Traveling with Rob in la Belle France

Darkness is setting in, when we arrive at Brays et Mons.

Rob has no problem finding his destination. Only a few houses are built out of gray rocks, almost like fortresses. We reach a beautifully fenced-in yard. A dense profusion of blooming shrubs and budding leaf trees hides the residence from view. Rob drives slowly through the decorative iron gate onto a wide driveway leading through a small park toward a charming white building. It looks like an elegant mansion or small castle. Big windows, balconies, terraces, and airy French doors lead from all directions into the garden. In contrast to the well—kept building, the flowerbeds and lawns are overgrown with weeds and winter debris and look neglected.

“Here we are, at the Castello de Bray et Mons, ” says Rob with a big smile.

I am delighted. It has been a full day, and after a stressful start with our vehicle, I am progressively improving. And there is the prospect of a grand finale.

The patron of the estate meets us at the colorful stained-glass doors of the entrance. He is a stout, middle-aged man of medium height with unremarkable features. He greets us formally in French. Obviously, he has been expecting us, and as he indicates, a bit sooner. Grabbing our luggage, he immediately leads us up a flight of an amazing spiral staircase. It is the masterpiece of a noted French architect whose name I forget. The bedrooms are situated in a circle around the landing. The patron deposits our luggage in front of one of the doors and unlocks it with a big old—fashioned key.

“Voilà,” he says with a discreet side—glance at me.

I am riveted to the floor. After seeing the dolorous black room decorated in somber colors at Chenonceau, I thought this room was a dream in white. The enormous bed dominating the chamber is covered with starched, immaculately white linen adorned with precious lace. The wall tapestry is made of a shining white silk material. The soft white carpet is spotless. Delicate sheer curtains like bridal veils gently move in the evening breeze before the open French doors. On a lace-covered table stands a magnificent vase with white blossoming branches. White petals have fallen on a small marble statue of lovers intertwined forever in a passionate embrace. The end of the room is partitioned off by a white Dutch gate, barely hiding a huge white enameled bathtub standing on golden feet in front of a mirrored wall. Two luxurious white bathrobes are hanging over a bench. The room radiates such untouched beauty that I envision a delicate princess, like Snow White, lying on that immaculate bed, forever waiting for her prince.

Rob and I are standing spellbound at the entrance. I don’t know for how long.

“Ca a vous plait?” the proprietor suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

“Enchantee,” I reply, “Mais…”  I stutter nervously, searching for appropriate words to explain that I cannot sleep with my son in this enchanting bridal chamber.

“He is my son “, I finally manage to say in French.

The patron is unperturbed.   “Your son, your lover, your friend, your husband, your uncle, your brother, whoever, I don’t care´, he answers, shrugging his shoulders to show his indifference.

“Rob,” I whisper, panic-stricken in English, “we have to get another room. This is a honeymoon suite.”

“Yes, Mom,” Rob agrees, “but it is getting late, and I don’t know if there are other hotels in this small village.” Trying to take control of this embarrassing situation, 1 asks assertively, “Une autre chambre, another room, please!”

The proprietor stares into space bored and murmurs, “C’ est dommage, but ” he continues in perfect English, “we have one more room available, which will cost you more.

“Oh, you speak English!” I exclaim, surprised. I took a deep breath and almost shouted, “In my fax, I told you I would come with my son. How can you offer us this inappropriate room and charge us more for another one!”

Provoked by his arrogance, I am not afraid to create a scene. Rob, however, immediately interrupts my attempts to fight for a fair deal, saying in a firm voice, “Mom, leave it to me; I am paying for the room.”

Grabbing our luggage, the proprietor quickly leads us to the adjacent hunter’s chamber.

“Voilà, Monsieur,” he says, completely ignoring me.

Rob, whose face had disappointment written all over moments ago, immediately lights up. This room is more to our liking. Two solid rustic beds with beautifully crafted thick quilts look very inviting. The walls are adorned with original paintings and precious tapestries depicting local wildlife and colorful hunting scenes. Fresh scented air is wafting from the garden through the big open windows. I am happy that a door in front of the bathroom allows privacy. The bathtub is spacious and comfortable and not standing on golden feet as in the white room. To my great joy, two thick, luxurious bathrobes are at our disposal, one pink and one blue. Would Peter and I have enjoyed sleeping in the white room I briefly ask myself. Yes!

Blissfully relaxing in soapy suds before changing for dinner, I call out to Rob, “This is so wonderful, Rob; I feel like a queen!”