Yankee Notebook: A journey in the works for 50 years
Toolbox
By WILLEM LANGE - Published: November 8, 2009
"I'll be absolutely honest with you," the priest began. (I've always hated those words; they invariably precede something unpleasant.) "In my honest opinion, you two kids have about a one-in-a-hundred chance of making it."
My fiancée and I glanced nervously at each other. We'd expected that marital counseling would be a bit more comforting and upbeat. This was neither.
But the good man must have known that what he said wouldn't cut any ice. We kids, as he called us, had known each other for about three months and would be married now, no matter what. I like to think we were eight full years ahead of Johnny and June Carter Cash's Grammy Award-winning "Jackson." The idea of being married was for us at least as compelling as for them. The big day was Halloween – Saturday, Oct. 31, 1959, just 50 years ago – in Harrisonburg, Va., "Turkey Capital of the World." Luckily for us, the marriage hasn't been a turkey.
My e-mail skills peter out just past the door to my office; I have no confidence that I could send this from a hotel or Internet café. So I'm writing it in advance of our departure for our anniversary trip to France, where we're planning to be in Nice on the big day.
You're reading it just after our scheduled return.
Mother has dial-up Internet service, so she's spent many hours this past week getting no phone calls while she's made reservations for hotels, a car and a high-speed train ride. The dining room table is piled high with books, maps, and printouts. "Paris for Dummies" and Rick Steves are my favorite reading. Lots of tips on the various ways to get around in France, what things should cost, and how to avoid crowds at popular tourist spots. Crowds have never been a problem for us on our anniversary tours – cost, either, usually – because they occur at the start of low season, and almost everybody else is home.
After a couple of days in Paris – Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, Louvre and a late-evening boat excursion on the Seine – we'll hop onto the TGV for a lightning-fast ride to Montélimar. After our experience on the TGV some years ago, we plan to be early. We had a lot of trouble finding the right platform on that last trip; the trains leave on the dot, and we made it by literally three seconds.
Montélimar boasts a lively carousel in the town square, a lot of really nice sidewalk coffee shops, and a candy factory; having begun our 50-year partnership in the Turkey Capital of the World, we'll celebrate it in the Nougat Capital of the World. But for only one night.
Next morning we'll pick up a rental car about the size of a refrigerator and head east to one of the most idyllic little spots we've ever been: Le Poët-Laval. It's a medieval hill town built of yellow limestone and fortified during the Crusades by the Knights Hospitaliers. It's now crowned by a hotel and restaurant.
The village is not recommended for large sedans; in a moment of carelessness in the narrow cobble streets you can knock the mirrors off any vehicle. But the restaurant! A small dining room and arched fireplace presided over (when we were last there) by the owner-chef, Bernard Morin. The marvels he can produce with pigs' feet and rabbit are beyond description. And he taught us the European style of dining. In America, he huffed, you all wait for everyone to be served. Here, you don't wait. If I want to serve you cold food, I bring it cold. I suspect Bernard would have suffered apoplexy at my grandfather's lengthy blessing of every meal.
From Poët Laval to the coast it's pretty much a doodle: making it up as we go along, saving money wherever possible. Two meals a day, with cheese, fruit and a baguette for lunch. Small hotels or the really cheap Formula 1 chain, featuring modular sleeping rooms (much like Ducky's morgue in "NCIS") with bunk beds and shared baths that lock their doors and disinfect themselves whenever anyone leaves. We've found some fascinating places this way, and some we may go back to.
I've rarely met anybody who's heard of the city of Sète, which appears to be built on a barrier beach not far from the mouth of the Rhone. It looks a lot like Amsterdam – canals running everywhere with streets on both sides. On the south-facing hilltops above the Mediterranean are long-abandoned gun emplacements from World War II; on the beach below stretch even older Roman salt pans. The French America's Cup team is based there.
We're hoping The Hotel Family and its proprietor, Madame Schulz, are still in operation. Madame, herself most likely a product of the world war, flips back and forth from French romantic to German officer.
Hidden in the hills not far inland is another magical little village named St.-Guilhem le-Desert. It's tucked up a steep-sided valley called Le Cirque d'Infernet and is a stop on the famed pilgrimage route that ends at Santiago de Campostela in Spain. William of Orange, when he left Charlemagne's service, retired there as a monk. Its ancient Romanesque church, hiking trails and canoe paddles on the river ought to be worth at least a couple of days.
The climax of the trip will be in Nice on our anniversary. If we're broke by then, we'll buy some bread, cheese and sausage and dine on a bench like Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. If there's room, we'll stay at a hostel whose name, as I recall, translates as The Lovely Female Miller.
But the big event may be a solo performance. Mother has developed an urge to go down to the topless beach to sun herself. Lots of (shall we say) mature French ladies go there to knit. Never mind that it may be too cold, that Mother doesn't knit, and that – well, you know. All I know for sure is that she's going alone, and that if a gendarme shows up at the Lovely Milleress, I've never heard of her!
Willem Lange is a writer, storyteller and retired contractor who lives in East Montpelier. His column appears each week in the Sunday Rutland Herald and Times Argus. He can be reached through his Web site, willemlange.com.
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