My dinner with Andre (e.g. alone)

Ok, look: nobody move, ok? Let’ all just sit here for a moment, very still. Deep breaths. Maybe undo my belt a notch, okay? Don’t panic… I’m too weary to pose a threat. Can we just be quiet for a few minutes? Ugh. Deep breaths.

I’ve just gorged myself (go ahead and look it up… I did, and the definition is apt) at dinner here in Beaune. Two eggs, poached in beef stew and served on toast, followed by coq au vin with a potato side prepared by an angelic sous-chef, a cheese plate, and a dessert which I cannot describe except to say that it involved vanilla ice cream in all of its elemental forms (earth, wind, fire, water…).

And a bottle of really good red wine.

I thought I might need to bring left-over wine back to my room, so throughout dinner, I mulled over my limited French vocabulary for the necessary words, searching for a series of declarative, present-tense, and plural (so as to be gender-neutral) constructions which would not require me to roll an ‘r’ or risk projecting spittle into the face of my waitress. I came up with bupkis, so in the end, I finished the bottle. I must learn more French.

Okay… I’ve got to pace a bit. Wait here. Oh, lordy…

Alright. Belching helps. Sorry about that, but it does. I think taking my shoes off would also help, but I’m not up to it just now. Give me another few minutes.

I’ve checked into a 12th century Abby which was converted into a hotel sometime after the 12th century. The street out front is about seven feet wide, and the hotel is marked by a sign affixed high on one wall. There’s another sign on the street with an arrow pointing towards the opposite wall. Following the arrow on the street-level sign, one approaches an official-seeming door which is locked. There are some door-bells with French-sounding names posted… none of them involving the words “hotel”, “Abby” or “helpless-Americans-push-this-button”. One is well-advised to stagger back a few steps and turn two or three circles in the middle of the street.

On the opposite side of the street, under the wall-mounted sign, there is what appears to be an old carriage-house door – very wide, but exceedingly low – perhaps 5’ tall. The windows in the top of the door let onto what is obviously a restaurant or wine cellar. It would appear, at this point, that I am looking through the basement window. But where is the door?

Back-track a bit and peek around the corner. Have I arrived at the back of the hotel? And if so, why put two (contradicting) signs here? No, I’m in the right place. There must be another door. What would Harry Potter do? Touch the right cobblestones in a secret sequence?

Hmmm…

Ah! Look, there’s a door! a few more paces down the road (alley). There’s the name of the hotel on yet another sign, and voila…

Oops: the door is locked.

We’ll it’s late: 7:45pm. Perhaps they turn in early. Or maybe they’ve gone out of business.

No… wait… see? a big round button to push! A door-bell. And hear that? A vigorous and satisfying ring from somewhere up above. Now we’re getting somewhere! I see a stone, spiral stair-case through the window of this door… any minute now, some gentle, elderly hotel-keeper will descend these steps and welcome me. Any minute…. Hmmm… well, they’re stone steps, so you wouldn’t hear her / him coming. Any minute.

Hmmmm. No.

Okay. Tell you what: let’s go back to the car. We’ll drive out of town, turn-around, and try this again.

Suddenly the low door / window onto the cellar (5’ is an exaggeration—4’6”) opens and a petite, young Frenchwoman says, “Allo? Was that you ringing my bell?”

The sudden confluence of bawdy and flirtatious opening lines, and one’s truly limited ability to achieve any level of innuendo en francais is deeply frustrating. At this point, one is well-advised to stagger back a few steps and turn two or three circles in the middle of the street.

“Yes…or… no…umm… oui… c’est moi…je suis une peu perdu…”

Try not to whack your head on the door frame as you follow her down the steps, through the wondrously low door (3’10” at most).

Having finally found the front desk, the rest of my check-in process goes smoothly. Room for one (easier to find and cheaper than a room for four). Will I eat breakfast at the hotel tomorrow? No. Will I eat dinner there on either night? What do you recommend? Well, the food is good hear. Really? Yes. Okay – I’ll eat here tonight.

“I’ll show you to your room now”, she says. What’s the French word for bell, I wonder? Damnit… too many straight lines slipping past me.

We climb the same spiral stone staircase…my room is on the deuxesieme etage -- the second floor, though, in France, they begin counting at zero, so the second floor is really the third floor. And besides which, the front desk is in the cellar, so we’ve got to climb about seven stories. Or so it seems.

“No, I can manage the luggage”, I say, hoping that she cannot hear my wheezing.

"I’ll be down for dinner in fifteen or twenty minutes," I tell her…. Right after I do whatever debonair and sophisticated travelers do in their hotel rooms right after they climb to a room atop the bell-tower. Vomiting comes to mind.

I lay on the bed. I fiddle with the tv – same old story: two channels and nothing on. Boy, that stone-wall looks old. Nice desk over there. I’ll need to scounge a chair, though. Check out the bathroom. Lie on the bed.

Okay…. That should do it… I won’t look too pathetic if I head downstairs now.

Back to the front desk. The hotel-keeper-lady is also the matiré-de for the restaurant. And the waitress / wine-steward / bus-boy. She recommends the less expensive of two red wines I’m considering – that’s a good sign. I accept the recommendation, and we’re underway.

Two hours later, I can barely move.

I appropriate a chair I found in the hall outside my room. I had considered carrying one up from the dining room, but cooler heads prevailed. The desk is warped, and my laptop wobbles to and fro as I type.

Ugh. Give me a second to attempt the shoes. I’m beginning to see the wisdom in my son’s practice of never tying the laces of his sneakers. Note to self…

Not sure what tomorrow holds, but Beaune is the “capital” of the Burgundy region of France, so the forecast calls for red wine followed by an afternoon nap, and maybe a bit more wine later in the day.

But at this point, any thought of ever eating or drinking again makes me woozy.

Night, all.