,
Dejectedly
plunking our burdensome baggage on the pavement, seconds away from
unapologetically kicking it to the curb
and just walking away, le Kid and I were beyond fatigued, hopelessly lost
somewhere amongst the criss-crossing rues and avenues of a sandy beached
fishing port. Mentally preparing
ourselves for the not so remote possibilities of having to spend our first and
only night in Calais sleeping on a park bench, fighting the squirrels for a
couple of nuts and shuddering at the prospect of having to now scrap with the
birds for lukewarm bath water, we were in quite the conundrum indeed. It was le Kid who initially spotted the
police cruiser parked at the far end of the deserted avenue, a beacon of hope
to two stranded foreigners who were clearly incapable of getting from Point A
to Point B without incurring some form of haphazard roadblock.
Clearly
convinced that we were beyond clued-out, the kind gendarmes pointed us in the correct direction, indicating that
Hotel Meurice was located a mere hop, skip and a jump away, just around the
corner from where we were currently standing.
Yikes!! Who knew? Note to self – try to remember to pack that “oh, so handy” map on future
transatlantic sojourns. After all, having
to rely on pure instinct alone is not the most reliable or desirable method of arriving
at your destination, that is, if you don’t mind spending the majority of your
annual three week holiday traipsing around foreign lands in a discombobulated
state of aimless wandering.
Hopes dashed
that she wouldn’t be escorted to the hotel in a fleet of “sirens blaring and horns blasting totally cool” (her words, not
mine) patrol cars, my niece was on
the verge of tears, crest-fallen that her “once
in a lifetime chance” of joy-riding
in such a vehicle had been quickly squashed by an “unbelievably mean ol’ Auntie”. Like
seriously? Just wait Miss Kid, you’re still young, plenty of time in which to
possibly finagle a way in which to accomplish said goal.
Stepping foot
in resplendently charming Hotel Meurice (5 & 7 rue Edmond Roche) the
exterior façade of this three star guest house does not do justice to the
quaint and homey warmth emanating from the interior of this gem of a find. Located virtually in the centre of town, the
hotel is an affordable luxury in the middle of a nondescript ville. Greeted by the welcoming bienvenues of the hotel staff and a leashed rescue dog, our Calais
digs were one of the unexpected highlights of our one night stay. The grand old sweeping staircase invoked
memories of the old-fashioned kind and was a comforting leap back into the
tranquility of a by-gone era.
Checking into
our upgraded suite (in retrospect, I believe that that the hotel staff took
pity upon us, two weary sweat drenched wanderers in dire need of a hot bath and
a warm bed), both the Kid and I gawked in disbelief at the luxuriousness of our
palatial French salon, grateful to finally stretch out our limbs and dreamily
languish – that is, at least until supper time and our frenzied search for
dinner on a Sunday evening in a town with early closing hours.
Who says that
meandering aimlessly for hours on end doesn’t have its perks?
Next week
– Discovering Calais – Come traipse with us on adventures unknown as we amble
up and down the avenues (yes, once again!) in quest of sustenance and National
Geographic digital moments.
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