Vezelay, France

I

I’m writing this second installment from Hotel #1, La Compostelle, in Vezelay, which is south of Paris and on the way to Cannes. The plane ride was relatively painless considering it was a plane ride—the flight attendants weren’t even surly and the food wasn’t half bad. I figure I’m ahead of the game if I’m not yanked out of line and yelled at by one of the former Gestapo guards who now all work as TSA agents whose only mission in life is to harass me and only me. (I’m not making this up—this has happened to me a lot!) It didn’t even seem all that long, although I didn’t sleep a wink while everyone around me, including Tom, snored blissfully. It’s now 6:30 in the evening so I guess I’ve been sleepless for about a day and a half now. Hardly a record, but if I sound a little loopy, that’s why.

And I should tell you that we have had a change in plans. The Heckmans have been forced to postpone their trip for a week, so we are off on our own instead of with them as planned. This is disappointing, but also ironic since we, the Francophiles, would definitely not be in France right now if not for Bob and Sandy. Definitely not this year, and maybe not ever! And so I wasn’t expecting the other pleasant surprise of the day (the first being the uneventful plane trip): landing at Charles de Gaulle and debarking into a sea of Frenchmen made my heart skip a beat and my spirits soar just like in the old days! Moi, who thought I was oh so over France, am in love all over again. Young mothers cooing to rosy cheeked babies, the world’s finest collection of old ladies (minus their dogs—it is, after all, an airport), grumpy old men wearing berets, mumbling under their breaths and walking with their hands clasped behind their backs (this is the French national pose), all manner of hip teenagers with jet black or rainbow colored hair, slim and pale to the point of emaciation, gendarmes of the Police Nationale and stern-faced officials as watchful as a SWAT team… And my personal favorite: the thirty-something modern French businessman in skinny jeans, blue blazer and Ralph Lauren shirt (or maybe some label I’m not cool enough to recognize like Comme des Garcons or BCBG), tendrils of curly hair clinging fetchingly to his collar, talking—no ranting—on his cell phone, gesticulating madly with both arms, anxiously pacing back and forth as if in a maternity delivery room, periodically waving to his waiting party, oblivious to their impatient boredom--because he is clearly negotiating the Big Deal. Along with these typical caricatures, I noticed that the crowd was considerably less varied and international than we have seen recently, especially in Asian airports and in Dubai. I guess this is not surprising, but it may be evidence that fewer foreigners in conspicuous national/ethnic dress are coming to France. Since President Sarkozy has passed a law banning burkas in public places, perhaps this is a international boycott on display. We’ll know more when we walk down the streets of Paris.

We picked up the car that Bob had reserved, plugged in Rhonda (the Garmin with European capability that we brought with us), and took off for Vezelay. Even Rhonda was a little confused by the myriad streets and highways that all converge around Paris, so getting out of town was a little nerve-wracking. But ever-patient Rhonda would re-calculate when we missed a few turns and finally we were on the A6 bound for Vezelay.

We arrived around 2:30, checked into the Compostelle and the temptation to just go to bed was strong. But we knew if we did we’d stay there and then be wide awake and ready to go around two in the morning. So we went out to explore the little town of Vezelay.

More or less what I had anticipated, Vezelay is an Oh-my-God, although probably on the lower end of the OMG scale. Comprised of just one main street, you climb a prodigious hill to get to the top of the town and then it’s all downhill after that. At the top of the hill is an impressive cathedral, the Basilica of Ste. Magdeleine. i.e., Mary Magdalen. The Basilica is quite beautiful as my pictures I hope will show. Most of us know the story of Mary Magdalen. She was the first of the disciples to see the risen Christ and personifies the sinner who is pardoned by Christ and is thus “born again.” She is the patron saint of prisoners and anyone who feels him or herself to be in captivity of any kind. After her pardon by Christ, she retired to Provence and spent the rest of her life in prayer. In the ninth century, the monks of Vezelay retrieved relics of Mary Magdalen from Provence and took them to the Basilica where they are revered today by pilgrims who come to the Basilica for forgiveness. The very architecture of the basilica is designed to represent going from the darkness of the narthex to the clear, brilliant light of the choir. It is very ethereal and spiritual, but the amazing thing is the size of it compared to the tiny town. This is not unusual though—many French villages sport massive cathedrals completely out of proportion to the miniscule population. One would think the entire town could live inside the walls of its cathedral. And perhaps they did during times of turmoil.

After our dose of spirituality, we walked down the street, enjoying the medieval atmosphere, perusing some lovely little shops and glancing at menus. Our next Big Decision—since by now we were starving, not having eaten since breakfast around 8 on the plane—was whether to eat something now or wait and have dinner later. We compromised by doing both. Phase one: we found a small deli and ordered a ham sandwich. For those of you who have never had a French ham sandwich, scratch any vision of ham sandwichness you may harbor from your own experience. Here, one takes a small baguette (which even eaten alone and unadorned is culinary heaven), slathers it with butter, and then a smear of Camembert or Brie or sometimes a slice of Swiss, ONE thin slice of ham, and that’s it. The miracle is how it can taste so good with so little on it! We ordered one, cut in half, and finished our downhill walk enjoying the finest of French cuisine. Can’t wait to have another one on the streets of Paris, where this particular taste treat has risen to culinary sainthood.

Later, back in the room, we both took showers and changed which did worlds for our attitudes, Tom had short nap, and we went back out to eat in the little rooftop restaurant right across the street. We had planned to split a French pizza (another food you must experience that bears little resemblance to its American counterpart) and a salad. But instead, Tom had the day’s special Duck Confit which he scarfed and I had a lovely chicken frites. By then it was the proper hour to go to bed and as I write this today, we are both well-rested with no left-over jet lag.

And now as I finish this up, we are on our way to Cannes and should be there about 5. Dinner at La Cave tonight, although we are reduced to just the three of us. No Sandy and Bob and even Francine’s plans have changed and she will not be in until the weekend. Oh well...life is strange...