Troyes – where anything is possible

Troyes, France

This should be seriously spooky but for some reason it is not. It is early, 6.15 in the morning, the city of Troyes in France, and I am alone. Dawn is brightening the windows and last night’s dinner is still lying heavily in my gut.

It is the bread, you see. What is it about French bread? Hot, cold, crisp or crumbly, seeded, smelly or normal, I cannot keep away. The moment breadbasket hits table, the bread does not stand a chance. Within seconds I am shovelling it in, slice after slice, sometimes two handed, like the condemned scoffing a last meal. Perhaps just as well as in French restaurants I am an otherwise no-hoper. I appear not to follow the official, party line.

It starts with the encouraging wink from a sommelier as he presents his bible-sized wine list. Then there is me, spending the next 15 minutes studiously poring its pages, pretending I know what is what, wondering how anyone can charge the price of a car for a bottle of something unpronounceable.

Then that moment comes. The question, the query, the inquisition that, to the Frenchman, separates man from mouse.

“And to drink, monsieur? What can I open for you?” At least that was last night’s sommelier, whom I think was probably the chef. He was portly, dressed in white, spoke faltering English, and wore one of those folded apron thingies that resembles a front bumper.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Excusez-moi?”

“Nothing, A carafe of water will do. I don’t drink. I mean, I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Mon Dieu (my God),” came the reply, the words more spat than uttered. Then the chef, waiter, sommelier, call him what you will, turned towards the kitchen, muttering something distasteful about Brexit.

If you claim teetotalism in France you are publicly announcing you are crazy. I had simply confirmed what the man-in-white had long thought. Britain was better out than in. The sooner we could exit, the better. To this Frenchman, the Brits should never really have joined. And for this Englishman not to drink wine? Seriously, that was unforgivable.

But now, this morning after the night before, I am sat in a Regency-style armchair that is perfectly upholstered and seemingly rarely used. It is one of those chairs you sit in rather than on. The moment rear end hits cushion down, down, down I go, convinced that at any moment I will hit the floor. It is one of those chairs with armrests too high and where, without any trouble at all, I can fall rapidly and deeply asleep. One of those chairs that is both too narrow and too wide, so I have no idea where to place my elbows. This chair was clearly made in Troyes. Troyes is unusual and exists for the unusual. In Troyes, unusual things happen and when you least expect.

As I sit, fighting sleep away, I am tapping gently on a keyboard. I will wager I am the fastest one-fingered typist in the land. I am the only sound in Troyes and you would not call me noisy. No insects, no cars, no people, no wind, and no birds. Wait a minute. No birds? What do I mean, no birds, especially when the hotel in which I am sat calls itself Le Champ des Oiseaux, the field of birds? When the birds keep away, I worry, as they might have seen something I have not.

In 2004, 30 minutes before the Boxing Day tidal wave smothered Sri Lanka, the first sign was the birds. Huge flocks flapped frantically from the beach, darkening an angry sky, as they headed for the hills and safety. Birds see things mankind does not, so maybe they sense something in Troyes.

Troyes is one of those places you feel something should happen but plenty does not. After all, you can expect anything of a city that gave its name to the troy ounce of gold. The place is old, truly ancient, with higgledy-piggledy buildings, wooden beams, wonky roofs, and cobbled streets looking as they did in the 16th century. This is how it was when Molière was penning his plays and Dumas’ Three Musketeers were being heroes. It is haunted, too. At least ask Yaseen the Spiritualist, who appears to make a living exorcising ancient houses in Troyes. The city has more than its share of paranormal specialists. Timbered houses, a zillion nooks and umpteen crannies, Troyes is the type of place you expect something, someone even, to leap from behind and say, “Boo!”

There have been plenty of dead people in Troyes, indeed demise seems a local obsession. World War Two Resistance was huge, the French Revolution burned down several buildings, skeletons wander the streets and houses have been said to bleed. The city even advertises murder parties where you work out who killed who, drink more than is healthy, and stagger home satisfied that you, at least, survive to greet another rat-race morning. Troyes history goes back a very long way. The city was even on the Via Agrippa, a network of seven roads centred on Lyon and built by Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa who, before Christianity was even thought of, had been asked to sort out the Gauls.

And then…and then…shhhhhh! Wait! What was that? I am alone. I know I am alone. There is no one here. I am sure of that. How can there be? I am typing. I am…. Look! This is crazy! In the corner! What is it? It’s white and must be my imagination; yet it is floating, drifting, long robes flapping, head covered just as the Virgin Mary. Is it a him or is it a her? Her, I think. What is that she is holding? A candlestick? A flame? A flame in the palm of her hand? This must be unreal and yet, and yet…

“Bonjour, monsieur.” I look up, no longer relying on corner vision. The white lady before me speaks in a deep, guttural tone and appears suddenly to have undergone gender reassignment. Her voice is clearly male.

For a moment I jump, not quite from my skin. “Bonjour,” I reply, pretending to not have been asleep and now start ostentatiously tapping heavily on my keyboard. Dozing? Me? No way.

And then I smile as the night porter walks slowly past, shaking the raindrops from his long white coat and removing his broad-brimmed hat with a flourish. He simulates the perfect phantom, especially in the early morning.

This, after all, is Troyes where anything, absolutely anything, is possible.