First off, I need to explain going bowling in France was never on my wish list, top or bottom.
My sister and I were invited to a friend’s home in a tiny mountainous town in the Southwest of France. We planned to land in Barcelona to have a little road trip and go exploring before our visit. We planned on two days meandering from Barcelona to St Jean, France. We also wanted to stop in Arenys de Mar, a little town in Spain on the ocean. It’s famous for Paella and we had spent an entire summer there eating it many years ago.
Our flight arrived early. We rent a car and a GPS and we were off! The GPS assured us we would arrive in time for lunch in Arenys de Mar. The weather was sunny and beautiful as our little car clicked off the kilometers. The signs for Arenys de Mar appeared and we both smiled. 30 kilometers…15…and finally 2. Then the unthinkable happened. We hit a bump-a big bump just as my sister was changing the setting on the GPS. It went into Romanian, I think, and there was no getting it back into English. A melt down ensued - how would we ever find our friend’s house in the mountains, hours from here? Suddenly, we were no longer mellow and carefree or hungry for our paella lunch in a town we had so many precious memories of.
I assured my sister somebody will help us - be patient. As we descended into Arenys de Mar the GPS was chattering in a language all it’s own. I noticed a Renault car dealership so I pulled in on two wheels stopping feet from the mechanic’s knees. Let’s just say, he was surprised to see us.
My sister jumped out with the disconnected ‘ruler of our destiny’ and begged in English for help. He looked perplexed at us and the GPS. My sister used her hands and limited Spanish trying to explain that we needed it put back into English or we would never find our friend’s house. He pushed buttons wildly as my sister explained that we had visited his lovely town 40 years ago. Telling all the details on and on nervously. I giggled as she prattled on. “Do think he understands anything you are saying or cares?”
He got the original settings back into English probably because he couldn’t take our bickering anymore.
Thanking him repeatedly, off we went to see the town once again. Everything was still the same, rare as that maybe. We picked the only opened restaurant in town and hoped they served paella. It isn’t a good sign when you are the only customers and it’s prime time, right? The paella was horrible, absolutely horrible. All those cherished memories of this little town wiped out in minutes, but we were grateful that the GPS was fixed.
Back on the road, the winds grew stronger the more we drove North. Extreme crosswinds warning signs flashed every few miles. I held on to the wheel of our tiny little car for dear life. Oh, what ‘fun’ we were having!
That night we did find a nice hotel and had a reasonably good dinner and had a nice oyster feast for lunch the following day. Over lunch we decided to go to our friend’s house that night and surprise them a day early with dinner. We knew they were skiing in Switzerland but we weren’t sure when they were coming home. Let’s chance it we both decided.
Our friend Alan’s directions instructed us to cross the ‘old’ bridge, not the new one and proceed up the mountainous road. I stopped the car between the two bridges and stared. My sister was doing the same. We both laughed. How does one tell the difference between a 200 year-old bridge or a 400 year-old bridge.
After close examination, we took the “oldest” bridge and our little car started climbing the steep, narrow road. Half way up the accelerator was to the floor but we were going only 10mph. Yes, it was very steep and only one lane wide. We arrived at their house at the very top of the mountain just as the sun was setting. No, they weren’t home. We crossed our fingers and drove back down the long curvy road in darkness. Our plan once on level ground was to stay overnight in the nearest town, have dinner and go to sleep early.
We found a motel in the first town we got to but it was such an odd, unappealing place. It was painted electric red and yellow but the parking lot was full, a sign. We checked into the last room available. Our room was a plastic modular unit, one of many stacked one on top of the other. I don’t want to share the details other than it was very clean and I was so tired. I would have slept our car.
We were hungry and ready for a glass of wine and we hoped to find a place within walking distance as our car was now locked in the gated yard. We asked the man at the front desk where we should have dinner and he highly recommended the bowling alley across the street. “Really?” we both replied at the same time. “Yes, Really, it’s very good” he replied. Okay, the bowling alley it shall be.
The bowling alley was a huge, ugly cement block building. The sign informed us it was the best restaurant in town along with 25 modern bowling lanes. When we open the door, it was a happening place, after all it was Friday night and every lane was occupied.
We stood for a few minutes looking at the characterless restaurant with the Formica tables lit with overhead fluorescent lights and we paused. Salami and cheese in our car’s trunk was starting to be much more appealing. We stared at each other and said how bad can the food be, we’re in France. We sat down at a table in the very empty dining room, looked at the menu: Pizza, hamburgers, or entrecote with a Roquefort sauce, potatoes daphinoises, and haricot vert. We both ordered the steak and crossed our fingers.
The wine list was extensive and all from local vineyards. We ordered a glass of wine and relaxed as much as we could under the bright lights. Couples started wandering in. The man at the front desk of our motel told us to get there early if we want a table. I thought he was kidding. All the arriving patrons were clearly regulars by how nicely they were greeted. Everyone was all dressed up for an evening out except their shoes had red clay/soil on them and their hands were calloused.
As each table was occupied, the waitperson placed a bottle of wine and glasses on it. No one had ordered wine but the waitress brought it anyway. We were confused. All these people were local farmers except these farmers made wine and the waitress brought them ‘their’ wine just like she did every Friday night. It was a night on the town after a busy work week - dinner, bowling, loud disco music and friends getting together.
Dinner was lovely; after all we were in France, how lousy could the food be? We met every wine maker in the dining room by the time we had dessert. We didn’t want to leave this very special place. As we paid our bill they all asked us to come bowling with them. Bowling, really? Sure, we’d love to!
We dazzled them with our near perfect scores every string as tired as we were into the wee hours of the night. When we finally said our goodbyes to every vintner we thanked them for such a sweet evening and letting us into their world...
Brenda Athanus runs a small gourmet food shop in Belgrade Lakes, Maine with her sister Tanya called the Green Spot.
The Green Spot
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