Hotel Mercure
27 April 2009, 6:35 p.m.
48° 35' 0.62" N, 7° 44' 16.42" E
We’re supposed to meet Henry and his entourage at the Hotel Mercure in Strasbourg. Well, it turns out that there are several Hotel Mercures in this city—first I navigate through the narrow streets to the Hotel Mercure Strasbourg Centre, on the picturesque ile that holds the upscale shopping district, and we’ve almost got the minivan unloaded—when Bertha gets a call on her cell phone. It’s Henry, saying he’s at the front desk, and wondering where we are.
So I go into the lobby to look for him, but all I see are five or six guys in red and black soccer jerseys. Well I can’t find Henry, so of course everyone gets involved, and after lots of gesticulation in several languages—at one point, I could swear that I hear Lambert speaking to the concierge in Latin—we set off for the Hotel Mercure Place Gare Centrale, near the giant spaceship, excuse me, train station (honestly, Strasbourg’s gare looks like it was designed by the same team of alien architects who did the remodeling job on Soldier’s Field in Chicago).
This time, we go right into the lobby—no messing with the luggage until we’re sure that this is the right hotel. And when we get inside, it's kind of weird: there are even more red and black jerseys in this place. Whole families. Well, Bertha’s phone rings again, and we repeat the confusions before discovering that there’s yet a third Hotel Mercure, just down the Rue du Marie Kuss. Eventually we find the Hotel Mercure Quartier St. Jean, which seems like an outpost of gentrification in an old bohemian neighborhood. I get the impression that this place is even more pricey than the other two, but I figure I can handle a room there, for one night anyway.
“What a mix-up,” I say to Bruno as we get out of the minivan. Bertha walks right past us, taking Conrad straight into the lobby. Well I guess that’s okay—you know, just assuming that the men will unload the luggage. For them.
“That was no mix-up,” says Bruno.
“What do you mean?” I say. I open the back of the Opel. The luggage is really crammed in there.
“Henry scouted all the hotels,” says Bruno. “This is the first one he found that wasn’t full of red jerseys.”
“Yeah I saw all those people,” I say. “What up with that? Does AC Milan have a fan club up here?”
“They are called the Patarini,” says Lambert, making the sign of the cross.
“What?” I say. “No, those jerseys—that’s AC Milan—they have a word for their fans, don’t they? The... rossoneri?”
“They’re from Milan, alright, those patarini,” says Bruno. He grabs his backpack, and starts strapping it on. “Henry told Bertha that anyone in a red jersey is a spy, working for Matilda and the Pope.”
“Oh, you mean the Patarenes? From your time?” I say. “I read about them... a hard-ass Catholic group, weren’t they? Kind of right-wing? Almost paramilitary?”
“Dear Lord, protect me from these anachronisms,” says Lambert, casting his gaze up toward heaven. Then, as I hand him his suitcase, he gives me a look like I’m an altar boy who just messed up that business with the water and the wine.
“The patarini do not belong anywhere on your political spectrum,” he says.
“None of us do,” says Bruno. He and Lambert turn and go into the lobby, leaving me with the rest of the luggage.
“Sorry,” I say, but I guess they don’t hear me.
Did I just offend them?
Or do they think that I’m just the driver? That I’m some kind of servant?
Next episode: La Misma
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