crus were…. well, out of this world. They were also very, very distinctly pinot noirs, much more like the big pinots you get in the US than I expected. Maybe not quite as much burning alcohol, but still huge mothers with lots of spice. And they had been opened since the day before….

Everything we had tasted that day was in little glasses – what I think of as sherry copas – that are the standard tasting glass of the French Oenological Society. Nonetheless, these wines were intense. Speaking of glasses, Gregoire had to pop out for a second to return the glasses we had borrowed from the cave down the street to drink our aligoté earlier, so I took some time to ask Veronique some questions. It turns out all the barrels we could see in the room (about 50-100 medium to small barrels – most smaller than even the simple US pickle barrels) was her total harvest for 2006 (almost all of 2005 was already in bottles). I asked her what her production was – she said 15 thousand. Cases? No, bottles. Holy crap – that’s 1250 cases. Freakin’ Kaz in Sonoma – a tiny winery – makes 4000 cases….

We made our orders, and she grabbed bottles out of large steal holding bins, and then ran them through the capping and label machines (all bottles are uncapped and unlabeled while in storage). As we were paying, Veronique asked us if we wanted to take any of the open bottles with us – they had already been open a day, and she was going to chuck them that night. We demurred for about 15 seconds, then Gregoire said he’d take the Chambolle village appellation (which was excellent). Since she had heard me say I definitely wanted to try a Clos Vougeot while we were at the tasting, she offered that to us to – I think we demurred the bare minimum 7.8 seconds to be polite, then said oh hell, we’d lighten her load. We put our 6-bottle cases (the standard in Burgundy) in the car, thanked Veronique, and headed back home.

(And needless to say, I sipped on the Clos Vougeot as I wrote my first draft of these notes…..)

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Chambolle-Musigny (pt. 1)

There is now a special place in my heart for Chambolle-Musigny, one of the small Burgundy wine producing towns just south of Dijon. (Full disclosure: Prior to this trip, I only knew Chambolle-Musigny was somewhere in Burgundy. Almost all the information written down here was gleaned on this very trip).

The road from Dijon to Beaune (and beyond) is dotted with small towns like Chambolle-Musigny, which make up the majority of the high-end producers of the region – Gevrey-Chambertin, Morey-Saint-Denis, Vosne-Romanee, Aloxe-Carton, etc. The wine producing region stretches lengthwise south between the lowlands nearer the national highway (regular Burgundy regional appellation), up the side of the valley (usually getting a village appellation like Chambolle-Musigny), interspersed with specific plots dating to the middle ages, which have just the right slope and soil characteristics (Clos Vougeot, Romanee-Conti, etc) – these are sub-divided into Premiere Crus (about 100 or so in the entire region?) and the “highest” quality Grand Cru (about 50?). Of course, the quality is not just about appellation. Nearer the tops of the ridges, the slope is too steep and the appellation drops usually to the village if not regional level.

(A pretty decent map of the area we covered.)

It’s hot out today (mid-June) – about 25-29 C, and it will be hot and muggy all day. Both Gregoire (from WineCamp) and myself are in shorts and shirts (at his recommendation). Our first stop was at a Premiere Cru chateau that was a distant cousin of Gregoire’s. The owner was not there, but his wife was, and she gave us a brief tour.

She told Gregoire that because of the renovations they had made in the winemaking process, they’ve had to raise their prices from one vintage to the next to recoup their costs – from 19 Euros to 70 Euros a bottle. Even Gregoire was a little taken aback – they always had a top of the line series, but also always a solid 20-odd Euro wine. No more – and the wife was very confident that people would pay for it. And seeing Burgundy prices in the U.S. I don’t doubt her.

After the brief tour of the cellar, Gregoire and I went out to look at the vineyard, and he pointed out the best part of the slope – it was less steep than I would have expected (being trained in the Rhône “steeper is better” philosophy). We jumped back in the car, and off to our next stop, his favorite ridge. He drove me up and parked on the side of the road – we were on a slope, above a plot of land called Les Bonnes Mares, which is shared by several vineyards and produces a Premier Cru. This system of divvying up parcels of vines within a named plot of land is very common – according to Gregoire, although the system of splitting the land among all male inheritors is not a legal requirement, it’s a very old tradition.

Typically, all the parcel owners meet to discuss how they shall equally deal with growing challenges, so that for example, one person doesn’t decide to do some more drastic pest reduction (like spray) within the same parcel of land that everyone else is sharing (and thus affect the overall quality of that plot). In fact, so many of the well known parcels of land are split up that the few named (and well known) parcels of land that are entirely owned by one owner were referred to – at least by Gregoire – as “monopolies.” This comment seemed to me to belie the deeply-held belief that what mostly defines the wine is the land itself; the “owners” are just stewards….

The view from the slope also allowed us to see some of the more famous parcels of land in this area – Les Amoureuses and Romanee-Conti (both monopolies) and Clos Vougeot – a 60 hectare area that is shared by 80 owners – all surrounded by a brick wall that dates back to the time when the monks were originally growing grapes here. (A picture of the Clos Vougeot castle here. My annotated photo from the ridge – above – here. Closer annotate shots here.)

Then we were off to the village of Chambolle-Musigny. We popped into a “Cave à Degustation” where he used to work, and talked shop with the woman who currently works there. I perused the wines – most I’d never heard of – and listened in on the conversation. Apparently everyone is selling out of the 2005s. And no one is buying the 2004s, because it was bookended by two fantastic years.

As we left, Gregoire picked up a bottle of Aligoté. Bourgogne Aligoté is actually a type of grape, originally an easy-to-grow grape that was used mostly to grow the winemaker’s personal drinking white. It is very sharp and acidic – which is probably why it lent itself to being mixed with Creme de Cassis, an original Dijon specialty (I always thought kirs came from the south). Apparently, Gregoire’s grandfather worked as adjunct to the Dijon Mayor Kir himself, who is said to have invented the drink.

We packed our aligoté and headed up to the spot where Gregoire originally wanted to hold WineCamp, had he not decided a home-grown version was better. Up above the regular Burgundy village appellation, if you head back even one ridge beyond the first, is Hautes Cotes de Nuit, that produces a lighter version of Burgundy red. Up here is where Gregoire’s friend Veronique Roumier has an acre or so of Hautes Cotes grapes, and also a small cleared plot of land with a cabin, right at the edge of where the forest meets the vineyards. We popped open the aligoté, and I fell in love. It’s an amazing little space, up in the ridge overlooking the Cotes de Nuits valley. The aligoté we had “straight” and though it was a little astringent when we started, it was a very nice wine that mellowed after a few minutes.

Train travel in France

First things first – if you can speak French (or at least understand it well enough) DO NOT use RailEurope for any point-to-point train ticket purchases (they are still the only place to buy EurRail passes).  For example, I was looking for a ticket from Paris to Macon:

• SNCF / TGV site:  I found a 1.5 hour TGV ticket for 50 Euros.
• RailEurope:  I found a 4 hour train ride, no TGV, with a transfer, for $120 (about 80 Euros).

You can purchase TGV tickets (or even regular non-TGV train tickets) from the SNCF site, from any point to any point (even the smallest station).  There is a small question at the end of the form that asks your country of residence.  If you say the US, you get punted to RailEurope; however, you can say France – and then select the option to print out your ticket yourself.  International credit cards work fine on the site.

A couple of other things to note:

• DON’T select any ticket that only allows for a ticket retrieval from a “borne automatique” – a ticket machine.  These require you use your purchasing credit card to retrieve your ticket- and if you’ve spent any time in France, you’ll know that almost every “credit card” machine actually requires the French credit card with the embedded chip (I’ve seen foreign cards – chip and all – fail in these systems too).
• You can, in general, retrieve your ticket from a human being – just be sure to give yourself enoguh time to stand in lime.  And keep handy the confirmation code number they send you via email.  They can’t do anything about your ticket without it.  I missed a train (see “credit card without chip” above) and had to get re-routed – the agent could not look up my info based on my card nor my name.
• When you buy a ticket from a human, remember that the train system pricing depends on a rather complicated set of peak and off-peak times that can radically affect the price – and they won’t necessarily offer you the cheapest ticket unless you ask.  They tend to ask when you want to go, and then give you a standardized price based on that time of day and day of week (and season, etc).
• For what it’s worth – mobile phone use within the cabin is strongly frowned upon.  That’s what those cute stickers of sleeping cell phones all over the cabin mean (go to the area by the bathrooms and exit doors for a phone conversation).

Technorati Tags: France, TGV, SNCF

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