Imagine Him Gawking

Rudely disabused I was today of a comfortable verity that I’d always known was nonsense.   They do give speeding tickets in the European Union.  Five summers in a row I’ve managed to tear across the continent in Austria, in Ireland, in Greece, in Portugal and in Italy.  I will confess that I disregarded the speed limit in all these places with impunity and it was great and it never seemed to matter.  I had this rough notion that highways equaled Germans, equaled driving as fast as you wanted in the EU. 

This does not hold in France.  Driving up to Chartres today I was caught in a speed trap and told I was egregiously beyond the speed limit and would be forfeiting my license.  “I see.  So, can we talk?  I have definitely learned a lesson.”  “No.  This is my job.”  “I mean there must be a way, I don’t mind paying the fine but . . .” It quickly became clear that there would be no way to talk oneself out of this circumstance.  “Good luck.” He told me, handing my receipt.

The windows of Chartres were dimmed only slightly by all this traffic anxiety.  I’d promised the apogee of the stained glass art form and ducking through an alley and coming upon the wrought iron gates, which were fortunately open for us on this Sunday we stepped in and considered the two receding columns of primal luminosity.  And it was all, quite worth it and it all seemed to make sense because suddenly no one could believe how beautiful it was. 

One window scene from the Bible, St. Julien l’Hospitalier in a simple yellow boat, had been recast on a poster beside a boat full of refugees, reminding the flock: “I was a stranger . . .” These blobs of glass were delicately wrought to tell a story and here they are still capable of more than simply beauty.  I suppose it’s a bit trite for an American in France, but I always think of Hemingway’s brief description of how powerful Chartes was, from his “Moveable Feast” and it was comforting to imagine him gawking up at the same majesty.  Is it me or is one of the two towers at the head of the building Romanesque and the other Gothic?  I suggested as much.  We’d seen so many lovely Romanesque churches riding through the Dordogne countryside this morning.

Later, that night, we were finally, miraculously there in Paris.  Once again it was late.  And more importantly, the EU championship soccer game was being held tonight between France and Portugal.  We were in our AirB&B-like dwelling and the younger one and I decided to brave the city to find food to bring home.  Up to the Bastille and every restaurant was brimming over with fans watching the game, none were serving.  Every Tabac, ever pub and every anything as we arrived upon the Place des Vosges was similarly commandeered by the eager sports fans.  We hounded on for a falafel place I’d read about that might easily have been closed but as we got close I saw two patrons heading our way with falafel and took heart.  We scored!  Then we caught a cab home and watching the TV learned that the absence of raw insanity stemmed from the fact that France had, in the ensuing few minutes, lost the game to Portugal.  Devouring my falafel I was glad we were all home and not walking around draped in the Portuguese flag.