builders had in mind was something more like a horse and buggy or a big bicycle, not an oversized, fat-ass Mercedes that stuck out like a Tonka truck on a street made for Hot Wheels. Finding my hotel, La Treille Muscate, was not difficult and I was grateful to see a parking lot sign. I had to get my monstrosity off the street. Even foot traffic could not get by me—people had to duck into doorways and side alleys to make room as I chugged by at the speed of cold molasses. I made the right turn and immediately felt the entire chassis lurch forward and down. The postage-stamp-sized parking lot was built on the steep side of a hill and as I slid into it I wondered if I'd ever get out again. Mercifully, my brakes did their bit and I was able to stop before I hit anything. After claiming a quarter of the lot's space as my own I retrieved my luggage from the trunk. It was dark, it was late and I was buzz-eyed from driving all day. At that point, if I'd had to desert my 88
Anthony Bidulka
car in that lot forever, so be it.
My suitcase weighed me down like an
anchor as I hoisted it up the slope of the parking lot back to street level. Where's a Sherpa when you need one? I followed a crackled sidewalk along the rough stone walls of the hotel. I came around a corner and still twenty metres away from the entrance I stopped, dropped my bags and fell in love. Paris was Paris, but this was France. As a young man, when I'd dreamt about what France might be like, long before I'd visited Paris for the first time, it wasn't about scaling the Eiffel Tower or visiting the Louvre—it was this. Cliousdat is what I'd imagined France would be. It's what I wanted it to be.
The rumpled street was dim, lit by the occasional torch or bare bulb, as if electricity had only recently been discovered. I saw shades of apricot and tangerine, scarlet and magenta—the colours of fall, harvest and romance. The buildings were flagstone, none higher than three storeys, and squeezed together like an accordion. They leaned into the street—the threat of falling over already centuries old. Grapevines, thick arid gnarled and heavy with fruit, covered entire walls. From somewhere hidden down a winding pathway came the sound of singing and two petanque balls striking one another. At the front of the hotel were half a dozen round Amuse Bouche
bistro tables. A man and a woman, spectacular-looking in the ambient amber light, lounged at one of the tables, drinking wine, laughing and probably falling in love. The air was soft and fra-grant as it massaged my skin.
I floated the rest of the distance into the lobby, which was nothing more than a tiny porch with a desk. No one was behind the counter and I looked for a bell to ring. Nope. I was glad. The sound would be too jarring in this gracious atmosphere. Leaving my bag behind, I poked my nose into a small sitting room off the porch.
Empty. Stepping back I noticed a low clearance entranceway opposite the desk that led two steps down into the hotel's eating area. Given the late hour, the kitchen was likely closed, but 1 decided to take a look anyway. And there, around a heavy wooden table, sat a group of four people who were likely the restaurant staff, relaxing with a litre or two of local vintage after a hard night's work. Or maybe they were just waiting for the laughing couple outside to finally leave. A blonde young woman sluggishly got up and gave me a friendly bonsoir as she brushed past me and headed to the desk. She was petite but curvy and had cornflower blue eyes.
"I'm Russell Quant," I told her. "The concierge at Domaine des Hauts made a reservation for me?" I asked it like a question 90
Anthony Bidulka
because I guessed this hotel didn't have a particularly sophisticated booking system and worried I might not be on the list. I certainly didn't want to have to get my car out of that parking lot and drive back down that snaking road.
"Yes," she said after consulting a dog-eared, spiral notebook lying on
Anthony Bidulka
car in that lot forever, so be it.
My suitcase weighed me down like an
anchor as I hoisted it up the slope of the parking lot back to street level. Where's a Sherpa when you need one? I followed a crackled sidewalk along the rough stone walls of the hotel. I came around a corner and still twenty metres away from the entrance I stopped, dropped my bags and fell in love. Paris was Paris, but this was France. As a young man, when I'd dreamt about what France might be like, long before I'd visited Paris for the first time, it wasn't about scaling the Eiffel Tower or visiting the Louvre—it was this. Cliousdat is what I'd imagined France would be. It's what I wanted it to be.
The rumpled street was dim, lit by the occasional torch or bare bulb, as if electricity had only recently been discovered. I saw shades of apricot and tangerine, scarlet and magenta—the colours of fall, harvest and romance. The buildings were flagstone, none higher than three storeys, and squeezed together like an accordion. They leaned into the street—the threat of falling over already centuries old. Grapevines, thick arid gnarled and heavy with fruit, covered entire walls. From somewhere hidden down a winding pathway came the sound of singing and two petanque balls striking one another. At the front of the hotel were half a dozen round Amuse Bouche
bistro tables. A man and a woman, spectacular-looking in the ambient amber light, lounged at one of the tables, drinking wine, laughing and probably falling in love. The air was soft and fra-grant as it massaged my skin.
I floated the rest of the distance into the lobby, which was nothing more than a tiny porch with a desk. No one was behind the counter and I looked for a bell to ring. Nope. I was glad. The sound would be too jarring in this gracious atmosphere. Leaving my bag behind, I poked my nose into a small sitting room off the porch.
Empty. Stepping back I noticed a low clearance entranceway opposite the desk that led two steps down into the hotel's eating area. Given the late hour, the kitchen was likely closed, but 1 decided to take a look anyway. And there, around a heavy wooden table, sat a group of four people who were likely the restaurant staff, relaxing with a litre or two of local vintage after a hard night's work. Or maybe they were just waiting for the laughing couple outside to finally leave. A blonde young woman sluggishly got up and gave me a friendly bonsoir as she brushed past me and headed to the desk. She was petite but curvy and had cornflower blue eyes.
"I'm Russell Quant," I told her. "The concierge at Domaine des Hauts made a reservation for me?" I asked it like a question 90
Anthony Bidulka
because I guessed this hotel didn't have a particularly sophisticated booking system and worried I might not be on the list. I certainly didn't want to have to get my car out of that parking lot and drive back down that snaking road.
"Yes," she said after consulting a dog-eared, spiral notebook lying on
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