An Excursion to Sedan

The Train

Up before dawn, sleepy travelers snuggle up to glowing heaters in the Gare l'Est like moths circling a porch light. We hear the announcement that our train has arrived on the platform and shuffle along to find our car. It's all the way at the far end of the platform, next to the first class car. We step into the quiet, plush carriage and find our seats. Mostly French travelers silently organize their belongings around them and settle in for a cozy ride. I'm brimming with excitement. Right on time the train glides out of the station and into the countryside, purring quietly and hardly flinching at crossings, despite the breakneck speed at which it sails along the tracks. I watch suburban and then rural France scroll by. Colorful graffiti springs into view inside tunnels near tiny villages and then disappears again as the rolling green fields take over. In the distance the towers of Gothic cathedrals great and small rise haughtily above their villages. As we pull out of Reims, cows suddenly begin to dot the landscape, then sheep, then cows again. The train slows notably and a soft female voice comes over the speakers announcing our arrival in Sedan. We make note of the correct pronunciation: Suh-DON, the first syllable with slightly puckered lips, the second with jaw dropped so the sound can collect a deep reverberation from the small cavern beneath the tongue. We alight the train onto the platform and cross over the Meuse river into town.

I fucking love trains!

Swans on the Meuse River

Un Week-End en Ardenne

I press the doorbell of the three-story, tall-windowed brick home. I hear shuffling inside and the door unlocking. A smiling face appears in the doorway. "Bonjour," I say, "Je m'appelle Marie." A chuckle issues forth from the smiling mouth. Was this a silly way to declare who I am? My French isn't good enough to know any better. She introduces herself as Charlotte and waives us inside the dark wood foyer with an impressively high ceiling. She points out the features of the cozy sitting room and then leads us upstairs to our room. She opens the door to the corridor at the top of the stairs and says, "There's a cat, so if you don't want to be bothered keep this door closed." Charlie and I look at each other with widened eyes. "We love cats!" I say. "What's its name?" asks Charlie. "Le Chat," she replies and we laugh. The Cat. The whole floor smells of lavender oil and fresh laundry. The walls of our room rise impossibly high, painted a warm dark blue with white trim. A dusky wood wardrobe as big as a bed stands against the wall next to an antique writing desk. The bed looks soft and welcoming, and a quick sit reveals that it is indeed so. Guimauve, I think, Marshmallow. We've seen this word a few times and keep forgetting what it means. Now I have a tangible example in the texture of the mattress, bedding, and pillows. I look up and notice that the long curtains are actually blackout curtains and realize that we're finally in for a good sleep. Charlotte leaves us to settle in, so we hang our coats and tuck our backpacks out of the way and then head downstairs to take advantage of the caffeinated amenities in the sitting room.

Charlotte appears in the doorway with a tank of a cat in her arms. Le Chat is enormous, approaching twenty pounds by my estimate. His coat is a smooth light gray with a set of darker long gray racing stripes extending from the top of his head to the base of his tail. I scratch his cheek and he immediately purrs. Charlotte puts Le Chat on the coffee table and shows us a few brochures, then leaves the three of us to relax. We prepare ourselves tea and coffee and then sit in the soft chairs facing the window to the garden. Just beyond the pane clusters of bright red geraniums stand, and further on stretches a long verdant yard lined with hydrangeas and roses of all colors. Le Chat has sprawled out onto the table to take advantage of both the sunbeam coming through the glass and the heat of the nearby fireplace. I sit on the floor and stroke him as he simultaneously purrs and quietly complains that I'm disturbing his nap. The clock on the wall ticks quietly, the vapor from my tea rises into the morning sunlight, and I find myself having what I call a "good life moment". Everything is as it should be.

Le one, le only, Le Chat

Charles et Le Chat

A good life moment

The Castle

"Well this is fucking cool," says Charlie as we walk through the high arches of the Port de Turenne leading into the Château Fort de Sedan. For a moment we find our view closed off to both the modern outside world and interior castle museum, transported to another time in human history. The cavernous arches and domes above echo our footsteps on the cobblestones. We round a bend and find ourselves in an immense courtyard surrounded by high stone walls, some rounded into fat towers, with little slitted defense windows at regular intervals. This castle is advertised in many places as the largest castle in Europe but, as our Maginot Line tour guide would tell us the next day, "It's a load of bollocks." Apparently what counts as the castle is only the small triangular interior of the original structure. The fortification around the castle, which has been modified and expanded several times since 1424, is apparently one of the largest of its kind, occupying nearly nine acres. Technicalities aside, we always enjoy a good castle (or fort, or whatever). In our usual way of visiting historical sites, we just sort of skim the info panels and instead focus on taking in the feel of the place, trying to picture the lives its inhabitants lived, and the joys and hardships they must have endured. Experiences like this make me feel more connected to my species and appreciate its accomplishments and blunders alike. It has a way of making one simultaneously feel small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, which is actually more comforting than it sounds.

Trying to find a way to breach the fort

Heading back in time

Immense and medieval

How to slay your enemy on a narrow stairway

Sedan from the ramparts

 

The Garden

We've decided to breach the barrier to the magical garden that we keep seeing out the bed and breakfast's sitting room window. We open the big wooden door with white wrought-iron embellishments and step into a balmy autumnal paradise. We install ourselves at a gray wicker table and chairs on top of which sits vase crammed full of blooming daisies. Charlie lights a cigar and stares off into oblivion for a while. I take a stroll around the perimeter of the yard to appreciate the fruits of our hosts' labor. When I return to the sitting area Charlie informs me we have a visitor. Under another nearby table sits Le Chat, hunkered down and observing us acutely as if we were prey. I call him over and he saunters our way, declaring his arrival with quiet meowing. After a time, Charlotte's husband Michel emerges from a potting shed at the far end of the lawn and greets us. My French is poor and his English is almost nonexistent, but we manage to have a conversation about gardening anyway. Then the attention turns to Charlie and food, another passion of Michel's. As they wax poetic about the particulars of Ardennes cuisine, I space out and watch the wispy clouds go by. Le Chat joins me on my wicker bench and suddenly wears an alert expression. I follow the line of his gaze and discover a massive cloud of starlings billowing just above the horizon a short distance away. The swarm expands and retracts in waves, sometimes resembling a broad thin fishing net and other times a tight black ball. They move our direction and eventually are swarming low right over us. For the first time in my life I hear their sound. It's a soft rushing sound, a bit stronger than a gust of wind through leafy trees but a bit gentler than ocean waves approaching and receding over the sand. I ask Michel what they're called in French. "Étourneau," he tells me. It reminds me of "eternal".

A small piece of paradise

Charlie gets down to business.

I warm my nose.

Kind People

Charlie wakes up before dawn violently ill. We suspect it's the subpar pizza he ate the night before. We've got a train to catch and it's clear he's in no condition to travel. I go downstairs and inform our hosts of the situation. "My husband is evil," I mistakenly say. "Your husband is ill?" Michel gently corrects. I ask whether we might stay a bit longer and take a later train. "Absolutely," they respond, and spring into action to accommodate us. Charlotte takes me to her private office to show me the options on the train schedule. Michel runs and grabs a couple over-the-counter remedies from his medicine cabinet and a big bottle of water. Within the hour I smell onions cooking and Charlotte tells me they are making a chicken bouillon, a warm vegetable soup in chicken broth with (at least psychologically) curative properties. At least once an hour they inquire as to Charlie's status and ask whether he needs to be taken to the doctor. I tell them we'll wait a few hours, but Michel calls the medical service anyway to make sure someone will be available should the need arise; it is Armistice Day after all. Our kind hosts have plans this afternoon, but make sure we have everything we need before they leave. I also learn from Michel that the emergency number is 1-1-2, just in case. Charlie spends the afternoon tucked into the big marshmallow bed, fluffy blankets cinched up around his face, blackout curtains drawn, while I lounge in the comfortable sitting room, drinking tea, enjoying the warm fire, and gazing out into the rainy day garden.

The church bells at the central square ring for several minutes and then the sound of a marching band funnels through the town's high walls. There's a special ceremony happening to celebrate the centennial of the Armistice. Soon it falls quiet again except for the rain on the windows. Our hosts return in the early evening and Charlie is still in no condition to travel. "No problem," they say, "stay another night or longer, if you need." They offer the bouillon they began cooking earlier in the day and I accept, so they begin to set the table and generally fret over us. Charlie manages to drag himself down the stairs and sit at the table long enough to enjoy a few spoonfuls before excusing himself back to bed. The bouillon is simple but expertly seasoned, just broth and a few chopped vegetables with a sprinkling of vermicelli. Tiny circles of fat collect on the surface of the hot soup. The taste is comforting like snuggling up into your grandmother's lap when you're a child. If one has to take ill, this is the place to do it.