Subject: The Party has been Won! (Part 3)

Date: 14 Jun 94

From: Uncle Terry, 73060,2661

Geez, when am I gonna finish this thing? My shrink says I'm subconsciously dragging this story out because I'm unwilling to accept the fact that vacation is over, and my id is trying to extend it through this tale. I tell my shrink to get me another beer, or he won't get a tip. Anyway, if he's right, then I better hurry up and finish- got another tournament in a coupla weeks-vacation time again!

On a serious note-- I hope everyone is marking the significance of this day (May 30) properly. Yes, it's the 573rd anniversary of the execution of our favorite, Joan of Arc. I trust you all celebrated with a COOKOUT!

So, back to the never-ending party. We awaken and begin the quest for breakfast. Someone suggested Blonderbrau, but MoJo pointed out that we had finished it off the night before. I began to say that I think we had some more in the trunk, but before I could finish, MoJo smacked me and said something about eggs. So we went searching for a suitable eatery where 20 people could eat something other than a croissant and butter. After walking around for a half hour, we discovered a place half a block from the hotel, which advertised itself as an American Cafe. Thankfully there was no sign of Valerie Bertinelli, and the sign on the door said the place opened at 10:00. Since it was 9:55, our faces brightened.

To confirm our good luck, we opened the door and politely asked what time they opened. The fellow inside politely told us, "usually around eleven", though a couple of people were seated at the bar already (does that make this a before-hours joint?). We had learned by this time not to dispute the French, so we asked if the fellow knew of another place we could eat. He chatted with us for about 5 minutes, telling us of various other places in the neighborhood. We thanked him and left. When we were about half a block down the street, he then stepped outside and suggested "why don't you all have breakfast here?" Gotta love these French.

We all went inside and had a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs with hash browns and toast. Apparently that was all they had available, though I flirted momentarily with the thought of ordering the bagel with lox & cream cheese. After fattening ourselves sufficiently, we went about the business of travel and lodging arrangements. Using my now highly developed linguistic skills, I asked the desk clerk at our hotel if we could keep the room one more night. I believe I used the French equivalent of "Room, tonight?"-- no sense using more words than necessary. Of course, I may have been saying "toilet, eyeball", given the luck I had been having with pronunciation. Whatever, the effect was the same. The clerk responded that all of their rooms were reserved and they had none available (I'm much more fluent at interpreting head and hand motions and the word "no" than I am at speaking). He was very polite and didn't even mention that we had kept most of the hotel up all night the night before. At least he didn't babble about coffee stains.

So we set off down the block looking for a new hotel. As luck would have it, we found one about fifty yards away. This one had more stars and a larger room. It would be perfect for an all night Blonderbrau fest. Unfortunately, today most folks were going their separate ways. After tearful goodbyes (it's hard to leave your Blonderbuddies), some left for England, some for other countries, and some for home. This left MoJo, Mr. Carbo and myself available for some power touring.

MoJo had some pamphlet entitled "Walking Tours of Paris" and decided that we were going to do them all. So starting in the early afternoon, we managed to hit the Louvre (so we could say we saw Venus & Mona), the Opera, the huge phallic by the Ritz, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and some other things with French names I can't remember, as well as stopping by the American Express office to leave a message for them to transmit to their Amsterdam office with our plans for meeting Markie V. And still we were finished in time to meet a few remaining cohorts for dinner. Not being able to convince everyone to eat at the Tex/Mex place (The Indiana Cafe- go figure), we went to a fine authentic place, where Ricky Rickey and I split some blood sausage among other delights. We then wandered through the neighborhood, winding up at a floating bar across from Notre Dame. God I love history!

Being in the mood to try something different, we chose not to stay up all night, and when we checked out in the morning, they were even nice to us. The next duty was to drop MoJo off at the airport, whence Mr. Carbo and I would head north toward Amsterdam. However, after waving goodbye to MoJo, Mr. Carbo looked toward the dreary sky and shouted "I'm sick of this shit, let's find some sun". Not wanting to argue with a hockey god, I threw him the map and said "Tell me what road to take" and we were off.

Somehow we managed to find the beltway around Paree, and were soon headed south on a tollway called the "Autoroute du Soleil". Mr. C. was quite excited about this, though when I explained that this did not mean it was the road to Mary Sunshine, his spirits dampened briefly. However the real meaning was enough to keep us psyched through mass quantities of Gazoil and megatolls. A few stops were made along the way to sample the native culture. We zipped through one little village in a vain search for a McDrive (finally settling for a pizza chain- ahh, French cuisine!). We stopped in Lyon (where we did find a McWalk) to visit the American Express office to get rid of the rest of my stupid travelers checks and try to get an amended message to Markie V. We debated the possibility of stopping in Marseilles-- Mr. C. had once liked a an obscure rock song which extolled the virtues of some party the singer attended there-- but I nipped this in the bud for fear that we would wind up detouring to Montreaux, Woodstock, and every other city mentioned in someone's drug crazed fantasies.

Before we knew it 1000 kliks had passed and we were sliding out of the mountains into the French Riviera. We found a hotel and actually got a good night's sleep in preparation for an attack on the beach the next day. When we awoke we delayed our attack to make a stop at the local laundromat to correct the odoriferous effects of days of tourism on our clothing, and where we entertained a French woman who was quite amused watching us pour soap into the wrong part of the machine and generally botch what should have been an easy task. Of course the opportunity to drink screwdrivers at the local establishment while waiting for the rinse cycle enabled us to be equally amused by our incompetence.

Then we hit the beach. It was everything we expected and more. We were able to sit in comfortable lounge chairs while a delightful waiter would continually bring us food and drink to help us survive the 80 degree weather. No wonder they call the city Nice. After several hours of this quiet decadence, we decided it was time to prepare for our nighttime adventure-- Monte Carlo! We stopped by a local clothing establishment to ensure that we would be better prepared than the typical Americain slobs we had been for the last 2 weeks. After spending a small fortune, we looked so good that Mr. Carbo was totally confused that the lovely day clerk at our hotel didn't accept an offer to join us for the escapade, proffering some lame excuse about leaving for a skiing vacation the next day.

Before we headed for Monaco, we stopped for dinner at an "American restaurant" called The Frog. This country really has a sense of humor! We were then ready to hit the Casino, not exactly looking like a scene from Rainman, put certainly behaving like one. We walked into the incredible Grand Casino prepared to play baccarat against James Bond and Blofeld. Unfortunately, to do so, you also had to dress like James Bond (we had neglected to pick up tuxes in our shopping excursion) and spend like him. So we were shunted off to the Americain casino, which looked like something out of Elko, Nevada. Nonetheless, we did gamble a bit and Mr. C lost as much money in slot machines as he wanted to.

Next day, it was beach time again, but first we needed to send a revised message to the Amsterdam American Express office to see if Markie V & Wanta could meet us in Paris Friday. We went to the post office to send a telegram, where we were told that it would be much cheaper to send a fax. Gotta love technology. At least that's what we think we were told-- we still didn't have this language thing down pat. After thinking we were successful, we then spent several hours being pampered by Moss, our beach waiter. Apparently we must have given him a satisfactory tip the day before, as he kept bringing us extra treats in addition to the many we ordered. At the end of the day, we bid him a sad but fond adieu, for we had to return north the next morning. In the evening we shopped for tacky t-shirts, bought tapes for the Paris-bound trip and ate our last dinner in Paradise.

In the morning we drove out of town to the strains of Sheryl Crow singing "Leaving Las Vegas" (it was the closest we could come). The plan was to proceed up the tollway, exiting when we saw the various interesting looking castles and monasteries we had noticed on the southbound trip. Unfortunately we discovered that every time we saw one, the next exit was 20 miles ('scuse- 30 kliks) away. So after a few failures in the gawking tourist category, we switched objectives. We now were going to proceed at a breakneck pace in order to reach the Paris American Express office to see if Markie V had left us a message.

We were looking good until we hit Friday afternoon rush hour traffic, and while I did use all the tricks one can use in a country where the rules don't apply to you, we managed to reach the Amex office 20 minutes after they had closed. How would we ever find Markie V? Time for plan B. We now switched our objective to a hotel which Susan had said she would be reaching the next day, figuring she, her mom, and her sister would be a major help in finishing off the remaining Blonderbrau. We had great difficulty finding the street this hotel was supposed to be on, and were ready to give up, when we saw a street called Avenue de Fredland! We knew this was a sign (literally and otherwise), and sure enough, shortly afterward a cab driver was able to show us where we wanted to go.

After checking in, I was able to convince Mr C that we should eat an actual French meal on our last night (he had decided to leave a day earlier than planned, which created much amusement for the airline, so that he could actually get home more than 3 hours before going to work). We had a fine meal, which included several servings of the entree, and a humorous approach to chocolate mousse. Ah, the cochons Americain! We wandered the streets and drank, reflecting on our adventures and getting quite maudlin. Luckily the place which served Margaritas was closing as we got there.

The next morning, I waved goodbye to Mr Carbo, the hockey god, as he took the rental car back to "not exactly" at the airport for his early flight. At least I hoped he was going to the airport-- his review of the map before he left seemed a bit dubious, but I reminded him to keep looking for the little airplane signs. I had a few hours to kill, so naturally I decided to head for the American Express office. I was disappointed, but somewhat relieved, that there were absolutely no messages for me. I wondered if any of our messages ever got to Amsterdam. I hope Markie didn't get waylaid in one of those storefront places overloaded on legal illegal drugs! After I returned to the hotel, I heard the voices of the Stanley family just down the hall. As my last official act in Frogland, I presented them with the last case of Blonderbrau, knowing they would take care of it properly (they weren't leaving for another day).

And so, the Club Fred Gallic adventure ended, with party victory firmly in hand, and with the natives now properly conditioned for the invasion of the American Legion gang in June. And this reporter can rest briefly until the next roadtrip-- see you in Miami!!

Le comedie est finis.