France on Business

I’m going to France!

As I got on the plane last May for a trip to see my Yankee family, I told myself that never again would I have the thrill of setting out on a really superb trip like the one last year to Africa, and that it really didn’t matter.

My first stop was in Miami, where Alex and I attended a conference of agents of CGM (The French Line, Compagnie Générale Maritime). To our delighted amazement, our little company was picked as one of three who had achieved the most during the preceding year. One of two prizes awarded was sending me to Paris for an all-expense-paid week. Even better, the trip was tied in with a duplicate trip for Ethel and Jacques Cachot; he’s the retiring manager of the Miami CGM office and my old friend.

I did an intensive refurbishing of my high school French, but it was lovely to have a Frenchman in charge.

Saturday, 16 September

The taxi came on time and all I had to worry about was whether the billowing black clouds would cause TAN to overfly Belize and me to miss my Air France flight to Paris.

The trip was routine except for TAN’s seriously damaging their reputation for good food by serving tasteless imitation scrambled eggs and pancakes better suited to paving sidewalks than to lining stomachs.

CGM had booked me in Club Class on Air France, so in addition to the extra-comfortable seats with padded foot rests, there was a great sense of privacy due to the configuration of the seats. A storage area divided the compartment so one was aware of only the two abreast seats.

Service was lavish—champagne, steaming towels, a zippered bag of goodies including French perfume, and a dinner more suitable to a fine restaurant than to a plane.

My seat companion was a young Egyptian heading home to Abu Dhabi after a selling trip (pharmaceuticals) through the U.S. He was bright, lucid, and eager to talk. We covered the debt crisis in developing countries, the drug problem, the Mid-East situation, comparative religions (he was Muslim), the rearing of children, and prospect for world peace. It was a surprising, but fascinating, conversation.

As for the night, no matter what class you are in, you are faced with a restless night of sleeping semi-erect.

Sunday, 17 September

Airport formalities were simple and my taxi driver, far more civil that I had been led to anticipate.

The Hotel Friedland had an unimpressive doorway among shops but grilled balconies stretched from one end of the block-long facade to the other on the higher floors. The lobby was small. Not only was my reservation in place, but I was not even asked to check in. No bellboy. I wrestled my two bags into the tiniest elevator I ever had seen and fought claustrophobia all the way up to the second floor (third, in U.S. parlance).

My room was small and ordinary but French doors at the end opened onto the balcony at tree-top height. Looking to the right down the line of trees, I could see the Arc de Triomphe not far away. A private wall safe with combination lock made up for the dinginess of the room. It was the first I ever had had in an hotel room and I was ecstatic. Even before I unpacked I loaded all my valuables into the safe and secured them with a flourish. Later, Ethel Cachot would comment that the fact that guests needed safes showed the caliber of the hotel.

I was too excited to sleep immediately, so unpacked, with multiple trips onto my balcony to enjoy the tree-lined avenue, fine old buildings across the street, and the Arc. When I finally lay down, I slept only fitfully and awoke an hour before the time set on my alarm.

It seemed a good time to wash stockings and smalls. I had anticipated the possibility of a stopper-less basin and had rubber stoppers in three sizes in my luggage. What I had not anticipated was a basin with a broken metal plug that could not be removed. In the past I have coped with similar problems by using a plastic wastebasket as a basin. This room had only a wire basket. Fortunately, it had an extra bathroom fixture with hot and cold water and a working stopper. I scoured it thoroughly and found a convenient, if unconventional, use for it soaking my stockings.

My elastic clothesline stretched easily from a heavy vertical pipe to a towel rack on the opposite wall. By carefully positioning wet laundry on the line, I was just able to slide around the door and snake my way to the commode behind it without enmeshing myself in damp garments.

 

I walked down two flights of curving, carpeted stairs to the lobby on my way to a stroll down the avenue and found my trip companions, Ethel and Jacques Cachot, amid a pile of luggage that would have equipped a family of six for months. We had a quick visit before they began the trek up to their room and I departed for my first exploration of the streets of Paris.

Naturally I headed for the Arc de Triomphe. Across from the roundabout encircling it, I paused to admire the familiar bas reliefs, feel the massiveness of the monument, and to imagine the triumphal parades in its shadow. Movement in the crenelated top caught my eye. My instant thought was, “For heaven’s sake, they keep a troop of monkeys on top of the Arc.” A few moments of astonished staring corrected my erring view and I wondered how the tourists, now recognized on the rooftop, had crossed the surging traffic to the edifice. I could find no crosswalk and decided that a hasty dash among the careening vehicles could leave me dead before my first night in Paris. It was only later that I learned that there are pedestrian underpasses.

 

The Cachots and I met in the lobby a bit after six-thirty that evening and walked over to and down the Champs Elysees. The famous avenue was choked with shaggy young people in blue jeans, rather than the elegant Parisians I had expected to see. We continued along a series of diagonaling streets to an elegant restaurant where the Fin du Siecle decor would have been treat enough, even without the superb food.

Getting a taxi back to the hotel was another matter. Several empty ones passed us, with or without gestures to illustrate their drivers’ views of people who hail cabs. One driver stopped, asked where we were going, then drove off, refusing to take us. We walked.

 

Now, about the Hotel Friedland. It was clean, beautifully located, and pretty third-rate. Ethel and Jacques were wild. After checking in, making three trips each in the minute elevator with their luggage, and finding a nondescript room without a bathroom door and with broken furniture, Ethel collapsed in tears and Jacques rang CGM to say that the room was “non menable with a capital M.”

There was a great deal of huffing and puffing and many calls before the story finally emerged. Two or three CGM people in succession had passed on the job of booking our hotel until it reached a secretary who selected one out of a guide, based on its location. Jacques insisted she probably had never seen the inside of an hotel in her life.

Ethel was inconsolable long after it made any sense not to come to terms with the situation and get on with enjoying Paris. Unfortunately she had especially looked forward to staying in an hotel better than the one they usually used, and the Friedland was far less comfortable or attractive. There was nothing to be done immediately; every hotel in Paris was booked full that Bicentennial summer. We all felt the Friedland incongruous, considering that CGM had sent us all Club Class on Air France and had delivered enormous bouquets of flowers to Ethel and me on our arrivals.

 

My large assortment of electrical converter and adapters traveled to France with me so that I could make my early morning coffee. Tragically, the one plug I needed for French outlets I did not have. It was only when, much later, I moved to the Hotel Opal that I found a nearby hardware store that quickly supplied the missing fitting. Mornings were brighter for the rest of my stay.

However, before I found my adapter, one thing became clear about life in Paris hotels. I stayed in three, of varying classes. In each I found that in the morning, one rings for petit dejeuner, then hangs up the telephone and walks briskly to unbolt the door. A Smiling Someone with tray of coffee and croissants will have materialized in the hall during the 30-seconds or so it has taken to cross the room.

Monday, 18 September

First touring—The Louvre.

Driving through Paris was a strange mixture of seeing wonderful new sights and of feeling utterly at home because everything was so familiar. The tree-lined avenues with their handsome be-grilled facades and vari-shaped chimneys, the Places with familiar statuary, the scuttling taxis—all were remembered, rather than seen for the first time.

The Louvre is more encompassing than I had realized. The new focus of interest is, of course, the I. M. Pei pyramid entrance. It is handsome in itself and less obtrusive than expected because the palace beyond shows through its slanted glass sides.

From inside, the pyramid is magnificent. A great curving staircase soars skyward from the marble lobby floor below. The immensity, light, and spaciousness dwarf the horde of tourists.

The Louvre and its exhibits have been pictured and described too often to need my words. It was enough to speculate on those vast and ornate halls in daily use as a palace.

 

Inside the museum, chance led me to a particular spot beside a particular glass case in a long gallery displaying elaborate vessels of many sorts. The crowds were dense so I waited until there was an opening to approach a case. Inside were a number of small bowls hollowed from semi-precious stones and decorated to a king’s taste with elaborate golden handles and gems.

One slightly oval vessel, thin, delicately mottled sienna with an elaborate jeweled handle and ornate gold decorations caught my eye. It seemed thinner than the others, thinner than a stone bowl could be. I recognized it suddenly as a calabash, the same shell-like dipper used by Belizeans in bath and sink for generations.

 

The Mona Lisa now is protected by an air-conditioned glass case. Visitors are held back by velvet ropes. There is little sense of immediacy in seeing the original.

Jacques told a wonderful story of the time when the Mona Lisa was sent to New York aboard the Normandie while he was an officer on that ship. The painting was given a private stateroom all its own.

To move the painting ashore involved a very short stretch outside the temperature-controlled areas of the ship, a few meters, then down a gangway, then a few more meters into a waiting van. Authorities from the Louvre insisted that CGM enclose the entire outside transit-way from the ship to the van, to heat it, and to set fans to distribute the heat evenly, just for the five-minute transit of the invaluable painting.

Later, Jacques suggested to the Captain that a plaque should be placed on the door of the painting’s stateroom. For the rest of the life of the Normandie, that room carried a small brass plaque stating, “Mona Lisa Slept Here.”

 

An unforgettable moment came when I paused at the bottom of a long, tapering marble staircase and saw, as the tourists parted by accident, the glowing statue of the Victoire de Samothrace, “The Winged Victory,” arching forward in abounding joy hardly contained by its marble form.

The Venus de Milo stands alone bathed in light in a small round room at the far end of an ornate gallery. The press of tourists blocks the view but occasional gaps give flashes of the intended impact of the statue’s placement. Of the statue itself, I had a sense of unreality, slowly circling beauty incarnate, captured.

There cannot be enough time in life fully to savor the paintings, statues, displays in the Louvre. The extravagance of the palace itself is matched by the treasures it holds. That impression will remain with me.

 

We left the Louvre, walked a short way, crossed one of the Seine’s handsome bridges to the Left Bank, and stopped for lunch at a sidewalk cafe. It was the simplest of places, perhaps four tables in all, but we could watch the Seine and the food was superb, to my surprise.

After lunch, we went on to the Île de la Cité to see the Cathedral of Notre Dame. As often as one has seen pictures, one is not prepared for the grace and elegance of that immense structure. The afternoon sun made the right-hand rose window blaze with color. Severe personal restraint was needed to avoid the simile of “kaleidoscope” as unbefitting. The ghosts of the men whose dreams and skills conceived and executed that masterpiece were as real a presence as the soaring columns, vaults, and exquisite stained glass of the Cathedral. Notre Dame awes, but embraces one.

We walked on to the Palais de Justice, submitted to a careful search by gendarmes, and went through the passage to Sainte Chappelle, the private chapel of the king.

Standing in line outside and peering into the gloom within, I could see a souvenir kiosk and thought to myself that this was one bit of touring we easily could have skipped. Moments later, inside the chapel, I was enchanted by its riot of color—soft reds, greens, blues, golds, painted in wallpaper—like designs of small fleur-de-lis, leaves, etc., columns one color and wall panels different ones, all blending in a joyous and welcoming but uncharacteristic informality. One part of my mind said “tacky” and the other said “exhilarating.” I thought how easily the King could have talked to his God here, but learned that this was the chapel for the servants and that the royal chapel was above it.

Up a narrow curving stone staircase, the main chapel was more formal, but incredibly airy in manner and effect. Long, narrow stained-glass windows set close together along most of the wall area lightened one’s heart as they brightened the chapel. It was a different paean of praise from Notre Dame’s, but equally inspiring.

We returned to the hotel for R&R, then went out for a superb dinner at one of Paris’ fine restaurants. Jacques and Ethel, of course, knew Paris well and, in this case, I was the beneficiary of their familiarity.

Tuesday, 19 September

It had been a late evening and was an early morning. Jacques put me on the train to Le Havre at 8:00 am. The car was comfortable, with airplane-type seats, and the ride was smooth. I had looked forward to seeing something of the countryside but had forgotten how much of a train’s course runs through dismal industrial areas. I found myself napping most of the way, rousing to see the quaint Norman farms and villages, and fields spotted with dairy cattle.

An old friend who had been Regional Manager for CGM met me at the train and took me back to CGM. I had a full and fascinating day with charming, astute men, becoming acquainted, talking business, having the usual fine lunch (where I succeeded in delighting them by nonchalantly ordering a Kir as an aperitif). I was given a tour of the extensive wine cellars, which I did not even know CGM had. After a full day, it was back to the train and back to Paris.

 

Jacques and Ethel met me and we walked to a nearby restaurant that they knew. We sat in a glassed-in veranda overlooking the square and were entertained by the passers-by as we enjoyed dinner. I ordered lightly after my large lunch, but the salad-with-bacon that I ordered proved to be virtually a feast. It would have served a family of four and the “bacon” was something thick and lean and too delicious to forgo.

Ethel announced delightedly that CGM had found us rooms in a better hotel and that we would move in the morning.

Wednesday, 20 September

Morning was chaotic with packing, wrestling our suitcases downstairs without assistance, checking out early, and, worst of all, finding a taxi that would take our pile of luggage. An angel in a Citroen finally appeared; bags vanished into a surprisingly capacious trunk; and we all piled in. We dropped Ethel and all the luggage at the Hotel Cambon, a few steps from the Tuileries, and Jacques and I headed north to La Defense, a new commercial area of Paris with enormous modern office buildings, only slightly late for our first CGM appointment.

Again, the business sessions were stimulating and I was able to meet people who heretofore had been only names or initials at the bottom of telexes. I had not been advised ahead of time that CGM Paris was primarily interested in an indoctrination course on Belize because personnel in the CAROL (Caribbean Overseas Line, the service that calls at Belize) Department had changed. Fortunately, talking is something I do easily—no laughter, please—and organizing material extemp is automatic.

We had an elegant luncheon, served in the executive dining room. CGM had arranged that following our late lunch Jacques and I would visit the new Grande Arche nearby. For once Jacques’ favorite adjective “extravagant” (strongly accented on the final syllable and usually used inappropriately) was apt. I liked the clean massiveness of the Arche amid the ultra-modern high-rises of La Defense; Jacques snorted, “Too much concreted.”

We climbed three flights of 17-step stairs that stretched handsomely the width of the edifice, unbroken by railings. We took one of the exterior elevators to the top of the Arche, enjoying the view of Paris spread out far below. A Human Rights organization exhibit in the gallery at the top displayed curious, touching photographs of refugees from throughout the world over recent years. We were back in the hotel around five, and Jacques discovered in his pockets tickets to some show in the bottom of the Arche that CGM had intended us to see.

 

The Hotel Cambon was a pleasant change from the Friedland. It was typical of many small but excellent Paris hotels, modern in decor, attentive in service, and above average in accommodations. My room was not large but it was elegantly decorated and the size of the tiled bathroom made up for it. My only reservation was the step upward into the bathroom, but I resisted stumbling up or down it during my stay.

I was hesitant to join Ethel and Jacques for dinner that evening because a friend was going to meet them, but by 7:00 pm, I realized it no longer was a matter for discussion. I was in a complete collapse after the stimulating stress of two CGM days in a row. I telephoned my regrets, fixed a Scotch from the mini-bar to sustain me while I washed my stockings, and turned the lights out at 8:00 pm for a rejuvenating, uninterrupted twelve hours of sleep.

Thursday, 21 September

At a comfortable hour in the morning, Ethel, Jacques and I set out for Les Invalides and the tomb of Napoleon. By great good luck, our taxi turned onto the approach to the building just as the French military mounted guard curvetted down the avenue. Stalled in traffic, we had ample time to admire and photograph the magnificent horses and uniformed riders.

I was not prepared to be as touched by the building and tomb as I was. Again, the building, the bas reliefs, and statues were magnificent. One cannot help being impressed, looking over the marble railing onto the mighty porphyry tomb standing alone in the rotunda. I had not realized that Napoleon’s son, some of his generals, and later heroes also had sarcophagi in the transepts and shrines beyond the central hall. To me, the tomb of General Foch was the most touching, topped with life-size bronze World War I soldiers bearing high the effigy of the general.

 

We continued to the museum of the army next door. Just leaving the museum was a legless World War II officer in Naval uniform, wheelchair pushed by his officer-son, surrounded by his bright, laughing family. He was a handsome man, ruddy with a white military mustache, laughing and obviously excited about his visit to the museum.

We went through the ground floor display of medieval armor, the finest I ever have seen. The exhibits were as polished as if the squire just had prepared them for his knight. Some figures were mounted on life-size horses, great heavy beasts able to carry the weight. In one striking display a black giant of a horse carried a knight wearing black armor etched in silver, a forbidding figure.

 

We barely touched other exhibits because Ethel had been successful in getting us lunch reservations at the wildly choice “Jules Verne” restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower. We paused just long enough by the carpeted steps of the tower’s exclusive elevator to glance at the menu posted there and note that appetizers ranged from US$30.00 to US$50.00. We did not linger to read more unsettling prices.

The elevator ride through the intricate framing of the tower was spectacular and the restaurant, overpoweringly elegant in black decor.

In an excess of exhilaration I ordered a Kir Royale (made with champagne rather than white wine) and Ethel joined me. Ethel and I were given menus without prices but Jacques looked so worried at his priced one, even though CGM was paying, that we took turns borrowing his menu. Lunch for the three of us was going to run close to US$300.00.

Jacques reached for a small folder near the table lamp, but the waiter quickly told him that it was not a wine list and replaced it. In desperation we ordered, the waiter moved off, and Ethel picked up the small folder. It was a menu and offered a set meal for 20 Francs, about US$30.00. Ethel begged Jacques to call the waiter back; I added my coaxing; and after momentary hesitation, he did. Despite Jacques’s embarrassment, the perfidious waiter seemed amused at our discovering his deviousness in time to do him out of a larger tip.

We all were vastly relieved to have escaped the exorbitant prices and enjoyed one of the finest meals we had in Paris.

Friday, 22 September

The plan had been to go to Versailles, but Jacques had business meetings and lunch so Ethel and I went shopping. Later we learned that the palace was closed for repairs anyway.

The Galeries Lafayette is one of the largest department stores I ever have been in, gorgeous but crowded. Paris prices were very high. Fortunately neither Lafayette nor the endless handsome displays in boutiques tempted me because nothing they showed would have been suitable for Belize. I could admire without longing.

We had lunch in the store restaurant, did a few errands after lunch, and returned to the hotel in time for a rest before dressing for the CGM dinner aboard a Bateau Mouche on the Seine.

 

Paris taxis! We were out looking for one well ahead of time on Rue de Rivoli alongside the Tuileries, a main artery with heavy traffic. All we saw hurtling down the middle traffic lane were full taxis or empty ones that disdained to stop. We all were getting frantic because we had a deadline for arriving at Le Bateau Mouche.

Both Jacques and Ethel decided we should walk farther up the street where the doormen from the big hotels could not grab taxis ahead of us. It was only minutes before one finally stopped. We arrived at the pier in good time and joined our CGM hosts.

The Batteaux Mouches were docked one beside the other, all brilliantly lighted. Aboard ours, CGM had a long reserved table. It was a congenial group that included the two top CAROL officials with their wives and young CGM couples from Venezuela and Panama, who happened to be in Paris at the time.

A typically French combo played, three instruments including clarinet, something like a saxophone, and something bass, not as large as a tuba. The musicians were dressed as French sailors in white duck trousers; 3/4-sleeve jerseys with horizontal navy stripes; and flat-top caps with a navy band, white top, and red pompom. Our French friends told us that touching the pompoms was said to bring good luck.

The Bateau proceeded along the Seine with panoramic views through window walls and overhead glass. The Tour Eiffel with its extensive new golden Bicentennial lighting was magnificent. A bit farther down the river, we came abreast of the replica of the Statue of Liberty. Moments later the two were in line—the Statue of Liberty with the Eiffel towering behind, a sight to thrill.

Service was faultless and the food, good. Our chateaubriand was excellent. The French are masters at cooking beef to the exact degree requested.

In the center of the Bateau on a raised platform was an impressive organ embellished by an elaborate pair of dark gilded life-size creatures, somewhere between cherub and angel, jutting outward like figureheads from the prow of a sailing ship. As we cruised past the floodlit Cathedral of Notre Dame, the organist segued into the Hallelujah Chorus, with choir provided from some unknown source within the instrument. All chatter ceased, but here and there a few good voices softly joined in.

The scenery along the Seine was endlessly fascinating—magnificent, familiar buildings; parks, people strolling, trees; Rive Gauche, Rive Droit; Île de la Cité, Île Saint-Louis—up one side and back the other. A charming evening, etched in memory.

Saturday, 23 September

Saturday Ethel had to return to Miami. She had been lucky to have been given two weeks’ holiday on a new job that she had held for only four months. Ethel packed; we said goodbye; they left for the airport.

 

As you know, we are also the Belize agents for Air France; M. Jacques Bankir, the vice president of Air France who had been in Belize the previous month, had insisted that he must take me to lunch, though I protested at his breaking up his Saturday. He called for me at the Hotel Cambord after having parked in the Place de la Concorde nearby. We walked to the nearby Hotel Ritz. I admitted my pleasure at his choice and privately thought it especially charming that he had chosen to take me to one of Paris’s finest hotels.

Beyond the Ritz’s massive glass and brass front doors, everything was gilt and crimson. Formally attired young attendants were everywhere, white gloves spotless, to open doors, direct, or serve. M. Bankir had made a reservation at “The Grill,” so we walked the length of an ornate corridor lined on both sides with showcases displaying jewels, accessories, bric-a-brac—a lavish array of exquisite baubles.

The Grill was a handsomely informal room, opening onto a luxuriantly planted courtyard. Service was exemplary and the luncheon, perfect. My appetizer was a “fence” of upright leeks enclosing an aspic of shrimp and lobster. M. Bankir and I shared a small lamb rib roast that was sliced into four tender chops apiece. I declined dessert but my host insisted on calling for the dessert cart. We both had creamy concoctions too divine to leave us taunted by guilt.

After luncheon, I excused myself. To my consternation, I was escorted most of the way to the ladies’ room by the White Gloves of whom I had asked direction. A carpeted, curving staircase with brocaded walls and gold rail led down to an elegant lounge that opened into a mirrored dressing room. The adjacent marble enclosure was too small to be termed a room but far too large to be considered a cubicle. I returned to let golden swans pour warm water over my hands into a marble basin.

 

After M. Bankir left me back at the Hotel Cambon, I took a taxi to the Musee d’Orsay, a much-talked-of museum that now displays most of the impressionist paintings that used to be in the Louvre. It is housed in an old railway station that was to have been torn down. Public outcry was so great that, instead, the facade was retained and the interior was restored by an Italian architect in an elaborately modern style that incorporated the old steel-girdered ceiling.

It was an overpowering sensation to move through room after room full of Monets, Manets, Cezannes, Van Goghs, Degas’, Toulouse-Lautrecs and all the other Impressionists. At the end of two hours, I was so overwhelmed I could not continue. I had to leave the antiquities on the ground floor for another visit.

 

Jacques and I met at 7:30 that evening and after the usual frustrating search for a taxi, we went to the Left Bank. We had a pleasant stroll along brick-paved streets through the Latin Quarter, past a number of famous cafes including “Les Deux Magots,” looking for a particular restaurant to which Jacques had taken one of his daughters. It was a fascinating walk. Jacques finally abandoned his search and went into the next nice restaurant we passed. It was a bit garish with a decor of red and black and mirrors, crowded and noisy, but it had a happy ambiance and the food proved to be good.

Our after-dinner walk took us to one of Jacques’ favorite Paris spots, the tiny Place de Furstenburg—two half-circles of handsome apartment buildings overlooking a small island of grass set with four large trees in square formation.

The street lights were dim. A young musician was playing a plaintive French ballad on a guitar and quietly singing. We stopped to listen, as a few Japanese tourists already had done. After a short while, Jacques dropped some change into the open guitar case and we slipped silently away.

Sunday, 24 September

Sunday afternoon I took an excursion by bus to the Château de Chantilly outside Paris. The bus ride took us past low white stucco houses with French windows holding planters of red geraniums on their sills. Steep tanbark-colored tile roofs were beset with small chimneys. Hand-made tiles roofed older stone houses. Neat gardens were partially hidden from view by walls or hedges.

Chantilly is a beautiful château, set next to a lake with both a large formal French garden and an informal English-style one. It was the private home of a branch of the Orleans family. The final owner, who had no heir, left it to a private foundation. His art collection, displayed in the newer part of the château, has earned it the name of Le Petit Louvre.

The part of the château that dates to the 1600’s is all gilt molding and crystal and tapestry. Among the exquisite pieces of furniture are small chairs and settees made for Marie Antoinette’s children, still with the original upholstery.

 

Adjacent to the château are the stables, said to be the largest and most luxurious in the world, an extensive building matching the château in style. A large racing oval is in front. Some twenty or thirty horses, handsome animals of various blood lines, are housed in large box stalls. Displayed on the fronts of many of the stalls are pictures of their inhabitants’ successes in racing or dressage. The extensive building is full of exhibits of various types concerning horses. Past the stalls is a practice ring and beyond that, a long, wide, high-ceilinged hall displaying three or four dozen scenes with life-size models of horses and riders or drivers of various eras or styles, all beautifully modeled and accoutered.

While I was there, they had a succession of shows in the practice ring, trainers putting horses through the special paces used in dressage, but there was no mounted exhibition.

I was so afraid of missing the bus that I brushed past exhibits I would have loved lingering over, such as the large stone room equipped as a veterinarian’s clinic with displays of common equine problems.

 

Tours are a good way to see things, but one is slave to the clock.

Which brings me to My Problems at Chantilly. After leaving the tour of the château itself, I fell in with a German couple from our bus. I had understood from the dainty tour director that the group was to wait at the main gate for the guide and then go as a group to the stables. The Germans assured me that our group already had gone on ahead, so I walked after them as they bustled up the hill along the path toward the stables. The woman pointed to the parking lot where the bus was standing and where, I had understood, we were to meet it at 5:15; she told me that we must meet the bus at the main gate because they would not allow us to board in the parking lot.

Fearful of being stranded, I left the stables earlier than I wanted and was at the main gate at 5:00. No bus. 5:15, no bus and no familiar faces. By the time it registered that I was in the wrong place, it was too late for me to dare move away. The woman in the caisse (ticket vendor) listened to my problems, detailed in French as clear as I could manage under the stress of the moment, and assured me that the bus was to come to the main gate.

By 5:25 I was pondering ways to get back to Paris forty miles away, late on a Sunday afternoon, with no public transport available and without walking. Hitch hiking was not ruled out. At 5:30 I saw a bus with familiar markings pull up at the road from the parking lot, a good distance from the gate where I stood, and died a dozen deaths waiting to see whether it would turn toward Paris or toward me. Gradually I could see that the bus’s slow arc was bringing it back down the tree-lined main approach to the gate. Its door opened in welcome. I boarded with dignified haste, apologizing.

I was greeted as a Prodigal Daughter. The pretty little guide, obviously distraught with worry, kept insisting that I had “lost myself,” which I denied. I had been in the right place in plain sight, as far as I was concerned. The passengers clucked and cooed and tried to soothe us both.

Hoping for instant invisibility, I sat down quickly, did my best to appear composed, and fought back tears. I decided it was not safe to turn me loose on my own and thought seriously of returning to Belize as soon as my CGM time was over instead of risking another tour.

It was dark when the tour bus dropped us at Place des Pyramides. On the short walk back to the hotel I picked up a “club” sandwich to eat in my room. It proved to be a long crusty roll with all the proper things crammed untidily into a slit. Tasted lovely with a revivifying Scotch.

Monday, 25 September

It was time for me to take over my own expenses after CGM’s generous week, so I moved to the charming small hotel recommended by the Cachots. The Hotel Opal is in a busy area near the Madelaine and close to the major department stores. Mirrors enlarge the small reception area and charming period furniture makes the lounge area at the rear inviting.

The elevator was, if possible, even smaller than the tiny ones I had found in the other two hotels. I could just barely get in with my two suitcases.

My room was within three inches of the elevator’s door when I emerged on the fourth floor. The size and shape of the hotel could be guessed by the fact that room 23 was on the fourth floor. A great old-fashioned key let me into a wedge of a room that tapered from the bathroom at the broad end to a far end no wider than its French windows with the customary grillwork outside. There was an ornately carved wardrobe, marble-topped table with brass chair, single bed, and just enough space to pass. The bathroom was more generous with an enormous tub, the first I had had in Paris, equipped with the hand-held shower head I had learned to love.

Changing hotels twice was a nuisance but having a chance to see the differences made it worth while. Each had its special features:

• The balcony with tree-top view of The Arc de Triomphe and the wall safe at the Friedland

• Everything at the Cambon

• The window, tub, convenient location, and charm of the Opal

Late in the morning I returned to La Defense, where CGM wanted me to meet the contingent from CGM Barking, the office outside London. We had a pleasant and productive working lunch. And that ended my CGM visit to Paris.

Tuesday, 26 September

Checked out of the Opal early Tuesday morning and took a taxi to the Place des Pyramides to start my tour of Normandy, Brittany, and the Loire Valley.

The bus drove north from Paris to the quaint old port of Honfleur across the harbor from Le Havre. It is a picturesque village of tall old slate-sided buildings crowded together. The lovely little church of Sainte Catherine was built centuries ago by local craftsmen and its double-vault, hull-shaped wooden ceiling is clearly the work of shipbuilders.

The Normandy countryside was lushly green with placid cows busily manufacturing rich Norman cream. Half-timbered houses with steep thatched roofs were common as we proceeded east along the coast through the famous holiday towns of Trouville and Deauville.

Our next stop was the Omaha Beach of the D-Day invasion, where only a few stubs of pillars in the sea remain of the floating docks (arromanches) that enabled the allies to resupply their invading troops.

 

On to Bayeux and the exquisite embroidered history of events leading up to and through the Battle of Hastings. Queen Matilda almost certainly did not embroider the tapestry named for her, though she still gets the credit. Correctly speaking, it is not even a tapestry.

The entire trip would have been worthwhile for me if we had seen nothing but the “tapestry.” It is about 18 feet wide and stretches some 24 feet, displayed under glass in a long oval, lighted case. One carries an audio cassette that describes the action in each of the numbered scenes as one walks slowly along. The embroidery is exquisite; the figures, almost cartoon-like; the story, wittily told; the sense of action, surprising.

 

By the time we reached Caen from Bayeux, it was 5:30 and I was ready for a bath and brief rest before dinner. Unfortunately, not only had the days’ tour not ended, but it deposited us at the recently inaugurated Memorial Museum, which I did not want to see.

I was surprised at my own reaction to a World War II pilgrimage. The museum is handsome and imaginatively laid out, mixing photographic exhibits, real World War II planes and vehicles and uniforms with large models of ships, and short films in tiny theaters.

 

It was 7:30 pm when we were deposited in the modern and welcoming Hotel Novotel. We were offered a small glass of the famous Normandy cider when we picked up our room keys. Luggage was deposited at our doors within moments and there was time for brief freshening before we went down to a delicious dinner.

Wednesday, 27 September

Early in the morning we were en route from Caen to St. Malo, the old fortress city on the Brittany Coast. Caen is a new city, rebuilt with yellow limestone after eighty percent of the town was destroyed in The War.

The countryside became very hilly; the fog, barely penetrable in valleys. When we could see again, we could study the Normandy practice of bocage, the surrounding of each small green field with a line of trees to prevent erosion. The typical misty Norman weather was responsible for the bright lushness of the fields, which enabled the dairy cattle (mostly speckled dark brown and white) to produce the rich cream and butter featured in Normandy cuisine.

It was apple country with trees planted casually, green apple trees among the red. The area produces cider and Calvados (apple brandy), but no wine.

 

As we moved into Brittany, the land changed: poorer fields, more often gold than green, good mainly for potatoes, cauliflower and artichoke. The Bretons, a fiercely independent people, who still retain their own language, traditionally fish or raise pigs.

The Normandy limestone gave way to Brittany granite, and farm houses and towns were a heavy, forbidding gray. Streets were so narrow that one wondered if the bus could thread its way through without rasping its finish on the granite facades. Long slate roofs slanted steeply.

 

St. Malo, long-ago lair of corsairs, was carefully restored after World War II and is a walled city of close-packed granite buildings on crooked streets. A walk up stone steps to the ramparts takes one above the tacky souvenir shops and self-conscious cafes and restaurants.

From the broad stone battlements, one sees the gray, rough Atlantic and feels its fierce, mist-ladened wind. I started walking rapidly, elated and strangely “at home.” It took the turning of too many corners to break into my single-minded pleasure with the realization that I was not walking around a simple square.

I pushed my pace, turned another corner, and overlooked another unfamiliar view beyond the wall. There were stone staircases. I could have descended into the town, but then how would I have found the main gate—by diving into the warren of narrow streets and trusting fate to lead me in the right direction or by following the wall?

Walking was faster on the open ramparts. Visions of the tour bus leaving me forever pacing in the wind spurred me to something approaching that awkward pace used by former joggers. To my relief, another turn brought the remembered view of the harbor, the sky above it pierced by myriad masts. One last long stretch of rampart brought me to the staircase near the main gate and I became the first of the passengers to await the return to the bus.

St. Malo was the one place to which I longed to return and stay, cozy and isolated in front of a fireplace in my granite apartment, reading and writing.

 

That afternoon, the high point of the tour—Mont-Saint-Michel. Familiar as the island was from photographs, the approach by causeway across tidal sands felt eerily forbidden. We parked at the base of great stone walls and began the climb up a steeply curved stone-paved road. By the time a brisk pace by our two young tour guides brought us to a catch-your-breath pause at the beginning of a long flight of stone steps, I noted with pleased amazement that this non-athletic office denizen was alone among the 30-year olds while her contemporaries puffed along far below. I am glad I did not know that we were only about a third of the way up.

The view from the summit is worth the agony of the climb.

The abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel was built at the top of a high hill in the midst of a forest by two men who believed they had heard a summons from God. The work of the sea gradually killed the surrounding forest and now only the hill, stone abbey on top, and fortified town below remain, with a bit of forest creeping up the back of the Mont as a memorial to its origins.

According to our guide, only the center of the church rests on rock. Rooms at its sides rest on rooms below, which rest partly on rock and partly on other rooms. The entrancingly young Gallic brunette guide explained seriously that in the early years this top wing or that “slidded off the mountain.” We English-speakers were charmed with the image of complete stone rooms detaching themselves and gliding downwards like great boxy sleighs.

The abbey was a beautiful example of medieval building with a lovely gardened cloister. An adjacent work area held a massive wheel whose pulley was used to lift building materials to the top.

The road down wound easily through gardens and the village, where every inch of space seemed dedicated to enticing tourists to stop. I was glad we had taken the other route to the top of the Mont, able to enjoy the ancient structure without the intrusion of crass commercialism. There is an hotel in the village and I should have liked to spend the night there to watch the sea roll over the flats and turn Mont-Saint-Michel into an island.

We drove back over the causeway that now connects the Mont to the mainland, through the ever-lovely countryside to Angers in the Loire Valley, where we spent the night. Angers is built of white limestone with slate roofs. The nearby town of Treloze produces 50,000 tons of slate per year.

Thursday, 28 September

Leaving Angers, the homes were pale gray with white louvers and trim and darker gray slate roofs, an interesting contrast to the rich cream with brown trim of the Normandy homes we had passed the day before. The fields were far larger than Normandy pastures. Instead of the lines of trees characteristic of bocage, they were broken by power poles marching sturdily across the fields in no discernible pattern.

We paused to see a 13th Century fortress whose claim to fame was its seventeen towers.

The road ran alongside the Loire River on top of dikes built in the Middle Ages to control the river’s dangerous spring and fall rampages. The Loire no longer is navigable. The water was very low. Islands of greenery sat on the greenish sand with a meandering, narrowing and widening bit of water snaking along the wide river bed. It was not pretty. Allegedly, however, the river is France’s least polluted and supports fishing when and where it is flowing freely.

Vegetables were planted on long narrow plots of land between river and dike. Fields were surrounded by tangled strips of forest rather than by set rows of trees as in Normandy. We passed a hunter, gun over his shoulder, carrying a large bird that he apparently just had shot—pheasant or grouse, perhaps.

Gradually, chalk cliffs appeared on the side of the road away from the river. Buildings were only facades with the actual rooms dug back into the cliffs themselves like dank, dark grottoes because King Francis I levied taxes on homes according to their floorspace. Caves were not counted.

We passed miles of these caves. Many have been converted to use for the growing of mushrooms or the storage of wine.

 

In Saumur, we had a brief glimpse of the huge French military equestrian school that rivals the Austrian school with its Lipizzaners. Members are called Le Cadre Noire because of their black uniforms.

We followed the Vienne River after it branched off the Loire, finding larger fields with Charolais beef cattle and fields of grapes.

The Castle of Chinon, an important fortress from earliest times, remains as impressive ruins on a hill overlooking the Vienne. Some say Richard the Lionhearted died in Chinon. It was here that Joan of Arc first met her half-brother, Charles VII. Only the fireplace wall still stands of that room, but their spirits, I felt, remain there in almost physical presence.

 

We stopped for our first château, one of the most famous, Chenonceau, built for Diane de Poitiers, by King Henri II, whose mistress she was.

One approaches on a long, broad, ruler-straight avenue set on either side with formal rows of sycamores (plane trees). The château is surprisingly light in feeling for its size and graceful with the long wing built out behind supported by stone arches over the river.

Traditionally, the royal family had chambers on the first (not ground) floor and Diane was wise enough not to challenge the king’s wife, the strong-minded Catherine de Medici. Diane’s bedroom, on the ground floor, has been restored. It is a charming room with damask covering the stone walls and a fireplace that can only be described as “sensuous” because of the plumply rounded white marble figures carved from mantle to ceiling.

 

From the great airiness of Chenonceau, we drove to the enormous and handsome Château de Chambord, a royal hunting lodge set in a vast forest.

In construction unusual for the time, four identical apartments were built at the corners of the castle, each with its private entrance so that guests and their large entourages could be accommodated conveniently. The showpiece of the château is a semi-open double spiral staircase of 102 steps that winds upward from the middle of the central hall through three stories to the roof. Here the ladies, who would have preferred to remain at home in their own comfortable châteaux, were forced to stand in the open air to watch the hunt. The king had ordered trees felled and the forest underbrush cleaned away at the edge of the castle’s lawns to make it easier for the luckless ladies to see the successes that so delighted their liege lords.

Many rooms in Chambord have been restored and we had time to climb up and down from the enormous entry hall to roof to subterranean kitchens exploring before returning to the tour bus.

 

As we turned toward Paris, the guide diverted our attention to a large cloud of lovely blue-gray smoke. Soon we saw the massive curved shape of the attendant atomic energy plant.

It was the first I ever had seen. I had not realized how overwhelming they could be, crouched on the earth as if pinning it to a wrestling mat. The guide said that the nearby town was paid millions of francs to accept the facility. We were not happy to learn that this particular atomic plant was of the same design as Chernobyl’s and was to be phased out the next year. I felt distinctly uneasy until we were far down the highway.

The early evening drive back to Paris was not as draining as I had expected because my tardy return to the bus after lunch had put me with a new seat mate, a wizened but vigorous woman who must have been in her late eighties. I had glimpsed her at the châteaux, delightedly exploring, and had passed her coming down the spiral staircase at Chambord as I was puffing my way up.

We had a wide-ranging, delightful conversation all the way back to Paris. Along the way, I learned that she still is active in a choir, singing solos, and that she plays tennis regularly. Her community-service work includes an active part in the Planned Parenthood organization in the San Francisco bay area town where she lives. We exchanged warm farewells, though not addresses.

 

Back at Place des Pyramides, familiar with the problem of finding a taxi on Rue de Rivoli, I picked up my suitcase and laboriously walked a few blocks, hoping to attract one before it reached the streets where the doormen flag down cars for their impatient guests. It was forty-five frustrating minutes of watching both full and empty taxis speed past before one happened to deposit a passenger at the curb in front of me and I was able to grab it.

Friday, 29 September

My last day in Paris was dedicated to wrapping and mailing packages—crystal that the fine French store had refused to send for me.

Major mistakes can be made in misguided moments. I had to go to the nearby Bureau du Poste to try to buy packing boxes. Somehow this brief errand necessitated my changing purses. I put the minimum of things into the new one, told myself that there was no need to lock my suitcase, zipped it shut, and through habit snapped the lock. Then I remembered that my other handbag was in the top of the suitcase and the key to the lock I just had fastened was in it.

I decided to ask the Hotel Opal receptionist for any tools she might have. The vice grips she provided were useless against the steel of the lock, fragile as it appeared. I dashed across the busy street to the hardware store I had discovered when searching for an electrical adapter. The dour proprietress spoke no English and quite obviously did not understand my tortured French explanation of my dilemma. Fortunately, there was a display of tools on one wall and I was able to point to a lethal-looking instrument and arrange to buy it. I returned to the hotel with optimism that soon was justified as I was able to disengage the zipper fastener, open the case, and successfully reinstall the fitting.

I went down to the reception desk and presented the bemused attendant with the ferocious tool, explaining that she was to keep it available for her next stupid guest.

When I finally finished my mailing, a long story that I will not go into here, I took the time to explore the neighborhood looking for a lunchtime restaurant and made the lucky choice of a place frequented by Parisians rather than tourists. My final French meal was a fitting farewell.

Saturday, 30 September

Jacques and I met in the Opal’s lobby before 10:00 am and went on to Charles de Gaulle airport.

Air France has its own terminal, elegant and spacious, a pleasant contrast to Miami’s chaos. When I handed my ticket to the Air France clerk, she fluttered a bit, saying “I have a message for you.” I had time for brief worry before she announced, “You have been upgraded to First Class.” Obviously one last courtesy by Air France VP Jacques Bankir.

 

To my amusement, Jacques (Cachot) proved to be a dedicated airport shopper. We went to shop after shop before going up to the cafe. Jacques, ordering nothing, excused himself and returned to his ultimately unrewarding search for bargains in the one location where none exist.

Jacques and I parted as we stepped aboard the plane, he turning right to the comfortable Club Class and I turning left to the luxurious Premiere. Seats appeared as small islands spaced far apart to allow backs to go down and leg rests to come up for almost-horizontal reclining.

The introductory small glass of Champagne, offered by a polished steward, was followed by presentation of a small spray of orchids. The little zippered case of gifts that he then gave me was white where the Club Class case had been red, and it contained a few more clever, trip-oriented items plus an ornate bottle of a different perfume.

The trip was luxurious, with two beautiful meals served with a great flourish of napery, silver, and china. The East-to-West trip always is easier, scheduled as it is during normal waking hours.

In Miami, baggage appeared quickly and passed through customs unopened. I quickly checked into the airport hotel and collapsed after the long trip.

Sunday, 1 October

I had a restful twelve hours of sleep and a pleasant morning of telephoning before an easy flight back to Belize on the wrong airline. My TAN reservation had been canceled because it was not reconfirmed, but I was able to get a seat on TACA. It involved some frantic trips between room and counter plus early packing, but luck was on my side.

Aqua waters and green savannah appeared below us; the plane banked, slowed, and landed; and I was home.