Lord God, I had forgotten how beautiful it is in France. I’m currently speeding through central France on the bullet train “T G V” (pronounced “tey zhey vay’) and wondering at the lush countryside populated with dots of white cows and stolid stone houses with red tile roofs.
It’s been a typical trip so far, perhaps less than typical in that there have been few unforeseen surprises. I had a three-hour layover in Newark, so I spent the time getting a massage and eating a fresh, tasty meal at one of those new franchise wine bars that are popping up in airports. Lovely mixed greens with a very light olive oil dressing and warm sliced chicken with goat cheese on the side. Not as good as I expect to eat in France, but certainly not a Sparro piece of pie dripping with grease or a Magic Wok pile of who-knows-what, either.
The flight (six ½ hours) was made more palatable in that the middle seat of my aisle was empty, so I could curl up a bit. But still, it’s impossible to sleep in coach seats. I watched “Last Chance Henry,” (or was it “Harry?”) [no matter- it’s a horrible film] and tried to doze between the incessant talking of the Dutch couple behind me. The plane had those new touch screens on the back of every seat, and in the middle of the night flight, the Dutch lady decided to play Sodoku on her touch screen, jabbing it hard enough to punch my seat with every play. I finally turned around and mentioned that it is a “touch” screen, not a “dislocate your knuckle as you jab” screen. (Okay, I didn’t say that.)
Customs in Paris was a perfunctory look at my passport. Now that they electronically scan the things, customs may become a thing of the past. They already know everything about me down to my shoe size before I even get on the plane. (btw, it’s a generous 39 in the EU.)
I ventured an easy walk to the train station, where I had 3 ½ hours to wait for my train. The train station in Charles de Gaulle airport is busy enough that I don’t feel comfortable sleeping in it; theft is a real possibility. So I read, ate a jambon and fromage sandwich, and generally tried to find things to do to fill my time. I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I noticed that during my travels so far, I had managed to spill balsamic vinegar, tomato sauce, Diet Pepsi, and Orangina on my white blouse, which was now a far cry from the crisply starched masterpiece I ironed before my flight. But spilling food on my white shirts is a common motif for my life.
When I got my TGV ticket, I was so proud of the ease in which I spoke French to get my reservation, but I fooled no one. Even when all I say is “café, sil vous plaît,” servers instantly switch to English: “Just a coffee?” All those hours spent with my Pimsler French One CD’s, and I hardly get a chance to practice my je’s and j’ai’s.
The TGV has many differing kinds of seating arrangements, and when I make reservations on the internet, I never know what I’m going to get. My first visit to France, I got a Eurail pass, which automatically put me in first class, which meant lots of empty seats, no cell phone use, and a more hushed atmosphere (most French Nationals use second class, so it’s a lot noisier and filled with children).
Some TGV cars are “double-decker,” making finding your seat with luggage in tow near to impossible. (I have learned to pack more lightly—trying to lift a heavy duffle up the narrow stairs to the upper deck with people crowded in front of you and behind you is no picnic.) The car I’m currently in is a combination of “regular” passenger seats, and sets of seats facing one another around table; I am seated at a table, with my back to the front of the train, so I am watching the world go by in reverse. Like all things European, the seats are sized for tiny people. With four people sitting facing one another around the table, there is a lot of inadvertent footsie going on. Today I (again) luckily had an empty seat next to me, so I was able to curl up and sleep for 90 minutes or so. But there’s only so much sleeping you can do jammed up in a 4x2 ½ foot space.
We just stopped in Lyon, and I expect new seatmates to join me. Looking out the window, the sun is bright and clear, and everything looks green. Of course, in Lyon, it’s a “city-type of green.” And yes! Two young women take the seats facing me, reading their text messages and talking animatedly. The French speak very quietly; a group of Americans or Spaniards seem coarse and loud in comparison.
I must make a digression to celebrate the young French men! O la la. Such tasty specimens of dark, brooding, insouciant twenty-something’s, dressed in distressed dark jeans and khaki t-shirts with incomprehensible logos. Why didn’t I go to the Sorbonne when I was in my twenties? Looking at these young men now conjures an ache of times gone by, like a gentle tongue probing the empty space left by a long lost baby tooth. Tant pis.
My destination is Nimes, where my friend Ivan (“ee-vohn”) will pick me up to take me to the Chateau. I can’t wait to see Ivan; he is such an amiable and funny man. With Ivan, I can get caught up on all the Chateau gossip before I arrive. AND find out who will be living in the Chateau while I’m am visiting. I’m hoping I’ll be able to take some lessons with the pros at the Centre Artistique before I start teaching my own work to others. And of course, when you’re dealing with people who have lived (and slept) together for 40 years, it is always wise to know which personalities to plan for. And hope to avoid. Which is difficult when you all live and work in a central outcropping of buildings.
Tomorrow: A marvelous meal with my friends in the Chateau.
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