On
a bullet train from Paris -
Before we thrill
you with the events of this day, both a confession and an observation are in
order. First, the confession: you have been wondering since yesterday’s
report whether there was any truth in the comment comparing horse manure to one
of the ingredients of that day’s ice cream.
And so it must be admitted that your writer has never actually tasted
horse manure. Having been involved in
politics many years ago, he has been surrounded by it from time to time, and was alleged to have stepped in it on occasion. And the fact that his sense of smell has not
gone the way of his hearing and eyesight enabled him to make a clearly reasonable
comparison with the flavor of that particularly disappointing cone from Hades.
And now for the
observation: contrary to earlier
ungentlemanly remarks about the French, we have experienced only friendliness
and helpfulness from the fine citizens of this country, with the possible
exception of a couple of surly waiters, who by and large do not work for tips
and are not therefore neither rewarded for good behavior nor punished for bad
conduct. And the people here make good
wine, fine food, and excellent cheese, among their many other qualities. So, now that the air has been cleared, let us
move on to our report.
We’ve just spent a
couple of nights in an 18th century home in Caen, the birthplace and
death place of William the Bastard, the most famous resident of Normandy. You may know him better as William the
Conqueror, but the local folks of his time characterized him the first way. His father, Robert the Magnificent, was not
married to his mother, and only children of the very powerful could get away
with such scandal in 1027, when the Bastard was born. You know about William’s assumption of
control at age 15 after the death of his father, his invasion and conquest of
England after the death of William the Confessor, and his crowning as King of
England on Christmas Day, 1066. But did
you ever consider the fact that to be truly important in those days, you had
to have some descriptive term attached to your name? Not just any descriptive term; Charlie the
Lawyer would never do. Something like
Charlie the Executioner, or Charles the Terrible. Tricia the Atrocious, or Patricia the
Heartless. Has a certain ring to it,
don’t you agree?
In any event,
William is buried in the city of Caen, and the fact that he lorded it over
England for many years still gives a measure of pride to those who would rather
forget about Waterloo, the British refusal to use the euro, and France’s inability to produce a single rock
star of worldwide fame, ever.
Monet’s lilies and
home
Up early again
this morning, we drive an hour two to the village of Giverny, where French
impressionist Claude Monet lived from 1883 until his death in 1926. Thousands of people daily come here to see
the sprawling gardens and home where he did much of his painting. We photographed the lilies that he made so
famous in his paintings, and wandered the beautiful grounds before touring the
home, near which he is buried. We
noticed that someone had taken away most of his paintings and put them in
museums and private collections, but there were a few on the walls that he
appeared to have done. Or else someone
else did them and signed his name to them.
If they weren’t genuine Monets, they certainly fooled us.
One of Monet’s
flowers
We strolled
through the huge gardens, with their million flowers of a thousand hues, and
thought about the quiet life Monet must have lived here in the countryside,
with such beautiful surroundings. It was
a wonderful, relaxing way to spend the morning, until we realized it was noon
and we had to be back in Paris at the train station by 2:00, after filling the
tank in our rental car and turning in the vehicle—not to mention finding the
places to do these things in the city. And
then we would have to take our luggage to the correct track in the massive Gare
de Lyon station before the train pulled out. We had tickets for specific seats
on a specific train, and the trains run on time here—unless the crew decides to
go on strike. As we approached the
massive traffic jam known as Paris, the clock ticked quickly away. Our GPS had first indicated we would be at
the train station at 12:43. But in the stalled
traffic, that first slid to 12:54, and then to 1:10. When the 1:35 prediction came up, we began to
furiously search for a diesel fuel, and the GPS led us down one-way streets to
service stations at two different locations.
Only, there were no stations at those locations. As the tension rose, we made one last run at
a gas station shown on the GPS before giving up, turning in the car and paying
the family fortune for a fillup—but we were met with success on this third try! After gassing the car, we weaved in and out of traffic, frightening
even the Parisians with Brian’s driving, until we found the rental car lot and
hurried to the train station. By 2:20 we
had boarded the bullet train for Avignon, on which this is being written. We’re riding in comfort at 130 mph across
beautiful countryside, and expect to arrive around 5:30. Some members of the group are napping already, and they look
as if they need company. So we’ll report
tomorrow from Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the heart of French wine area of Provence.
Charlie and Tricia
©2014
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