Traveling with Rob in La Belle France

We arrive in the floral dining room around nine, which, by French standards, is not late. The tablecloths, napkins, curtains, and tapestry are all printed with boldly colored oversized spring flowers. The small bouquets of real flowers on the tables are lost in this overpowering display. A tall, young waiter with a sad look in his dark eyes seats us at a corner table with velvety green benches. Only two other tables are occupied. One with two formally dressed middle-aged couples from Belgium, overweight and red-faced, talking loudly. On the other table are two elderly couples from Britain, sprightly, thin, and wrinkled, engaged in a more subdued conversation. With a chuckle, I wonder if they have also been offered the bridal chamber first.

Rob decides to be adventurous and orders snails for his entrée. That would be my last choice. Only under the ultimate threat of starvation would I try them. But for Rob’s sake I make a special effort to hide my feelings of disgust. I order salmon mousse. Both Rob and I are pleased by our first choices.

“Snails taste a bit like squid,” Rob informs me.

Animated by a second glass of delicious house wine, we try to select the main course. We both have developed a hearty appetite.

“Rognons de boeuf seems like a good choice to me,” I tell Rob, who is seeking my advice.

Rognons, I think, means little round pieces, and boeuf is beef. While studying the menu, I realized that my language skills are still very limited when deciphering French cuisine’s specialties. At least I know that boeuf is beef. A safe choice, I think.

We are on our third glass of wine and in animated spirits when the serious-looking young waiter quietly serves us our main course. I notice a faintly sour smell coming from my plate, and those little round pieces in the whitish sauce are not pieces of beef.

“French beef looks very different,” I say jokingly to Rob, discreetly inspecting a small round specimen on my fork.

“Mom, this is not beef; these are the kidneys you ordered,” Rob says with a disgusted look on his face.

“I hate kidneys! ” I had not seen kidneys since my early childhood when my father sometimes used to eat them.

I am immediately overcome with the same strong feelings of nausea that this dish used to provoke in me. Trying to keep control, I quickly push the plate aside. Instantly, the young waiter arrives at our table.

“Is something wrong?” he asks in perfect English, pointing to my plate.

I am perplexed. He had stood there silently waiting for our orders when I explained to Rob that ‘rognons de boeuf’ mean little round pieces of beef. I had assumed that he did not speak English. He could have helped us with our selection, but I will not blame him.

“Sorry, we made a mistake ordering this dish. We both don’t like kidneys,” I say.

The young man’s face lights up in a sympathetic smile for the first time this evening, and he answers, “I don’t like them either. I’ll take your plates back, and you can order something else,” he offers. Maybe I can convince my father not to charge you extra for these, ” he adds. But I have my doubts.  I say firmly, brushing aside 

Rob’s protests. “This is my mistake, and I’ll pay.”

“Anyway,” the young waiter briefly interrupts, “I’ll bring you another glass of wine, which is on me, and I ‘ll help you with the selection on the menu when you are ready.”

Having lost our appetite for meat this evening, we chose a local seafood dish, which turned out to be tasty. “Where did you learn English so well?” I asked the young man who seemed to like talking to us.

“In Florida,” he answers. “I was born and raised there by my Francophone parents. After their divorce two years ago, my father bought this place and moved back to France.”

“You must love it here!” I exclaim. Impressions of the beautiful countryside and castles are still vivid in my memory.

“Not at all! I hate it here!” he says emphatically, looking sad again. “I want to go back home to the States.”

We are the only guests left, lingering over a delicious dessert of creme brulé. The young man takes the opportunity to join us again. In an animated conversation, he and Rob, both natives of North America, amicably exchange their thoughts and impressions of their life in Europe. I sit back, relaxing, sipping my wine, enjoying the moment and the transient friendly relationship with this young man. Before he can say goodbye, he is abruptly called to the kitchen by his rude father. I am glad he does not take after him.

We have a wonderful sleep under those heavy, warm quilts, snugly protecting us from the frosty night. The crisp, chilly air has invaded our room. It is early morning. We have to return our little car to the dealer in Tours before lunch to catch an afternoon train to Paris for the wedding.

 Shivering in my light spring outfit, waiting for Rob to finish shaving, I can hardly wait for breakfast. The prospect of steaming hot coffee and warm croissants with melted butter is already warming me up.

“Go down and start breakfast without me. I’ll join you in a while,” Rob shouts from the washroom. He is not a big breakfast eater.

Today I have a ravenous appetite and decide to have a substantial meal. I almost fall down those famous spiral stairs in my haste to get to the dining room. Everything is quiet there. No one in sight. After my third “hello” tentatively called into different directions, the proprietor shuffles in. He is well protected against the cold by wearing warm fleece slippers and a beautifully knit heavy wool sweater, which must have cost a fortune. It looks very new. Seating myself on a small round table close to the entrance, I eagerly ask for the breakfast menu.

“Breakfast is not included!” he answers curtly, avoiding my glance.

Although a continental breakfast is almost always included in the price of an overnight stay in France, I am so starved and in need of coffee that I am ready to pay extra.

“I’ll pay,” I reply quickly.

“Oh, no!” he says with emphasis, turning to leave. “We are not serving breakfast today.”

I am shocked. “O.K.,” I plead, trying to hide my disappointment, “you can serve me at least a cup of coffee! ” “It will take a while,” he replies, reluctantly shuffling into the nearby kitchen.

The door is left ajar, and I can hear him putter around. Obviously, there hasn’t been any coffee brewed yet. Suddenly, I hear the shatter of glass, followed immediately by a loud expletive, “Merde.” In a flash, the patron dashes out of the kitchen door with a brown liquid dripping from the front of his precious sweater. After a few moments, he returns, heading straight back to the kitchen. This time he is wearing an apron and an old flannel shirt. I hear some more clanking noises, and eventually, he serves me, with a stony face, a cup of steaming hot, black coffee. He does not say a word, and I refrain from apologizing for his mishap. It would have been hypocritical, to say the least. To his credit, the coffee tastes wonderfully strong, and I enjoy every sip.

To his credit, the coffee tastes wonderfully strong and I enjoy every sip.

Traveling with Rob in la Belle France

Darkness is setting in, when we arrive at Brays et Mons.

Rob has no problem finding his destination. Only a few houses are built out of gray rocks, almost like fortresses. We reach a beautifully fenced-in yard. A dense profusion of blooming shrubs and budding leaf trees hides the residence from view. Rob drives slowly through the decorative iron gate onto a wide driveway leading through a small park toward a charming white building. It looks like an elegant mansion or small castle. Big windows, balconies, terraces, and airy French doors lead from all directions into the garden. In contrast to the well—kept building, the flowerbeds and lawns are overgrown with weeds and winter debris and look neglected.

“Here we are, at the Castello de Bray et Mons, ” says Rob with a big smile.

I am delighted. It has been a full day, and after a stressful start with our vehicle, I am progressively improving. And there is the prospect of a grand finale.

The patron of the estate meets us at the colorful stained-glass doors of the entrance. He is a stout, middle-aged man of medium height with unremarkable features. He greets us formally in French. Obviously, he has been expecting us, and as he indicates, a bit sooner. Grabbing our luggage, he immediately leads us up a flight of an amazing spiral staircase. It is the masterpiece of a noted French architect whose name I forget. The bedrooms are situated in a circle around the landing. The patron deposits our luggage in front of one of the doors and unlocks it with a big old—fashioned key.

“Voilà,” he says with a discreet side—glance at me.

I am riveted to the floor. After seeing the dolorous black room decorated in somber colors at Chenonceau, I thought this room was a dream in white. The enormous bed dominating the chamber is covered with starched, immaculately white linen adorned with precious lace. The wall tapestry is made of a shining white silk material. The soft white carpet is spotless. Delicate sheer curtains like bridal veils gently move in the evening breeze before the open French doors. On a lace-covered table stands a magnificent vase with white blossoming branches. White petals have fallen on a small marble statue of lovers intertwined forever in a passionate embrace. The end of the room is partitioned off by a white Dutch gate, barely hiding a huge white enameled bathtub standing on golden feet in front of a mirrored wall. Two luxurious white bathrobes are hanging over a bench. The room radiates such untouched beauty that I envision a delicate princess, like Snow White, lying on that immaculate bed, forever waiting for her prince.

Rob and I are standing spellbound at the entrance. I don’t know for how long.

“Ca a vous plait?” the proprietor suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

“Enchantee,” I reply, “Mais…”  I stutter nervously, searching for appropriate words to explain that I cannot sleep with my son in this enchanting bridal chamber.

“He is my son “, I finally manage to say in French.

The patron is unperturbed.   “Your son, your lover, your friend, your husband, your uncle, your brother, whoever, I don’t care´, he answers, shrugging his shoulders to show his indifference.

“Rob,” I whisper, panic-stricken in English, “we have to get another room. This is a honeymoon suite.”

“Yes, Mom,” Rob agrees, “but it is getting late, and I don’t know if there are other hotels in this small village.” Trying to take control of this embarrassing situation, 1 asks assertively, “Une autre chambre, another room, please!”

The proprietor stares into space bored and murmurs, “C’ est dommage, but ” he continues in perfect English, “we have one more room available, which will cost you more.

“Oh, you speak English!” I exclaim, surprised. I took a deep breath and almost shouted, “In my fax, I told you I would come with my son. How can you offer us this inappropriate room and charge us more for another one!”

Provoked by his arrogance, I am not afraid to create a scene. Rob, however, immediately interrupts my attempts to fight for a fair deal, saying in a firm voice, “Mom, leave it to me; I am paying for the room.”

Grabbing our luggage, the proprietor quickly leads us to the adjacent hunter’s chamber.

“Voilà, Monsieur,” he says, completely ignoring me.

Rob, whose face had disappointment written all over moments ago, immediately lights up. This room is more to our liking. Two solid rustic beds with beautifully crafted thick quilts look very inviting. The walls are adorned with original paintings and precious tapestries depicting local wildlife and colorful hunting scenes. Fresh scented air is wafting from the garden through the big open windows. I am happy that a door in front of the bathroom allows privacy. The bathtub is spacious and comfortable and not standing on golden feet as in the white room. To my great joy, two thick, luxurious bathrobes are at our disposal, one pink and one blue. Would Peter and I have enjoyed sleeping in the white room I briefly ask myself. Yes!

Blissfully relaxing in soapy suds before changing for dinner, I call out to Rob, “This is so wonderful, Rob; I feel like a queen!”

Traveling with Rob in La belle France

Chenonceau is built over the river Chere. The gallery or long reception hall spans the gently flowing water like a bridge. Looking out from the big, recessed stained glass windows, you feel floating on a riverboat.

For most of its history, Chenonceau has been in the possession of queens whose legacy has survived the ages. Queen Louise,
widow of Henri Ill, created the black room after the death of her husband. The sad beauty of this lasting testimony of mourning is still haunting visitors today.

I was especially impressed by the huge, vaulted kitchen,
storage, and work area located at the foundation pillars of the castle. I visualized wonderful feasts being prepared on those spacious, heavy oak tables and countertops. Only robust chefs with strength and stamina could operate those heavy cast iron and copper cauldrons, pots, and pans over the gigantic spits and artistically crafted wood stoves. And yet they also had to possess
the exquisite finesse and gastronomic savoir typical of French cuisine.

The grounds are artfully landscaped. Trimmed hedges, manicured lawns, trellised vine arbors, pruned trees, shaped flowerbeds, and paved paths are skillfully arranged to create symmetrical designs. Rob and I feel pleasantly tired after a leisurely walk through the forest-like park, which has retained some of its natural wildness.

Late afternoon, we reach the famous Villandry castle and gardens. The air is still balmy, and the sky is without a cloud. We seem to step into a picture book. Against the backdrop of the flawless sky, the architecture of the gleaming white castle and the arrangements of the meticulously groomed, terraced gardens seem perfect. We are awed and delighted by the intricate geometrical designs and patterns created by the artful interspersing of colorful flowers, herbs, vegetables, shrubs, hedges, small trees, and trellised vines. We feel transported into an époque of the past when splendor was a way of life, and natural surroundings were shaped into art pieces.

In the golden glow of the setting sun we drive off to our final destination, the Castello de Brays and Mons.

“There will be a surprise for you, Mom!” says
Rob with a promising look on his face.

Continuation of traveling with Rob dans la belle France

Miraculously, from now on, we have no more trouble with our capricious little French vehicle. I started enjoying the landscape painted in pastel colors in the early spring. Blooming meadows, yellow rape fields, flowering orchards, green vineyards, small orderly villages, blossoming trees, and spring flowers against ancient stone walls create a colorful kaleidoscope in my mind. We journey on at a reduced pace, stopping here and there to briefly visit a less-known castle, an ancient fortification, or a charming village. The old stone houses with low rock walls encircling their front yards have become part of nature. They are overgrown with vines or other trailing plants. Even flowers grow in the stone crevices.

At Loches, an enchanting medieval-looking town, we buy fresh strawberries at the marketplace, admiring the colorful stalls selling the season’s first produce. Fresh asparagus, lettuce, peas, and strawberries are a tantalizing feast for the eyes of a seasoned housewife like me. The air is perfumed with the scent of spring flowers. Beautiful bouquets of violets, daffodils, tulips, lilacs, and roses are offered everywhere. An ancient cathedral overlooks this timeless scene, a silent witness to countless market days of the past. There is laughter and good •cheer as people of all ages mill around, enjoying once again the wonderful gifts of a beautiful spring day.

We stop at Moulin Pierre, a small garden restaurant on the way for lunch. The ancient water mill is turning with a monotonous gurgling sound as in days long gone by. Sitting at a rustic table enjoying the warm sunshine and peaceful atmosphere, we leisurely feast on an enormous platter of various aromatic cheeses and fresh crusty bread. I indulge in some red wine and Rob slurps with contentment a refreshing raspberry drink. Our spirits are wonderfully revived by this relaxing repast.

In the early afternoon we reach Chenonceau. The spacious parking lot and reception area are full of people. Enormous tour buses with license plates from different European countries are spilling hordes of noisy and excited tourists. Many boisterous schoolchildren are also milling around, heading for washrooms, souvenir shops, and refreshment stalls. Past the tall entrance gate of wrought iron, colorful groups of sightseers are walking on the wide alley, which used to lead horse-drawn coaches and carriages to the castle in days gone by. The old shade trees flanking this imposing driveway have recently sprung into leaf. The fresh green is a delight for the eyes. I wish they could talk about the romantic history of this unique and beautiful water castle.

*******

Continuation of travelling with Rob in La Belle France

“Mom, you must be crazy. How can I stop in this traffic?” Rob replies with irritation.

His face has regained some colour, and his expression has some assertiveness.

“Look for the sun; where is the sun?” he asks impatiently.

“What do you need the sun for?” I cry out in disbelief.

“To turn west, ” he replies curtly.

I locate the sun peeking behind some buildings to the right. Without stalling, Rob succeeds in turning west onto a secondary highway. I fervently pray for safe passage.

My prayers seem to be answered. The traffic is easing, the car rolls smoothly, and my heartbeat slows. After successfully entering a deserted country road, Rob sighs in relief.

“I can handle this baby now. The funny pin I have been pulling is only for the reverse gear. The dealer didn’t tell me. I had to find out the hard way, ” he smiles, stopping the car in a slightly sloping parking spot near a country lane. Freshly plowed fields of white chalk-like soil stretch before us. A rooster is crowing from a farm nearby. Birds are singing. The morning is still young.

“You can have your walk now, “Rob laughs, jumping out of the vehicle and sprinting with his long legs toward a blossoming orchard.

 Rob had talked too soon. The capricious “baby” of a car started rolling as soon as I stepped out. Trying to hold on to the open door, I started screaming in desperation. In one leap, Rob was there and, with the unexpected presence of mind, corrected the problem. He had left the clutch in neutral.

We silently walk for a long while along the quiet country road, trying to recover from our last shock. The air is crisp, the sky a hazy blue, and the early morning sun radiates gentle warmth. We come to a small river, leisurely meandering through the pastoral landscape. We sit in solitude on a bench, listening to the water’s soothing prattle. The meadow is lush green, and bees are buzzing around buttercups. Suddenly, as if on cue, we both burst out laughing. Racked with laughter, we run back to the capricious little car. Our tension eases. We are ready to continue our adventure with restored confidence.

**

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Continuation of Travels with Rob dans la Belle France

I do not remember how long it took us to get to Tours. I vaguely remember stumbling out of this famous train like a sleepwalker rushed on by Rob. Despite his limited French, Rob gets a taxi and tells the driver to take us to the Hotel d’Opéra.

 Before I have time to nod off again, we stop on a quiet side street in front of two ruined buildings. One is a completely dilapidated shell overgrown with weeds and ivy. Only broken-down walls of the ruin are remaining. The other appears in slightly better condition. Although ravaged looking, the walls, windows, and roof seem intact.

“L’hôtel d’Opéra! “, the taxi driver announces, pointing to the ruins.

With a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he stopped the taxi, opened the doors, quickly removed our luggage from the trunk, deposited it on the sidewalk, and pocketed his fare.

Suddenly wide awake, I ask in disbelief, “L’hôtel d ‘Opéra?” “There”, he replies, jumping back into his cab.

We enter the building with some trepidation on the once imposing but now dangerously crumbling flight of stairs. The glamour of days gone by is still evident in the chipped and dusty chandeliers, the stained, worn-out purple carpets, the faded murals, and the elegant interior design. A glowing bouquet of red tulips and yellow daffodils, beautifully arranged with blossoming branches on the reception desk in the entrance hall, detracts the eyes from the shabby surroundings.

Contrary to all expectations, our chamber—like room on the second floor has charm. A single bed standing close to the entrance is partitioned off by a screen. Rob graciously offered to take this and gave me the big double bed facing a huge open window leading into a park. The branches of a blooming chestnut tree are almost touching the panes. Numerous birds have chosen this beautiful tree for their happy home. They are singing, twittering, and chirping at their heart’s content. Taking a rest from their nest building, they enjoy the last sunrays of the declining day. A warm breeze stirs the delicate curtains. The air smells fresh and fragrant with the aroma of spring flowers and blossoms.

After a short stroll, admiring some of the interesting facades of the old buildings downtown, Rob and I are lured to a cozy family restaurant by the enticing aromatic smells wafting out of the open door. The taste of grilled Iamb chops swimming in a sauce seasoned to perfection lingers in my memory forever. Back at the hotel, I relax in the enormous antique bathtub. I start feeling like a queen. The bed is comfortable, and the sheets are clean and smooth. I have an excellent deep sleep until the birds’ jubilant morning concert wakes me to another brilliant spring morning. *

Continuation of Travelling with Rob in La Belle France

The train we take to Paris the following day is crowded with noisy schoolgirls who are going on exchange programs to France. The exuberant holiday atmosphere is contagious. Many of the teenagers practice their flirting skills on Rob. For a while he enjoys being their centre of attention until they become bothersome like persistent flies. I am free to look out of the window and see the beautiful spring landscape pass by. Even old, dilapidated walls look lovely when adorned with fresh leaves and colorful blossoms. Nature appears to be so tame in Europe. Forests are tended like parks and lack the pristine beauty of the Canadian wilderness.

Rob is relieved when we reach Paris. For hours, the girls have been swarming over him like bees. There is no way to escape their pestering presence. Good—naturedly, he endures their teasing.

In Paris, we must change from one train station to another. For each cardinal direction there is a train station, which is connected to the other terminals by the Metro. In transit to Montparnasse, we meet Rick, the prospective groom, at the station and deliver a suitcase bulging with wedding presents. Packed with Canadian whisky, Okanagan wine, smoked salmon, maple syrup, and other gifts, it feels like a ton of bricks. Coming from so far, I am still amazed at the accomplishments of modern travel. We meet Rick precisely at the right time and appointed place among the crowds of strangers.

From Montparnasse we take a TGV (train de grande vitesse) to Tours. These famous trains reach a speed of 350 km per hour. The scenery is flying by at that dizzying pace in a blur of colors and shapes. Overcome by jet lag, I fall asleep as soon as I nestle into the comfortable seat of the luxurious compartment. Rob is disappointed that I do not show more enthusiasm for this momentous train ride. But all I want now and long for is a clean and comfortable bed.

Continuation of Traveling with Rob to La Belle France

I had phoned Rob when I arrived late last night. He had asked me to compose a short note in French to confirm a hotel reservation in Mons, the last destination of our planned sightseeing trip. He had been able to make all other arrangements in either English or German. Glad to show off my French skills, I took this task very seriously and sacrificed quite a bit of time and paper. Finally, this note, written in my neatest handwriting, is faxed off to the hotel with the romantic name of Le Castello de Braye et Mons. The next day, I met Rob in Stuttgart, and we had a wonderful excursion to Heidelberg. I had never been to this famous tourist attraction before. After climbing on a cobblestone road up to the imposing ruin, we enjoy sitting in the shade of a budding Linden tree in the idyllic garden cafe. While eating a delicious apple Strudel, we watch little sparrows hop from branch to castle wall, cheerfully chirping and nimbly picking up seeds and crumbs. I remember old photographs of my mom in her youth posing as a charming tour guide with groups of mostly American tourists in front of these walls. Sitting here with Rob, I suddenly feel her spirit surround