StanleyWheeler

Sylvie called. She wanted to know where we were. I told her that we were at the chateau. She hadn't read my earlier email about taking the bus. She thought we were still at Pierrefonds. I told her we were in Compiegne. She said supper would be at 7:00 p.m. She would pick us up at the hotel. We needed to get back to the hotel to clean up a bit before Sylvie picked us up. We left the gardens. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped to explore a church. I can't remember now whether it was Eglise St. Jacques, or Eglise St. Antoine. We enjoyed the little detour, and following the directions from the Great and Terrible Google, we found our way back to the hotel. We had covered a lot of miles from Versailles to Compiegne to Pierrefonds, and back to Compiegne, but the best part of the day was yet to come. Sylvie had prepared a superb meal. She presented us with crab cakes and salad. We devoured that, enjoying every bite, and she raised the stakes with a very tasty and filling ...

In Compiegne did Louis XV a stately residence decree: Where l'Oise, the sacred river, ran through regions so dear to this man in the land of Picardie. We got off the bus in Compiegne at the palace, or Chateau de Compiegne . I had been there many years before. The chateau is tremendous inside; it is fabulous. I like it even better than the palace at Versailles. (There are a lot fewer people for one, and it has a lot of 1st Empire stuff which I enjoy, for another. Napoleon had the place restored and made it an imperial palace). We had hoped to be in time to tour the palace and then visit the beautiful and expansive gardens. And we nearly did. Did you ever notice that if you add the word "nearly" to a positive statement, it turns the statement into a negative. It's really just a softer way of saying something failed. For example, saying that a ballplayer nearly caught the ball, sounds much better than saying that he missed the ball. "Nearly" creates ...

The good news was that we got new train tickets for Compiegne. The bad news was that the train wouldn't leave for another two hours. A bright guy would have taken that time to explore the environs outside of the gare...apparently, I'm not that guy--my wife will confirm that. We found a place near a reader board to stand and observe while we watched the board for information about our train...and sent an email to the friend who was supposed to meet us at the train station in Compiegne to let her know we would be two hours late. Every half hour, two women would come by begging for money; dusky skinned with dark manes largely concealed by scarves, they wore layered outer clothing and long skirts...long as in nearly to the floor. They first asked in French and I told them no; they immediately asked in English and I ignored them. After that they ignored us, holding out their hands, asking only the people around us for money each time they came by. I did exchange a text with our fe...

The wind from the arriving train blew my sweetheart's hair, but it stayed on her head--mine didn't have a chance. That wind carried an odor of diesel and burnt rubber, or it could've been the cheap cologne the guy next to us was wearing. Passengers spilled onto the platform like blood from a head wound. Fortunately, they didn't hang around to stain our shoes. We boarded the train with the rest of the cattle. The doors closed behind us with an ominous clack that resembled that made by the release of a firing bolt in an automatic weapon.  It was a short ride to Gare Montparnasse, the last stop on the line, the end of the line, the terminal. There might be other words for it, but terminal fit for us. We didn't know it when we rolled into that station, but our carefully scripted plan was about to die, to die like a young child's happiness when he finds out that the circus is in town, and all his friends are going, but he, instead, has to go to a funeral for a grea...