Back when I was an editor with precious few vacation days, I'd spend weeks researching a destination, trying to distill all available information into a uniquely fun and exploratory trip. The advent of smart phones and a freer schedule have almost completely obliterated those habits. So, when I had to kill a few days, I went to Reims merely because I knew it's home to a big ol' cathedral and I found a cheap place to stay. After a day of canceled and convoluted trains, I looked out from my last bus, curious about the fantastic estates we drove past. "Huh," I thought, "why are there palaces all around the city?"
I set out on a rather forlorn winter day the next morning, made grimmer by the closure of most businesses for a nation-wide protest. Avoiding angry chanting and gunpowder blasts, I wandered to one of those palaces and solved the mystery. This imposing, walled neo-Gothic manor was the home of Pommery Champagne. Clad as always in my worn-out hiking clothes, I walked in and toured one of the world's most celebrated wine producers (Veuve Clicquot was closed for renovations). I descended into ingeniously repurposed limestone quarries, now an aging bottle-crypt transformed by playful modern art. Back above ground, a very sophisticated and very attractive French man served me some bubbly grape drink.
Of course, my main reason for visiting France was to see Marta. She somehow manages the logistics of gigs, teaching at three schools, a six-year-old son's school and shared parenting and clarinet lessons and Boy Scouts, a two-year-old daughter's day care and food, and made time to hang out with me and go to the Turkish bath and eat lots of chocolate. It's easy to love Paris with its beautiful architecture and endless pastries and antique bookstores -- but my affection for the city is also largely due to the half-Polish-mothering/homey-hostess-camaraderie my friend espouses.
No comments:
Post a Comment