After an elongated Day 1 introduction that even managed to miss out the champagne shops in Reims and sitting outside the room in a typical motel with everyone looking at us like strange foreigners "les enfants, dormer" being the typical reply given when looks are too strange.
However, we actually managed to get to sleep. The 4 in a cheap hotel room experiment had worked, the fact that other families were returning with their screaming kids at 10 o clock at night and then spent hours trying to calm them down only helped the smug looks on our faces - even if the smug look was covering an underlying mantra of 'please don't wake herbie, please don't wake herbie!'.
We woke the next morning with our normal alarm clock of 'mummy can I come into you bed' and we turned to our new best friend in the world - the travel kettle. In a few minutes you can have a cup of incredibly, mouth scaldingly hot coffee which may not taste the best but that gets you ready for a day of travelling the French countryside in search of glorified car boots sales or the more impressive name of Brocante Fairs. The Chipping Norton antique world dream of these fairs, hoping for a glimpse of some rusting old French stuff that can be called shabby chic and can be priced up to sell to the wealthy women of the Cotswolds.
We were up, showered in the impossibly small all plastic cubicle and ready to go by 7.30. We had a list of fairs to try and a plan of action through the corn lined roads of North France.
The first stop was an accidental Brocante - signposted to what looked like Brasilville - we drove into a tiny village where the people literally had a wall paper pasting table open outside their front door and were selling any old tat they had in their house - needless to say, Clare was in her element. Like Herbie on a bad day, I had turned my back and she was down the street, I did not even have time to put the reigns on her!
Within 2 minutes, she had bought a huge antique vase and then continued to find treasures in amongst the piles of limbless barbies and dust filled hotwheels cars. Tilly managed to secure herself a vintage Barbie - If vintage means a few years old and with mangled hair that looks heroin chic but is actually just toybox tangled. We were soon overtaken by professionals who swarmed on stalls to look for old postcards and champagne caps. Old men had their champagne cap guide books and looked intricately at the boxes of old caps hoping to find that one rare lid. It is the first time since my almost finished Jurassic Park card collection of 1993 that I have almost been tempted to start collecting. These men look transfixed as they hope to find that one year of Verve Clique lid where the lady has a small squint or where the Lanson logo was printed slightly differently. Other are just enjoying the fresh air with their old palls as they hope the previous nights hang over drifts away.
At our next Brocante, the old men had found a better way to get rid of their hang overs - more champagne! The stall in the centre of the market stalls was selling coffee, croissants and because it was 8.00 in the morning, most were enjoying plastic cups of champagne. When the coffee costs a Euro and the champagne costs 2.50 - there is only one option.
Again Clare whirled around the stalls breathlessly hunting out the antique gems. I was beckoned over to ask prices and haggle. Although we did have the rare event of us haggling up the price. One old lady was clearly fed up as the rain was cascading down and as we asked the price of two old jars and honey pots, she only asked for 50 centimes for the two - I gave her 50 centimes each as her boredom was clearly blurring her ability to think straight. Her look of confusion as I handed over too much money was already being recognised as 'stupid foreigners' after the previous nights corridor sitting.
As I write this, a French man has asked if we want to go out to the pub with him rather than sitting in the corridor. We are like mini celebrities in the high rolling world of Formula 1 hotel corridor sitting. When gay French couples, old walkers, builders and workmen for hire come together there is one point of conversation - the weird English people. I only hope the two gay men opposite who have clearly come away for a forbidden meet up are not too loud.
The 2nd Brocante was thought to be our last but when we arrived in Meaux there it was on the bridge - Like London Bridge before 1666. A bridge lined with Brocante stores. Clare's eyes lit up, we parked up and off she went again hunting out the antiques. The police have sniffer dogs that cannot find a packet of crack cocaine as quickly as Clare can find an old French door sign (dear God one of the gay men has just left his room in a towel - now this is not a gay Adonis that you would see on a podium on G.A.Y. (I would imagine) it looks like Mario on a cheeky weekend away from Princess Peaches - no wonder she keeps getting 'captured' by Bowser).
Where was I, Oh yes - Brocante number 3.
The hunt was finally ended as our stomachs rumbled. We found a little Italian (no not Mario again) and sat down. I ordered a pizza and a sandwich for the 4 of us to share, speaking my best French. Only for the lady behind the counter to forget that she had said she did not speak English as she uttered the phrase, 'I don't think so'. 'Que' I exclaimed.
'you cannot share' she replied.
'ca va' I said as I scooped up our family and we left. This was not some exclusive Italian restaurant. We were not next in a line of people queuing for a space. This was a glorified kebab shop with plastic cutlery, plastic tables and one of those amazing child seats that looks like it is made from recycled bits of old robin reliants.
We left with the pride of knowing that lady, with her feigned ignorance of the English language and her incredibly badly highlighted hair would not be enjoying the profits of the Pitt Family's hard earned cash. Instead, like in the streets of Reims, we wandered the streets of Meaux in hope if food. This was the second time we learnt the rule of France - they love food but only at the times that they think food should be served. No cooked food before 1 and no cooked food between the hours of 2 and 7! No exceptions unless you want a burger and even then they push the definition of 'fast' food to its absolute limits, even in the national chain of burger joins that is ironically called 'Quik'.
We found a bar that was still serving food - Tous la jour, it said at the door but I am pretty sure that we were the only people that had ordered food that particular jour. A few pancakes and paninis arrived but we could not eat comfortably as the lady behind the bar just sat staring at Herbie. If this had been a grabber game from the arcade, he would have been that one teddy bear sticking out with a clear liftable appendage and she looked like she had a pocket full of 20pences ready to have a try. We ate very very quickly, also due to the fact we were painfully hungry, grabbed our children very tightly and ran out.
A friendly French man then offered us some free tickets to the rides at the funfair that was accompanying the Brocante and so we no longer had to pretend to Tilly that we did not have any money. She could go on the rides- and what's more, we found out the Herbie also loves rides. Jack Osborne has nothing on our little one year old adrenaline junkie. He leapt onto the space ship, Tilly followed suite, he grabbed the controls and whooshed them up and down as the carousel also whirled quickly around. Clare was getting nauseous just looking but Herbie was loving it and thankfully, so was Tilly. The little girl that had previously made me call out to stop a ride mid programme at Lego Land Windsor was being given a new found confidence by her little best friend Herbie.
Full of quickly eaten Panini and tired from an early start to get the best offerings at the Brocantes, we returned to the car to find our hotel. The guidebook had warned of foreigners littered around the hotel when they stayed and that they were worried for their car's safety but no one believes the guides on Trip adviser, let alone the left wing over bearing motherly rants of mumsnet. However, this time Mums net actually had a point. The Lemon Hotel - I kid you not that was the name, was found at the end of a cul de sac at the outskirts of Meaux. In England outskirts can mean nice suburban living with large driveways and spacious green belt plots - In France in means scumsville with horses roaming the land not because it is a riding school but because they don't let the gypses into their town centres.
As we arrived near the hotel, there were the gypsy horses, there were the wild untamed kids running around, there were the groups of men with no women to be seen for miles. If this was a game of traveller lottery, we would just be waiting on the actual caravan itself before screaming 'House' - well sort of house, on wheels that means you don't pay council tax or any kind of tax at all.
As it turned out the caravan was the hotel itself. The place was filled with gypsy people. The lobby was full of children and one particular man that just held his mobile phone in his hand. He walked with a strange semi limp and you were unsure whether he was a dodgy character to stay away from or whether he just wanted a friendly bonjour as you walked by. I settled for a British nod, although I was worried that he may think the nod was actually me mocking the fact that he nodded as he walked. I panicked a bit wondering how he would plan his revenge when we were asleep.
Fortunately the man with the phone never left the lobby. He sat there on the serving counter like a lost man in a blue flanellette tracksuit waiting for the breakfast buffet that would never come. In the morning he was still there sat by the microwave with his phone in hand, maybe their was a text from a lost loved one that is being forever blocked by the radiation of the microwave. It had arrived years ago but he still stares blankly at the screen thinking she was the one that got away.
Thoughts like this (AND WORSE) span through my mind all night as we heard hours of gypsy kid screams, freak mother screams and tears and strange men staring at the Jeep sign on our new car. TERRIFYING!!!! If the first night was surprisingly restful this night was the opposite of that.
Clare and I tossed and turned all night in the cheap sheets of the lemon hotel. Strange African women spoke too loudly outside the room on their massive mobile phones. more kids screamed at hours well past any normal kids bedtime and the lady continued to cry. Should I help, is she even there? was the sleepless night just playing tricks on me. At some point sleep must have won over the worried reveries of my imagination as I awoke with the normal child friendly beckoning of Tilly. Clare and I both looked at the window and sighed with relief that the car was still there - we quickly dresses and rushed to the car. This was not just to get away from the hellhole that is the Lemon hotel but because it was the day we were going to DISNEYLAND!!!!!
