We left Gaycoco behind, after admiring our last whimsical Alice-In-Wonderland turret-topper. Next stop? The famed city of Rouen, where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. If you've been reading my dribblings for a while, you know my history (real or imagined) of religious persecution. I didn't want to be, so to speak, caught dead in Rouen, but there was a certain tiny hotel that had a big red dot in the center of Poca's map, demanding our visit. So, heavily armored with rice crackers and nut mix, we continued on our very own hundred year war.
Now, don't think for a moment that I'm whining. I get to tag along on a tour de France on somebody else's expense account. But at this point, wining was what I was wanting to do. We'd been driving for a while, we had only a taste of terrible food and a bit of cardboard to sustain us in the car and it was hot and I was sweaty and we didn't have a reservation for a hotel that night (and I began worrying about that at breakfast - you know how I am) and with all of this, a glass of crisp white wine or a cold beer was on my mind. Poca also continued to placate me with tales of a gourmet restaurant with organic food and natural wine, where we would end our day in gastronomic pleasure. But first, we had to be burned at the stake.
Rouen is a big city, which was a nice contrast to the quaint little villages we had seen in the morning. You'd think that Poca would adapt her driving habits to the big city, but no. In search of an underground car park (which I saw way back in the 5th century of our Lord, but didn't say anything until we'd passed it. "Do parking lots here have a big P above them?" Yes, Poca hated me then.), she even drove down a pedestrian-only street. In fact, it's the most tourist-trampled street in Rouen. Just look at their surprised faces. I felt like a diplomat, driving past the drooling peasants. On my way to being burned at the stake. The gold medallion thingy looked cool, though. (Poca slaps her head at my description. "It's the astronomical clock on Gros Horloge Street!" OK, well. Fine.)
We finally parked and walked just a few cobbly streets to our destination, the lovely, centrally-located and inexpensive Le Vieux Carré. We sat in this wonderful courtyard, just off the pedestrian shopping street of rue Ganterie (with clothing I could not afford, alas) and Poca ordered hot tea (smart girl, but not as much of a wino as me) and I ordered a glass of white wine. Well. The glass was huge and the wine was terrible. Even I couldn't drink it and that's a miracle in itself. I sipped and suffered, quietly. Another miracle.That's when the helicopters started flying overhead. The last time I'd heard that sound was when I was lying in bed in my ghetto apartment in Phoenix and somebody in the helicopter with a megaphone kept repeating, "Get down on the ground now, or we will shoot. Get down on the ground now." They were circling the library parking lot across the street from me, evidently a hotbed for criminals.
But there were no criminals on this day. It was just the Normandie Impressionniste 2010 festival. You can read about the 2009 festival here, with amazing photos taken at night, of impressionist paintings projected on the front of Rouen buildings.What were the helicopters for, you might ask? Well, all these local people carried little puzzle pieces of famous impressionist paintings and at the stroke of a brush, they held them over their heads in unison, while photographers hanging from the helicopters took pictures. Et voilà. No photographers fell from the helicopters into our peaceful courtyard, if that's what you're expecting. But we couldn't hear ourselves thinking all the bad thoughts that bad girls are usually thinking. The noise was deafening.
Poca noticed that my wine was sitting there, unloved. I shouted to her that it reminded me of the "Chablis" they used to sell to discerning (meaning they wanted something other than a shot of Jamesons) biker chicks in dive bars across America. In other words, it was completely undrinkable. But, incredibly sophisticated... if you are a biker chick. Well, that is, if you were a real biker chick in that long-lost era before bored dentists became "weekend warriors" and along with their marketing executive girlfriends bought $8000 His n' Her Harleys, matching leather biker outfits, logo'd Harley biker boots and descended upon perfectly decent dive bars and started asking for Merlot. It was a sad day in America, let me tell you. I much prefer the real biker chicks to the nouveau biker chicks. I should have thrown down the entire glass in a feeble tribute to them all.
Instead, I ordered a beer. After all, how can they screw up a beer? Um. By serving it warm. On a hot day. With helicopters.
Poca went upstairs with the propriétaire to inspect the rooms and left me to my warm beer. That's when the vacuum cleaner started inside. You know that high-pitched sound that scares the cat? It was a perfect accompaniment to the heavy drone of helicopters. I drank the whole beer in one gulp. Poca returned, saying that the rooms are tiny, but the price is right. I waved a drunken wave and mumbled something unintelligible. She also told me that the propriétaire took the wine off of our bill. Another 50 Positive Points for this lovely little place.
"Remember, we'll be eating at Le Garde Manger in Fécamp tonight." Poca said, dragging me towards the car park. Which was closed. It was past 7pm. People were wandering around with their impressionist puzzle pieces, looking very happy, while our tiny car was abandoned and crying, deep in the dungeon of the car park.
With the help of a friendly waiter at a sidewalk cafe, we found the secret door to the dungeon. If we had just walked 22 steps around the corner, we could have found it ourselves. Like the bees who are losing their bee radar and dieing across America from pesticides and WiFi, we were deafened by helicopters and vacuums and couldn't find our way to our lonely car.
"Do we have a hotel yet?" I foolishly asked, after Poca and I had walked for an hour throughout the car park, looking for our car. (It was in spot 2534, across from spot 2001 - which could explain why we were lost.) "Oh, yeah. I should probably see if we can stay at one of the hotels in the guide book." So, as she drove the wrong way through the parking garage, up and down the circular dungeon towers, she balanced the guide book on her lap with her iPhone and played dial-a-hotel while avoiding concrete pillars.
No rooms at the inn. Sorry. This virgin (I can't vouch for Poca's virginity, though) would be sleeping in a manger tonight. Being the enterprising Poca that she is (by the way, both she and I are getting sick of this pseudonym, so be prepared for a new one soon), she called Le Garde Manger, made a dinner reservation for 9pm and asked the friendly hostess if she knew of any hotels near their restaurant. The very sweet hostess said she would call around and try and find us a room (near the beach on a Saturday night in June, mind you) and call us back.
Meanwhile, with 8pm approaching fast, we had one more B&B to inspect in Rouen before we went to dinner and settled for the night. I promise all of you who might be thinking that you will never go to Normandy, if you tune in to my next post, you'll find that Day One in Normandy ends unexpectedly well.
(The Normandy Chronicles name was inspired by my friend Brian who wrote The Paris Chronicles - a hilarious and touching, day-by-day - or should I say blow by blow - tale of his family's trip to Paris - a must read.)
