The Roquefort stands alone

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 rice and chicken dish. My wife expressed some surprise that another dish was added to the table. I informed her that the traditional French meal would be served in courses. The rice and chicken was the main course, so once we made our way through that delicious dish, we would be on the downhill side. I can't remember if we had anything between the chicken and the cheese. I do remember drinking some sweet and refreshing juice...and a lot of it. I had to turn away the Roquefort, not being a fan of bread mold in any form. I did enjoy the mild brie, Camenbert, and some other cheese whose name I forget. The dessert was simply unforgettable...or it would've been, except that I can't remember what it was. What it was, was delicious.

The best part of the evening was the company, and the conversation. Gerard and Sylvie and their family, of which only Mathieu and Francois were able to attend, had been wonderful friends when I had lived in Compiegne years before. They were still wonderful folks. They all spoke a little English. Mathieu and Francois spoke English quite well. They translated for my wife while we conversed in French. One topic of conversation was the problem with the phone numbers that Sylvie had given me...both of the numbers had contained what looked to me like 6's...they were actually 4's. Missed it by that much.

After the dinner, we continued to visit until quite late. Sylvie began to drive us home...then I remembered that we didn't get pictures of us together. We went back to the house...Mathieu had already left, but we got pictures of all the rest of us.

After the long day, the hotel bed was truly welcome.

"Gardens bright with sinuous rills"

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 illusion of success, or very nearly does, almost. (For a discussion of the effect of the word "almost" please see "nearly."

We went inside and found the usual metal detector with the requisite inspector-of-all-things-carried. 
"Is this the way to see the chateau," I asked. 
"Yes, but it is closed," he said. "But you can still see the gardens."
"I understood the chateau was open for another hour, until 1800."
"It is, but it's too late to enter now. But you can still see the gardens."
"If it's still open, why can't we go inside?"
"Because it closes at 1800. But you can still visit the gardens."
"Well, then. We'll go in for a quick tour and then see the gardens."
"It's too late to visit the chateau. But you can still visit the gardens." He seemed noticeably frustrated at this point in trying to explain the situation. He wasn't doing a very good job of it.
"But it's open until 1800. We'll see the chateau and then visit the gardens."
"You are too late to come in the chateau, but you can still visit the gardens."

We spoke a little more to get some clarification. The bottom line was that we were not getting into the chateau. Apparently the rule is quite firm that if one does not arrive more than an hour before the closing of the chateau, one does not get to enter the chateau, even though the chateau does not close until 1800 (which is 6:00 p.m.). It was 5:15; we weren't getting in. Missed it by that much.

Much to the amusement of the other chateau workers who were witnessing our conversation, I finally informed the good man that we would skip the chateau and just visit the gardens. The whole conversation was worth it just to see them enjoy the frustration of their colleague. 

The gardens are truly remarkable. We walked around the side of the chateau and enjoyed the view down the great alley that joins the palace gardens with the great forest. We admired the statuary and got some pictures of them. I particularly liked a secluded Grecian gazebo (I'm sure there's better, more architecturally correct word for it, but I don't know what it is). There were a few people enjoying the great grassy expanse in the middle of the gardens, but not many. We nearly had the gardens to ourselves (nearly, see: almost). A quiet peaceful walk with my wife in the gardens of the imperial palace; what a great day!

...

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 

And here were forests ancient as the hills, 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

The Picardie Express

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 fellow travelers from the Boise airport, Jim and Nancy, letting them know that we were stuck waiting again. They were in London; Nancy said that they were enjoying London...except for the food.

We met a couple from Canada...British Columbia, if I remember correctly. They were taking the train to Amsterdam. The line grew long for that particular departure, and moved slowly as all of those travelers had to pass through the metal detector and show passports; I don't know all of what else they had to do, but it took quite a while. I watched them briefly through the glass walls of the booth; what with the juggling and hand stands, I think it must have been the same officer running the booth that stopped Steve Martin in The Man with Two Brains. When they were all boarded, the SNCF people took down the red belt and black pylon barriers they had used to confine the line for that train. 

Meanwhile, we continued to watch people. A batch or two of school kids came and went. I remember noticing several men wearing neck scarves. I also noticed shoes, and noticed no one else wearing the light hiking style boots like I wore. One guy did wear heavier leather hiking boots; most wore some type of tennis shoe or leather shoe. I only saw a couple of men with ties, although a few wore sport coats. 

At last the board indicated the platform of arrival and departure for our train. The SNCF man looked at our tickets and approved our boarding. I had tried to put the tickets into the little machine to validate them, but it wouldn't work. That's why I asked the man to look at and approve our tickets. He examined them closely and seemed slightly suspicious, but didn't ask for a blood sample or try to search our backpacks. I don't remember if he validated the tickets. At any rate, it didn't matter; no one checked them on the train. That was a worry for me because once, long ago, when I had been in France on a train to Compiegne, I had forgotten to validate my ticket, because the train had been pulling away from the station, and I had had to run to catch it. The train security had discovered that my ticket had not been validated and fined me on the spot...but that was long ago. No such incident marred this trip.

We chose seats on the upper rather than the lower deck of the train.  My wife got this picture...

...just before the train left the station. And thus we found ourselves (with apologies to Rush) on a train to Compiegne, aboard the Picardie express. We hit the stops along the way; we only stopped for the best...that is if "the best" was every town between Paris and Compiegne. When we pulled into Compiegne, no smoke rings filled the air, but there was something better--a cherished friend whom we had missed on Saturday. 

Sylvie and Gerard and their family had been dear friends when I had left France some 30 years earlier. They had seen me to the train station when I had departed from Compiegne all those years ago in May. Now, Sylvie met us again at the train station on my return to Compiegne in May. 

I recognized her right away, although we had both changed somewhat over the intervening years. Fortunately, the good nature and kindness of Gerard and Sylvie had not changed. Sylvie had waited at the train station for us 2 hours earlier; she had not made a timely discovery of the earlier email about our delay. When we had not disembarked with the other passengers, she had gone to our hotel to see if we were already there...and as it turned out, we weren't, and hadn't been. She talked to the hotelier, and confirmed that we could leave our bags there, even though we couldn't check in until later in the afternoon. She then went back home, discovered our email, and returned to the station to meet us. 

We exchanged brief greetings and she informed us that she would take us to our hotel in order to drop off our bags, and then take us from the Hotel de Harlay to the chateau at Pierrefonds, a little over ten miles away. According to Google, the distance was actually about 17.5 kilometers, which can be simply converted from metric to Americanese: Remember that 88 kilometers is equal to 55 miles (refer to speedometers with dual markings to confirm this); so  17.5 divided by 55 = 0.31818182, which when multiplied by 88 equals 28.with several zeros and a 2 (which I round off). Next 55 divided by 28 equals 1.96 and more change (which I ignore). Move the decimal one to the right because on the map, Europe is to the right of North American, and we have 19.64, which added to our original number of 17.5 equals 37.14. We then take the average by dividing it by 2 which gives us 18.57. The sum of the numbers 1,8,5,7 is 21. When we divide 21 by two, to account for the fact that we're dealing with two systems, the result is more than 10. So the distance was over ten miles. 

A car had stalled in front of Sylvie's vehicle, but it was quickly pushed out of the way into an empty parking spot. In a moment we were away to our hotel. The hotelier kindly took our bags and informed us that we could check in after 3:00 p.m. Our backpacks in the custody of the hotel, we joined Sylvie for the drive to Pierrefonds. 

The day had started early and little things threatened to derail our plans. We had a minor snafu regarding the bus, then an unfounded scare at the gare in Versailles, then the confusion in the bowels of the Gare du Nord, the missed train, the quest for new tickets, the wait for the train, and so forth. But once we got to Compiegne, it was was smooth sailing all the way...almost.

Next time: Pierrefonds

Timing

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 great aunt that he has never met. 

I knew exactly where I was going. In just under an hour, our train for Compiegne would depart from Gare du Nord on the other side of Paris. The M4 metro line connected Gare Montparnasse and Gare du Nord. That guy who calls himself internet or google something had told me that the ride would take about 20 minutes or so. We wandered around trying to make contact with M4. I knew M4 should be there. My sweetheart didn't know what was going on, but she did see the signs that showed M4 with an "X" through it. Someone had bumped off M4 before we got there. The line was closed for repairs for 3 months.

We had to take a more circuitous route, changing lines twice before we got there. The trip took nearly an hour. NEARLY AN HOUR. We had only minutes to spare before our train left the station. If you look, you can find many pictures of the stately facade of Gare du Nord on the internet.

What you probably won't see are the entrails of the place. We were indeed in the bowels of a beast (and now I'm getting an unfortunate mental image of Wheel of Fortune, the black market organ version: "Yes, Pat. I would like to buy a bowel, please.") Stairways, and video screens, and arrows left and right, and up and down, indicated everything except where we needed to go to catch our train. It was as frustrating as getting directions from Max Headroom in print.. It was perhaps more confusing than The Voynich Manuscript but just slightly less confusing than why people care about the Kardashians, or why anyone would intentionally listen to rap. Time continued to slip irretrievable away as we searched for our destination. 

Finally, I decided that the railways out of the city would have to be at ground level. When I had taken trains to Compiegne from this station some 30 years before, we had been up at the ground level. Up we went. 

We ascended like the departed souls of this life for the gates of eternal glory. St. Peter, or the guy in the information booth on ground level who looked like he was about 16 years old, informed us that Elvis had just left the building; Elvis being our train to Compiegne. "Missed it by that much."

Next time: A steely-eyed negotiation for replacement tickets. 

I should apologize for that buying a bowel remark, but I think we all know that's not going to happen.