This morning felt good. A whole day of not riding stretched out in front of us. I wanted to roll it up slowly and give it a big hug before it got too old. We did have a plan though. The plan was to have a long, languorous Sunday lunch. To that end perhaps, Chris refused breakfast. I like morning coffee too much so I sat under the glass canopy over the small hotel courtyard, munching croissants and confiture washing them down with the black stuff. Chris, although otherwise well travelled, had declared himself to be unfamiliar with France. He has spent some time passing through the country on the way to somewhere else and has also skied in the French Alps. His impressions, on taking a closer look at la France Profonde, were on the whole very favourable. He enjoyed the countryside, seemed to like the people we met, thought accommodation was good value and, of course, loved the food. Except the breakfasts. He found it difficult to understand how you could pay €15 for a 3 course dinner and then €4 or €5 for bread and jam. I see his point, but I also see bread and jam as a good source of necessary carbohydrate for what comes after. The more expensive establishments offer buffet style breakfasts with a greater variety of choice. That's what Chris likes on the am. side of the day. I am quite content to swallow sweet black coffee with the carbo-cocktail. In any case, in the early morning, I find choice almost totally bewildering.

After five days of ploughing the same furrow, so to speak, today Chris and I set off to explore the city independently, arranging to meet back at the hotel at luncthime. I wandered off in the direction of the railway station, to have a look at the more routine parts of town, during the course of which peregrinations I discovered la Brasserie de la Gare . and its tempting Sunday lunch menu. I strolled back through the centre as far as the canalised section of the river, casting my eye over the cathedral and the Hôtel de la Préfecture [County Hall]. Troyes is the capital of the department of Aube (10), another river. I drank a couple of beers in a North-African owned bar, in which everybody shook hands with everyone else except me, who no-one knew, then back to the hotel, to meet Chris.

We agreed to try la Brasserie de la Gare on my recommendation and made for the railway station. It was now hot enough to avoid the sunny side of the street. The restaurant, spacious, with interior glass partitions and indoor plants was busy with families and friends in an archetypically French way. First courses were from a buffet of salads and cold meats. We both chose rabbit in cider sauce for our main course, then a pudding buffet. We took our time, at the same time, swallowing several beakers of the warm south. As we left, Chris told me he planned to take a look at the cathedral. 'You've seen it,' I said 'At least from the outside.' He almost said, 'You mean that enormous gothic parish church with all that stone tracery, those gargoyles and carvings, near the Algerian grocery store that sells cold beer. That's not the Cathedral.' 'You're joking.' I said . ' No I'm not, the Cathedral is on the other side of the river further down. There's a Modern Art Gallery next to it, I'm going to look at that too.'

Heart

1

Comment

0

Link

Log in to comment or reply

Chris and I split up again. I went to find the internet café to send a narrative e-mail home. I paid for half an hour and failed to access my e-mail address, decided I was a little too warmed by those southern beakers and set off the for the real Cathedral and the Modern Art Gallery. I saw all of the art gallery and as a result missed seeing the inside of this new Gothic monster, whose doors were closed when we stepped back into the heat of the late afternoon. The next thing now, as my remorselessly closing eyelids were telling me was to return to the hotel, to sleep off lunch.

I woke up around 8pm, showered, ready to go out again. The old city centre was much quieter this Sunday evening and we settled on a Pizza restaurant. We drank more wine and went back to the hotel. Having slept so soundly for so long in the late afternoon, I wasn't ready for bed and so made for the street again, in search of more narcotic beer. It was late, given the Sunday night torpor that had descended on Troyes, around 11-30. There was no-one on the street, but I soon found a bar that was both open and apparently quite lively. I walked past the outside tables, strode inside and pulled up a bar- stool. I ordered a beer and soon began to suspect that the young men in tight T-shirts and short shorts were not about to wrap themselves around the young women in tight leather trousers, who were sitting outside. Ah well, at least they were open. Truth to tell, I was quite warmly received [must have been the new v. short haircut] . In fact, one guy, possibly in his early thirties, began to chat me up. Pas comme les autres. He was deaf and dumb.. How, you may ask, could this be? We wrote each other little notes: 'Comment t'appelles- tu? ' 'Michel. Et toi' 'Christophe. Es-tu gay?' 'Non, j'aime bien les femmes' 'C'est gay ici' 'C'est évident.' We used up a few more sheets of his notepad and when the bar stopped serving at midnight, he even gave me a little present: a throw-away cigarette lighter. I went back to the hotel. Tomorrow is another day; back on the bike.