Feeling Enamoured After Seven Days in France
“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” – Samuel Johnson
My first regulation of reality occurred during the hour-long taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport to our hotel. Bumper-to-bumper traffic at several junctions, I nodded off from time-to-time, overcome by red-eye traveller fatigue. During lucid intervals, I noticed streams of graffiti plastered across roadside brick partitions. The meaning of the bubble-letter French phrases eluded me, English my only language, but I allowed my imagination to take hold as seeds of curiosity were planted.
Closer to our destination, we merged into a congested intersection, which I would later find out was the infamous Arc de Triomphe. Bicyclists and motorcyclists whizzed in-between vehicles in all directions; six lanes, no apparent scheme in play. There were no angry outbursts. No honking of horns. The energy was calm, complacent acceptance; it is what it is.
Pulled up to the curb next to the Sofitel Baltimore Eiffel Tower on Avenue Kleber, I was struck by the understated elegance of the small-statured, six-floor building. A porter, dressed smartly in a crisp grey uniform, greeted us with a friendly smile, “Bienvenue Madame et Monsieur.”
Through the revolving glass doors, to the reception, just past nine; our room was not yet ready. The staff kindly offered to stow our luggage and then, famished, we were delighted to be directed to the hotel restaurant, open for breakfast service.
As I nibbled on a sumptuous slice of toast, I felt grateful that my assumption, that gluten free options wouldn’t be available in France, was wrong. On the heels of this insight, I realized the stereotype I’d been told, that the French people were rude, especially if you couldn’t speak their language, was also untrue. I muddled and mispronounced every phrase, and while my attempts caused some confusion, they were received with patience and amused smiles.
After our meal, we took a stroll of the neighbourhood. We’d only walked a few blocks when we caught sight of a museum across the intersection. A few paces further, we spotted the iconic Eiffel Tower. It all felt quite magical, and I found myself in my happy place. I hadn’t expected to feel so at home in a foreign city, and yet, somehow, I did.
Close to noon, we indulged in a glass of to-die-for Bordeaux at an outdoor café with a great view. Between succulent sips, we engaged in deep discussions. When we returned to our hotel, our room was ready. The beautifully decorated space greeted me like a hug, and I dove into the downy covers for a much-needed nap.
At happy hour, Mister and I snuggled up together like newlyweds on the luxurious turquoise-velvet chaise lounge of the chic hotel bar. We ordered large goblets of red wine and a selection of creamy, sharp-smelling French cheeses. We devoured every crumb, then walked to Les Marches to continue our wine and tapas tour. Packed wall-to-wall, a cacophony of languages mingled with mood music set the stage for more lively engagement.
It was past ten when we returned, my son and his partner due to arrive from London at any moment. The reunion was the piece de resistance to end my first day in Paris. When I spooned up to Mister past midnight, my last thought before closing my eyes was of gratitude for my pinch-me-I’m-dreaming good fortune.
The next morning, after another delicious adventure in gastronomy, we packed our bags, ready for the next chapter of our adventure. On the train from Paris to Bordeaux, I gazed out the window between conversations, sips of champagne and competitive games of Monopoly Deal. The landscape was a vast cavern between what I’d expected and what was. I’d imagined lush forests and sparkling rivers, a picturesque view film-worthy for my upcoming YouTube video. As it was, I was reminded of road trips I’d taken across the Canadian prairies as tall stalks of wheat and grass, quaint villages and towns rolled by.
Bordeaux was a delight, beginning with the accommodation. From the exterior, the red iron door felt unenticing. Inside, the massive converted warehouse was original and grand. With six bedrooms, a library and theatre room, the seven of us had more than enough space to unwind. The high ceilings straddled by wide wooden beams, exposed brick walls and indoor garden, provided spectacular back-drops to in-depth conversations.
I hadn’t seen my son’s partner’s family since our first meeting back in 2016. I was excited to expand our connection in Bordeaux. Over our three-day stay, the seven of us explored the bustling weekend market, the scenic river-walk, and the crowded town centre, while getting to know one another better in the process.
A restaurant reservation and wine tour in St. Emilion were squeezed into our packed itinerary. An antiquated village an hour’s drive to the northeast of Bordeaux, here was the lush green countryside of my imagination. As my entourage and I walked the rustic, cobbled streets, lined by old-stone buildings and crumbling castles, I found myself dreaming big, with thoughts of returning and perhaps even owning a family property there, some day in the future.
Our lunch at Chai Pascal was an adventure in itself. I indulged in fresh-baked, warm-from-the-oven, gluten free mini-baguettes smothered in creamery butter. For the main, I savoured melt-in-your-mouth veal with shitake mushrooms and vegetables, the sauce so full of flavour I could have licked my plate clean. Our waitress was a delightful ball of cheeky energy and somehow, even though I couldn’t understand a single word she said, I found myself laughing along with the rest of my table as she spoke with contagious animation.
The wine tour at Chateau Cardinal-Ville Maurine, led by the owner of the family-run estate, was intimate and informative. Our guide exuded passion and enthusiasm. From show room to vineyards, then onto the massive vats where the grapes separate, the juice flowing to the bottom, the skins and seeds floating to the top. We descended into the cool, low-ceilinged, uneven terrain of the cement cellars, where merlot and cabernet franc aged in carefully selected oak barrels. The finale was the tasting. We sipped from generous glasses of wine; a rose, and two reds, served alongside platters piled high with shaved hams, sharp cheeses, golden apricots and dark chocolate.
When it was time to check out, we said our teary goodbyes, then parted ways, the four of us returning by train to Paris. Exhausted from three nights of sparse sleep and an over-indulgent wine-tasting the night previous, it was a one eighty from the jolly energy of our inbound voyage. We spent most of the two hours in sluggish snooze-mode. Upon arrival, we were challenged to secure a taxi, finding out later from the lone driver who felt sorry for us, that Paris has a three-person maximum occupancy rule.
Our final lodging was located on busy Rue Royale. The taxi driver dropped us off across the street and we had to traverse several blocks in the blistery thirty-six-degree heat. The area showcased all the big fashion houses, luxury brands, and posh boutiques, but the energy between arrondissements two and nine, felt strangely welcoming.
Over another three days, my son and his partner led us on a myriad of tours. Both fluent in French, and, having lived there for a semester of university years some years ago, they showed us the less touristy areas, along with some of the classic must-sees. We braved the over three hundred steps to the Sacre Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. We sipped cocktails in Café de 2 Moulins, the restaurant well-known from scenes in the movie Amelie. We viewed Moulin Rouge, Place des Vosges, Notre Dame and Monet’s water lilies at Musee de l’Orangerie.
My memories will be forever full from our visit to the renowned Shakespeare & Company Bookstore. A long line-up, outside in the humid heat, gained entrance to the book-lover’s cove. Inside, the lack of air-conditioning felt even more claustrophobic. But I didn’t care. I was smack-dab amongst a sanctuary of shelves, books from floor to ceiling, the scent of paper and ink. I felt like a pirate, shovel clunked against a chest of treasure, intoxicated with anticipation.
As I meandered along in a deep state of bliss, the cover of a book seemed to whisper quietly, “come closer.” As I drew nearer, I discovered it to be the latest from Kazuo Ishiguro, Klara and the Sun. I recalled how thoroughly I devoured Never Let Me Go and The Remains of the Day. I felt spellbound by the cover, an intriguing turquoise square centred in a sea of fire-orange-red; a glimpse of yellow sun in the corner. I held the book in my hands, turned it over, and read the synopsis. I knew with absolute certainty, this book needed to come home with me.
I continued through the treasure-trove of books, winding my way along the narrow bends and curves. I was approaching the exit when another cover siren-hailed my attention. I’d never heard of the author, Richard Powers, but the dizzying kaleidoscope of artwork on the cover of The Overstory entranced me. A medal for the Pulitzer Prize shone from the top corner, and above it, a glowing review from Barbara Kingsolver, “a gigantic fable of genuine truths.” I placed the book next to my heart, then made my way to the cashier, delighted by my good fortune.
My time in France exceeded all my expectations. As a destination, it had never called to me, and yet I absolutely loved every minute of my seven days. My interactions with and observations of the French people led me to conclude; they are a passionate people. They live life, in each moment, to the fullest. In seeming contradiction, they do so with a calm acceptance of the noise and chaos that is also a part of life. They seemed to me present, fully engaged with all of their senses; no need to rush or maximize productivity.
I’ll end with five little bits of obscure trivia I hadn’t known before my trip to France.
1. Parisians sunbathe in the centre of the city, along the banks of the Seine River.
2. Notre Dame Cathedral stands on a ship-shaped island called Isle de la Cite.
3. The city of Paris has height restriction rules for building skyscrapers and office towers.
4. Chablis is a region where chardonnay grapes are grown.
5. Moulin Rouge translates in English to Red Windmill.
So yeah, I’m feeling enamoured after seven days in France.