A ROMANCE IN PROVENCE

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing at Marseille Provence airport in a few minutes. Please fasten your seat belts and raise your shelves. It’s 2:05 p.m., the outside temperature is 13° Celsius with a slight westerly wind. Please remain seated until the aircraft has stopped. Thank you.” Most of the passengers on the flight from Montreal had only listened distractedly to the chief flight attendant’s announcement. Regulars of transatlantic flights haven’t been listening to this kind of information for a long time, and this was the case with me. My job at that time involved a lot of flying, and I was one of those jaded travellers. However, that day, despite the fatigue of an endless flight, I felt a hint of excitement when I heard the message delivered in a monotone tone. Perhaps partly because he was announcing the end of my ordeal. I had just spent 8 hours wedged between an overweight and loudly snoring businessman, who had the wonderful idea of swallowing a sleeping pill upon take-off and fell heavily asleep. My only attempt to go to the bathroom was transformed into a contortion session on the outward journey and then on the return, like the gymnasts of Cirque du Soleil. And on the other side, a spotty kid on a game console with shrill noises. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I regretted the advances in technology that allowed the batteries of these devices to last so long. I fidgeted with impatience in my seat, I was a few minutes from the start of a new adventure. I was moving to Provence for the next 18 months. Working for the luxury hotel group Western, for ten years now, I’m going to their newly acquired establishment in Luberon. My mission there would be to develop the Western identity, whether physically, by planning changes in the hotel, but also by applying the group’s working methods there. My missions generally lasted between six and twelve months and had taken me to the four corners of North America. I was good at my job, maybe even the best, without boasting too much. The group leaders, satisfied with my results, had therefore automatically thought of me for their new baby, which was the first step in their development strategy on the old continent. I had accepted on the promise that when I returned, I would be entrusted with the management of an establishment in the United States. Indeed, I was getting tired of this consulting job and wanted to take the next step. Why? My mother would have told you that it was the opportunity to return to the country, meet someone, get married, lay 2.5 babies and buy a suburban house with a white wooden fence. If possible not too far from home, the Golden Retriever option in the garden is most essential. Pretty funny when you think that she spent her whole life in the heart of Chicago. My employer would have argued that it was the logical continuation of my career, a substantial increase and the possibility of bringing my acquired expertise through various establishments, to the one I will manage. My friends thought it was to stabilize me, bring me closer to them and my family. They were all a little right, and also wrong (especially for the 2.5 kids). I’ve always wanted to run a hotel. Since childhood, my parents had hauled me to the most luxurious establishments, following my father’s business trips. I had always been fascinated by all these people working in hotels who were busy running these big machines, in an elegant ballet, similar to a beehive, each with their well-defined position. And I wanted to be the queen bee. I had studied at one of the largest hotel schools in the world, in Switzerland, and had been hired by the American-Canadian group Western, barely with my diploma in my pocket. One day running an establishment was what motivated me to work hard for more than 10 years, I was looking forward to seeing it come true. A few hours stuck in economy class would soon be forgotten when I touched my dream with the tip of my finger. And my exile in France was well worth it, I just didn’t know at that time, how much. I left the metal carcass, going up an aisle which had lost its splendour, abandoned by their travellers who left behind greasy newspapers and loose blankets. I replied with a little nod to the chief cabin attendant who addressed us with a weary smile of “have a good day!” Once my luggage was collected, and somehow piled up on a cart, I left the passenger area and looked for the driver who must have been sent by the hotel. No matter how hard I looked at each man in a dark suit with a sign, none of them had one with my name or that of the Western Hotels. I took a look at my watch which had been kept on the East Coast of the United States, mentally calculating the time difference. My plane landed right on time. Remembering that I had been warned that the south of France didn’t have the same punctuality habits as the Swiss, I decided to go sit on one of the metal chairs at the airport to wait for my driver. I was exhausted by the trip, and the days leading up to my departure hadn’t been easy. I had to go to Montreal, the headquarters of the Western Hotels, for an update with the management team, while finalizing the final details of my move. I had only one desire: to reach a hotel room as quickly as possible and find some privacy, a soft mattress and above all a good hot shower. Half an hour later, I had made up my mind: the driver wasn’t here. I called the hotel where, after being sent around by phone from one service to another (a little less from the time someone understood who I was) I was told that headquarters had confirmed to them an arrival for the next day. After shortening the repeated apologies from the young woman on the phone, promising her that I would manage on my own, I set off in search of a taxi. I stood in line briefly, then a white sedan stopped in front of me. The driver, a short and stocky man in his forties, got out and grabbed my luggage as if it weighed nothing. I told him my destination, and his eyes filled with the joy of the one who won the race of the day. I had vaguely looked on the internet before leaving, the hotel was located in the Vaucluse department, just over an hour away. Which would make him a nice, plump sum in his pocket at the end of the afternoon. The man was wearing a turquoise and white jersey, and I remembered it was the one from the local team. I vaguely remembered that my friend Jerry had told me about a film telling the story of a Marseille taxi, a fan of speed and Marseille football club. I asked him, just to be kind if he supported the Olympique de Marseille team. The driver almost choked on my question, luckily I had already fastened my seat belt. He gave me a dazed look in the rearview mirror. Sure, my question was a bit silly, he wasn’t going to wear the jersey of a team he didn’t like. “And who do you want me to support?” he exclaimed in a loud voice with a musical accent. “We have the best team in the world, in the most beautiful city in the world! Of course, I support OM! Here everyone supports OM! We Marseilles have it in our blood!” I’ll spare you the detailed presentation that I had during the next twenty minutes, about the players, the last matches, the history of the Velodrome (their stadium apparently, but what it had to do with the bike I had no idea) and even some insults to other teams whose names I soon forgot. I especially remember that football seemed to be damn important in the area, maybe it was also the case in the Luberon? In that case, I would have to find out about the rules of this sport, which received little publicity in my native Chicago or in the other cities in which I had lived, or even in Switzerland where I had studied. With the constant chatter of the taxi driver in the background, we had left the highway for a while, and we ended up in a much more… rural valley! I knew that this destination would be different from what I was used to, I had lived mainly in big cities. Having learned about the Luberon, I understood that it was the opposite of my usual lifestyle and that I might need a little time to adapt. I had however imagined that there would be… how to say? More people? Admittedly, it was January 2 and certainly not in the peak tourist season, but the deserted roads and the shuttered houses gave me a little apprehension. These regions which seemed emptied of their inhabitants contrasted with the bright and deep blue sky. I tried to focus on the positive and wondered when it would be warm enough to swim. I already imagined calling my friends in a few weeks, who would still be victims to a harsh North American winter, while I would be on the terrace sipping a glass of rosé in the sun. We passed a sign indicating entry into a new village. This was Gordes, in other words, the village where the hotel was located. I saw through the window of the taxi, a village that conforms in all respects to the cliché that we Americans have of the small Provencal village. Hanging on the hill and overlooking the valley, the stone houses seemed straight out of an advertising brochure. Like many of my fellow countrymen, I was fascinated to see that some of these buildings were older than my country. I could easily imagine that this place, especially in summer, must attract a lot of tourists. I promised myself that I would try to get there very quickly to find out its secrets. I had done some research in the last few weeks, both to target the clientele who would visit the hotel and out of personal interest, many interesting sites were in the area. Part of my job required me to know a minimum about the region’s tourist sites. The taxi left the highway and passed a large wrought iron gate. It entered an avenue lined with tall cypress trees that proudly pointed to the azure sky. A few hundred meters further, we arrived at the main entrance of the hotel. The taxi stopped, and a valet rushed to open my door. Once my luggage was out of the car, entrusted to the porter, and the bill settled, I took a minute to inspect my surroundings. The building, seen from the point where I was, looked quite intimate. Built of dry stones, the facade was typical, I learned later, of the region. Large umbrella pines were to provide much-appreciated shade in summer. At the beginning of January, the vegetation was dormant, but one could easily imagine the rosemary in bloom and the lavenders adorned with their purple spikes in summer. With my head already at work, I decided that this entrance was certainly pretty but not welcoming enough, we would have to work on it in the coming weeks. Western Hotels wanted to offer their customers a luxurious but above all warm atmosphere. Our high-end clientele was also largely family-oriented, and this arrival seemed a little too austere for a family who had travelled for several hours with luggage and children and arrived in search of a haven of peace to recharge their batteries. I entered and crossed the main lobby, which would no doubt become a familiar place. It was immaculately white. From the carpets to the comfortable armchairs organized in several small lounges, everything was reflected in the marble, also white. The two receptionists with their strict black suits were the only point of colour in the room (although the scientists among you will argue that black isn’t a colour). I stood in front of them. “Hello, I’m Miss Caddell, I’m sent by the head office of Western Hotels as a consultant, I think you should be aware of my arrival, even if it was not registered until tomorrow?” The young woman in front of me looked at me both worried and curious. That was understandable, usually, when somebody comes out of the office, it always creates stress among employees who think they’ve been sent a cop. Whenever I arrived at a new hotel, the teams took a little while to consider me one of their own. This had never really bothered me, because being well aware that I was there for a fixed-term mission, I didn’t bother to make friends with my work colleagues. Even more so, even though they didn’t depend directly on me, I was still their superior. And keeping a certain distance made my job easier. “I’ll notify Mr Ricard, the hotel manager of your arrival.” The receptionist picked up her phone and dialled the shortcut to reach her boss. She announced my arrival in a slightly overdone tone, then invited me to wait on one of the sofas. I only sat there at the tip of my buttocks, afraid of being caught in the comfort of it, and so my lack of sleep wasn’t felt too harshly. I didn’t have time to stay there very long, however, for a man was already striding towards me with an energetic step. And what a man! Tall and slender, he exuded an assurance as certain as the fact that his impeccably cut suit came from a luxury store. His brown and wavy hair like Patrick Dempsey framed a masculine face enhanced by deep blue eyes. My sincere congratulations my Lord! That’s great work! He gave me the finishing touch with a dazzling white smile worthy of a toothpaste advertisement. He hadn’t said a word yet, I was already under a spell. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one, because by some highly trained ninja move, and faster than a flash of lightning, the receptionist materialized by my side, cutting the momentum of her boss who was going to shake my hand. “Miss Caddell is here,” she told him, fluttering her eyelashes like a butterfly on takeoff. “Yes, I noticed,” he replied without even taking a look at her. You can resume your post, Christelle.” My God that voice! Are you visualizing a chocolate fondant? That very fashionable pastry in French restaurants, and which for sure, had been a serious positive point in my plan to settle in France. Can you see the moment when you dip your spoon into the cake, taking both a part of its flowing heart, as well as the dough surrounding it? Are you carrying this spoonful to your mouth to enjoy the chocolate creaminess? Well, this man’s voice made me feel a situation very similar to that of tasting chocolate fondant. Except that in addition to approaching a culinary o****m, I got electroshocks from my panties. “Hugo Ricard,” he announced. ”Delighted to meet you, and welcome to our home,” he added in perfect English, barely tinged with a slight accent that only made him sexier. “Me too,” I manage to say while trying to regain my senses and especially to grab the hand he held out to me. A hand, which I discovered, was long and virile while being gentle and neat. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, I suggest that we go around the hotel together so that you can get a first glimpse of the place.” I had vainly hoped that he would just greet me, and maybe escort me to my room, where I could finally take a shower and fall asleep. Or possibly, for a minute, I was ready to skip the nap to test with him the bedding offered by the establishment. Cali! But where do these ideas come from? Apparently, this would not be the case. I was going to have to go around with the manager before hoping to get a little R & R. Fortunately the guide was charming! I reprimanded myself internally for this new thought. This man was going to be my closest collaborator in the coming months, it would be a very bad idea to develop even the smallest interest in him. Especially since he was most certainly married. Although at present his left ring finger is stripped of any alliance. Once again, I blamed myself for coming up with the idea of checking this detail. I was here for a year and a half, I wasn’t here to make friends and even less to succumb to the charm of a young Frenchman, as attractive and well-groomed as he is. We started our tour with the gourmet restaurant. In the middle of the afternoon, it was empty. The decoration remained in the same theme as the hotel lobby, a little less white anyway. I would certainly have to eat there in the coming months and be careful not to order dishes in sauces, not being particularly known for my dexterity (I’ll tell you one day my experience of a white dress and a peppermint cordial). We went to the kitchen, and Hugo Ricard introduced me to the chef. The little moustached man looked at me with disdain, certainly thinking that his Michelin star made him far superior to me, poor national from the country of junk food. He cut short our meeting, claiming paperwork to finish before the evening service. It would take me a while before he agreed to let me taste his sauces from the spoon, or it would never happen. Leaving the kitchen, Hugo Ricard showed me around the brasserie, which offered simpler dishes that were very popular at lunchtime. In summer, its large terrace welcomed guests by the pool, and it was easy to imagine that the already idyllic view at the start of January must be superb in summer. The parts came one after the other: meeting rooms, offices, staff cafeteria, laundry room, whether on the public side or behind the scenes on the employee side, no place was spared me. However, I still had not seen a single guestroom in the establishment. Monsieur Ricard introduced me to a young brunette woman who must have been about my age. Her plunging brown hair fell impeccably a little above her shoulders, and despite her strict suit, she was immediately friendly to me. “Miss Caddell, I present to you Danielle Allard our housekeeper. Danielle has worked for the hotel for many years, she knows all our secrets. She’s also a local girl, she knows the region like her pocket.” “Pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand to me for an energetic handshake. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. We are pleased to have you with us.” “Yes, very happy,” adds Monsieur Ricard, sending me another of his ultra-bright smiles. This visit was very nice, but it was now high time to see these famous guestrooms. I then tried a roundabout approach: “Miss Allard, could you just show me around a few guestrooms and show me your work and that of your team?” “Well...” she began embarrassed, glancing at her boss. “That will have to wait another day because we are full today. We have rented all the rooms for New Year’s Eve and most people have extended their stays until tomorrow. But of course, Danielle will be happy to show you all of this as soon as possible.” “Well, I think I’ll just see the room where I have to sleep tonight then,” I replied a little disappointed even if it could wait until the next day. “On this point, we have a slight problem,” he admitted, embarrassed, scratching his neck. “The head office had only informed us of your arrival for tomorrow, so unfortunately we don’t have a room available for you this evening.” It took me a second to realize what he was telling me. And when I did, I felt that I was stabbed to death with a chisel. All hope of showering in the next thirty minutes was dashed, and with it, the rest of the enthusiasm associated with my arrival here. “But then where will I stay until then?” I tried not to seem too desperate, even if I felt I had all I could stand. “The reservations department is calling our colleagues to find you a room, but I’m afraid you have to go all the way to Cavaillon. Some of the facilities in the area are closed in winter.” I had no idea where Cavaillon was, the name seemed vaguely familiar (I don’t know why I associated it with melons), but I knew that I didn’t want to take a taxi to go get lost I don’t know how many miles from here. “And you don’t have a room for the staff? A restroom? A place where I could shower and sleep for a few hours, even on a sofa?” I was willing to give up comfort so I wouldn’t have to travel all day. “Not really, no…” “Maybe I have a solution,” said Danielle timidly. ”I live two kilometres from here and I’m finished in half an hour, Miss Caddell could stay in my guest room for tonight? If it suits her of course!” she hastened to add. At the time I could have kissed her. I had said that she seemed friendly to me! I gave her my best smile and replied: “That would be great if you don’t mind. And please call me Cali.”