Sunday, April 28, 2002

I got up Thursday morning and decided that since I had not gone anywhere for a few days I would make one more trip to a chateau. First, I went down to my little café and had breakfast. After killing time around town for a while I headed out to the bus stop a little before 1:00. My book about France said that buses left three times a day from Amboise to Chenonceaux, which is about fourteen Kilometers south of town.

A bus was sitting at the bus stop when I got there so I asked the driver if he was going to Chenonceaux. He didn’t speak English, which was good, but he was adding some things that I didn’t understand, so I asked him for a schedule, which he gladly gave to me. Before he handed it to me, he circled one item on each side of the schedule.

I took it over to the bench and started to decipher it. All of their schedules are written completely in French but they are well designed and not too difficult to figure out. The only consistent problem with them is that they put an entire years schedule on a single piece of paper and they include additional routes for the two different vacation periods. Most French people take their vacations in August and this is called Grande Vacation. They also have another vacation period that is more like a spillover, which is for additional months surrounding August. Some routes are just for weekdays, some for Sunday only, some for Saturday and Sunday, some for Monday through Saturday, etc., you end up with a lot of columns you have to wade through to determine which bus or train is worth waiting for.

On the positive side, all of the trains and buses are usually right on schedule. Sometimes that can actually be a negative, particularly when you are a few minutes late to the station, or stop, whichever the case may be. In my case, it looked like I was too late to catch the only bus that went all the way to Chenonceaux. My book had said there were three departures and I had just read the book that morning. The driver had only circled one departure time and one returning time. I didn’t think about the fact that the book was written at least two years ago, before 9/11. Undoubtedly they have trimmed down the number of routes. Many of the buses and trains are half empty, even at that.

I took the schedule over to my friend’s café, she looked at it, and then pointed out a run that looked like it was leaving right at that moment, 1:15. I ran back over to the bus stop and one was still parked there. The driver said she wasn’t going to Cenonceaux. After getting someone else to help me, and being told another bus was leaving at 1:29, I waited for that bus. The driver told me that he was only going to the Lycee, which is the high school on the other side of Amboise. I looked back at my schedule one more time. I finally noticed that the route we saw in the café only went to the Lycee, as did a bunch of other routes. The first driver was correct, there was only one set of times going to and from the chateaux. That’s what he was trying to tell me.

I walked over to the taxi area and asked how much for a ride to Chenonceaux and was told 17 euro. I took the taxi, which was only a twenty-minute ride. The chateau was built right on the riverbank but a great hall was attached to the main part and extended out over the river to the other side. Huge gardens surrounded both sides and altogether created a spectacular sight as you walked up to the entrance.

I was too hungry to go into the chateau yet and I decided to get some food at the self-serve buffet. Just ahead of me was a group of ladies speaking English and I asked one of them where they were from. I actually asked her twice and got no response. After overcoming my initial reaction, I decided that she must not have heard me because it would have been too rude just to ignore me. It wasn’t as if we were in a dark alley or something. Before I asked a third time, I tapped her on the arm. That worked because she turned and told me they were from Alabama. I was delighted to hear her southern accent when she spoke. The French accent is very pleasant to listen to but this was nice because I could understand her. Southern people may talk different but they talk a whole lot slower than French people do, which I like.

I’ve always liked women from the south. At least I think I do. I haven’t really known any. California boys, like me, have this notion that southern women are beautiful but at the same time, they have a way of being very sweet and feminine. Most beautiful women in California act like snobs. Southern women also know what makes a man tick. They know what he likes and how to please him. What they want in return is honor and respect. They want a man to treat her like a woman ought to be treated, open doors, pull out her chair, that sort of thing. At least, that’s what California boys my age have been programmed to believe.

Anyway, we had a short exchange about where we were from and what we were doing in France. While I was paying for my food, she came back over and asked if I would like to join the four of them for lunch. I said, “Sure, that would be great!” She must have figured either I wasn’t too bright, that I couldn’t remember what she looked like by the time I got outside, or that I had been in France too long to understand her southern accent, because she explained where they were sitting three times. I didn’t mind at all. I was thinking that this vacation in France was finally paying off. Not exactly the way I had envisioned it but interesting, nonetheless. It didn’t matter to me one bit that instead of having a French woman being enamored with my worldly sophistication and charm, it was four southern belles just being desperate to speak to any man that could understand what they were saying.

When I got to their table, I introduced myself and was told all of their names. I remember three of the names but not the fourth. Therefore, I will not use any of the three I remember. These guys are all friends and will probably spend a lot of time with one another in the future. If I reveal which of the four names I have forgotten, that one would never live it down. They would laugh about that, at her expense, for the rest of their days. It was not that any of them were not memorable; I just wasn’t paying very good attention when they were all saying their names. I got the feeling they were all single but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to ask and spoil the mood.

I will tell you a little about each one. Sitting to my immediate right was the professional trainer. Not the kind that you see at the gym but the kind that trains employees at her company. We could use her at IEM. She’s the one who invited me to eat with them. Next to her was the interior decorator. Actually, she works for the phone company and at first I couldn’t figure out why they would need a decorator. I thought she meant she designed phones. She explained that she decorated the entrances to their offices and stuff like that, which made more sense. To my immediate left was the writer. I don’t recall her saying that she had published anything. She looked like she was either making money at it or had a sugar daddy somewhere. I didn’t ask which. Next to her was the software developer. Actually, that was only one of the things she mentioned, but it was naturally the one I would remember. I am immediately attracted to talk about anything to do with computers. She actually lives in Israel now. The other three live in Alabama.

We all proceeded to eat our food, but mostly we talked. We must have talked for over an hour but it seemed like we were just getting started when they had to leave. Either that or they were getting tired of me saying the wrong things. The harder I tried to impress them the more stupid things I ended up saying. Like the time the decorator was telling me that she was also from a catholic background. Any time the subject of Catholicism comes up the word hypocrisy does as well. Especially with Protestants! I am just as guilty and have often said that I became an atheist when I left home to go to college because of the hypocrisy I saw being raised in the Catholic Church. Since the mother of my children divorced me, I have become more inclined to believe that hypocrisy permeates all religions and all cultures. It is human nature to say you believe in one thing and do something entirely different. You should never mix religion and sex. At least, you should never talk about religion with the opposite sex until you know them well enough to stop thinking about them as being the opposite sex. I’m sure I ended up offending them at least once because you can’t talk about that kind of stuff without taking the time to be thorough. If I would have kept my mouth shut and just nodded my head in agreement, I would have looked a lot smarter.

I said some other stupid things. When I mentioned that I’d raised five kids one of them says, “You don’t look old enough to have raised that many children.” I took that as a complement and immediately responded that I was fifty-two and a person can do a lot of things in fifty-two years.

See, these gals were from the Deep South. They were expecting something like, “Why thank you, Darlin’. Right now I ain’t feeling nearly as old being with such fine company and all.” That would’ve been good!

Conversation with someone that you just met of the opposite sex is like fishing. You throw a hook out there with some bait on it and wait for a nibble. When you get a bite, you set the hook and reel in the fish. My problem is that I never could fish. I always thought I could never catch any fish because fish didn’t like me. I’m startin’ to realize that I don’t know how to fish! I want to catch fish but I never throw the hook in the water! I’m always too afraid someone’s gonna think I’m not cool ‘cause I’m fishing. How stupid is that? Maybe I don’t know how to fish ‘cause nobody ever taught me. I don’t even know where to get instructions on this sort of thing. All my friends know that I learn everything from books.

Men don’t fish the same as women either. A man plops his butt down on an old log with his legs spread open, takes out a big slimy worm, casts the hook and bait out in the water and says, “Come to Papa!” A woman is much more refined and lady like. She sits on a little folding chair that she remembered to bring with her, very precisely puts just the right bait on the right size hook, and very quietly castes the line out to the spot where she suspects the fish are. She don’t even let the fish know she’s after it!

Now these ladies were from Alabama! A man fishing for a woman or visa-versa is a way of life down there. They have seen so much fishing they all know exactly how it’s done. My problem was that they were so good at it that I didn’t even suspect I was a fish! So, I said something stupid.

I did try to do a few good things. I asked each of them to talk about themselves a little bit instead of me doing all the talking. I listened to each of them and, for the most part, responded so they would think I was interested, which I was. I’m going to send this story to them and I think they may be surprised that I remembered all of this stuff. The trainer had just bought a new house and was leery of decorating it, just as I have been to decorate my own. The others are going to help her. They agreed with my newfound belief that you should do what you like and not what others think looks good. We talked about life in the Deep South and how prejudiced many people who live there still are. We forget about that in California. I told them that the next trip I took might be to a small town in Alabama because that’s in the heart of the South. (I should have said because Alabama was such a great football state, but that would have kicked off a whole new direction in the conversation, one in which I was more familiar) The trainer had an aunt who lived in Monroeville, which was the setting for the town in “To Kill a Mockingbird”.  Coincidentally, I had just started to read a true crime book about a murder that took place in Monroeville. (I bet none of you would guess how they pronounce that, except maybe Dot.)

I noticed later, though, that they kept asking me questions that made me end up doing most of the talking. They had been together for their entire trip and maybe they were just tired of talking to each other. They probably liked the way those Frenchmen talked to them but they couldn’t understand any more than I could. They were probably hopin’ I would say something they could take back to Alabama that they actually understood. I’m sure I disappointed them. On the other hand, maybe they were just doing what they know how to do, fish! How would they know I would end up feeling guilty for talking too much? They know that men like to talk about themselves.

At least I am smart enough to know that you can’t impress a woman by letting yourself fall into that trap. The woman wants the man to talk about his feelings and then listen to how she feels. I read that somewhere. I’ve been meanin’ to try it. Too late for the Southern Belles.

Just before they had to leave I mentioned that I was sending stories back home about my adventures and that I was really enjoying the writing process itself. I told them I could see how writing could actually be enjoyable. The writer said she would like to read my stories. I responded that I thought that would be great because I was interested in getting some feedback, on some of the stories in particular. Not so much on the mechanics but more on the creative aspect of writing. She mentioned that others had helped her with her writing and that if I sent them to her she would be glad to read them and let me know what she thought. I gave her my business card with my email address and she is going to use it to send her email address to me. After they left, I was excited about the prospect of someone actually taking the time to critique my writing.

I decided to walk from Chenonceaux back to Amboise, about eight and a half miles. It was a beautiful walk through a forested area. It took me a little over two hours but I enjoyed it because I got to think about the day’s activities the whole time. Right in the middle of the forest was a tall, cement telephone pole. I hadn’t seen any concrete poles in the cities or towns in my entire time here. I have never seen a telephone pole made out of concrete anywhere, in my life. Leave it to the French. They are so concerned with design and looks that they probably figured the concrete would contrast better among all those trees.

I did a lot of thinking about those gals from Alabama and our time together. It dawned on me that the writer may not have been all that interested in reading my stories. She might have been just "settin’ the hook"! She might have been fishing just out of habit. Here I am gushing on about how great it would be if she would read my stuff. I have no doubt that the four of them laughed like crazy over that one on their way out of Chenonceaux. She could decide later if she wanted to let the fish off the hook or start reelin’ him in. I think women from the South might be too smart for men from California.

Sincerely,

RandyG