LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOUT: A Rehoboth Journal -- How Ya Gonna Keep 'em Down On The Dock After They've Seen Paree? |
by Fay Jacobs |
Bonjour! Bonjour! Were reluctantly back from France and would go back in a heartbeat. But if we never get the chance its okay, since this vacation was, simply, the trip of a lifetime. You may have seen that photo of us in the last issue, keeping our promise to Steve and waving our LETTERS From Camp in front of the Eiffel Tower. By the time we got there, late in the trip, the back issues and four of us all looked pretty tattered. But we had a ball. Bonnie and I joined our buds from Kingsbridge Road on a tour of the Riviera, Provence, Chateau Country, and Gay Paree. We drank Chateaunerf du Pape at the actual papes chateau, sipped Cote du Rhone in that very countryside, had Salade Nicoise in Nice, and ham and cheese with dijon mustard in, where else, Dijon. We walked where Cezanne got his inspiration, explored where Toulous Lautrec met his models and sat on the Pont Neuf spanning the Seine in little nooks reserved for lovers. All the glory that was France outshone the fact that most of my obsessive tourist preparations failed. The dual current hairdryer never workedI look like Bride of Frankenstein in the photos; the plane was so packed wed have blown out a window or a flight attendant inflating our cervical pillows, so we arrived with jet lag and whiplash; and on day two, one of our troop drowned our emergency compass in the bathtub leaving us geographically befuddled. But the security wallets did stave off the swarms of pick-pockets working every major tourist site. They would have had to commit third degree sex crimes to get our credit cards. And speaking of underwear, our Throw-As-You-Go Plan, taking our oldest underwear and discarding it after use, really worked. We had all sorts of packing room for souvenirs. Although on our first day at each hotel, the chamber maids thought we idiot Americans didnt know trash cans from hampers. Actually, Bonnie took Throw As You Go a little too seriously, packing her very worst underwear. Apparently, sagging elastic got the best of her during a chateau tour and she confided that for comfort reasons shed ditched her drawers in the Louis fifteenth toilette. Archeologists may conclude Catherine De Medici wore Jockey for Women. With one column no match for our whole eye-popping journey, Ill just share some random thoughts. The Principality of Monaco, high on a rock jutting into the azure Mediterranean, with its palace, yachts, Grand Prix track and Monte Carlo Casino was something I thought Id only see in a James Bond movie. It all looks even better in person. And certainly explains what Grace Kelly saw in Prince Ranier. I wasnt prepared for the stunning mountain-top towns, walled cities, narrow winding streets and ninth century cathedrals. Although, as photo ops go, we were disappointed to see every single French historical site under renovation. Want a picture of the Paris Opera? Its got scaffolding on it. Notre Dame? Scaffolding. Versailles? Scaffolding. The only structure not covered by scaffolding was the Eiffel Tower and it is scaffolding. Oer the ramparts we walked, in medieval walled cities with churches and homes built up to 1500 years ago. With the tile roofs and stucco walls, stone streets, window-sill flower boxes and charm to spare, I managed, for sixteen whole days, to deny the existence of vinyl siding. Think we have grand homes in this country? The chateaus that those Louies built for their wives, mistresses, horses, boyfriends, you name it, beats anything Claus Von Bulow ever owned. By comparison, American mansions are outhouses. And the only thing I can say about Versailles and its gilt-covered, gaudy, wretched excess, is that it explains the entire French Revolution. The great unwashed took one look and said "Thats it, cancel the royal Visa card and off with their heads." French highways are manic, with a speed limit of 130 kilometers, or 80 mph. You can do that in the right lane and get wind burn from miniscule Renaults whipping by on the left. Leadfoot Bonnie drove our rental car. Bonnie: "Its incredible, Im going 115 miles an hour and nothings out of alignment, nothings shaking." Larry: "Except me." The four of us got along splendidly, with everyone viewing the trip from their own particular perspective. Larry the Accountant translated what everything cost and made sure we knew that the 130 speed limit meant "kilometers, not miles per hour, Bonnie!!!" Fastidious Robert, who, on our last trip, did such a great job keeping our boat spotless, made sure we got a tour of French car washes, and was overheard at Versailles Hall of Mirrors wondering what it cost to clean the place. As for Bonnie, she honed her Rent-a-Dyke home improvement skills, studying flying buttresses and vaulted ceilings, just in caseas happens at homesome queen asks for her help renovating a castle. As for me, I just shopped til I dropped a whole lotta French francs. Ah, the food, glorious food. After one week, our accountant calculated that by continuing to dine a la francais, hed soon be his own principality. Between buttery croissants and bordelaise sauces we figured wed go home through airport security x-rays and right to the line for Angiograms. Our only food faux pas was a seafood appetizer Bonnie ordered. It arrived looking like a plate of Thrashers, but a closer look found the fries looking back. They were little whole fish. My girl toughed it out but subseqeuntly insisted on complete disclosure before ordering. We avoided the 3-star places in favor of small bistros and some new, innovative Parisian restuarants. France has a nifty tradition where every restaurant offers a three-course fixed-price meal. We stuck to these Le Menus and ate like royalty, always having several wonderful choices of appetizers, entrees and decadent desserts. Paying only $8-25 per person for great meals had our most exquisite and expensive meal, including two bottles of wine, costing less than fried flounder in Ocean City. The French take their dogs seriously. You find pampered pets dining in the finest restaurants, lapping up Evian at sidewalk cafes and wandering around places of business. Apricot Poodles are unbiquitous. Unfortunately, Paris streets also have abundant poop de chien. The French not friendly? Nonsense. Folks couldnt have been more helpful to the four pathetic Americans sputtering fractured French. Toward trips end we left the guys in Versailles for an extra night while Bonnie and I headed to Paris. At the hotel, it appeared we were being told, in rapid French, that something was wrong with the reservation. But then a cute male clerk translated. "Zare is some troooble with zee reservaaceeone. Zee bed, it is a doooble. Non zee twin." "Ah!" I said, "zee doooble is, um, good, er, bonne, er, tres bonne. The clerk eyed the two women in front of him, smiled with recognition and said "Oui??? Yes, this eeez good?" Then he looked back at the reservation book and asked "Zee other room, pour Monsiour L. Hooker, zee same?" "Oui" I said. The clerk smiled, helped us with our luggage and for the rest of our stay made sure the four of us had everything we wanted. And while I could go on with stories galore, you probably want to go to the beach or off to happy hour...but I havent even told you about the beautiful mostly-naked girls (and boys) in Paris famous Lido show, or the scenic drive to St. Topez, or being trapped on the Paris Metro with a strolling accordion player, or the bagpipes of Mont St. Michel...or.... Come visit us at the marina and Ill hold you hostage with the photo albums. I think Dave at Atlantic Color Photo is planning a Paris trip on his profits from mine. Au revoir til next time! |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 7, June 19, 1998. |