Ronald M. Helmer

France

By: Ron M. Helmer

'Don't apologize, we'll take it,' I said. We passed through and lucked out in Vitoria because our transportation had a destination just to the north of the town. We weren't so lucky in San Sebastian and had to trudge all the way through the town to get back on the highway north to France. We finally reached Bayonne late in the afternoon and found a pension to stay in; then searched for a bistro to settle the dust of the day's travel with a few belts of French brandy. Later we found an inexpensive restaurant and ate the 'special' which turned out to be a delicious hearty ragout.

'I've come to a conclusion today, Bill,' I said.

'You mean you're going to die?' he said with a hopeful look.

'Don't get your hopes up! No, it means that I've come to the conclusion that the reason we aren't getting picked up by those speedy little cars heading straight for Paris is that we're too goddam big.'

'Too big?'

'Yeah! When they see two big buggers weighing over two hundred pounds each plus the rucksacks they don't even think twice.'

'Maybe that's why we keep getting picked up by farm trucks,'

'I think you've got it! I really think you've got it! Luckily for us the rain in Spain does fall mainly in the plain, otherwise we would have had a rather wet day yesterday. I'll give you my English-French vocabulary booklet and you can go on your own tomorrow. It'll probably take us four or five days to get to Paris, so we should go into the main American Express office there at noon every day until we meet up.'

The next morning I stayed out of sight down a side street until Bill picked up a ride after only ten minutes. Proves my theory, I thought as I walked out onto the highway roadside. I had further proof when a modern Renault stopped for me five minutes later.

'You say you're a Canadian but you had a British flag on your rucksack--how come?' my fluent benefactor asked. I felt embarrassed for the first time and was reluctant to tell him we didn't have a flag!

'I guess that's because we've been ass-kissing Great Britain for so long now that we just take it for granted that their flag is our flag, too.' My companion merely shook his head in wonderment.

'Your English is remarkably fluent,' I said.

'Thank you,' he said 'although I suppose it figures--I spent the better part of two years in the State of Washington when I was younger.'

'Really? What took you there?'

'I was studying 'apple husbandry'. My family owns a large orchard in the Rhone north of Lyon and I was sent over to study their methods. My name is Philippe de Beaubien Baillencourt but you can call me Phil!' He extended his hand.

'Ron Helmer,' I said, taking his hand, aware of the terse brevity of my name. 'My home is in Calgary, not far north of where you were studying.'

'Aah, Calgary, of course I've heard of it --the Calgary Stampede, I'd always hoped to see it!'

'Perhaps you will some day,' I said.

'Perhaps' he said. 'In the meantime, I'd like very much to show you around my orchard'.

'Sounds good to me,'

Philippe made several lengthy stops en route to talk to a variety of mechanical equipment and agricultural chemical suppliers. We stopped for a quick glass of wine and a sandwich before we reached Lyon.

'How long have you been in the orchard business,' I asked him when we were back on the road.

'All my life, I guess; my great grandfather moved over from the Pau district and bought forty acres over a hundred years ago. He worked hard and gradually expanded; now the orchard comprises about two hundred acres. As the oldest son of two oldest sons I naturally inherited the lot. I guarantee it's a full-time job.'

'I believe you!' I said. It was late in the afternoon before we turned off the road and headed into the 'orchard'. There was a spacious clearing surrounded by large storage buildings and work shops. The north side of the clearing was dominated by a large three-story fieldstone building that was obviously the family residence. We entered through a side door and found ourselves in a roomy kitchen.

'This is my wife, Michelle,' he said, approaching a woman of medium height with dark hair and large brown eyes. They hugged and kissed fondly. 'I've brought you a red-haired traveller from Western Canada,' he said. She smiled and reached forward to shake hands. There followed a rapid-fire conversation in French.

'Are you hungry enough to eat ham and potatoes?' he said.

'Ask me a difficult question,' I said with a smile.

'Okay,' he replied, 'are you thirsty enough to try a drink of our home-made apple brandy?'

'Same answer,' I said. Philippe went to a sideboard and poured a couple of brandy glasses from a decanter.

'This isn't Calvados like our brothers in Normandy make but I think we're getting closer,' he said. I took a sip and felt the liquid fire slip down my throat and settle in my stomach; it nearly brought tears to my eyes for a couple of reasons.

'What do you think?' he said.

'Pure magic!' I replied. 'this ain't no apple cider, friend.'

'Glad you like it,' he said, bringing the decanter over and setting it on the coffee table next to me. I was already experiencing a warm glow from the brandy but was unable to resist reaching for the decanter and 'touching it up.'

'You probably wonder why it doesn't have the colour of Calvados; in this country it's called 'eau de vie' or 'marc'. In America it might be called 'white lightning'! They're all seventy percent alcohol. Both Cognac and Armagnac start out that way but get their colour from years of aging in charred casks.'

Meanwhile, Michelle was setting the table for three and brought dishes with hot cooked ham and boiled potatoes just as I finished my aperitif.

'I expect you can force down a drop of chilled Sancerre with our humble meal,' Philippe said with a smile.

'I think I may be in heaven!' I said.

'Bon santé,' he said lifting his glass. After we had devoured our first few mouthfuls of food we felt less ravenous and more conversational.

'I may as well tell you now that I know virtually zilch about apple growing,' I said. 'I grew up thinking that apples came in wooden boxes wrapped in white paper wrappers. Our mother always gave us an apple when we came home hungry after school. The trouble was that the routine never varied, winter or summer; I can remember standing outside in the winter when it was thirty below zero Fahrenheit with apple juice frozen to our faces.'

'That was a bit extreme, all right, although any apple tastes better when it's slightly chilled of course. Well, I'm afraid I won't be able get you up to speed in the time we have, but I can give you a short course. For starters, I'm willing to bet that you didn't know that apples are directly descended from the rose.'

'That is a revelation to me,' I said.

'You'll probably not be too surprised to know that little Canadian boys with frozen faces are not the only ones interested in eating our apples.'

'I'm not sure I get your meaning,'

'Well, the main reason we needed to enlarge our operation was to sustain the increasing cost of spraying equipment. You may have noticed that I stopped at a couple of equipment agents yesterday to check on the latest developments. My other stops were at chemical dealers to discuss pesticides---do you know anything about chemical pesticides?'

'I have a degree in Chemical Engineering, will that do?' I replied, grinning

'Oops! sorry I never asked sooner,'

'I guess I'm just not as stupid as I'm 'cabbage-looking', I said with a smile.

'So much for the chemistry lesson, then,' he said apologetically. 'At any rate, it seems that every year we have to buy another pesticide to deal with them,'

'And every year the prices increase,'

'Amen, we have apple scab, mildew, and fire blight as diseases and codling moths, apple maggots, leaf rollers, aphids, leaf hoppers, mites and San Jose scale and on and on.'

'Good Lord, I'm surprised we've got apples to eat at all!'

'That isn't all--meadow and pine mice and rabbits all have to be controlled, too.'

It was only nine o'clock but I had to remember that being an orchardman was not that much different from being a farmer and assumed he would be an early riser.

'Come on, I'll show you your bedroom,' he said, rising from the table. It was only nine o'clock but I had to remember that being an orchardman was not that much different from being a farmer and assumed he would be an early riser. I followed him from the kichen and up a staircase to the second story. He opened a door to what I thought was the master bedroom and assumed he was just stopping for an extra blanket but to my surprise he turned to me and smiled. 'Do you think you'll be comfortable here?'

I was astonished. 'This looks like the master bedroom!' I exclaimed. 'Are you sure you want me to sleep here?'

'I want you to sleep here, sweet dreams!' he said and left the room, closing the door behind him. The bedroom was dominated by a huge double four-poster bed complete with overhead canopy. It was complete in every respect including an attached bathroom. I was still sleeping like a baby when he came in and shook me awake at nine the next morning.

'If you grab a quick bite of breakfast we'll have time to take a tour round the orchard before lunch.' I washed my face and dressed hastily before going down to the kitchen where Michelle was waiting with eggs, home fries and thick rashers of bacon. I had a couple of cups of strong black coffee. Her English and my French were both minimal so we did a lot of grinning and smiling instead.

Philippe and I drove through the orchard in a small pickup truck as he pointed out the different features of his property. His son Richard sat between us. By the time we had finished two hours of driving and walking I had learned about 'cloning' and 'budding', clean culture and permanent grass or sod systems, 'scions' and seedling root stocks.

'All of the trees in this section seem to be much smaller than the trees in other sections,' I said.

'There's a good reason for that,' Philippe said, 'we've found that that short uniform tree heights facilitate spraying and harvesting.'

It was near noon and we headed back to the main house. I saw that while we were away a long table had been moved into the yard a few feet from the house and covered with a white linen cloth. 'We'll be having lunch with all of the workers and their wives since today is Sunday. If you want to go and wash up we should be all set when you come down.'

When I returned everyone was seated at the table with the exception of four of the women who were scuttling back and forth from the kitchen placing large dishes of cooked vegetables on the table. Philippe was seated at the head of the table and waved me to an empty seat next to him; his son was seated next to him on the other side. Finally all the women were seated except for Michelle, and there was a vacant chair for her at the opposite end of the table from Philippe. There was a moment of silence before she appeared at the kitchen door carrying a large platter on which rested, of all things, a roast suckling pig! She carried it to the head of the table amongst 'ooh's and 'aah's of pleasurable anticipation and set it in front of her husband. As soon as she had returned to her place and was seated, all bowed their heads and Philippe said a few words of grace. He then reached for his steel and and ceremoniously whetted his carving knife. I wondered if he would remove the small red pickled apple in the pig's mouth and the green garland around its neck. He removed the green garland and left the red apple. I was making mental notes since it was my ambition to someday roast a suckling pig.

I watched intently as he first cut along the spine, cracking the tender backbone. Then he carefully cut off each of the legs and set them aside. He next cut the ribs two to a diner, plus some skin and meat from the ham and shoulder for each serving and passed them down the table. He seemed to know which of his family and employees preferred the favoured cuts from the head, some the ears, others jowls and so on. Meanwhile, the diners had piled their plates with mashed potatoes, carrots, roast apple slices and pork gravy.

The vegetables were passed to the head of the table in succession until everyone was miraculously provided with their preferred item of delicious food. I had two ribs together with some luscious pieces of treasured jowl meat.

'Bon appètit! said Philippe to me, smiling as he poured me a glass of pale yellow wine. 'It's Vouvray' he said, 'you'll like it, I guarantee!'

The meal lasted about an hour and Philippe spent much of his time answering the curious questions his employees asked about me. I was not particularly embarrassed and in fact felt mildly pleased about all of the interested attention I was receiving. Finally, the man I assumed was the foreman rose, thanked Philippe and his wife, nodded to the others, and walked off toward one of the machine sheds. Others soon followed, the ladies began to gather up the plates and cutlery and the table was rapidly vacated.

'Siesta time,' Philippe said. 'I trust you can find your own way upstairs by now.'

'Trust me!' I said, and headed for the upstairs room. I had eaten heavily and was sound asleep soon after I had put my head down. I slept dreamlessly until I heard tapping on the bedroom door and Philippe entered.

'Sorry to disturb you,' he said, 'but we're due over at our friend's place for dinner in half an hour.'

'Dinner?' I exclaimed. 'I thought we just finished eating dinner! What time is it, anyway?'

'It's six thirty,' Philippe said. 'I'm sorry, but you were sleeping so soundly we didn't have the heart to waken you!'

'Good Lord, I must have been asleep for five hours,' I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

'Don't worry about your clothes, it's all very informal.' he said.

I took him at his word and he, Michelle and I were soon belted into his car driving to his friends' residence about twenty minutes away. We stopped in front of a large mansard house situated in a well-kept yard. A stocky, red-faced man who turned out to be the host, walked over from a shaded patio at the side of the house and welcomed us. He shook hands with Philippe and hugged and kissed Michelle before turning to me.

'I'm Jean-Jacques Montigny' he said, 'and you must be Ron, our Canadian visitor. Welcome to our home!' he added amiably.

'Thank you, Jean-Jacques,' I said, 'and thank you for inviting me to your home,'

'You'll always be welcome,' he said, 'and please just call me John!' He led us over to the patio and I was introduced to his wife, Marie, and another couple whose name I can't remember. I was offered a drink of whatever I wanted but opted for the chilled Sancerre that seemed to be 'de rigeur'. There was a copious supply of various appetizers but I have never have been keen on what I refer to as 'de-appetizers' so politely abjured the hostess's offerings.

I was relieved when it appeared that the dinner was not going to be heavy and took a sensible helping from a huge bowl of green salad with strips of smoked ham and a rich cream dressing tasting of garlic. As if on cue, a servant appeared carrying a long china platter on what turned out to be a galantine of duck which Michelle told me had been soaked in port and was too marvellous to be missed. I had a slice; it was magnificent as Michelle had claimed and once again redolent of garlic. Meanwhile, Jean-Jacques had been busy keeping my wine glass topped up. I was getting inebriated and no longer responsible for my decisions.

Just as everyone was finishing the galantine, Marie rose from the table and entered the kitchen. Imagine my astonishment when she reappeared carrying a large wooden platter on which was a big piece of something obscured by a layer of puff pastry; it turned out to be a boned leg of lamb stuffed with kidneys, mushrooms, truffles and foie gras and flavored with Armagnac. I could smell the strong bouquet of garlic added.

In my wine-addled condition and in spite of my incredible burst of over-eating I had no difficulty convincing myself that it would be rude to refuse to partake of this magnificent 'piece de resistance'. I had a large slice! Some time later I was eructating back in the master bedroom at Philippe's home. Look that word up in the dictionary before you condemn me! We had returned to the house at the sensible hour of ten thirty and I had gone upstairs to the bedroom shortly thereafter. After tossing about restlessly for close to two hours I had finally switched on the bedside lamp and was now sitting on the side of the bed.

My belly was distended like that of woman about to give birth to an overweight child. Was it possible that the potent odour of second-hand garlic could have a self-perpetuating power and that my malodorous belching would continue throughout the night? The room was definitely redolent of the fine aroma of the dishes I had previously consumed. The incredible eruptions subsided in about three quarters of an hour, my belly had returned to something resembling its normal state and I was once more able to lie down and drowse off.

I awakened the next morning with a mild hangover and a faint aroma of garlic. Michelle was disappointed when I told her that coffee was really all I wanted. Both she and Philippe continued to insist that they were only too happy to have me stay on as long as I wished. I actually believe that they were sincere.

'You know what the Japanese say about house guests,' I said to Philippe. 'They say house guests are are like fish; after six days they both begin to smell!' When he translated for Michelle she laughed gaily and responded in French.

'Then stay five days!' she said, and laughed again. I was touched by their hospitality but explained that Bill would be concerned if I didn't arrive within another few days. I must admit that I hadn't spent much time worrying about Bill during the past weekend; I suppose I should have felt guilty. As a matter of fact, I had wondered about Bill every time I encountered someone who was fluent in English and wondered if he had continued to struggle trying to communicate with Frenchmen who spoke no English.

Philippe and Michelle finally relented and accepted the fact that I was moving on. A mutual fondness had developed among us in the short time we had been together so there was much hugging and kissing in the kitchen before I was able to shoulder my rucksack and move through the kitchen door. I had made memories in a little over two days that would stay with me for years.

Incredibly, I had walked only about one hundred yards down the highway and seated myself on my rucksack when a late-model car pulled over and waited for me to grab my pack and hurry up to him.

'Where are you headed? the driver asked in virtually impeccable English! 'Paris, actually,' I said, but I couldn't suppress my laughter.

'You find something amusing?' the driver asked, slightly perplexed. When I explained the irony of my being picked up by English-speaking drivers in spite of being able to get by in French he was equally amused.

'You say your buddy speaks no French at all?'

'Afraid not,' I said, 'I gave him my French-English vocabulary booklet but I'm not sure it well help much.'

'Probably won't help at all,' he chuckled. 'By the time he finds the word he's looking for everybody will have lost interest and wandered off.'

'My God! What a frustrating prospect!' I said, but I was still amused.

His name was Etienne Lamoreux and he was returning from a sales conference in St. Etienne. 'I do sales for a Paris-based greeting card company,' he said. 'Normally I don't get this far south.'

'Do you mind if I ask where you learned to speak English so fluently?' I enquired.

'Not at all,' he said, 'I was born in the United States and lived there until I was ten years old. My mother was homesick for Paris so we returned and I've been here ever since. Incidentally, my name is Etienne but you can just call me 'Etch'.

'So you've never been back to the States, then?'

'Nope, not for twenty years!'

'So you toughed out the war here,' I said.

'It wasn't that tough...I minded my own business and just carried on. Food was not abundant by any means but we got by. You're probably curious about the Resistance; well, they never aproached me and I never volunteered. My American passport probably kept me out of the army. Speaking of food, there's a little auberge a few miles on where they serve the best food in all of my territory. It'll be around noon when we get there and I thought we'd stop for a bite.'

'Sounds okay to me; you're the native around here!' At Avallon we pulled off in front of a small unobtrusive building that was obviously Etienne's target. I knew we were in a French restaurant the moment we walked through the doorway; a marvellous odour of herbs and cooked foods assailed my nostrils. There were about a dozen square tables scattered around the room each with a red and white checkered cover cloth and four straight-backed wooden chairs. There were Napoleonic engravings on the walls. A short, stout gray-haired woman wearing a white apron came forward and hugged and kissed Etienne, before leading us to what was presumably his favourite table against the far wall. We were early for lunch and there were only four or five tables occupied. Once we were seated Etienne made the introductions. 'Enchanté, monsieur!' Madame Duparge said, with a slight bow.

'The food is so good here that I don't normally bother looking at a menu,' Etienne said. 'I just go with the 'Special of the Day'. He carried on a rapid-fire conversation with the proprietress for a few moments before she hurried away.

'What is the 'Special' today,' I asked.

'Civet of Hare' he replied. Good Lord! I thought; the hare was related to the rabbit and would probably be tasty. The 'civet' part baffled me though; I knew the civet was a smelly African relative of the cat family. If Bill had been there I was convinced that he would have seriously considered leaving the restaurant immediately. And the worst was yet to come.

'I've ordered a bottle of wine,' Etienne said. 'After all, we are in the heart of the wine country so I took the liberty of asking Madame to bring us a bottle of Aloxe-Corton; I hope you don't mind,' he said with a puckish smile.

'Look at this face,' I said, 'do I look upset?'

The hare, large chunks on hot plates arrived, covered with a thick, dark brown gravy and garnished with crunchy croutons and parsley. I found out later that the gravy was comprised of at least fifty percent of the hare's blood, another detail that would have pleased Bill. But it was magnificent and confirmed all of the consistent praise of French sauces. We were sipping the last of the wine when Etienne turned to me and asked if I had enjoyed it.

'Absolutely magnificent!' I replied. 'Fabulous in every respect!'

'Good,' he said. 'Could I interest you in a bit of cheese?'

'Believe it or not, I think the most flavourful of all cheeses is Limburger; it's absolutely delicious. The problem, as you know, is that as soon as you open a package of it everyone else tends to leave the room. As a more sociable choice I guess I would favour a nice drippy Brie.'

'They have a very interesting cheese here that I think you'd find interesting; are you up to it?'

'Of course!' I said. Etienne signalled Madame Duparge and they had a quick conversation, presumably about the cheese. She departed with a mysterious chuckle.

She returned with a plate carrying a wedge of whitish cheese and a pile of biscuits and set it on the table between us. It could have been a Gruyere or a Bel Paese but I couldn't be sure. There were still bits of straw clinging to it from wherever it had been stored. I leaned over closer to it and saw that it was covered by a thin translucent covering of liquid. There were tiny white things that looked like quarter inch bits of vermicelli in it; and they were moving!

'What the hell are those?' I exclaimed. Etienne leaned over and examined the cheese, then smiled.

'I shouldn't worry about those,' he said patronizingly, 'we call them milk worms, most cheeses of this kind have them.' So saying he scooped a generous portion off the wedge with his fork and calmly began to mash it together with butter. The worms disappeared into the melange. He transferred the mixture to a biscuit and popped it into his mouth. 'Mmm, delicious,' he said. Was he deliberately testing me? I wondered.

I thought momentarily of what a card I could be in the future whenever I told someone I was going fishing. 'Have you got worms?' they would say. 'Yeah, but I'm going fishing anyway!' Ha, ha! No! that wouldn't work! At any rate, I wasn't about to 'chicken out' at a time like this so I duplicated Etienne's procedure and mashed up a large gob of cheese, worms and butter, placed it on a cracker and popped it into my mouth. We continued in this way until we had finished all of the worms, er, cheese. Little did I know that a year later in New Zealand I would be devouring wood-eating grubs called 'huhu bugs' that were many times larger than the 'milk worms' of France.

Etienne paid the bill, ignoring my feeble protestations and we headed for the door. Madame Duparge caught up with us there and she and Etienne once again exchanged hugs and kisses and babbled speedily in French.

'Thank you again,' I said as we pulled on to the main road. 'That was definitely very interesting.'

'You're welcome,' Etienne said with an enigmatic smile. I wondered long afterward if he was amused primarily because of the look he would see on my face as each of the various dishes appeared. I never did learn the name of the cheese... apparently there are more than four hundred different types of cheese made in France alone so your guess is as good as mine.

The heavy lunch and the wine had their predictable effect and I had dozed off not long after we had passed through Auxerre. It was late afternoon before we reached Paris and Etienne explained that he could miss the worst of the traffic if I wouldn't mind having him drop me off at Versailles.

'I can drop you off quite close to a Subway station,' he added.

'Sounds like as good a place as any to 'surrender' my seat,' I said with incredible wit. Following the traditional 'thank you's' and hand shakes and 'good luck' wishes I shouldered my rucksack and was on my own once again. I walked a couple of blocks until I found the Metro then took the train as far as Montparnasse. I wandered straight north from there until I reached the Seine; there were bridges in front of me, bridges to the left of me and bridges to the right of me. I walked across the one in front of me and ended up at the Place Concorde. En route I had seen a number of interesting Left Bank restaurants but passed them by because I still wasn't hungry after my huge noon meal. The hotels I had seen were out of my intended price range. I sat down on a bench and contemplated my options. If Bill had already made it to Paris, which I considered to be highly likely, it would be too late to look for him at the American Express. I finally decided to backtrack a few blocks to a bar and ponder the world's problems over a glass or two of wine.

The bistro I chose had soft chairs next to tables along one wall and an attentive waiter who came back with a half litre of dry red house wine and a dish of olives. I sat sipping and daydreaming as the bistro slowly began to get busier. I reminisced about the marvellous hospitality of the people of southern France and marvelled again at the irony of my being hosted by Frenchmen who were fluent in English, or its approximate equivalent, 'Canadianese', like, ya know, eh?

I wondered if Bill, completely wanting in the 'lingua franca' had been as fortunate as I. It was extremely doubtful. I speculated that he was spending more than an hour a day at the American Express office just for the opportunity to speak his native language to anyone who was prepared to listen.

By the time I had finished with my reminiscent pleasantries it was dark outside and I had just about finished my second half litre of wine. The bistro had filled with patrons, many of whom had ordered the 'speciality' of the day, 'beef ragout' which was written with white chalk on a blackboard at the front of the bistro. The combination of drinking such a quantity of wine together with the tempting redolence of the day's 'speciality' wafting toward me from neighboring tables brought my appetite back with a vengeance. I waved the waiter over and ordered a dish of the speciality.

'Voulez vous un autre demi, aussi?' he enquired. I thought for a moment. 'What the hell, I might as well be drunk as the way I am,' was my conclusion.

'Oui, un autre mas, por favor, merci!' I said, mixing and mangling my French and Spanish words egregiously. Once the waiter had overcome his astonishment he hurried off with the order.

The ragout was flavourful and filling and I tarried over the rest of my third flagon of wine until it was well past nine o'clock so I paid my check and left the restaurant. It was comfortably cool as I retraced my steps north toward the river and I was gradually more and more inclined to sleep in the open air. I mistakenly assumed that the heavy automobile traffic on the Champs Èlysèes would diminish to a trickle after midnight. I crawled into my sleeping bag and drowsed off waiting for the expected decline in traffic noise. I had obviously miscalculated the French obsession with motor car speed.

Sometime around midnight I began to hear the sound of high-powered motors revving up, followed by the screech of rubber on concrete. Migawd! are they drag-racing out there? Any expectations I had for the perpetrators to lose interest and disperse within an hour or so were unfulfilled and the Champs Èlysèes continued to fulfil the role of a makeshift drag strip until daylight. I finally got up in groggy, sleepless disgust and walked over to a nearby fountain where I splashed water on my face in a mainly fruitless attempt to restore some freshness to my tired body.

I hiked up my rucksack, crossed the river again and walked east until I was in the vicinity of Gare D'Austerlitz where I spotted a pension with beds available. I was so tired by this time that I was just about ready to pay anything for a bed. Remember I said 'just about'. I rang the bell and the door was opened by a stern-faced woman who informed me that she indeed had a room available but since it was not yet noon I would have to pay for the three or four hours remaining in the present day plus the full rent for the following day. Aah, I thought, I really am in Paris; all they said about Parisians is true, after all! I told her that I would leave before nine o'clock the next morning and it was not yet nine o'clock on this day, therefore I would be spending less than one full day in the room. One day of rent would therefore be adequate!

'Non, monsieur, ce no est-ce possible!' she said, or words to that effect. She was adamant. But so was I!

'Do you speak English, madame?' I said. She shook her head.

'Not a word?' Again she shook her head.

'Good, then go fuck yourself,' I said with a smile and headed off down the street to the sound of a slamming door. Maybe she did understand a few words! I decided that it would take me at least an hour to find the American Express office. I could sleep there and hope that Bill would show up.

I can't remember where the Amex office was but I found it about quarter past eleven. I told one of the young ladies what my mission was and she directed me upstairs to a mezzanine floor where I saw a couple of long benches filled with obvious 'waitees'. It looked like a hospital emergency waiting room. I found a space to sit between a bored-looking lady and a gray-haired man who appeared to be in his sixties.

'You waiting to meet someone?' I asked.

'Yup,' he replied in a broad Texas accent.

'Me too,' I said, closing my eyes. I must have dropped off almost as soon as my eyes were closed and have no idea how long I was 'out of it'. My next recollection was of the elderly gentleman gently pushing me away from his shoulder. Apparently I had nodded off and leaned slowly to the left until I was resting on the old gentleman's shoulder, sound asleep.

'I'm terribly sorry,' I said as I regained consciousness, 'I must have nodded off!'

'That you did, son, that you did,' he said, 'but don't you worry about it, it's okay! You must be some kinda tired, it looks like!'

'I've just hitchhiked from North Africa; it took the better part of five days,' I said. I didn't bother to tell him of the magnificent days of wine and garlic. Ten minutes later he was gently shoving my head off his shoulder again. He may have started to think he had a 'queer' on his hands. I was just starting to nod off again when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Bill!

'And where the hell have you been, if I may ask,' he said with a smile.

'Actually, I've recently been in the Land of Nod, just ask this nice gentleman sitting next to me. How long have you been in Paris, anyway?'

'Two days now, coming here every day at noon looking for you. Where the hell have you been for so long?'

'Well, I may as well tell you now since you'll find out eventually. I stopped by a castle one day for a drink of water and was taken captive by about a dozen beautiful nymphomaniacs, poor things. I was only able to escape by wearing them down one by one and managing to flee while they were all sleeping it off.' There was a snort of laughter from the gentleman next to me.

'Yes, well that's all quite believable; now let's go to a nearby bistro and you can let that lady over there have a place to sit down.'

'Splendid idea,' I said, 'Now just leave me gather up my rucksack and we'll leave these premises.' I turned to the gray-haired gentleman. 'Thanks for the use of your shoulder from time to time.' I said.

'No problem, any time!' he said with a smile.

Sitting face to face in a booth at the nearest bar with a carafe of wine on the table between us, Bill and I exchanged details of our adventures during the previous week.

'After getting through Bordeaux I shot up to Paris like shit through a goose. Unlike you I never got a ride from anyone who could speak English. After Bordeaux a trucker picked me up and I rode with him as far as Poitiers. The next day it was the same drill as far as Orleans, and the third day right to the outskirts of Paris. The only way I could tell my location was by reading the roadsigns we passed. It really didn't matter 'bugger all' since I didn't have a map anyway. I found a cheap hostel over on the island at Cité Université and I've spent most of the time since sitting on my bum over there.'

I told him in more detail of the incredible hospitality of the southern French and my adventures with wine and food resulting from Philippe and Etienne and could see the wistful look in his face as he thought what it would have been like if I'd gone out on the highway first at Bayonne. I also told him of my forgetful encounter with the woman at the Parisian pension.

'French friendliness and generosity seems to last only as far as the outskirts of Paris; I've noticed that too,' Bill agreed.

'Do you think they'll be able to fit me in at the hostel where you're staying?'

'It shouldn't be a problem, they're not that busy. When do think you want to pull out of this town?'

'Well, as you know, we could spend several years here quite happily, but I think we're going to have to make a move soon if we want to guarantee being in London in time for the Big Fornication.'

'You mean the Coronation!'

'Right! Didn't I say that?'

We bunked down that night at the hostel, remarkably undisturbed by 'things that go bite in the night'.

'Even though we're not members of the faith it would be a shame not to visit 'Our Lady's Cathedral', since we're so close. Of course we won't even have to genuflect!'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Notre Dame Cathedral, silly! It's only about a five minute walk from here.' So we checked our rucksacks with the lady at the front desk and walked over to the cathedral. We didn't have to pay an admission fee but once we were inside there were ample opportunities to make 'donations' to the organization.

'So who was this 'Dame' anyways?' Bill said.

'Don't be obtuse,' I said sarcastically.

'I was only kidding,' Bill complained.

'I don't think we have time to do 'The Stations of the Cross' but we can ogle the 'treasures' if you like'. The 'treasures' were comprised of piles of gem-encrusted gold plates, daggers, cups, and any other article that could conceivably be gem-encrusted. It was enclosed by walls of heavy wire so it was strictly a 'look but don't touch' display, nevertheless reminiscent of the treasure Old Billy had squirreled away in the cave in Robert Louis Stevenson's 'Treasure Island'.

'They don't exactly look 'hard up' Bill observed. 'They must make a huge markup on those votive candles.'

'Let's get out of here,' I said. 'You're becoming obtuse again and you risk offending my religiosity!'

'Har, har!' he responded cruelly.

A lady at the American Express had given us directions for the best way to get out of town, so we walked over to the nearest Underground Station and headed for Gare du Nord. We got off at Groslay station and walked the short distance over to the N1 highway. The traffic was comprised mainly of trucks and we only thumbed for about ten minutes before we were picked up. The truck was empty but obviously local and we had to bail out at Beauvais. There was a lot of traffic however and we didn't have a worry about getting another lift.

'I've just had this brilliant rush of shit to my brain,' I said to Bill.

'Very unusual,' he said.

'You see that service station just down the road a piece where some of the truckers are having lunch?'

He squinted his eyes and said 'Yup, I can see it---so what?'

'Well, the way I figure it some of those trucks are English and are 'deadheading' home after dropping off their load in Paris. We go over and check the empty ones for both French and English license plates and 'Bob's your Uncle'!'

'Very clever, I'm forced to admit.'

'Don't strain yourself,' I said. 'Let's go!' We found three trucks that met the requirements and dropped our rucksacks and sat on them, positioned so we could watch all three vehicles. Eventually a trucker came out and opened the door of his truck near Bill, who got up and made an eloquent appeal.

'Sorry mate, no riders allowed--company rules.' I had the same response when the next driver came out but we got lucky the third time around.

'Sure, throw your gear in and hop up,' said a stocky Scot. 'You'll have to bail out when we get to the channel, of course.'

'No problem,' I said gleefully, 'no problem at all!' It was a canvas-roofed truck and we positioned ourselves on either side next to the back gate. I felt like the 'Mugwump' we used to laugh about as kids. The 'Mugwump' was a bird that flew backwards---it never knew where it was going but it always knew where it had been! As we passed through each town along the road I would read from the highway signs where we had just been. Grandvilliers, Airaines, Abbeville all passed in order.

'Sorry I had to yank you out of Paris so quickly,' I said, 'but I had no idea how long it might take to get back to London.'

'Don't worry about it,' he said, 'I can always say I've been to Paris!'

'I suppose you had a chance to stroll over to the Eiffel Tower,'

'Actually I did, but I kept putting it off for one reason or another.'

'I know, you were afraid you might be mistaken for Harry Lime.'

'Something like that, I guess.'

'So what about the Arc de Triomphe?'

'I viewed that from a distance, same as the Eiffel Tower!'

'I'll assume you never went to the opera and Montmartre ain't what it used to be; what did you think of 'Winged Victory'?'

'Winged Victory?'

'At the Louvre, dummy! Don't tell me you didn't try to visit the Louvre!'

'Nah! When one of the girls at the hostel told me how big it was I decided the Prado in Madrid was all the museum I could take in one year. I remembered your admonition about museums. What makes you so knowledgeable about Paris anyhow?'

'This travel brochure I've got here on my knee; I got it from the girl at American Express!'

'Smartass!' he said indignantly.

We arrived at Calais in the late afternoon and when the trucker came back to say 'Adios' we thanked him profusely and walked over to the ferry booking office and managed to get on board a ferry within half an hour. The ferry ride to Dover and the train trip to Liverpool Street were both uneventful. As soon as we had cleared the gate at the train station Bill headed for the bank of telephones and phoned through to his old buddy he had worked with and boarded with when he worked at Simpson's. He came back with a broad smile on his face. 'We're all fixed up for bed and breakfast at Fred and Mary's place!' he said.

'Good work!' I said, 'how much?'

'How much what?'

'How much are they going to charge?'

Bill coloured, 'Oh, for chrissake, don't be such a goddam tightwad for a change; we never even discussed 'how much'!' I was, in fact, embarrassed for having asked the question and subsided into silence. I realized I had been programmed for niggardliness in Europe and would have to make an effort to change my habits.

— The End —