Training in the Countryside

I spent all day in a training session today. When I received the meeting invitation in my inbox yesterday afternoon (that's right, at the last minute), I noticed that the training location was in a place called "Saint Sulpice". That didn't sound like one of our regular meeting rooms.

After some asking around I learned that Saint Sulpice is the name of a village about 25 minutes from Méru. Nowhere close to our regular meeting rooms. I later learned that HR had tried to book a training room too late and couldn't find one available all day. Off to Saint Sulpice.

So this morning I punched "Saint Sulpice" into the TomTom and was met with at least 20 different choices. Shoot. Which one is it? I decided to stop by the office to print off written directions and try to guess my way there. As luck would have it, as I was pulling out of the parking lot I spotted a plant manager whom I knew was on his way to the same training. I waved for him to jump in, and he graciously accepted.

"Thanks for the ride" he said with a relieved smile.

"Well, to be honest," I answered, "I need you to tell me how to get there."

He guffawed. "What?! You need directions? You didn't just pick me up for my sex appeal?"

Heh. French men.

Twenty minutes later, we were cruising down narrow country roads, my co-pilot pointing left and right. There was absolutely no way I would have found the place without his help.

Saint Sulpice is a very quiet country village comprised of moss-covered brick houses and horse pastures. My colleague directed me to park along the side of a muddy lane between two ancient brick buildings and jumped out of the car. There was not another soul in sight, and I was starting to worry that he led me to a deserted location to try his sex appeal joke a little more seriously. Then we passed through an iron gate and spotted the trainer waving hello.

The training session was held in a gite, or a kind of farm house that has been converted to guest houses. They had cleared out the tiled living room of one of the houses and set up a large table for our group to sit, along with a projector screen and a paperboard easel. Outside of our little house stood a low-slung brick building with wooden doors that couldn't be higher than four feet. I was curious to poke around and find out it was used for, but I was soon ushered into the training room and set to work.

The training itself was nothing worth mentioning, but I couldn't get over the oddity of carrying a standard day-long training session to a remote location in the country. Was this some kind of retreat? If so, why wasn't I relaxed? Like many European farmhouses I've visited, the radiators were new enough but didn't give off heat enough. Of course - dumb me - I wasn't wearing socks, either. I ended up sitting with my coat over my shoulders, but it didn't help my cold feet.

At lunch we were sent to the other half of our living room, where a dining table was set up. Then the house chef and his helpers passed back and forth between our little house and the main house, carrying our meals. And it was truly a French meal.

We started with little salads, topped with a small filet of unknown whitefish and tomato sauce. Then came the main course, another kind of fish unknown to me on a tomato tart and a bed of rice, with a cream sauce. Following this was the cheese course, with another little salad and two kinds of cheese, one goat and one cow (I think).

While we ate I pondered the menu and thought about how often I have no idea what I'm eating. Especially when it comes to fish. The thing is, in France you eat what you're given because often, you don't have a choice. If I'd refused to eat my lunch because I don't like fish, I would have gone hungry. This is also how I came to be a veal and lamb eater. Consequently, there is no such thing as a vegetarian in France.

After the cheese came an impossibly fancy chocolate dessert and coffee. Incidentally, I wasn't asked if I wanted coffee, it was just delivered to me. I leaned back and tried to ask for a bit of milk, but my request went unheard and I didn't want to make an embarrassing racket with my bad accent. So I gave up and dumped a packet of sugar into the cup and drank it. And someday I'll say "...and that's how I came to be a black coffee drinker."

Our session ended late, past 6 p.m., and it was pitch black in Saint Sulpice. Not a street lamp for miles. My colleague piled back into my car and helped get us back to Méru, where I dropped him off.

What a strange work day. This one is definitely going under the "France is Weird" file.