I guess these old chateaux aren’t really my thing — perhaps when I get old. Breakfast is once again in the dining room, a little stuffy, but the coffee is black and plentiful, and we leave shortly thereafter.

It’s a quick ride to Charleville, which wasn’t really on our list of things to do, perhaps because of it’s somewhat dubious reputation for being rather boring. But if it’s real France, then i’m all about that.

We park in the old town in front of the International Institute of Puppetry, just in time for the clock to strike — there is a little narrated marionette show. The puppets don’t really move, but it’s still kind of curious.

Wandering through the courtyard of the regional museum for the Ardennes is a pleasant break, we see various modern sculptures on display, lining the walk into the Place Ducale, the town square, which is enormous.

The Hotel de Ville stands at one end and all around are various buildings, with street-level cafes out on the square, locals puttering about on their Sunday morning walks, munching on baguettes.

No lie — baguettes are everywhere, thank God — it’s what makes France so great. Almost everyone has the end bitten off — Stephanie explains that this is pretty much par for the course — “They’re so good!” So apparently, you never get sick of them, even if you’re French.

There is a lovely park along a canal just down from the square, an old building built above it houses the Musee de Rimbaud, chronicling the life of the tragic poet who hails from just across the street — we see his boyhood home from a window on the first floor.

Our guide takes us out onto a suspension bridge spanning the water, but when we, as children would, begin to jump up and down, he begs for us for mercy, as his vertigo is kicking in.

The museum is interesting, The story is startling, if you think about it — imagine losing the ability to write at such a young age, after having written so much. Back in the square (Place Ducale) I beg for a coffee stop, finally learning how to order for myself. Un grand cafe (large coffee) un petit pour du lait. Not bad, huh?

We pile back in the car and make our way to Reims, which is back south another hour, through pastoral country landscapes — butter cups and grazing cows, dandelions gone to seed and farmhouses, the like. In Reims we first return to Olivier’s home, he leaves us to discover center city on our own, we head in to check baggage at the hotel.

Reims is full of history, both divine and tragic, history dating back to the birth of Christ, when the town was a major Roman settlement. Two sites remain to mark the era, Mars Gate and the main government building, both standing a good metre or more below the present ground level.

The hotel is standard issue Best Western, of course i’m a little disappointed. It’s a pity, the old floors of the hotel overlook a tree-filled courtyard which is actually quite impressive, there is a pleasant little swimming pool at one end, the bar is warmly decorated, overlooking it all. My room has two double floor to ceiling windows opening out onto faux-balconies barely one step wide, however the room is so disgustingly ugly that I can hardly bear to stay inside. You’d never know, standing in the yard looking up. It’s actually very similar to the room I stayed in Hollywood, but then, I knew exactly what I was getting. In France? The same exact decor? Not bloody likely I’ll ever be up for that. Especially when the Champ des Oiseaux is only an hour away.

We munch frites and baguettes with sausage at the Brasserie du Theatre just off the square. It’s a quick meal topped off with a good and cold glass of Stella Artois. I have run clean out of cigarettes, so I look for the cheery red and white Tabac sign, and discover that Camels, which are a more expensive brand here in France (American and all that) cost a mere 20FF, which, roughly translated is a pittance. $2 and change. Can I move here? French cigarettes are 17FF, even cheaper — it’s a New York smokers wet dream.

Almost time to meet our guide, and we fight the hordes of german tourists (nothing changes) back to the square, to the entrance of the Cathedrale Notre Dame, where no less than 30 french kings were coronated between the late 1200swhen the church was rebuilt, to 1825, which marked the end of the total monarchy. At first, my skepticism regarding the town, this overly bland and modern post-war reconstruct, prevents me from truly enjoying the surroundings.

I cannot escape the feeling that all the history, tangible at least, has been squeezed out of Reims, along with the bombs. A pity, because the history, as I mentioned before, is so very rich. But as we begin our tour and start towards the rear of the structure, the stained glass becomes more beautiful, culminating in a Chagall masterpiece in the very front of the building. I am truly inspired by these creations, even though they are possibly the newest addition to this centuries old monument. It’s worth a drive from anywhere in the region — you’ll want to sit and reflect and draw strength from this marvel within a marvel.

Other windows have interesting stories to tell, such as the panel sponsored by the champagne workers union, now a few decades old — a start to finish, rather abstract depiction of the process and a celebration of it are quite interesting to view.

The same master glazier family has been in charge for a few millennia —currently a son is at work on some restoration projects, a continual process, evidenced by the workshops in a courtyard adjacent to the building. We walk further, seeing various important local sites, none as inspiring as the cathedral — the American influence is prevalent here — much aid was given for the rebuilding, including the services of an American architect who is largely responsible for the grid layout of the center of the town.

Andrew Carnegie built the library, as he had so many times in the U.S., Rue de Rockefeller running out from the Cathedral square remembers the man who gave for the rebuilding after the heavy bombing of the Notre Dame. So rich in history so tragic.

I’ve already grown tired and would prefer to relax, but we press on, finally waiting in the park by the Mars Gate while Stephanie and our guide Isabel retrieve the car. We writers steal the back half of a bench from a very cultured looking bum neatly dressed in coat and beret, bicycle standing next to him, he clutches a large bottle of spirits of some sort. His nod to modern day life is the boombox he balances on the other hand — we leave, begging him to stay, as we fear it is our noisy behavior that has caused him to stand up and ride away.

I sit in the median, and we mock the Germans passing by who have piled from a bus labeled “Rammelstorfer Tours.”

We regroup and we head via a beautiful canal up the hill to the Basilica de Saint Remi, home to the ashes of said old saint, who baptized Clovis, who later became the first king of France. When, I don’t know. He just did. The church is simple, but the yellow/blue motif rose window above the main door on the side of the church is stunning enough.

I have learned much about greco and roman and gothic and medieval on this trip, in fact i’ve learned a whole lot of new things about everything. Thanks to Olivier and Stephanie, there is little I do not know about cheeses wines and champagnes — if not specifics, then protocol and fabulous background information.

I feel as if I have grown in major ways -- that my horizons have been expanded just that much more — always a pleasurable experience.

The Musee de Saint Remi is housed in the former abbey over the wall from the church — many beautiful roman ruins and mosaics unearthed are housed here, along with 1700s flemish tapestries and other assorted artifacts. The highlight is perhaps the building itself — cloister like, built around a lush courtyard, with light colored stone which, when hit by the light, turns everything a warm yellow, a positively romantic experience.

We have reached the boiling point, and we end it all, going back to the hotel de La Paix, the big disappointment, to get ready for dinner on the Drouet d’Erlon, the main pedestrian zone in town, lined with attractive brasseries, cafes and ice-cream shops. Dinner is at L’Apostrophe out on the d’Erlon, a hippish new joint, very SoHo type deal, lots of generous swirls of design, wide arcs and funky colored lamps.A former printing shop, with the old press next to the bar to prove the point.

It’s not bad, but service is harried and the floors and booths tragically filthy — yet it doesn’t dampen our enthusiasm for the decor or eating again, so we dig in. I go all the way and order up a pot of escargot, which we have served in a sauce of garlic, butter and creme fraiche. Did I ever expect to be eating escargot in France this year? Absolutely not —but it feels so right, and the taste is complimented with such excellent bread —is heaven better than this?

The french peoples passion for food is astounding, as is my ability to adapt so quickly. So quickly it’s been frightening — its as if this is my diet catching up to my body’s ability to cope, as if this is the way all men should be eating. Who am I to argue with that? I’ll be going through cheese and wine withdrawal soon enough.

After a particularly rich dessert which I lap up eagerly against my better judgment, we squeeze in a final walk of the day to view the cathedral’s façade by night — most beautiful. The day ends on my fake balcony, doors flung wide, me smoking cheap french cigarettes.

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Oh day of days! A day of lessons learned, of growth and forbearing and patience and all those good things — what a nightmare it is to live through a morning such as this. No coffee before 1pm. Fuckin a’ and sound the alarum bell — ever wanted to see a grown man cry? Take away his drugs in the morning, and say hello to the mayhem.

My hushed pleadings, spoken as emphatically as I can muster, are all for naught, and it takes the decisive actions of a traveling companion who pleads my case, and suddenly i’m at the lunch table, working over two grand cafes and feeling mighty fine, just in time to dig into the salmon, which in my opinion goes fabulously with coffee.

But the day has begun at 9:36AM, as I bolt out of the bed and hear the phone ringing, requesting my presence downstairs six minutes ago. I do my best and run down to the waiting faithful, I rush back inside to checkout and to down a coffee, but alas, a pot, and no cups. Cruel world!

I jump into Olivier’s car, who has rejoined our group — i’m doing fine for now, we head up town to the Champagne district. Piper-Heidsieck, Pommery and Ruinart butt up against each other, Taittinger,Veuve Cliquot and Mumm are nearby.

Driving onto the Ruinart property feels a lot like driving onto an L.A. studio lot, a magical world where everything is perfect, architecture size and scope impressive, just a little wonderful. Our guide trip-traps out the main gate in heels, making her way down the gravel path to greet us.

By now, we are a rag-tag bunch, and we must have gotten on her nerves, for at the tasting, we are served a sickly white, but the rose gives us hope — it’s every bit refreshing, particularly for a mid-morning pick me up. France — it’s easier to get champagne than a quick coffee to go. Figures. I’m seriously impaired, fading in and out of the conversation as we make our way into the caves, more than one hundred steps below.

The tunnels and caves of the cellar are dreamlike, fabulous, romantic — each of the roman caves taller and wider than the next, all is chalky white stone, the air pleasantly tangy, earthy, rooted in history. We learn about the process, from start to finish, but while it is certainly interesting enough, I’d rather be out. All the same, it has been a good discipline to spend so much time just learning history, paying attention to detail.

My pleas for McDonalds coffee are unheard, this is one of the few places to get coffee on the run in France — Olivier thinks i’m joking when I ask for a stop, and tells me we’ll be having lunch soon. Now i’m in a state too far gone to fight, and begin to fantasize, imagining my rage welling up and spilling over into the quiet restaurant, shocking peers and frightening the children and the dogs.

But as we pull into the Maison du Vigneron, a way-station type restaurant in the national forest south of Reims, I begin to relax, then freak out again as I take stock of the ultra-staid surroundings. Mercifully, un grand cafe or two are ordered, delivered with a smile, and the transformation is almost instant. I can speak more than three words at once, I can tell jokes and laugh again. The simple but well presented lunch is good, and we leave satisfied.

It’s a pleasant winding drive down through various vineyards of Moet et Chandon and others, with a handful of decent vista points from which to view the Marne River valley, and the city of Epernay, home of Champagne.

But just up from Epernay is our first stop on the champagne junket — Dom Perignon’s grave in Hautvillers, a wonderful little village famous of course for the birth of Champagne, but also known for its many colored iron-work signage points on various homes, shops and public buildings around town. German tourists are everywhere, so we have a little fun at their expense, then stop into the Abbaye to dance on the grave of the Dom, before heading down the hill for a quick pit stop at the tourism office in Epernay.

Of course, the town is lively and its streets welcoming to walk on, there is a cheery effervescence about the place, possibly due to all that bubbling going on below in the caves. I have to touch the statue of the Dom in the courtyard outside the Moet et Chandon building on the Avenue de Champagne — then we may leave. Moet is a tourist hot spot, but probably a good place to start when visiting.

Some take off in one direction, Stephanie and I head off to Etoges, our final hotel of the trip — a Chateau in the village just south of here. But alas, there is a hypermarche just along the way — E. LeClerc — we stop to buy coffee, tea and whatnot, as well as a little Tabac, much to the chagrin of the ladies.

Etoges comes soon — the Chateau is in the center of the village, in a large, well landscaped private park area. A large, impressive moat surrounds the hotel, natural springs and fountains spring from the lawn across the water, a delightful sound wafting in the bedroom window. After a chaotic entry, it is quite possible that we have frightened the hired help, who are pleasant enough, but seem shocked at the giddy state we’re in by now.

After false starts and wrong pronunciations, I find my room up on the second floor, a lovely scruffy boudoir-ish deal with creaky floors, a lot of red and cream, a sparkling white bathroom. The windows are flung wide open, and I gaze at the hypersized carp feeding below on kitchen scraps. It’s all a bit medieval, wonderfully so.

After yet another shower sans curtain, I wander in the park, which is relaxing, and I encounter our hosts in a clandestine meeting at wood’s edge. I pitch some ideas for a better trip, just possible additions — no subtractions— except maybe the Chatel 6 which still smarts as one of the more disastrous hotel properties i’ve encountered in my short little experience. One could write an epic poem about it, I suppose, if one had the energy. But I don’t.

The mosquitoes get the best of us, so we take our aperitif indoors, by the fireplace. The evening is a smashing success once we are seated in the private dining room — thanks to some good champagne and a pair of superb red and white wines, we’re all in heaven, all feeling the last night out, by the time we reach the cheese course, it’s pandemonium, but the waiter appreciates our enthusiasm for the cheeses, and our interest in the diversity on the board, slicing generous cuts for all who wish.

A three hour dinner ends, and we say goodnight. I, however, cannot sleep, and am up and down again for 2 1/2 hours, finally planting down in front of the window, smoking myself into a coma. At 2:45, I sleep – Tomorrow, and the flight home, come early.

France, you angel, you.

ENDIT