Beyond a Vichy Cure
The moment had finally come when, for once, I listened to my Doctor and agreed that I must leave Paris and head south to Vichy. It’s not because I was no longer wanted by the City of Lights, far from it, I was leaving for my liver’s sake. Leave as soon as possible; those were pretty much his words not leaving too much open to interpretation.
  

You may be scratching your head wondering if perhaps this galloping gourmand has his  Chef’s hat on a little too tight. Well like butter, let me clarify. The reason for my departure  to Vichy is not because I strong sense of history deep in me which at times bubbles out, no to the contrary I am going to a  great spa in the sky for a long curative weekend perhaps longer if I don’t behave or if I find something interesting to assist me in my full recovery.

When doc Alain suggested a “Vichy cure” I almost laughed in his face, well actually I did laugh but not to his face. I asked if he was suggesting I work my way through 2 or 3 cases of bottled Vichy water or maybe Bordeaux as a cure to my feeling run down, a bit out of sorts and a few other assorted ailments that seemed to have surfaced. It was the doctor’s turn to laugh (tie ballgame) and no, Monsieur Smart-ass Americain, au contraire. This little bit of a doctor with his neat gray crew-cut and grey closely trimmed mustache gave him a certain military air about him; in fact he had a picture of father on the desk a silver haired military officer with a chest full of ribbons. The picture was taken in 1918 just before the end of the war. In any event, military doctor Alain was suggesting that I present myself at a health institute, one that he knew personally and would vouch for, in Vichy.  The doctor earnestly hoped for a miracle. 

My good and learned, white coated friend was of course leaning on years of accumulated medical experience with the curative powers inherent in Vichy Celestine. Like thousands of doctors before him, doc Alain firmly believed in the magic of the “waters” which contain Alkaline salts such as sodium bicarbonate, calcium and magnesium carbonates and other trace amounts of chemical constituents commonly found in ground waters and near nuclear plants (just kidding). The Vichy cure has long been prescribed for chronic complaints of the liver and digestive organs, kidneys, gout, perhaps lost memory, bad politics and more. It seemed to be right up my alley. I was going from the proverbial frying pan into the spa.

I decided to spare myself a little aggravation by not driving the A10 south to Orléans opting instead for the TGV, high speed train. It was by a saner choice and there was no one standing on their horns and shaking a fists as they whizzed by me. On the train I read all about Vichy and the curative power of the waters. I wanted to get some insight. I knew enough about Vichy and the war but not about Vichy and the curative waters.

Vichy is located in central France, on the banks of the River Allier. As far back as 50 BC, people have been hopping in and out of the Vichy waters and touting their health effects. The Romans came along and built formal baths because they are a people obsessed with clean bodies and bath daily. Once they lounged in the baths for a few years, they realized the curative powers and went on to conquer a few more continents. But it seemed that the waters were really made famous during the reign of Louis XIV who regularly had bottled Vichy water carriaged up to Versailles. On the train, dozing, I had this vision of a team of 16 horses pulling a long carriage emblazoned with a red Vichy for Life logo on the side. The driver dismounting in his working blues, a little ID patch on his shirt with Bernard in neat script, buckled shoes and white stockings as he begins to wheel the first of many cases of Vichy into the royal Xanadu. “Yo butler is the King around, I need a signature?” he would ask. Sometime later, after his delivery, the driver is seen relaxing with a smiling wench who appears to be spilling out of her,  whatever they spilled out of back then,  and he throws back a cold one and looks directly into the camera: “Vichy: Not Just for Kings Anymore!” Scene fades away.  I wonder if Madison Avenue would be interested.

I kept on reading. The idea of a Thermal Spa treatment really came into its own by the 19th Century thanks in large part to Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie. That wild and crazy party couple made a number of  improvements and renovations to the Spa including a super-sized Disco ball and Vichy became not only a resort to partake in the waters, but also a place of pleasure and elegance, to dance and get down. In fact, it became “the second Paris”. It was a place to see and be seen; though I suspect not everyone was happy with that fact. During this same period, the Vichy waters were recognized by the Medical Academy for their curative qualities. Vichy became “the queen of Spa towns”. Vichy is in fact the French city which has most thermal spa sources and welcomes roughly 13,000 visitors a year to take the waters for different therapeutic reasons. Today they would welcome one more lost soul in need of restorative health care. I arrived at my place of destination with my Dossier Medicale crammed with enough formal looking signature and seals and attestations and lord knows what else to convince the reader of its irreproachable authenticity. We know all about Dossiers and how quickly they can turn into a “dossier from hell.”  In any event, my taxi let me off at the Institut’s front gate and before I could say Merci, he was gone. So there I was dossier in one hand and my neatly packed suitcase in the other. As I approached the old iron gates, I saw was a faded calling card above the buzzer which read Institut Medicale pour la Cure Thermale; that looked about right.  Pressing the yellowed buzzer I realized it was stuck or perhaps just simply broken and no one had bothered to repair it. I went to plan B which meant pulling the rusted chain attached to a brass bell circa a few hundred years ago, by the looks of it.  I peered through the gate towards the house for any signs that someone heard me and did manage to catch a curtain briefly being pulled aside then released. Within minutes someone approached from the house I could hear steps crunching on the gravel. A woman appeared, in a nurse’s uniform wearing a black hat with a little red cross on it. It was different. She looked like central casting, right out of a movie, in fact a French version of Florence Nightingale came to mind.  She unlocked the massive gate with her key then without a word turned and walked back. Taking the hint I followed up the graveled path trying in vain to her engage in small talk, the trip, the weather, food and cocktail hour, anything then gave up and followed Flo quietly. Let the healing process begin.   

The Institut’s grounds were spectacular and immaculate, neat as a pin with nothing out of place. The lawns looked trim and well kept. Whoever had the maintenance contract was bringing in beaucoup Euros.  I looked around the gardens hoping to catch a glimpse of the other guests who, like me, were here for health reasons be they physical or spiritual. I imagined I would see someone  playing a spirited game of croquet or boccie ball, perhaps enjoying a nice therapeutic walk or possibly having tea in a shaded part of the garden somewhere. I was wrong. I saw no one, rien, personne. I knew somebody must be around as I heard the faint sound of music floating from somewhere as if being played on one of those old Victrola’s one sees in the movies. I stopped and listened for a moment. It almost sounded like an early rendition of Maple Leaf Rag by Scott Joplin but very scratchy, an old record obviously and not a high quality recording either.  Obviously the action was taking place in the house where they were probably enjoying a nice dinner, good local food and wine or possibly enjoying a spa treatment. I caught up to nurse Flo just as we reached the front of la grande maison, a massive stone structure which must have been built around the turn of the century. If I had seen a few “Grognards” – those old soldiers from WWI -lounging around the gardens, or maybe some “flappers” it would have been quite fitting and I would not have been the least surprised. The house had a certain look and feel to it as some old houses often do. I believe houses can talk to you and one can feel the energy -good and sometimes bad; I truly believe that and I’m not even in the real estate business. In this case, I sensed a lingering sadness which seemed to cling as tightly to the house as did the vines; refusing to relinquish its past to the present. Looking up at la grande maison there were three floors, each with large bay windows overlooking the courtyard and the gardens beyond. I imagined it was a wonderful view. The last set of windows on the very top floor, all the way to the right, were shuttered tight as a drum which threw the whole picture out of balance. As a result, one’s eyes gravitated to that side of the house. I thought I remembered seeing those shutters open with the lace curtained windows when I peered through from the front gate. I was obviously mistaken. Four marbled steps led to a set of double French doors each with heavy opaque glass and before I could pull down the intricate brass door handle, Nurse Flo  unlocked the door and without a word, ushered me inside. As she left, I said Merci Beaucoup, Madame and was greeted with a vacant stare that looked through me not at me,  as if I didn’t exist.  I’m not in the hospitality business but it seems to me that first impressions along with a friendly and helpful staff can make or break even the bests of hotels or restaurants for that matter. I decided I would have a word with the management. 

Once inside, the reception area had the distinct smell of mustiness and dampness, the smell of  wet wool overcoats and faint odor of saddle soap, leather boots and harsh tobacco. All things being equal if we talking about the nose on a good Bordeaux I would be quite pleased. I must admit I would have hoped (and preferred) the tantalizing aroma of garlic,  shallots, onions and carrots simmering away in the back kitchen. I listened for any sound hoping I would hear some merriment, the familiar clinking of crystal glasses, occasional laughter, party horns, girls giggling anything. The only sound came from somewhere deep in the recesses of the house, that of a grandfather clock painfully struggling through eleven chimes. I checked my watch it was seven not the eleventh hour. I put my bag down and sat in a dark green upholstered chair. On the side table was a lovely antique perpetual calendar that seemed to have expired on 11 November. People will collect anything these days. Next to the calendar was an ornate silver framed picture of a proud, somewhat elderly looking mustachioed French army officer, in a pale blue uniform with gold buttons and a row of military campaign ribbons on his chest, including one that looked an awful lot like the Croix de Guerre. His military cap was red with gold leaf. He might well have been a General for all I knew. A black ribbon covered the upper right hand corner of the picture frame. Someone’s grandfather or great grandfather perhaps, but a dear loved one lost oh so many years ago to be sure.

Well, I had arrived, safe and sound and would make a call from my room once I was checked-in. I thought I heard a door close, a key turn and the sound of footsteps coming down.