August 18: Today I find myself in Donzenac, a small town in the Correze. I’m staying at a hotel I first visited in 1977 with my good friend Dennis. We found the place quite by accident, and I enjoyed the memory so much that I have returned at least a dozen times. The hotel (La Gamade – a small lark common in these parts) was started in the ’60’s by Madame Salesse. She was a formidable presence, managing both the hotel and a restaurant up the street for more than three decades. I recall seeing her sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant doing paperwork, watching the street, and greeting neighbours and prospective clients as they passed.
I was concerned that when she retired, the quality of the place would drop, and that sense of commitment would be lost. Fortunately, the current owner – a formidable woman in her own right – has maintained the vision established so long ago, and a stay here remains a comforting ritual for me. These days, Madame Salesse surveys the scene from a framed photograph in the lobby.
A few days ago, I stayed at a hotel in Murol, a small town crawling with tourists. Several places I tried were fully booked, so it was with some desperation and trepidation that I found les Pins. What had once been a well-established and top quality hotel was now a bit frayed around the edges; the lobby and restaurant are dated, the rooms are small (without either TV or WiFi), and the gardens need a really thorough weeding. The owner seemed to be an older woman who was doing paperwork in the dining room; the manager was a diffident guy who may have been her son. I was prepared for the worst.
I took a room and a package that included breakfast and dinner along with some wine. The room had 2 single beds, and a bathroom including a shower which could not have been bigger than 4 feet by 4 feet. At dinner, salmon en croute appeared for everyone, followed by some cheese and fruit if requested. The wine was local plonk (red) in a carafe left on the table. Although it was all quite acceptable, I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened had I an allergy to something on offer. There didn’t seem to be a lot of options….
There were many paintings in the main rooms. When I was checking out, I asked the manager who had done them. He said that it was his grandfather, the youngest and last member of the Murol school. It was founded in the town during the early years of the 19th century, and included Georges Clemenceau among its’ members. When I asked if he painted himself, he said no, that he was a sculptor. Some of his work was in the lobby as well. As we chatted, a young woman stood nearby. It was his daughter. She was clearly struggling with some sort of disability – whether Down syndrome or something else was not clear – and was demanding of her father’s attention.
He was kind and patient as we concluded our business, As I departed I began thinking about the people we encounter as tourists: servers, store clerks, hotel owners. Our encounters are superficial; a transaction and then we are gone. Yet behind each of these people there is a story – a history even – of a life being lived. They are not just players in a scene contrived for tourists; they have dimension. Sometimes they succeed, and sometimes perhaps they find themselves in a less happy place. Whatever the case, they are trying to make life a bit more comfortable for me and my fellow travelers – a thought that I will try hard to remember over the next few weeks.