My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Fifteen

Tuesday, 20 December, 1988
Paris to Reims to Paris to Dijon

PARIS-- Was supposed to get the 8:30 for Reims from the Gare d’Est this morning. But due to not figuring in Paris rush hour on the Métro and having to figure out a strange railway station, I just missed it. First time I’ve missed a train so far. Funny, as I discovered later, I might’ve made it if I’d remembered to look for the train on the board for "Grands Lignes" instead of trying to find it on the one for "Banlieu." The difficulty was that there was an 8:30 to the suburbs, too.

Nothing to do at that point but use the time I had. So I reserved a place on the TGV for Dijon tonight.

Then I boarded the Métro and almost went out to see the abbey church of St. Denis. But the word was that the Métro there was running at 50% only and I had two more transfers to make. And if I was going to Reims today I needed to make the 11:05 train and it was heading towards 10:00 as it was.

So I stayed on the subway to the Invalides stop and walked over in the Paris sunshine to the chapel of St. Louis des Invalides.

This church witnessed the first performance of my Requiem. They were about to hold a funeral service so I couldn’t linger, but it was good to see the place and wonder exactly where Berlioz had placed his four brass choirs.

I could see the Eiffel Tower’s top over some buildings near there. Closest I’ll get this trip . . .

Shocking, isn’t it? But this trip to Paris has primarily been a Berlioz pilgrimage for me. And even though I couldn’t find the Conservatoire day before yesterday and didn’t get the chance to visit his old street in Montmartre to see where he lived or go and "eat bread and salt on the Pont Neuf" as he did in his poor student days, I found he was more present here than he was in La Côte St. Andre. It’s given me real perspective on why I felt so empty about things there.

Paris was the city he flew to, to do and dare and struggle and use the talent God had given him. Even when Paris put him down and refused to rightly estimate his brilliance and talent, it was still the crucible where his musical skill was refined, the fertile field where his mind was sown with the strong seed of Gluck and Spontini and Beethoven and von Weber, the arena where he fought his battles for his music and for the music of the great ones who rose with him.

Whereas La Côte was the place he had to escape from, the place he feared being stifled by.

You know what it reminds me of? La Côte, I mean? Especially seeing the substantial, upper middle class house where Hector was raised, it reminds me of Mission Hills, with all those respectable and prosperous doctors and lawyers and stockbrokers, all proudly expecting their firstborn sons to grow up and become doctors and lawyers and stockbrokers just like them. That’s what Dr. Berlioz wanted Hector to do. He wasn’t a hick country practitioner. Dr. Louis Berlioz was a scholar and a scientist of note. He published esteemed medical papers and had a name among his colleagues. He always thought his eldest would follow in his footsteps, that playing the flute and scribbling music for local string and wind ensembles as Hector did was just a civilized pastime for after hours. For his son to throw over medical school and tell his parents to hell with it, he was going to the Conservatory of Music and become an opera composer, was like a kid from Mission Hills informing his folks he was abandoning Harvard to play in a rock and roll band.

There was so much inertia pulling Hector to accede to his father’s wishes! It was always expected that he'd get his medical degree and return to La Côte and join the family practice and become as respectable and prosperous as his father. It went without saying that he'd inherit that fine house and live out the rest of his days as the esteemed physician of the Isere region! The only thing that could break that inertia was the musical fire within him and his conviction that he had to let it blaze forth and Paris was the only place he could begin to do that.

And that is why I couldn’t find or feel mon cher Hector in La Côte St. Andre. He wasn’t there. He left. He came to Paris and got away.


REIMS-- Made the 11:05. Contrarily, the weather clouded up again as the train travelled east. Of course.

The sculpture on both the west front and the north transept portals of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Reims was being restored. Scaffolding everywhere. So for this one I spent the most time circling the flanks and the chevet. I do like the angels up in the buttress piers. And of course anyone who’s anybody is featured up on the west front.

They don’t have much of the medieval glass left at Reims. What they do have is the axial chapel windows by Marc Chagall (interesting place for a nice Jewish boy) and some very harmonious but quirky windows by Jacques Simon. The latter included one dedicated to the making of champagne.

It’s a pity so much of the cathedral sculpture has been destroyed. It’s very effective the way it continues around to the screen on the interior of the west wall. One of my favorite scenes there was of Abraham offering a tithe of the spoils to the priest-king Melchizedek after the battle of Sodom. Abraham is dressed in full chain mail like a medieval knight!

It looked as if the weather might-- just might-- break enough for me to get some sunlight on the west front sculpture this afternoon. So I decided to go get something to eat while I waited for it to do it. As I wandered through the streets of the town, I found a shop that actually had little busts of mon cher Hector, in alabaster on a marble base. The one on display had the sculpture and the base a little out of kilter . . . In a good cause I can be pretty bold, so I asked the clerk in my best fractured French if they had any more to choose from. He got a ladder and reached down a couple more from high off the shelf above. Examined them . . . ah, yes, one of these was definitely better.

This set me back 72F but I’ve done so little souvenir acquiring so far (books don’t count). Had the store pack it in a box so it won’t get hurt in transit.

The skies did clear up so I returned to the cathedral and took some more photos of the statuary, with the west front all golden. It was a fun getting angles where the scaffolding was least in the way. Thanks to the telephoto lens on the Olympus I think I was able to get some good shots of the kings on the archivolts. Then I popped back inside and admired the sunlight streaming through the medieval glass, especially the west end rose window. What a blessing the sunlight can be!

I thought I’d read that the tomb of Hughes Libergier, a medieval architect, was in Reims Cathedral. But I couldn’t find it. And I didn’t ask the man at the bookstall. This is dumb, because on the train back to Paris I read in the guidebook I bought that it is there somewhere . . . and now it’s too late to see it.

Before I left Reims, since I was in one of the major cities of the genuine Champagne region, I decided to do something gracious for a change. I bought a bottle of champagne for a hostess gift for Lukas’s* family. I think I can carry that bit more . . . Have no idea if the vintner is any good. It’s just what they had on Christmas special at the Monoprix. Really wanted one of those pretty Art Nouveau bottles from Perrier but at upwards of 220F there was no way.


PARIS AGAIN-- After the return from Reims got off the subway at the Bastille stop to admire Duc’s column and see the place where the Funeral and Triumphal Symphony was first performed. There were a lot of other places here I wished I had time to see but there was no way-- I had to find something to eat and pick up my bags from the hotel and make that train for Dijon.

Around that area, though, I found something else I was interested in-- one of the famous Art Nouveau Métro stops, by another Hector, M. Guimard. Glad I caught that.


DIJON, THE HÔTEL MONGE-- Not a good time getting here. First of all, I cut it a little short on time in Paris. Second, with the bust and the bottle and the books and all, and with me being in general fatigued, the bags were miserably heavy to carry. And then the lady at the hotel, who’s known nothing about it so far, so why did I take her advice now? told me (in English, since she had no patience with my French), oh, the slowdown strike is still on, don’t take the Métro, take the #63 bus to the gare de Lyon.

So instead of schlepping one and a half blocks to the Métro stop I lugged everything, feeling like the Ride to the Abyss, four long blocks to the corner where, according to the concierge’s sage advice, I could get the right bus. But when sweating and panting I arrived there, I found that no one on that corner had any idea where any such #63 bus stopped.

So I took the Métro anyway. And yes, it was a bit slow, not being full service, but at least I did get to the station and onto the train with ten or so minutes to spare.

I feel like I spent most of the short time on the TGV catching my breath. I pulled into Dijon, feeling about half-past dead. Blessedly, a man, a fellow-passenger from the train, carried my blue and heavy bag for me from the platform to the outside of the station.

Well, it seemed that since I had to use my Visa, being short of cash, and not liking to check into hotels sight unseen anymore, I thought I could just walk into town and check a couple of possibilities. The distance didn’t seem far on the Michelin Guide map.

It was excruciatingly far. It was 10:00 PM and Dijon isn’t as well populated at night as Paris or Toulouse. The streets were dark and empty and I thought, wonderful, someone could come right now and bang me over the head and steal me blind. But I was so close to the end of my rope, only able to stagger a few more steps before I had to set the bag down and rest, that I didn’t care. I couldn’t hurt worse than I already did. I almost wished someone would come along and run off with my luggage. I’d be free of it then.

Fortunately, one of the Let’s Go hotels , the Hôtel Monge, did take Visa. And they did have a room. And it’s actually not decorated too badly. Usual chenille bedspread but the wall paper is good. And it overlooks a charming courtyard and has a view of the steeples of two churches.

Also has a view of the apartment opposite, whose occupants were engaging in something I’m sure was its own absorbing reason for their forgetting to pull the shades or extinguish the lights. That’s all right, we’ll assume they’re married and leave our own curtains closed. MYOB.

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Ten

Thursday, 15 December 1988
From Toulouse to Conques & back to Toulouse again

Rented a car from Hertz and drove up to Conques today. Only way practicable to get there. Hertz was the only one with unlimited kilometrage for a one-day trip so they actually came out the cheapest. 490F, meaning about £49, meaning . . . †

Oh, well. Always wanted to go to Conques.

Kind of a dumb joke here: The rental agent at the Hertz place was the first one since I’ve gotten to France who has attempted to speak any English with me. And I suppose he thought he had to, since I was allowing myself to become self-conscious over the differences between the Toulousain accent and the Parisienne one I was taught and was mispronouncing things and generally tripping all over my mouth. And this guy had the charming cheek to say to me-- in English-- "You know, if you want to learn French, you just have to practice and just try to speak it!"

I refrained from telling him I have been speaking nothing but French for the last week and a half and that when I get into stressful states I can’t even speak my native tongue properly, let alone a foreign one.

Beside, I was going to have enough fun with the car anyway. It was not a Ford Fiesta, it was a mini-Peugeot. I never did get the trunk lock to come open--well, once, to put my stuff in, but then couldn’t get it out; had to get into it through the back seat, but never mind that.

First real issue was not being able to turn the key in the ignition. Clerk came out and showed me how the steering wheel locks and you have to turn the one to free the other. Oh.

Then I worked the little car out into traffic-- where it promptly died. Tried anew. Died again. At which point the clerk came running out and showed me how this car has a manual choke and you have to pull it out till the engine warms up. Oh.

By that time I had a nervous cramp and a bad case of the shakes in my left leg and it was dancing all over the clutch. But fortunately I’d worked out the route so I knew where I was going and knew that if I just kept driving I’d get over it. And out of the major city traffic.

This was not a good day to drive near Toulouse. Extremely foggy but try telling the truck drivers that that makes a difference. I got passed a few times. Great. Let them.

French roads really are those long straight affairs with ranks of trees on either sides, like you see in pictures. Plane trees in this part of the country. Pity I couldn’t see more than a few yards of them at a time. The fog was very poetic but I could’ve done with less romanticism and more visibility.

By the time I was driving through Albi, though, it was just gray skies.

I got a bit turned around there. The signage was great to that point, always telling you in each small town that the N88 traversed which turn to take to get to Albi. But once I reached Hereticville I lost my signs. Ended up in the middle of town, pulled over, with my Michelin.

Got out of there and on towards Rodez. Fog closed in again, as the road reached higher and began to curve around the foothills.

Rodez is very prettily sited, all on a hillside. Church prominent at the top (cathedral, maybe?) with all the buildings ranked down the slope at its feet. Kind of place you’d want to pull off the road and photograph-- if the whole town visible from the road wasn’t modern. Wonder if the Germans had something to do with that . . .

Found the D901 to Conques off the bypass; no trouble this time. Fog continued in drifts on up into the mountains. But it was the sort of thing that just maybe might disappear up higher and give place to sunlight.

Then I got to a scene I wish I could’ve captured on film, if I’d had a place to pull off. The mist became suffused with radiance, which glinted off the trees and hedgerows covered with white hoarfrost. And just a little farther on and higher up-- voilà! there it actually was-- blue skies and sunshine. Thank you, Jesus!

Whatever else that little car had, it had good interior acoustics. First time I’d gotten to do any real singing in a week and a half.

Conques, as I’d remembered reading in Gourmet Magazine, is on a switchback road. Paved, not gravelled, happily. Put her into second and had fun with it.

Conques was kind of strange, as a town. I got there around 1:30 and so it wasn’t surprising that everything was closed. But nothing ever opened thereafter. More people around than in old Carcassonne but nothing like the bustle of even La Côte (There’s a thriving village. They even have an architect’s office). One wonders what it must be like to live there. The major activity in sight was repair work. There were trucks back and forth all afternoon redoing the paving in la rue Charlemagne.

I approached the pilgrimage church of Ste.-Foi-de-Conques from the east side, having left the car at the carpark near the new cultural center (they have concerts there in the summer). It was below me as I came upon it and I could see the chevet and crossing tower. Steps lead down to the place at the west front, and there she was, that wonderful Last Judgement tympanum, with the antique polychrome showing pastel pink and blue. The sun was shining on just the lefthand side of the embrasure and I decided to hold off on too much photography there till the light was hitting the tympanum more directly, from the west.

Into the church through the westward side door of the south transept. First thing I noticed was the fresco that occupies a wall blocking off the far end of the south crossing arm.

The second thing was that the crossing itself was filled with scaffolding. They were repairing the lantern. Oh well. It apparently needed it. The vaults in the side aisles definitely do. If one had the money that would be a good place to throw some.

Even with the scaffolding in the way I could see up into the lantern. It was very beautiful and filled with golden light. And I could just see the carvings of the angels and apostles in the corners.

Walked around the ambulatory to the north transept. The apse chapels were filled with dismantled woodwork. But the transept was free of emcumbrances and yes, the Annunciation relief was where I’d guessed it was, in the center of the north wall.‡ It forms a kind of column at the meeting of the two blind arches under the tribune there.

The nave was radiant, especially in its upper reaches, with winter sunlight. And, more considerately than at some other places I could name, the historiated capitals are illuminated. You could actually see the carvings.

Unfortunately my Olympus battery had managed to run itself down again so I didn’t feel safe using that camera. Did what I could with the Minolta. Ate lots of film as the sun kept moving around and striking the sculpture and columns at new angles.

After I’d seen all I could inside, I went over and learned where to buy a ticket to see the treasury. You get it from an old Augustinian (Premonstratensian) monk, and I’ve never learned yet how one addresses such personages in French these days.

The treasury was certainly impressive, especially when you think of all the donations, all for the sake of that little girl named Faith martyred in the 4th Century. And for Jesus’ sake, too, one hopes. The funny thing is that the whole cult of relics got started because it made people feel closer to heaven-- here was physical evidence of someone who had lived a saintly life on earth and who now was united with God’s holiness in heaven. But it’s been so long since all that that it’s lost its power. The risen Christ seems closer.

From the standpoint of liking it, though, I think my favorite was the crystal on the back of the statue of Sainte Foi, with the Crucifixion showing through it. Rather ghostly, but effective.

The fee for the cloister treasury also affords one access to the museum in the Syndicat d’Initiative. Most of the work here is from a later date, except for the artifacts in the downstairs room which are fragments of capitals and other carvings salvaged when the cloister was demolished in 1830. Does that mean the cloister that’s there now is only 140 years old?

Otherwise, there was a great deal of 16th and 17th Century work, painted wood statuary and most importantly, a series of tapestries recounting the life and legend of Mary Magdalen. Like a lot of others, this artist makes her identical with Mary of Bethany, Martha’s sister. I wonder who’s right . . . I really liked the scene of the supper at Bethany with Christ dressed, from the waist down in the typical 1st Century flowing robe, and from the waist up in a doublet like a 16th Century noble’s.

Over to the abbey magasin after that and bought the obligatory postcards and guidebook. They had one in the same edition as that for St. Sernin. Does Dr. Gendle have one? Should I have picked one up for him?

Wrote him a postcard, at any rate. Don’t know his postcode but figure the British postal service can find Oxford . . .

Sunlight on the tympanum was better by now. The blessed look pleased as punch to be in heaven, though one little soul gives an apprehensive look over his shoulder at a leering devil, as the angel leads him into himmlische Reich . . .

The sun was setting all pale gold and I took advantage of the rest of the light exploring the town, with all its little cobbled streets and stairways. But damn! it was quiet! People were there, though-- you could see the smoke coming out of the chimneys. And occasionally someone would peer through a window as I passed.

Shot several very antique-looking houses. I realize that if I were being really scholarly I would’ve documented their general appearance and location, street and so forth, for future reference. But dammit, it was cold.

Ran out of slide film there. I mean completely. I’ve shot all ten rolls I brought already.

Decided to use the final frame on a view of the town from the west, with the light on the houses and the towers of the church. In order to save my feet and not lose the light, I made up my mind to drive over to that end of town.

Wrong. Got about three blocks worth and ran into the repaving work, blocking the way completely. Big red dump truck and a backhoe. No place to turn around so I had to take the car in reverse-- uphill-- all the way to the carpark (the black exhaust was shocking). Ended up walking back that way after all.

In the process discovered something else interesting about that little Peugeot. Not only will it not work if the choke’s off when it’s cold, it also won’t work with the choke on with the engine warm. Until I discovered that too much gas was the problem I thought I’d done something highly regrettable to the car.

The road from Conques looks west for awhile. And I was privileged to see a real live honest-to-God sunset, my first in a long while.

But, as didn’t greatly surprise me, the clouds closed in as I drove lower, and with dusk returned the fog. And if you don’t think that was enough fun on that curving mountain road you can also figure in the aggressivity of French drivers who don’t think 40 mph (or 65 kph) is half fast enough, even under those conditions. I had a whole string of tailgaters. They were perfectly free to pass if they dared but me, I was going as fast as I could.

I had gotten a taste of the daredevil passing habits of the French on the way up, so it didn’t surprise me greatly to come around a bend and see two pairs of headlights coming towards me in tandem out of the fog. I hit my brakes just enough to give the passer leeway to get back in and kept on singing Berlioz: "Elle s'en va seulette; L'or brille à son bandeau . . . "†† That’d be heart attack city in the USA, but here it’s business as usual.

Fog lasted all the way to Albi. If the drivers didn’t care for what I was doing, I wonder what they thought of the slow-moving trucks doing 20 mph? I know my thoughts weren’t particularly patient or kind.

Had hoped to go a different route on the trip back, maybe even make it up to Aurillac, but decided that under the circumstances I’d better go a way that was at least somewhat familiar.

Found the bypass around Albi this time. The way between there and Toulouse took a much shorter time this time around. I still didn’t go much over 100 kph.

Finally got back to Toulouse and the rental agency a little after 8:00, without having struck any dogs, pedestrians, trees, or other cars. Dropped the key in the slot after parking in the only available spot. Discovered later that I was supposed to drop in some copies of the rental agreement. Well, I’ll do that tomorrow.

Went over to a café at Jean Jaures and rue de Strasbourg and had cassoulet and an Abbaye de Leffe beer. The beer was good. I suppose the cassoulet was, too, if you like the idea of spending around $7.50 for what is essentially baked beans with assorted cured meats.

Well, it’s Famous and now you can say you’ve had it.

Back to the hotel by 10:00 and washed my hair. Stayed up too late waiting for it to dry. Which was dumb, because I do have my blowdryer and a converter with me.
____________________________
†The exchange rate at the time was around $2.00 US to the pound sterling.
‡This had been in question for me. The previous term in Oxford when I'd decided to do an essay on this church, the only book my Medieval Architecture History tutor could recommend to me was a 1939 guidebook held by the Bodleian Library. It was completely in French and had no pictures at all. To make things more interesting, some of the pages had never been cut and I had to get permission to do it with my new Swiss Army knife! You'd think I was the first one to read it in almost fifty years!
††Hector Berlioz, La Belle Voyageuse; words by Thomas Gounet, after the Thomas Moore poem "Rich and Rare." Literally (with poetic license), "Travelled she alone, with gold her circlet shining . . . "

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Five

Saturday, 10 December 1988
Lyon to La Côte St. André

LYON-- Slept last night at the Hotel Alexander†, within schlepping distance-- just barely-- from the Perrache station. Turns out I may have reamed myself if the object was to avoid carrying things-- the interurban bus station is at Part-Dieu. The local one is at Perrache.

However, considering that the bus for La Côte doesn’t leave till 5:00 pm, and that the sights worth seeing here are closer to la Gare Perrache (such as Vieux Lyon), maybe it’s ok.

Terribly tired and stressed and not having such an easy time determining the bus schedules. I really think I’m going to have to rethink my itinerary. Allow a full day in Toulouse, perhaps, just to sit on my rear and recruit my strength. I’m getting to the point where I can’t cope in English, let alone in French. Tempted to cry or get bitchy in public which is not Christian.

At the moment I’m sitting in a salon de thé in la Vieille Ville . . . Nursing a pot of tea after dejeuner. Charcuterie, I learn, is cold cuts and not a lot of them, either. But the salad was good, as was the cheese dressing for it, and the bit of gateau chocolat generous. And the orange amère is quite flavorful.

They have little glass pitchers pour le vin which are quite attractive. Williams-Sonoma should pick them up.

The young lady doing the serving was taking her sweet time about bringing the rest of my order after the initial entrée. This was all right in its way: I thus had no compunction about sitting there getting the tiredness out.

And I had the opportunity to listen to a sextet of Britons who walked in about the time I was tucking into the cake. It was good to hear a British voice again. Couldn’t identify all the accents but one woman sounded northern Irish and one of the men like a Liverpudlian. They knew even less French than I do and were discussing what the really useful phrases for the English-French phrasebooks would be. When one of the men wryly suggested, "‘I am an idiot!’" ("Je suis un idiot!"), I couldn’t help but smile. They must’ve noticed my reaction, for one said, sotto voce, "I think the lady’s English."

Well, not quite, but that’ll do.

(Funny about that. No one’s nailed me as an American yet. Or else, that’s considered a bit of an insult around here and it’s politer to ask first if one is British, even if you think otherwise.)

After awhile, the dilatory service stopped being an advantage. It was 3:05 and I had a train to catch at 4:08. Pried the bill out of the girl, though I had to go to the kitchen door to get it, and paid it. Service charge tacked on top of the food here. Not sure if that included gratuity; if it didn’t, tant pis. (I am rotten.) Au revoir, merci, I’m gone.

The old city looks like a great place to come on a sunny day with more energy and a lighter (in terms of weight, not money) purse. Myriad cobbled streets with the drains down the middle. I mainly stuck to the Rue St. Jean, which extends from the Cathedral.

I’m growing quite used to walking in the middle of streets like that, along with everyone else. Always liked that sort of thing. Not on the boulevards, of course. Not that wild and crazy.

(What’s the term for when you state the obvious and it sounds inane? I think I just did it.)

Most French cars have yellow headlights. A lot easier to see. Although there may be a white or yellow option, because in the country they’re mostly white.

They drive on the right side of the road (with allowances for the feelings of my British friends, who prefer to keep left). But there is a street just before the rue Victor Hugo here where they were doing it the British way. Most odd.

Anyway, I’d passed a couple of old bookshops in my ramblings before lunch. They’d been closed then (lunchtime is lunchtime here. Period.) but were open now. Ducked into one; asked if they had any books by or about Berlioz. No, they did not. A bit further on, tried the other one. The proprietor indicated a lower shelf. And there were two little volumes of the Mémoires, en française, à bien sûr, with very nice leather spines and inscribed 1882 by their original owner. Second or third edition, 1878, but still tantalizingly close to the original publication date. It’s a good thing this wasn’t one of those places where one bargains, because I pounced on those things like a starving man on food. The price would’ve gone straight up.

As it was, the marked price was pretty high: 500F, or around £45. I realize that’s not so bad, when you compare it with those Oxford U Press volumes I priced at £30.

Oh, well, they didn’t take Visa and if I’d spent my cash I’d never make it out of La Côte. "Trop cher," je dis, et je pars.

It’s wonderful how I have the chutzpah to say in French things I never would in English. I’d never tell a British or American shopkeeper I couldn’t afford something. Anything else but.

I took off-- it was 3:25 by now-- but just as I was rounding the corner towards the Pont Bonapart I saw that the Credit Agricole was still open. Oh God! Hector, the things I’ll do for you!

And I went in and changed another £60 of traveller’s cheques. They took an ungodly amount of time about it, though there was no line. And I'd already eaten up several minutes finding a private nook in the bank where I could discreetly extricate my waist wallet from under my clothes and lay hands on the cheques.

Finally the transaction was done. I took the money and ran, back to the Diogenes Librairie. Cash on the barrelhead (or the chair seat), take the books in a plastic bag, and pray we get that 4:08 train.

Plan was to find a taxi, but the only one I saw was occupied. Ran like the dickens. Fortunately felt better having eaten. Bypassed Place Bellecour, down the first stretch of rue Victor Hugo, past the statue to M. Ampere (electrifying), down more of Victor Hugo to the hotel entrance opposite the charming McDonald’s. Collected my bags from the hotel closet and began limping for the station. Across Place Carnot, up the stairs (ascenseur broken, of course), through the shopping mall, across the pedestrian bridge, through the station entry mall, and in.

OK, there’s my train on the board. Track 5. So I got down there and the conductor tells me the train to Lyon-Part Dieu is on Track #1! He very graciously shouldered my heaviest bag and got me over there in time to catch the 4:08 to get the bus at the other station.


ON THE TRAIN TO LYON-PART DIEU-- Something else odd I’ve noticed here in France. About half the time, I’ve observed, nobody ever comes to take tickets on the trains. And though you do have to validate your ticket each time (not passes, though) in a machine before you enter the platform area, it’s not like there’s a turnstile. I suppose the penalties for travelling without a ticket are great? Or could you just say, Oh, I was running late, and buy one from the conductor?


LA CÔTE ST. ANDRÉ, 11:50 PM-- Everything turned out ok with the busses. A tourist information lady showed me where to wait. And though the posted schedules were no help, the bus driver was able to give me a schedule of the route to Grenoble. Turns out it originates in Vienne, which was why my referring to the "Lyon-Grenoble bus" was so confusing to everyone in Lyon.

Travelling to La Côte, the bus takes a little two lane highway that all of a sudden shoots into these little villages. The road narrows to a lane and a half and that great big bus has to negotiate the tightest turns against the houses. It’s a miracle they have any walls left.

I took the time on the road to verify that I don’t need a seat reservation for the TGV between Narbonne and Montpelier Monday. And that I shall either have to punt my side-trip to Aurillac or rent a car from Toulouse. The train schedule won’t let me get there and back to Toulouse again in a single day.

It was raining on the way down here. It’s raining everywhere in this country. Je pense que il pleuvra toujours.

Well, it’s December. And at least it wasn’t actively dripping when I was set down by la Place Berlioz here. It is not exactly in the center of town. So I shouldered my load and took off. The things I do for Hector, again!

Lost one of my lightweight leather gloves in all that running about in Lyon. Missed it as I was assembling my things to get off the bus.

Found the rue de la Republique within a couple of blocks. And there on my right, up the street a ways, was the solid but unprepossessing facade of the Birthplace. Funny, but I don’t think I expected it to be smack in the middle of town like that. But then I guess I don’t expect small towns to be all rowhouses like this, either.

Checked the opening hours but didn’t stay around to pay my devotions. Bags too heavy. Crossed the street to a stationer’s (still open, at 7:15, thank God) and asked the way to the two hotels I knew of.

Hotel Europe, recommended by Brian Chenley‡ in his letter, was closed for the season. So I trudged on up the hill to the Hotel France, aupres de l’eglise. It, as Michelin states, is a restaurant with rooms. A very nice girl and an elderly lady are running the place; I’m afraid my French abandoned me at the crucial moment. N’importe! They discerned what I was after and showed me upstairs immediately, never mind, I could register later.

I’m spending the money (Visa, since I have to make up for the books I’ve bought) on a room with a bathtub. I am just too grubby otherwise. I think I perspired all the way through my coat. How else did the inner face of my backpack get wet?

Nice little room with a table that, covered with the spare blanket, made an adequate ironing board for my dark gray dress. Thank goodness that B&D travel iron does work and didn’t blow any fuses.

Only problem with this place (ignoring the insufficiency of hangers and no hooks in the bathroom, which is par for the course all over cette pays and besides, these people do provide towels) is the presence of a high-pitched, irregularly intermittent sound, like a sign swinging in the breeze or maybe a swinging door opening and shutting . . . Whatever it is I shall have to endeavor to ignore it and try not to get a headache from tension.

Over to the eglise first thing after getting established. Mass at 10:30 in the morning. And there’s a Berlioz birthday celebration concert there at 5:00. Wonderful, think I, we shall hear some of Hector’s music in his hometown. Then I saw the poster. All Debussy and Fauré! OK, so it is the Fauré Requiem, which I love, but still.

Maybe they don’t have the forces around here to do a decent job of most Berlioz. They could tackle L’Enfance du Christ and Les Nuits d’Été, I should think, but maybe they’ve been done recently.

Feels a little odd being here. Wonder what the townspeople think of people coming in just to honor their most unusual native son. Do they regard us as oddities? But then they found him rather odd, too, didn’t they?
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†Having done some Web research, I find I gave my Lyon hotel an inadvertent sex change! It's really the Hotel Alexandra, and it's still there at 49 rue Victor Hugo and is still quite reasonable.
‡The then-secretary of the London Berlioz Society