Ice Hell in Mont Saint Michel
Actually, it’s ice hell in all of Europe and I’m not talking global warming.
I’m talking about getting ice cubes. This seems to be a problem over there. None of the hotels have an ice machine “down the hall” where you can just go and scoop. Not even the Holiday Inn Express at the Paris airport has one. Radisson Blu, Novotel, none of the biggies have ice machines. They will bring you ice but it’s a big deal. You have to call room service and then you wait. When they finally bring it up, the ice is in a big ice bucket complete with stand. Then you tip the guy. So every night you pay for the ice.
Getting Ice is Always a Trip
I go to the concierge (M says they are not a concierge; they’re just two guys who checked us in. Fine. Whatever.) and he tells me to go to the restaurant two floors below and not the restaurant one floor down. This is significant, unfortunately. I climb down to that restaurant. I’m thinking that I even know the word for ice, which is glacé, pronounced glass, so this should be easy. Unfortunately, the girl brings me a glass just an empty glass. I said, “No. Ice. Glacé. En Français glacé.”
“Ah! No. We have no. Sorry”.
Really. In the cheapest motel rooms in the United States, you can walk out the door, go down the hall, and there is the biggest ice machine you have ever seen, with a big, fat scoop lying right there on top of the ice. And you take that scooper and you fill your ice bucket up with all the ice you want for nothing. You can even go back for more all night long if you want.
“In this big hotel (with the 5-star restaurant), you have no ice?”
“No. Sorry.”
Famous Guests
The inside of this hotel is plastered with pictures of famous people who stayed here going back 150 years.
I bet if Charles de Gaulle (look him up) or Mao (wow Mao, especially him), or Ernest Hemingway (despicable traitor) – if any one of them asked for ice for any reason, it would be found and served to them in a silver ice bucket. But I, obviously made of much lesser stuff and not French, not only do I not get the silver bucket that they can keep, I can’t even get frozen water. But I do get tons of attitude, as in “Go away, you’re bothering me. Can’t you see I’m busy not helping a guest at this hotel with an extremely simple request?”
“Can I talk to the manager?”
She looked at me truly shocked. I mean a good word for the look on her face would be gobsmacked, as the English would say. I savored the moment.
She smiled, “No. There is no manager.”
“No manager?” I smiled back.
“No, madam.”
“Okay.”
I turned around and walked back up the stairs to the other restaurant— the one I was told not to go to and found some hotel staff.
Said Stairs
This restaurant was not open, but I saw people, and I have worked in enough bars, restaurants, and hotels to know that there is ice somewhere back there. It’s a friggin’ hotel. “Excusez-moi, je ne parle pas -” I say to the first guy I see. I suddenly stop when I see the other workers staring at me and became acutely aware of just how painful it is for French people to listen to English people try to speak French. I never fully appreciated this until Moe tried to speak it, and now I get it. It is excruciating. Torture. So I faltered and became a blathering idiot. Plus, don’t forget the French penchant for looking disgusted. Nobody does it like them. I know, I have years of experience.
“I speak English!” The guy cut me off right away — anything to end the horror.
“Oh, good. I need ice.” And because I was so beaten down by this point, I dared not ask for any more than a glass.
He said, “Just a moment.” I said, “No rush.”
He brought me back a glass with ice in it. Beaming with gratitude, I took my ice downstairs, where the nice lady was still talking to the guy over a blazing fire in the hearth where they make world-famous fluffy (80% air) omelets for forty bucks a pop. I held up my glass.
Wonderful hearth with a stupid piece of plastic in front of it.
“This is ice.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I got it upstairs.” I pointed up. She nodded still smiling a fake smile because she really cannot stand me by now.
I said, “If anybody comes in here wanting ice, tell them to go upstairs and they will get ice.” I spoke slowly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said with that same icy smile. Yes, I said icy. I can’t help myself. Disgusted by this utter lack of customer service, I returned to my room. I am a guest at your overpriced establishment, and you cannot get your act together enough to find me some ice. I even blurted out at one point, “It’s frozen water, for god’s sake.”
Beer and Wine?
Am I having this ice problem because Europeans generally drink beer and wine and therefore do not require ice? Whereas Americans, who invented the cocktail in New Orleans, are far more adventurous and do require ice for their dynamic drinks. I don’t know. But, I don’t think I’m asking for a lot, do you?
They Hate Americans
I know they hate Americans. But they are pretty xenophobic so it’s not just Americans. I know, I have experience with this. However, I bet Americans are starting to look pretty good to them right now. There is nothing I can say or do that would change their minds so I might as well be myself.
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