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

Endings come. After two weeks, we parted on good terms before the last threads of genteel civility unwound. Though banal, we could say, “and a good time was had by all.”

For breakfast we shared shards of a rock-hard baguette, slices of moldy sausage and dregs of our last bottle of wine. It was a special breakfast blend, Non Plus Ultra Grand Cru. Infused with Red Bull, it was France’s answer to Starbucks lattes, vending machine favorites. With one last toast, our communal living concluded.

A vote was taken on the picture best representing the essence of our trip. The one entitled, “The Morning After,” (shown here) was runner-up. The hands-down favorite was the one entitled, “Alternative Uses of a Fig Leaf.” Yes, there’s a story here. Though not Madame Bovary, a woman stands in the shadows. In this case, three French maids.

Not all French maids are created equal. Those in Burgundy are not of the variety fawned over in voguish magazines. They’re sturdy girls with large frames and enormous forearms. Some shave. They eat diets of onions and garlic. This discovery shattered yet another illusion of my youth. France is known for contriving romantic frauds.

Ours were ingénues with a fault…they trusted American men. Two of our still-immature boys cooked up a poolside ruse. Something about modeling fig leaves. However, the madcap scheme slid sideways at the unexpected advent of their wives. The maids fled into the vineyards and vanished. This reckless adventure ended in infamy. It’s best that the curtain fall on this disgusting scene.

Dr. Duck was our obsessive-compulsive germ inspector. He traveled with a magnifying glass, microscope and bag of petri dishes. He stalked tiny micro-organisms. Our kitchen was his lab.

His Freudian psychosis was the consequence of 25 years of teaching germ research at a university in Florida. With a halogen light strapped to his forehead he skulked at night. Talking to himself and laughing hysterically he scraped bacilli from pans and dishes. He ranted daily on impending salmonella attacks. Some dismissed him as a kook.

Vacations end with a final expense reconciliation. Ours was done by a Princeton MBA, aka ‘Spread Sheet Jack,’ the eminent creator of “The Princeton Hypothesis: The Algorithmic Equalization of Random Movements of Motion.” We wondered how such wisdom could come out of New Jersey. We asked his wife.

She said it was inspiration from Above. Said it happened on the 11th green. A bolt of lightning lit up his 8-iron in mid swing. She said that he now lives in the parallel universe of spread-sheets, concocting algorithms on all things moving. Said his latest postulation was an algebraic equation. It measures the optimum number of chews to maximize caloric intake from a rib eye steak. Whatever!

His tracking system of expenditures was genius. Communal expenses required a signed receipt. ‘Spread Sheet’ tallied them in an elaborate computer-model format. He equalized all expenses to parity. Freeloaders on the communal pacifier were exposed and severely excoriated. Two were flogged. Unfortunately, discussions turned violent on the final settlement value of the Euro. Money often provokes bitter conclusions.

French departures demand obligatory dual-cheek kisses. It didn’t suit our reigning Chateau Grande Dame, president of The Women’s Cotillion and chair of her local DAR. Nothing less than French kissing, the tongue-touching type teenagers try in the back seats of cars.

Her epiphany arrived recently while in a chocolatier on the Rue de Chocolate, a back street in Beaune. She craved French kisses, a la Hershey. Her French was poor. The proprietor mistook her request. He swept her into his arms and passionately demonstrated the technique. Her lotus flower blossomed that very moment. She has not been the same since.

So as we are departing she stands there with outstretched arms. Her thick lipstick shimmered like a red neon sign in a Hollywood speakeasy. Dr. Duck shouted warnings of oral germ infestations caused by wine fermentations. We fled. She sobbed inconsolably at the rejection.

The sun set on our two weeks in a burgundy chateau, a riotous excursion full of fun and memories.

So, Au revoir, with this thought…The road goes on forever and the party never ends. Let the good times roll!

Bud Hearn
September 13, 2012