The Revenge of Edith Piaf

Her wish is your command. She never makes eye contact. She is patient, unswerving, and painfully annoying. She has strong convictions, and babbles on, it’s hard to get a word in. You are smarter than her, but you do whatever she says... 

Introducing our GPS, Deborah. Named by the children.

Deborah spoke English, and showed us the ropes when we arrived in France. Now that my husband is practically French, Deborah needed some adjustments. We changed  Deborah’s language to French and she became Edith Piaf.

Edith Piaf was gee’d up to take us to Italy, via the French countryside. On our second night, Edith Piaf was en-route to Chateau Du Luc, in a town called Bez et Esperon. There was a lot of ground to cover, it was getting dark and the children were growing restless. “Will there be wifi?” “I feel sick, I’m gonna vomit”. “I wish that thing would shut up!”.

I couldn’t resist mimicking Edith Piaf either. The tension in the car was building.

Before we knew it, Edith Piaf had taken us completely off-road. It was no longer a road. We were driving up a narrow track of potholes over barren, rocky terrain. Thorny hedges  slowly scraped the sides of our long-suffering car. Turning around was not an option. 

I felt certain this kind of frivolity was no-go in our car rental agreement. I envisaged Rob walking to the road we turned off 5km back, to flag down help.

We stuttered on, hand over mouth in disbelief, snorting and gagging with each bump. Occasionally distracted by a deer or rabbit, we were passengers on the slow uphill climb of a roller coaster. 

Then, as soon as you can say, "What the...", we saw decent road again. Every ounce of panic and snorting flew out the window. All I was capable of saying was, “That was bad, hey”. We pulled into the driveway of Chateau Du Luc, singing, “Non... Je ne regrette rien”.

It was 10pm, almost dark, and we were two hours late. A tall, slender lady of about 75 years greeted us at the black, iron gates. She had poetic facial features; slender face, high cheekbones, and expressive blue eyes. Her grey hair had been pulled back with a pin. She wore long, tailored pants and a loose blouse. She smiled warmly. She was Madame Du Luc. This was her chateau.

Madame Du Luc lead us over white, pebbled ground to the house, and up a spiral staircase (the stairs and walls made entirely from sandstone). Rob had to duck as he entered. Once at the top, we eyed every inch of the house, like four laughing clowns. Madame instructed us that everything was Authentic Louis 16th period, around 400 years old. “Please do not to sit on any of the chairs, they are very fragile”, she said. I nodded with respect. Khira piped up, “But that’s what chairs are for... sitting on... you have to sit on chairs!”. Looking around the room there were many old paintings. The children were fixated on one in particular. Khira announced, “The lady in that painting scares me, who is she? ” Madame Du Luc answered, “She is my grandmother”. My face hurt from wincing. I just wanted to go to bed!

Madame Du Luc laid out a sumptuous breakfast in her Louis 16th dining room. I wanted to imagine we were royalty, but our thongs and table manners destroyed my fantasy. We sweetly departed for Italy.

Traveling together is give and take, so when we pulled in for gas next to a supermarket, I  assumed my role (caretaker of hunger and thirst). As I walked into the supermarket, while Rob filled the car, he yelled out, “don’t make it a big shop”. I gave him a marital ‘yes dear’ nod, and mouthed the words, “just some fruit and bread”, which I whole-heartedly meant. But once I was on the other side of the turnstiles, something happened. I was just like Ben Stiller in the movie Zoolander, when he heard the song, “Relax”. Only, I heard the Supermarket-Fairy say, “Browse the aisles and contemplate, you are safe here, take your time”.

When I waddled out, unbalanced with shopping bags in both hands, my eyes adjusted to daylight like a stunned animal. I awoke from the spell and realised what I had done. Sheepishly I said, “It’s all stuff we need”. But I knew I was in trouble. 

As we were now running late, we couldn’t stop for lunch, that’s when I brought out a platter of washed and peeled baby vegetables, with olives and two dipping sauces. Sweet baguettes, corn chips, ripe peaches and baby wipes to use when we were done. I was chuffed that I  remembered to buy baby wipes, but the smoke still emanating from Rob’s nostrils hinted that I would be feasting alone.

Ah, Italia! We arrived in Ventamiglia. The vast Mediterranean. Terraced green hills, clustered with colourful houses.

The B&B we booked on-line was up a steep, winding road. Driving up this one-lane, narrow road, another car drove towards us intending to pass. Usually one car reverses a few metres, until the other can pass. Rob reversed, but the lady in the other car drove towards us, like a bulldozer. After 500 meters of us reversing, and her bulldozing, she passed, without a thank you or a wave.

Since no-one was at the B&B, we let ourselves in. After we had all used the bathroom and made ourselves at home, (beds chosen, bags dumped), a stout lady with a limp, appeared through the door. The owner. We told her how thrilled we were with the accommodation, (smiling, our hands outstretched). To this, she frowned and said “NO”.

She rudely motioned for us to leave, by waving her hand at approximately buttocks’ height, towards the front door. Confused, we walked out, and she said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

That’s when she showed us to our tiny room with 2 double beds and a table. The youth hostel section. Fine, no problem. Looking out to the postcard view, we saw a swimming pool and spa. There were coloured scatter cushions and deck chairs. The kids asked to swim straight away, but the owner scowled and said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

As soon as she was out of sight, we bailed, in search of friendlier proprietors. The stout lady with a limp would have to find ‘Another family’ for our room.

Low on petrol, our car just made it to the top of the mountain, where we were greeted by a hotel manager, who was a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. He showed us to a cosy room, swimming pool, spaghetti, fresh mussels and Italian white wine. David Hasselhoff wore all black, and spoke Italian. On entering any area of the little hotel, David Hasselhoff would show up. I lost count of how many times I said “ciao” to him in a day. The restaurant waiters were Harpo and Zeppo from the Marx Brothers. Their smiles were genuine, and they loved feeding our children.

Three days later we drove down the mountain, past the first B&B, rejoicing, as we demonstrated our maturity to the children, by blowing raspberries at the stout, mean lady. We explained that in Italy, when you communicate, it is important to show your emotions.

Entering Beze et Esperon

Looking out from our window at Chateau Du Luc

Breakfast at Chateau Du Luc

Beze et Esperon

Artist at work

Amphitheatre at Nimes

Harpo and Zeppo - Ventamiglia