I wonder how the people whom we encountered in France are doing. Here are some of the stories that are stored in the trunks in the attic of my mind:
Bill’s English aunt despised the French. When we visited her several years ago she blamed the Mad Cow Disease on them. “Not content with all they’ve done to us, now they’re trying to poison our bully English beef,” she moaned. “And, furthermore, that Chunnel will just allow all the French rats to cross over into jolly old England.”
One evening when we were in Paris I said, “I’m going to order steak and French fries.” The French deserve that these delectable potatoes that they cook perfectly should be named after them. Bill said, “You won’t catch me eating beef here — Mad Cow Disease!”
“Pooh!” I replied. I’ll just ask the waiter. I started out: “Cette maladie des vaches — this disease of cows — vous pouvez m’assurer que je ne vais pas l’attraper?” You can assure me that I won’t catch it?
The handsome young man rolled his eyes heavenward, hand over his heart as if stricken to the very core of his being. Then he clutched his sides, bent from the waist and laughed merrily at the foolish American lady. “Madame, j’ai une petite fille de trois mois. I have a little three-month old girl. “Je vous jure sur la tete de ma petite — I swear to you on the head of my little one — that our beef is of the purest and that you will catch no maladie whatsoever from it.” I trusted him and ordered a steak. Tant pis! Too bad. It was tough.
When he escorted us to the door and thanked us for our patronage he said, “Remember, Madame, on my little girl’s head I swore.”
We had a favorite hotel on the Left Bank. Its bathroom was pristine. One morning, I filled the deep tub for a leisurely soak. Ah! . . . Uh-oh . . . I had forgotten that their tubs are very narrow at the bottom. I couldn’t get a purchase on the slippery tub, and there wasn’t room enough for me to turn over onto my knees.
“Help, help, help!” I yelled until Bill opened the door. “I can’t get out of this tub!” He came in and pulled on my arms. No good.
“You’ll have to stand in the tub so that you’re pulling from the correct angle.” He was afraid that he’d slip and become stuck. Finally he put one foot in the tub and pulled me up.
I told the story to the jolly maid who remembered us from former stays. Slapping her thighs, she laughed and laughed. Every day thereafter there was a bath towel spread out on the bottom of the tub to keep Madame from slipping.
We were in Provence with Jean when we asked a waitress to give us wine bottle corks for a friend who made trivets of them. Amused, she’d stop at our table and threw several corks on the table. She also asked the other waitresses to give us corks. After lunch on our last day in France, I said, “Bonjour, Madame Bouchon!” (Hello Mrs. Cork.) She did a double take, giggled and threw corks onto our table. She was so darling that we said after our meal, “Please accept this special tip because you have made us smile so much.” Teary-eyed, she said, “Madame, it is the three of you who have given me great pleasure.”
Oh, so many stories: the ticket agent at Cergy-Pontoise railroad station who shut his window and came out to shake hands and greet us whenever he saw us because I spoke a little French . . . the pharmacist who called a doctor when I was ill and went outside to show us the way . . . It warms my heart to remember them. wclarke@comcast.net