Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Showers of rain, showers of sparks

Bastille Day, our last day in France. We had our petite dejeuner in the old, thick-walled tavern, sharing a table with a British couple. We discussed our respective health care systems and travel. Liliane spoke with us about travel arrangements; she was going into Deuxville in the afternoon to pick up her husband from the train and it was agreed that Antonia would drive with her so she could purchase our tickets.

Antonia and Darien had an urge to shop, so I ventured off on my own. I wandered all through the old part of town and along the wharves. Eventually I found myself high above the town in the hills, where there was newer residential construction. I worked my way along the edge of a valley and came down at the Rue Republique, a street I was familiar with. I passed the lavatoire where the people used to wash clothes and La Forge workshop, with its wild murals and sculptures. There was a note waiting for me back at the room, telling me where to meet the other two. I walked back to the cafe district along the wharf and met up with them, where they had already selected a table and umbrella and a red wine. Lunch was punctuated with increasing frequency by firecrackers being set off by young people near the water.


After we returned to the room, Antonia left for Deuxville and Darien and I went to pick up some groceries for breakfast, since we would have to be at the bus station at 7:00 AM. Dark, bulbous clouds gathered overhead. We watched them race across the sky, but I thought we would have enough time to look at the gardens and walk up the ridge on the eastern side of our inn. Wrong. While on the ridge, a few large drops fell, then suddenly torrents of rain. We were on streets without any shelter and the water running down in rivulets. Our clothes stuck to our bodies and our hair dripped and our shoes squished when we walked. We made several wrong turns before we found our way back, soaked and dripping. The bathroom had a towel warmer heated via the hot water pipes, and we used that to set our clothes out to dry.

As promised, we returned to Au Bouillon Normand for dinner, where we had a table reserved for us outside, but guarded from the coastal cold by glass and plastic walls. In addition to the two sons, their sister was also working this evening. Once again, the food failed to disappoint. Our hostess brought us three complementary aperitifs in honor of Bastille Day. I asked one of the boy waiters how one says Happy Bastille Day in French, but he said it was not a greeting that was exchanged. "It is not important," he said. "It is only important to the president and them." The firecrackers continued during dinner. We saw kids as young as five lighting them. My main course was veal. Antonia and Darien had cod with large morel mushrooms. Partway through dinner, a parade marched by, with drums and brass horns and people following holding paper lanterns on poles with candles inside. There was some commotion when several of the lanterns caught fire, sending smoke into the air. We ordered espresso and calvados again after our desserts. His mother finally gave the youngest boy permission to leave, and he hurried off in search of mischief. Bastille Day must be important to him as well as to the president.

We strolled over to the water's edge where a crowd was gathering in anticipation of fireworks. Darkness falls late at this time of year, and it was almost 11:00 PM before they started. They got off to an anemic start, but turned in a respectable show as they got warmed up. We whooped and cheered like French patriots with each burst of gold, of red, of blue, of silver. "Thank God for the Chinese," said Antonia.

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