Day Three. Paris and Orquevaux.
Travel days have a peculiar way of humbling me—a subtle reminder that, despite my best-laid plans, I’m not entirely in control. Far from it.
Today began with breakfast, as before, but with a touch of cunning. I assembled a stashed-away baguette with cheese and prosciutto, pilfered (with a wink and no regrets) from the breakfast spread to be savored on the train later. It felt like a small victory, a gesture of preparedness that would soon become vital.
Before leaving, I scouted the train station, trying to get my bearings early. I tackled essentials: cash from the ATM and the discovery of bathrooms that required proof of a ticket and a one-euro fee to use. The audacity! As an American, I’ve taken the accessibility of clean public restrooms for granted. But here, it’s a delightful (albeit inconvenient) reminder of cultural differences.
Packing and repacking ensued—an art form at this point. Would it all fit? Barely. And far too heavy to carry down the flights of stairs, thanks to a broken elevator. A tremendously strong cleaning lady, who spoke no English but conveyed her determination in French, refused to let me lift a thing. She carried everything with astonishing ease while I followed in sheepish gratitude.
Back at the station, I found a growing gathering of fellow residency participants, each with the same nervous energy that accompanies group travel. We exchanged polite smiles, small talk about where we were all from, and what art discipline we all engaged with, and eventually shuffled through the ticketing line and onto the train together.
The train ride was… more stressful than I’d like to admit. My most pressing questions were as follows:
1) How long do I have between each stop? (I never quite figured it out.)
The intervals seemed dictated more by the ebb and flow of passengers than by a precise schedule. My fear of missing my stop and being swept deeper into the French countryside loomed large. And
2) Bathrooms—always a point of anxiety. And so for those with similar concerns, and especially for those who must sit to use such facilities, I’ll offer these tips:
Always carry toilet paper or a reasonable substitute. It seems rarely guaranteed in public restrooms here.
Use restaurant or shop facilities when needed. You don’t always have to buy something, though it’s a nice gesture.
Carry hand wipes or sanitizer. Soap and water are also not assured luxuries.
Despite the worries, the ride itself was lovely and quiet. Almost too quiet. There seemed to be an unspoken rule about noise. People whispered into phones, music stayed confined to headphones, and children—if there were any—seemed to have been silenced by cultural magic unfamiliar to me.
After numerous stops in other small towns, and after consuming my breakfast-assembled sandwich (quietly), we all disembarked in Chaumont. Warm and welcoming staff from the château met us, tagged our luggage with our assigned sleeping quarters, and piled us into three vans for the final leg of the journey. The half-hour drive wound through hills and darkness until the village of Orquevaux spilled out before us. The château, glowing warmly on the hill, invited us further up and further in. This quote from C.S Lewis feels particularly relevant and moving to me tonight . . .
“I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this. . . Come further up, come further in!”
—C.S. Lewis's The Last Battle
We were greeted with hot coffee, tea, cookies, and biscuits in the salon. One by one, we were shown to our rooms. Mine? The Library Bedroom. Perched at the very top and center of the grand divided staircase, it’s a room with creaking floors and expansive charm. The whole house, or as much as I have seen of it thus far, is breathtakingly old, odd, elegant, and warm, like a grand old lady who has grown accustomed to her rough edges and chooses to display rather than hide them.
A cheese and champagne welcome at 6:00 PM followed our bedroom tours, where we met and were welcomed by our gracious residency co-founders and co-directors. Beulah and Ziggy. Dinner came next, served family-style, and we lingered over it until 8:30 when the quiet exodus to bed began.
And so, with a collection of new friends, a swirl of writing ideas beginning to take shape, and the anxiety of a travel day behind me, I fell into bed.
Only to wake at 1:30 AM with the horrifying realization that my phone had stopped charging. A small matter, merely a trifle, when not traveling abroad.
My lifeline, housing my entire itinerary, was at 18% battery and rapidly declining. Panic did, in fact, ensue. I tried every hack I knew—cleaned the charging port, switched cords and chargers, and finally attempted a system update I hadn’t noticed prior, praying the battery would last long enough to finish the update. It did, barely, but still . . . no charge.
By 2:00 AM, my imagination had me navigating a return trip to Paris, hotels, trains, and airports without my tiny, stupid, indispensable black box. On the brink of tears, riding waves of anxiety, and just as my phone hovered on the brink of death, the charging indicator light suddenly sprang to life. No cause was determined one way or another. Regardless of cause or effect, gratitude and relief swept over me.
Sleep, however, now eludes the traveler.
Instead, I’m writing this blog post, reflecting on the absurd dependency I’ve developed on a single device. It’s a lesson, perhaps, in preparation. Or mindfulness? Or maybe just in the kindness of answered prayers at 2:00 AM.
Tomorrow begins anew, and despite the frustrations and mild inconveniences, I can’t help but marvel at the quiet magic of this place.
It’s the kind of magic that humbles you, and reminds you that not everything needs to go according to plan for an experience to be extraordinary. In fact, you are generally better off for being pulled further up and further in to the wonder and mystery of it all.
