Disrepair and Despair

After failing to reach me by phone numerous times, Vivienne had rung Madame Fournier expressing concern about me. Madame Fournier then came around the house only to find me lying on the living room floor in one of my drunken stupors. I suppose I appeared to her to have been in a state akin to a near coma, but I was more severely dehydrated from my excessive intake of Scotch over that entire weekend than in any dire predicament of near demise. She immediately took the necessary steps to pull me back into reasonable consciousness and alerted Rene Mathis of my condition. Rene arrived a few hours later and believed the best remedy for me would be a week’s stay in Paris under his watchful eye. I have since apologized to the ever-gracious Madame Fournier for having alarmed her so and put her through the trouble of reviving me.

Apparently, I had fallen into some disrepair and despair. Every once in a while I feel that something becomes somewhat amiss. Perhaps it is the fact that I am alone too much. At my age, maybe that’s not a good thing to be. Rene was right in convincing me that I needed to get away from myself. And so we made a leisurely drive of it in his Citroen to Paris, stopping for an overnight stay at a delightful bed and breakfast at La Villa Catalpa, fifteen minutes from Lyon. Rene had been there before but I had not and I found it an utterly peaceful locale, being set in a park with century-old trees and against the backdrop of Les Monts du Lyonnais. A swimming pool, tennis court and separate garden sitting-out area added to the relaxed nature and idyllic atmosphere of the small “hotel de charme” and its environs. Being in Rene’s company and having him expose me to this scenic countryside nearby the Beaujolais vineyards slowly helped me crawl out from under the weight of my ennui and malaise.

The next day we resumed our drive, taking the A6 directly to Paris. As timing would have it, Rene’s son, Francois, was in America for a few days on business and so his home in the Marais district was available. I have always enjoyed the lively area, home to renowned museums, including the Picasso Museum housed in the Hotel Salé, and art galleries, and nearby excellent restaurants and bars, along with an array of fashion boutiques. It has now become a favorite among the Gay set. Overlaid across the 3ieme and 4ieme arrondissements of Paris, the Marais (or "swamp", on which the area had been built) is characterized by its marvellously restored 17th century homes and mansions once owned by the nobility, and which only those wealthy enough can still afford to own.

As timing would also have it, we arrived in Paris during the protests against the proposed new French labour law aimed at young workers. So in my attempt to find some rest, it seems I had encountered sights of unrest. There are times when I fail to understand the logic of the French. Nearly a quarter of the youth are unemployed and still the government finds a need to enact a law that gives employers carte blanche in the firing of them without any reason. It is an excelled form of madness, especially in view of the earlier riots by young Muslims borne of an entirely different circumstance but still nevertheless rooted in the even higher unemployment rate among that youth. Sometimes I truly wonder why I continue to live in France. But then, Eze in the Cote d’Azur feels far removed from the mainstream of French life as to be an entirely different, and saner, country.

After the week in Paris had passed, with our last couple of days having been additionally entertained by Francois following his return, I found myself buoyed by much better spirits. When we finally left the city, Rene and I returned to La Villa Catalpa for a second overnight stay as I wanted to again embrace its calming surroundings. We then continued onward the next day on the A7, then A8 back to my home. Tired from the trip, Rene spent Saturday night as my guest and left mid-afternoon Sunday for his own home in Grasse. His stay ensured that I refrained from tempting myself into another self-destructive round of Scotch dowsing. As it was, I didn’t feel much for it anyway.

But I do now wonder how – alone once again – I will tackle tomorrow.