Saturday, 04 September 2010
How I Lost a Girlfriend in Lyon, France
Written by Moshe Amon   
A long affair, longer than my two marriages, was nearing its end.  We didn’t talk about it, but something had certainly changed; some aspects in our relationship became a bit foggy, less clear, less focused.  Nevertheless, Ruthi and I were heading towards a trip to Europe, not yet aware that it might be our last trip together.  It was.  Most of the significant relationships in my life had something to do with a Ruthi.  The middle name of Miriam, my first wife, was Ruth.  When she split into two different personalities, one of them – the one that tended to act with no restraints, the one that was not bound by any social conventions, used the name Ruthi.  My second wife's name was Ruthi.  She was normal.  More or less.  The name of my ex-girlfriend was, and I assume still is, Ruthi.

We landed in Paris and picked up the car we previously reserved.  I think it was an Opel, a devil of a small car that could climb the Alps even in fourth gear.  We headed straight towards Chartres, the city and the cathedral, noticed a Bed and Breakfast sign, signed in and stayed there for a few days.

I didn’t speak French - for a very good reason: a strange, weird and quirky coincidence.  Each time I took a class to study French, Israel found itself in a state of war.  It looked to me like an odd plot, perhaps designed by the ancient gods of Canaan whom I revered much more than the Jewish Yahweh, the One who in Israel is currently worshipped by a sect of strange, greedy and bloodthirsty people who call themselves Orthodox.  I have no idea what the gods had against my learning French; it’s a mystery to me.  However, after three attempts I decided not to risk it any more.  I still cannot speak French.  Ruthi knew some words in French and with the help of a conversation manual managed to compose a few sentences.  She was so sweet and did it in such a nice way that all the waiters in the restaurants forgave our poor language and all of a sudden remembered their English.

The truth is that I don’t remember much from that trip.  Of course, Chartres Cathedral was special, by itself and because by then I was well acquainted with Charles Loughton’s description of his amazing experience in this cathedral.  We took the train to Paris and planned to return at night, but, typically, the train workers suddenly declared a strike.  We tried, in vain, to find a room in a hotel.  By then, I already learned from the movie Ninotchka that at midnight half of Paris is making love to the other half.  That evening I got the impression that the tourists probably made love even before midnight.  In any case, we could not find a room but we did find a taxi driver who agreed to take us to Chartres.  When we arrived he looked at a map in a worn out small booklet and immediately found our Bed and Breakfast.  I was impressed, especially as until now, many years after this, I still cannot find even my neighbor’s house on a map, not to speak of my own.

I wanted to stop at Poitiers, the place where in the 14th century, during the Hundred Years War, the infantry of the Welsh longbow archers overcame the haughty French Knights who in their shiny, extra heavy armor were unable to obstruct the torrent of arrows that penetrated their expensive shells.  With this battle, and the previous one in Cracy, the era of knighthood came to a sad end, paving the way to the rule of the mob.  What a disappointment!  Poitiers looked like any other city, or town, roads, cars, street lights, pedestrians, shops – no horses, no knights and no longbows; all those remained in the history books and the notes from lectures by my professors at the university.  However, perhaps we missed the sights because we arrived at night and didn’t wait for daytime.  What we did find was a small buffet that served the best pate I’ve ever tasted.  At least that is what I thought then and still remember.  Somewhere in the area we also bought a bottle of the most wonderful cognac either of us had tasted until then.

We drove through Spain.  I took a lot of pictures of the beautiful sights that still kept the aroma and the milieu of time past, but most of the pictures were blunt.  I had a new camera that I had never used before and there was no match between us, at least not yet.  To some extent the camera emulated the slight tension that once in a while surfaced between Ruthi and me.  No manifest quarrels, no sharp exchange of words, just some shadowy blurring in the background.  Maybe I fell into the trap of playing the teacher and the historian to the extent that might have aggravated her.  Maybe, I’m not sure.  We visited Cordova and I missed the small quarter of silversmiths and other artisans that so charmed me in my previous visit to Spain.  We visited Madrid and the Prado.  We visited a professor, a friend of an acquaintance of mine, who told us that the Spaniards still live in the illusion that they are in the 16th century when Spain was a world power.  I was, and to some degree still am, too much of an Israeli, too much indifferent to custom and etiquette.  I’m still embarrassed thinking of it, but neither I nor Ruthi where aware of the need to send a thank you note after such a visit and dinner.  This led, of course, also to the end of my budding friendship with our mutual friend in England.  Toledo was charming.  However, when I visited it, with another young girl, some twenty years later, the small souvenir shops were replete with “made in Poland” trinkets instead of the distinct local artwork.

As Ruthi was not acquainted with stick shift, I had been driving all the time while she checked the map.  When leaving Barcelona on our way to France she mentioned that midway there is a certain city named Gerona.  I grew dumfounded.  My heart started pumping faster and faster and my pulse could probably be heard by the passengers in nearby cars.  Gerona -- the city that in the 13th century was the epicentre of a revolution that changed the way Jews understood their texts, rituals, and their relation to the world at large.  Gerona - where holy texts and rituals became allegorical symbols representing a completely new reality, the reality of the Godhead.  Gerona --the place in which the medieval Kabbalah got ripened, seasoned and matured.  As we entered the city evening ebbed, we climbed the steep hill and in spite of the darkness managed to sense something of the mystical hallow of the summit.  The guidebook said that Gerona is famous for its cakes and cookies so we left the city with an oily, sweet taste on our lips, driving into the darkness of the night, following an empty and lonely road and the two front lights of the car.

All of sudden we noticed a very bright light on the side of the road and drove straight into what seemed to be a somewhat sleepy town.  We noticed an entrance to an old house with a sign of a hotel and soon found ourselves in the most intimate, captivating and charming room we encountered throughout the trip.  From the furniture to the carpet the curtains and the bed covers, all gave us the impression that all of a sudden, in the middle of the night, we entered an enchanting 18th or turn of 19th century world.  In the morning we encountered young, very young waitresses in ancient, 19th or 18th century skirts and aprons, drank tea or coffee in beautiful old ceramics and went to visit the church nearby.  It was Sunday morning and the service went on in spite of our interference.  We finished the tour of the cathedral, and got out of the church together with all the faithful, shaking the hand of the presiding priest and exchanging a few words with him.  What’s more – we found that we were in Narbonne, the twin city of Gerona when they both belonged to the kingdom of Aragon.  Narbonne, where the Kabbalah experienced its incipient stages before maturing in Gerona.  We clearly were in the midst of a mystical cloud.

We visited Monte Carlo and played a bit with the machines in the casino.  We visited Venice and what I remember most was the circle formed in the evening in the famous San Marco Plaza by students of the academy of music who sang a-cappella medieval songs and madrigals in order to glean some money for their studies.  It was worth visiting beautiful Venice even if only for this experience.  In order to cover greater distances we commonly traveled at night before finding a hotel in another city.  We visited thus many more cities and restaurants before arriving near midnight in Lyon.

The guide book spoke highly of the city’s restaurants so we decided, first of all, to taste the food of the city before embarking on the tedious experience of looking for a room in a three star hotel.  We drove from street to street and whenever we saw a sign of such a hotel Ruthi went in to inquire whether they had a room where we could rest out tired bodies.  No vacancy in any of them.  At long last, much after midnight we found such a lace.  Recognizing that I was on the wrong side of a one way street, I told Ruthi that I would just go around the block in order to park on the right side of the road.  Little did it register with me that we were in France, not in America.  I didn’t take into account that if in Italy all the roads lead to Rome, in France they all lead to Paris.  I drove around the block and in an instant found myself in another one way road impounded inside a tunnel that led straight to Paris.  My heart froze.  I had no idea where exactly I separated from Ruthi, what was the name of the hotel and how to get there in order to rescue her.  
 
I found an exit, drove back to Lyon and at long last saw a police car with something like 10-15 officers.  The sergeant in charge didn’t speak English but one of the policemen did.  Only it was clear that the sergeant didn’t like the idea that he had to rely upon an orderly so it took some time and some effort to describe my predicament.  I had to wait about 30 minutes until they finished whatever they were doing.  They spoke French so I couldn’t figure it out what it was.  Then the sergeant asked me: by what river is your hotel?  I: how many rivers do you have in this city?  Even though the sergeant did not know that he was dealing with a medical doctor and a university professor, he did not believe that American tourists could stay in a three star hotel.  So, we visited one five star hotel after the other, the police car in front and I, in my small Opel, following.  It took time, I have no idea how long it was but when they drove fast through what looked like a slum, on the way to another five star hotel, I suddenly noticed Ruthi standing on the sideway.  I made a sharp turn to the right and in a moment Ruthi and I were embracing each other, kissing and clearly excited.  The French have a soft spot for such spectacles, so the sergeant let me know that because of the special circumstances, this time he wouldn’t give me a ticket for entering, again, a one-way street from the wrong direction.  We backed the car out and after many thanks followed him to another five star hotel where we spent the rest of the night.

It was a traumatic experience, for both of us but especially for Ruthi who had no way of knowing that around the corner there was a tunnel leading to Paris.  She even wondered whether I was tired of her and decided to desert her and leave her stranded, with no papers, money and clothes in front of a dubious hotel in an indefinite part of a strange city.  Especially since she got quite a few offers to start a new career and join indiscreet fellows for a paid recreation in the hotel.

Not all roads lead to Rome or to Paris but there are many one way roads all over the world.  Some time later Ruthi set up her family home on such a street.  The signs were clear and I stayed away.  Time past, I left behind some girlfriends, even some broken hearts.  Others ditched me, broke and vacated my heart, but no longer did I lose a girlfriend in front of a cheap hotel in a foreign country.  The other experiences may have left a scar, but this one had been unique and worth telling.  At least, I think so.
 
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