Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, August 31, 2012

France…Saga of a Tour de Farce (Part one)


It happened on a rainy night of serial wine-tasting. We agreed to expose ourselves again…to France. We blame the adventure on our sanctimonious Grand Cru pals. Something about a chardonnay-fountain-of-youth shrine. Irrational exuberance often follows Bacchanalian excesses.

The French economy appeared to be deep-sixed. A slight pang of obligation urged us to toast its wake. So, risking the vicissitudes of a volatile Euro, we went, over-spent and now repent. Twelve of us…les enfant terribles abroad!

We began as friends. The consensus is now murky. One couple remains at large…the cheapskates. Who would rent a car named Leon with a hand-held GPS that worked only when held outside? They disappeared in a blinding rainstorm somewhere near Dijon.

We rented an ancient but venerable chateau for two weeks in the wine region of Burgundy. It rose from the midst of surrounding vineyards like an aged phoenix, grand and bold as a 5th century Burgundian baroness. It had one bathroom and no running water (kidding). It stood stately atop a hill like a past-prime debutante, whose baked-on makeup did little to disguise the ravages of age. Like its former mistress, it clung tenaciously to the fading afterglow of its once glorious past. Yet, what it lacked in functionality it made up with 15th century character and charm. Blanche DuBois once dined here.

The chateau overlooked Mercurey, a quaint farming village the size of a tennis court. It’s invisible on Google Earth and failed Fodor’s postcard list. Lethargy seemed to be the lifestyle of choice…until we showed up. The day’s amusement consisted of, as best as I could determine, absolutely nothing.

A figment of old France flirted with the tiny village. In particular, the patisserie, their answer to Waffle House. We found mischief there. The locals loathed our intrusive plunder. Every day we purchased all the freshly-baked croissants. Seems we ignored the sign, “il y a un par personne” (one each). A violent protest broke out and famished farmers fell on us with staves and pitch forks. We were forced to flee in retreat to our hilltop fortress. It was the most action the village had seen since the Romans invaded Gaul in 222 BC. It remains a sordid blemish on our vacation.

Most villages have quieted down measurably since the ruthless revolution of Francois Robespierre’s Reign of Terror in 1793. The French are no longer interested in revolution since the debut of Carla Bruni. They prefer to be Hollywood extras, posing as artists, waiters, vintners and chefs. The French suffer from APD…affected personality disorder.

Driving in France is easy. Escaping the airport is the challenge. We stumbled from an Air Canada red-eye into the Charles de Gaulle airport, a cavernous nether-world and convocation of lost souls. Confusion ruled. It’s intimidating. It occupies a land mass slightly larger than Portugal. Hordes of German itinerants and not a few Armenian gypsies live there permanently.

In a search for Hertz, we groped the corridor walls like zombies in a sleep-induced stupor. It hid in the belly of the beast. Renting a car is easy…if you have a six-figure bank balance. They’ll even program the GPS for you. Good thing, since the instructions come in a binder the size of my wife’s suitcase. Written in French, of course.

We fled from Dante’s third ring of de Gaulle hell. Heated spousal discussions ensued, punctuated by a heavy emphasis on the “S” word. Divorce was frequently discussed. After winding fifteen times in a full circle, we finally escaped the horror of the dreaded Labyrinth of de Gaulle.

Never trust your idiomatic Berlitz in France. They’ll curse you to your face for prostituting their language. The French know prostitution…they invented it. Arm yourself with pre-printed flash cards written in French, like, “Where’s the toilette? I’m about to soil myself,” and, “Jack the Ripper is gashing out my gut…any cheese and croissants?” Trust me on this.

Listen men, if you want to experience some harmless prostitution by proxy, try this. Find an ancient, crumbling cathedral in a crowded plaza. Breach the queue. Shove your way into a bistro and seize a table the size of a bottle cap. Let the carved caricatures of stony, mutilated saints and bronzed statues of patriots on horses gaze down on you while you sip your espresso and Perrier. Talk of Monet and Camus, of Charlemagne and Bonaparte. Pretend. Pretense is an art form in France. And wait.

Soon the promenade of young women will begin. They have the eyes of assassins. They will lacerate your lecherous stares and leave you drooling on your shirt in public. So, be careful…don’t let your eyes take you on a trip your body can’t handle. It’s the best show in town, and it’s free. Even the overhead gargoyles gawk.

I digress. Our adventure started with wine…and never quit. More soon, on the Saga of a Tour de Farce. Maybe.

Bud Hearn
August 31, 2012





Thursday, August 2, 2012

Dog Days of Dixie


Dog Days…blame Sirius, the Dog Star. The mangy mutt lies under the porches of heaven in late summer and tortures the South. Inhabitants languish in a heat-induced stupor. Work ceases. Including mine.

I languish inconspicuously in a Village diner, picking at a dull, lackluster lunch. It’s just another day on the island. Could be anywhere. Strangers come, they go. An average day.

Average, that is, until they walk in. Actually, they saunter in…elegant, confident, and intriguing. Interesting strangers. French, I’ll bet. A deathly hush descends. Forks drop audibly. Men gasp, some whistle.

The couple chooses the small table next to me. He’s a sharp dresser, expensive threads…maybe an artist or an actor. He wears a double-breasted blue blazer, silk shirt, a yellow ascot and a blue beret. Over-dressed for Dog Days.

Yet, it’s his companion that monopolizes the attention. She’s tall and tanned. Her long, silky-black hair has a glossy sheen. It reflects the sunlight and sparkles like the diamonds she wears. She’s stunningly dressed in brilliant blue, pencil-thin Dior jeans, Prada spikes and a blazing red Versace Tee. OMG, mama, just take me home to die!

Her T-shirt glitters in gold-emblazoned letters…Women Who Behave Rarely Make History. I recall my mother’s warning, “Son, beware of strangers.” I ignore her advice.

I ease my chair over. “Hello, want some company?” Before a ‘No’ could be uttered, I introduce myself, welcoming them to the island. Things go smoothly. Fluent in English, but with an aristocratic flair, they reveal a wild and incredible tale. Since this recital is not a sequel to “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I’ll save you from the salacious details and save them for myself.

We laugh through lunch. Diners come and go in a steady parade of curiosity. Women bristle with envy as their men eyeball the red T-shirt. I overhear a dour lady lash at her husband admonishing him not to let his eyes take him on a trip his body can’t handle. He sulks noticeably.

I push my luck with inquisitiveness. They answer with measured, but furtive glances across the table. I ask why they’re here. He answers, “Exciting plans.” I ask for details. She says, “They involve our yacht, the beach and a movie contract.” I ask where. “Cumberland Island,” he says.

I want to know when. “Later today,” she says. “Why do you ask these questions?” I tell her Dog Days bring out my best qualities. She asks, “Are all Southerners this way?” I tell her no, that most are dull and browbeat.

Slowly the ambient air at the table begins to chill. Still, I press on. “What’s the movie’s theme?” He frowns, “It’s really none of your business.”

Undeterred, I ask why it’s so secretive. She hisses, “You Americans are all alike, pushy.” I ask why she thinks that. She answers, “In Paris, we are not so intrusive with total strangers.”

I tell her this is the South, that we’re all friendly. “I think too friendly,” she says. I ask her if her mother also told her to beware of strangers. She snips, “Of course. Leave my mother out of this.”

I suggest they hire a guide, and I’m currently available. I caution them South Georgia is a dangerous place during Dog Days. I tell them about the movie, Deliverance.

He says, “I saw that movie…shocking. Are people here really like that?” I tell him yes. I ask him if there are degenerates in Paris like Humbert Humbert. It breaks the ice. She smiles, “Yes, they are mostly of Italian descent.” I tell them ours are mostly from Alabama. We laugh.

The dialogue dwindles down. I offer to buy their lunch. They accept. I guess they think they’re entitled. The French behave this way. Our brief encounter ends…with slow music the curtain falls. Life moves on.

We walk out together. The goodbye makes me teary. She notices. The humid sunlight of the early afternoon dispels the chill between us. We exchange hugs and handshakes and au revoir.

But then she looks back and smiles. Her T-shirt message winks at me. She says, “Dinner tonight?” My grin answers affirmatively.

“C’est si bon,” she says. “Our yacht, about eight? We’ll tell you the rest of the story. Until then?”

I stutter, “Yes, until then.”

The story has an epilogue. I go home, dial heaven, and have a long chat with my mother, reminding her that “Women Who Behave Rarely Make History.” Dog Days and strangers…nothing average about it! C’est la vie.

Bud Hearn
August 2, 2012