About halfway to Haguenau , France , by train, a woman who was near me asked,
“I see you are going to Haguenau, you’re an American soldier stationed in Germany
“Yes,” I
said, “along with my two boys, Cody and Shawn, why do you ask?”
“Well, by
the time you get to Haguenau, it will be very late, and the hotels will be shut
down, closed for the night there aren’t many available anyhow. They lock the doors there early. Incidentally, I work for the museum
there. Your children will be hungry, and
so forth, I can suggest a place if you wish.”
“Yes,” I
said, and then wondered why she said what she said, and she looked me square in
the face—somewhat sternly; perhaps said what she said for the boys sake, I
thought, but left well enough alone.
“I know a
hotel, my friends own it, and they’ll be glad to take care of you, I’ll bring
you there when the train stops in Haguenau, if that’s okay with you.”
“Oh yes,”
I said in reply apprehensively, as if in some distance blue haze, like still seas in a bay (yet trying not to
lose the opportunity of her goodwill should I need it), “that’s more than
okay…” I added to the comment, and I didn’t quite know what else to say, I was
mad at all the French people because the waiter had the nerve to kick me and my
boys out of the café area in Strasbourg having ordered our food from a vender
and sitting at one of their tables—I had to cool my temper down; I had per near
socked the guy in the face I had to move out quickly there was going to be a
scuffle, he went to get assistance when I challenged him.
But I
guess she was making up for that waiter’s rude behaviour in Strasbourg
‘Next stop, Haguenau!’ said a man walking
back and forth from one car to the next (the township had perhaps some 20,000 to
25,000-inhabitants).
The train
stopped, it was 8:30 p.m., and the kind French woman, who spoke English quite
well, although slurred and broken at times, took me and my boys to the
hotel. It was locked as she said it
would be, and she knocked hard on the door—very hard, someone came and looked
though the peephole, they saw it was her, and opened the door, “These are my
friends,” she quickly said to the owner in French, “can you put them up for the
night?”
“Oh, it’s
late but…sure! We can do our best, the kitchen is closed but we can find
something, I’m sure they’re hungry,” said the Frenchman. And then they talked
for a minute, and he said, confirmed, “No problem, we have a room all set up,
just need to change the sheets, we’ll do that while they warm up downstairs.”
“You can
have room 202, if that’s fine with you,” said the man, the proprietor; the
French woman had left.
“You want
beer?” he asked me.
“Okay,”
I said, tired, and just really wanting something to eat, but a beer sounded
good also.
“So here
is the key,” he handed it to me, “see you in the morning…” said the tall thin,
Frenchman, and then he disappeared.
And
before I did, before the boys and I went to the room, we sat with the group of
people at a table as I finished the beer, to show them I was okay, sociable.
Thereafter, we went to our room, and to my surprise there was a fine bottle of
wine in a silver bucket with ice, and three large sandwiches of summer sausage
and cheese, on dark rye bread. The note read in English, “Compliments of the
house.”
In the
morning we went to the park nearby the hotel, there the boys played in the
fountain—a large a beautiful rotunda like fountain—splashed me with water, the
twins thrusting one another about, tackling and clashing and just having good
old American fun, and with the morning patch of sunlight we walked about the
park and rotunda, with our nostrils dilated to the smells of the cool morning
crisp air, and the carved antique pillars, and little gothic knights. And we
caught a train back to Darmstadt ,
Germany
Originally Written: 2002, reedited, 2004, and
6-2012
