mns  2006-01-19 22:11   

New Year was the best ever, and the most extraordinary. A bus ride to Waterloo, in freezing London weather, saw JC and I on to the Eurostar and before we knew it we were in France, armed with precise details on how to make our way in Friday evening’s rush hour from Gare du Nord to Gare de Montparnesse. Oh, I’m sure I must have impressed JC with my confidence in dealing with the Metro, and my surefooted leadership through one station to the next, but then, all of a sudden, my lack of French let me down.
No one, but no one, is as rude as the French. Now, I love them dearly, and I know some very nice French people, but when they put their mind to it, they certainly know how to make you feel about as welcome as a beetle in the bathtub.
I was not working on the assumption that anyone might speak English – I struggled womanfully with my schoolgirl French as I tried so hard to get someone to understand that we wanted to go to La Loupe, and indeed we had the tickets, prior-purchased in London. I even knew roughly from which platform the train should depart, but I was thrown by the fact that a) no trains were listed for post 16.30 (and it was now 18.30) and b) we apparently had missed our train. All I wanted was for someone to tell me when the next train to Le Mans would leave. ‘Ne sais pas’ was the standard answer and I was dismissed over and over by employees of the French Rail system. JC propped himself up against a pillar and smoked at least two packs of cigarettes as I tried to get someone to listen to me.
‘Mer,’ JC called an hour or so later. I looked around to find myself surrounded by soldiers with machine guns who were cordoning off the area in which I and I alone was standing.
It briefly occurred to me that maybe one of them would help me – clearly no one else would, but JC had different ideas and he dragged me out of the area behind the red and white ticker tape that was being strung up in a large triangle around me.
What was going on?
I have no idea. It was extraordinary. But then everything was extraordinary, unlikely and bizarre.
And then – JC, who had apparently being doing nothing for over an hour, pointed out that the name La Loupe had appeared on the platform I had been haunting hopefully, and we charged for the train.
If we had met rudeness in the Gare du Montparnesse, we now encountered the exact opposite. At first we sat in pitch darkness in a carriage of eight, with six other occupants who appeared to know each other intimately. But oddly as the train stopped at various stations, some got off, and others got on, and the conversation continued, maintaining the impression of a group of people who knew each other. This was clearly another side of France.
And they helped us!
It now transpired that the rail system had come to a complete halt earlier in the day because of snow and ice, and that we were in fact on the train we should have been on – just two hours later.
Meanwhile, as JC and I headed for Chartres, other members of our party were having their own problems. Lovely and delightful Anna Gudge and Mark Newton were lost in snow, fog and ice, in their car, somewhere in the north of France. Tacchi had finally made it home to La Loupe from Waterloo (Belgium – not London) and Jane was waiting patiently.
Eventually, we arrived and then began the most wonderful if surreal two days. We ate, we drank, we went to the market, we sipped espressos and cappuccinos in a café, we talked and we laughed, and we all saw the New Year in with Carolyn and Bernie Jones (old and valued friends).
Tacchi cooked a veritable feast – occasionally JC and I think through the courses and try to decide what we liked the best. Tacchi’s homemade liver pate was exquisite. JC is still raving about it. I loved the cheese soufflé, (so did he). I adored the apple sorbet (so did he). The coquilles Saint Jacques were wonderful – they melted in the mouth. The quail was to die for (and indeed it did). JC and I had prepared the spinach (epinards! See, my French is improving – that will really help me next time I’m stuck in a Parisian railway station). The fruit salad was perfect and the cheese kept us going into the early hours. Outside in the tree one of Jane’s amazing pottery owls watched over us as the night continued. One of these days I’m going to buy one of her paintings.
And then it was over and we were back in Paris making the homebound trip.
‘Did that really happen?’ JC asked. And I knew what he meant. It was the most extraordinary and fun two days imaginable.