So we meet again, en France. Leaving home seven weeks
after foot surgery, I was nervous about the limitations that might entail—plus
the fact that I came a week earlier than usual made for its own complications.
Ha! I had not yet learned the extent of the word, savored it in all its
permutations.
Saturday, in response to my tentative question as to whether
there were tours out of, well, Tours, to any of the chateaux, the
wonderful (wonderful) woman at the B&B in Vouvray (Sylvie) not only phoned
around, but found one leaving shortly for Chambord and Chenonceau,
run by a friend of hers. I at first (surprised it was NOW) said I'd better wait
till Sunday on account of the beleaguered foot, but after talking to the guy
myself I discovered the Sunday tour was a completely different one, that I
wasn't really interested in, so off we went with 15 minutes to tour time (I'd
had a couple of pieces of bread and tea for breakfast, but even though
"the guy" had told me "eat something," there wasn't time).
The trip was really lovely. Our driver was pretty much just the driver; once he bought our tickets for us we were on our own, with a designated return time. Chambord is incredibly impressive, but mainly for the exterior and the spiral staircase, and every magnificent view of it along long allées of trees. Chenonceau I've wanted to see since I had a poster of it on the wall of my bedroom when I was in high school--and it does not disappoint. Plus the gardens, the wonderful gardens (the “smaller” one all in shades of pink and red).
Sunday I had moules (mussels) with Sylvie and her daughter for lunch, which were delicious. It was warm enough, and not raining, that we sat under the 100-year-old grapevine (La Tonnelle, the arbor for which the B&B is named) to eat. Late in the afternoon (after I'd tried to relax and read, and climbed a ladder to the higher part of the hill behind the house (detour: the house is one of the many "troglodyte" buildings in the area, partially hacked out of solid rock. Sylvie, with her own hands and a pick, personally spent eight years doing the hacking to enlarge what had been a sort of outbuilding/cave for another house, and doing general restoration. To get to my room I had to climb a tight spiral stair, then branch off onto another spiral stair), wanting to see her vegetable garden that had produced the tiny radishes, the beautiful tomatoes, and one of the largest lettuces I've ever seen, that we had with bread and butter for supper the night before. I didn't find it (because, she told me while we were taking in laundry from the line there later, it's past the vineyard just outside a back fence on the hill), but picked some wildflowers and pyrancantha berries and made an arrangement.
About sunset Sylvie asked me if I'd like to go to "La Guinguette." Well--why not? We cleaned up a little and off we went again. In a larger park that has rides and games and play areas for children and picnic areas, it's a large outdoor restaurant, with a bar and a REALLY large dance floor under an enormous tent. There was a live band playing when we first got there, playing mostly oldies, with a singer who's apparently well-known. The place was packed, and the dance floor was packed. There's a board as you enter, with photos showing there has been something of the sort there or nearby since at least 1908. It's right on the bank of the Loire; it felt like being in a Renoir.
We came across a group of friends of Sylvie's and moved to sit with them. Before long there was a sudden downpour, naturally shortly after the staff had taken away the umbrellas over the tables, and everyone ran for shelter either in the tent or (like us) under the shed roof extending from the bar. (Not long before the rain, the setting sun had suddenly illuminated the woods along the opposite bank of the river; I wasn't the only person who jumped up to go take photos. It was breathtaking.)
One of the men in the group , something of a stereotypical compulsively flirtatious Frenchman, even with his also very attractive wife right there, finally badgered me into one dance (more like grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor), which of course was a bad idea for The Foot, but still fun. After that I was more steadfast in my refusals. (And then there was the bizarre man who wouldn't leave me alone--not part of the group--wearing a trenchcoat and fedora, who insisted on speaking only English, in a redneck Southern accent. He loves country music, spent some time in the U.S., doesn’t think slavery was all that bad a thing, blah, blah, blah. The women in the group were giving me sarcastic thumbs-up and laughing behind his back. He would go away, but then come back.
And so on. So, see, I salvaged some fun. But why was I depending upon the kindness of strangers? Ah. Never too late to learn new things (or have old, old lessons reinforced).
1. Sixty-somethings are maybe not that compatible with twenty-somethings in their apartments. Especially when "non-smoking" is liberally interpreted to mean "blowing smoke out the window" is okay. The smoke of course gradually permeates the apartment, and the head. They were perfectly nice, really, especially considering that the shuttle from the airport (once I'd walked miles to find it) left so late, arrived so late, that I'd missed connecting with the male half, who had come home from work to give me the key. A very nice American woman, living in Paris with her children and husband who works for Disney, let me leave my bags outside her apartment on the floor where the elevator ends (in that part of the building; in my part of the bldg. there is no elevator)--so, safe, essentially--so that I could go at least get something to eat.
2. "My" apartment was available all along. My seller had mixed up the fact that someone was in it the first two weeks of September with the last two weeks, but failed ever to correct his first communication with me. All of number 1, above (including additional expense), could have been completely avoided, plus the cab the next morning to drop off the large bag actually at the apartment while I went out of town.
3. The Foot is proving an even greater problem than anticipated.
4. Mysterious things will happen for unknown reasons. I'd set the alarm clock by my notebook computer, which is permanently set to Paris time. I didn't realize until I got to Montparnasse station (had been wondering why my watch showed a later time) that the train I'd meant to take was, in fact, gone, and that the next one to Chartres would get me there after 1:00. But I did get there, finally, took a cab to Hertz, and picked up my car.
It's true you never lose the ability to drive a stick shift, no matter how long you're away from it (witness Ireland last year, doing it on the left). After the first nervous half hour or so, getting used to the car, getting out of Chartres, the drive was actually fun. The signage is excellent, the roads are good, the countryside is interesting (the symbol I saw various places for the Eure-et-Loir region was stalks of wheat, and indeed there were vast fields of harvested stubble among the rolling hills and little stone towns). It had begun to rain as I left Hertz, and rained or sprinkled pretty much continuously on the way.
I stopped in Chateaudun as planned, found the chateau (which is a very early one, more fortress-like: eleventh century (though there was an even earlier something there, on a high rock, and there's a wing that's later). The spiral stairs here were said to be the inspiration for the great one at Blois (and I would suppose Chambord, for that matter), which was the whole reason history-geekiness had kicked in and made me want to see it. There's a wonderful medieval herb garden, too.
5. Even with many decades of driving experience, a car will suddenly hydroplane on water on the street when you attempt to stop for a light changing red (even though you have been driving for hours carefully obeying all the signs and speed limits, because you are in another country, in an unfamiliar car, let alone in the rain). And there will inevitably be a car in front of you, already stopped (you really are supposed to stop when the light turns "amber" (“feu orange,” as they say, I discovered), the young architecture student you will skid into. Here the story turns traumatic, and the sea of stress adrenaline I swam in for the rest of the weekend begins. Very fortunately, no one was hurt. The cars were hurt (pretty dramatically, mine). We were in the middle of the main street (part of the national highway) through Vendôme, so we drove off onto a side street and parked. As you can imagine, we were both completely freaked out. She's nineteen and it was her first accident. I was in France, in a rental car, and felt it had been entirely my fault though I really couldn't have helped it. It took all of two seconds for everything to turn to s**t. And yes, the time did pass in slow motion as it happened: I had time not only to try desperately to stop, but for all the massive complications to come to pass through my mind.
There is, among all the many other aspects, an element of "why, out of the hundreds of foreigners--Americans, even--who rent cars and drive in France, me?" And will the insurance cover--any part of it?
After a couple of hours of exchanging information, filling out the obligatory accident form everyone in France has in the glove compartment, calling the gendarmes who will not come if no one is injured, her calling her parents many times, my calling the insurance company in New York a couple of times, her finally letting me call my B&B in Vouvray on her phone because for some reason my phone will not let the call go through--nor to Hertz to at least leave a message, since the office in Chartres is closed until Monday...we drive to Vouvray. She drives me to Vouvray, because bizarrely, that was where she had been headed also for the weekend. I leave the car where it's parked, because I can't reach anyone at Hertz, and I'm afraid to drive it with the hood shoved back the way it is. The entire weekend I worry whether the car will be there when I come back, whether I'll wind up having to pay for everything, etc., etc., but since there's absolutely nothing more I can do but sleep in the car (which is parked in a legitimate parking space on a country-ish road/street), I decide to go on.
And all of the first part transpires. One perk (which, actually, would have been pretty much inevitable regardless) was a crash French immersion course. Sylvie speaks no English (nor did my poor hapless victim--imagine negotiating post-car crash logistics entirely in French). In fact, I only two or three times encountered someone who did, and then only slightly--not counting Mr. Bizarre Redneck Wannabe (and, of course, not the Canadian couple and the Australian woman on the chateau trip--nor, for that matter, the Chinese couple, the young Japanese man, nor the woman from Hong Kong; everyone spoke English then). However, the following morning (after arriving late and having a wonderful dinner Sylvie had prepared for a group--a youngish couple traveling around, through Brittany and whatever, had discovered that by sheer coincidence (an evening for coincidences) her parents and aunt were also in Tours at the moment, so had arranged for this dinner at the B&B where they--the couple--were staying) another couple staying at the B&B (chambre d'hôte, technically), who had come back after the dinner, came down to breakfast. In the (never-ending) retelling of my woes, it transpired that the guy was a former gendarme, and he proceeded to call the national hotline for Hertz (that's "ertz"), explain all the predicament, finally put me on the line with someone who spoke English--who said having left the car was no problem, and that I must at least try to drive it back to Chartres, otherwise the insurance really wouldn't cover anything. If it broke down, then it would count as a normal roadside emergency).
And so on, and so on. I cancelled my hotel reservation in Blois, which obviously was now out of the question. Sylvie had another night available for me. Within the hour I was in Tours getting on a mini-bus. The incredible kindness and generosity of so many people I encountered were very heartwarming.
So Monday (after three hours of sleep, and my lying awake listening to thunder and downpours through the wee hours) Sylvie once again drove me into Tours, and I caught an early bus back to Vendôme. Once I'd managed to get a cab back to the location, the car was still there, it started right up, and gingerly I set out. Except for one headlight that sort of kept falling out (and, you know, a long traffic jam at one roundabout, that sort of thing), the trip was uneventful. It took me literally as long to find the damned Hertz office again as it did to get to Chartres, unfortunately. But eventually, eventually, it all did end, and what was left of me made it back to Paris.
The trip was really lovely. Our driver was pretty much just the driver; once he bought our tickets for us we were on our own, with a designated return time. Chambord is incredibly impressive, but mainly for the exterior and the spiral staircase, and every magnificent view of it along long allées of trees. Chenonceau I've wanted to see since I had a poster of it on the wall of my bedroom when I was in high school--and it does not disappoint. Plus the gardens, the wonderful gardens (the “smaller” one all in shades of pink and red).
Sunday I had moules (mussels) with Sylvie and her daughter for lunch, which were delicious. It was warm enough, and not raining, that we sat under the 100-year-old grapevine (La Tonnelle, the arbor for which the B&B is named) to eat. Late in the afternoon (after I'd tried to relax and read, and climbed a ladder to the higher part of the hill behind the house (detour: the house is one of the many "troglodyte" buildings in the area, partially hacked out of solid rock. Sylvie, with her own hands and a pick, personally spent eight years doing the hacking to enlarge what had been a sort of outbuilding/cave for another house, and doing general restoration. To get to my room I had to climb a tight spiral stair, then branch off onto another spiral stair), wanting to see her vegetable garden that had produced the tiny radishes, the beautiful tomatoes, and one of the largest lettuces I've ever seen, that we had with bread and butter for supper the night before. I didn't find it (because, she told me while we were taking in laundry from the line there later, it's past the vineyard just outside a back fence on the hill), but picked some wildflowers and pyrancantha berries and made an arrangement.
About sunset Sylvie asked me if I'd like to go to "La Guinguette." Well--why not? We cleaned up a little and off we went again. In a larger park that has rides and games and play areas for children and picnic areas, it's a large outdoor restaurant, with a bar and a REALLY large dance floor under an enormous tent. There was a live band playing when we first got there, playing mostly oldies, with a singer who's apparently well-known. The place was packed, and the dance floor was packed. There's a board as you enter, with photos showing there has been something of the sort there or nearby since at least 1908. It's right on the bank of the Loire; it felt like being in a Renoir.
We came across a group of friends of Sylvie's and moved to sit with them. Before long there was a sudden downpour, naturally shortly after the staff had taken away the umbrellas over the tables, and everyone ran for shelter either in the tent or (like us) under the shed roof extending from the bar. (Not long before the rain, the setting sun had suddenly illuminated the woods along the opposite bank of the river; I wasn't the only person who jumped up to go take photos. It was breathtaking.)
One of the men in the group , something of a stereotypical compulsively flirtatious Frenchman, even with his also very attractive wife right there, finally badgered me into one dance (more like grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor), which of course was a bad idea for The Foot, but still fun. After that I was more steadfast in my refusals. (And then there was the bizarre man who wouldn't leave me alone--not part of the group--wearing a trenchcoat and fedora, who insisted on speaking only English, in a redneck Southern accent. He loves country music, spent some time in the U.S., doesn’t think slavery was all that bad a thing, blah, blah, blah. The women in the group were giving me sarcastic thumbs-up and laughing behind his back. He would go away, but then come back.
And so on. So, see, I salvaged some fun. But why was I depending upon the kindness of strangers? Ah. Never too late to learn new things (or have old, old lessons reinforced).
1. Sixty-somethings are maybe not that compatible with twenty-somethings in their apartments. Especially when "non-smoking" is liberally interpreted to mean "blowing smoke out the window" is okay. The smoke of course gradually permeates the apartment, and the head. They were perfectly nice, really, especially considering that the shuttle from the airport (once I'd walked miles to find it) left so late, arrived so late, that I'd missed connecting with the male half, who had come home from work to give me the key. A very nice American woman, living in Paris with her children and husband who works for Disney, let me leave my bags outside her apartment on the floor where the elevator ends (in that part of the building; in my part of the bldg. there is no elevator)--so, safe, essentially--so that I could go at least get something to eat.
2. "My" apartment was available all along. My seller had mixed up the fact that someone was in it the first two weeks of September with the last two weeks, but failed ever to correct his first communication with me. All of number 1, above (including additional expense), could have been completely avoided, plus the cab the next morning to drop off the large bag actually at the apartment while I went out of town.
3. The Foot is proving an even greater problem than anticipated.
4. Mysterious things will happen for unknown reasons. I'd set the alarm clock by my notebook computer, which is permanently set to Paris time. I didn't realize until I got to Montparnasse station (had been wondering why my watch showed a later time) that the train I'd meant to take was, in fact, gone, and that the next one to Chartres would get me there after 1:00. But I did get there, finally, took a cab to Hertz, and picked up my car.
It's true you never lose the ability to drive a stick shift, no matter how long you're away from it (witness Ireland last year, doing it on the left). After the first nervous half hour or so, getting used to the car, getting out of Chartres, the drive was actually fun. The signage is excellent, the roads are good, the countryside is interesting (the symbol I saw various places for the Eure-et-Loir region was stalks of wheat, and indeed there were vast fields of harvested stubble among the rolling hills and little stone towns). It had begun to rain as I left Hertz, and rained or sprinkled pretty much continuously on the way.
I stopped in Chateaudun as planned, found the chateau (which is a very early one, more fortress-like: eleventh century (though there was an even earlier something there, on a high rock, and there's a wing that's later). The spiral stairs here were said to be the inspiration for the great one at Blois (and I would suppose Chambord, for that matter), which was the whole reason history-geekiness had kicked in and made me want to see it. There's a wonderful medieval herb garden, too.
5. Even with many decades of driving experience, a car will suddenly hydroplane on water on the street when you attempt to stop for a light changing red (even though you have been driving for hours carefully obeying all the signs and speed limits, because you are in another country, in an unfamiliar car, let alone in the rain). And there will inevitably be a car in front of you, already stopped (you really are supposed to stop when the light turns "amber" (“feu orange,” as they say, I discovered), the young architecture student you will skid into. Here the story turns traumatic, and the sea of stress adrenaline I swam in for the rest of the weekend begins. Very fortunately, no one was hurt. The cars were hurt (pretty dramatically, mine). We were in the middle of the main street (part of the national highway) through Vendôme, so we drove off onto a side street and parked. As you can imagine, we were both completely freaked out. She's nineteen and it was her first accident. I was in France, in a rental car, and felt it had been entirely my fault though I really couldn't have helped it. It took all of two seconds for everything to turn to s**t. And yes, the time did pass in slow motion as it happened: I had time not only to try desperately to stop, but for all the massive complications to come to pass through my mind.
There is, among all the many other aspects, an element of "why, out of the hundreds of foreigners--Americans, even--who rent cars and drive in France, me?" And will the insurance cover--any part of it?
After a couple of hours of exchanging information, filling out the obligatory accident form everyone in France has in the glove compartment, calling the gendarmes who will not come if no one is injured, her calling her parents many times, my calling the insurance company in New York a couple of times, her finally letting me call my B&B in Vouvray on her phone because for some reason my phone will not let the call go through--nor to Hertz to at least leave a message, since the office in Chartres is closed until Monday...we drive to Vouvray. She drives me to Vouvray, because bizarrely, that was where she had been headed also for the weekend. I leave the car where it's parked, because I can't reach anyone at Hertz, and I'm afraid to drive it with the hood shoved back the way it is. The entire weekend I worry whether the car will be there when I come back, whether I'll wind up having to pay for everything, etc., etc., but since there's absolutely nothing more I can do but sleep in the car (which is parked in a legitimate parking space on a country-ish road/street), I decide to go on.
And all of the first part transpires. One perk (which, actually, would have been pretty much inevitable regardless) was a crash French immersion course. Sylvie speaks no English (nor did my poor hapless victim--imagine negotiating post-car crash logistics entirely in French). In fact, I only two or three times encountered someone who did, and then only slightly--not counting Mr. Bizarre Redneck Wannabe (and, of course, not the Canadian couple and the Australian woman on the chateau trip--nor, for that matter, the Chinese couple, the young Japanese man, nor the woman from Hong Kong; everyone spoke English then). However, the following morning (after arriving late and having a wonderful dinner Sylvie had prepared for a group--a youngish couple traveling around, through Brittany and whatever, had discovered that by sheer coincidence (an evening for coincidences) her parents and aunt were also in Tours at the moment, so had arranged for this dinner at the B&B where they--the couple--were staying) another couple staying at the B&B (chambre d'hôte, technically), who had come back after the dinner, came down to breakfast. In the (never-ending) retelling of my woes, it transpired that the guy was a former gendarme, and he proceeded to call the national hotline for Hertz (that's "ertz"), explain all the predicament, finally put me on the line with someone who spoke English--who said having left the car was no problem, and that I must at least try to drive it back to Chartres, otherwise the insurance really wouldn't cover anything. If it broke down, then it would count as a normal roadside emergency).
And so on, and so on. I cancelled my hotel reservation in Blois, which obviously was now out of the question. Sylvie had another night available for me. Within the hour I was in Tours getting on a mini-bus. The incredible kindness and generosity of so many people I encountered were very heartwarming.
So Monday (after three hours of sleep, and my lying awake listening to thunder and downpours through the wee hours) Sylvie once again drove me into Tours, and I caught an early bus back to Vendôme. Once I'd managed to get a cab back to the location, the car was still there, it started right up, and gingerly I set out. Except for one headlight that sort of kept falling out (and, you know, a long traffic jam at one roundabout, that sort of thing), the trip was uneventful. It took me literally as long to find the damned Hertz office again as it did to get to Chartres, unfortunately. But eventually, eventually, it all did end, and what was left of me made it back to Paris.
I mangle French at a far higher level now (in my general state
of stress, anxiety, and exhaustion, I really was thinking in French--or
sometimes found myself unable to think of the English words for
something, or mixed the two into some spastic Franglish at times). I forced
myself to limp to the market to get some provisions Monday evening. Tuesday I
left the apartment only to go to the little mom and pop store next door and the
bakery two blocks away, trying to let my foot--my whole body--recuperate (did I
mention, leaving Montparnasse on the Metro upon arriving back in Paris, falling
backward, actually to the floor? Nah. I'd stepped on just before it departed,
was still situating the rolling bag in front of me, and hadn't grabbed the pole
yet when it started with a jerk (and with a backpack on as well). Amazed people
helped me up. Talk about feeling like an incompetent idiot, and also having,
long since, had enough. Obviously--I
should think--I did not go to Spoken Word last night as originally
planned, because after having a bite and rehydrating, all I wanted was
sleep.
(Sylvie and her friends were coaxing me to come back for La Guinguette next weekend, the final weekend for it this year. Which is actually tempting (by train to Tours!), except that I've just gotten an email from Spoken Word about a "100 Thousand Poets for Change" event in some gritty warehouse in eastern Paris somewhere Saturday night. Though what's additionally tempting out toward the Loire is that next weekend apparently all the "vides greniers" happen, the fall rummage sales I saw signs for all over the place.)
(Sylvie and her friends were coaxing me to come back for La Guinguette next weekend, the final weekend for it this year. Which is actually tempting (by train to Tours!), except that I've just gotten an email from Spoken Word about a "100 Thousand Poets for Change" event in some gritty warehouse in eastern Paris somewhere Saturday night. Though what's additionally tempting out toward the Loire is that next weekend apparently all the "vides greniers" happen, the fall rummage sales I saw signs for all over the place.)
