October 5th, La Vallee des Rois

Yesterday I left La Roche after a nice lunch get together with former students at an Italian restaurant and headed north, towards Paris. With the good weather and some time today, a stop in the Loire seemed like a good idea and the fortified city of Chinon was the perfect place to eat, sleep and ride.

The chateau at Chinon is the place where Joan d'Arc tracked received an audience with the Dauphin and where she picked him out of a crowd where he was dressed as a lower noble in order to test her. The English were overrunning the countryside and God told Joan, a peasant, to convince the Dauphin to assume the throne in Orleans and unite France against the invaders. He does, they do and, if it was an American made-for-tv movie, they would fall in love and she would become queen. Alas, this France and the king betrays her and she's burned at the stake.

Flash forward a few centuries and I'm standing in the medieval section of the town, across from a church built in the 12th century and looking for 21st century restaurant to eat in. A small pizza place, tucked into the wall of 800 year old buildings beckons. I'm the only one and I sit in a corner with a perspective of the entire establishment. A pizza oven sits opposite a fireplace and a small bar has a sign that says, 'Bois de maison, 3€', I'm curious what the drink of the house is, but I order a glass of red wine instead.

Le menu consists of choice of pizza and a tomato salad and a caramel creme brule for desert. Not bad for 12€. Life is good as I work my way through the salad and then the door swings open and three Americans walk in. How do I know they are from my country? They are loud. They attempt no French, not even hello and they assume that the hostess will understand them if they speak loud enough. C'est la vie, my quiet French meal is not so quiet anymore. Soon about 10 more come in and I could be in downtown Chicago, instead of this ancient French city.

Since my exchanges with the waitress have been in French, the others have no idea what nationality I am. It provides me a certain amount of cover and the waitress and I seem to have an understanding about this. While the other American tourists are treated to quick service, getting their food quickly, and then a bowl of ice cream with the menu and finally their checks, without even asking. I'm allowed the time to savor, consider and observe. The French way to eat is to absorb everything, savor each flavor and appreciate the efforts made by the cook, the waiter, the owner to create an eating experience. Rushing that experience is a great affront to the people providing the service. Everyone leaves and I'm left with my creme caramel. Delicious. The waitress has a huge smile on her face as I tell her how much I appreciated her patience. Out in the street, I call Jean Marc to check in and he laughs when I tell the story. "Now you know how the French feel!"

The morning petite dejeuner is similar. A couple from Seattle are eating at a nearby table; I'm spread out at mine with maps, guidebook and pda (complete with French dictionary and gps) and I greet them first in French, (polite nods) and then in my Wisconsin-accented English (enthusiastic hellos). We talk and discover we're headed to the same place, Aznay le Rideau, but via very different paths. They will be driving in a straight line for 22k on a four lane highway, and I'll be snaking my way a velo between the Indre and Loire Rivers on a road barely 5 feet wide. I suggest my route and show them the maps. The say something about being in a hurry... C'est la vie.