{REVIEW} Saponi & Saponi Mediterranean Scrub

Last October, I had the great fortune of meeting, Polish born, Aga & the Sicilian Mazotta brothers.  Tucked away in the countryside of Sciacca, on the west coast of Sicily, the three of them were living on an olive grove, they'd inherited.

Passionate about sustainability, the environment & living as naturally as possible, they had invested in turning the ground floor of their house into a laboratory, in order to experiment ways of turning their organic extra virgin olive oil into something more than just a salad dressing.

What they ended up creating, is a rather impressive range of organic, chemical free skincare, which not only smells sumptuous, but delivers on its promises too.  Whilst I was there, I not only abused their hospitality (they're exceptional hosts), but their products as well & if I had to pick a favourite, I think it would be their Mediterranean Scrub with sea salt, extra virgin olive oil & lemon peel.

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The aroma of lemon this scrub emits, is quite divine & it's gentle granules are just rough enough to slough off dull dead skin, without being too abrasive.  Because it's made with olive oil, it doesn't dry out your skin, like some chemical laden scrubs do & instead, it leaves your skin smooth, soft & dewy. Saponi & Saponi also offer as part of their range; body oils, soaps, lip balms & even an ingenious, locally made, ceramic potted candle, which, when lit, melts into a massage oil.  I quite honestly love their products, their ethos & the guys themselves & could not recommend their range enough!

If you are ever in the Sciacca area, pop by & see the guys at work, they'd be most happy to show you around & take you for a cocktail & a spot of salsa dancing afterwards.

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{RECIPE} Apple Spice Quinoa Cake

I’ve been nestled in the countryside of Chabanais, in the south west of France, with my dear friend Kate, for the past week and in an attempt to entertain ourselves, we have been baking sweet treats on the daily.  Having been a little zealous with my measuring, whilst making 'meat' balls the other night, we ended up with about half a tonne of cooked quinoa left over.  Rather than let anything go to waste, I scoured the internet for recipe ideas and came across this...

Apple Spice Quinoa Cake

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This simple recipe from the Little Artisan Kitchen, has nine ingredients, which can be modified for both vegan and gluten free diets.  Taking only three steps to make, it's great for people for whom time, or indeed patience, is short.

I replaced the butter with vegetable margarine, used up a cup of the leftover quinoa and after an hour in the oven, was salivating over the smell emitting from the cake tin.  Between the three of us, Kate, her husband Colin, and myself, the entire cake was devoured by the time we all went to bed.  A most successful foray into quinoa related baking, even if I do say so myself.  Now, what to do with the rest of this quinoa...

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Nice, where the sun don't always shine.

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There was a part of me that assumed that once I reached France, I'd just know what to do.  I've always thought of France as my spiritual home.  I don't know why exactly, it's just, whenever I'm there, no matter what part of the country I'm in, I always get that feeling, that I'm where I'm meant to be.

Now don't get me wrong, I've had my ups and downs with France.  For starters, after two years of French class, my ability to speak the language is still embarrassingly poor.  Then of course, there is, I feel, this slight elitism about the French.  In Italy, if you try to speak Italian, even if you are piss poor at it, they love you for trying, they embrace you.  Yet, in France, if you try and speak French, predominantly speaking, they still seem to dislike you.

Of course, I don't want to tar an entire nation with the same brush.  I’ve met plenty of French people who’ve been wonderful and who I call my friends.  It can just be very frustrating, and often somewhat isolating, when you're in a country that you love, trying to incorporate yourself and you feel as though you're somehow being rejected.

So anyway, there I was in Nice, waiting for the feeling, that feeling of direction to wash over me and it just wasn't there.  I started to feel more lost than ever.  Was I doing the right thing or had I just rushed leaving Italy.  I suddenly wasn't sure and my indecisiveness took hold and spun me into a black hole of self-doubt.  The kind that sends me off into self-destruct mode.

Having made friends with a Chilean guy in my room, we caught the number 100 bus from Place Garibaldi and spent the day in Monaco.  For €1.50 and a forty minute ride, it seemed madness not to.  It was so warm and sunny, it felt like spring.  The pair of us walked around in nothing but our T-shirts.  It was bliss.  For a brief period, I actually allowed myself to stop thinking about what to do next and actually just enjoy the moment.

The pair of us walked up to the Jardin Exotique to sit and eat lunch overlooking the city, with the sea glistening, outstretched in front of us.  I felt happy.  If not just for a moment.  Chilean asked me what I was going to do next, where would I go after Nice.  I couldn't answer.  I hadn't thought further than getting there.

For once, I wasn't worried about money.  Or worried about having somewhere to stay.  I was worried about doing the right thing.  Asking myself, what exactly had made me come traveling in the first place.  It's so easy to sit at home and think the grass is greener in the Mediterranean.  That life would simply make sense somewhere else.  Somewhere warm.  But what happens when you get there and come to realise, it's not about the place, the issue is you.

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That evening, panicked by my own indecisiveness, I sent frantic messages to my friends, posted statuses of distress on my social networks and then, gave in to the hostel's Happy Hour and got drunk on €1 beers.  I could actually sense myself falling into a spiral of incomprehensible madness.  I couldn't think straight.  I'd forgotten why I was there.  Lost all that inner peace I'd found in the monastery.  I was a mess.

Hungover the next day, I packed up my things, checked out and wept into my complimentary breakfast in the hostel's bar.  An American guy I'd spoken to the night before, in my drunken depression fueled fog, came to join me.  He was about as clueless as I was.  There's something about New Yorkers though, they radiate this sense of overbearing wisdom.  Consistently psychoanalysing you and reducing you to tears.

Yes, I cried.

Strangely though, quite despite myself, I found that through my hatred, I somehow ended up quite liking him.  It was a clear cut case of a love-hate relationship.  Leaving our things in the hostel, we took a stroll through the streets, along the beach, ending up at the castle, overlooking the sea.  There was a busker playing L'Autre Valse d'Amélie on the accordion, which practically gave me chills.  When he then started playing La Vie En Rose, I closed my eyes and I could almost believe I was in Paris.  It was a perfect moment in time.

Returning to our hostel, it was time to make a decision.  I could travel along the coast and work my way up to Paris, or I could head to my friend Kate's in Chabanais.  One was logical and the other intuitive.  I chose the latter; head to Kate's.  Unfortunately, having been spoilt in Italy, with cheap and easy public transport, I was completely naive when it came to getting around France.  Looking into the train to Limoges, I was shocked when I saw it was going to cost over €150!

This revelation threw me into a panic.  Cue another meltdown.  Thankfully, Jean, one of the guys working at the hostel, who I'd made friends with, came to the rescue, pestering me into looking at BlaBlaCar, a car share website, a few people had mentioned to me.  I hadn't really liked the thought of it at first, so hadn't bothered to take a look, but ended up being so glad I did.

Essentially, people making long car journeys across country, sign up to the site and advertise seats in their car for a set fee.  All you have to do, is pick someone going your way and contact them to reserve a place.  I managed to find someone who was leaving Nice and driving directly to Limoges, for €50.  Saving me over €100 on train fare.  Only issue was he wasn't going until the following day.

With Villa Saint Exupery now fully booked, because of the impending carnival, myself and New York, who'd decided to head up to Lyon on the train the next day, found another hostel round the corner and checked in for a night.  Perhaps some time with friends was what I needed, to shift me back into reality.

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