Day Thirty-Four: Cider Inside 'Er
Two more weeks -- hooray and alas.
Monsieur flattered my pants off this morning at breakfast by expressing surprise that I studied French for only three years in school, "when you speak so well!" This provided the dollop of confidence needed for the ordeal of the upcoming afternoon -- communicating my desire to ship a package -- airmail and registered, contents valued at 1,250 francs, to the United States -- to a functionary of the French postal system. I have looked up the words for "customs duty," "insured value" and "officious jackass."
This is probably my last day in Pau, which is a touch melancholy, seeing as how I've just managed to be able to navigate it with any degree of skill. Reasonably cheerful about the state of my baggage -- I think I'll be able to keep it within carry-and-run bounds if I don't go hogwild on more cadeaux... And if I do, I can send another box home in Bordeaux.
Took a sidetrip this morning through the northern Basque country to add Aramis to my bag of Musketeer hometowns. (Mercifully perhaps, I can't remember the third.) Aramis itself is pretty much nothing, but the Basque country leading to it is pretty wild -- but that may be the result of disorientation from listening to what I swear was Johnny Mathis singing "Vaya Con Dios" on the radio.
On reaching Pau, I scored parking at the Place Royale again -- tarried along a few streets before hunkering down here at the Creperie du Chateau, on the advice of the Cadogans. Their perfidity on the presence of English bookstores in the Rue Gassion has been wiped out by the excellencies of a savoury crepe aux champignons and (believe it or not) Mademoiselle's first glass of hard cider.
How did I grow to womanhood without encountering this divine tipple? It's light, it's refreshing and thirst-quenching, it's tasty, and it makes you so cheerful. You wouldn't expect a restaurant situated near a major monument to have both character and good reasonably priced food, but it is so. The creperie is charming without being precious -- dark wooden tables, stucco, green faience faux-fruit-bowls as light fixtures, green faux-18th-century florid hunting scene assiettes... The food hot and quick and good, Monsieur casual without being slovenly. A shaggy little dog drifts in and out, very politely; a shaggy little boy also drifts in and out waiting for Mommy to finish her coffee, somewhat less politely. By the time I'd leisurely worked my way through the savory crepe, the sweet crepe and a pot of tea, the Castle -- and the Musee Bearnais -- was open for afternoon business.
I mounted up a million stairs to the airy perch of the Musee, and very much startled Monsieur the Curator when he asked what my interest in the collection was. It turns out that Monsieur and I are comrades in the struggle of the mind against the money, and although he blames the worsening of French life to its Americanization, finding that I deplored the same aspects of life there, nothing disturbed our harmony.
I saw the collection itself in short sallies while Monsieur was occupied by the necessity of taking the tickets of other patrons -- it was very good, along the lines of the Cevennes museum... Lots of fascinating objects like the little round head cushions used by women to tote enormous tureens and bath cans and anything else on their heads. Carders and cheese initials and roof slates and about a billion moths on pins in glass cases (the museum combines social and natural history). All the stuffed birds were poised in complaining or aggressive postures, except the turkey vulture, which preserved a quiet dignity. The brown bear needs a serious session with a Dustbuster. And plenty of furniture -- chests and buffets and armoires.
Some cases full of the souvenirs of famous Bearnais -- among them a tenor and a scientific personality, both having donated glittering cloaks -- the scientific personality's perhaps a little flashier.
By the time I had reached the front desk again, Monsieur had out his favorite volume of poetry to read to me. He speaks passionately enough to have two red spots as big as apples on his cheeks.
Just as we had exchanged final compliments, a party of panting Spaniards blew in, and a scene worthy of Howard Hawks ensued. The Spaniards had no French, Monsieur had no Spanish, but Senora and Senorita had some English. So I listened to Senora's questions in English, relayed them in French to Monsieur, then translated back in English to Senora and Senorita. All the while Senor regaled me with his no doubt flawless Castilian.
Well, unfortunately "hogwild" is the only adjective applicable to my conduct in the chateau gift shop. And then hogwild in the Place des Marchands. Well, how many times are you on vacation in Europe? Oh yes, I was also successful at the post office. The question of duty never quite came up -- is it really as easy to evade as that?
The cherry on the cake was discovering the greatest two djs on French radio... They were making fun of French people spitting on each other when they talk, and who doesn't think that's funny? There's a very popular instrumental song being played that involves a lot of "mysterious" whistling -- and the guys were trying to whistle along, and making a complete dog's breakfast of it. How I screamed.