Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Unable to Speak at Le Mans; Grumpy Gus; Kindness, Rudeness, then Irony in Saumur

Friday, June 10 through Sunday, June 12, 2011, Bayeux to Le Mans to Saumur, France

Re-reading my travel journals not only reminds me of what I learned about my novel protagonist and about time travel, but returns me to that foreign place where I tried to speak another language and was not understood, then stumbled my way through the streets. The discomfort wraps its arms around me once more.

It was tricky for me to balance the need to interact with strangers on a daily basis with constant travel and changes of venue. No one was there to compare stories with at the end of the day. I often went to bed completely drained, yet I did not always sleep well. I would toss and turn on unfamiliar mattresses, rehashing the days activities. I needed people, yet when I tried to express myself to folks who did not understand my language nor me theirs, it was exhausting—just to ask for the check, let alone to have a normal conversation. There was no easy banter, few real personal connections. I had to actively study facial expressions and body language to understand if people were neutral, happy, or upset.

View from my balcony upon arriving mid-evening at the Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur.

The result of all this was that by the time I left Bayeux,  I was becoming a Grumpy Gus. But I was only halfway through my journey. There would be more challenges ahead. I had to protect myself. I had to create a more robust barrier between myself and others. But even as I hid behind emotional armor, I was able to learn from my interaction with one person and act on that knowledge with the next, sometimes later that same day. At times I could even drop the armor when I met people who took extra care to try to make me feel comfortable. And help me forget the jerks.

To help reinforce my armor for when I did need it, I had a regular routine in every town: I ate a lot, slept in, walked miles through and around old city centers, and talked with family and friends back home through the magic of the internet, . Friends' comments on pictures I posted on social media were priceless. Facebook allowed me to have conversations with my peeps thousands of miles away. And, of course, my phone chats with husband Dave were essential to my sanity. An occasional Australian met on the road was a real treat as well. Those I met were full of good, wry humor. I began to see the humor myself in this crazy "stranger in a strange land" situation I was in. But I also began to see the irony in it.

In the United States when I meet someone who does not speak English, I assume without thinking that she is uneducated and not on "my level." I am not proud of this. I mean, I like people! But I am, like most folks, lazy. It is too much effort and time to pay close attention to get the details about a new person we meet in passing. Our brains have been evolved to make quick judgements on matters that are not immediately critical. We decide whether this person is a threat or not, and if not, move on. The quick dismissal also protects us by moving on before a stranger can get too close.

In Europe. I was the ignorant "less than" person, the potential yet rejected threat. I got the message, whether it was sent intentionally or not.

My journey from Bayeux to Saumur was stressful for all the reasons I've mentioned. I first backtracked to Le Mans by train before I could make a connection to Saumur. It was a long day. I met several kind people, two rude people, and a person who helped me but wouldn't look me in the eye.

View from my balcony as darkness descends at Saumur, France.

Journal Excerpt, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur, France: In Saumur. Had great difficulty pronouncing the name of this city. It is something like "Sah-uh-muhr—but get your lips out and linger on the "uhs." I usually say "Sam-UR." The man at the train station in Le Mans could not understand me at all. A gentlemen in line understood, but he did not look at me, just at the SCNF train guy. "Sahuh-muhr," he told him. I felt like I was almost beneath his notice. But because I butchered the language, he had to do something.

I thought I would never make it to Saumur. It turned out not to be a train I connected to at Le Mans, but an "autobus." I could have taken a train to Angers and then another to Saumur, but as the SCNF man said, the bus left sooner and I could just relax for the nearly two-hour ride. So, I took the bus. It seemed obvious and it worked out well, too. I had planned to walk to the hotel, but when the bus pulled up at the end of the line and I got off, I was so tired and felt so alienated from lack of communication, I asked the bus driver, a huge truck driver of a man with animated features, "Je voudrais un taxi. Oo?" He motioned that one must call, but after a few phrases in heavy French in his booming bass voice, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Oo?" he asked me. "L'otel Mecure," I said. I heard him repeat this into the phone. He chatted for a moment and I heard him say, "Anglais." Yep. That's me. Then he patted me on the head—on top of my white sun hat—and said. "En la chapeau blanc." Okay, he was making fun of me a bit, but what a funny scene. I could never interact with the natives this way if I'd been traveling with someone else. He was awfully kind to me. I got my taxi and another 5.03 euros later I was at my hotel.

(Editor's note: It was only after I re-read my journal, that I realized the bus driver had mistaken me for an English woman. I'll take it!)

Earlier that morning, when I caught the train from Caen to Le Mans, I underwent trial by fire as I attempted to speak French. Now I realize that experience helped me have a pleasant interaction with the bus driver in the afternoon. When I got on the train I headed for an empty seat next to a young woman sitting at the window. I asked if I could sit next to her, and we took several moments to come to a conclusion that I could sit there. She asked me where I was getting off the train and I was so tired, I couldn't process her repeated, "Oo? Oo?" Finally she listed the names of the stops and I heard "Luh Mahng."

Train at the Le Mans train station January 2011. Photo by jean-louis Zimmermann through Creative Commons 2.0 License CC BY 2.0

"Oui! Le Man," I said. She sighed and slumped back in her seat. She pulled out a tablet of paper, pens, a ruler, and an exercise book and began rapidly writing in earnest, slouched over on my side so that I had to shift toward the aisle to keep her off of me.

Somewhere in my brain I knew she had meant, "Where?" as in "Where are you getting off?" but I could not process it. I was too intimidated by her bossy manner. She gave up completely on my ability to speak sensibly in French. This exchange was so exhausting for her that, when she needed to get off the train (in only three or four stops) all she manage to do was poke me in the arm and gesture for me to move. If she wasn't going to be on the train for long, why did she care where I got off? How did this information affect her life in any way? If she was getting off well after me, than nothing had to change because I would be the first one to get off. Because she was getting off before me, this information should have impelled her to change seats with me so that she wouldn't disturb me when she got off the train. But she changed nothing after gaining her hard-won information. She remained at the window so that I had to get up to let her off. My only conclusion was that she was not a nice person. Which is unfortunate. Later I realized that she was very young, and I let it go. Mostly. But not before awarding her the nick-name, "Rude Girl."

Journal Excerpt, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur, (continued): On the train to Le Mans, I introduced myself to the English-speaking gentleman who took a seat after Rude Girl got off. He was from Nairobi, lived in Atlanta, Georgia and had been in the states for 16 years. He was touring Europe for the first time, visiting relatives and friends who lived in France and Germany. Anthony. He pronounced it, "Ant-ehlt-oni," which is prettier than how I was saying it.

When we were nearing my stop, I got up with my pack and moved to the doorway. I met a gentleman standing by the door named Paul who is from New Mexico and who had been living in France for one year. He now hails from Angers—maybe I'll run into him while I'm there. He lived in Denver for a while and knew Boulder and Longmont. He looked very native American. He teaches indigenous culture courses. I don't know if he is associated with a school or not. Who woulda thunk?

Truly makes up for Rude Girl. It even makes up for the difficult communication I had with the Hotel Mecure night clerk twice—both on the phone before I arrived and in person when I walked into lobby after traveling over 5 1/2 hours (real glad I took the taxi at the end). I just had enough energy to give my name, hand over the hotel voucher from the travel agency, get the key, wonder for a minute at the French the woman rattled at me, give up understanding it because I couldn't get her attention again (she kept avoiding my eyes), and head to the elevator. I still don't know why she pointed at the number on the back of the card the key hangs on. It couldn't be my room number because that was on the front...

(Editor's Note: I determined afterward that the number on the back of the card was was the code for the front door, which was locked after hours. Good thing I never needed it.)

You can see the shadow of me taking this photo off my balcony as the sun was setting and after I finally got to my Saumur hotel.

It was true. When I got to my hotel in Saumur, my challenges were not over. It was 8:00pm by the time I was settled into my room, and I was starving. I had not eaten since a tiny lunch in Le Mans. So I went downstairs to order room service instead of attempting to communicate over the phone. I got the young woman's attention at the front desk and pointed to items on the menu to put in my order. The woman just shook her head and muttered something I didn't understand. I tried to clarify. I was proud that I was able to piece together the phrase in French, "Is it too late?" But she shook her head. "Por qua?" I asked. She did not answer. I lost my cool a bit, flung out my arms, and marched back to my room. Too tired to go out, I went to bed hungry. Before I pulled the curtain, I could see the glowing moon hanging above the chateau across the river. The sky was midnight blue and the water shimmered with waves of moonlight. It was almost enough to make me forget the nasty concierge.

(Editor's Note: More of this story can be found in the blog entry, "My Dinners with Julia.")

A view from the top of the hill overlooking the bridge and river, Saumur France.

The main reason I came to Saumur, was not its awesome position on a hill above the river on the western edge of the Loire River Valley, but to experience a traditional European market. It also put me close to the Abbey at Fontevraud, a must see for me because it was the place where Eleanor of Aquitaine lived her final days and where she was buried.

The Saturday Market at Place St Pierre, Saumur, France

Saturday was the day of the week when the biggest, most traditional market opened in Saumur. To make sure I landed there on Saturday, my travel agent manipulated my schedule. Even though Le Mans, the Plantagenet City, was on my way to Saumur from Bayeux, she had me by-pass it. I would have to come back to it later. And I had to stay in Saumur a day or two longer than needed to make it all work. Of course, I can imagine a much worse fate than having to spend leisure days in the Loire Valley. I made the most of it, exploring wine caves and vineyards, and walking the city from top to bottom.

Enjoying the flowers at the Saturday Market Saumur, France.

Saturday morning I slept in, exhausted after my long travels and communication difficulties. I ate a good breakfast and caught up on my journaling. By late morning, I was headed to the center of town. The old city was half a mile southwest and across the river from my hotel. I was looking forward to exploring the chateau, its vineyards, and other surrounds later that day. But first, I would take in as much of the market as I could.

A young father with a toddler on his back contemplates the cheese selection.

It was a gorgeous June day. I walked across the grand bridge and noodled around until I found Place St Pierre where they were setting up tables. I was early for the market, so I hiked up toward the chateau and got a lovely view of the river valley from the old town. When I came back, the market was in full flush. Tables covered in cheeses and grains and dried beans and herbs extended up the cobble streets. Across from that stood huge bundles of flowers: lilies, yarrow, campenella, and delphiniums. I stood aside and absorbed it all. A young man with a toddler in a carrier on his back approached a table and stared at the rounds of cheese, eventually picking out several varieties. I guessed they would be heading to the ice cream cart across the way soon.

The multitude of sacks of every kind of grain and dried herb or spice at the Saturday Market, Saumur, France.

Red, orange-and-white, and green canopies protected fresh vegetables from the sun: carrots, garlic and turnip bulbs, tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, cabbages, artichokes, radishes, onions, leeks, peppers, and fresh parsley. There were also melons and rhubarb. It was a bit early in the season for most other fruit. This market was similar to the farmer's markets in Boulder County. What was different was the incredible variety of cheeses, some unwrapped and inviting you to just taste, and row upon row of sacks opened to reveal the vivid colors and textures of their contents: cumin, sage, basil, tandoori, anise, green and black peppercorns, parsley, cinnamon sticks, and so much more. Another table displayed many styles of olives.

The Irish pub where I spent a couple of pleasant meals with a sandwich and a Guinness in Saumur, France.

After visiting the marketplace, I stopped at the Guinness pub at the bottom of the hill and ordered a sandwich and a Guinness, then sat looking out at the Loire. I could have been in Dresden Germany sitting next to the Elbe again. But this valley was flatter and more open. No towering cliffs and ancient fortresses atop them. From reading I knew that there were such edifices further east. I would not be seeing much of that, I thought. But I would be wrong.

The theater and rehearsal for what tonight will be a "luminary" or theatrical drama with lights and horses.

Journal Excerpt, Later that night, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Saumur, France: Saumur is known for the military equestrian academy. Jury is out on it IMHO. Looks like a bunch of horse tricks to me. Do the horses enjoy that?

After eating, I wandered up to the chateau and did the tour. The original castle was built in the 10th century to defend against the Normans, destroyed in the 11th by the Normans, then transferred in the 12th to the House of Plantagenet and rebuilt by Henry Plantagenet (Henry II of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine's husband). The vineyard was lovely and the views of the valley were lush from the summit. As I stood on the ramparts I saw a collection of men on horses with colorful caraprices moving in formations in a field below. I got closer and saw that they had set up bleachers around the grounds. Apparently it was a rehearsal for a "luminary" or theatrical drama with lights, which, in this case, also included horses. Turns out, Saumur has a long equestrian tradition and is the home to a famous military equestrian academy.

After watching the maneuvers for a while, I went back to my hotel for a nap to reclaim some energy before heading out for dinner.

The chateau at Saumur and its surrounding vineyards.

Journal Excerpt, Sunday, June 12, 2011 Saumur France: I feel I'm in that restaurant I was at in Chicago, part of a chain called Ed Debevic's. Their motto is, “Eat and Get Out!” Except it is the entire country of France. I am not to ask for anything. I am to follow a set of rules that are not expressly set out. The woman who is the night clerk at my hotel seems unwilling to make allowances for the fact that I need a little extra help. And the woman in the hotel bar at breakfast who “yelled” at me—I do not know how else to describe it—as I was finishing my breakfast after a couple of trips to the bar...?  It was closing time for the buffet, but I was not asking for more food, so all I could imagine was that she thought I was going to want more food because I did not know they were about to close? Or I took too much food? I am starting to not care so much after a better night's sleep and a good tasse de cafe or tasse aux cafe? I don't know.

An empty street in the rain, Saumur France.

It's funny. I see the humor in it now although no one else here seems to. Got to find some Australians to laugh with. I sat down at this cafe along the river. I needed to get out of a steady and breezy sprinkle. But apparently I sat at the wrong table. A woman yells at me. I don't understand exactly what she says except “cafe.” I say, “oui, un cafe, sils vous plais.” She gestures generally to the other side of the cafe and says something else I can't understand. She yells at me again. Oops. So, I head to the undressed tables at the side, realizing now that the dressed tables are set for the afternoon bar/brasserie traffic and I am just odering a coffee. I feel I should have gone to the Celtic pub straightaway—they were serving cafe there. I didn't even see this woman—she was sitting outside at the entrance to the bar eating her breakfast or lunch. I don't understand the rules here. I will try to be more polite and ask before I sit down in general. At a cafe, when I just want coffee, I mean.

The irony here is that, although few people speak English and some people treat me as subhuman because I don't speak French, I hear American music everywhere. At breakfast this morning it was Scott Joplin, Gershwin, Bernstein. As I was walking through the city center, I heard Cyndi Lauper belting out “Girls just want to to have fun!” Mixed message?

Saumur Dolmen Bagneux 2007 by Manfred Heyde (Own work) [GFDL or CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

My strolls were lonely in Saumur. On Sunday, I was literally by myself on the streets, probably because of the constant drizzle. But I was not walking on a tourist track, either. After resting out of the rain at the cafe table for a while, I traveled around the city. I had time to kill. I discovered some hidden treasures, including the Dolmen de Bagneux. I had to walk a half mile or more out of town to the suburb of Bagneux to see it, but it was worth it. This stone is the only evidence left of the first settlement on the site of modern Saumur and is about 5,000 years old. It is considered a "megalith," which is defined in Merriam Websters as a very large usually rough stone used in prehistoric cultures as a monument or building block. Structures built of such stones use no mortar or concrete. The Dolmen de Bagneux is the second largest dolmen uncovered. No one knows for sure who built these dolmens throughout Britain and Europe, but they are likely remnants of burial chambers. Some of them might have been originally covered in earth and small pebbles.

Underground at the Louis de Greneville Cave (winery).

I also visited the Louis de Greneville Cave (winery) where they make great sparkling wine. The caves are underground tufa (limestone). Some of the bottles here are over 100 years old. Saumur is part of the Loire Valley wine country, and they are very proud of their wine. I entered the store front at Louis de Greneville and was greeted by a young woman who spoke English. She understood my situation and put me at the end of a tour that was just starting, telling me that, although the tour group was French, the tour guide would be happy to answer any questions in English when the formal tour was finished. She was and she did. I tasted several sparkling white wines and rose wines, and I loved them all. I enquired, and found that it was difficult to get these wines in the USA. This seems to be true of most small, local wineries in western Europe. So, I focused I enjoying them in place.

When I got back to my hotel, I crashed for a while, then grabbed a brief dinner. But soon I was back at my hotel and in bed. I wanted to be fresh for my tour of the Abbey at Fontevraud the next day with my guide, Pierre.

My experience in Saumur wasn't over, but the worst of my stress in that city was. I would encounter other difficulties in other cities before I made it back home, but my days were also peppered with pleasant and fun experiences, including meeting kind people like my bus driver. And I was touring incredibly beautiful countryside full of a rich and interesting heritage. I was still a grump at times, but I usually met challenges head on and gained much from the experience.

My feelings of alienation in this and in other cities throughout my journey has convinced me to work to change my automatic thinking about "foreigners" and non-English speakers in my own country, and to be more charitable toward them. I feel I gained only an inkling of what it might be like to be an immigrant. I hope that now, if I meet a traveler from another country or a U.S. Citizen who doesn't speak much English, I will remember my lessons from Europe and meet her with kindness instead of judgement. Even if I have to fight my usual impatience and rash conclusions.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Building a Castle at Guédelon

Saturday, June 4, 2011 Saint Fargeau and Guédelon Forest

Saturday dawned with partially sunny skies. Perfect for a cycling outing. I contemplated my day's plans over breakfast.

Journal Excerpt: Saturday morning breakfast, June 4, 2011 Saint Fargeau at the Hotel Les Grande Chenes

→ bike shorts

Questions for the workmen at Guédelon:
1. How long does the seal between mortar and stone last? Would it ever dry up and crack—fall away as powder?
2. What kind of stone?
3. What is the mortar made of? Typical materials of 13th century? Or were other materials used? Limestone? Were other stones quarried other places such as Poitou?
4. Solar?
5. 2nd floor? When?
6. Fire places? When? Where? In conjunction to upstairs?
7. Chimneys – what happened to smoke before they are in use?

The bike I rented at Hotel Les Grande Chenes to take me to Guédelon Forest. My water bottle and hat ride in the basket.

I was on my way to the 13th-century. The year 1242 to be exact. I had not prepared much for my visit. I assumed I would learn all I needed to by listening and asking questions once there .

The way to the Chantier Medieval de Guédelon was not direct if I was to avoid highways. It would be about a 3-mile ride along single-lane dirt and paved roads. The main route was a two-lane road and well traveled, but once I turned onto it, I would have only another half mile to ride before reaching the site. The bike had a basket over the handle bars. I stowed my water bottle and purse in it and took off.

By the time I got to the main drag leading up to the castle, I was tired, hot, and sweaty. But the roadway was lined on both sides with parked cars, so the traffic was not moving very fast. There was no bike parking, but I chose a parking lot fairly close to the museum and gift shop and locked my bike to the fence. I bought the ticket that would grant me entrance to the castle grounds themselves.

One of the Gate Towers under construction along the curtain wall. The wood construction on top forms the frame for the mortar and stone edifice that will be built around it.

I walked around the castle first, looking at it from all perspectives. It was still obviously under construction and would be for another 13 years as planned. They'd started work in 1998. I crossed the bridge over the ditch dug out for the moat. A tower stood at my right. It was stone-and-mortared about 10 feet up from the bottom of the ditch. The top 6 feet or so were wood construction and formed the frame for the stonemasons. It was cool to see the structure in progress.

Who are these fools who decided to build a 13th century castle with contemporary methods and tools? It was a decision by Michel Guyot, the owner of the Saint Fargeau chateau. After he had done an architectural analysis of his fortress, which had been burned and rebuilt in the 17th century, he discovered the original 13th century castle walls underneath the 17th century brick. He thought about rebuilding the chateau in all it's original glory, then got excited about the idea of the building of a castle from scratch and all that was entailed. How would we ever know what it took? That's when he decided that that was what he was going to do with his millions. He got together with Maryline Martin and she got the project moving. She brought in master stone mason Florian Renucci, and they made it happen. Florian drew up the master plan modeled on three castles from the Philip Ausgustus castle-building period, which included the Saint Fargeau chateau.

The overgrown quarry on site at Guédelon. The good stone has already been cut away. These slabs are probably not red enough to indicate the quality needed for construction of the castle.

First Maryline had to find a site, and the old quarry hidden in the forests of the Burgundy countryside was perfect. It was remote, there was plenty of area to set up and keep the project and all it's work areas productive, and the stone from which it would be made was right there. The only downside was that it was a sandstone quarry. Sandstone is generally harder than limestone and can be near to impossible to excavate from the ground. The darker the blue shades in the sandstone, the harder it is. Quarrymen look for dark red shaded stone. These stones are easier to quarry, and are generally of good quality.

Sandstone that has been selected for a specific purpose and dressed appropriately. Arrows mark the direction of the outside face. Each stone is signed by the stonecutter so the quality of the work can be monitored and appropriate payment can be made. Limestone sits, dressed and ready, at the top of the photo.

Florian and Maryline decided to bring limestone in from another site to fill out the softer stone supply. The limestone would be used for alternating with sandstone in arches (which was a common 13th-century practice), and for surrounding doors and windows. They gave themselves 25 years to finish the work. And they named the castle after the forest in which it would reside: Guédelon. To prevent anachronisms in the construction of the castle, they created an historical context: the month and year that the castle was started was set as May 1229. Louis IX was the boy king, and it was a relatively peaceful and prosperous time in France. The owners created a fictitious lord to own Guédelon: born in 1199, he is a younger member of the Courtenay family. A poorer lord, he married into a wealthy local family, descendants of a minor branch of the Toucy clan. The Guédelon land was part of the dowry. And, because of his military service, the lord was granted the right to "crenellate" or to build a castle. As I walked the perimeter of Guédelon, it was the year 1242. And I believed it.

The small Chapel Tower under scaffolding on the west side of the main residence.

Two towers on either side of the residence were under construction, but open to the public. I walked up the dark stairs of the larger tower and stumbled to the top, feeling my way with my hands. I am slightly claustrophobic, but I didn't think the winding stone steps of a castle tower would bring it on. By the time I arrived at the top of the platform, I was ready for fresh air and sunshine.

The joists in place for the floor of the lord's solar or private chambers.

The interior of the residence was also being worked on. The upstairs loft had joists installed where the floor would be laid for the lord's solar. My favorite part of the residence was the window seat over the front door of the castle. The seats looked out through a “two light” window, which is a window with two divisions, or lights, separated by a vertical post. It was the place with the most light. The wooden seats just needed cushions. It was the only corner obviously designed for comfort, it seemed.

The second floor "two light" window on the south side of the residence with a quatrefoil stone carving above and seats below.

My second favorite part of the castle was the kitchen because it made it look lived in. Inside was a woman baking bread and pies which made the past really come alive. And now I was hungry.

A cook baking bread and pies in the residence kitchen.

I walked the grounds taking in the work sites of the craftspeople and artisans. The laborers work on site from March to November. They also act as tour guides from April to October. In the off-season they can't actually work but still get paid. Most workers I saw that day were men. I saw three women: the cook in the kitchen and two women horse handlers. The horse handlers drove the carts that hauled stone and wood to the building site, and rubbed down and fed the horses after they finished a shift.

Female horse handler feeding the workhorse while a male horse handler and a child tourist look on.

I discovered later that there were at least two tiers of laborers on site, just as there would have been on the construction site of a medieval castle. The masons, stonecutters, and carpenters were "freemen" and received a daily wage or yearly salary (sometimes both depending on the totality and variety of the work the did, whether piecemeal or project level). The other laborers were peasants living and working on the land owned by the lord and receiving his protection in exchange for their labor.

A stonecutter dressing sandstone for use in building the castle walls.

I enjoyed watching the workhorses playing in the paddocks. One nonchalantly shared his field with a burro. The animals had plenty of exercise and fresh air. And they seemed happy. I also found pigs by the rope maker's shack. Of course they were rolling in the mud!

One of the workhorses and a burro share a pen during off-work hours.

The Dyer's cottage and garden's were beautiful. The bundles of dyed threads hanging outside in the sun were an echo of the purples, greens, yellows, and blues of the flowers and herbs in the garden. No one was inside the cottage working, but large wood barrels sat on the wooden floor with smaller buckets and canisters nearby waiting for the workers' return. Shelves were lined with undyed wool thread. I later found out that the dyer at the cottage also supplied the color used to paint the interior walls of the castle, which happened sometime after my visit.

The dyer's cottage at Guédelon. Dyed threads hang out front. The roof is hand-shingled with rough hewn strips of wood with the bark still attached.

I returned to the main thoroughfare and found the blacksmith's shop. I watched a young man in medieval dress pound a piece of hot iron into shape over a very hot fire. His skin glistened with sweat and his muscles tightened with every swing. (I later discovered his name is Martin Claudel, and he has recently retired from Guédelon to start his own business as a traditional toolmaker.) The wall behind him was hung with tools he and his fellow blacksmiths had made or repaired for the stonecutters, woodcutters, masons, and carpenters. This was the biggest responsibility of the blacksmith on a work site: making tools and keeping tools in good shape so that the other laborers could keep working. Other responsibilities included making strapwork for doors and gates to protect them from enemy blows. All the workers at Guédelon not only wore period dress, but took their roles very seriously. They, in effect, had traveled back to the 13th century to work on a castle.

The blacksmith, Martin Claudel, pounding an iron tool into shape.

I watched a man make rope. I now know his name is Yvon Herouart. He spoke only in French, but the process was very active and interesting. It took a lot of room, too. He strung the initial fibers from one end of his shack's courtyard to the other and wound them with a crank. Then he took that thin rope and wound it in the crank with another like rope he had already made. He continued this process until he had a very thick rope. I was transfixed as he walked and talked continually winding his rope.

The rope maker at Guédelon, Yvon Herouart, now retired, explaining the rope walk, Burgundy, France. From original 1600x900-pixel image copyright 2010 mediea at http://mittelzeit.blogspot.com.

I was so intrigued, I did some reading about the technique later. Turns out, the procedure he was using is called “rope walking,” Rope walking or making is a lengthy (no pun intended) process during which long strings of fibers from materials such as sisal, hemp, linen, and cotton are stretched the length of the rope walk (up to 300 yards and more) and wound together by a hand crank. Typically, they use three of these lengths at a time. The new “rope” is then restrung along the walk with other ropes that have been made the same way to be wound again. This process is continued until a rope of the thickness and strength required is completed. Rope walking was a popular technique for making stout rope from the 13th century through the 18th century. You can still find rope walks today. In England, Chatham Docks on the Medway River has a rope walk that is a quarter mile long, and workers rode bicycles to get from one end to the other. One of these days I would love to visit it.

Pigs rolling in the mud behind the rope maker's shack.

I wandered some more through the site, taking pictures. When I reviewed them later, I missed the importance of some of the shots, so they never made it to my Facebook page or my slideshow. For example, now that I have read the book on Guédelon, I understand that the pile of bricks the wagon is parked in front of in the following photo is actually the tiler's oven or kiln.

The tiler's kiln.

Soon I was exhausted. I headed to the site tavern where they served roasted meats (pork?), potatoes, bread, and vegetables. And ale.

Journal Excerpt: Saturday afternoon, June 4, 2011, at the Guédelon site tavern: Taking some notes while finishing my lunch of smoked meats, coarse bread, and root vegetables. Everyone here speaks French and I did not have an opportunity to ask a question. My, it's hot. Wonder if removing the pant legs (of my hiking trousers) will help.

Metalwork-- the holes in the beams across the ceiling, tools hang from them.

The sandstone has moss all over it even as it is in the wall. Turned to the outside.

Tower Stair-- very narrow and dark chamber in tower – very dark with just slits for light. Although the windows are a wedge with the narrow end to the outside. So the light diffuses into the chamber?

The garden behind the dyer's cottage.

My trip back to the hotel was long but uneventful. I tried a short cut across a field and along a single track that went up a hill, but it turned out the ground was too rough to ride, so I had to get out and walk my bike. Eventually, I returned to the main road. I was very tired when I got to my room. After typing up some of my notes, I crashed.

It was true that I did not get answers to all my questions, but I did see and learn a lot. Later, I studied the subject on my own, and came to understand so much more. Perhaps if I had visited Guédelon later in the season when there were more English-speaking tourists and therefore English-speaking guides, I would have been overwhelmed by too much information. Maybe I would have had to fight my way through crowds to see anything. So, all-in-all, the trip was successful.

Editor's note: The building at Guédelon has continued, and in the last six years they have made some great progress, especially on the interior of the residence. This includes finishing the lord's solar and painting the interior walls with a lovely floral design. If you want to learn more about Guédelon, you can check out their website. Also there is a really cool video which shows the same blacksmith that I saw, Martin Claudel, plus includes an updated aerial view of the castle. And, there is a sister castle being built by the same man, Michel Guyot, in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, which I would love to visit.

Other references:
Rope making on the Medieval Blog
BBC Two's “Secrets of the Castle with Ruth, Peter, and Tom,” including interview with Martin Claudel
Guedelon: A Castle in the Making, Martin, Maryline and Renucci, Florian, QUEST-FRANCE, copyright 2010.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Paris. Where to Pee? In Subway, at Louvre, or Directly on EurRail Pass?

Wednesday, 05/25/2011

I had a wonderful breakfast of muesli, yogurt and fruit, and a croissant with coffee—very rich dark, wonderful coffee—and armed with subway directions from the owner of the hotel, I headed to Gare d'Austerlitz, which was the closest train station. I first entered the subway just two short blocks from the hotel and bought a Paris Visite' pass at the subway window. The woman behind the counter spoke little English, but she was able to confirm that the subway train that I needed to travel to Gare d'Austerlitz was number 10.

What a bright subway compared to NYC! White walls and broad platforms. I didn't feel like I was underground. It was just five quick minutes to the Gare d'Austerlitz station, but it took me another 5 minutes to find the ticket window. “Billets!” said one sign. “Grand Journeys!” said another. The “Billets!” sign led to a ticket window that advertised local Paris and other French destinations. Dresden was not listed. Aha! I thought. Maybe “Grand Journeys” means tickets for trains to other countries. After a moment, I discovered the tickets for Grand Journeys in a separate area set back from the rest. It didn't say "billets" until you got inside. Once there, though, the woman was very helpful.

At least, that's what I thought.

Gare d'Austerlitz subway station by Vincent BABILOTTE (Own work) [GFDL, CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY 2.5], via Wikimedia Commons

I asked her for a reservation to the Dresden-Neustadt station for the following day. She told me I couldn't use my EurRail pass for the first part of the journey, from Paris to Frankfurt. I was dumbfounded. But I was so eager to check off the task of making my reservation for the next day from my long list of tasks that I Rambo'd through it. It didn't occur to me until later that I was just making a reservation so that I shouldn't have been purchasing a ticket at all. My EurRail pass was the ticket. Pushing down my confusion and just making it happen, I paid for the ticket, even thanking the woman. To be fair to myself, I did guess that I might have missed some fine print, or that I did not make my reservation in time to use the EuroRail pass.

It all made sense later. Sort of.

I handed the woman my credit card. It didn't work. It had just worked earlier that day, so I was again surprised. What else could go wrong here? I put that card back in my wallet , and pulled up my shirt to get to my money belt. I hoped no one would think I was stripping. I pulled out my back-up card. The woman's eyes got big. "Wow!" she said. I made some sounds of apology and she said, “No! Is good!” I assume she was referring to how careful I was being with my money and credit cards by keeping backups underneath my clothes.

Voila! The second card worked. (I later found out it was just a setting on the first credit card and hubby fixed it for me long distance—what a guy!)

Gare d'Austerlitz Paris Train Station by ignis (Own work) [GFDL, CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Several days later, I did manage to finish reading the EurRail Pass Traveler's Guide (which I should have done already). Guess what? If you don't get a reservation fairly early on, you may not get one of the seats set aside for EurRail Pass holders. If they run out of those, you have to buy another ticket or reserve a seat on another train. They recommend that you make your reservations even before you enter Europe through your travel agent! Something my travel agent did not tell me. So, when next I am at the train station, I will try to make my reservations for the remainder of the journey -- especially if I can find a EurRail office at one of the train stations, Better yet, I'll email my travel agent and have her do it!

So the lady at Gare d'Austerlitz was correct: I had to buy an additional ticket because I had waited too long to make a reservation for that specific train. All the reservations for EurRail seats on that specific train had been filled already.  My conclusion is that a EurRail pass is not worth the money unless you are really flexible. I am glad I did it this time, because it is nice to have some expense out of the way, and now I know how to make better use of it. But, you are paying a premium for train tickets with it. I have been told by two separate sources (one is a friend who lives in Europe and the other is the guy at www.seat61.com) that Americans pay more for train tickets than anyone else. Even direct purchases from the in-country train web sites. So, live and learn. Now that I know my way around a bit better, I think next time, I will just get the tickets either directly through the rail company web sites or when I get here. I also will be more flexible on when I travel. I now realize that if I had picked a later train to Dresden, I could probably have gotten on it without paying an extra fee. But I wanted to get on that specific train because I had told my friends I was coming at that specific time. If I had changed it, I would have had to communicate back to my friends about the change. It seemed like too much trouble when I was already overwhelmed with my first day in Paris.

My EurRail Pass from Spring 2011 all filled in.

Even though it was a rude awakening to discover that my EurRail Pass was not going to always work smoothly, I was happy that I had made a connection with this woman at the train station. It is the small things. And I had accomplished my goal of securing a ticket to Dresden.

The rest of the day was a blur. At this point, I really had to pee. I found the bathroom, but I needed a .50 euro coin to use it, which I did not have. I wonder how many Americans finally find the bathroom and then just pee their pants right there in front of the sign that says, “.05 euro, please!” because they don't have any change.

I found my way to the metro, wondering if I could just hold it until I got to the Louvre, but a fashion boutique caught my eye. Perhaps I could get change for the toilette there. I examined the goods and decided on a bright orange India print shawl. It would go well with the orange, red and aqua dragon print dress. After explaining to the proprietress that I needed change for the toilette, and after she conferred with a friend who was chatting with her when I walked up, she handed me several coins including a couple .50 euro pieces in change. I thanked her, then headed back to the toilette emporium. I put my coin into the machine, but the gate would not let me through to the toilettes. I could see the sinks from where I was stuck in the gate and I knew that the commodes were nearby, but I could not get to them. The woman tending the bathrooms said something like "not enough," and put another coin in. "Merci," I said and continued on through the gate. What a relief! I must have put in a .20 coin instead of a .50. They looked alike to me. They were both gold, and the .20 was the size of a U.S. quarter. The .50 was even bigger.

What a hectic morning! I returned to the platform and asked directions to the Louvre. The poor woman at the window was struggling to find the words in English and did a good job getting the essentials in there so I understood. I'd ask someone else if I didn't quite get it. I thanked her and went on my merry way catching the 1st train, number 10 again, to travel back one stop along the route I had taken to Gare d'Austerlitz, and then I switched to train 1. I thought I had to switch again at the next stop, but it turns out that I was already there at the Louvre!

Well, kind of.

Before I entered I went in search of the elusive Museum Pass. Two sources said that you purchase it under the Louvre, in the train station. I saw a couple of signs that looked like they said, "To the Louvre," but I couldn't get through. I went back the way I had come and watched the next load of people come off the train, and followed them. I found a ticket booth. I asked the man. "No, no,” he said. "Not here." I gave up at that point. I was spending so much time running around trying to make all the things happen that my travel agent said I needed to make happen, but there was a disconnect with reality. I had asked everyone about the Museum Pass, from the hotel clerk to the subway booth cashier. Everyone sent me somewhere else, and that somewhere else turned out to be NOWHERE.

When I finally got to the Louvre, I referred to the Lonely Planet country guide on my kindle. It said that if you came through a certain entrance you could buy a pass and not wait. Oh, well. I saw a line in front of me that came all around the glass pyramid entrance to the lower level, so I stood there checking with the couple in front of me that I was in the right line. They were American, but not very talkative. But they were also traveling together. I'm told, and I think it is true given my own experiences, that when you travel with other people, you only talk with them and not with strangers you meet along the way. Alone, I am constantly talking with strangers who sometimes become acquaintances, Even friends. More about that later.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Based on a blog post originally published on electricrider.net on May 31, 2011.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Don't Turn Right at the Left Bank

Tuesday, 5/24/2011, Paris France, Journal Excerpt

I'll be brief because I am tired. It's been a long day, and I have lost another hour in yet another time change from England to France. But today I was more energized than I have been in days. Got up at 5:00am and was at breakfast at 6:30am, and quite early for the Queen Mary 2's disembarkation call at Southampton. I vacated the cabin with my two small bags. In hindsight, I wished I'd stayed and done some yoga and Pilates. As it was, I was so early I had time to fill out my customs card for Eurostar and brush up on my French.

I sat outside the Royal Theater and did so until 7:45am. Then I went into the theater where all the other passengers heading to Paris on the train were to gather and was still flipping through my phrase book when Nicole arrived. We had a pleasant discussion about movies and television, then we got off the ship and unto a bus that took us, after 2 hours, to St. Pancras station. Nicole and I had a light lunch, then embarked on the EuroStar train. We were in two separate cars. Mine was Car 5. I got on and immediately set down my ticket. I stowed two bags above my head and sat down and then I realized I hadn't verified I was in the right seat. But now I couldn't find my ticket. A French man sat down next to me. I told him I might be getting up because I didn't have my ticket and I wasn't sure I was in the right seat. He assured me it happened all the time and not to worry. It was probably in my pocket somewhere. He was right. When I picked up my coat to stow it, the ticket was on the seat underneath. I had been sitting on it. What was strange was that I was in exactly the right seat!

Nicole and me eating our one meal in England (at St. Pancras station) before getting on the EuroStar train to Paris.

The ride was 2 1/2 hours of rolling countryside, several short tunnels, then the long Chunnel itself—25 minutes or so. I sipped the Guinness I'd bought at the station and read my phrase book. And I congratulated myself that things were going pretty well. I had been ahead of schedule all day and even my confusion with misplacing my ticket had not led to catastrophe. I went over in my head my plan to get my train ticket to Germany as soon as I got to the Paris Nord station. I was meeting friends in Dresden on Thursday.

I got to the Paris station, saw Nicole get off the train, and waved to her. We walked out to the taxi area together and she got in line for the taxi. I said goodbye to her and went back into the station to make a reservation for Dresden. I couldn't figure out what window was the one I wanted. The only one for tickets seemed to have a long line. I stood in it for 5 minutes then realized I didn't have time for this. I asked at a small shop across the way for a disposable phone, but the young man said, "It is not possible!" I think he was wrong, but I had no time to find out. I had a car and driver waiting for me outside.

I thought.

Turns out, he/she was nowhere in sight. I waited for 15 minutes at the taxi stand then asked some limo drivers who were standing in front of a sign that said "Limos and hired cars" and they said a driver would either be right there or around the front of the station. I thought I was already at the front of the station. I walked around to the “other” front and waited there for 25 minutes. No show. Then I went inside to try to call the emergency number for the tour group who set up the car and driver. I went to the phone and set down my small blue bag between my feet, hoping to use a credit card to charge the call, but I wasn't sure that was the right thing to do. So I went to the tobacconist nearby and I bought a telephone card. When I returned there were a couple of security guards standing around. I walked back to the phone and saw that my little blue bag was still sitting there. What a relief that no one had stolen it! A security guard came over and pointed at the bag with a question “Is yours?”

“Yes,” I said.

The other guard looked at me pointedly and said, “Be more careful!”

I have to admit that at this point I rolled my eyes in true French fashion. I had so much on my mind, how could I be more careful! What I wanted was their help dialing the phone, but they walked away and I decided that I could figure it out by myself. I dialed, but nothing. I probably dialed too many numbers—including the country code, but I couldn't see what I was doing because it was so dark in the corner where the phones were.

I went back outside. There were a million taxis, but no “limos” or other cars without taxi signs. I decided to just get into a taxi and get to my hotel. After two hours, I was finally at my hotel. (Actually I walked into the hotel next door by mistake first—they are all so close together. But I'd stopped counting these small problems at this point.)

One of the photos adorning the walls of my room at the Hotel Quartier Latin. I believe this shows Collette writing in bed, but I was not able to confirm this with the hoteliers. Anyone?

I was so relieved to be at this charming little place called the Hotel Quartier Latin, which is all about the Left Bank artist scene. Photographs of writers and artists, plus doodles and writings from some of them, are hung along the walls creating a little art gallery.

Once I hung up a handful of clothes I needed for the next day, I splashed water on my face and headed to the lobby in search of a Parisian dinner. I asked the concierge for a quiet place off the main street, but he didn't live there and didn't have a suggestion. A British woman standing behind me, however, said, "Excuse me," and described a street a couple blocks over where there were many tiny restaurants and it was very quiet.

My favorite restaurant on the Left Bank: Restaurant L'Etoile du Berger (roughly translated as the Shepherd's Star Restaurant). I did, indeed, come back here for the fondue after I returned from Dresden.

She was right: the street was cobbled and silent except for an occasional motor bike zooming by. I found a wonderful fondue place—tiny—with stone and mortar walls. Only one other couple was inside. I overheard them tell the owner/maitre'de that they were from South Africa and that a friend from the United States told them to eat there. Wow! How did I manage to stumble upon such a popular place? I ate a wonderful duck confit with roast potatoes and a pitcher of wine—“la pichet de vin rouge.” I wish to go back there when I return to Paris after visiting friends in Dresden and order the fondue—I must!

I walked nonchalantly back to the room and busied myself with social media for a while. It was late when I went to bed—about 2:00 in the morning. The time had changed ONCE AGAIN and it was one hour later than in England. I had wanted to be up the next morning in time to be at breakfast when it opened at 7:00 so I could get my train reservation for Dresden and find a disposable phone before hitting the Louvre. But with the new time, I decided to let myself sleep until 7:00. I was exhausted.

My room at the Hotel Quartier Latin, Paris.

To Be Continued.

This blog is based on a blog that appeared on the electricrider.net sit in May 2011.

Dany

A version of this blog entry appeared on electricrider.net on June 12, 2011

A hotel on the Left Bank, Paris, France, 2011.

I first met Dany after I had bought a disposable French phone. It was the first step in my plan to stay connected with my friends in Dresden, Germany, as well as to contact hotels, taxis, restaurants, or my tour company and insurance company if there were problems.

I had been asking everywhere near the train stations for a disposable phone. I didn't have the right language. Was it a "mobile" as it is in the UK? Or a "telefono" as in Spain or Italy. "Disposable" seemed to be a word no one understood. But I finally found one at the trains station at a REPLAY shop and promptly bought it.

When I got it back to my hotel, I realized that the instructions were all in French. Still, I was able to understand what needed to be done. I must send my application and a copy of my identification to an address and in seven days the phone would be activated. But, then what? All the menus and the messages were in French! It was not ideal, but it was better than nothing. And what return address would I use? I asked at the concierge at my hotel. The owner was presiding. She said she didn't think I should use her address. I would be back there in 7 days if a reply was returned by post. But she suggested I try at the post office to get help. At the time, I thought it was a strange suggestion. But I had been inundated with strangeness. So, what the heck?

The post office was just across the way so no problem. I walked in and bought some stamps for the post cards from a tiny man wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He had huge blue eyes and a expressive face. I hesitated. He shooed me away. "That's all," he insisted.

"Well, I replied. "I need something else that is a little more complicated."

The man's eyes brightened and he led me over to a table. "Let's come over here so we can talk." He reminded my of a small, French version of Hugh Laurie. You know, House M.D.? This man was tiny, but he had all of Hugh's expressions. Snapping out retorts with a languor that was all House. Rolling his eyes theatrically that was reminiscent of Bertie Wooster. But the man came to about my chin (I'm five-foot-six-inches).

"You speak very good English," I said.

"I speak American!" he said. He looked indignant.

"Ah! That explains why I can understand you so well."

He shrugged dramatically and laughed. "Yes. I lived for two years in New York City. I've been to 38 states."

"That's more than I've been to!"

He laughed again, and then got down to business. I explained what I had. "Ah! You bought my rival's phone!"

I apologized.

He shook his head derisively, but then looked through the paperwork I brought with me. "It's no problem. I can help you."

I sunk with relief onto the table (well, my upper body did anyway--there were no chairs to sink into). "Thank you!" I said. As he was reading through the instructions and dialing numbers into the phone, I looked around. Mobile phones hung from the walls and signs indicated "rechargement here." This was serious business here. The French post office was way into rechargeable, disposable cell phones. How weird.

The little man wrote a number down on my paper work. "This is your number." He gestured me over to his computer. "Voice or messaging?"

Huh. It's one or the other? If I had a choice between only those two options... "Messaging" I said. I have no idea why that came out.

"Messaging," he said and continued to punch numbers into the phone.

I immediately felt a crisis. What if that was the wrong thing to do? I had to contact my friends in Dresden while on my way the next day by train, so they would know I was on it and could meet me. I s'pose messaging would work as long as I got their phone numbers and let them know that's what I would be doing.

There were more decisions to make. "How much money to you want to put on your phone?"

Huh. I had no idea. What was the rate? It was such a jumble in my brain. "25 euro?" I suggested.

He nodded and typed it in.

"OK. I will change the menu to English for you," he said.

"Wow! Fantastic!" I said, "You are amazing."

"I know," he said without blinking. "There you go." He handed me the phone.

"Thank you soooo much," I gushed. "What is your name."

"Dany. With one 'n.'"

"Thank you, Dany with one 'n.'"

I wondered if I would see him again on my return to Paris after visiting my friends in Dresden. I did. I needed to recharge my phone, so I went back looking for him upon my return to Paris. He was nowhere in sight. I asked the beautiful black woman at the counter if Dany was available to help me with my phone. "Yes," she replied and gestured with her head to the door behind her.

Dany burst out of the swinging glass door in black trousers and a blue oxford shirt with black tie all the while talking earnestly to another young man. Then he approached a couple who had been waiting patiently by the door. He seemed all growed up from the Dany I had seen before. I could see he was the experienced one in the shop. Perhaps even the manager. He was very busy with these two, so I wandered off waiting and hopeful that there would be a break in his business.

There wasn't. But the beautiful young woman who had first waited on me was quite competent herself with setting up the phone. She added 35 euro for me and changed it from just messaging to both voice and messaging.

Dany, you were special, but our meeting was fleet, and not to be repeated. I will always remember how you got me connected in Europe. Au revoir!

My Dinners with Julia

(First published on electricrider.net on December 18, 2011)
 

Enjoying soup and red wine while reading my kindle at the Hotel le Grande in Poitiers, France

“No,” the young woman standing behind the desk said, her face expressionless. She turned away from me and said something in French that sounded like “it's passed time.” It sounded like a dismissal.

It was my worst fear. I had asked for room service. A minor request at a three star hotel. I spoke only a little French so, instead of calling hotel reception, I brought the menu down in the creaky elevator to the night clerk and pointed to the items I wanted.

Her mouth was a permanent frown. “No,” she said and shook her head again.

Is she telling me that 8:30 at night was too late to order room service? That seemed odd because the menu said it was available until 9:00.

The view from my hotel room in Saumur that first night.

She did not speak English, I knew, because the night before, after I'd arrived late by bus, I'd had difficulty understanding what she was telling me. I never quite got it. Luckily I was able to get into my room and didn't give it a second thought.

Now I stared at her incredulously, the open room service menu lying between us on the desk. “It is too late?” I said in broken French.

"No, no! It is not too late!” she replied. Still, she would not meet my eyes.

I shrugged and repeated my order. “Je voudrais un casserolet y un salade y un verre de vin rouge.”

“No,” she said and then something more I didn’t understand.
I stared at her hopelessly. “Pourquoi?”

She just looked at me and said something more in a tone that sounded infinitely rationale and logical, but in words of utter incomprehensibility to me.

I shrugged. “Forget it!” I said and turned back to the elevator and creaked back up to my room. I had walked the streets of Saumur all day taking photos and I was too tired to venture out to find a restaurant. So, I did not eat.

I took it hard that night, crying on the phone to my husband back in the states. He helped me feel tons better, but during the ensuing weeks of travel I still feared that when I asked for something I would be told “no!”

Until I met Julia.

The marketplace in Saumur.

I was traveling through Europe for the first time and alone: seven weeks by train and foot exploring Eleanor of Aquitaine's twelfth-century domains. I didn't speak more than a few phrases of any language other than English and, after sight-seeing all day in cities where few people spoke English well, I was often exhausted. It took all of my energy (and an afternoon nap) to get myself back out on the street in search of dinner. In my head I could still hear the night clerk in Saumur saying “no!” and remembered my stomach grumbling with hunger as I fell asleep that night. Sometimes I just wanted to hide in my hotel room for twenty-four hours.

You might wonder why I put myself into this situation to begin with. From the time I started to think about it, I knew this trip would be difficult. But touring the ruins of the castles, abbeys, and churches that Eleanor of Aquitaine walked when she ruled France and England would make it all worthwhile. It would revive my creativity and interest in the novel I was writing that featured Eleanor's time as back drop.

I would be home sick. Anyone would be. To counter this, I planned to establish a routine while traveling that included some of my every-day habits.

I have always had books piled around me since I learned to read at age five

I have always had books piled around me ever since I learned to read at age five. One pile teeters on my bedside table right this minute. Another sits, semi-collapsed, on the guest room futon. I find it easier at times to converse with the narrators of stories and the characters in books than with groups of people. If I was to feel comfortable talking to strangers in a foreign language day after day for weeks, I had to have a refuge. I had to have Fiction. Memoir. Travel. History. Books that kept me company. Books to help explain what I was seeing and where I was going and why. And books to help me escape. Maybe the practice of reading would help prevent me pining for the homeland too deeply.

I had traveled alone years before in New York City and Boston doing research for a biography. I had eaten out by myself in restaurants every night. But even in New York City where it isn't too far from chic to ask for a table for one, I had to wait for service because my server assumed I was waiting for a second. This created that familiar awkwardness anyone who has dined alone is familiar with. You don't wish to be overlooked, yet you don’t wish to be looked at too much. Like Goldilocks you want the attention to be just right. This balance calls on all one's communication skills: the subtle body language, the correct words, the demanding tone when needed. If all goes well, you order your meal, then sit back and sip a glass of wine, casually glancing over the pages of a literary tome while sneaking looks at new arrivals. You are of the world when you want to be or, when people-watching becomes too uncomfortable or boring, you can disappear into a book and be outside it. So I knew all too well that in France, Germany, and Spain, I would feel these classic symptoms at potentially excruciating levels. I would be alone and often essentially mute. There was no way I was living my literary friends behind. Because I was traveling by train and foot during my Europe stay and I could carry only so much weight, I put as many books onto my Amazon Kindle as I could. It added no more than a pound to my luggage.

And so, when I left on my arduous journey, I felt I had planned for every contingency. What I hadn't expected was that by escaping into a book in Europe, I could propel my dining experience to a whole new level.

* * *

Me on the rooftop of the Hotel le Grande restaurant in Poitiers.

I savor the last bite of Poached Eggs in Wine, holding it in my mouth to let the flavors roll back on my tongue. The Auxerre restaurant has a huge fire going between the dining room and the kitchen despite the mild June weather and it is quite warm. But I don't care. I sip the local wine and then turn to my dinner companion. “What do you think?” I say, swirling the glass.

She smacks her lips and leans her tall frame forward. “The sauces are so rich, like the Burgundy countryside. There is nothing fresher than produce bought at the local market, wouldn't you say?” She takes another bite of her egg, and smiles. “And of course everything is made that much better when accompanied by a nice glass of Burgundy wine!” She raises her glass and we toast to Americans in France.

Julia is as ebullient as ever. Perhaps that's why the couple near the fire glances in our direction, their eyebrows raised.

This meal is a result of hundreds of years of simmered local tradition and culture,” she says. “We taste a bit of history with every bite!”

I agree. This was the life. I grin at Julia sitting across from me at the Four Chaud restaurant: tall and angular, a food and culture goddess. And happy to be here. This is what I needed. A reminder of how happy I am to be here. I raise my glass and its raspberry color flashes with the firelight.

“Bon appetit!”

Fondue on the Left Bank of Paris at L'Etoile du Berger

I dig into the next course and, although I am reading her words from her book, My Life In France, I listen to Julia McWilliams Child as if we are having our own conversation. I hear the merry quaver in her voice as she describes arriving on the northwest coast of France at Le Havre by ocean liner in 1948. Her husband, Paul, who had traveled extensively in France before World War II, knew the way to a wonderful restaurant in the Norman countryside. Julia was not fluent enough in French to order for herself, but Paul ordered an incredible meal of briny oysters portugaises and fragrant Dover sole with lots of freshly baked bread and butter.

As I sit enjoying my meal and reading Julia's book, I realize that she felt as alienated then as I sometimes did now. She had sailed to France with Paul when he started a new job at the American embassy in Paris. Otherwise, she had no strong ties to the country. It didn't help that her father had ridiculed the French culture when she was a girl. She knew nothing of the cuisine and little of cooking in general at that point in her life. But she kept her mind open and learned to love France, to cook fantastic French cuisine, and to teach others how to, as well. If Julia could learn to love living here, I could learn to enjoy my five-week tour of medieval castles and churches.

I am so involved in Julia's stories and our shared dining experience, that I forget that I am sitting alone in a restaurant in Burgundy, France, sipping wine with one hand and holding an Amazon Kindle in the other. But Julia's words are alive: They are much more than lines read from her memoir.

* * *
Julia's companionship continued throughout my travels. I worked hard, stuttering through dinner orders and keeping my phrase book at full alert for questions or comments as the staff brought each course. Once dessert and coffee arrived, I relaxed into a rhythm of conversation:

--How is your meal?
--Wonderful, thank you!
--Do you want anything else?
--No. The check, please.

Cheese burger and fries, French style.

Thankfully, restaurateurs in France plan on one seating in the evening so they expect you to linger after eating. I looked forward to this time and, after I'd paid the bill, turned my full attention to dessert and coffee and Julia.

That one night in the Saumur hotel was the only time I missed a meal during my tour of Europe, but it could have tinted my whole trip like a water color drenched in a dark wash. In discovering the magic of reading Julia's memoir during meals in bistros, brasseries, bars, lounges, and restaurants all over France, I realized I am made of even tougher stuff than I knew.

Julia, in her cheerful American English, stayed with me the entire journey, even following me into Spain and back to England before my flight home to Denver after two months abroad.

Yes, I traveled alone. But one is never completely alone when one has a book.