I can't escape Glee no matter how far I go (not that I would want to). I'm sitting in a café in Cognac (called Cogna-Bar), and a Glee music video comes on TV. I'm examining the map and drinking hot chocolate. The city is bigger than I thought, and it took me a good thirty minutes to figure out my way around even a little bit. That's the problem with train stations that aren't centrally located. But eventually I broke down, bought a map, and sat down to take a good look at where I am and where I want to go. (I'm sure somewhere there's a metaphor in that, but let's not examine too closely, shall we?) My destination of choice is the Chateau du Cognac Otard, a straight (relatively) walk down the street. Hopefully it's not as far as it looks on the map. Somewhere along the way I'd like to stop for lunch, given an empty stomach doesn't mix with cognac tasting. This café doesn't serve lunch for another thirty minutes, and the lady wasn't very nice when I asked about it. Of course, that might just be my impression, but why is it that questions—about basic daily things, I know—seem to irritate some people? It's not just France, I've found that Americans can act the same way. Like I should know better and why am I asking? If I knew, I wouldn't ask, would I?
Regardless, it's a lovely city and a lovely day. I woke before sunrise (at 7) to get ready for breakfast downstairs at the Bed and Breakfast. It was an elaborate spread including a croissant, a mini-baguette, jams and confitures of all sorts, tea, and pineapple juice. If I didn't know better, I'd probably have mistaken the tea cup for a bowl, they're so big. I sat across from the windows in what was once probably a drawing room to a wealthy family. Out the windows, across the river and the uninhabited island just across the river Charente, the sun rose. Like a painting of an ancient countryside done in pastels, it lightened gently until a flare of red and orange lit up the horizon. The river a smooth mirror beneath, reflecting the bordering trees and the arch of the bridge. Only an hour later, the area was dense with a fog through which the city appeared to be awaking from a deep sleep. Fog is the perfect backdrop for mornings. It captures the sleepy haze of the early day, softening the world in transition from dreams to reality. Sound is muffled, rendering the world soft and quiet. Just the way I like my mornings.
Of course I had to rush a bit across town to the train station. Seems like I'm always running late, and that should either be a sign or a warning. You'd think I'd learn. I can't help that I linger. Only when I got to the train station, I found that to my delight the trip to Cognac was by bus, not train. It's all through the same transportation service, so I didn't know it wasn't actually a train until I printed my ticket. The bus uses the same type of tickets as the trains, and it leaves from the train station, acting as a short-hop-over transport between towns. A twenty minute ride later, and I arrived to a brisk morning in Cognac.
Well. You just never know what you're going to find, I suppose. I'm on the train on the way back to La Rochelle for the night, before my trip to Angers tomorrow. I went and had lunch at a restaurant that was part of a Chateau de Cognac. I had the plat du jour, because it was easy and cheap. It was chicken in an orange sauce over mashed potatoes, and it was quite good. Perfect for dipping bread in. My plan was to go across the courtyard afterwards to do a cognac tasting, and as I was paying, I got into a conversation with the two waiters. I told them I was an American, living in La Rochelle, traveling for the vacation. They called me an adventurer. I never thought of it that way, but I'm flattered nonetheless. I always picture adventurers a bit more like Indiana Jones.
Anyway, one of the waiters, the guy, gave me his number and walked me over to the cognac boutique when he found out I was going to try some. He introduced me to the man in charge of tasting, whose family has owned the cognac house since 1837. All of this was done in French, of course, to the consternation of two older American ladies present trying to decide what was a good cognac and having no success at all (they ended up buying one because they liked the bottle. Yeesh). I tried the three oldest cognacs, 30 years, 50 years, and 70 years. 59 euro, 125 euro, and 200 euro a bottle, respectively. They were each delicious, but the 70 year old was by far the best. The 30 was very smooth, the 50 had a lot of interesting flavors, and the 70 had a lovely blend of both. It was as close to perfection as a drink can come.
After a free tasting, I was on my way out when the waiter asked me if I was free this afternoon to get a coffee (or other such drink. The specific phrase is grab a coffee, but it's understood more to be a drink). I said yes but I had to catch a train (a bus, actually) at 4. He said he'd call me when he got off work.
I went walking after that, intending on heading back toward the train station. I was going to go in the old chateau Otard but I changed my mind (it was crowded and the next tour wasn't until almost 4. I didn't have time). I'll go back some other time; it isn't far. The guy called me, and we went to a café for a coke. We chatted for a bit in French, then he took me back to the train station and I hopped the bus back to Saintes. And here I am, in the swaying train writing this entry and trying not to get a headache. While motion sickness might make some people nauseous, it just gives me a bad headache and I can already feel it growing.
My plan for tonight is dinner, repack, then bed. I have a busy few days ahead, and I've certainly walked enough the past two days. My feet are killing me, and my jeans (which I bought only a month and a half ago) literally fall all the way off without a belt. I don't even have to unbutton them. They just slide right off. Amazing what a bit of exercise will do despite all the junk I'm eating.
À tout à l'heure!
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