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I had figured on oversleeping, however, the mill blew 6:30 and I was fully awake for it. Knowing when to hold, fold, I decided against going out and slept until 8AM.
I’m sitting at the grand old dining room table in my suite, overlooking an old medieval courtyard. Cafe au lait, fruit salad, croissants, baguettes and fresh squeezed orange juice are laid out before me, a kindly hostess has served my breakfast in the room. Swallows dart overhead, the birds all chirping madly, but beautifully — the milk pitcher is overflowing with steamed milk for the coffee which I pour from a large french press.
I’m watching the sun rise over the courtyard, here in the shadows of the cathedral, just over the wall from the museum of Fine Arts. It’s a heavenly morning here at the hotel, the bright green of the new ivy covers the wall in front of the window looking out from the warmly decorated blue and white bathroom. My eyes are wide open to take all of it in. Breakfast, as I mentioned before, was served, and wonderful it was, $10 is a steal for that kind of treatment. Of course, I had a half hour to get it all finished, which I did — in time for our 9:00 departure for Langres.
2000 years old, this southern town of 10,000 sits high on a plateau overlooking vast valleys, the ramparts originated with the Roman Empire. The town was completely destroyed, to be rebuilt and expanded in medieval times.
The architecture is a mish-mash of roman, gothic, medieval, renaissance and neo-classic, the diversity showcased splendidly in the Cathedrale St. Mammes. From it’s 1800’s boxy front — not at all cathedral-esque — to the gothic-meets-roman interior, 20th century stained glass reconstructs and bare wooden pews, its a strange site, but truly wonderful in a schizo, freak-out sort of way. The kind of building only an architecture buff could love.
We walk along the ramparts, we observe the towers where cannons were fired off of, we view the trenches within the walls where snipers sat to ward off those making attempts to penetrate the solid, often quite high walls. Gates are scattered around the perimeter, each with a statue of the madonna and child guarding them.
We duck into a courtyard to examine more architecture, stop at a grocery on the corner for bottled water that costs less than a dollar. Once again, you can count on the small things to make you happy.
Lunch is at a hotel dining room, exceptionally presented, this time we begin with mushrooms stuffed with duck meat — of course, an apertif before hand, a fantastic Burgundy tradition of white wine and black currant liqueur, with some green olives on the side. A perfect balance of taste.
We eat lamb and vegetables, crepes. The obligatory cheese course (Langres is fabulous) and end it with fruit compote skewered on sticks with spicy french vanilla ice cream. And of course, more espresso. We stumble to the car, there’s more to see — I nap on the return journey to Troyes.
After more walking in Troyes past closed churches and museums, we call it a day. I head for the showers, and watch Andie MacDowell being grilled in Cannes by a french interviewer. The French really do hate Americans, don’t they? But who wouldn’t hate Andie MacDowell. She ruined Short Cuts, her and Lyle Lovett did. 8:30p comes all too soon, and it’s once more time to eat. Not that I mind — my taste buds have been on an intensive culinary expansion project — very much on the fast track — i’ve never had foie gras, tripe sausage, creme brulee, white asparagus pastry and shellfish skewers within the same 24 hour period as long asI have lived. For a mere 150FF I can be eating richly, night after night.
When you consider that $130 is equal to approximately 800FF, you can see how your dollar will stretch. $115 per night for a most romantic room at Champ des Oiseaux, $20 gourmet meals— you’ve got yourself some cheap romance.
Le Bistroquet is a stunning brasserie near Ville de Troyes, where it’s Friday night and there’s a skating competition in the plaza. Thousands of young and old compete, there are ramps set up in front of the city hall, a dramatic combination of the old and the new. The crowd of hundreds later forms a long line, and flanked by safety vehicles, begins a grand march through town.
Cafes in the plaza are full to bursting with Friday night fun seekers, the mood is electric, but casual. We wind back through town, and across through the district north of the cathedral, old, residential, dusty in parts, but always beautiful. And that’s another day.
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Today we said goodbye, sadly, to Troyes, and the best little hotel on earth, which I did not want to do, no, not at all.
Our destination was Sedan — I ride with Olivier, our guide, as we drive through the mist, north to Reims, we discuss French politics and American life. I learn a great deal, reinforcing my belief that the majority of social problems are endemic to the human race, not isolated to one country or another. Perhaps, we are luckier in the U.S., where we struggle to find our way within coming cultures. In France, i’m told, the pressure is for immigrants to become French, which creates the same tension as we have with the tendency toward the cultural isolation.
In Reims we drop off the car and rejoin the group, stopping at Olivier’s home to re-group and break from driving. We meet his wife and three children, who are very charming — the ride to Sedan takes another hour.
Sedan is a smaller city, built in the shadow of an ancient fortress —originally the city was within walls extending out from the castle fort, remainders of the wall can be seen from high above the town. The medieval festival is just beginning as we arrive, encampments all along the base of the fortress walls recreate various medieval tableaux.
The three main streets and connecting plazas of the town are lined with crafts, food, a stage in front of the church is the site of various vaudeville-type plays which run throughout the day.
Munching crepes with Nutella, we watch a few scenes from a bawdy routine involving ancient instruments and a lot of fondling — it’s all good fun, but very caricaturish, which seems to be sort of a French thing. From the talk shows to cartoons on TV, vaudevillian exaggerations seem to be the name of the game.
We are escorted under the trees for mead and smoked ham sandwiches, which are enormous., The bread is spread with a barley and carrot cold salad, excellent all around. The mead goes straight to the brain, not the head — with stunning results. We’re all quite happy, and the conversation gets a little raucous. Drunk soccer fans are everywhere — tonight Sedan will play Marseilles here in town, as the afternoon wears on, the crowd gets rowdier.
We spend two hours in the tunnels and exhibit rooms of the fortress. It’s the perfect spot for a game of hide and go seek. Once again, my tolerance for museums wears thin, and I’m wanting to get back out.
In the courtyard, an experimental theatre troupe is portraying the plight of the Nubian — I’ve no knowledge of the history, but it’s intriguing and all a little too real. As we walk down towards the gate, through the tunnel, guards rush in — it all of a sudden seems as if we’re actually there, until a split second later, when one stops, takes off his helmet and poses for pictures. Life goes on.
Walking through the market is good fun, but i’ve reached my limit for sightseeing — mercifully, we leave around 5pm and head back towards Reims, 20 kilometres to our hotel in Fagnon, which is a little village just out of Charleville.
From the exterior, the Abbaye de Sept-Fontanes it is a most gorgeous building, first built in the 1000s, rebuilt after the French Revolution, a gambling casino during World War I, and later, General DeGaulle’s wife’s summer home. Opened as a hotel in 1987, the place needs work 13 years later.
The second floor rooms where we are staying, are a total disaster, every bit Motel 6, dated decor and ugly shelving units. We dub the property the Chatel 6. Which is a total shame, seeing as the first floor promises a palace. Light, airy, a patio and fountain in the rear, a charming room for a restaurant, whites, blues and yellows, soft light, hushed tones. Big chairs line the lobby wall and a landing is decked out with chairs and a table for reading and relaxing.
Browns and greens and faint bare bulbs, fake trees and ugly bedspread patterns are a shock, upstairs — entirely depressing, and in my opinion, ruin everything. Step out onto the golf course, however, and you leave that all behind.
After a short nap, I walk down the driveway, a good three-quarter mile, and back to work myself up for another spectacular, if a little uneven, dinner, which begins with a cantaloupe gazpacho, wild asparagus wrapped in goose filet and a vinagrette — fish steamed with vegetables in a bouillon. The cheese creation is horrible, and not on par with the rest of the meal. Dessert, however, brings us back to reality — indescribable, but chocolatey and satisfying.
Stepping out onto the patio for a smoke, I feel as if i’ve stepped into Gatsby-land — warm laughter and yellow light stream out of the windows, the fountain soothes, the air is bluish black, crickets chirp. This is the good life. Amazing.
After our female companions have retired, the men sit again on the patio and gaze at the stars. An excruciatingly British couple on a romantic getaway is the favored topic of discussion throughout the evening — they are a source of constant amusement, sitting there, next to us. Speaking in clipped phrases, they appear to be more apart than their chairs are spaced, on opposite sides of the table. We begin to imagine their story, the scene in the upstairs bedroom. Who knows — perhaps the man is on the couch, or perhaps their tastes run more towards wife-swapping and pain. Whatever.
For a change, the TV is regular sized and has a lot of channels – I watch a little before falling asleep to the gentle bubbling of the fountain in the garden below.