I am loving this idea of meandering through the French countryside in a boat. We spent the afternoon stowing food and gear, then tomorrow morning, since the wind is due to blow one more day, Jenks is going to move the car to Argens and stash it at the marina there. We figure by the time we get that far, we are going to be in dire need of a major grocery run. I've made up flash cards for Jenks to show train personnel and taxi drivers, so I think he'll be fine.
Our evening meal was made up of all those pre-prepared goodies they have in the super marchés—shrimp cocktails, chicken Kiev, potato soufflé, and a mixed salad vinaigrette—accompanied by a fresh baguette, of course, and that wonderful sweet butter only the French seem to have and, naturellement, red wine. For dessert, an éclair for Jenks and crème brûlée for me. Fantastique!
Luckily this barge comes with a bicycle.
Tomorrow the adventure begins! H
Log of the Villepinte, Canal du Midi: Day 2
While Jenks took the car to Argens this morning, I read the brochures, studied charts, and beefed up on the rules and regulations for boating on the Canal du Midi. Most of the regs involve simple boating common sense, but since the literature also boasts, NO BOATING EXPERIENCE REQUIRED, I can see why the humorously illustrated brochure warned captains about such things as: Do not roll the mooring line around your arm or ankle. The drawing showed a person stretched out between the bank and a boat four feet away, with a foot tangled in one end of the line and the other around his wrist.
Another warned: Do not try to stop the boat with your feet or hands. Evidently that's what all these fenders are for.
Jenks made it to Argens and back with no problem, so we decided to get underway.
We left the dock at three.
And again at 3:15.
And again at 3:30.
The wind was still howling and we couldn't get the boat's bow to turn. Villepinte doesn't have the power or rudder response to overcome the wind, so every time we weren't heading into it, or with it, the wind turned us broadside and we sailed down the canal sideways. Luckily, except for a couple of ducks, there were no witnesses to such a debacle by two experienced boaters. H.
When we were back at the dock for the third time, I said, "Jenks, I have an idea."
"Turn this boat in for one with bow thrusters? Or at least twin screws?"
"Well, there's that. But that last maneuver you made gave me an idea. Ram the grass bank bow first and give it power. We'll turn one way or another, for sure. And all those bumpers will keep us from doing the boat harm."
Jenks shook his head. "Goes against my nature to ram something on purpose."
"Think about it. She'll pivot."
He grinned. "Aha. Professor Coffey's theory of fulcrum dynamics, as applied to boating. What the hell. Not my boat."
Worked like a charm, and soon we were on our way to a lock.
By the end of the first day of cruising the canal we ran out of time and energy because we couldn't get to the next lock before it closed at five. We tied up at a wait dock and spent the night next to the éclusier's charming home that looked to have been there for at least a hundred years. The wind had died and sun glimmered through the trees, so we went out on deck and had drinks as we watched children playing in the home's small yard, and greeted bikers and walkers on the path along the canal. A large goose paced and honked nearby, looking as though he was expecting a treat, but I knew better. They bite.
We had an early dinner of spaghetti and meatballs and went back out for a nightcap.
"Ah, this is what I expected it to be like. Thank you again, Jenks, for making this happen. I can't believe how worn out I am. Last of the big time party animals here."
He gave me a hug. "Getting dark, want to move in? We're on battery power tonight, but if you get cold I'll start the engines so we can run the heater."
"Nope, you'll keep me warm."
"Oh, yes, I certainly will."
Oh là là.
Log of the Villepinte, Canal du Midi: Day 3
Locks, or écluses.
Yesterday we cleared our first three, all doubles and quite the trial by fire, mainly because I was nervous. Even though I'd done my homework, I was worried I'd screw something up. Luckily, a very friendly éclusier helped us at the first one, showing us the ropes, literally, while complaining about too many commercials during NASCAR races he live-streams..
By the time we got through the next two sets we were worn out.
I am le donkey.
It is my job to handle the lines and open the locks when they are automated. By the end of the day, I'm plumb done. Luckily, Jenks bought both of us gloves from the rental office, because they’ve saved my poor hands from being a hot mess of blisters. My shoulders and arms are sore from hand-over-handing the lines as we go up and down with the water level.
I've been humming Sam Cooke's, "Chain Gang" and trying to remember the words. I do pretty well on the, "Uh! Ah!" parts.
All that said, I am loving it! And, with all this exercise, I won't end up rolling back to Mexico. Oh, and we learned all those fenders were not so much because of kamikaze drivers—although we're sure to meet some—but protection from ancient stone walls lining the locks and bank-rammers, like us. H
Log of the Villepinte, Canal du Midi: Day 4
After spending our first night off the grid, we were delighted to cut the next day short and tie up in a marina at the Port-Lauragais. We were early enough to wander around, and even have lunch in town. H
With much more knowledge of what we could expect our days of canal cruising to involve, we set a more leisurely pace, stopping by mid-afternoon.
Jenks lost his footing and came close to sliding into the canal while he was pounding long aluminum mooring stakes into the slick grass and slimy mud on the bank. I managed to snag his jacket collar right before he went in, then we both scrambled backward on heels and butts until reaching the hard-packed path, where we were almost plowed into by a bicyclist.
Jenks gagged and sucked air, I giggled, and the departing biker cursed, but we were successfully, if less than professionally, tied up for the night. We granted ourselves a well-deserved shower and nap.
Happy Hour was getting earlier each day, as was sunset. When twilight's chill arrived, we moved inside and played cards or dominoes before cooking. Pretty tame stuff, but it was a cruising life we had grown used to over the years.
After dinner I always checked out the charts, did some calculations as to how far we'd go the next day, how many locks we had to clear, and whether there was a village within walking distance we wanted to explore, even though we found most of them devoid of people and stores.
I told Jenks I was ready for a real town, so we agreed that when we reached Castelnaudary we'd stay for a few days. "From everything I read, this place is going to be right up my alley."
"And what alley would that be?"
"Historical, and chock full of boulangeries, pâtisseries, and markets."
Jenks threaded our boat through a narrow arch festooned with flowers, under a low bridge, and right into the pure charm of Castelnaudary. It was only two in the afternoon, so we nailed a coveted side-tie right by the harbor master's office, just two blocks from the center of town.
After we checked in and hooked up to water and electricity—the first we'd had in days—I headed up a cobblestoned street to a plaza fronted by those promised pâtisseries and boulangeries.
After a late lunch of cheese, bread, fruit, and wine, we napped. I hadn't realized how really tired we were until we could totally relax for a couple of days without worrying about basically dry camping. Without a way to charge our computers, it was becoming a worry. The boat generated DC power while the engine ran but no AC power. I anchor out a lot on Raymond Johnson, but my boat is equipped for it with a generator, solar panels, inverter and a water maker. Villepinte had none of those, so we had to run the engine to charge batteries and heat the cabin. I was used to conserving water, so no problem there.
&n
bsp; "You know, Jenks, how much I love being anchored out in the Sea of Cortez. But I gotta say, I'm happy as a clam being back to modern conveniences and fresh food."
"Then we'll stay here as long as you like. We can even go out for dinner tonight. I spotted several promising restaurants in town, and they were open."
"Open? What a concept." One of the things we'd learned since getting to France was that the most frequently used word other than, "Bonjour," was FERMÉ: CLOSED.
We'd been surprised at the number of McDonalds in a country famed for its food, and they were jammed with French people. Then we figured it out: THEY. WERE. OPEN.
"Lemme get this straight, you found restaurants that are not only open, but will be so tonight before eight o'clock? And you say they held promise. What did they promise? No French food?" I teased.
"Very funny. I just like what I like, without the frills."
"Then you, monsieur, are in zee luck. Chef Hetta will prepare for you, this very evening, biftek servi en baguette avec haché du oignons grillés.
"Uh, maybe we'll go out, after all."
"What? Monsieur does not trust Chef Hetta to please him? Monsieur does not desire my hamburger on a baguette with grilled onions for his dîner?
"On third thought, let's eat in."
"I figured you might say that—uh, Jenks, about that baguette I just bought?"
"What about it, other than it's almost gone."
"Nope, it's all gone. A swan is eating it."
He spun around, yelled, "Hey!" and a long, white, graceful neck pulled back from our open galley window, what was left of our baguette in its orange and black beak. "Oh well, that bread was three hours old anyway."
"Monsieur is becoming very French, in spite of his barbarian American tastes. Next thing you know, you'll buy a beret."
"I don't think so. Shut that window and sit tight. I'll go get us a fresh baguette. You need anything else from town?"
"Bag of swan food?"
Chapter Eleven
I went out on deck to people-and-swan watch while awaiting Jenks's return from the boulangerie. I named the swans Siegfried and Odette, after the hapless lovers in Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Not all that familiar with the big birds, I was fascinated with their beauty and size, but after reading up on them in my local guide, I didn't fall victim to their panhandling ways. I didn't want to give them what they should eat, which was my lovely bread and butter lettuce. Besides, they already copped half a baguette, which is a big no-no according to the Internet. I considered us even for now.
The sidewalk and street bustled with walkers and cars, a far cry from our last five days along the canal banks. It was a nice change, sort of like getting back to a dock after being at sea.
Much to my surprise, I saw two people who looked familiar. Where had I seen them before? I hate it when this happens. As they passed, hand-in-hand, I suddenly had a flashback to the beach at Gruissan and the odd couple we passed and greeted just before we met René and his stately poodle, Charles.
Once again my curiosity, something known to get me in trouble occasionally, was aroused. They strolled slowly along the quay, not paying any attention to me, leaving me free to stare. She, slightly dumpy and frumpy, and he—rock star gorgeous—just didn't jell in my never-so-humble opinion. The man, by my guess, was a few years younger than she, but it was hard to tell since the woman had let her hair go to gray streaks, while his seemed suspiciously salon-streaked. I missed having Jan around as a sounding board for such things.
As they passed, I couldn't resist tracking them with my eyes. When they boarded a rental boat much larger than ours, parked a few spaces back, my feet followed. I was almost abreast of the boat when I heard Jenks call out.
Turning, I burst out laughing.
Jenks, baguette in hand, was wearing a beret and cravat.
We spent the next day wandering around Castelnaudary's historic streets and waterfronts, playing tourist, gawking at gaily-painted narrow boats—barges much larger than ours but still designed for canals and low bridges. Most of them were over fortyish feet long, and through lacy curtain-framed windows I noticed they boasted a level of domesticity rarely seen on a regular yacht like mine. These were certainly floating homes, complete with regular sofas and furniture. I made a mental note to educate myself on owning and living on one of these babies some day.
I snapped a few photos of the more whimsical ones and those brimming with flower boxes overflowing with colorful blooms. One even had an outdoor garden on the roof with a crop of big red tomatoes, lettuce, and herbs.
We also walked the half-mile to the next set of locks to check them out for the day we departed, although leaving Castelnaudary wasn't on my radar yet. I dearly loved this town.
Since going out after eight every night—when the restaurants finally opened—didn't appeal to us, we cooked dinner on board after having drinks on deck most evenings. We had no outdoor grill on the boat, so I cooked our filet mignons the old-fashioned way: pan seared with tons of butter. As I was deglazing the skillet with brandy and adding a dollop of cream, I spotted the woman from the odd couple walking by alone, carrying what looked to be her grocery bag. "Wonder where dreamboat is?" I mused aloud.
"Who?"
"Remember that couple we saw on the beach at Gruissan the day we met René?"
He gave me the look; the one that says, "What? I'm supposed to remember stuff like this?"
"Never mind. Anyhow, I thought they were oddly-matched, and René said something about butter."
"You might want to cut back on the wine, Hetta."
"Very funny. Well, I saw those two again yesterday afternoon here in Castelnaudary. Matter of fact, they're on a rental boat parked right back there." I nodded my head behind us since my hands were occupied adding calories to protein.
"And?"
"Nothing. She just walked by alone."
"For God's sake, call Interpol!"
"Just forget it. You're not nearly as much fun as Jan."
He sidled up behind me, pulled me close and nuzzled my neck. "Really? Can Jan do this?"
"Jan who?"
Jenks's phone chirped, rousing me from a deep sleep.
A one-eyed peek at my travel clock informed me it was 2:00. Jenks left the cabin so as not to disturb me with his call, but it was too late. By the time I pulled on a sweat shirt and pants and stumbled into the main cabin he was saying, "Okay, what time?" He listened and nodded. "I'll be ready."
"What? What is it?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"I am so sorry, Red, but I have to leave for a few days. There's been a massive terrorist attack in Paris and I'm needed in Lille. Wontrobski is sending a car here for me, and then I'll fly out of Toulouse."
"What kind of terrorist attack?" I wasn't quite awake yet, but what I meant was, did someone fly a plane into the Eiffel tower like they did the WTC in New York?
"ISIS kind. Firing into crowds last night. Reports of hundreds shot or killed. I don't have the details yet and I doubt anyone else does, but Wontrobski is pretty sure you'll be safe staying here. Once I assess the situation, I may move you to another location, but for now, you should stay put. Just keep a low profile for the next couple of days until we know whether other attacks are in the works. Probably are, but a place like this wouldn't get them enough publicity."
"Why can't I come with you?"
"Not to northern France, Hetta, until we know more. You'd just be stuck in a hotel all day while I work. It'll be safer here. But now that I think of it, maybe it's a good idea for me to send in a bodyguard, just in case?"
"I don't need no stinkin' bodyguard."
"I was thinking for the protection of the innocent citizens of Castelnaudary."
Jenks grabbed a leftover éclair on his way to the waiting car, gave me a last kiss and, just like that, he was gone. Again.
I'd planned to send him off with a stomach full of good old fried bacon and eggs, but we somehow ended up back in bed and lost track of time.
The
minute he left a pall descended on my previous joy at being in France with Jenks, and on a boat, to boot. Long-ago memories, bad ones, crept in. Maybe returning to France had been a rotten idea. The George V revived a twinge of the gut-wrenching pain of abandonment I'd experienced all those years ago when, after the steamy month-long whirlwind romance, Luc DooRah dumped me like a hot pomme de terre.
That fateful summer—I call it fateful because I truly believe the events changed me in a way that colored my dealings with men for the next two decades—I was still a student in Brussels. I was thrilled to be chosen to participate as an intern with a large French engineering and construction company. My classes at ULB—Universitè Libre de Bruxelles—wouldn't start until late August, but I was too broke to fly home. I was getting by on a few bucks saved from past summer jobs, holding workshops in lithography, and interest earned on a small inheritance that paid the rent, but money was tight.
In Paris I wasn't officially put on the company payroll, but was given pocket money and the use of a studio apartment on the Left Bank, within walking distance from work.
Five days a week we were fed a large lunch that entailed leftovers we could schlep home for dinner, even though taking a doggie bag home is frowned upon by the French as showing you can't afford to waste food. I never understood this attitude and evidently, someone is seeing the light because France recently passed a new law making it illegal for supermarkets to throw away perfectly good food that can be donated to charity, or at least to pig farmers for their stock.
I guess they finally ran out of cake.
As an intern, which is what they called my status as an unpaid glorified gofer, I was assigned to the restoration project of the Pont Neuf. The bridge, spanning the River Seine, was getting a facelift in celebration of its upcoming 400th anniversary. Just in time, in my opinion, because it was in dire need of repair, as well as structural shoring, but what wouldn't be after four hundred years?
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 6
