There is a taco shop. I’ll go in and ask.
Ahead of me to the fast-food guy’s attention are three North African women and their kids, ordering dinner. Only one of the adults speaks French and the menu is strange to them, so this takes some time. The menu is strange to me too, but I’m not opposed to trying it. Substitute burrito for taco; those are tortillas I see.
My turn, and the very nice guy listens attentively, reflects, and says there’s only one hotel he knows of.
OK.
He starts giving me directions.
OK.
But it becomes clear he assumes I have a car.
Ah.
A woman waiting pipes up she thinks there’s another hotel not far. If it’s still there. The others, who arrived in a bunch just after I started in on my problem, are pretty sure that place closed down.
Not exactly a boom town, Tarare.
Now the number two behind the counter gets involved: To the car, then!
He’s going to take me to the hotel everybody agrees exists.
Just like that. Foreign woman too far from lodging - he’s got his keys in hand and off we go.
How very sweet!
I come very close to saying, Fabulous, but let me eat first. But that might put me at the mysterious hotel on the far edge of town quite late, and it’ll be full, or closed, and there will be no more trains going on to more reasonable towns, and I’ll really be in a fix.
Off we go. My host is very kind, and has a rather sporty car for a burrito guy. I wonder what his day job is, but we talk mostly of my astonishment at the lack of lodging on our 10-minute drive out to the hotel. We pass the station. We get to the edge of town, where I would definitely have said 'no hope that way' and here we are at a large, nondescript hotel building with neon signs, plenty of rooms and its own restaurant.
They’ve definitely got space for me, unless there’s a Lions convention in town.
My savior speeds off back to work after another round of thank you’s and it’s nothings.
The hotel is reasonably priced (40 or 47 euros, depending if I want a room facing the considerable street noise or the garden) and it’s a good thing the restaurant is open because there is Nothing within walking distance. Not when it’s cold out (4°C I saw on a bank en route).
I get a room with a bathtub, but forget to ask if non-smoking is available. The odor is noticeable on opening the door, but not overpowering. I press my face into the pillow, cautiously at first, to check if it’s in the bedding, or just the air.
Just the air.
Dinner is bland (but what did I expect; I ordered Quenelle Lyonnaise), but fine. It’s not as if I’m after Haute Cuisine: in town I would have had worse, greasy “tacos” and fries. The hot bath afterward is excellent.
Ahead of me to the fast-food guy’s attention are three North African women and their kids, ordering dinner. Only one of the adults speaks French and the menu is strange to them, so this takes some time. The menu is strange to me too, but I’m not opposed to trying it. Substitute burrito for taco; those are tortillas I see.
My turn, and the very nice guy listens attentively, reflects, and says there’s only one hotel he knows of.
OK.
He starts giving me directions.
OK.
But it becomes clear he assumes I have a car.
Ah.
A woman waiting pipes up she thinks there’s another hotel not far. If it’s still there. The others, who arrived in a bunch just after I started in on my problem, are pretty sure that place closed down.
Not exactly a boom town, Tarare.
Now the number two behind the counter gets involved: To the car, then!
He’s going to take me to the hotel everybody agrees exists.
Just like that. Foreign woman too far from lodging - he’s got his keys in hand and off we go.
How very sweet!
I come very close to saying, Fabulous, but let me eat first. But that might put me at the mysterious hotel on the far edge of town quite late, and it’ll be full, or closed, and there will be no more trains going on to more reasonable towns, and I’ll really be in a fix.
Off we go. My host is very kind, and has a rather sporty car for a burrito guy. I wonder what his day job is, but we talk mostly of my astonishment at the lack of lodging on our 10-minute drive out to the hotel. We pass the station. We get to the edge of town, where I would definitely have said 'no hope that way' and here we are at a large, nondescript hotel building with neon signs, plenty of rooms and its own restaurant.
They’ve definitely got space for me, unless there’s a Lions convention in town.
My savior speeds off back to work after another round of thank you’s and it’s nothings.
The hotel is reasonably priced (40 or 47 euros, depending if I want a room facing the considerable street noise or the garden) and it’s a good thing the restaurant is open because there is Nothing within walking distance. Not when it’s cold out (4°C I saw on a bank en route).
I get a room with a bathtub, but forget to ask if non-smoking is available. The odor is noticeable on opening the door, but not overpowering. I press my face into the pillow, cautiously at first, to check if it’s in the bedding, or just the air.
Just the air.
Dinner is bland (but what did I expect; I ordered Quenelle Lyonnaise), but fine. It’s not as if I’m after Haute Cuisine: in town I would have had worse, greasy “tacos” and fries. The hot bath afterward is excellent.
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