Dijon – A New-Age Hostel

I once had a dream where I was called in at the last minute to conduct the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra in a concert at the Hollywood Bowl.

“But I have nothing to wear!” Someone handed me a tux jacket.

“But I don’t know the music!” Someone handed me the baton and said “Just wave it. The musicians know the music.”

And they shoved me out onto the stage.

Substitute teaching is like that. I’m blaming the long time between blog entries on the stress of facing mostly nice high school students and trying to keep them enthusiastic about subjects I know little about and they care even less about.

Why were we going to Dijon? In planning the trip, I had thought we would go to Colmar and then hop over the border into Germany to visit my sister, Lydia, in Emmendingen, a small town north of Freiburg. Lydia’s schedule didn’t fit with that, so I opted for a couple of days in Dijon, knowing nothing about the place except that Frommer’s guide gave it three stars, meaning it was definitely worth a visit. After Friday and Saturday in Dijon, we would train to Colmar on Sunday where Lydia would meet us and drive us to Emmendingen.

We had quite a lot of time before catching the train in Lyon, which was great because the Royal Wedding was on TV in the hotel lobby! We got to see William and Kate in the church and the parade afterwards. Lovely! Romantic! Beautiful! Our concierges even gave us some snacks while we were watching. Royal treatment. We saw the rest in Dijon, the balcony kiss and all that.

On the train, we sat in a 4-seat area with a table in the center. Opposite us was an elderly gentleman, hunched over, short beard, small stature, scruffy looking. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but that was all. When he got up to leave, however, I saw for the first time that he was crippled. He was having a hard time hoisting his backpack because both hands and his legs were misshapen by cerebral palsy or something like it. Mary immediately jumped up to help him and I, not as quickly empathic, followed. He appreciated it and used his English to thank us. Sweet man. I was sad that I hadn’t tried to talk more to him when I had the chance, but sometimes when I’m so tired, it’s too hard to make the effort to think of the right words.

The tourist office was conveniently located in the Gare in Dijon. After watching us pore over a city map without finding our hotel, the girl at the counter called us over, looked at the address and immediately knew where we needed to go.

“The hostel.”

I couldn’t remember if it was an actual hostel or a hotel, but as long as the address was right it could be whatever she said it was. It must be a popular destination because she did not hesitate as she pointed to a spot very very far from the center of town.

She then directed us down the road past the purple construction fences to the plaza where a bus driver told us, “En bas, plus bas,” which I thought I understood along with his gestures, as “down there, way down there,” but when we got “plus bas”, it wasn’t right. Mary pushed onward to the right spot, having a better understanding of gestures than I.

It was a very long ride. Through the city we went, past stores, past residential districts, past more houses and shops, forests, freeways, until we seemed far out in the countryside. The bus driver motioned for us to get off. We did, figuring from the map that we had a couple of miles to walk to the hotel – or hostel or whatever, and it was getting dark.

A large modern building on the corner looked open. I hoped they could give us directions.

We dragged ourselves up a flight of steps to the double-wide glass doorway, arriving there as a team of soccer players exited, boisterous, laughing, full of energy. Looking down at the floor mat, I saw enscribed thereon, “Ethic Etapes.” That was the name of the hotel, or rather, hostel. This spacious, busy place was a lot different than the hostels we remembered.

An apologia: When searching for hostels on the internet, I went to Hostels.com. That’s where I found most of our small, inexpensive hotels. Hostels, the youth kind, still exist because I saw one in Saint Malo and another in Lyon. Some of them have age limits, and some have dorm spaces which I didn’t want. I can hear some of you teasing me! But at the end of a long day, it’s nice to have a private room.

This place was extraordinary! It is a government operation catering to traveling sports teams or individuals of all ages. It even has a cafeteria with good, not too expensive food, a blessing when you’re so far from town. Our room was large with two beds and a teensy bathroom (see photo). There was even an elevator! In the morning at breakfast, we had the company of a couple of youth soccer teams and two groups of bicyclists.

After breakfast Saturday morning, I wandered over to the bus stop to check the schedule and make sure we could get to our train on Sunday, May 1. Panic time! No buses ran on May 1. Not a single one! None! It was another major holiday! How could we get to town, being so far out?

Mary asked the man in the cafeteria who said, “Taxi.” When I asked at the reception desk, they knew exactly what to do, so I realized that having a taxi come was a common occurrence. Even though it was so easy, I felt like kicking myself for not thinking about holidays when planning the trip. Stupid me. It was only week since we’d been in Nimes the day after Easter trying to get to Aix en Provence, and finding out it was a holiday!

This was one of my low points, thinking I’d messed up twice and more times, on little things. Nothing was permanently horrible, really, and Mary was forgiving of the glitches, but I don’t like to feel stupid, and I did. There was a good cure for my melancholy nearby, however. You’ll find out in the next blog entry.