That goes too for the Pierre Loti Museum, where a mosque disassembled in Damascus has been reassembled in the museum’s ballroom. Wow! We prefer to relax in leParis pretty little faux bamboo lobby while Edith and Jack go off to Bernard’s. LaLanne’s enthusiasm about the future of Rochefort, Charente Maritime and the Atlantic beaches is formidable. Already we’re taking tourists away from the Riviera," LaLanne contends. "The Riviera is just too crowded, polluted, and expensive." Rochefort is not the Riviera. If it were, we’d be running to casinos, driving wildly along the Grande Corniche, eating pan bagnat on the beach. Instead we’re at Bar leNiagra up the street from the hotel, working through a mountain of pommes frites, and a crusty chunk of bread stuffed with ham and Gruyere.
Several bikers possibly those who kept us up until 11 the night before are following a motorcycle competition on television. "Somewhere in Spain," one of answers my question, then tries to explain what grand prix are all about. But my French is limited, the biker’s English not much better, so he goes to his parked bike to get the program from the Renault Grand Prix held in Rochefon the previous weekend. The program explains everything’in French. But Henri, official mechanic for the race, wants me to have it anyway. Later, sitting in the Place Colbert across from a Rochefort-sized Arc de Triomphe, we think about Henri and his generous gesture. Place Colbert, a public square fresh with massed begonias, is just the place to contemplate the vagaries of fortune and chance meetings, now and a half-century ago. Between sips of Vittel we down double portions of mango ice cream.
In the suburbs, Edith and Jack are sipping champagne with Bernard and his family. It’s not that we haven’t been invited. We just need to be on our own, to forget for the moment where we’ve been these past three weeks, where we’re going and with whom. We want to float, tread water, waste time. What better place than Rochefort? I hope the guidebooks never find it.
