61 - Goodbye, Rose

THE PIERRE, New York;  BROWNS
and THE PARK LANE, London

Rose, at home in Pinehurst around 1958

 

        Rose was my British aunt.  She was Frances'  friend and was always an integral part of the family.

Born near London, the youngest of a number of brothers and sisters, Rose left England around the time of the First World War.  She first landed in Canada, served as a nurse in the military,  later settled in or near New York City.

Towards the end of the Second World War she was offered a good job as Head Nurse at Moore County Hospital in Pinehurst.  Whether she knew Frances before or after moving to the Sandhills, I do not know, but they always shared a duplex on Everitt Road for as long as I can remember.

As a child I thought it was somehow wonderful that Rose became such a part of the Pleasants family, but in some ways she must have regretted losing a portion of her own identity and independence in the process.  

With the twins 1953 (Dickie, Rose, Mickie and Frances)

Frances set up her own decorating business around 1950, and when she later opened an upscale gift shop, she talked Rose into leaving her hospital job to run the shop and keep the company books.

During the business'  thriving years, both Frances and Rose lived --if not in splendor-- a life of comfort far surpassing our family's rather humdrum existence three miles away in Aberdeen.  

* * * * * *

Brown's today (photo Rocco Forte Hotels)

   They once spent a month on a buying trip to London in a suite at Brown's Hotel, Frances and Rose.   It was in 1953, the year of  Queen Elizabeth's coronation, and through most of my childhood I always assumed they had actually been invited to the ceremony, which of course was not the case.

Frances mastered the art of understatement.  She never boasted or openly exaggerated, but discreetly insinuated.  So that when she spoke of having gone to London for the coronation, you just naturally assumed she must have had some direct connection with the Queen of England.

Frances in Blowing Rock, summer of 1956 (photo by Rose F.)

 When the retirement years arrived, and some of Frances' poor business decisions and overspending began to take their toll, Rose was left almost without means.  With only a minimal social security retirement and no assets of her own, she then found herself dependent on an increasingly irritable Frances who, encouraged by the ravages of alcohol, became frequently aggressive and unkind to her longstanding friend.

But like my aunt and uncle Martha and Nelson, Frances and Rose always seemed to be surrounded by friends of means and generosity, often ready to extend invitations of great bounty.

The Morlands were such friends. 

By the time Rose reached her seventies she had been diagnosed with a fatal heart malady, and as a seasoned nurse, she had no illusions about her life expectancy.  Gil and Virginia Morland proposed taking her to England for what was tacitly understood to be a last visit.

It was quite a trip.  Two days at the Pierre Hotel in New York before boarding the Queen Mary for Southampton.   In London the three friends stayed at the Morland's favorite hotel, The Park Lane.  No expense was spared, and Rose was thrilled with the attention.  

The day Rose was to visit her last surviving sister in a distant northern suburb, the Morlands arranged for a car with driver.

I cannot claim to have been a fly on the wall, and there are no witnesses to Rose's family reunion.  I can only imagine the impact  when she swept out of the limousine.  She had become increasingly grand as the years went on, though I assume from family conversations that her beginnings were on the modest side.

When Rose died several years later, she was virtually penniless, but she never had to significantly modify her lifestyle.  Frances took charge of her funeral, and she was buried with the rest of the Pleasants family in Aberdeen.  

Rose towards the end of her life

It was about a month later that Frances received a letter from England.  It was from the sister, and she wrote of bereavement for her departed Rosie.   Then in short order she inquired of the "estate."  A second letter soon followed, this one referring  more directly to the "inheritance."   

Frances replied, explaining there was neither estate nor inheritance, that Rose had died with insufficient means to cover her debts.

A London solicitor telephoned at some later point, representing the disappointed sister.   Everyone was ultimately made to understand that there would be no inheritance en route.  

Rose's life appeared (and not just to her sister) to be one of privilege, and in many ways it was.  Born before the turn of the century into a simpler milieu,  the streets of America were still thought to be paved with gold.  To the family remaining in the same London suburb, it must have looked as though Rose had struck it rich.  

But appearances can be deceiving.   Her adopted country certainly  blessed her with many generous friends and even a second family.  But no fortune. 

Aboard the Queen Mary, the captain's reception circa 1966

 Rose's last trip "home" to England (Cunard photo)

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr


[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Rose is mentioned in "A Date With Dephie" Musings and Meanderings No. 17;Rose and Frances were  featured in Hotel Musings No. 4, "A Two-Dollar Hamburger under a Silvery Dome" ; Frances was mentioned in blog No. 51 "A Christmas Gift"  (to access, click on highlighted titles).

60 - Gloria Vanderbilt and Some Tenuous Hotel Connections

HOTEL FOURTEEN, New York City, and INN ON THE BILTMORE ESTATE, Asheville, N.C.

Little Gloria and Mom (Google)

   Gloria Vanderbilt and her tumultuous life have always held a certain fascination for me.

She was called the richest little girl in America during the depression years, and she was probably one of the unhappiest as well.   She began life, carted around by a beautiful, often irresponsible socialite mother from one European grand hotel to another:  summer in Biarritz, winter in Mégeve, a month at the Plaza or the Sherry Netherland in New York, then back to the Ritz in Paris.

The center of one of the highest publicized and most tawdry custody trials of all time, she was ultimately removed from the full-time tutelage of her mother and awarded to the care of an aunt. 

The author of any number of books, many about her life, she has often described what became a childhood rejection of the grand hotel life.  So much so that as a teenager she hated and dreaded the obligatory Sunday lunches at the Sherry Netherlands with her Mother and maternal grandmother, Nanny Morgan (see blog No. 13, "Those silver-spooned children...").

Hotel Fourteen was where Gloria Vanderbilt’s grandmother lived in New York City during the long custody battles and after.  G.V. mentioned it frequently in her first, remarkable  book of memories “Once Upon A Time” (which I highly recommend as a particularly original approach to autobiography ). 

The Fourteen was located at 14 E. 60^th Street, next door to the Pierre, and was operational  until after the Second World War, probably into the Fifties.   It  would have certainly had a certain chic-ness about it, given the location and the clientele, but I have been unable to find much more information.  

I did spot it recently in an old Dominique Dunne novel.  In his roman à clé, “The Two Mrs. Grenvilles,” based on a famous New York society murder of the 1950’s, he described it in its waning post-war days as an address for the assignations of couples looking for a discreet hotel room. 

 I recently looked up the address, and discovered it now houses a Michelin-starred French restaurant, The Rouge Tomate, and Brenda and I and nephew Ryan tried it out on a recent trip to New York. 

The Rouge Tomate (ex-Hotel Fourteen) 2010

A big, sprawling, typically New York brasserie-style restaurant with high ceilings and lots of noise, it was good food and good value at $32 for their three-course lunch menu.

* * * * *

Fantasy oil painting of Biltmore by Thomas Kinkade

  Long before the birth of Gloria Vanderbilt, her great uncle George Washington Vanderbilt built in 1895 a palatial estate in Asheville, North Carolina, known as the Biltmore Estate. 

He died before he ever had a chance to live there, but it remained in the family,  and is still owned and operated by Vanderbilt’s great grandson.  With over 250 rooms, it remains the largest privately owned house in the United States.

Brenda and I stayed at the Biltmore a few years ago on a trip to the North Carolina mountains.

We actually got around to going there in a convoluted manner.  Brenda is very much a plant and garden person; while in South Africa, she had picked up a book on fine gardens throughout the world, which included some particularly impressive photos of the Biltmore Estate.  

I was doing some research on Pinehurst, the beautiful North Carolina village where I was born, and I discovered that the architect who laid out Pinehurst in the 1890’s was the same one who had earlier redesigned Central Park in New York City.  Then, coincidentally while looking a little closer into the Biltmore estate, I learned that Frederick Law Olmsted, who had designed the other two, was equally responsible for the Asheville landmark’s 8,000 acres of landscape gardening.

So when we decided to visit said gardens, and when we discovered the existence of a hotel on the estate, we jumped at the chance of spending a night there. 

Brenda admiring the countryside 2010

I had assumed a little precipitately that the “Inn on the Biltmore Estate” was actually part of the original mansion, which would have been much more interesting.  I only realized upon arrival that the hotel, albeit a handsome building with nice, large, bedrooms and appropriately grand public rooms, was only constructed a handful of years ago.

So not so much a memorable or historic stay, it was more one of convenience and comfort.  The real joy of the hotel was its view, sitting as it is in the middle of some of the spectacular gardens, with the Blue Ridge mountains in the distance. 

In fact, it was a room with a view on a par with some of the world’s finest, of which I have seen a few.

  

Inn on the Biltmore --A room with a knockout view!

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

59 - The Countess, The Majestic and Rome

THE MAJESTIC HOTEL, Rome

Rome, the via Veneto near the U.S. Embassy (photo Philip Greenspun)

     It was my first trip to Rome, part of that long train journey with Ann from Paris to Sicily over Christmas of 1978.

Rome was to be a highlight, because we were to stay in a mansion just off the Borghese Gardens; it belonged to an Italian countess who operated her version of a bed and breakfast.

The Countess and her chambre d'hôte had been enthusiastically recommended by an American actress I knew back then.  The ex-wife of a French television personality, she had once made a minor movie in Italy with Anita Ekberg, but by the time I knew her she was neither married nor acting.  I don't remember how I met her, but I knew her just long enough to have listened to her glowing picture of the Rome property and its owner, which turned out to be inaccurate on both counts.

The Countess immediately revealed herself as a thoroughly unpleasant lady.  Her house was more than dilapidated, and the quarters reserved for our use, grim.   She lost no time in rudely insisting that we were not to darken any part of the home other than our room.  

The whole affair turned out to be one of those colossal disappointments.   I particularly recall the unhygienic state of the shower.  Not only were the walls peeling big-time, there was no possibility of squeezing out  more than a trickle of water.

I think our room had once been part of the maids' quarters, and it was not at all what I had in mind when deciding to cohabit with the Italian aristocracy.

We wanted to leave as soon as we saw what we were getting into, but the proprietor was uncooperative.  She already had our money, and it was only thanks to Ann's special negotiating skills that we ended up spending just the first night, then collecting a refund for the rest.

At the moment of our departure, the Countess, who spoke little English, called after us, “Good riddance!” Apparently it is an English expression used commonly in Italian, and rarely has an insult been so mutually felt.

Both our unattractive lodgings and witch-like landlady put a damper on that first glimpse of Rome, but we did soldier on, and during our first stroll around the neighborhood I discovered the beautiful Majestic Hotel, not far away at the bottom of the Via Veneto.

The Majestic was no longer one of the very top Roman hotels, but that was hardly what we were looking for anyway and even less what might fit our budget.  It had certainly known its day of glory, however (see following sidebar), and it was still pretty grand, occupying a prime spot on one of the world's most elegant avenues.

We debated as to whether we even dared ask, it seemed so above our means. Ultimately we ventured inside where we were greeted with all the Italian warmth and charm that the Countess so sorely lacked.

It was that off-season part of December, and for whatever reasons, the hotel was almost empty.   We were proposed a rate of about 30-dollars, which was less than the Countess' bed and breakfast package.  Am I exaggerating on the downscale?   It's so long ago, it is hard to tell.   At any rate, coming from our unhappy experience in the Borghese Gardens, it surpassed our wildest dreams.

A suite at the Majestic today ...not quite as I remember from 1978 (photo courtesy of hotel)

It turned out to be a special, sunny room overlooking a little churchyard with gardens tended by an order of friars.   As we were on the way towards uncharted territory in Taormina (see Musing No. 5 "Room Without Bath"), the Majestic's elegant over-sized bathroom was a godsend and more than we ever expected.

Whenever I remember that luxurious stay at the Majestic, I can still smell the marble of the bathroom floor which --then just as now-- conjured up delicious childhood memories of  Grandmother Pleasants' home in Aberdeen.  

Majestic's managing director in 1979

SIDEBAR: more about the Majestic

Unchanged facade of the Majestic today (photo courtesy of hotel)

      

      The Majestic, inaugurated in 1889, was the first hotel built on the street which was to be called the Via Veneto. 

     Designed by Gaetano Koch, known at the end of the 19^th century as the “prince of architects”, the land cut through the Cappuccini friars' gardens.   Considered from the start to be architecturally ahead of its time, the Majestic's design garnered considerable attention, pundits likening its front facade to the rounded silhouette of a grand piano.
 

Marcello Mastroianni on the Via Veneto (Google)

      If the Majestic knew a certain success in its early years, it was not until the end of the First World War and the boom of the 1920’s that its fortunes reached a zenith.  It was during this era of prosperity and flamboyance that the rich and titled and the first movie  stars  turned it into one of Rome’s “in” places to be and to be seen. 

      The Majestic figured prominently in the iconic 1960 Federico Fellini movie “La Dolce Vita.”  The hotel's exterior was seen as a backdrop in several scenes, one with Marcello Mastroianni, highlighting the Via Veneto.  The film made the entire world aware of the street, if not of its first hotel.

Director Fellini on the Via Veneto circa 1960 (Magnum)

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Ann was also mentioned in blog No. 5, "Room Without Bath" Sept. 2012;  No. 20, "Decaffeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?" Jan 2013;  blog No. 33, "Breakfast in the 1970's" April 2013; and No. 58 "Rue des Beaux-Arts:  Oscar Wilde, Francis Bacon and David Hockney" April 2014 (to access, click on highlighted titles).

Back to the tailor's shop, Hong Kong

View of Hong Kong Island from the ex-Regent Hotel       At the end of each new posting, blogger.com (with no urging from me) proposes a selection of previous musings which have had the highest number of hits.  The number of viewers doesn't usually have any obvious correlation with whatever reaction I may have personally received, so it is often fairly baffling why some pieces do so much better than others. Hong Kong seen from Victoria Peak      There is no selection proposed for the least  read musings, which is hardly surprising.  This being said, one of my early favorites has the distinction of having attracted the fewest readers.  You could certainly say in theatrical terms that it flopped.      Anyway, I'd like to give it another chance.       It's the Hong Kong piece.  It was the shortest of any of the musings, and it ran in October of 2012.  Hong Kong is one of my special travel memories.  I've been there four times in all, I've always liked returning to familiar destinations,  and it has never lost its appeal for me.  As money gets scarcer and travel more expensive, I imagine it unlikely I'll be returning to that part of the world. Hong Kong by night      So I trust you'll put up with this repeat.  For all those who didn't read it first go-round, I hope a few of you will give it a try this time.

THE KOWLOON SHANGRI-LA, Hong Kong

Main lobby seen from the mezzanine

       I have always stayed at the Shangri-la Hotel on the Kowloon side when in Hong Kong.  It is not the very grandest of Hong Kong’s many grand hotels, but it is nevertheless extremely comfortable, managed with elegance and excellent value for money.

The elevator carpets --one for each day of the week-- are changed daily, appearing promptly at one minute after midnight.

A funny little memory  remains engraved from my first visit to Hong Kong in 1997.  I had never been to a tailor (there are many thousands of them in this exotic metropolis, and virtually every hotel boasts its resident tailor) and had found my way into the Shangri-la’s shop mainly out of curiosity.

A rather grand old woman who looked much like the late English actress, Gladys Cooper, was giving clipped, precise instructions when I arrived.

   

The real Gladys Cooper (Google archives) 

Johnny

 It was the last year of    British colonial   rule,  and I gathered the lady  had lived there for a long time.  She clearly had a lengthy experience with Johnny (Hong Kong tailors all appear to take Anglo Saxon noms de  plume, presumably  bearing no resemblance to their Asian birth names).

She was accompanied by her twenty-ish granddaughter whom I guessed to be on the point of marriage.  The English dowager had ordered at least a half-dozen outfits for the young woman who sat shyly in a corner, never voicing an opinion.

“Johnny” showed no emotion as the order became increasingly important.

As far as I could make out, there was no mention of price until the very last moment.  As “Gladys Cooper” was exiting the little shop, she glanced briefly in my direction with just a hint of impatience, as though I might have had the good taste not to be there.

She then turned with supreme self assurance to the tailor and said, “Now I don’t want you getting any foolish ideas about asking for a lot of money, because that is entirely out of the question!”

Did  I detect just a flicker of irony in Johnny’s response?   “Certainly not, Madame, I quite understand.” 

Our last trip to Hong-Kong was in 2008 (photo by ?)

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

58 - Rue des Beaux-Arts: Oscar Wilde, Francis Bacon and David Hockney

L'HOTEL, Paris

Cozy atmosphere at l'Hotel's "Le Restaurant"

    L'Hotel is a hidden gem, lost in the back streets of Saint Germain des Pres.   It has no other name, and no obvious sign outside.  You pretty well have to know it's a hotel or you wouldn't think of going there. 

Early Oscar Wilde (Bing)

     It is where Oscar Wilde lived in his last years which were neither happy nor prosperous.  In those turn-of-the-century times, it was called the Alsace, and it was a nondescript, inexpensive hostelry where rooms rented by the month.   Even so, Wilde --never at a loss for a bon mot-- is said to have quipped, more or less on his deathbed:  "Here I am about to die ... the way I lived ... above my means."

 

I first heard of it back in the early seventies when it had recently been transformed into a luxury establishment.  I used to sometimes  find myself at the Claude Bernard Gallery on rue des Beaux-Arts, just a few steps down the street from l'Hotel.

Ann 1974

  My friend Ann had once worked for the Marlborough Gallery in London.  She had remained friends with its director who made sure that she received invitations to some of the Parisian art world's to-dos.

So it was that we found ourselves regularly in attendance at the Claude Bernard Gallery's opening nights.  In those days C.B. was one of the Left Bank's most influential art merchants.   It had exclusive French dealership for David Hockney and Francis Bacon, and we saw both of these art world titans, not only at the gallery, but around the neighborhood as well.

We would go to these C.B. soirées as much to see the people as the exhibits, not to mention the free food and booze.   The guest list tended to be peopled with an assortment of with-it post-hippy eccentrics, none of them buyers as far as I could tell.   They all seemed to know each other, and I assumed they spent most of their time going to these parties.  For awhile we imagined ourselves on the fringe of their world, just by virtue of our regular attendance.

As the evening progressed, some of the richer attendees would invariably move their part of the party to the bar of l'Hotel.  An English woman with purple fingernails who was said to have posed for David Hockney, once asked if we were coming down the street, but it would have never occurred to us to move to an expensive hotel bar when the gallery was furnishing food and drink gratis.

   

 

Hockney self portrait

    I once saw David Hockney (who lived in Paris in those days) in a decidedly surrealistic moment, sitting alone on the open-air terrace of the Deux Magots Cafe.  It was raining, and he was sheltering himself and his coffee with a large red umbrella.

 On another occasion  I encountered Francis Bacon towards the end of his life walking down rue Bonaparte, mumbling in a particularly stressful manner to himself, looking much like one of his strangely distorted paintings.   I wanted to say something to him, but I only managed to emit a nod.  Bacon stared through me, and continued his tortured promenade.

Bacon at a London retrospective c. 1970 (Google photo)

 I became reacquainted with l'Hotel a few years ago when a client friend stayed there, and I learned then that many of the rooms in this intimate mini-palace are dedicated to some illustrious celebrities of the past.  

Of course there is the Oscar Wilde room which contains some period furniture from his era, and various artifacts associated with the scandalous writer.   Among others, rooms are devoted to the courtesan-spy Mata Hara and the French musical comedy star Mistinguett. 

The Oscar Wilde room (Curious Hotels photo)

  

Recently refurbished from its mini swimming pool in the old wine cellar to the top of its impressive atrium, it is an address which today again attracts a discerning clientele.  Michelin-starred chef  Julien Montbabut has graced its restaurant with his considerable talents since 2011.

 

L'Hotel's impressive atrium

Prices have increased a bit in recent months, but L'Hotel's restaurant remains excellent value for money.  The luncheon menu (Tuesday through Saturday) proposes the best of the day in a three course meal for 55 euros (two courses for 45 euros).  Needless to say, you can eat at any number of Parisian restaurants for this amount.  But rarely this well. 

BMP ... another lunch at l'Hotel

SIDEBAR:  A recent lunch

at l'Hotel with Brenda and Dickie

 

            Here are a few photos from our last lunch from the kitchens of Chef Montbabut.   It was during Dickie's visit in January, so naturally he joined us at what is probably his favorite Paris restaurant.

Brittany crab in sweet and sour vinaigrette, with lemon, radish, 

cucumber and avocado (and borage flowers which we all ate)

 

Duck foie gras,seared with chickpeas

No time for flattering portraits, just some serious eating!

Veal and spinach with  ham and rosemary stuffing

Served by the aimiable and bilingual Alberto (who grew up in St. Martin)

    

"Tete de Moine", thin shavings of a special Jura cheese, served with grated truffles

Chestnut dessert with merringue and pomegranate ice cream

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Ann was also mentioned in blog No. 5, "Room Without Bath" Sept. 2012;  No. 20, "Decaffeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?" Jan 2013; and blog No. 33, "Breakfast in the 1970's" April 2013 (to access, click on highlighted titles).

READER COMMENT –Note from Kathy Horgan

The following is a special,  witty reaction to today’s piece from my old friend Kathy, faithful reader of these musings.  I've changed a couple of names for obvious reasons.

  My friendship with Kathy dates back almost 40 years when we were both working at Unesco.  Kathy has since had any number of professional adventures, and after Paris lived briefly in both Holland and Turkey,  before returning to the U.S.A. a few years ago.   She  presently works at amfAR (American Foundation for AIDS Research)  in NYC, and serves as borough councilwoman in Red Bank, New Jersey.   

 

     Hi Frank!    Well, here I am again commuting to work on the ferry. Your Musings are such a welcome respite from the pole of work awaiting me at amfAR and the issues we are trying to resolve in the Borough of Red Bank.  It just never ends.

     I especially enjoyed this musing on L'Hotel.  I discovered it back in the early 80s after I had resigned from Unesco and before I began my studies at the Ecole du Louvre.   I became involved with a French artistic organization grandiosely called L'Organisation mondiale pour la Promotion des Arts et des Lettres.   It was headed by a breathtakingly beautiful but ditsy French/Martiniquaise who was married to an English banker.   Orchidée and Charles Henry, they were called ... a very interesting couple.   She was so happy to have me involved  because of my organizational skills that I was named to the Board of Trustees!!

    For a while they had a gallery on the Quai Conti and hosted exhibitions and events that were well attended and covered by the press.  Orchidée and Charles Henry were well connected. 

  You cannot imagine all the intrigues that went on.  Orchidée was bi-sexual, and it seemed that everyone desired her much to the chagrin of her very jealous husband.  Because I kept a distance and neutral position in all of this, I became her confidante.  She would tell me all kinds of things, most of which I didn't want to know!!  But she said that she trusted me. 

  

  All of this to say, that these conversations usually took place at L'Hotel over a kir!  I eventually lost contact.  The organization has now long since been dissolved.  I must say, I've often wondered what happened to them???

Thanks for another great story.  We are arriving in NYC now.

Lots of love, Kathy

 

57 - The Caldwells Come to Paris

HOTEL LAUMIERE, Paris

An unchanged Parc des Buttes Chaumont, Paris 2013

      When I first settled in Paris I officially lived off the Champs-Elysées, but I worked in the 19^th Arrondisement on the edge of the city in the more village-like ambiance around the Buttes Chaumont Park.

     My office was in the apartment of Jean and Nancy, and as I explained in an earlier musing, I connected with far more people around my work address than on the more impersonal Champs-Elysées.

     Though I was barely making minimum wage, and it was never enough to quite see me through until the end of the month, I --like most all the other single people I knew in those days-- ate all my meals out.  Workdays found me generally at the Laumière, a huge, teeming, dirt-cheap restaurant within the neighborhood’s unique hotel.

Lunchtime at Hotel Laumiere 1970

     It was there that I learned the rudiments of what French food was all about.   The menu changed daily, and I remember that most of the main courses cost three francs.  It’s hard to imagine just what that would be worth today, but at the time it was about a half a dollar.  For that amount, I could choose between stuffed cabbage, beef bourguignon, grilled chicken, cow’s liver, etc.  

     Edith Caldwell had been my second grade teacher, and her son, Frank, a friend back in Aberdeen.  Frank brought his mother on a vacation to Paris in 1971, and I served as guide.

     The Caldwells stayed at the Hotel Moscow, which was ironically located on the rue Leningrad (unless it was the other way around, my memory being a little hazy on those details).

     It was still the cold war, and I recall Edith (who had a strong personality and was not above a bit of provocation) commented with a certain humor that she’d hate to see some of the Aberdeen townspeople’s reaction if they learned the name of her hotel.  The insinuation being, it didn’t always take too much to shock in a small southern town in those days.
 

Edith behatted for the Stoneybrook Races, Southern Pines 1972

     Although I had been in Paris for over a year at the time, my French was still far from accomplished.  I was fiercely motivated, however, and carried a little blue English-French dictionary around with me at all times.   It was unfortunately of limited efficiency, as it was ultra abridged, and the translations sometimes misleading.

     Jean and Nancy, who were wonderful employers and very good people, proposed I bring my friends by for a coffee at their home after lunch at the Laumière.  I was thrilled to be able to share with the Caldwells a glimpse into real Parisian life and to show how well I was integrating into the French world.  

Jean and Nancy Gauthier, rue Cavendish 1971

     Before arriving with my guests, I looked up “school teacher”, so as to introduce Edith in correct French.     The normal translation for a small child’s teacher is “maitresse d’école” or school mistress.  Only my little dictionary just left it at “maitresse"!

     A very young child just might call his teacher “Mistress”, but never, never would a grown man present a much older lady as I did: 

     “Nancy, je vous présente ma maitresse.”    

     Nancy was a professor at the Sorbonne and a no-nonsense lady.  She didn’t show any surprise, just smiled warmly, shook Edith’s hand, and without missing a beat said discreetly in French to me, “Oh, most assuredly not!”

     I immediately blushed with the realization of my faux pas, but the Caldwells were undoubtedly  never the wiser to what extent my French was so lamentably lacking.

Me (about a year away from a haircut) with Edith at the Buttes-Chaumont 1971

 

SIDEBAR:  Back to the second grade with Edith and Little Polly

Aberdeen School before the fire (photo by E.S. Eddy)

     I have particularly vivid memories of Edith Caldwell as a school teacher, because it was at the beginning of my second grade in 1949 that the Aberdeen Elementary School burned to the ground.

      It was in the dead of night, so there were no casualties.  My father was a volunteer fireman, and I remember waiting for him to return, standing outside our home with other neighborhood children at three in the morning watching the sky lit up from the blaze on the other side of town.

       Little Polly, who was also in Edith's class that year, had a much better view, as she lived just around the corner from the schoolhouse.
  

Edith at school 1950

 

Little Polly

     After the fire, Edith's second grade settled into an annex to the Baptist Church on Main Street until a new school could be constructed a year later.

     I sat on the front row next to Little Polly, and the clearest memory I have today of Edith's class is of Polly and me singing at the top of our lungs, "Frère Jacques."

     I doubt if I even realized it was French at the time, and it certainly  was not until about the time of Edith and Frank's Paris visit twenty years later that I actually began to understand the words. 

 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

"Little Polly" and Aberdeen were also mentioned in blog No. 26 "Babe Ruth's 60th Home Run"   (to access, click on title).