Fleche D’or

Everyone has a preference for something; mine happens to be ferries. I have taken the Skye Boat, which is a wonderful vessel on a journey into time, the Haiphong Ferry in Viet Nam, another at St. Michael’s in Maryland, which claims to be the oldest in America, the Blue Star vessels in Hong Kong Harbor, anon. But a particular favorite is the Cross Channel Ferry, and I couldn’t care less if the “Chunnel” is ten times as fast. Ask yourself, would you rather see the sweep of the chalk cliffs of Dover, or the walls of an endless tunnel.

Anyway the trip was pure pleasure, going to the City of Light from Wonderful London, where you can, they say, cross the entire city on greensward and walk through centuries of incredible history. I took British Railways out of Victoria Station and headed for Dover, reminding me of a wonderful refrain from an old song, one I had played in my head for years. It was graciousness personified, a peek at a way of life that was fast receding. The Channel crossing was extraordinary, with sea birds, huge rolling swells, and tiny French fishing boats which rolled and pitched, but the fishermen proceeded about their business with nary a look at the great British ferry.

A woman, accompanied by an elderly lady, struck up a conversation and was delighted when I said my destination was Paris, and she insisted that getting there was also an unexpected treat. I asked her about it and she said I would be traveling on the Wagon Lits, the French National Railroad, with wonderful food and that bonus for all who travel in France, “Vin Ordinaire.” It was going to be a wonderful railroading experience, she assured me. I would be traveling through some of the most beautiful farm and pastureland in the world. Then she added, “It’s odd though, French cows cavort,” and turned to look at the fast approaching LeHarve. She excused herself before explaining what she meant and went below.

“What a strange thing to say, “ thought I and watched as we pulled in. A fast walk through Customs and we bordered the Fleche D’or, the Golden Arrow, a tribute to French taste and refinement, bound for the “City of Light.” Soon we were traveling through that magnificent countryside and the houses were sturdy, the fields magnificent, and it was balm, yet quietly exciting, and different from the American heartland. I was very glad to be aboard this wonderful train headed to a visual and sensory adventure.

While in the dining car I looked ahead and saw something which didn’t belong at all. I’d been told that red barns were an American phenomena, that the early farmers didn’t have access to paint so they made do and came up with this red daub which they used on their out buildings. So what was a great American style barn doing in the Loire valley. I was interested, and as I passed by I read the six foot tall lettering on the side of the barn which read, in English, “Visit Egypt.” I stared, fascinated, and looked to my waiter for a possible explanation but he wasn’t in the car.

Bemused and pleased, I smiled and remembered the conversation with the young woman on the boat. What did she mean, “French cows cavort”? I was passing herds of dairy cows and they were enormous, well fed and “tres content,” chewing their cud when all of a sudden one of them jumped straight up in the air, kicked its bovine legs, landed and flicked its tail. I couldn’t believe it and wanted very much to point out this extraordinary event. Had my eyes deceived me? Was drinking Vin Ordinare, during and after lunch, causing irrevocable brain damage? Was I hallucinating?

Then it happened again. Another great, fat French cow jumped straight up, did the clenching thing with her legs and landed with an almost audible plop. There wasn’t another person in the car and I started to laugh. The scene is still vivid thirty years later and if, in passing, I happen to mention that indeed, French cows do cavort, it is interesting to watch the expressions of those to whom I have imparted this wisdom. Oh they of little faith.

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