I could have made the excursion as a simple daytrip from Paris but, for some reason, I decided to make a proper job of it; give myself a bit of leisure time; be one of the first through the door; explore the forest and its environs afterwards.  Anyway, this was my thinking before visiting the Château de Fontainebleau; that is why I booked in for a three-night stay at the L’Aigle Noir Hôtel.

The black eagles of the hotel’s name were in plain evidence upon arrival: two sat resplendent atop the gateposts at the entrance; one, wings spread wide, resided above the clock on the hotel’s roof.  It was a magnificent building; if I had not known better, I could have believed that I had arrived at the Château itself.  It looked as though I couldn’t have chosen a better place to stay.

However, at check-in there was a hitch.

“I am very sorry, Mademoiselle, but your room is already taken.”

Taken?  But I had pre-booked.  Pre-paid.  How can this be?  I attempt to adopt a suitably Gallic look of incomprehension.  However, in this respect, I am hopelessly upstaged by the receptionist.  My incomprehension is a mere trifle in comparison to his incomprehension; my indignation an insignificance compared to his sense of outrage.  He cannot begin to understand how such a travesty could have occurred.

Thankfully, he has a solution.

“We do have one other room available, Mademoiselle.”

I put on a show of moderate resistance before acquiescing, as we both know that I will.

“Very well,” I say, rather ill-spiritedly, “but don’t think I’m paying extra for breakfast,” I assert, pointing at the price: €22.  Outrageous!

Still grumbling to myself, I allow a porter to take my bags and direct me to my new room.  I am still feeling mildly-aggrieved by the mix-up; imagine myself being allotted the pokiest, most undesirable room in the entire establishment.  I follow closely in the porter’s footsteps, giving my best pretence of being in a huff.  He unlocks a door and we begin to walk along a long corridor.  My huff increases.  How much further must we go?  When will we ever get to my room?  We go up a short flight of carpeted stairs; pass a room to the right with an open door.  There are display cabinets on the left side of the corridor.  And still we walk on.  Another open door on the right.  It looks a bit like a bathroom.  For Goodness sake, where is this room of mine?  Tucked away in the most remote dead-end?  My huff was beginning to reach fever pitch.  Until it suddenly dawned on me.  This was my room.  We had actually entered my room at the locked door.  This was all my room.  The long corridor, the staircase, the rooms to the right, the display cabinets to the left, the bathroom––with briefly-spotted Jacuzzi bath––and now the enormous room at the end of the corridor, with a bed, which would have comfortably accommodated the entire Les Bleus, plus reserves.

My huff evaporates as quickly as it had appeared.  The result of my modestly-priced original room having been double-booked was a free upgrade to the best suite in the hotel.  Marie Antoinette herself could not have been more chuffed.

Even so, I still didn’t have breakfast.  €22.  I’m not made of money.  I bought a €2 croissant each morning in the town, and then took great pleasure taking it back to my room and eating it on my queen-sized bed.

© E. C. Glendenny

E. C. Glendenny could get used to the good life.

Check out some of E. C. Glendenny’s other travel writing in Slow and Easy: Selected Travel Writing.