April 1st, 2018
Today was the day. I was going to see my favourite female musician, Norah Jones, perform live. 6pm. It was time to start getting ready. I took a long shower, getting rid of the sweat from the day already past. I put on my dark blue Diesel jeans and my burgundy dress shirt. I moved back to my room, putting my navy-blue chequered socks and leather boots. Lastly, was my black down jacket and 'Amber pour Homme' cologne. I cleaned up extra nice that evening, like I was going out on a date. It may not have been a date, but it was definitely a special occasion. One last look in the mirror and I called my AirBNB host for us to leave.
She walked down from her small space, nestled under the roof of the building while her husband quickly changed his pants. We got into their small, eco-friendly Renault and turned right onto the closest main road. Not long after, we turned left onto a steep road. It was long and windy and covered in shade. To our left, were marvellous views of the valley below. The ride began with seeing a lot of green, but became increasingly white the higher we drove. My hosts shared with me that the road we were on was a stage in the Tour de France two years ago. The hundreds of thousands of people on the road at that time contrasted with the serenity of the road now. It was the hardest stage in the race that year and there was no surprise as to why. The road was severely steep for kilometers on end. And there I was thinking before that I could cycle to Megève! Even if I had a bike, me climbing that road was not happening!
The road was flat now. We had reached the summit. Tall snow-covered trees and buildings surrounded us. The sun was setting. It made the sky golden. We had reached our destination, Le Palais, where the concert would be held. We exchanged goodbyes and I gave an estimate of when I needed to be picked up. It was annoying not having my own car, but poor grad student me couldn't afford to rent one. Still, I appreciated my hosts extending their role to that of a chauffeur for me.
6:50pm. Still plenty of time before the concert, so I decided to find a nice spot for dinner. I pulled out a traveller's greatest friend, Google Maps, and pressed the dinner icon. Several interesting restaurants showed up in the search, and I chose was rated 4.7 stars. The place was fully booked for the entire evening, but not to worry, Google Maps had led me to the town's main road. Hidden was this road up on a small hill. The town seemed empty before, but I had found where all the people were! Couples and families, locals and not, roamed the concrete-slabbed street. Small restaurants and boutique stores lay on either side, and all full of people. The sun was covered by the buildings, making everything seem bluish-grey.
I entered a crêperie and waited for a spot. The smell of it's crêpes wafted in the air outside. It had seduced me. The inside was shaped like a hammer, long and narrow in the front and more spacious at the back. Perhaps spacious is not a good word to describe it. The place left little room for movement and people standing around like me. My feelings of breaking into people's space didn't last long. A waiter with tied-back long hair escorted me to a table at the back, which I was to share with a middle-aged English couple. The couple and I pretended that we each had our own table, not used to sharing one.
I ordered a crêpe with apple and caramel. Not entirely a dinner, but I couldn't leave France without a crêpe! As I waited, I examined my room more. A small flatscreen hung from the back wall, showing a freestyle snowboard competition. Nearby was a small wooden poster saying, "Beer. Getting woman pregnant since 1885." The wife on my table, an overweight woman, spoke to her unimpressed husband about the number of steps she walked that day, and that how her app couldn't measure the steps during skiing.
The crêpe had arrived! To my delight, it was bigger than I was expecting. Semicircles of apples had been thrown on top drowned in caramel sauce. It's appearance was not the most appealing, but I knew before even trying it, by it's smell, that it was going to taste amazing. And indeed, it was. I ate it slowly, wanting to prolong this delectable experience for my palette as long as possible.
The conversation to my right continued to provide constant entertainment. It has drifted from exercise to a commentary of the wife's 'Mont Blanc', her opinion being that the crêpe was okay and not something she'd have again. The husband maintained his stoicism while he ate as well as his lack of interest in the babblings of his wife. His animation increased slightly when our bills arrived; he got a little more upset. The wife skillfully diffused the situation, seemingly well-practiced in the art of preventing her husband from blowing up regarding matters of finance. 7:55pm. I left the crêperie and walked back to Le Palais...