Tight Squeezes

We descended the mountain to face the last daunting episode of our day: finding a hotel in Albi. It was easy enough to drive into Albi, but like all old city cores, it was not made for modern vehicles. Nevertheless, the locals are intrepid & get around despite everything, so we always think we are just as capable and intrepid as they. At this point I was driving. My feeling is that because I am rather slow and deliberate with the stick shift, I do okay in the old town centers. Also, I’m also good at sending J.J. on reconnaissance to find a hotel.    

The goal was to get rooms as close to the cathedral as possible. Well, that’s okay, as long one finds parking which can be as challenging as finding a room. After about half an hour ol’ JJ returned saying that he’d found us reasonably priced rooms, breakfast included at L’Hôtel St. Germain. This hotel was adorable, tout petit with tired decor, & thoroughly booby-trapped--- Fawlty Towers à la française.  It was owned & run by a stylish, middle-aged, imperious French woman who impressed by her complete self-confidence & eccentricity. Now this doesn’t mean that she was mean. She was a bit bossy, but it was all for our good. She just wanted us to enjoy Albi, not have problems, & she would forestall the usual pitfalls.

The first order was for us to remove our van from the loading area which was exactly the same size of our european-sized 5-passenger van. When we unloaded from the hatchback, or even opened the side doors to get out, we were beyond the limits.  I had been tooted several times by irate drivers. But, for 18 euros Madame La Patronne  would rent for overnight until 10 the next morning a special hotel parking space. (Now wasn’t she accommodating!) #4 & I followed her on foot a few meters down the narrow street where she opened a pair of old, rusted gray, creaking metal garage doors that revealed a space like a small cave. There was already a car right in the middle. It appeared to be for only one car. Then she said, “I’ll have to move my car so that you can put yours inside.” Now, you have to picture this. It was okay for one european sedan, or even our van, but I couldn’t imagine two cars in that space. I took a deep breath. We had already committed to pay the 18 euros. She was only trying to help us out, of course.

She hopped into her car, reversed out,  & parked, hugging the far side of the street---parallel & all of 5 feet from the garage aperture---so we would have plenty of time & space for me to make my maneuver without harassment. She instructed us to fit my van into the right corner parallel to the right side, about 1” from the front wall & 1” next to the right wall. Then, she would park her car next to ours. Just dandy! #4 coached me all the way. We’ve never worked so hard in our lives. I moved back & forth in distances of a few inches at a time. We must have been at it for a quarter hour. One wrong move & there would be a price to pay to the car rental company! 

Once my van was snuggly tucked in for the night, Madame la Patronne needed to re-park her car. #4 was such a gentleman that he coached her, too. But, she was in no way as timorous as I, bucking forward and backward, & finally ramming into a wall. Yes, poor dear! She ended up with a ding on her luxury late model Citroën. Now, was that worth the 18 Euros she stood to gain on this parking deal? I gloated silently, “Serves you right!,” and I smiled sympathetically.  

Charging ever forward #4 & I returned to our hotel thoroughly drained & somewhat proud of ourselves. Yet, we still had to wrestle suitcases into the rooms as we squeezed up a flight of tortuous stairs. As is normal, #4 with the children had a nice-sized room with okay beds; but oh my! the old couple had a double bed in a room that replicated the size of the parking garage. We could hardly operate as we sidled to keep from stumping our toes or bruising ourselves on useless tables and chairs. I began to wonder what life in a prison cell was like. 

It was evening by now & we were really hungry since those ice cream cone calories had been completely used up. Madame la Patronne recommended “Le Parvis,” a restaurant catty-corner to the cathedral & just a short walk from the hotel. By now, we so trusted her implicitly that after she called in our reservation we trouped right over, thinking she had probably recommended the perfect family eatery. 

As we entered,  Madame la Patronne du Restaurant* looked at the children & smiled tentatively. I assured her that our little ones would behave. While she was seating us strategically in a cozy,  peripheral corner, we began noticing that the interior was stunningly decorated in late 19th century elegance.  There were 2 different staircases that led to another dining room and an upstairs kitchen. Oh-là-là! It was awe inspiring and impressive all around. It was pretty quiet. There were only kitchen sounds as patrons, one table at a time, quietly ordered their preferred wines & gourmet delights.

As I gazed amazed by the refinement, my eyes fell upon the diners who were scowling at us. Yes, they were! They absolutely had the most vicious French scowl on their faces. Yes, and it said, “En garde! One wrong move by those kids & we’ll have you ejected! We pay handsomely for this gourmet treat. We are serious diners & we will not tolerate unruly brats!” Now so far, Lou Henry and Claire were picture perfect: Little Lord Fauntleroy and The Little Princess straight out of the novels by Frances Hodgson Burnett, sans Victorian costumes. 

As it turned out, until they got a few calories in their little tummies, our babes were subdued. Moreover, by the time they got happy, so had everyone else. Typically the decibel rises in French restaurants as food and wine are consumed. Because you must realize something. Anytime you go to eat anywhere in France you suddenly become part of a sacred ritual. Seriously. Seated in one dining space together, even with people you know not nor will ever see again, it is for that moment, an act of worship. Now, the food might not pass muster, but still it’s all about the most important aspect of French life: eating. Truly the French--still in our times--live to eat, not the contrary. 

Our perfect pair confined their joie de vivre to our peripheral-cozy-corner-table. I must say, also, that according to J.J., this was the best restaurant on the whole trip. He still dreams about the Confit de Canard with a glazed expression. Kooky as she was,  Madame la Patronne of l'Hôtel St. Germain had recommended a 4-fork restaurant. The service was impeccably smooth and the food, well….unforgettably divine.  

#4 with Little Lord Fauntleroy & The Little Princess---only the least bit disheveled

* I don’t know how I knew she was patronne of Le Parvis. “Mom” exudes a certain je-ne-sais-quoi -- a certain something. She’s in charge. She can answer any question. She never defers or seems unsure of herself. She even speaks a bit of English. “Pop” is very likely the chef. He’s the magician behind the scene.