Leaving Madeleine - part 20
We woke early in the morning, showered and dressed, and left
our little oasis within forty-five minutes. We stopped for a café crème and
pain au chocolat, and strolled through the park Cimiez to the Musée Matisse.
Brigitte could not contain her excitement. There was a paragraph in my moleskin
that mentioned Matisse that I had copied from Tropic of Cancer. I read Miller's
words to Brigitte as we entered the gallery.
"Beautiful," said Brigitte. "Why is that in there?"
"Admiration I guess," I told her. "Reminds me of how futile it is though."
"Why?"
"I'll never be as good,"
"How do you know?"
"I don't have what he had. Most days I can live with it."
"When you can't?"
"I wallow in self-pity. Let's go inside."
Brigitte kissed me. We entered the gallery. We said little to one another for the first thirty minutes or so. Brigitte completely enthralled and almost in a trance, spent long periods studying certain pieces. I watched her as she ignored me, her zealousness impeaching me to reconsider my moderate appreciation of Matisse. She met me at the Madeleine II. I was lost in a memory, recalling the intention and failure of finding a replica of the sculpture for my Madeleine.
"You like this?" Brigitte asked.
I shifted my gaze to the next sculpture, Le Serpentine, and told her I preferred it to the Madeleine. I remembered the frustration and misfortune I previously associated with this preference and realized it was now alleviated. Brigitte preferred Le Serpentine as well. She also took great pleasure when I mentioned the Maquette pour l'Etoile Verte reminded me of Luke's light sabre in Return of the Jedi. We launched briefly into a discussion of trilogies and came to the consensus that Last Crusade was the best conclusion to a trilogy and the third Godfather was the most egregious, despite Coppola being the more accomplished director, not just over Spielberg and Lucas, but possibly of all time. We parted once more and she forgot about me until we caught up at the exit nearly two hours later.
"Shall we go see his grave?" I asked.
"Yes," confirmed Brigitte. We navigated the maze of tombs that eventually led to the remains of Matisse. Despite the signs restricting photographs, Brigitte extracted her dSLR and captured the tomb from different angles.
"No respect for the dead?" I quipped.
"He'd want me to take photos," responded Brigitte.
"He told you this?"
"His ghost. It haunts my dreams."
Brigitte leapt at me and swung her arms around my neck. She hung there – both feet suspended above ground – and planted an open mouth kiss on my lips. I looked around self-consciously once she came up for air.
"Scared?" asked Brigitte.
"You little heathen," I answered.
"You snake. You gave me the apple," she accused me as she hovered.
"Exercise a little self-control," I admonished.
"Carry me to the convent. Purge me of my sins."
"Like this?"
"No?"
"On my back."
"Okay, but don't let me touch."
Brigitte kissed me again. We worked together to successfully maneuver her onto my back with me supporting her entire weight. Thankfully it couldn't have been more than a hundred and ten pounds. I carried her to the Monastery. We spent a little time inside and a lot of time in the garden overlooking the city.
"What do the French know that we don't?" questioned Brigitte.
"Appreciation maybe," I endeavored.
"Maybe," Brigitte said, letting out a sigh.
We descended back into the city, grabbed paninis for lunch and debated what to do next. Cagnes sur Mer was essential for Renoir, as was Vence for the Matisse Chapel. I still wanted to grab some more time at the beach and visit Eze and Monaco. "Let's do that tonight," Brigitte suggested. "We can go to Eze and then to Monaco, and then tomorrow go see Renoir and Vence and come back and go to the beach."
"Yeah, I think that's best."
"Cause we should stay in Monaco late."
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay. And what about lavender fields?"
"They're far. Best to rent a car and drive to Aix or Marseille."
"Can we do that?"
"Can we leave a day later?"
"Can we change our ticket?"
"I don't know."
"I leave next week," Brigitte said with an exaggerated sad face. I said nothing. Brigitte slapped her thighs with the palms of her hands and stood. "To Eze!" I smiled at her.Her voice had a take charge quality to it. A purpose. But I knew the languid lifestyle of the French Riviera would conform us to its nature.
We disembarked a train at Eze station at around 1:30 PM. The 83 bus that would take us up the mountain to the medieval town was not scheduled to arrive for another hour. Our option was to either wait for the bus, try to get a taxi, or take an hour walk up the mountain along Chemin Nietzsche. I enjoyed the idea of walking up a road named after the influential existentialist, however having spent the morning walking and touring, I feared our journey would bring us closer to Sisyphus than either of us desired. After a brief discussion, we opted for the public transit option.
"What's that?" asked Brigitte, motioning across the street to a Caribbean looking shack across the street.
"Le Bananerie," I read the sign over the door out loud. "A bar I guess? Smoothies maybe?"
We went across to investigate. It was a bar that served daiquiris, piña coladas, and other frozen drinks. The prices were for tourists, so we opted instead to grab a bottle of water, some beer, and a few snacks from the convenience store next door. We took our goods back across the street to the bus shelter where a large poster of 500 Days of Summer demanded our attention.
"He's coming along nicely," I commented about Joseph Gordon Levitt.
"I like him," Brigitte responded.
"He was really good in Brick."
"I didn't see that."
"You have to. It's a noir set in high school."
"I'll put it on the list."
I snapped the cap off my camera lens. "I'm going to take some pictures," I said.
Brigitte took in our surroundings. "Me too," she said.
I crossed the street again and took a few pictures of the Bananerie. I then took a photo of a set of three windows on the upper level of a large house that resembled a barn. Up the street, an old jeep was parallel parked along the sidewalk. I took snapped some shots of the vehicle, and then some of the mountain, and the train tracks. I took a picture of Brigitte taking a picture of me. I retired to the shelter and opened a beer. Brigitte continued clicking until the bus arrived.
Brigitte and I sat in silence, taking in the houses and views as the bus switched back and forth along the narrow road up the mountain. I was certain more than once the driver was in trouble as he attempted one one hundred and eighty degree corner after another, but each time he managed to get out of it, even allowing the bus to roll backwards along the curve of the road a few times, forcing the cars behind us to do the same. The transmission was probably worse for wear, but at least we weren't rolling off a cliff and hurdling toward the sea.
As we disembarked just outside the medieval village, the bus driver reminded us that the last bus down the mountain was at 6:00 PM. It was 2:52 PM. We climbed the stairs and entered Eze. We stopped at a leather shop. I purchased a braided bracelet. We visited a fragrance shop. Brigitte bought locally made perfume for herself, some soaps for her mother and candles for her aunt. There was a condiment store where I considered buying a set of three locally made mustards, but decided against it given the potential irritation associated with transporting them for the rest of day and evening and having to bring them back to Paris. We walked through the town, through stone tunnels, and up and down cobblestone staircases, peaking into taverns and antique shops, and taking photos of almost everything. With an hour left, I told Brigitte that I wanted to grab a bite at the Chateu Chèvre d'Or. I told her how my mother had studied articles and photographs of the hotel when she was a girl and dreamed about going there until she finally went on in the third year of her second marriage. I told her how my stepfather, who was very much a man's man, but no stranger to the occasional surprise romantic gesture, agreed to eat dinner at the chateau upon the insistence of his wife, but then got a room for the night and only told her after desert. I told her how every time I spoke to my mother after visiting Nice, she would ask if I visited the hotel. Every time I answered no I felt that I had disappointed her or that she was hurt because I didn't trust her recommendation.
"Are you going to surprise me?" asked Brigitte.
"We're going to Monaco," I responded.
We entered the Chateau Chèvre d'Or and I asked if there was room for two for a late lunch. The maître d smiled and led us outside, past the statue of the golden goat standing watch over the sea, and to the terrace. He told us to sit where we like. There were only four other occupied tables. We chose a seat along the railing that gave us an unparalleled view of the French Mediterranean, which nearly every other seat also enjoyed.
"It's breathtaking," said Brigitte.
I nodded. After seeing the menu, I ordered a Hemingway, which was lime juice, sugar, Cuban rum, sherry liqueur, and grapefruit. Brigitte, based on the sommelier's recommendation, ordered a house specialty which consisted of rum, raspberry nectar, pineapple juice, pepper, lime juice, and black currant. She substituted vodka for the rum. I could tell Brigitte was holding her tongue regarding the price of the dishes.
"Order what you like," I assured her.
"I'm going to go to the bathroom first," she replied.
"I'll wait here."
Brigitte took in the vista as she stood and traipsed back toward the lobby. Before passing through the doors at the top of the steps, she turned to me as she pointed to a level below. "They have a lovely pool!" she exclaimed. I glanced in the direction of her finger. Brigitte pranced away like an Asian Audrey Hepburn. The maître d brought our drinks a few minutes later along with a tray of olives, nuts, figs, pita, and hummus.
"Chef's compliments," the server told me. "Have you and the mademoiselle decided?"
"Not yet, she's gone to the bathroom to think it over. I'm leaning towards the barbecued lamb," I responded.
"A very good choice. But everything is very good, of course."
"I've heard that."
"I will come back."
"Thank you."
"You're most welcome."
The reputation of Michelin rated French restaurants did not seem to apply to the Chèvre d' Or, at least not at four thirty in the afternoon for a late lunch. There was a decidedly jovial, nonetheless cordial atmosphere, matched with an easy professional repartee. I liked the place very much already and I hadn't even sipped my drink. I rectified this shortcoming immediately. My first impression remained unsullied. Brigitte returned from her adventure and reclaimed the chair directly across from me.
"The bathrooms are opulent," Brigitte informed me.
"A golden stream into the pristine porcelain of the golden goat?"
"Did you decide?" Brigitte asked.
"The duck."
"The duck at the goat."
I nodded.
"I'm going to have the lobster at the goat."
"Sounds good. Try your drink."
She did.
"How is it?" I asked.
"Strong, but delicious." She waited here a few seconds, and then added, “That’s what she said.”
The maître d returned to bring us each an amuse-bouche, a zucchini and cauliflower bisque, and take our order. Due to all the walking, we were famished. When our food came, we ate it voraciously. Brigitte highly approved of her Brittany lobster. My duck, which came on a bed of pistachios and pine nuts, could probably be described as divine. For desert I had a basil-lime sorbet with merengue and Brigitte ordered some sort of strawberry concoction. We shared them and determined hers was better, but mine more interesting. The bill came after we ordered coffee. It was far and away the most expensive lunch I have ever put in my stomach, but with the taste still lingering in my mouth, I decided it was worth it.
We navigated the cobblestone out of Eze and found the stop. A short investigation informed us that we could take the 112 straight to Monaco. Neither of us were dressed for it and Brigitte offered this as a reason to return to our flat before visiting the posh avenues of Monte Carlo.
"We can buy something there," I suggested.
"And carry our things around?" Brigitte responded.
"We can get a room." After relieving myself of three hundred dollars for lunch, I felt cavalier.
"Only if you let me pay," Brigitte insisted. I refused. "Then no."
"Okay, you pay." I lied.
"Okay, let's go."
We boarded the bus when it arrived and found seats. I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder. We held each other and kept a happy silence the rest of the way like only lovers truly know how to do.
"Beautiful," said Brigitte. "Why is that in there?"
"Admiration I guess," I told her. "Reminds me of how futile it is though."
"Why?"
"I'll never be as good,"
"How do you know?"
"I don't have what he had. Most days I can live with it."
"When you can't?"
"I wallow in self-pity. Let's go inside."
Brigitte kissed me. We entered the gallery. We said little to one another for the first thirty minutes or so. Brigitte completely enthralled and almost in a trance, spent long periods studying certain pieces. I watched her as she ignored me, her zealousness impeaching me to reconsider my moderate appreciation of Matisse. She met me at the Madeleine II. I was lost in a memory, recalling the intention and failure of finding a replica of the sculpture for my Madeleine.
"You like this?" Brigitte asked.
I shifted my gaze to the next sculpture, Le Serpentine, and told her I preferred it to the Madeleine. I remembered the frustration and misfortune I previously associated with this preference and realized it was now alleviated. Brigitte preferred Le Serpentine as well. She also took great pleasure when I mentioned the Maquette pour l'Etoile Verte reminded me of Luke's light sabre in Return of the Jedi. We launched briefly into a discussion of trilogies and came to the consensus that Last Crusade was the best conclusion to a trilogy and the third Godfather was the most egregious, despite Coppola being the more accomplished director, not just over Spielberg and Lucas, but possibly of all time. We parted once more and she forgot about me until we caught up at the exit nearly two hours later.
"Shall we go see his grave?" I asked.
"Yes," confirmed Brigitte. We navigated the maze of tombs that eventually led to the remains of Matisse. Despite the signs restricting photographs, Brigitte extracted her dSLR and captured the tomb from different angles.
"No respect for the dead?" I quipped.
"He'd want me to take photos," responded Brigitte.
"He told you this?"
"His ghost. It haunts my dreams."
Brigitte leapt at me and swung her arms around my neck. She hung there – both feet suspended above ground – and planted an open mouth kiss on my lips. I looked around self-consciously once she came up for air.
"Scared?" asked Brigitte.
"You little heathen," I answered.
"You snake. You gave me the apple," she accused me as she hovered.
"Exercise a little self-control," I admonished.
"Carry me to the convent. Purge me of my sins."
"Like this?"
"No?"
"On my back."
"Okay, but don't let me touch."
Brigitte kissed me again. We worked together to successfully maneuver her onto my back with me supporting her entire weight. Thankfully it couldn't have been more than a hundred and ten pounds. I carried her to the Monastery. We spent a little time inside and a lot of time in the garden overlooking the city.
"What do the French know that we don't?" questioned Brigitte.
"Appreciation maybe," I endeavored.
"Maybe," Brigitte said, letting out a sigh.
We descended back into the city, grabbed paninis for lunch and debated what to do next. Cagnes sur Mer was essential for Renoir, as was Vence for the Matisse Chapel. I still wanted to grab some more time at the beach and visit Eze and Monaco. "Let's do that tonight," Brigitte suggested. "We can go to Eze and then to Monaco, and then tomorrow go see Renoir and Vence and come back and go to the beach."
"Yeah, I think that's best."
"Cause we should stay in Monaco late."
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay. And what about lavender fields?"
"They're far. Best to rent a car and drive to Aix or Marseille."
"Can we do that?"
"Can we leave a day later?"
"Can we change our ticket?"
"I don't know."
"I leave next week," Brigitte said with an exaggerated sad face. I said nothing. Brigitte slapped her thighs with the palms of her hands and stood. "To Eze!" I smiled at her.Her voice had a take charge quality to it. A purpose. But I knew the languid lifestyle of the French Riviera would conform us to its nature.
We disembarked a train at Eze station at around 1:30 PM. The 83 bus that would take us up the mountain to the medieval town was not scheduled to arrive for another hour. Our option was to either wait for the bus, try to get a taxi, or take an hour walk up the mountain along Chemin Nietzsche. I enjoyed the idea of walking up a road named after the influential existentialist, however having spent the morning walking and touring, I feared our journey would bring us closer to Sisyphus than either of us desired. After a brief discussion, we opted for the public transit option.
"What's that?" asked Brigitte, motioning across the street to a Caribbean looking shack across the street.
"Le Bananerie," I read the sign over the door out loud. "A bar I guess? Smoothies maybe?"
We went across to investigate. It was a bar that served daiquiris, piña coladas, and other frozen drinks. The prices were for tourists, so we opted instead to grab a bottle of water, some beer, and a few snacks from the convenience store next door. We took our goods back across the street to the bus shelter where a large poster of 500 Days of Summer demanded our attention.
"He's coming along nicely," I commented about Joseph Gordon Levitt.
"I like him," Brigitte responded.
"He was really good in Brick."
"I didn't see that."
"You have to. It's a noir set in high school."
"I'll put it on the list."
I snapped the cap off my camera lens. "I'm going to take some pictures," I said.
Brigitte took in our surroundings. "Me too," she said.
I crossed the street again and took a few pictures of the Bananerie. I then took a photo of a set of three windows on the upper level of a large house that resembled a barn. Up the street, an old jeep was parallel parked along the sidewalk. I took snapped some shots of the vehicle, and then some of the mountain, and the train tracks. I took a picture of Brigitte taking a picture of me. I retired to the shelter and opened a beer. Brigitte continued clicking until the bus arrived.
Brigitte and I sat in silence, taking in the houses and views as the bus switched back and forth along the narrow road up the mountain. I was certain more than once the driver was in trouble as he attempted one one hundred and eighty degree corner after another, but each time he managed to get out of it, even allowing the bus to roll backwards along the curve of the road a few times, forcing the cars behind us to do the same. The transmission was probably worse for wear, but at least we weren't rolling off a cliff and hurdling toward the sea.
As we disembarked just outside the medieval village, the bus driver reminded us that the last bus down the mountain was at 6:00 PM. It was 2:52 PM. We climbed the stairs and entered Eze. We stopped at a leather shop. I purchased a braided bracelet. We visited a fragrance shop. Brigitte bought locally made perfume for herself, some soaps for her mother and candles for her aunt. There was a condiment store where I considered buying a set of three locally made mustards, but decided against it given the potential irritation associated with transporting them for the rest of day and evening and having to bring them back to Paris. We walked through the town, through stone tunnels, and up and down cobblestone staircases, peaking into taverns and antique shops, and taking photos of almost everything. With an hour left, I told Brigitte that I wanted to grab a bite at the Chateu Chèvre d'Or. I told her how my mother had studied articles and photographs of the hotel when she was a girl and dreamed about going there until she finally went on in the third year of her second marriage. I told her how my stepfather, who was very much a man's man, but no stranger to the occasional surprise romantic gesture, agreed to eat dinner at the chateau upon the insistence of his wife, but then got a room for the night and only told her after desert. I told her how every time I spoke to my mother after visiting Nice, she would ask if I visited the hotel. Every time I answered no I felt that I had disappointed her or that she was hurt because I didn't trust her recommendation.
"Are you going to surprise me?" asked Brigitte.
"We're going to Monaco," I responded.
We entered the Chateau Chèvre d'Or and I asked if there was room for two for a late lunch. The maître d smiled and led us outside, past the statue of the golden goat standing watch over the sea, and to the terrace. He told us to sit where we like. There were only four other occupied tables. We chose a seat along the railing that gave us an unparalleled view of the French Mediterranean, which nearly every other seat also enjoyed.
"It's breathtaking," said Brigitte.
I nodded. After seeing the menu, I ordered a Hemingway, which was lime juice, sugar, Cuban rum, sherry liqueur, and grapefruit. Brigitte, based on the sommelier's recommendation, ordered a house specialty which consisted of rum, raspberry nectar, pineapple juice, pepper, lime juice, and black currant. She substituted vodka for the rum. I could tell Brigitte was holding her tongue regarding the price of the dishes.
"Order what you like," I assured her.
"I'm going to go to the bathroom first," she replied.
"I'll wait here."
Brigitte took in the vista as she stood and traipsed back toward the lobby. Before passing through the doors at the top of the steps, she turned to me as she pointed to a level below. "They have a lovely pool!" she exclaimed. I glanced in the direction of her finger. Brigitte pranced away like an Asian Audrey Hepburn. The maître d brought our drinks a few minutes later along with a tray of olives, nuts, figs, pita, and hummus.
"Chef's compliments," the server told me. "Have you and the mademoiselle decided?"
"Not yet, she's gone to the bathroom to think it over. I'm leaning towards the barbecued lamb," I responded.
"A very good choice. But everything is very good, of course."
"I've heard that."
"I will come back."
"Thank you."
"You're most welcome."
The reputation of Michelin rated French restaurants did not seem to apply to the Chèvre d' Or, at least not at four thirty in the afternoon for a late lunch. There was a decidedly jovial, nonetheless cordial atmosphere, matched with an easy professional repartee. I liked the place very much already and I hadn't even sipped my drink. I rectified this shortcoming immediately. My first impression remained unsullied. Brigitte returned from her adventure and reclaimed the chair directly across from me.
"The bathrooms are opulent," Brigitte informed me.
"A golden stream into the pristine porcelain of the golden goat?"
"Did you decide?" Brigitte asked.
"The duck."
"The duck at the goat."
I nodded.
"I'm going to have the lobster at the goat."
"Sounds good. Try your drink."
She did.
"How is it?" I asked.
"Strong, but delicious." She waited here a few seconds, and then added, “That’s what she said.”
The maître d returned to bring us each an amuse-bouche, a zucchini and cauliflower bisque, and take our order. Due to all the walking, we were famished. When our food came, we ate it voraciously. Brigitte highly approved of her Brittany lobster. My duck, which came on a bed of pistachios and pine nuts, could probably be described as divine. For desert I had a basil-lime sorbet with merengue and Brigitte ordered some sort of strawberry concoction. We shared them and determined hers was better, but mine more interesting. The bill came after we ordered coffee. It was far and away the most expensive lunch I have ever put in my stomach, but with the taste still lingering in my mouth, I decided it was worth it.
We navigated the cobblestone out of Eze and found the stop. A short investigation informed us that we could take the 112 straight to Monaco. Neither of us were dressed for it and Brigitte offered this as a reason to return to our flat before visiting the posh avenues of Monte Carlo.
"We can buy something there," I suggested.
"And carry our things around?" Brigitte responded.
"We can get a room." After relieving myself of three hundred dollars for lunch, I felt cavalier.
"Only if you let me pay," Brigitte insisted. I refused. "Then no."
"Okay, you pay." I lied.
"Okay, let's go."
We boarded the bus when it arrived and found seats. I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder. We held each other and kept a happy silence the rest of the way like only lovers truly know how to do.
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