Nous Sommes Fous - la sixième partie (the 6th part of the move to France)

We all have a strand of crazy, but how much do you have to have to want to retire to the south of France? 

(for those who missed the opening, part one can be read here)

Probably quite a lot....                    

     We were rocketing to Vichy from Paris in a rental car that was far too small for us, our

large husky dog, the grumpy cat, two good sized kennels, four suitcases, a guitar, and a laptop computer.  (This was in the days of 4 pound laptops, mind you.)  The rain had turned to snow for a brief interval  and a bit of minor roadwork slowed the pace of the traffic down for a while.  

     The CD of bluesy music was almost in sync with the soft rhythm of the windshield wipers as Peggy Lee crooned, “Here’s that rainy day.”  And it seemed appropriate since we were now cocooned in a quiet, ethereal world.  The song’s tinge of sorrow rolled off our happy hearts as easily as the rain was swept from the windshield.  We were on our way to the long anticipated retirement in the south of France and our hearts sang.

      The Auto-route was smooth, large, well sign-posted, and hummed along with traffic on a really large scale.  Even when the rain became heavy, we were still feeling sunny.  The road just went on and on and on.  Brightly lit signs admonished the totally mad French drivers around us that they should be going 110 kph instead of the normal 130.  The flashing reminders must have only added fuel to the fire of the daring ‘pilots’ (racing car drivers)  as they continued to overtake and pass us as an astounding speed.  Plumes of water marked their course as they vanished from sight.

     The next few rest stops were simply punctuation marks along that long ribbon of road.  At last the rain stopped and the clearing sky revealed that the day was waning.  We were getting tired and the hardest task was keeping ourselves awake.  The cool air from an open window helped a lot.    

     It was late that evening when, after over 300 miles of driving; we reached Vichy, our destination.  Here, we had reservations at a hotel that promised us luxury and the right to have our pets in the room.  Remembering the flea-pit we had stayed in the night before our flight, we were a bit skeptical yet hopeful.    

The town was a maze of one way roads and night had fallen.  In the dark, the city lights created a fairy tale scene.  The buildings were impressive.  Even in my sleepy state, the phrase, “La Belle Epoque” came to mind.  Art Deco surrounds on grand doors and wide windows seemed to be de rigueur (obligatory).  It was clear that as a Spa town, Vichy had been, or probably still was, a rich man’s playground.  But all we wanted was to crawl into bed.  The last of our reserves were finally depleted.

     I felt a little cranky, but did my best to read out the map directions to my equally tired spouse.  It was to no avail.  We saw many amazing hotels, but not ours.

     At least there were many people on the streets.  We stopped several times to ask if anyone knew where The Aletti Palace Hotel was.  Each time the answer began with “Oui.  Vous êtes près” (Yes. You are close).  Then instructions would follow.  There was a serious flaw in my understanding though and we never found it.  Later, I was to realize that every time a person said, “tout droit” (straight ahead) I had mis-heard them and only caught the word, “Droit” (right).  As a result, we drove in circles.

      Every bit of French I thought I knew slowly leaked out of my exhausted brain and we felt lost.  When, at last, we spied a lighted entry at the back of a particularly large and fancy hotel, I said, “I’ll ask if they have a map we can use.  In a place that grand, somebody must speak English.”  

    My husband stopped the car and out I got, staggering a bit.  Of course, it turned out to be the back entrance to the hotel.  “Bienvenue!  You are most Welcome.” said the smiling receptionist who came over to help me.  I think she could see how close I was to collapsing right then and there.    

     We had made it, in spite of my failing language skills!  Joyfully, I ran back to the car and my husband drove us around to the front where, lo and behold, a parking space waited for us.  We entered the lobby a few minutes later with our pets on leads.  Our husky had her tail furled high and her nose in the air.  The cat kept pace with his tail straight up and swaggered in as if he owned the place. 

 I was wondering if perhaps I had fallen asleep and was having an amazing dream.  The chandeliers cast golden light on the white marble floors.  Rich, red pillars held up the lofty ceiling.  Elegantly dressed people passed us on their way to dinner, simply nodding at us as they murmured, “Monsieur-Dame.”  Not only that - they actually smiled at our animals.  This had to be a fantasy brought on by jet lag.  A matching set of staircases embraced the lobby and beckoned us to ascend to heavenly slumber.  Yes, I really must be dreaming, I thought.   The place was, indeed, a palace.... Welcome to France.    

And so we were halfway there.  The next day we would strike out for the final stage of our long trek to reach the south of France...but would we get there or were we on an endless journey?   Find Out in Part 7 Right Here.