So, the new schedule for the Detroit Film Theatre is up. Who is going to go see what with me? I notice that the last film takes place in the French Alps. I don't necessarily want to see that one, but I have memories of Chris's and my brief fling with the French Alps. It wasn't the most successful leg of our college Eurail jaunt...
We got into town early, so early. We knew the hostel wouldn't open for hours. We got breakfast at a place near the train station. "Don't worry," I told Chris, feeling like her sugar daddy, "I have plenty of francs. I brought them with me, left over from the other time I was in France. Get whatever you want." Soo cool. So, we drink our cafe and eat our brioche or whatever, and it comes time to pay, and I lay out my paper money on the table with a kind of swagger to my movements. And the waitress just rolls her eyes and looks disgusted, and keeps saying, "Non! Non! C'est mal!" Which I know means No, No, it's bad... I don't understand why though. She stomps off and we don't know what to do. It's not like there's a bank open. The waitress comes back with some coins and we get it then, that the paper money has been phased out and now it's just coins. We don't have any of those coins. We have just eaten an overpriced meal, extravagant for us, and can't pay. Merde! What to do? Luckily an old man in a cap (am I making up the cap? I like the cap, so I guess I don't really care) took pity on us and paid our bill. Merci! Merci! We were overcome with love.
Bellies full, we started the long, entirely uphill journey to the hostel. We had barely slept on the train; a couple had shared our sleeping car (couchette) and we had watched the man's legs dangle down and seen him take off his pants. He went right to sleep, but snored, and we knew he wasn't wearing his pants. Yuck. So, we hiked with little energy to the one youth hostel in Annecy, France. It took forever. We had to stop and rest. Finally we got there, and were greeted by a sign on the door: "Closed since May." We each sat on a rock, and we cried. Tired, defeated, wanting a shower and a bed, we decided to walk back to town and stay at a real hotel for a night. We found a cute place that wasn't too expensive, and flopped on the bed for a long time. Later we went to the beach and had fondu savoyard, the local specialty, which was too expensive for us. We got yelled at in a bakery along the way, too, when we stopped to buy bread for the next morning's breakfast. I can't remember what we did wrong that time.
The next day I was a walking allergy, a sneeze, an itchy eye personified. I was useless outside. I couldn't do a thing. I went to the pharmacy and got some medicine. I wasn't really sure if I had gotten the right thing or not. The medicine knocked me out. Did we stay a second night at the hotel? We may have. I know I ruined the day with my horrific state of itchiness. I know that the bedspread was flowered, because I spent a long time looking at it, knowing I was wasting a day away but unable to change things. I was either tormented by allergies or anesthetized by the medicaments....
That was the French Alps. Our French Alps. The guidebook described the town as The Prom Queen of the French Alps. I never did really care much for the prom queen type.
No comments:
Post a Comment