Five In France

A year ago, my Mexico travel companions Muriel and Don Stauffer wrote asking if I would be interested in going to Provence with them and another couple, Mary and Ernie Tyson. The year of planning gave me time to extract what help I could from four French-language tapes. To my surprise, I felt quite comfortable speaking French; less so understanding it. When vocabulary failed, I unconsciously inserted the Spanish word, then wondered at the bewildered looks I received.

Fantasies of French food filled pre-trip dreams. Rarely were they shattered by reality. With a few exceptions, our meals, no matter how simple, ranged from good to superb. In retrospect, my rule seemed to have been: If it isn’t high cholesterol, don’t order it.

I learned shortly before the trip that what I expected as a discounted travel-agent’s ticket was actually a free Air France ticket with upgrade to Le Club, an annual gift to the company’s General Sales Agents. With this happy news, my standard pre-packing collapse was averted.

Saturday, 24 September

I flew from Belize to Miami then, when I checked in with Air France, learned that their flight from Paris was late. Passengers were parceled out to various hotels. As a club-class passenger, I was lodged conveniently at the Hotel MIA in the airport itself.

Sunday, 25 September

Up at 3:00 am; aboard at 5:45. My seat-mate was a pleasant mid-age Frenchwoman. She startled me by saying a gracious Bon soir as she settled herself. In my first attempt to use the French I had been studying for a year, I managed to ask her with acceptable grammar and pronunciation at what time it became Bon jour. Her reply was, “6:00 am.” Logical. To the French it is night until daylight.

The flight was long but pleasant. I blessed the chance that had given me a day trip instead of the unpleasant nighttime one I had dreaded. The taxi ride into mid-Paris around 9:00 pm was slowed by the horde of returning weekenders. The taxi driver charged more than I had been told to expect. At my hotel door in the midst of bumper-to-bumper traffic I did not feel I could discuss the matter beyond a firm complaint. Besides, the driver had possession of my luggage.

As I struggled through the double glass doors of the Hotel Tilsitt Étoile, the young man at the reception desk spoke to me by name and whisked bags and me to the elevator without bothering with registration.

The elevator stopped at the second floor. I pulled my luggage out into the narrow corridor. The elevator door closed. The hall was in Stygian darkness. I left my baggage at the elevator door and felt my way along the short corridor to locate my room by braille.

Touch also identified the keyhole at one side of the doorknob. Neither key on my ring fitted it. I stood in the darkness turning keys, rattling the door, and becoming increasingly frustrated.

Finally I gave up and, leaving my suitcases as hazards in the dark corridor, took the elevator back down to the lobby. My gallant greeter of thirty minutes earlier was less happy to have me return. He carefully locked the glass front doors of the hotel, then accompanied me back to the second floor. Magically light appeared. He fussed at the keyhole for a moment, flung the door open, and left. Darkness returned. I pulled my suitcases into the room. In locking the door behind me I discovered that I had performed most of my futile unlocking efforts earlier with the key to my mini-bar.

Next day I learned that, in many French hotels, hall lights are left off until someone needs them. There are lighted plates at convenient places along the walls that switch lights on at a touch. Illumination remains just long enough for guests to get into their rooms (providing they use the right key).

Monday, 26 September

I arrived in Paris a couple of days earlier than the rest of our party for business reasons. One of our best shipping customers flew over from London. I met him at Charles de Gaulle airport and we taxied to the new CGM offices in the suburb of Suresnes. We spent the morning at CGM discussing their increasing freight requirements.

Christiane Spitaels, director of the branch of CGM that serves Belize and an old friend, took us to lunch in a charming small family restaurant. Away from the noisy thoroughfare that passes the front of the CGM building, Suresnes was an inviting series of narrow streets, small plazas, trees, and sidewalk planters brilliant with flowers.

It was after 6:00 pm before I settled gratefully into a cab for the ride back to the Tilsitt Étoile. The pleasant young woman driver with untidy hair proceeded to veer back and forth through rush hour traffic speaking rapidly into a telephone she held clamped to one ear. By the time I reached my room, I was exhausted. I puttered around for a while, then gave up and slept for a dreamless ten hours.

Tuesday, 27 September

The Stauffers and Tysons were due at the hotel around 8:30 am. I settled myself in the lobby with a good book waiting for them. I watched for a taxi. They arrived on foot, dragging enormous pieces of luggage. Don had directed their trip from airport to hotel by Metro. The little band were breathless from their ladened walk from station to hotel, but surprisingly unresentful.

Despite their long overnight flight, all four were ready to tackle Paris. Our first destination was a bank. En route, it was decided that some of the group had sufficient francs for aperitifs and lunch. We stopped for a light meal. The salads presented to us could have served whole families.

That evening we gathered at 6:00 pm in Mary and Ernie’s large ground-floor room. French doors opened onto a garden court. After a celebratory Scotch, we walked a few blocks to the “Les Gourmets des Ternes,” a brasserie Don and Muriel recommended. We all had delicious meals; dessert was memorable. Mary’s mousse and mine arrived accompanied by a pitcher of crème fraîche (clotted cream). We both ate as much as we dared and grieved because we could not take the rest home with us.

Wednesday, 28 September

In Paris, we saw all the key sights because the Mary and Ernie never had been to France. Don guided us masterfully through the maze of the Metro. We emerged across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower. We crossed the bridge, admired the famous structure, then boarded one of the sightseeing boats moored nearby for an introduction-to-Paris cruise. We missed most of the guide’s commentaries because of the excited teenage German girls behind us who chattered loudly through all announcements except those in their own language. It did not dampen our pleasure.

At the end of the cruise we took the Metro to the Place de la Concorde and strolled through the Tuileries. We stopped for lunch at one of the outdoor cafes. To our companions’ horror, Ernie and I decided to try the goat’s cheese. Despite Muriel’s warning that it would be rank, we found it delicious, served hot on grilled bread points on a bed of shredded lettuce, generously sprinkled with walnuts. The others ordered ham crepes and found an unexpected poached egg tucked inside along with meat, cheese and tomatoes. The French, we were to find, adored poached eggs and presented them in peculiar places to unsuspecting diners.

We continued through the Tuileries on vast sandy paths, passing great pools surrounded by sun-worshipers splayed out in green chairs. At either side of the park were lawns, serried trees and large beds of a particular golden marigold whose color offended Ernie but delighted me.

 

Offended was a mild word to describe Muriel’s loathing of M.E. Pei’s glass pyramide entry to the Louvre. Muttering, she joined us, as we passed through it to spend hours in the museum’s lavish galleries.

We thrilled to the “Winged Victory” thrusting forward exultantly at the top of a wide marble staircase. We circled the “Venus de Milo” (I, rapturously). We found ourselves equally underwhelmed by the “Mona Lisa,” though we appreciated Muriel’s explanation that the painting was the bridge between two eras of painting. We continued through one gallery after another, enjoying what we saw and realizing that we were barely tapping the treasures of the museum.

Exhausted, we stumbled back up through Mr. Pei’s offensive pyramid into the courtyard of the Louvre. We crossed gratefully to an outdoor café and rested battered feet as we enjoyed the enormous palace surrounding us.

We returned to the hotel, where I had some hot coffee and a hotter bubble bath.

 

We met again in Mary and Ernie’s room, then proceeded by Metro to another favorite brasserie of Muriel and Don’s. It was intimate, with tiny tables and banquettes that put patrons literally shoulder-to-knee next to each other. Mary, who knew no French, already had memorized our order for aperitifs: Cinq Kir (five Kirs; Kir is a pleasant combination of white wine with a little Crème de Cassis). From then on, ordering them was her responsibility each night. The food in our restaurant was very good but the sound level, incredibly high. We returned to the hotel by foot, which proved shorter in both time and walking distance than our earlier subway ride.

Thursday, 29 September

We went first to Notre Dame Cathedral. When I thought no one was looking, I knelt at the altar on icy stones. I got back up with all the grace of a reluctant camel.

We walked back across one of Paris’ beloved bridges to see the book stalls that line the left bank of the Seine. Most still were closed but the two open ones near the end of the line gave the Tysons a show of the typical display of old books, maps, sketches and postcards.

We returned to the Île de la Cité to visit my favorite, Sainte Chapelle. As we entered the cheerful servants’ chapel, Mary was distraught to learn that Ernie had left his fanny pack containing vital glasses on the security conveyor at the entrance. Ernie galloped back and returned a few moments later with a broad smile and the missing pack. The security guard wordlessly had opened a drawer, pulled out the pack, and handed it to Ernie even before he had time to ask.

To my delight the Stauffers and Tysons were as spellbound as I at the exquisite chapel built by King Louis IX. To me, Sainte Chapelle is the Hallelujah Chorus in stone arches and stained glass.

 

The Metro whisked us to Montmartre, where we took the Funicular to the top. We admired the exterior of the Basilica of Sacre Coeur but did not go inside.

We walked gingerly down a steep street and found an outdoor café. Long tables laid with red napery stretched row after row under red marquees. Mary, Ernie, and I had our first Croque Monsieur, the ubiquitous French hot ham sandwich. Mine, I confess, was a Croque Madame, with a poached egg atop the puffy cheese.

My French language books all described the Croque Monsieur as a ham-and-cheese sandwich. Basically, it was, but with a French flair. The bread was richer than the usual sliced bread. Whether or not there was some sort of spread along with the ham, I never figured out. The cheese, probably Emmenthaler, appeared to have been grated, possibly combined with a bit of something, and spread thickly over the top of the sandwich. When put under the broiler, the cheese puffed up slightly, thick and creamy. We all had these two or three different times, but our first Croque Monsieurs were the best.

 

After lunch, we returned to the Tuileries to see the Monet “Water Lilies” in L’Orangerie. The dozens of famous pieces were newly displayed as continuous paintings in two large oval rooms. The carpeted rooms with nothing but circular padded benches in their centers contributed physical quiet to the peacefulness of acres of blended blues and greens broken, only by the cryptic strokes that created the softer blooms.

Reluctantly leaving L’Orangerie, we headed on aching feet to the Gare d’Orsay. Unfortunately, the bridge shown on Don’s map did not exist. Already tired from a day of walking, we proceeded the long way ’round along one bank of the Seine, across a bridge that was gracious enough to be in its proper location, and back along the other side of the river to the extreme far end of the d’Orsay.

We strolled amid 19th-Century art on the first floor. Don was determined to show us his favorite, “Dejeuner Sur l’Herbe” by Manet. It was not in its accustomed place and could not be found. He also wanted us to see the original Whistler’s “Mother,” but it, too, had disappeared. We presumed they had gone with a substantial collection on loan to the United States.

We completed our tour of the first floor rooms and took an up escalator at the far end of the building. It deposited us on a small landing with another up escalator. And that took us to another. And that took us to… There was no escape. The little landings gave access to nothing. The fourth escalator took us close enough to the vaulting grilled ceiling of the famous Gare for us to admire the metal rosettes decorating walls and ceiling. A metal grilled walkway led us back to ramps, stairways, and eventually, exhibits.

Almost the first thing we saw was Don’s picnic painting. We understood immediately why he considered it the ideal outdoor lunchtime. Two elegantly clad gentlemen lounged in a glade near a handkerchief-size picnic cloth. Their companions were two unabashedly unclad females.

Whistler’s “Mother” showed up on the main wall of an adjacent room but was dismissed by Don with a casual, “So that’s where the old gal got herself to!”

 

By late afternoon we all decided we could not walk another inch through an art museum, no matter what glories lay ahead. I thought longingly of a taxi, but there was no way five adults could fit into a Paris cab. We hobbled toward the closest Metro station. Suddenly Muriel spotted an empty bus parked by the curb. Don checked the route with the driver, then gleefully motioned us inside. The cost was slightly more than the Metro; the comfort considerably greater at a time when ease outweighed francs. We enjoyed a scenic drive up the Champs-Élysées and alighted, rested, within a few yards of our Metro exit.

The sound of a band overrode the noise of traffic. Musicians in sparkling white uniforms were ranked at one side of the entrance to L’Arc de Triomphe. We joined the crowd of watchers at the edge of the roundabout. It was apparent that there was some sort of ceremony at the Eternal Flame. Suddenly a young man leaped into the rush-hour traffic in the roundabout, doing a gawky dance, arms windmilling, skillfully dodging disconcerted drivers, and reaching the safety of the far sidewalk to the relief of his awed audience.

Friday, 30 September

We packed for an early departure from Paris. Don picked up our Chrysler Voyager, a 7-passenger van, from the nearby Hertz office. The vehicle blocked our narrow street as the men in our party tried frantically to get our mountain of luggage into the slim space behind the back seat or onto the two spare rear seats. Irate French car horns joined the cacophony of voices offering suggestions about storage. Five faintly frazzled people finally fitted themselves into the vehicle. Our tour began.

My “nest” on the rearmost seat was far more comfortable than I had dared hope. The open space just in front of me at the end of the two-passenger middle seat held my suitcase on edge. Cushioned by the inflatable foot rest Carli and Tom gave me, it provided a stable leg-and-foot rest at seat height. To my amazement, all the Stauffers and Tysons saw was poor Kate wedged into a tiny space alongside a mountain of luggage. I never was able to convince them fully that my nest was divinely comfortable and my view of passing scenery, perfect.

We drove to Versailles, explored the lavishly decorated palace for two hours, then took the little tren to the Petite Trianon, Marie Antoinette’s “modest” country retreat. It would be a minor mansion to most people. We followed a gravel path to the luckless queen’s “hamlet,” a fairy-tale assemblage of rustic thatched cottages with improbable stairways and roofs and chimneys, and geraniums looming in window boxes.

 

By the time we were back in the car and headed for Chartres, the sun was a flaming ball in the western sky. Being used to short tropical twilights I could not believe that it would light us almost to Chartres.

Our concern was finding The Manoir de Palomino. Muriel drove through Chartres, out the highway, back to Chartres, and out another highway. Finally, we stopped and I was sent out to ask directions. Between my French and a gracious young man’s few words of English, I returned with instructions and the information that the hotel’s name had been changed to Le Manoir de Pre du Roy.

It was 8:00 pm when we pulled up in front of a graceful old building well outside of town. As I began explaining at the reception desk in my best French that we had reservations for five, the clerk nodded over and over in happy acknowledgement. He probably had thought he was faced with five no-shows. Without asking us to register, he helped us carry luggage up to our rooms.

Saturday, l October

When we repacked the car next morning, we utilized all sorts of stowage spaces we had not found during our hasty mid-street loading the previous day. We were off to visit the famous Cathedral of Chartres, older than Notre Dame and far larger.

By great good fortune, we arrived just in time for a special service. We stood quietly aside from the worshipers to watch. The organ’s opening chords reverberated among the vast stone arches as music filled the enormous space with almost physical power. The processional was a parade of prelates: priests; monks; monsignors; bishops; an archbishop; and, in glorious scarlet with exquisite lace emerging from his sleeves, a stately cardinal. One of the lesser dignitaries was so crippled he barely could mount the three steps onto the altar platform, but he warded off hands held out to help him. An usher gave us programs. We interpreted the French wording to say that the service was to propose someone for beatification.

Returning to the car, we drove to Châteaudun, where we stopped for lunch. The five of us crowded around a minute little table like the ones in an ice cream parlor. The simple café served only sandwiches. I had forgotten that in France sandwiches come on long rolls, crusty and delicious with fillings of ham or pâté.

 

We continued to Blois. The château was built at different periods by different monarchs. Each king built his own wing in his own style. The view from the large inner courtyard is of four radically different buildings somehow fastened each to the other to form an interesting, but vaguely inharmonious, whole.

During my year-long study of French before the trip, one of the words I encountered and knew I never would need was porcupine. I could not guess that, in Blois, I would find the glorious golden porc-épic that was the emblem of Louis XII.

We drove from Blois to Villandry, where we spent the night at the delightful Cheval Rouge just outside town. I huddled happily in my soft bed with its quilted cover, French windows thrown wide open, during the coldest night of our trip.

Sunday, 2 October

We left the hotel and walked a short way alongside the highway to the Château of Villandry, which I had missed on my first trip to France. I was overwhelmed by its forty-odd acres of impeccable formal gardens. Justifiably famous, they displayed decorative vegetables outlined by short, clipped “frames” of boxwood; herb gardens nestled low in the interstices of geometrically patterned boxwood hedges; yew, perhaps a hundred years old, clipped into rigid sentinels at each boxwood corner; flower beds of all colors and sizes outlined by hedges. We strolled through the lower gardens, gasping with admiration, then took steps and ramps up to a higher spot to get an overview of the gardens. Muriel stopped at a lower level to sketch the château itself.

Leaving again on our way, our first stop was Azey-le-Rideau, called “the perfect château.” Smaller and less ornate than many others, it was a gem of proportion and design, half surrounded by a small lake. It looked as a castle is supposed to look.

 

We began a trip-long tradition: as often as the weather and locale made them possible, we had picnics at lunchtime. Shopping was blissfully French. We bought yard-long baguettes at the boulangerie (bakery). The charcuterie (delicatessen-style shop) provided salads; quiches; and a variety of pâtés, from the coarsest of country pâté that Muriel loved to the smooth ones that were all I knew. They had huge hams that they sliced thin as a leaf or man-size thick. Dozens of different cheeses in different shapes could be bought whole or by the slice.

As for slicing, we had a communications gap. Both Muriel and I, on different days in different shops, asked in correct and intelligible French if the shop owner would be kind enough to slice the cheese we had bought. On both occasions she did—into wedges. The idea of slicing it into flat slices suitable for a sandwich apparently was completely foreign to the French. No matter; the cheese was unfailingly delicious in wedges even though it was lumpy in sandwiches. But then, sandwiches made with crusty slices of a baguette are so deliciously unmanageable that it didn’t matter.

Twice we indulged ourselves in visits to the patisserie (pasty shop). We each selected our own dessert tarts or Napoleons from the luscious array.

French shops close promptly at 12:00 noon so that their owners can go home and fix beautiful meals for their families. Many of our shopping expeditions were made under enormous pressure of time.

On this day, stores were closing when we returned to the town. Mary and I both froze with culture shock on our first exposure to the frantic purchase of food for a picnic. Muriel asked us to choose what we wanted, but we were so overwhelmed by the variety of choices that we could not move. Muriel hastily purchased pâté, quiche, and wine from the charcuterie, then dashed across the street to the boulangerie before it closed.

A few miles down the highway we found a picnic table and enjoyed our first French outdoor lunch. The bread was a special sort of baguette in which small rolls were shaped, then fixed one against the other to form a long zig-zag loaf, easy to break into serving bits.

 

Our final château was the queen of them all, Chenonceaux. For all its size, it appeared almost ethereal, balanced on slim arches over the river.

We left Chenonceaux somewhat later than pre-trip plans allowed, with a five-hour drive ahead of us. By 9:00 pm we were settled in the Hotel Les Grands Crus in Gevrey-Chambertin in heart of Burgundy. It was next morning before I realized that my room overlooked vineyards and a nearby hill set with neat, small houses. I had to tip-toe to see out my small French windows under the eaves because of the high profusion of red blooms in its window box.

Monday, 3 October

We had our first lazy morning. Rain prevented a stroll through the narrow, winding streets of our village. We did our sightseeing by car. Our hotel was literally in the midst of a series of large and small vineyards. Quaint, tidy villages of vintners, each more picturesque than the last, lay two or three kilometers apart along the twisting road. Throughout the area, walls alongside the vineyards and buildings in the villages were beige limestone. Homes and walls ranged in color from cream to pale taupe. Textures added variety. Splashes of lush greens and reds in planters and ivy-like vines turning to fall colors precluded monotony.

We drove into nearby Dijon looking for a laundromat. Thanks to instructions from the Tourist Bureau and Muriel and Don’s aptitude for negotiating the one-way streets of unfamiliar cities, we actually found one. Fortunately, there was a simple pub at the end of the block for our morning bière (beer). When laundry finally was dried, folded, and stored in the car, we adjourned to a convenient brasserie for lunch.

Time was with us. We were back in the car before the heavy rains began. Don drove us to see the fascinating old Dijon barge canal and locks. We continued back toward our hotel through miles of luxuriant vineyards and a succession of villages, each more crowded and quaint than the last.

 

When we reached Gevrey-Chambertin, we began a search for a restaurant for dinner. Most of the ones mentioned in Don’s Guide Michelin were closed Mondays. “Le Clos Bostin” was open, looked pleasant, and was recommended by the hotel receptionist. We returned for the worst meal of our trip.

To make up for our disappointment, I invited the party back to our hotel for liqueurs. And that was our second major mistake. The list was limited. Don and I opted for a Marc de Bourgogne, the liqueur of the region. I had drunk smoother moonshine. What little taste the Marc had beyond the raw alcohol was not a pleasant one. Don was as appalled as I. It was a relief to leave my glass half full as we climbed the stairs to our rooms.

Tuesday, 4 October

Off to Provence. We followed the Route des Grands Crus, through the area of the most choice of Burgundy’s wines. Stone walls along the way were darker tones due to the damp. Grape vines were beginning to turn gold following the final harvest.

We stopped at Le Château du Clos de Vougeot. Constructed by Cistercian monks in the 12th Century, it now is famous as the seat of Burgundy’s elite company of wine lovers, the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Testevin. The group gathers each November for a three-day festival. I was impressed by pictures of their scarlet medieval robes, but not by the menu of one of their classic banquets. It ended with a dessert of snails and ice cream with pears.

Soon after leaving the Clos, Don stopped at the Cave de Lugny. We explored their cave (pronounced cahv, wine cellar) then settled at a small brass-bound table to taste wines we might enjoy on future picnics. We left with two nice bottles of red and two of white wine. We were sorry that the weather that day was far too raw for outdoor lunching and the immediate sampling of our purchases.

We left the captivating wine country for the highway to Beaune. Don jammed on the brakes unexpectedly. The suitcase on which I propped my legs slid forward, carrying me with it until I was almost horizontal. Poor Mary, sitting in the seat ahead, grabbed my feet, trying to impede my progress. I wasn’t going anywhere; the back of the front seat halted my skid. I waited in horror for the crunch of metal I expected, before struggling back to sitting position and realizing that it was an unexpected red light that had caused our precipitate stop. Without commenting on my lapse, I buckled the seat belt I had not secured soon enough.

 

We drove to the center of the ancient walled city of Beaune. Narrow cobbled streets curved between high walls. Don, by a miracle, found a convenient parking space and we strolled to the Hostel Dieu, a medieval hospital.

The hospital was beautifully restored and imaginatively displayed. Running down each side of a long gallery were curtained cubicles containing beds, each with a simple wooden night stand and single straight chair beside it. Another chamber had somewhat more luxurious accommodations for the rich. Figureless forms of nursing nuns portrayed by their stiffened habits alone suggested their presence in hospital and kitchens.

While we toured the hospital, Muriel sat on a stone bench in the plaza and sketched an amenable organ grinder and his ancient instrument.

 

The drive south on the autoroute was smooth and rapid. High mountains were visible in the distance on our left. Later a range of low, velvety ridges of hills moved closer and closer to the highway, enclosing us in gently rolling country. The scent of the lavender growing in extensive fields on either side perfumed our car.

We reached Carpentras and drove through to the road toward Avignon, where the Hotel Safari was supposed to be located. As usual, to no one’s dismay but my own, dark had descended. A few luckless kilometers beyond the city limits, we turned around and retraced our route to the center of the city. Another search; another failure.

We drove to the nearby town of Monteux because Don was sure the hotel was between that and Carpentras. In Monteux, Don got out to ask directions. From the car, we watched a strange and wonderful dance. Arms were flung this way and that, Don’s far less exuberantly than those of his enthusiastic would-be guide. The pas-de-deux ended with sweeping circling of the French arm, nodding of the American head, and Don’s return to the car. We drove an unerring course directly to the Hotel Safari and realized that we had passed it on our first drive through town.

Wednesday, 5 October,

We arrived in Avignon at about 10:00 am. So did the Mistral, a biting wind that roars down from the north and rampages for 3, 6, or 9 days.

We explored the wonderful great old stone Palais du Papes, seat of the Papacy for about a hundred years during the schism. The view from its parapets over the river was glorious, though the Mistral threatened to make us all airborne. We were not sorry to forsake picturesque but icy stonework for the plastic warmth of a small café at the top of a tower.

When we emerged into the freezing, windswept plaza, Muriel and I spotted a large carousel. A few instants of should-we-shouldn’t-we, then we dashed to grab gallant white steeds. Muriel, fortunately, had worn slacks for the first time. I, on the other hand, had forsaken mine for a skirt that day. The carousel man helped as I clambered awkwardly to seat myself sidesaddle. The horse surged up in a remembered graceful leap. The calliope played. Past and present merged as we circled.

We strolled through ancient cobbled, winding streets, hugging our coats around us, then left for the Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, the picturesque start of the river Sorgue. We climbed a rocky trail alongside an emerald and white foam stream tumbling over an increasingly tumultuous series of runs, rapids, and falls to its start in a small, utterly still emerald pool. Here water flowed up from an underground cavern at a rate that was said to reach almost 33-thousand gallons per second at its mid-year peak.

We drove back to the Safari through countryside lush with vineyards and vegetables. Lombardy poplars or junipers planted close together outlined fields, forming high windbreaks. We understood why.

 

We decided on a recommended restaurant, the “Orangerie,” for dinner. Dressed in our finest, we began a frustrating drive up one street and down the other. Our progress was hampered by an almost total lack of street signs and an overabundance of one-way streets. We pulled into a parking lot. Muriel got out and approached two men to ask directions. Neither admitted even having heard of the Orangerie. One asked Muriel in French, “Are you sure you are in the right city?”

Moments later we located the restaurant one short block away. It was shuttered, closed, moved. After a hurried conference, we adjourned to a brightly lit Thai-Indonesian-Chinese restaurant nearby for an excellent change from our French meals. Although I never have been adept with chopsticks, Carli would have been proud of my performance.

Thursday, 6 October

We left for Orange on a cloudless, sunny day that bathed the countryside in the special Provence light we had read about. The Mistral had ended or we had left its area. The homes we passed in countryside and town still were shades of beige, usually with brown doors and window frames. One brave soul was adventurous enough to paint his home a tawny peach. Roofing tiles appeared paler in color than the ones in Burgundy.

We emerged from our low-ceilinged, cave-like parking garage to find a flourishing market. Muriel and I, dedicated market-goers, eyed each other alertly. There were blocks of stands. Many were large, expensive vehicles whose sides opened out into display tables and bins. There were counters colorful with ripe fruit, cases filed with an array of fresh fish and seafood, stands with dozens of varieties of olives, rack after rack of clothing of all kinds. Muriel bought some preserved ginger and we all munched happily as we prowled.

We left reluctantly to resume sightseeing at the ruins of an ancient Roman theater. All that remained was a single massive, magnificent towering wall. Birds flew in and out of holes in the facade where they had set up housekeeping, happily going about their private activities. A wooden stage replaced the original stone one and tiers of seats had been built in a semi-circle facing the wall. The annual opera festival held there must have been starkly impressive.

By the time we left the theater it was midday and market vendors had left or were packing up their things. With my conversational assistance, Ernie bought a few each of a dozen or more varieties of olives. The market woman was not happy. Each little bag had to be weighed and priced separately. I insisted that Ernie tip her for her extra work. He happily gave her 5 francs (US$1.00), which she accepted with reluctant delight.

We had to walk quite a way to find a suitable brasserie for lunch. The trouble was worth it. We found a bright, charming 1930’s style restaurant specializing in Provençal cuisine.

As Don was ordering wine for lunch, he remarked that the old recommendation was: “Buy the second cheapest wine on the menu. That’s the one the proprietor buys for himself.”

“One caution,” he added. “The wine is no better than the house serving it.”

 

We took the magnificent scenic drive to the top of Mont Ventoux, a huge mountain looming incongruously above the surrounding plains. As we approached its 6,000-foot summit, vegetation became increasingly scanty, with only a few stubborn junipers clinging pitifully to a moonscape of wind-scoured gravel. The Col des Tempêtes (Pass of Storms) provided glorious views of the valleys below and mountains beyond. We had just a few moments to enjoy the vista before clouds billowed their way up the slope, blanketing everything.

We started down the mountain by the other, steeper, shorter route. Soon we spotted a quaint little château/restaurant and stopped. We enjoyed steaming cappuccino in front of a welcoming fire. A minute gray hairless Chihuahua shivered in characteristic terror at the entry of strangers.

Although our downward route carried repeated warnings, Caution—Goats Crossing, we saw no leaping, or even strolling, animals.

Friday, 7 October

We packed the car with suitcases and departed for Aix-en-Provence. Our first stop was the Village des Bories. We wound up a steep and twisted little road. High stone walls on either side enclosed a track barely wide enough for one car. We saw a tour bus parked at the bottom and soon realized that there was no way it could have negotiated the turns.

The bories were small, drystone, windowless, beehive-shaped stone dwellings. The flat stones overlapped to form a false vaulting of the ceiling. The little village was a cluster of stone huts and low stone walls. Their precursors were built in the New Stone Age. The huts still were being built and used in Provence into the early 20th Century.

 

We walked back down the winding ramp to the parking area where we had left the car, halting in disbelief as we saw that the large window in the sliding side door had disappeared completely. Pebbles of safety glass littered the gravel outside and the floor and seats within the car.

“Katy’s suitcase is gone,” several voices exclaimed in disbelief. I peered through the empty window and saw the even emptier space under it where my suitcase had performed as a leg rest during our travels.

Muriel raced back up the steep drive to the entrance building to report the theft. One of the women on duty immediately telephoned the Gendarmerie in nearby Gordes. I was too stunned to enjoy the quaint village when we drove into it a short time later.

The Gendarme who took my statement was properly tall, dark, handsome, and calm. His English was noticeably more rudimentary than my French. With Muriel’s help, I ended up with a reasonably accurate police report.

It was late for lunch when we finally left the Gendarmerie in our violated vehicle. We stopped at a charming hotel and restaurant. They were complet (full) with a Canadian tour, but Don brought solacing beers out to the car for all of us. They had directed Don to “The Gare” in the next town. It was a simple restaurant in an abandoned railway station, most recently noted for having been mentioned by Peter Mahle in his popular book A Year In Provence.

 

After lunch, we drove directly to our next hotel in Aix-en-Provence, skipping the lovely Luberon area we had planned to explore. In Aix, things began falling into place. I began coping with lost travelers’ checks, airline tickets, and medication while my four traveling companions drove to the nearby Marseilles airport to get another vehicle from Hertz.

That was not as simple as they expected. The airport Hertz personne (employee) assured them that no van was available. Muriel and Mary pointed to three on the lot. “Reserved,” was the reply. Diligence and doggedness won. They drove back with a brand new luminous teal-colored Peugeot 806 7-passenger van.

Every few minutes either Muriel or Mary arrived at my door offering some vital garment or object on loan. When we all settled together for what wasn’t a very Happy Hour, I told everyone that they could stop worrying about me: I was fine but their sorrowful looks of compassion, though gratefully received, had begun to make me think I just had died and no one wanted to tell me.

The most important loss was two new pairs of custom-fitted surgical stockings. The most aggravating loss was my costume jewelry. The most painful loss was the pearls Bucher gave me on our Pearl Anniversary.

Only gradually did I realize what and how many diverse things had gone. I remarked sadly, “My first roll of finished film was in my suitcase.”

Muriel replied, “Is that any worse than your taking pictures for days on our last trip to Mexico with no film in your camera?”

Saturday, 8 October

It was a morning of projects; as I sorted out my problems, Ernie exchanged money, and Don mailed an embarrassing key back to a former hotel.

Hard and shocking as the theft was, it all worked out. American Express replaced my stolen travelers’ checks. I arranged for new airline tickets. A petite and pretty English-speaking doctor, who looked at least seventeen years old, provided necessary prescriptions. The weather even cooperated by letting my single set of unmentionables dry each night. The bright side of losing my costume jewelry was that it gave me a wonderful excuse for buying replacements that I otherwise would not have considered.

Our errands took us to the famed, wide, tree-shaded Cours Mirabeau. When we gathered after our various errands, we settled at a sidewalk café for a morning bière and some people-watching. Later we strolled back to the hotel through busy, narrow streets, picking up picnic food from boulangerie, patisserie, and charcuterie as we passed.

We settled into our new vehicle for a drive into the country, enjoying the area Cezanne painted decades earlier. We failed to find a picnic area with the tables that Don considered a prime requisite, but finally pulled into an open area sufficiently far from a nearby house for privacy. Cezanne’s immortalized Mont Sainte-Victoire, pale with the blue shadows he loved, loomed above us.

Muriel carefully spread her plastic ground sheet (i.e., painter’s dropcloth) and we laid out our baguettes, Camembert, and pâté. We had finished them and were starting our individually selected pastries when a car drove up and parked at the nearby house.

A pleasant woman approached. In French she said, “You realize that this is private property, don’t you?”

We replied with protests and apologies in English and French.

She added, “Please pick up before you leave,” and at our unanimous avowal of decency and ecological awareness, left.

Don remarked, “This area obviously doesn’t belong to that house. Otherwise, she would have been much more adamant about driving us away.”

We packed our things up meticulously. Discardables were bundled together in a plastic sack and deposited in a convenient bin across the road. Only our memories knew we had been there.

 

We drove back into Aix to visit the studio of Paul Cezanne. The entrance fee was high and the display, minimal. We enjoyed seeing the painter’s studio with its array of “things” we all remembered from various paintings. We ambled through the overgrown woods (hardly gardens) surrounding the house. We all felt we had been ripped off for the first time.

Still, when we returned to the car we paused to look up at the mountains in the distance. Ernie remarked, “This is the view Cezanne had from his studio. The buildings weren’t here and the trees were not tall enough then to block out the landscape.”

Sunday, 9 October

We took the autoroute from Aix-en-Provence to the Riviera. Ridge after ridge of abrupt hills and mountains paralleled the Mediterranean. We headed for Grasse. The perfume center was a short northward detour from Cannes. On hillsides, homes now were of Mediterranean design but were almost universal in their warm beige tones and tile roofs.

Signs in Grasse directed us to the Fragonard perfumery. We missed the guided tour but wandered through the manufacturing display. Don explained much of the process to us. We ended up, naturally, in an enormous sales room.

 

We made the mistake of buying picnic food when we were to be in a built-up area without picnic facilities. We searched fruitlessly for a suitable spot, dispositions deteriorating as we went. In desperation, we settled on a public park, deserted during midday by the carnival proprietors whose locked amusement vehicles were lined up much of its length. Muriel found two benches at right angles to each other with a low wall behind them. It wasn’t our idea of a scenic spot; it wasn’t Don’s idea of a picnic table; it served. We laid our food out on the doubled and redoubled plastic, poured wine, and picnicked in public.

A slim French woman swaddled in a heavy wrap tottered past on stiletto heels, looking at us disapprovingly and muttering aloud. At the far end of the park she stopped to talk to a man in a conversation involving much head-shaking and pointing in our direction. We ate and drank happily, ignoring the few passers-by. Our critic reappeared. As she passed, she twirled an energetic finger alongside her head in the universal sign for crazy.

After lunch, we visited Galimard, the only other perfumery we could find open and offering free tours on a Sunday. Our guide was a charming French girl with a clever patter who led us through the technical areas unerringly to the sales display.

 

We returned to Cannes, then took the Basse Corniche along the coast of the Mediterranean. The road wound between high walls. Homes half hidden by luxuriant planting studded the hillsides. We felt at constant risk from small cars determined to pass on curves just as another equally headstrong car came into sight.

The Riviera looked exactly as I expected with its wide promenade along the sea, acres of boats side-by-side in marinas, shops and restaurants on one side of the road, gravel beach on the other. The Russian cruise ship Odessa, which had called at Belize, dwarfed nearby boats.

Our hotel, the Comté de Nice, was in Beaulieu-Sur-Mer, one of the series of small towns beyond Nice. The hotel was pleasant. Its garage, to our newly paranoid delight, had a degree of security a federal prison would envy.

That night we walked a few blocks to an excellent restaurant for dinner. Mary performed her part with aplomb, ordering our cinq Kir. Afterwards we strolled down to the quai (wharf) before returning to our hotel.

Monday, 10 October

Off to Eze, a medieval fortress town perched on a high mountain overlooking the Mediterranean. Our curving road, built by the Romans, wound between grilled fences on the seaward side and high walls overgrown with vines on the other. To the South we could see Cap Ferrat. Beige houses, tile-roofed, large and small, covered the mountains like blond raisins in a cake.

Just below Eze, traffic on the Moyenne Corniche was halted by highway construction. Two lanes of cars stretched ahead of us as far as we could see. Ribs of mountains on either side of the highway folded together in such a way that they displayed a blue triangle of the Mediterranean at their junction like the light at the end of a tunnel. For nearly an hour we barely crept along.

Ultimately Eze appeared, impossibly high and unapproachable. We were able to park reasonably close, then climbed a few hundred steps to the town itself. I told Don that he never saw a stairway he didn’t want us all to climb.

Eze is a picture-book town of winding paths, sudden steps, unexpected doorways, homes and shops, all made of the same gray stone. Lush planters, brightly flowering bushes, and geranium-filled boxes softened the grimness.

We found a high terrace outside the finest restaurant and stopped for a refreshing drink, spellbound by the vistas of the sea and nearby mountains. One of the group termed it “a perfect photo op.”

We ambled up one narrow pathway after another. While many of the shops had only tourist schlock, an equal number run by artists offered individually designed pieces of jewelry, paintings, fabrics, and scarves. I was not as much sightseeing as searching each promising shop for replacements for the jewelry I had lost. Eventually I found the right artist. I left with a handsome, simple gold necklace and starburst-design earrings. I resisted the matching handsome pendant and have regretted it ever since.

Near the top of the village was the Exotic Garden, a hillside rock garden of cacti, succulents, and tropical trees. Ernie was entranced; I, momentarily homesick.

 

We lunched in one of Eze’s picturesque restaurants then headed for Monaco. By the time we reached there, a light rain had begun. We drove through unfamiliar streets searching for the Jacques Cousteau Oceanographic Museum. Don stopped to ask directions and was told he already was there. We were, but at the wrong end of the parking garage. We secured the car then dashed through the rain to the Museum.

We took our time exploring the aquarium, a scientific exhibit, and Prince Albert’s collection of shells and sea memorabilia. An eerie recording of whale sounds accompanied an exhibition of whale skeletons.

Don was determined that we must see the Casino. However, by the time we emerged from the museum it was almost dark and still raining. All we wanted was to get back to our hotel. I did not feel I had missed anything essential to my greater good. Besides, when I entered the Monte Carlo casino, I wanted to be wearing a breathtaking evening gown, diamonds, long white gloves, and be many decades younger.

Tuesday, ll October

When we left for Nîmes, we decided to detour around Cap d’Antibes. The inland end of the peninsula was disappointingly modern, but the old city near the point was charming. We passed streets of beautiful homes guarded by iron gates or high walls of stone or shrubbery. Despite the cool day, we spotted a topless swimmer on the beach. A top-heavy cruise ship, awkward with its high superstructure, was anchored in the harbor south of the cape.

For once we were settled in our hotel before dark, my chosen prerequisite, rarely achieved. Don’s well-used Michelin guide led us to one of our favorite restaurants of the trip.

Usually in French restaurants, the most reasonable way to order is to take the “menu at so many francs.” This offers an appetizer and/or salad, a meat that usually comes with potatoes and vegetables, cheese, and dessert. The portions normally are gracious without being overwhelming.

Muriel and I ordered the menu at 85 francs with chicken. When our plates arrived we looked at our meat in amazement, looked at each other, tasted, then agreed that we didn’t know what it was, but poultry it certainly wasn’t. It was delicious. We finally identified our dinners as braised lamb shanks in a red wine sauce. We decided that the kitchen must have run out of chicken and substituted the lamb from their more expensive menu. We did not complain.

For dessert we both ordered the white cheese with crème fraîche. Muriel termed hers “stiff yogurt” and proceeded to sprinkle it generously with sugar. I found mine an interesting texture, halfway between soft cheese and stiff gelatin. The cream, of course, I loved without reservation.

Wednesday, 12 October

Packing and unpacking had become a bore for all of us. After cutting Carcassonne out of our itinerary because of its location well off our route, we had two unscheduled days. All of us had loved our stay in Burgundy. We decided four days among the Beaujolais vineyards would be a pleasant rest for us all. I faxed ahead to our hotel asking if we might arrive two days early. A prompt telephone call in reply assured me that we all were welcome.

Our first tour destination from Nîmes was Les Baux-de-Provence. We drove through an unexpected haze of smog blanketing most of our way. Large factories in the relatively charmless town of Beaucaire undoubtedly were part of the source. We crossed a canal choked with boats in the stretch above the locks. Don said it reminded him of Belgium.

We passed two statues of bulls. Ernie commented, “It’s always pleasant to see statues that are something besides war monuments. I like to see statues that reflect the interests of the people.” We weren’t sure whether the immortalization reflected the bull fighting enjoyed in the area or the district’s substantial industry of bull semen.

Throughout Provence, long stretches of road were lined on each side by sycamores, their branches enlaced overhead to form green tunnels. In places all high vegetation bent over slightly in the same direction at the same angle due to the heavy winds of the Mistral.

We stopped in the delightful old town of St. Remy. We parked and walked through diminishing misty rain past a market in the central plaza. We relaxed briefly on the raised terrace of a nearby café, watching villagers and market vendors. Then, delighted at having a mission, we launched ourselves into the market to buy picnic supplies. I detoured into a tiny jewelry shop to replace the costume earring I somehow had flipped off while putting on my coat outside the hotel as we left. After having had to wear the same earrings day after day since the theft, I was not unduly distressed. Or perhaps I had developed an uncharacteristic “so what” attitude toward things since losing so much.

 

We drove toward Les Baux. Muriel turned off the pavement onto a gravel road. To my mounting dismay, she proceeded along the rough track around curves, up a hill, and around boulders until we emerged in the most glorious of spots. A high cliff of sheer white slabs soared above us. The ground was gravel bestrewn with boulders. Across the rocks in one direction was a fertile valley under high green hills. We carried our picnic things up a slight rocky rise. Feast and friends were settled on convenient boulders. Food was more savory and company, wittier, in our spectacular surroundings.

Enormous rocks like the ones we just had left overhung the road as we approached Les Baux-de-Provence. It was another medieval town and ruins, perched on the same rocks of which it was built, overlooking a countryside of vines, olive trees, and quarries.

Bauxite (aluminum ore) was discovered there in the mid-Eighteen Hundreds. Far below Les Baux on one side was a narrow valley under white, sheer rock walls. On the other side the mountain holding the tiny settlement eased down into a broad valley. The town itself was much like Eze and equally fun to explore.

We drove back to Arles and wandered the old walled city with its narrow, crooked streets, sheer walls of houses, and window boxes in Christmas colors. The restored ruins of an early Roman amphitheater entranced us all. Don and Ernie prowled up and around the farthest, highest tiers of seats. Mary and Muriel explored. I preferred to sit quietly looking at the old stonework and trying to feel the presence of those who had built and peopled it.

We strolled through ancient streets, then climbed the wall that borders the wide River Rhône. The view was lovely; the smell, unacceptable.

 

We returned to Nîmes through the same haze of smog. By unanimous decision we returned to our restaurant of the preceding night. This time we ordered à la carte to avoid the enormous amounts of food on the multi-course menu. Muriel and I ordered Pavé du Boeuf, not realizing that pavé can be defined as slab. Our meat, an inch-and-a-half thick, literally covered our dinner plates. Muriel ate about a quarter of hers. Mine, with its perfect green pepper sauce, kept me occupied until my plate was cleaned. I should have been embarrassed, but enjoyed it too much to care.

Thursday, 13 October

We set out to see Nîmes’ famous Roman ruins before starting our drive to the Beaujolais. Don promptly was frustrated by a maze of one-way streets complicated by regular diversions for street repairs.

Finally I asked Don, “Has it occurred to you that we may be destined never to leave Nîmes?”

Don replied fervently, “Indeed it has!”

We continued our circular route through lovely, twisting, narrow streets, enjoyed by everyone except our driver. At one corner, Muriel had to jump out of the car to direct Don through an impossibly tight turn.

Don drove past the same side of the famous Jardins de la Fontaine for a third frustrating time, still blocked from proceeding to the far side. He told us, “You’d better enjoy that fountain because it is the only one you’re going to see.”

We took a now-familiar two-lane street to the Temple of Diana, said to be the best preserved one in the world. As we walked down the wide steps to the temple’s sunken plaza, we were approached by three teenage girls, Gypsies, Algerians, what-have-you. They thrust tattered sheets from a colored tabloid at us, asking for money. One pawed Mary’s shoulder pleading for “food for the baby” as she stared down into the pocketbook Mary just had zipped. Ernie called out a warning that this was a purse-snatching team. In three languages we ordered the girls to go away. They stuck like flies in a summer rain. Muriel, Mary, and I clutched pocketbooks to heaving bosoms, twisting to get away from the girls.

To our delight, suddenly they left. To our dismay they surrounded Don, down the street videoing the temple. Ernie called to warn him as one of the girls thrust a hand inside his jacket. Yelling, arms flailing, Ernie ran down the street and chased the girls away. My memory is a little hazy, but I don’t remember that the incident deterred even momentarily Don’s dedicated photographing.

The trio left Don and returned to attack us again with their whines and inept eyeing of our tightly protected valuables. Muriel yelled that she was calling the police. I just yelled, bellowing in my best back-seat-of-the-theater voice. A passing man said something brief and sharp to the girls. They left, looking back viciously at us over their shoulders.

Shaking from the onslaught, Muriel, Mary, and I returned to the car in racing walks and locked ourselves gratefully behind its steel walls. As we began to relax, Muriel laughed that the girls had no chance of robbing Don. “Don has a Scotch wallet. He has trouble getting it out of his pocket himself.”

We drove next to the famous Roman amphitheater, enormous and amazingly intact. Muriel said she would stay with the car. Mary and I were not about to leave our shelter. The men made a quick visit to the amphitheater. When they returned, they said our threesome of would-be thieves just was arriving, assumedly looking for less wary tourists.

 

We all were relieved to leave Nîmes behind. We paused at the first convenient café on the highway. Its parking lot held trucks and a bus. The terrace tables were almost full with pleasant young men in their early twenties. Gradually we realized that it was a driving school for truck and bus drivers. We watched as novices guided massive rigs backwards through an obstacle course.

Don videoed a group of the young people on the terrace. They giggled with delight. I wondered how beer mixed with driver training.

We stopped in a small town for picnic food, using three separate shops in the French way. The line of lunchtime customers at the boulangerie stretched out onto the sidewalk. Muriel lined up with the rest and nearly fainted from the heat in the tiny shop before emerging with her yard-long baguette. We stopped at a pleasant picnic ground alongside the autoroute. It was not as dramatic as some, but it had a table for Don.

 

The rest of the drive was uneventful. At the comfortable daylight hour of 5:00 pm we reached the captivating Les Maritonnes in the village of Romanèche-Thorins in the heart of The Beaujolais.

My first impression was of walls covered with green vines turning red, of tall trees, and of lace-curtained French windows under a wood-beamed walkway. We were welcomed warmly by the attractive young woman who had telephoned me in Nîmes. Again we were led quickly to our rooms, unregistered.

Our rooms were fresh and invitingly French-Country style. The hotel’s public rooms were homey-with-taste. The breakfast-room-cum-bar held tables covered with lace cloths, a mantel displaying pewter pieces, and several inviting overstuffed arm chairs.

That night we decided to have dinner in the hotel’s one-star restaurant, even though it was a bit more expensive than we normally chose. It was a happy experience. Excellent food was beautifully served. I ordered one of the things on my be-sure-to-eat-in-France list: Grenouilles (frog’s legs, a favorite from my Michigan childhood). They were delicious, though awkward to eat. As I finished, my plate was whisked away and, to my horror, another full serving was set smoothly in front of me. My protests were smiled away. I obediently set in to demolish the little darlings as my companions laughed and enjoyed their wine. Muriel said she had run into the double-serving in the Netherlands. She learned that refusal of the second helping was considered an insult.

Friday, October l4

A cold fog obscured the countryside for a short time as we set out on our explorations. Don drove to Macon, where we hit the bank for what we all hoped would be the last time we’d need to cash travelers’ checks.

Massed flowers of every possible kind and color edged the street into town. Muriel and Ernie agreed that the unseemly mixture of blooms should have looked terrible but that somehow they didn’t. The conversation reminded Muriel of a friend who met life’s treacheries with the motto: “Think Pretty Colors.”

The Beaujolais appeared to be a prosperous area. There were many substantial newish houses but all were of designs and beige colors that blended with the older stone buildings. Tangerine-colored dahlias made blocks of color against limestone walls.

Here low hedges outlined fields, sometimes set with large trees, graciously spaced. The Beaujolais did not need the windbreaks of the Mistral country. A patchwork of vineyards covered hills, each one its own shade of greeny-gold or copper. Vines in the Beaujolais were planted on hillsides, with rows running up and down to facilitate drainage. Throughout the wine country all was neatness. The sense of community and pride of the vintners showed everywhere.

We drove past pastures full of cream-colored Charolais cattle and through woods that could have been North Georgia. Like Bourgogne, the Beaujolais area is a series of small villages, each producing its own wine.

We stopped for lunch in Cluny at a modest sidewalk café. Mary and Ernie were delighted to find a vegetable plate. I joined Muriel and Don in attacking an enormous bowl of mussels cooked with onions in wine. We ladled them into soup bowls. Don showed me how to open the shells and extract the meat. We used bits of crusty rolls to sop up the broth. The meal was messy but delicious.

 

We continued to the village of Vergisson. Don and Muriel had met a small vintner named André Forest there years earlier and more recently encouraged a friend of theirs to import M. Forest’s Pouilly-Fuissé to the Philadelphia area. Both M. and Mme. Forest were at home, relaxed at the end of the harvest with their new wine safe in oak kegs. When Muriel and Don introduced themselves, they invited us to see their cave and sample their wines.

We went into a small wine cellar with a dirt floor and long line of wine kegs. It had a wonderful earthy smell, which Muriel and Mary described as “musty” and Ernie called “yeasty.” We continued into another room lined with racks of bottles. A large keg had been cut off and upended to make a rough wooden table. We sat on small uneven benches as M. Forest produced some Pouilly-Fuissé that he said had been in the bottle for only six months. He filled our glasses generously. The wine was good, but even I could tell that it was green. It would be excellent in another year and a half, we were told.

M. Forest, obviously proud of his small winery and his increasingly recognized wines, told us something about their background. He spoke no English. Muriel, Don, and I cooperated in translating and communicating with varying degrees of success. The business had been handed down from father to son since 1750. M. Forest had fifteen hectares of vineyards (about twelve acres). Most of his vines were 50 years old and still bearing strongly. M. Forest said that his hillside soil was stony and about eight inches deep above solid rock.

Ernie had many questions about viticulture. We did our best to translate back and forth. Mme. Forest, a delightful person, obviously was frustrated at not being able to talk freely with the visitors she made so welcome.

M. Forest, over our protests, opened a second bottle, Pouilly-Fuissé 1992, at the peak of aging. It was delicious. Don bought two bottles, which we enjoyed later, one on a picnic and the other during Happy Hour after our supply of Scotch was exhausted.

We left reluctantly and continued our drive through the endless vineyards and pretty towns of the area.

 

That evening we drove to nearby Juliénas for dinner at the delightful “Coq Au Vin.” To begin our meal, several of us ordered Salade Lyonnaise de la Maison. We all were taken aback to be served beautiful plates of beds of lettuce surrounded by long, square strips of raw herring, onion curls, and atop all, a poached egg.

Several of us had superb calves liver. The Fromage au Crème Fraîche was a smooth glory. The Crème Brûlée was the best we had anywhere, the custard creamy and the sugar topping brown and brittle.

Saturday, 15 October

It was a perfect fogless day. Four of our group agreed that we were “wined out” and would be just as happy not to have another degustation (wine tasting).

We drove to the famous windmill that gives wines of the immediate area the name “Moulin-à-Vent.” From the hill on which the moulin (mill) stood, we had a panoramic view of vineyards and rolling hills beset with scattered homes and villages.

We continued to Chénas. Don bought a bottle of its wine, recommended by experts as underrated. In Fleurie, which produces the most flowery of the Beaujolais wines, we found a market and gift shops in the central square. We took advantage of both. We left with gifts for home and lunch fixings of bread, pâté, cheese, and tinned asparagus.

Don drove up a long, winding road to the top of the highest of the surrounding mountains and pulled into the parking area of a small restaurant. It was closed for the season, as Don hoped. We appropriated one of their picnic tables and enjoyed our lunch in beautiful surroundings.

 

After lunch, we returned to the hotel and separated. Muriel went off to paint, unsuccessfully, as she reported later. Mary and Ernie napped. I joined Don for a visit to the nearby George Duboeuf winery. We paid for an unguided tour and found ourselves in a vast museum of viticulture. We were spellbound at the array of pictures, maps, charts, artifacts; an engaging automated stage show of the entire growing and picking process; displays of bottles, glass-making, cork, and the growing, reaping, and production of corks for wine bottles. It was a sophisticated museum stretching through sixteen rooms of former winery and cellars.

During our explorations, we happened on a TV crew photographing one of the younger Duboeufs giving an introduction to what obviously would be a special about the wine museum. The tour ended in a wonderful old-fashioned barroom, gleaming with polished wood and brass. We enjoyed our glasses of wine to the overly-loud but nostalgic accompaniment of a calliope.

Sunday, 16 October

The morning again was foggy. After Don’s and my enthusiastic description of the Duboeuf wine museum, Muriel, Mary, and Ernie decided to visit it early. At 10:00 when shops in France opened, Don and I went in search of picnic food. We returned to the Duboeuf sales room to wait for our group. They were held up by locked doors in the middle of their tour, so Don and I spent an hour in the sales room, under the suspicious eye of the sole woman on duty that Sunday morning.

We walked slowly along the displays of wine bordering the room, discussing each one. Listening to Don, I added another layer to my minor understanding of wines. After having inspected everything several times, I broke off to buy a postcard map of the Beaujolais. The clerk, who obviously anticipated an interesting sale from our lengthy study of her wares, gasped in astonishment, “C’est tout?” (That’s all?)

When our group finally emerged, we drove to nearby Morgon and picnicked in a wooded park adjacent to a winery. We strolled past cages of deer and several colorful varieties of birds to reach an isolated table. Ernie estimated that some of the massive pines towering over us were 300 to 350 years old.

We toured the winery’s cave briefly. Its rooms had been freshened and turned into a picturesque bar; restaurant; and, farther on, a great open area for parties and weddings, where formerly oak kegs held aging wines. Only the elegant stained-glass windows depicting steps in wine-making were of real interest.

 

We returned to the hotel to pack, then met at a sunny table on the terrace for a four o’clock Seize Cent Soixante Quatre, our beer of choice during our travels.

It was Muriel and Don’s 46th wedding anniversary. The Tysons and I bought the best available bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé from Duboeuf for Happy Hour that evening. We again ate in the one-star hotel dining room.

Although we ordered only a main course and, as a farewell gesture, dessert, we were served several braata (Belize Creole for free extras):

• With our aperitif Kirs, minute savory pastries

• As an appetizer, a small dish of sweetbreads in a light sauce with seasoned vegetable bits

• After dessert, astonishingly, two plates of an assortment of bite-size tarts, cream puffs, and other delectables.

Don and Muriel invited us for liqueurs in the informal room where we breakfasted daily. Don and I were able to resist ordering Marc de Bourgogne.

Monday, l 7 October

We all arose early and met for breakfast before the staff had finished setting tables. The car was stowed with baggage for our trip to Paris. We were under way at 8:55 and on the autoroute fifteen minutes later.

A plateau of vineyards, then pastures, were our first landscapes. Fields and foliage had reddened noticeable since our southward drive three weeks earlier.

Muriel took the wheel as we approached Paris. Don directed her, the huge road atlas of France on his lap open to the proper Paris page. We passed Orly airport and continued through tidy suburbs. Thick woods lined the throughway in places. Sooner than I would have imagined possible, we were off the throughway and into mid-Paris traffic. Muriel skillfully circled the Arc de Triomphe, dodging determined drivers and changing lanes as Don directed. In moments we were at the curb in front of our delightful Hotel Tilsitt Étoile.

As soon as we had deposited baggage in our rooms, we left to walk to the Air France office, not far down the Champs-Élysées. The foursome adjourned to a nearby outdoor café for a Kir while I went to replace my stolen ticket. It was a time-consuming, but ultimately successful, exercise. By the time I left the Air France office, Don was about to enter it. “I thought the Gendarmes had you for trying to use a stolen ticket,” he said.

Our tour group once more complete, we left on one of Don’s brilliantly choreographed pas-de-cinq through the Metro. We emerged in Montmartre. Don was determined that the Tysons should have that classic Paris adventure, an aperitif at “Les Deux Magots,” where generations of writers relaxed between inspirations.

A classic Scottie, gallantly trying with stubby legs to keep up with his long-limbed owner, reminded me how much dogs were a part of the scene in France. It seemed that for each five French citizens there were two dogs. We saw beautifully groomed, well trained dogs of every breed throughout France: on the streets, at historical sites, in hotels, in restaurants, in baskets on bicycles, and in boxes on market stands.

We left Montmartre and Don guided us to an alternate route back to our hotel. It took us on an elevated line past apartment buildings and across the Seine for the last time.

 

We returned for dinner to the nearby “Les Gourmets des Ternes,” where we had eaten the first night of our trip. Mary wanted another chance at their Boeuf Bourguignon and we both wanted the pitcher of crème fraîche served with our desserts.

To our surprise, soon after we were seated, the son of the proprietor came over to our table with a warm welcome. He said he remembered us and even knew what appetizers we had the first time and wanted to repeat. Don remarked after he left, “It’s wonderful that we haven’t gained so much weight that he couldn’t recognize us.” Dinner was as delicious as we all remembered and expected.

We said a reluctant good night as we parted on our last night in Paris.

Tuesday, 18 October

We breakfasted together early. As we finished, Muriel said that they could spend their pre-flight time at Charles de Gaulle airport looking for the gift T-shirts they never had found. “They’ll probably say I love New York,” she added dryly as we left the table.

Twenty minutes later the Stauffers and Tysons were checked out, baggage loaded into the van for the last time, and on their way to the airport. I had that almost teary feeling as I watched friends and travel companions drive off.

 

A couple of hours later, I left the hotel, taxied to Charles de Gaulle, and checked in with Air France. I prowled the shops with nothing special in mind, finding exactly that. It occurred to me that if the United Airlines departure area was like the Air France one, Don probably did not find his T-shirts.

I found a comfortable seat in the departure lounge and settled down with a good book. Glancing up, I noticed a handsome, tailored light gold dress in the window of an expensive shop. I knew I could not afford it, but wandered over to study it closer anyway. The dress was accessorized with a beautiful gold chain and pendant with a price tag in my range. I went into the shop and emerged a few minutes later with a wonderful addition to my depleted store of costume jewelry, stripped from the model as I watched.

The Air France flight was on time. Club class was addictively comfortable. By sundown, I was in my room in the Miami airport hotel.

Wednesday, 19 October

My TACA flight was uneventful and on time. I debouched into the friendly humidity of Belize. The Customs officer waved me through, garment bag untouched, when he learned of my loss in France.

To my delight, Alex was waiting for me as I emerged from the terminal. Somehow between my arrival in the terminal and my exit, the heavens had opened up. I extracted the umbrella that had accompanied me day after day through the suns of Provence and handed it to my son so he could retrieve his truck without drowning.

Much as I loved my tour of France, it was wonderful to be back in Belize.

Epilogue, 26 November

The end of the trip was made less painful by an invitation to join Don and Muriel next year in Spain. Don has to be there for a conference on September 10th. They plan to visit the Basque country (which I always have wanted to do) and also Morocco (which I never considered).

Assuming I can pay American Express and Visa for this trip, and assuming that I can keep from falling down and breaking something vital, I’ll be back on the plane to Europe next fall.

Now I’ll have to get out my Spanish books and tapes. My new daughter-in-law María confided that her mother remarked that my Spanish is pretty good but that I have the strangest accent she ever has heard. Furthermore, I will have to keep my French brushed up. I think that’s the lingua franca in Morocco. I’m thinking of trying to learn a few phrases in Arabic, but that may be pushing things.