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It’s a rainy day in early May, and i’m staring at the inside of one of the more god-forsaken terminals there at the “gateway to the USA.” If this was the first I saw of the United States I’d be depressed.
JFK is what all airports used to be like, until, well, they all got makeovers some time ago. But JFK lives on, with its filthy rugs, torn chairs and leathery hot dogs —truly a nightmare. Check-in is a breeze, though, except i’m informed that the flight is delayed. I really don’t care – I’m going to France, aren’t I?
It’s the first actual visit — my last few run throughs in 1995 on England-Germany-England trips were certainly interesting, however I believe that my only view of France in daylight was a brief stopover at Charles de Gaulle in the London-New York route. I can’t even pronounce the names of the places we’re going to, let alone understand more than the most basic, logical, written instructional signs. This should be interesting, if we ever get off the ground.
God i’m tired. Let’s get some wine, and go to sleep, please. For now, it’s fluorescent lights and blaring muzak playing out of slightly fuzzy speakers, interrupted on the minute by frantic pages. It all begins to run into a giant, annoying, headache.
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Is it possible to be a happy camper at the end of a transatlantic no-smoking flight on a second rate airline that was three hours behind schedule last night? Well, give me a little airline breakfast, and i’m good to go, I guess.
Guess what? Out of the 7 odd hours, I do believe I slept at least four of them. Fitfully, uncomfortably, but sleep, nonetheless. As the sun appears and the window shades begin to go up, the shortest night in years ends -- yet i’m still able to catch some more z’s.
The cabin once again gets restless, and surly flight attendants begin to stir, serving breakfast and strong coffee, a plus, even though it tastes like a bad accident. The drama continues as the child begins once more to yell, and a Frenchman served a late breakfast begins to eat heartily.
Alas, he has been served too late, and as the captain announces our descent into the airport, a fight breaks out, there is shouting, shoving, and before we de-plane, an arrest. Bienvenue a France.
Thank goodness it only gets better from there. Customs and luggage retrieval takes all of 10 minutes, i’m out the door and lighting up faster than you can say Quad Cities International Airport. The air is humid, a storm brews over Paris, lightning, thunder welcome us to town.
But in our rental van, quite possibly the largest passenger vehicle in all of Europe, we are driving east, and into the sun as the flats of Ile de France, factories and gas stations give way to lush woods and rolling hills in Burgundy, the sun is high, the sky, clear and blue.
We arrive in Troyes and sit in traffic on the western highway going into town, it all looks quite normal standard Europe, a good sign. After miles of outskirts and suburbs, we’re finally entering the old city, the champagne cork, which, I discover, is a layout preceding the birth of Champagne, the bubbly. Eerie. Maybe not.
I’m somewhat frustrated, only because I am quite sure that i’m not really experiencing it all, and that I’ll wake up and it will have been a faint memory. France is truly just as wonderful as my other experiences in Europe, perhaps even superior to Germany. For in this middle sized country town, there is more life and beauty than in many a german city. War torn, yes, but somehow spared the worst, suffered north in Reims, which we will see later on the trip.
Stunning old government buildings, fountains, a river, parks, little squares planted with flowers, narrow streets lined with practical stores and boutiques, color and beauty everywhere, even in the dingiest alley.
You see the results of depression — following a decline in the hosiery and undergarment manufacturing in the 1970s many half timbres and side streets have fallen into disrepair, but remodeling and construction projects are apparent everywhere, and the graffiti, the skate park in front of city hall, the trendily clad young residents bring this medieval diamond-in-the-rough right up to date, right where it belongs.
Roaming the streets, there is an overwhelming sense of normality, nary a whiff of tourist, save us snapping happily, marveling at the chance to experience the real France.
Our guide, Olivier, is truly gracious and we can ask stupid questions, in rapid succession, he understands and answers all of them, as best he is able. The town is full of home furnishings and stores like Sephora, Roche Bobois, L’Occitane.
We dawdle, snapping shot after shot and the only thing that draws us back to reality is the champagne reception we must attend in the courtyard at the hotel.
Le Chambre Bleue, where I’m staying, occupies a whole wall of the courtyard, on the second floor above the kitchen and dining room. Its the room I saw on the web site, and I can hardly believe my good fortune as the owner shows me my room. I got it! Imagine. I rush down, through the wonderfully designed bathroom, into the very blue bedroom. Ahh. I’ll just stay here — y’all go on ahead.
But there are hoteliers waiting in the courtyard, waiting to serve us champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The champagne is fantastic, the hoteliers charming, the magic-hour lighting perfect for a long sit in the courtyard. But we’ve not eaten since arriving on land, and it’s now time to do so.
Les Gourmets in the city center is the hotel restaurant for the Best Western here in town. In the United States that would spell b-a-d bad, except for, perhaps, the Hollywood Hills Coffee Shop in L.A., at my favorite little hotel in the foothills. But in France, we learn, some of the finest hotels in the countryside are part of the Best Western chain.
The restaurant is near vacant on a Thursday night, but as far as we can see, there is no reason why — from foie-gras to crème brulee, the traditional french dinner, which included champagne, white and red wines, espresso tastings and a cheese course, a decent cut of beef served with heavenly potato puree, baguettes galore — add all that up, and divide it by severe fatigue, and you’ve got yourself a slap happy crew of dining companions.
The waiter’s english is very, very Brit, impeccable, and you get the impression that were we not press, they’d have laughed our asses back out on to Rue Raymond.
The food here is astounding, which is a ridiculous statement to make — of course it is, we’re in France. The meal lasts a good two hours plus, and although we’re still in the process of acclimating to each other and to the new environs, it was a wonderful evening indeed.
We walk home across the canal and through the square in front of the cathedral— a small alley marked as a street is hidden away at the far corner — the blue neon swallow hanging above the door announces our return to the hotel, to our beds, for which we at this point, are most grateful.