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Barging In Single by ​Cherie Magnus


Un couvert, s’il vous plait, yes, only one, I said to the waiter in the restaurant where I just had lunch on the Place des Vosges. I’m still not used to my widow’s status, especially as a traveler in a foreign country. But if I’m going to eat alone, it might as well be under the arcades of Ma Bourgogne on a sunny spring day in Paris.
 
A taxi drops me and my suitcase at the Hotel Regina, the rendezvous point for the twenty-four people lucky enough to be taking a six-night barge cruise through France’s upper Loire area. We are welcomed by George, our “Driver-Guide,” as we climb up into the small bus parked in front of the hotel. People are in groups of two or, in two cases, three, sitting naturally with their companions forming small islands, and so I sit by myself next to a window. I appear to be the only person on the bus traveling alone, although there is one man sitting apart. Altogether there seems to be a bit of a Noah’s Ark feeling of people joined at the hip.
 
This is my first group travel experience as well as my first time traveling around Europe alone. I feel a little conspicuous and ill at ease not knowing anyone, but why am I here if I don’t want the excitement and danger of the unknown and unexpected? If you wait to find someone to do things with, you often never do them.
 
It’s the end of April and the weather is perfect, but the traffic out of Paris is terrible. We stop for a break on the autoroute. I smile at women in the bathroom and couples in the snack bar, but it is only while waiting to get back on the bus that we exchange hellos. Shyness. I’m surprised to notice that even the couples seem to be en garde against the unfamiliar. We wait in the bus for two ladies “of a certain age” (most of the group are between fifty to sixty-five) who are late returning from the snack bar, holding drippy ice creams away from their pastel pantsuits, the wind from the highway not mussing a lock of their white and blond, respectively, curly hairdos.
 
Once off the autoroute and passing through little stone villages on roads almost too narrow for the bus, we as a group perk up, each of us eager to be the first to glimpse the boat on the Canal de Briare. And there she is, La Chanterelle, tied up and waiting for us at Rogny Les Sept Ecluses, with lollypop trees lining the banks of the canal, and the captain standing at the gangplank to welcome us.
 
Crossing the pretty blue and white deck, we enter the main salon of polished oak where Sylvia the boat manager is pouring Kirs Royale into tall flutes on the bar. We toast, meet the crew, and are shown to our quarters. My single cabin has everything necessary. A tiny rectangular window near the ceiling is just a few inches above the surface of the water—instructions are to close it before passing though the locks—and from my bunk the treetops on the opposite bank are visible.
 
When Sylvia rings the dinner bell, there is a slight moment of unease when we all decide where to sit at the tables set for four. Unasked, I join a party of three from Texas, a married couple and sister-in-law, who gossip among themselves about Texas and things Texan.
 
Then we hop in the bus and visit the 14th century Chateau of Sully-Sur-Loire. A beautiful afternoon, I take a walk in the adjoining village and am delighted to find a little street with the so French name of Rue du Bout du Monde—street from the end of the world.
 
We return in time for an apéritif on the deck. Everyone is loosening up a bit and more friendly. The two couples from England always sit together at the tables of four, and I avoid the Texas trio and their exclusive conversation, so tonight I sit with the mother and daughter and one of the “Two Ladies.” Unfortunately when the other “lady” arrives late and is supposed to sit in the only remaining place across the room from her friend, she is perturbed, and Sylvia, embarrassed, asks me to switch. So I am back with the Texans.
 
Each night after dinner I walk along the bank of the canal collecting spring wildflowers. By now I have quite a variety in the bouquet in the drinking glass by my sink—lily of the valley, daffodil, crocus, yellow iris, flowering asparagus, Solomon’s seal, broom, wild orchids.
 
At lunch that afternoon, so thrilled was I with the splendid food that I burst into the kitchen to compliment the chef, Didier (who speaks no English) on his entrée of mousse d’espèrges. Now as I walk along in the twilight (at 10 pm!) he comes after me and we chitchat away in French. I suppose he gets lonely too, as curiously no one on the boat speaks French.
 
We begin cruising the next day before breakfast, the soft rumble of the engines waking me. I lay in my bunk and watch the sky move with satisfaction. I’m not lonely amid all this beauty and excitement, and I look forward to each new adventure coming up.
 
Today’s highlight is the Pont Canal. Lunch—another superb cold buffet that Didier serves with pride—is delayed because of the magnificent crossing high above the Loire River on a water bridge designed by Gustav Eiffel in 1890, a majestic and ornate masterpiece. Sylvia moves the barge’s stereo speakers out on the deck, and we cross royally, champagne flutes in hand, to Handel’s Royal Water Music. As we slowly float over the canal bridge toasting the pedestrians and lookyloos, we indeed feel like Louis XIV or Cleopatra.
 
After a time, the groups, couples and cliques on the boat are softening their edges a bit more. I still do feel the persona non grata at mealtimes, but I have learned now to select an empty table first and wait for others to join me. Those who want to sit with me choose to do so, rather than my imposing my company on others. Women are starting to relax, perhaps when they realize I am not going to go after their husbands. And their husbands relax when they receive tacit permission to talk to me.
 
After dinner, Polly, her teenaged daughter Kathy and I, join the crew at the village bar, Le Vieux Eclusier, a short distance down the canal from where the boat is tied up. We sing Alouette and drink Martini and Grand Marnier, treated by Didier. This is the first I have seen him out of his professional cooking clothes, and he looks so clean and young in an azure blue shirt the color of his eyes, and black slacks, his very curly black hair tamed and smoothed with lanolin. A grizzled man in a beret squeezes old French pop tunes out of an accordion, and Didier dances with each one of us. I am the first to leave, nervous and pleased at the same time to see a look of disappointment on his handsome face as I call out, Bonne nuit, tout le monde!
 
I leave the bar quickly—too soon, and I’m not sure why. I’m surprised that there are absolutely no lights outside, none but the brilliant stars. Officially the bar, next to the canal, is closed, the town is shut down, and all the boat’s lights are off too. It’s as black as ink. I use the Braille system to get back on board, and am thankful not to fall into the canal. I can’t swim, but there is really no danger as the canal is only about eight inches deep.
 
I am slightly worried about a misstep into the water, but quite nervous about Didier. Something is going on between us, and I both do and do not want it to. I don’t want him to get into any trouble, I’m sure there are company rules about these things, about consorting with the passengers. On the other hand, it is France, after all, where flirting, fraternizing and more are part of the culture. And I suppose I don’t want to give the other passengers the right to elbow each other and say, see, The Single Woman was looking for more than an innocent vacation. And maybe I am. I’m afraid, and I don’t know why. I’m certainly attracted to the handsome chef, but his being only 23 makes an aventure even scarier. Nevertheless when I get back to my cabin, I quickly switch off my light and lay in my bunk in the dark both hoping for and fearing a knock on my door that doesn’t come.
 
I am awakened early the next morning by the colored reflections shining on the polished wood in my cabin of two huge hot air balloons being inflated next to the boat on the towpath. Soon I hear Sylvia coming down the hall, rapping on the doors of the twelve people who have signed up to go ballooning. I look at the little travel alarm on the shelf above my bunk: six-fifteen. A quick coffee and croissant while watching the Montgolfier crew inflate the purple and green and the red and blue striped 125’ balloons, and then suddenly it is time to fly. We hurriedly climb in, six to a basket, to the exciting sound of the gas jets shooting great tongues of flame up into the silky balloons. Roger the pilot hastily shows us the emergency landing position—a crouch down into the basket—and then in a breath, without warning, we are airborne. We rise softly and quickly up, up over the tall trees and over the sleeping village, hearing the church bells chime matins far below. It feels so natural, that the height and ballet of the balloon is not in the least frightening. Tears come, always my response to beauty and the miraculous.
 
We soar over stone houses and neat walled gardens, a few people coming out in their robes de chambre to look up at us while their dogs bark. We float over patchwork fields and farms, frightening cows, goats, and sheep. I hope we are not in the process of curdling milk as we watch the area’s famous white cows run from our encroaching giant shadows across their pastures. No breeze blows our hair or licks our faces because we are at one with the wind. Space invaders, indeed. Elated physically, my spirit rises in proportion. My lonely soul lifts to the heavens and takes me with it. To think I might have missed this flight of fancy and delight for fear of not having someone to share it with. Now I find the experience complete in itself, uplifting and hope-giving, spiritual.
 
The purple and green balloon precedes our red and blue one, and our team watches it descend in a field. As we are coming in for our landing, we fly straight into —and through—the soft top of an oak tree. Roger jets up to avoid more treetops and we fly on and on, oak twigs and leaves caught in our basket, the minivan chase vehicle trying to keep up with our sudden change in itinerary. He spies an appropriate cornfield and down we go on the edge of it, our basket dragging across the little country lane and coming to rest in a wild rose bush, the balloon still tall. The “Two Ladies” are next to me and assume the position backwards, but there is just time for them to turn around before we touch the earth. Climbing out is harder than climbing in, and after Roger and Wes The Single Man leave the basket, gusts of wind blow the still-inflated balloon containing us five women, laughing and shrieking, into the center of the road.
 
During the laborious work of putting the balloon away, a tinny, tiny R5 Renault arrives in a cloud of dust. It is the farmer and his stone-faced wife, come to inspect his field for damages. When he can find nothing amiss, he is brought to good humor by a gift of a bottle of champagne, which does not seem to improve his wife’s disposition at all. A little folding table is set in the road with a cloth and glass flutes. We toast Roger, ourselves, the farmer, and La Belle France (and our good luck to be here) with the champagne that is traditional after balloon landings.
 
Didier and I continue to take our afterdinner walks, getting to know each other in French. He mentions often that the cruise is coming to a close, one needs to seize all opportunities for pleasure in the time that remains. I know what he’s talking about.
 
After midnight Didier comes to my cabin and stays until almost dawn. A few hours later I throw my wildflower bouquet—still pretty—into the canal from my porthole window and watch the blooms float away, hoping it is like coins in the Trevi Fountain or a lei on the Pacific. Water magic. I want to come back.
 
By the final breakfast, everyone is on embracing, or at least quite friendly, terms. There is a lot of address taking with promises to e-mail and visit. The crew lines up next to the gangplank and, depending on the passenger’s bent, either shake hands, hug, or fait les bises French style on each cheek. Didier and I solemnly shake hands and say goodbye in English, his big brown eyes following me into the bus. We had said our real farewells the night before.
 
As all during the week on our excursions, people sit in the bus back to Paris according to who they came with. Wes, still aloof and independent, and I have double seats to ourselves, the Texans are a state unto themselves, couples sit together. After the rest stop on the autoroute, I find half of the “Two Ladies” already in my seat when I return to the bus. Her other half is across the aisle and down in front behind George, the two of them evidently having reached a comfort level conducive to a separation of ten feet. And so the two of us ladies chatter all the way back to the Place de la Concorde. After five days of cruising, we were only one and a half hours further from where we started, less than a hundred miles. You don’t take a barge trip to literally get anywhere physically; it’s a voyage of another kind. For me, it was a trip to a new life of Independence. I was no longer a “widow,” I was me.


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