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