Journeys Through France and Life

PROLOGUE

Quelle catastrophe! How did I get into this predicament?

I was trapped inside the grounds of a château. This I Love Lucy episode started out, as they all do, innocently enough.

The Château d’Ainay le Vieil, south of the Loire Valley in France, was on my agenda for that day. Timing is critical when visiting châteaux in France. Most are open from 10 to12 and from 2 to 6 p.m. One cannot loll about in the morning and then expect to drive to the château and complete the tour before noon. Precision planning is required or one can easily miss the morning tour and be forced to wait for the afternoon tour, a waste of precious time on a tight schedule. I had planned my trip like a military campaign, with little room for error. Arriving before 10 a.m., I purchased my ticket and the tour guide led us on the first tour of the day.

Protected by high walls and nine circular towers with conical roofs and surrounded by a moat, the château was set in a large park. A canal brimming with pink and red water lilies filled the moat on its way to merge into the Cher river.

It has been in the same family since 1467. A 19th-century descendant restored the property, which had been ransacked during the Revolution. I learned from a brochure about the château that the present owner laments the passing of the rural life in which women from the village helped with the harvesting of vegetables from the château garden and shared in its produce. She remembers when several dairies in the area stamped each mound of butter with their own distinctive crest—now there is only one such dairy left.

After the tour of the château, I wandered the variously themed gardens in the park with my camera. The grounds included a jardin des chartreuses (walled garden rooms). I walked down a path in the middle of the rooms, each of which was devoted to a specific theme—flowers, trees, herbs. Green ivy climbed up the stone walls separating the gardens. At the end of the path stood a white statue of a medieval woman, like a beacon drawing me to it.

I walked inside a bird enclosure sculpted from bushes. The interior had been carved out in the middle, leaving greenery on all sides. In the quiet solitude, I sat on a stone bench and listened to the birds chirping as they flitted amongst the shrubbery. Life was going on outside, but in this haven cut off from the world, it was just me and the birds.

Emerging from the darkness of the enclosure into the bright sunlight, I meandered through the ancient rose garden, the sweet scent of the flowers following me. I lost all track of time, absorbed in the joy of framing scenes with my camera.

After taking many photos of the château and gardens, I headed back toward the entrance gate, noticing along the way that no people were about—visitors or workers. I seemed to be alone.

That’s odd—where did everybody go?

On reaching the gate, I pushed it. The gate was locked. Astonished, I went to the ticket office and tried the door—it, too, was locked. I looked around the grounds.

Surely, someone must still be here.

But, no. Looking at my watch, I realized that they had all gone for their two-hour lunch. It was a few minutes after noon and they hadn’t wasted any time leaving. The French would not risk missing out on lunch. The other visitors, no doubt, had watched the time to make sure they finished the tour before noon. Unless I could find a way out, I was trapped in the grounds until they returned. I, too, was hungry. I also had a schedule to keep, and a two-hour delay did not fit into it.

I said to myself, borrowing a line from Laurel and Hardy, Another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into!

Of course, there was nothing I’d have liked better than to blame the French, as I normally do when something goes wrong. But I supposed it wasn’t their job to blare over a loudspeaker that they were all leaving for lunch, and if the visitors didn’t want to be stuck there alone they’d better hotfoot it to the gate. After all, the hours are posted at the entrance.

No use thinking about all that—I need to find a way to get out of here.

Following the wrought-iron fence which circled the grounds and connected to the entry gate, I found an opening. But adjacent to it was a ten-foot-deep concrete ditch, apparently constructed to keep people from scaling the fence to get into the grounds. Too wide for me to cross, the ditch ran parallel to the fence and ended at the gate. If I were somehow able to make it there, I could jump down onto the concrete area in front of the entrance. There was no room between the fence and the ditch to gain a foothold—the concrete sloped straight down. But this was the only way I saw for me to get out.

Maybe I can hold myself up by wrapping my arms around the iron bars at the top, and placing my feet on the bottom railing between the bars to work my way to the gate. But can I sustain my weight with only my arms and almost no support from my feet?

I was about to find out.

Adding to the problem were my bulky purse and large, heavy Pentax SF110 point-and-shoot camera, both with shoulder straps. I paused, considering the possibilities—I could fall into the ditch, or my purse and camera could fall into the ditch where I’d not be able to retrieve them. Then what? I’d be stuck there until someone came back and I’d look silly in the process. I took one last look around hoping that, magically, I would see someone who could let me out, but not a soul was in sight.

Maybe I should not take this risk and just wait for everyone to come back. That would be the safest thing to do. But the thought of spending two hours trapped inside the grounds spurred me on.

Well, here goes.

I slung my camera and purse over my shoulder, wrapped my arms around the top of the bars, positioned my feet on the railing between the lower bars, and started out, hoping I wouldn’t lose my grip.

Putting my foot in the next space, I let go of the bars with my left arm and encircled the next couple of bars, then let go with my right arm and encircled the bars next to my left arm, all the while trying to keep my purse and camera from falling off my shoulder. Down the fence line I went.

It would be just my luck if a gendarme drove by and saw me. That would certainly put the finishing touch on this little escapade.

I could picture the headline in the next day’s French newspaper: American woman caught trying to scale the fence surrounding a château. I somehow felt like a small-time criminal, even though I was trying to escape the château, not break into it.

At last, after what seemed like an interminable struggle, but which probably only took ten or fifteen minutes, I made it to the gate and jumped down on the other side to freedom, camera and purse intact.

What a relief! Now, about that lunch…

How did I come to be in France, alone, trapped in the grounds of a château? Let me start somewhere near the beginning, thirteen years earlier, in 1989.

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING

I could hardly think about anything else. My husband, Dan, and I were going to France for an entire month.

Dan and I lived in San Diego. Ours was a second marriage for both of us. Dan was a Master Chief in the Navy. We met when he returned from a tour of duty in Sicily shortly before he retired and began working for the government as a civilian. I, too, worked for the government, as a paralegal, a job I had worked my way up to from a secretary position. We both had generous vacation leave and accommodating supervisors who allowed us to take a month off.

Dan had swept me off my feet, showering me with attention and affection. He was forty-six; I was thirty-four. He had a zest for life and an intensity about him that appealed to me. Well-traveled, he had been around the block a few more times than I had. He seemed worldly and knowledgeable.

Early in our dating phase, we rented a couple of horses from a riding stable. During the ride, my wide-brimmed hat flew off my head and landed on the ground. Dan gallantly rode to the rescue, scooped up my hat, and brought it to me. Wow! I had thought. Just like in the movies!

I had longed to find someone who would fill the empty place in my heart that had been there for many years. I’d begun to think the kind of love and devotion I’d searched for and dreamed of was unobtainable. When I met Dan, it seemed to me that dream might come true, that I had found someone totally devoted, extravagantly in love, with nothing held back.

Our first European vacation had been in 1984, five years earlier. We spent one week in England, one week in Italy, and one week on a château tour in France, traveling by bus and train. We found interesting things to see in England and Italy, but for us, those countries paled in comparison to France.

I had not been enamored of the rigid structure of the château tour, but it enabled us to see a fair amount of the landscape and tourist sites of France. The countryside was green and lush, abundant with lakes, rivers and streams (some spanned by arched stone bridges), and dotted with gorgeous architecture in the form of grand châteaux, ancient stone houses, and magnificent cathedrals. It seemed that everywhere I looked, there was something beautiful to see.

France is made up of about sixty percent agricultural land and twenty-eight percent forest and natural spaces. Fields of growing crops abound. This rural landscape exudes a sense of tranquility.

And, of course, there was the cuisine. One word described it—heavenly. We were hooked. We had fallen in love with France.

Over dinner on our last night of the tour, I said, We have to come back, spend our whole vacation in France, and rent a car so that we can drive around the countryside and through the villages.

Dan agreed.

Now, finally, that dream was coming true. I began mapping out our route with all the sights I wanted to see, and planning my wardrobe.

On a Saturday I decided to go clothes shopping. I looked forward to picking out some nice outfits to wear on the trip. Being frugal, I always had to find the best deal for the price and that usually took most of the day. I enjoyed dressing well, but didn’t spend a lot of money on apparel. I made many of my own clothes and bought vintage garments at resale shops.

Dan said he would clean the house while I was gone. You don’t have to do that, I said, feeling uncomfortable.

I’ll have it nice and clean by the time you get back.

I returned five hours later, bags in each hand containing my finds for the day. But my happy feelings were dashed when Dan said menacingly, Where have you been all this time?

Shopping, I said, taken aback.

Nobody shops for five hours! he yelled.

I do—sometimes longer. Had he forgotten my other shopping excursions?

You’ve been out having fun while I’ve been here cleaning the house for five hours!

But I didn’t ask you to do that. You could have done something else, gone somewhere.

How can you be so selfish? You don’t even appreciate what I’ve done for you!

He stalked away.

His loud, ugly tone of voice, his face contorted with rage, and his body language exuding barely contained fury seemed to be greatly out of proportion for my supposed offense. In the same way that I had not been accustomed to the devotion and attention lavished on me by Dan, I was also not accustomed to anyone behaving toward me with such violent anger. Although nothing physical had happened, emotionally I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach.

I didn’t think of myself as selfish, but perhaps I was. Maybe shopping for five hours was excessive. I felt guilty that Dan had been home cleaning for hours while I had been doing something I enjoyed. Feelings of uncertainty, confusion, of not being good enough overwhelmed me.

I tried to rationalize what had happened, to balance this incident against the good times we had together. I was afraid to say anything more because I didn’t want to spoil our planned vacation to France or to make him even more angry. All I knew was that I certainly wouldn’t go shopping for that long again. And I would watch my behavior in the future to make sure I considered how Dan might feel about anything I did.

* * *

A couple of months later on a sunny day in May, we arrived in France. We loaded our bags into our rented Peugeot and started on our way, excited and happy, anticipating the fulfillment of our five-year-long dream. But as we traveled on our way to the Burgundy region, I was underwhelmed with the towns. They seemed industrial and dreary.

Where are all the charming villages like the ones we saw on our first trip? I asked, greatly disappointed.

I don’t know, Dan answered. Maybe there aren’t any in this part of France.

I hoped to find the type of villages we had seen in Normandy: charming half-timbered houses (split dark wood set into white-washed walls); pink geraniums in pots along the streets; magnificent churches with soaring steeples; and turreted châteaux. This was the France I had dreamed of all those years.

We planned to spend the night in Dijon and see the sights there the next day. Circumventing the larger towns, we traveled the small roads to see the countryside. Rounding a corner, I saw two towers, part of a château. We were in the village of Bèze, quintessentially French, exactly what I had been looking for. I spotted a charming hotel, the Moulin de Belle Isle, along the banks of a river flowing through the town.

Oh! Let’s stay here instead of going to Dijon, I said excitedly to Dan.

Okay, go check it out, he said, parking in front of the hotel. Dan did all the driving. I was the navigator and official selector of hotel rooms.

I was shown a room, rustic but comfortable-looking. Filled with antiques, including a four-poster bed, it overlooked the river. As I looked around, I heard the sounds of church bells chiming and the river rushing by. Perfect. Thrilled to have found what I’d been looking for, I happily dangled the key at Dan as I walked out of the hotel. We brought our luggage in and unpacked for our two-night stay.

Then we explored the village, looking at the centuries-old stone houses and buildings, including the peach-colored château I had seen on our entry. We walked along the river, lined by cypress trees drooping lazily into the water. That night we fell asleep listening to the sound of the flowing river outside our window.

The next morning, as I was getting ready for our day trip into Dijon, I observed a lamp on the wall that looked as if it could be extended and folded back. If I could expand this over the mirrored dresser, I would have more light for applying my makeup. But when I tried to maneuver it, the lamp came off the wall. The electricity in the room—maybe the entire hotel!—went off. My mouth fell open in horror as I gaped at the ruined lamp and wall. What electrical damage had been caused by my ill-fated act? Would they force us to pay for those damages and repairs to the lamp and wall?

I was reminded of a phrase from the Pink Panther movies which seemed to fit my hapless situation. The chief inspector, upon hearing that Inspector Clouseau (noted for destroying whatever he touched) was in Switzerland investigating a case, said, Switzerland—yesterday a beautiful country, today a vast wasteland. In my case, the phrase would go something like, Moulin de Belle Isle—yesterday, a charming French hotel—today, a pile of rubble.

I was too embarrassed to face the owners. Would you mind telling them what happened? I asked Dan. While he took the lamp downstairs and tried to explain what had occurred as best he could in French, I waited in our room. When Dan returned he told me what the owner had said—"Pas grave. We will move you to another room."

So, while we were in Dijon taking in the sights and purchasing lace curtains and jars of their world-renowned mustard, the hotel staff moved every bit of our scattered belongings to our new room. When we returned, the electricity was on. We didn’t ask any questions and no mention was made of payment for damages.

In their cozy restaurant that night, we sat near the fireplace, listening to the crackle of the wood as it burned, enjoying the ambience of the rustic room filled with long, rough-hewn wooden tables and benches. We dined on steak with a creamy peppercorn sauce, and ripe, sweet strawberries with cream for dessert.

In the morning we enjoyed a lovely breakfast on the terrace overlooking the river, then departed, looking for new places to destroy.

I had picked up a book, free to hotel guests, entitled, Maîtres Cuisiniers de France (Master Cooks of France). It included photos of the cooks, most wearing toques (tall, white chef hats), and descriptions of their establishments.

Wow! I said. If we go to one of these restaurants, we’ll be guaranteed to get a good meal.

Well, it would seem so, Dan said. The prices are pretty stiff, but we can give it a try.

We decided that when in the vicinity of one of these restaurants, we would attempt to get a reservation for dinner. Some of them were part of a hotel. One may eat dinner, stay the night, and have breakfast the next morning all in the same building.

As we drove to Dijon to spend the night and see the sights we’d missed the previous day, I searched the book for a hotel and restaurant there. I found one, listed as one of the best restaurants in Dijon—with commensurate prices. On our arrival in the city, we drove to the hotel, booked a room, and reserved for dinner.

Then we visited the cathedrals, dark on the inside no matter how sunny the day, and smelling of antiquity. The only light streamed through the stained glass windows and radiated in a swirl of colors. The coldness emanating from the stone of the buildings made the air chilly. Traffic sounds did not penetrate the walls of the cathedrals, and the silence was an island of peace that granted respite from the din outside.

We explored the streets of the old city, visited the tourist shops, and looked forward expectantly to a superior meal that evening.

As befitting a restaurant of its caliber, the modern dining room had a feel of understated elegance. The large skylight, sleek furnishings, and contemporary paintings on the walls were in stark contrast to the exterior of the restaurant, a half-timbered, former Norman post-house dating to the 17th century.

We perused the carte, the French word for menu, reading about