25 DEC 1989:

Christmas Day. We arise in Avery’s garret with fabulous hangovers after nearly two full hours of sleep. We fall downstairs to see one of the great messes of modern history on full display. It appeared that Santa had arrived with a full crew of Visigoths to have inflicted that much savage disorder.

There was pâté and trash strewn everywhere. Ashtrays were overflowing and there were lumps of cheese and empty beer bottles and huge chunks of baguette in the most unlikely places.

“This place is a mess,” I observe carefully, as Avery, wearing sunglasses, begins to make the first of several pots of coffee. CAG and his wife Jackie are recuperating at the breakfast table. We don’t open the champagne until 1030, when the cleaning effort commences in earnest. God, what a mess this is. Who were those people we were last night?

The Air Wing SIX Elves hauled stuff out of the flat for about three hours. The Big XO stopped by and we watched him and the Navigator attempt to fix the toilet which had apparently been attacked by the Visigoths. Mark and I sallied forth to return the Christmas tree to the boucherie where it had been borrowed the night before. We got into an animated conversation regarding the original location of le Garland, prior to its unseemly abduction by Visigoth (or Visogoths) unknown.

I stammered out that we would have whatever that was delivered “immédiatement” and we wandered off through the streets to see if it was possible to feel any better than we did at the moment. We enjoyed a croissant chocolat and later a cheeseburger to accommodate Mark, the epitome of the American officer. During his tour as a Flag aide (or looper, for the gold aiquillette worn to denote that status) at NAVEUR on North Audley Street in London, he dealt with Members of Parliament and the Titled Class he wraps his flag about him like an impregnable shield and lives the maxim that the realm of the great unwashed begins just east of the Virginia Capes.

Back at the flat, Avery, CAG, Jackie and DCAG hold court through the morning at the breakfast table as the Elves shovel the place out. Chop is a sweeping demon with his broom; he turns on Waltz music in the sunlit living room and the mess is starting to go away just about the time that the champagne starts to kick in.

We dance with Avery as plans are made for our triumphant return in the movie we are calling “Cannes III….the New Year!” I borrow the phone in Avery’s office and call home about 1400, when I was sure the Boys would be awake and opening their presents. Hearing the Boys exultant on the joyous morning was good and bad; good that they were happy and bad that I was not 
there to share it.

My wife explains Jacksonville has two inches of snow on the ground and maybe the airport will open on time so she can make the flight to join me in Paris….Yike! Snow on the roads in Florida makes for the stuff of nightmares.

At 1600 we embark again via voiture en route Marseilles. DCAG drives; the car is filled with leftover brie cheese, potent spicy moutarde and baguettes of bread. We have a roadside picnic at le Luc, which surely must rank as one of the great picnics of the century. We sat on the grass in a great field with medieval villages crowning the hills above us.

The wine is magnificent and we hack pieces of excellent Brie with Lutt-man’s Swiss Army knife, slathering it liberally onto the delicious chewy bread and anoint it with fiery hot mustard. At length, we decide that too much of a good thing is just enough and head back to the ship at 1800.

I throw myself in the generally direction of my rack and sleep dreamlessly until 0600, when it is time to get organized and head for Gay Paree.

How you gonna keep ‘em down at The Farm, you know?

 
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