By our last morning in Paris, we’d finally figured out breakfast: sandwich, coffee, and a croissant—all for less than €5. My satisfaction with a good breakfast is second only to finding a good deal; at age seven, I cut my teeth clipping coupons from the Key Food circulars that I pruned from the Sunday newspaper faster than I did the comics.
It was these small joys that buoyed me on the two-hour train ride to Blois. Beat from our four-day stint of city living, we were eager for an escape to the country: a slower pace of life, replete with wisteria-lined archways, manicured topiaries, and winding cobblestone streets. Disembarking from the train, we marveled at towering stone spires, red-bricked chimneys that resembled the rooks on a chess board. At a public park we passed a door made entirely of purple amethyst that, remarkably, had not the faintest sign of vandalism.
An inveterate city dweller, I began to wonder: were the suburbs really all that bad? Our room at the bed and breakfast in Blois had circular bay windows with a clear view of the parking lot, a bathroom with a stowaway seat in the shower, and a strong smell of aftershave. But the property’s owner—a kind but over-tired woman with a penchant for salesmanship—had me at the breakfast: an all-you-can-eat buffet that by the next morning—leg swung halfway over the frame of the bicycle—I would come to regret emboweling.
After all, we had come to Blois to tour some of the dozens of chateaus that crisscrossed the surrounding towns outside Paris, a decidedly sedate activity in itself. A staunch non-car household in the states, Courtney and I had already rented mountain bikes from reception, but when an older American couple behind us admitted to having splurged for a convertible, I begrudged more than I’d like to admit. Our values were sliding fast. It was as if we’d caught a glimpse of our future selves: suburban motorists—early to bed and early to rise—thrilled at the prospect of gawking at hundred-year-old castles like impatient birdwatchers.
By 5:00, we were relishing the culmination of our evening stroll. The town center featured a toddler-sized merry-go-round, an ornate three-story Italian pasta chain, and an otherwise deserted promenade. Already hungry, we ambled across the plaza and were the first customers in line at Les Arcades, where we’d arrived so early that the waiter was still removing chairs from atop the wooden tables.
Being the only customers inside, I was understandably wary of the food, but the prices were fair, and the portions enormous. I ordered a pot of mussels that looked like it had depleted much of the French coast. I was sipping down the last dregs of the butter-garlic-wine sauce when a loud noise caught my attention. There was a group of teenagers talking loudly outside in the plaza, and I yelled for them to be quiet.
“Damn kids,” I said, turning back to Courtney. “Don’t they know they’re disturbing someone’s dinner?”
Courtney pointed out the window behind me to the stone fountain still drenched in daylight. “Do you hear yourself?”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin. Once you start in on something, it’s hard to know when to stop.