It’s Black Friday in the US, and I’m writing this in my hotel room in Paris. I’m so glad I’m missing all that michegoss, although the Net does keep you apprised whether you will or not of all the bargains to be had and how you can actually save more by not going into stores but ordering online.
I took the TGV, Bordeaux-Paris/Montparnasse in a skosh over three hours (stops in Angoulême and Poitiers). It took me four days to drive from Paris to Bordeaux this past week, and 12 to do it n vélo 30 years ago.
There’s nothing like riding in a train at high speed, countryside whizzing past you too fast to really take in to make you contemplative. I’d had a whole list of things to see/do in Paris, but decided that maybe I should just slow down and be here, just as I was on the train.
I’m here for four nights, I don’t have to do anything.
Insight number four: even in Paris I don’t have to rush about at Mach 2.
(Posted at 1632 Friday 27 November, 7ème arrondissement)
Friday, November 27, 2009
Pilgrims' pass
Wednesday I left Bordeaux and headed out for Roncevalles (French: Roncevaux), the port to Spain for pilgrims coming from various places in France.
It was a long drive—I of course made it in a few hours. Thirty years ago it took five days. I knew both times I was headed into le Pays Basque—the town names started getting outlandish. These days the signs are in both French/Spanish and Euskara.
I stopped off for a bite at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. In ’79 I was again caught out without a place to stay. I was directed to a house where I was told they took in guests. As it turns out, I’m not sure that was actually the case, but they took me in, and I had an evening of conversation and a magnificent bed to sleep in. Best of the entire trip.
It was a long drive—I of course made it in a few hours. Thirty years ago it took five days. I knew both times I was headed into le Pays Basque—the town names started getting outlandish. These days the signs are in both French/Spanish and Euskara.
I stopped off for a bite at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. In ’79 I was again caught out without a place to stay. I was directed to a house where I was told they took in guests. As it turns out, I’m not sure that was actually the case, but they took me in, and I had an evening of conversation and a magnificent bed to sleep in. Best of the entire trip.
Saint Jean Pied-de-Port
Just beyond there, I recall stopping in a bar/resto for café au lait (I swear I lived for that stuff on that trip). There was a Pentecostalist there and we talked about faith, society and Christ. My French was pretty comprehensive back then. He was interested in the pilgrimage and gave me a pocket version of St. John’s gospel. I have it with me now.
And it’s odd, as le Pays Basque is a tough country—not in a barren sort of way, like Estremadura, but in the sense that the living you pull from the land is hard-won. Fields are farmed or grazed almost on the vertical. And you’d think the people would have been less open to taking in raggedy strangers.
(Actually, I remember telling la patronne that I’d named my bike l’Escargot Rouge, because it goes slow and carries my home on its back. And in the morning, when I was getting ready to leave, she remarked, “Il faut préparer l’escargot”—time to prepare (cook) the snail.)
It’s a lovely town; and again you know you’re in Basque country because the accents are more explosive.
(Back in ’79 I stayed a couple of nights in rooms above bars as I wended my way through Navarra. I was sure there were brawls going on from the sounds of the voices and that in the morning I’d have to wade my way through blood and debris on my way out. But no such thing. Evidently they’d been discussing the weather or something; that’s just the way the language sounds.)
I was already in the higher foothills, because my ears had popped a couple of times; but the real climb began after leaving St Jean P-d-P. Le pauvre Lapin Gris was having a bit of a strain, it being diesel and all.
Jill told me the speed limit was 90 km, but that’s got to be a pipe dream. Unless you’re driving a Ferrari and you can cut those curves really tightly, there’s no way you’re going to hit 90. If I went 70 it was only for about 30-40 meters at a stretch. Most of the time I was in 3rd or 4th gear; sometimes 1st and 2nd.
Those switchbacks were amazing. I mean, beyond hairpin. As I was climbing, all I could think was, I did this on a BIKE? It was 30 years ago, and all—but I did this on a BIKE? I know I finally got off the thing and pushed, but I still don’t know how I did it.
That apparently is sheep country. I saw a few just on the other side of the guard rail at one point and was musing about whether they ever got out on the road, when I turned a corner and there was a flock coming right down for me. They stopped, as though figuring out what to do about this situation. Then they trotted forward and passed me on the left, while I stayed put. Their keeper and his dog followed along.
Basque sheep
(This being Spain, he didn’t acknowledge me at all.)
You climb and climb and suddenly you emerge at Roncevalles I have to say that I found it as inhospitable as 30 years ago—there are a couple of restaurants, church of Saint James and the old abbey, which is now turned over for lodging pilgrims. It was chained off.
The patronne who ran the little place where I’d conversed with the Pentecostalist had told me that I could get a list of places to stay in Spain for pilgrims at this abbey. When I appeared there the man I spoke with denied all knowledge of such places and sent me on my way.
(Pilgrimages weren’t the big business then that they are now, but still.)
You climb and climb and suddenly you emerge at Roncevalles I have to say that I found it as inhospitable as 30 years ago—there are a couple of restaurants, church of Saint James and the old abbey, which is now turned over for lodging pilgrims. It was chained off.
The patronne who ran the little place where I’d conversed with the Pentecostalist had told me that I could get a list of places to stay in Spain for pilgrims at this abbey. When I appeared there the man I spoke with denied all knowledge of such places and sent me on my way.
(Pilgrimages weren’t the big business then that they are now, but still.)
I did, as instructed by my friend, pause to listen for Roland's horn, and to check my baggage train. (On both trips, actually.)
Battle of Roncevaux, at Roncevalles
At pretty much every stage of my journey back then, I’d tell myself, well—you got through this okay, but the hard part starts now. And every time I managed to get through it; and then told myself that the really hard part starts now.
I will say this: Spain was definitely a hard part. For one thing, the terrain was all up and down and I was riding against the prevailing winds; at times I thought I was pedaling as fast as I could just to avoid going backwards. (BTW: a haircut with bangs is not a good choice if you’re traveling by bicycle; they stand straight up most of the time. You're welcome.)
For another, this was just a few years after Franco’s death; no one was amused by anything; the hard times were definitely not passed and gone. And there were no youth hostels (I think maybe youth weren’t meant to waste their time in traveling; they were supposed to get out there and work.) and it was November, which isn’t the gayest month of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.
Moreover there was a lot of honking at me. I’m not talking what I encountered in France—a little beep to let you know someone was coming up around you. These guys (including truckers and tractor drivers) would wait until they were just a couple of meters away and then lay on the horn. Apparently the Spaniards were amused by such things.
I was traveling in Navarra, Basque territory (although thankfully going down slope) and then Estremadura. That is one grim place. The conquistadors mostly came from Estremadura, And it occurred to me as I passed through that they must have felt right at home in northern Mexico and southwest US. I saw farmers ploughing their fields with oxen—never saw that in France.
As you came into a town there’d be a sign indicating the name and some point of interest, such as twelfth century church. But when you got into the town, the church wouldn’t be marked and when you finally found it, it would be locked up tight. Even the cathedral at Logroño was closed. I didn’t get it—Spain’s about the most Catholic country around; how could their churches not be open?
(They probably are now—pilgrimage is a money spinner.)
I did run into some kind people who were interested in my trip and wished me well. And there were some spectacular star shows at night.
However, my journal is full of daily (or near-daily) notations, “this is a real low point.” I was tired, dirty, alone, struggling to understand the customs (and, while I did speak Spanish, it’s New World Spanish, so the locals thought I talked funny and my mama dressed me badly).
In one village an old woman gathering mushrooms stopped me to ask what I was all about. She was quite interested in the trip. And she was illiterate—she could not read my map to give me directions.
The weather kept getting colder. I was actually wearing my parka and gloves, and wasn’t working up a sweat. When it got to the point—just before León—that I was wearing two pairs of socks and my toes were still getting numb, I thought I should work out something else.
It felt like cheating, but I bought a train ticket from León to Santiago. However, having the bike turned it into a whole big meal. I could take the 1400 train, but l’Escargot Rouge would have to go on a different train. I didn’t understand why that should be and the guy at the baggage place just kept saying the same things, only louder. I was so frustrated I started to cry.
That got everyone’s attention. It seemed that there was an 0200 train to Santiago; I could take it and l’Escargot Rouge could go with me. There would be a change, but that was better than wondering where my transportation was.
I walked around the town for part of that time. Guy at the bank where I changed some money was quite impressed that I’d come that far on the bike, and was sympathetic that I’d had to change my plans. A woman in the station waiting room assured me that Northern Spain isn’t the country at its best. I should go somewhere like Sevilla, where people are “más alegre”.
As it happens that train trip was ghastly. The 0211 train didn’t arrive until after 0300; and then I missed my connection for Santiago. They sent me on via bus, but the bike didn’t go with me. In all, it was more than 11 hours and I arrived without my wheels.
When I got to the cathedral I was crying again—really, a whole range of emotions. I actually put my arms around the statue of Santiago and held on to his metal robes for a few minutes, tears just streaming down.
It was so strange to think that I was finally there.
I spent some time in the cathedral over a couple of days, both contemplating and watching the other pilgrims.
Well, there was another massive kerfuffle about getting me and the bike on a train to return to London. At first the baggage guy sent me to a bike shop for a box, which they gave me; but then he realized that I was going all the way to London, and therefore the only way I could take it with me for free would be for it to be unboxed. Well, by that time I had it in pieces, mostly in the box
The shipping clerk confirmed that crating it would mean an extra 1000 pesetas. Which, I assure you, I did not have. And you'll recall, I also did not have credit cards.
And at that point I lost it. Way worse than at León, and with much the same response. The jefe de equipajes told me I shouldn’t cry in Spain. I was speaking in English and he told me to speak Spanish. All the while he was helping me pull the pieces of l’Escargot Rouge out of the carton and put it back together.
Two of his colleagues came in, and he explained the situation to them, and went on to tell me not to cry, I shouldn’t think no one wants to help me, but rules are rules. It was a constant stream of talk, and all the time I was sobbing and trying to get the damned bike back in one piece.
This man was a prince. Really.
I will say this: Spain was definitely a hard part. For one thing, the terrain was all up and down and I was riding against the prevailing winds; at times I thought I was pedaling as fast as I could just to avoid going backwards. (BTW: a haircut with bangs is not a good choice if you’re traveling by bicycle; they stand straight up most of the time. You're welcome.)
For another, this was just a few years after Franco’s death; no one was amused by anything; the hard times were definitely not passed and gone. And there were no youth hostels (I think maybe youth weren’t meant to waste their time in traveling; they were supposed to get out there and work.) and it was November, which isn’t the gayest month of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.
Moreover there was a lot of honking at me. I’m not talking what I encountered in France—a little beep to let you know someone was coming up around you. These guys (including truckers and tractor drivers) would wait until they were just a couple of meters away and then lay on the horn. Apparently the Spaniards were amused by such things.
I was traveling in Navarra, Basque territory (although thankfully going down slope) and then Estremadura. That is one grim place. The conquistadors mostly came from Estremadura, And it occurred to me as I passed through that they must have felt right at home in northern Mexico and southwest US. I saw farmers ploughing their fields with oxen—never saw that in France.
Poco a poco se va lejos
As you came into a town there’d be a sign indicating the name and some point of interest, such as twelfth century church. But when you got into the town, the church wouldn’t be marked and when you finally found it, it would be locked up tight. Even the cathedral at Logroño was closed. I didn’t get it—Spain’s about the most Catholic country around; how could their churches not be open?
(They probably are now—pilgrimage is a money spinner.)
I did run into some kind people who were interested in my trip and wished me well. And there were some spectacular star shows at night.
However, my journal is full of daily (or near-daily) notations, “this is a real low point.” I was tired, dirty, alone, struggling to understand the customs (and, while I did speak Spanish, it’s New World Spanish, so the locals thought I talked funny and my mama dressed me badly).
In one village an old woman gathering mushrooms stopped me to ask what I was all about. She was quite interested in the trip. And she was illiterate—she could not read my map to give me directions.
The weather kept getting colder. I was actually wearing my parka and gloves, and wasn’t working up a sweat. When it got to the point—just before León—that I was wearing two pairs of socks and my toes were still getting numb, I thought I should work out something else.
It felt like cheating, but I bought a train ticket from León to Santiago. However, having the bike turned it into a whole big meal. I could take the 1400 train, but l’Escargot Rouge would have to go on a different train. I didn’t understand why that should be and the guy at the baggage place just kept saying the same things, only louder. I was so frustrated I started to cry.
That got everyone’s attention. It seemed that there was an 0200 train to Santiago; I could take it and l’Escargot Rouge could go with me. There would be a change, but that was better than wondering where my transportation was.
I walked around the town for part of that time. Guy at the bank where I changed some money was quite impressed that I’d come that far on the bike, and was sympathetic that I’d had to change my plans. A woman in the station waiting room assured me that Northern Spain isn’t the country at its best. I should go somewhere like Sevilla, where people are “más alegre”.
As it happens that train trip was ghastly. The 0211 train didn’t arrive until after 0300; and then I missed my connection for Santiago. They sent me on via bus, but the bike didn’t go with me. In all, it was more than 11 hours and I arrived without my wheels.
When I got to the cathedral I was crying again—really, a whole range of emotions. I actually put my arms around the statue of Santiago and held on to his metal robes for a few minutes, tears just streaming down.
It was so strange to think that I was finally there.
I spent some time in the cathedral over a couple of days, both contemplating and watching the other pilgrims.
Well, there was another massive kerfuffle about getting me and the bike on a train to return to London. At first the baggage guy sent me to a bike shop for a box, which they gave me; but then he realized that I was going all the way to London, and therefore the only way I could take it with me for free would be for it to be unboxed. Well, by that time I had it in pieces, mostly in the box
The shipping clerk confirmed that crating it would mean an extra 1000 pesetas. Which, I assure you, I did not have. And you'll recall, I also did not have credit cards.
And at that point I lost it. Way worse than at León, and with much the same response. The jefe de equipajes told me I shouldn’t cry in Spain. I was speaking in English and he told me to speak Spanish. All the while he was helping me pull the pieces of l’Escargot Rouge out of the carton and put it back together.
Two of his colleagues came in, and he explained the situation to them, and went on to tell me not to cry, I shouldn’t think no one wants to help me, but rules are rules. It was a constant stream of talk, and all the time I was sobbing and trying to get the damned bike back in one piece.
This man was a prince. Really.
He told me to buy my ticket in the morning; even came running after me after I was out of the station to give me the address of the central office (you couldn’t buy a ticket to London at the local office, and I needed the ticket for the full trip so he could check the bike through to Victoria). When I had it, he instructed me, I should take it to him so he could get the bike checked in, and I could spend the rest of the day relaxing.
I did as he directed and thanked him sincerely. He repeated that I shouldn’t leave Spain feeling bad about it.
And I went off to Mass at the Cathedral of Santiago.
L'Escargot Rouge on the Road to Santiago
(Posted 1745 Saturday 28 November, 7ème arrondissement, Paris)
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Bordeaux, mon amour
Thirty years ago I was in love with Bordeaux—I thought it the most charming city I’d ever seen.
Looking back on it, I think that was because of the people I came across there. They were sympathique.
The Auberge de Jeunesse there was one of the larger ones. There were a lot of folks there taking bike trips through Europe, going in all directions. Some were looking for work; some were looking for life, I guess. They were all traveling a lot faster than I was—often going more than 150 km per day. (I think on my best day I did about 100 km. But I wasn’t in a race.)
My first night there I was writing in my journal in the dining hall but got distracted because a British guy named Jerry was playing his guitar and singing. I went over and joined the music. That went on for nearly three hours, and it was one of the better evenings I’ve spent (before or since).
Funny, aside from him loving Arlo Guthrie’s “City of New Orleans”, the only thing I remember about Jerry is that he had one of those commando sweaters, with the patch on the shoulder for resting your rifle against. Well, and he was quite good on the guitar.
There was an American couple, Joe and Amy; they were spending a year biking around Europe. They’d intended to take the night train to Milan, but didn’t make it, so they were back in the AJ my second night. Amy and I pooled a couple of francs each and bought a Coke from a vending machine; we split it, trying not to let anyone see us sucking down that exemplar of American cultural and economic hegemony. (McDonald’s was indeed in evidence, although not like it is today; I don’t think I saw one outside of Paris.)
The Dutch guy I met while singing the first night headed off, hitchhiking to Toulouse.
I was cycling around the city when I ran across the German fellow, also cycling. He didn’t have the money for the hostel, so he was mostly spending nights outdoors. I wrote about our visit to the Grand Synagogue last November.
And I went to the musée de la résistance/Jean Moulin. I found that fascinating—it was a kind of amateur presentation, in a small space. But it had an utterly amazing collection of propaganda posters, both German & French, from the occupation. I told myself I’d come back some day when I had more time to really go through them.
Well, it’s now Centre Jean Moulin (Moulin was a key figure of the résistance, a charismatic leader who managed to get all the fractious and disparate groups (most of whom had agendas that went way beyond getting rid of the Germans, usually involving getting rid of the other groups) working together reasonably well. He escaped the Nazis a couple of times, but in the end was betrayed, tortured and died of injuries). And it’s more sophisticated, in a prime location on three flours catty-corner from the cathedral.
But there are no posters, at least none on display. That was a letdown. I don’t think I’ve exaggerated their power over the years because I wrote about it right at the time. But a real bummer.
And I went to the Grand Synagogue; but it’s now fenced off, with gates locked shut. No even getting to the door, much less being buzzed in without escort.
I guess back in ’79 we were in the golden window between the Nazi anti-Semites and the Islamist and Front National anti-Semites.
(BTW--rather than mess with maps for walking around the city, I dismantled Jill from her fixture for the car and carried her around with me on foot. Thank God she didn't do her usual shouting; I think I was moving too slowly for her to get it together. But I did get street-by-street instructions, which worked pretty well. It's times like these, though, that you wish you had an iPhone and worldwide 3G access.)
Leaving Bordeaux 30 years ago, I knew there were no AJs, so I’d be spending nights in the open. My first night out there was this rest stop by the highway. There was a caretaker’s residence (with the ubiquitous dog), so I was careful not to show any light and to stay behind trees so as not to attract attention. There was also a WC on a covered cement slab, but that was too exposed to the caretaker’s line of sight.
During the night I woke up because it sounded like it was starting to rain. I moved my stuff to the covered area before I realized it wasn’t raining at all.
However, moments later it started chucking it down in earnest.
Saved by a confusion/delusion.
The next night I stayed in a dilapidated abandoned house about 10 km south of Dax—about the only one I saw in France. (A lot more in Spain.) It was a gorgeous day—clear and sunny and crisp. Great for cycling.
Here’s something I remarked upon, which I’ve found constant: travel is not a clean thing. Even now, with a car and hotels, by the end of every day I’m ready for a bath, a hot, mineral bath to wash away the dirt and tension. Then in the morning I shower to start off the day thoroughly clean. Rinse and repeat every day.
So imagine what I must have been like, traveling by bike, staying in places that only had hot water on a hit-or-miss basis; no baths, just showers if you were lucky (And I took cold ones when necessary, just to try to scrape off some of the grime).
In one AJ up in the Pays Basque, where I was by myself, I turned on all the burners on the stove, heated water in every pan I could find, and took a spit bath right there in the kitchen. (But it’s not the same as a real one—you just never feel like you got yourself clean.)
And my clothes—please! Those suckers needed to be burnt when I got home. (I think I threw them out.)
My comment at the time was, “I really don’t think I’d want to do this in anyone’s company; it’s bad enough when I have to appear in civilization like this.”
Actually, I tried to not go anywhere in civilization that had bright lights. Just stayed in the shadows trying to look invisible.
(One of my roommates in the student foyer where I stayed in Paris was an Australian who was back-packing around the world with her boyfriend. They were just coming to the end of their year’s trip. I asked her how the two of them were surviving the travel. She commented that when it’s cold and rainy, and you’re dirty, and you’ve just missed the last train for the night—it’s tough. However, they were still getting along.)
Insight number three: it’s a lot easier to focus on your intention when you can get clean. And sleep in a warm place.
(Posted at Bordeaux, 2100 Thursday, 26 November)
Looking back on it, I think that was because of the people I came across there. They were sympathique.
The Auberge de Jeunesse there was one of the larger ones. There were a lot of folks there taking bike trips through Europe, going in all directions. Some were looking for work; some were looking for life, I guess. They were all traveling a lot faster than I was—often going more than 150 km per day. (I think on my best day I did about 100 km. But I wasn’t in a race.)
My first night there I was writing in my journal in the dining hall but got distracted because a British guy named Jerry was playing his guitar and singing. I went over and joined the music. That went on for nearly three hours, and it was one of the better evenings I’ve spent (before or since).
Funny, aside from him loving Arlo Guthrie’s “City of New Orleans”, the only thing I remember about Jerry is that he had one of those commando sweaters, with the patch on the shoulder for resting your rifle against. Well, and he was quite good on the guitar.
There was an American couple, Joe and Amy; they were spending a year biking around Europe. They’d intended to take the night train to Milan, but didn’t make it, so they were back in the AJ my second night. Amy and I pooled a couple of francs each and bought a Coke from a vending machine; we split it, trying not to let anyone see us sucking down that exemplar of American cultural and economic hegemony. (McDonald’s was indeed in evidence, although not like it is today; I don’t think I saw one outside of Paris.)
The Dutch guy I met while singing the first night headed off, hitchhiking to Toulouse.
I was cycling around the city when I ran across the German fellow, also cycling. He didn’t have the money for the hostel, so he was mostly spending nights outdoors. I wrote about our visit to the Grand Synagogue last November.
And I went to the musée de la résistance/Jean Moulin. I found that fascinating—it was a kind of amateur presentation, in a small space. But it had an utterly amazing collection of propaganda posters, both German & French, from the occupation. I told myself I’d come back some day when I had more time to really go through them.
Well, it’s now Centre Jean Moulin (Moulin was a key figure of the résistance, a charismatic leader who managed to get all the fractious and disparate groups (most of whom had agendas that went way beyond getting rid of the Germans, usually involving getting rid of the other groups) working together reasonably well. He escaped the Nazis a couple of times, but in the end was betrayed, tortured and died of injuries). And it’s more sophisticated, in a prime location on three flours catty-corner from the cathedral.
But there are no posters, at least none on display. That was a letdown. I don’t think I’ve exaggerated their power over the years because I wrote about it right at the time. But a real bummer.
And I went to the Grand Synagogue; but it’s now fenced off, with gates locked shut. No even getting to the door, much less being buzzed in without escort.
I guess back in ’79 we were in the golden window between the Nazi anti-Semites and the Islamist and Front National anti-Semites.
(BTW--rather than mess with maps for walking around the city, I dismantled Jill from her fixture for the car and carried her around with me on foot. Thank God she didn't do her usual shouting; I think I was moving too slowly for her to get it together. But I did get street-by-street instructions, which worked pretty well. It's times like these, though, that you wish you had an iPhone and worldwide 3G access.)
Leaving Bordeaux 30 years ago, I knew there were no AJs, so I’d be spending nights in the open. My first night out there was this rest stop by the highway. There was a caretaker’s residence (with the ubiquitous dog), so I was careful not to show any light and to stay behind trees so as not to attract attention. There was also a WC on a covered cement slab, but that was too exposed to the caretaker’s line of sight.
During the night I woke up because it sounded like it was starting to rain. I moved my stuff to the covered area before I realized it wasn’t raining at all.
However, moments later it started chucking it down in earnest.
Saved by a confusion/delusion.
The next night I stayed in a dilapidated abandoned house about 10 km south of Dax—about the only one I saw in France. (A lot more in Spain.) It was a gorgeous day—clear and sunny and crisp. Great for cycling.
Here’s something I remarked upon, which I’ve found constant: travel is not a clean thing. Even now, with a car and hotels, by the end of every day I’m ready for a bath, a hot, mineral bath to wash away the dirt and tension. Then in the morning I shower to start off the day thoroughly clean. Rinse and repeat every day.
So imagine what I must have been like, traveling by bike, staying in places that only had hot water on a hit-or-miss basis; no baths, just showers if you were lucky (And I took cold ones when necessary, just to try to scrape off some of the grime).
In one AJ up in the Pays Basque, where I was by myself, I turned on all the burners on the stove, heated water in every pan I could find, and took a spit bath right there in the kitchen. (But it’s not the same as a real one—you just never feel like you got yourself clean.)
And my clothes—please! Those suckers needed to be burnt when I got home. (I think I threw them out.)
My comment at the time was, “I really don’t think I’d want to do this in anyone’s company; it’s bad enough when I have to appear in civilization like this.”
Actually, I tried to not go anywhere in civilization that had bright lights. Just stayed in the shadows trying to look invisible.
(One of my roommates in the student foyer where I stayed in Paris was an Australian who was back-packing around the world with her boyfriend. They were just coming to the end of their year’s trip. I asked her how the two of them were surviving the travel. She commented that when it’s cold and rainy, and you’re dirty, and you’ve just missed the last train for the night—it’s tough. However, they were still getting along.)
Insight number three: it’s a lot easier to focus on your intention when you can get clean. And sleep in a warm place.
(Posted at Bordeaux, 2100 Thursday, 26 November)
Thanksgiving
So, I realized this morning that in the US it's Thanksgiving. Here’s what I’m thankful for:
I’m not spending the day in Seattle.
My cats (my own and one I’m looking after while she’s waiting out her rabies test period before moving to the UK) are okay and not ripping out each other’s fur.
I’m fit enough to walk 13k-14k steps per day.
I found the hotel today, in the heart of Bordeaux. (And didn’t get a ticket or clipped by another car when I parked illegally for a few minutes on a street that’s narrow enough that a six-year-old could spit across it.)
I had a glass of champagne with lunch, which also included a warm chevre salad and cassis ice cream.
I’ve had quiet hotel rooms and lots and lots of hot water for baths and showers. And (for the most part) fluffy towels I don’t have to wash.
I’ll be heading to Paris tomorrow on the TGV.
I’ve got friends following my journey on this blog.
I’m rediscovering Henry IV/1 and have Part 2 waiting for me at home; and then Henry V.
That all the hotels have had wi-fi, And only one has had the nerve to charge for it.
Upon posting this, I’m sliding into a hot mineral bath, then going for a walk around the city. And I believe there’s a glass or two of Bordeaux out there waiting for me.
Happy Thanksgiving to all—even if you’re not in France.
(Posted at 1705 Thursday, 26 November, Bordeaux)
I’m not spending the day in Seattle.
My cats (my own and one I’m looking after while she’s waiting out her rabies test period before moving to the UK) are okay and not ripping out each other’s fur.
I’m fit enough to walk 13k-14k steps per day.
I found the hotel today, in the heart of Bordeaux. (And didn’t get a ticket or clipped by another car when I parked illegally for a few minutes on a street that’s narrow enough that a six-year-old could spit across it.)
I had a glass of champagne with lunch, which also included a warm chevre salad and cassis ice cream.
I’ve had quiet hotel rooms and lots and lots of hot water for baths and showers. And (for the most part) fluffy towels I don’t have to wash.
I’ll be heading to Paris tomorrow on the TGV.
I’ve got friends following my journey on this blog.
I’m rediscovering Henry IV/1 and have Part 2 waiting for me at home; and then Henry V.
That all the hotels have had wi-fi, And only one has had the nerve to charge for it.
Upon posting this, I’m sliding into a hot mineral bath, then going for a walk around the city. And I believe there’s a glass or two of Bordeaux out there waiting for me.
Happy Thanksgiving to all—even if you’re not in France.
(Posted at 1705 Thursday, 26 November, Bordeaux)
Mme Bertrand redux
I forgot one thing about my conversation 30 years ago with Mme Bertrand that should have been more memorable than you’d gather from my earlier report.
As I mentioned, the Second World War really defined much of her life. Certainly understandable—living under an arrogant and cruel occupation force that milked your country’s riches (from perfume to coal) for four or five years would make an impression on even the thickest dolt. And Mme Bertrand was not at all thick.
In talking about how German and English are similar languages, Mme Bertrand brought up the theory of some sort of German-English “understanding”. After all, why had Rudolf Hess flown to England? It wasn’t to take a walk!
Mind you, this was nearly 40 years after Hess made the trip, and he’d been rotting in Spandau for nearly 36 of them.
She was as vehement about that as my mother was about not wanting the two Germanies to reunite because we’d only end up having to go to war a third time.
But Hess—not even his Nazi buddies could figure out what that whole mission to Britain was. If there was a conspiracy, it was in his mind and his only.
(Posted at 1531 Thursday 26 November, Bordeaux)
As I mentioned, the Second World War really defined much of her life. Certainly understandable—living under an arrogant and cruel occupation force that milked your country’s riches (from perfume to coal) for four or five years would make an impression on even the thickest dolt. And Mme Bertrand was not at all thick.
In talking about how German and English are similar languages, Mme Bertrand brought up the theory of some sort of German-English “understanding”. After all, why had Rudolf Hess flown to England? It wasn’t to take a walk!
Mind you, this was nearly 40 years after Hess made the trip, and he’d been rotting in Spandau for nearly 36 of them.
She was as vehement about that as my mother was about not wanting the two Germanies to reunite because we’d only end up having to go to war a third time.
But Hess—not even his Nazi buddies could figure out what that whole mission to Britain was. If there was a conspiracy, it was in his mind and his only.
(Posted at 1531 Thursday 26 November, Bordeaux)
Bordeaux-Pruniers
Technically, much of this post is about the countryside about 65 km from Bordeaux, rather than the city itself. I have this book/CD on walking meditation by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist master, and Nguyen Anh-Huong, one of his first ordained students. It was recommended to me because one of the few (if not the only) way I can quiet my mind is walking a labyrinth. I’m meant to find other ways of walking meditation to help me make it through.
Actually—let me back up. Sadly, when I got to Chartres last Friday, the labyrinth wasn’t available for walking; evidently it’s only cleared of the chairs on Fridays outside of winter. That was a disappointment, as I was really looking forward to walking the mother of all Christian labyrinths. (Yes, there are others, but this is the one everyone talks about.)
Actually—let me back up. Sadly, when I got to Chartres last Friday, the labyrinth wasn’t available for walking; evidently it’s only cleared of the chairs on Fridays outside of winter. That was a disappointment, as I was really looking forward to walking the mother of all Christian labyrinths. (Yes, there are others, but this is the one everyone talks about.)
Center of labyrinth, Chartres
So Thich Nhat Hanh’s retreat “house” in the Cognac region was my backup plan; sort of.
The whole thing was an interesting experience for me, from the moment I tried finding it on their web site (http://www.plumvillage.org/). They tell about their philosophies, their retreats, etc., but do they tell you how to get there? Noooo.
And it turns out there are three “hamlets”, and the “Lower Hamlet” is the one for women (and couples).
Jill wouldn’t recognize the actual village, Meyrac, (too small, I guess) so I let her take me to Loubès-Bernac, which is nearby. I expected to take it from there with the Bing maps instructions I had. But When I got to Loubès-Bernac I could not find the directions—could I have left them in the hotel?
So I asked at the local Mairie; the woman there advised that the woman at the grocery store would be able to give me exact directions, And she certainly did. It was less than a couple of kilometers.
I knew I was on the right road when I saw three brown-robed persons walking towards me, with brown hoodie-sweatshirt things over them. Like you’d get from college sports departments. Go, Buddha!
Et voilà—there was the sign:
I don’t know quite how to describe it—kind of like a sacred camp. Rustic, barebones (although the dining hall had several air conditioning compressors); focused on contemplation. Buildings for meditation and eating; dormitories; a kitchen. A pagoda gives views onto a vineyard and a stand of trees.
It’s quiet except for the wind; one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever seen.
I spent some time running through my five sets of 21 breaths in the meditation hall. And then sat there just watching the bamboos sway in the wind.
There were small hand-written signs throughout the place (in French, Vietnamese and English):
Listen compassionately
Look deeply
They really struck me because I don’t think I’ve been doing either for a long time. Probably even longer than since my last good meal.
I don’t know where to start on that. Perhaps just being aware of the lack?
I had some bread, cheese and part of an apple in my car while there. As I was preparing to leave I found my web directions. I don’t know why I couldn’t find them when I was going there, but not having them forced me to get out and ask.
And connections—even for the length of time to get instructions to leave the village, climb a bit and then turn left, going past a horse farm—are another thing I’ve missed since leaving Virginia.
Connections and contemplation. Insight number two.
There is more to Tuesday and Bordeaux; that’ll be another post.
There is more to Tuesday and Bordeaux; that’ll be another post.
(Posted 0804 Thursday morning, Pau)
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Bordeaux (nourishment)
On my way in to Bordeaux 30 years ago I got caught at dusk between towns with hostels. So in some teeny village I stopped a woman who was just taking her groceries into her house and asked if she’d let me spend the night in her garage.
She was a little bit suspicious at first—I’m guessing raggedy-looking young women en vélo toutes seules aren’t what she ever expected to see on her doorstep. But after a while she invited me in for coffee (instant!) and offered me a room inside. I declined, but it was a kind offer. (I don’t know what she told her husband when he got home, or what her little boy would have said.)
The concrete floor was hard, and there were mosquitos. I stuck my head completely in my sleeping bag and was okay. (This is a miracle because I’m known far and wide as the tastiest meal for any extended mosquito family in a 17-mile radius.)
During the day I had run into an Englishman who had been following the vendange, picking grapes. (On that trip I’d met a number of such vagabonds of many nationalities.) He’d given me the name and address of a family in Lussec, which was further south, and by the time I got to that garage, I couldn’t ride any further.
You learn to know your limits when you’re travelling by bicycle.
What really seemed to strike people as odd was that I was toute seule—all by myself. That, and being an American; inevitably the question (following something I would say) was, “Vous êtes Anglaise?” (You’re English?) “Non.” “Ah, vous êtes Allemande?” (You’re German?) “Non.” And with that all their possibilities just faded away.
So when I finally said, “Je suis Américaine”, that just broke apart their sense of reality. An American woman, riding a bicycle, all alone, and speaking French. Mon Dieu!
The quintessential experience along those lines was in a boulangerie in some tiny village. I’d gone in to buy my daily baguette and asked the boulangère to cut it into three pieces. She and her friend, who’d been chatting away until I appeared, rested l’Escargot Rouge next to the building and came in, were fascinated to watch me stowing the bread in my knapsack and securing it on the bike.
Whoosh! They whipped out of the shop and asked the usual nationality questions. And then they wanted to know about my trip. Ah—Saint Jacques de Compostelle, très beau! But I should be careful about staying the night in forests because of hunters.
As I was saddling up they wished me a good trip.
Everyone always asked about me being alone, and wasn’t I afraid. I was indeed (alone), and I wasn’t (afraid). I don’t really know why I wasn’t afraid; I should have been. But it (the trip) was just something I had to do.
I suppose my explanation came under the rubric of being a crazy American.
Getting into Bordeaux this time round was somewhat easier, at least until I got into the city and tried to follow Jill’s directions to my hotel. Whole lotta construction going on and I could see the damned place but couldn’t get to it. And when I could get to it, I couldn’t find a place to park.
Finally I just hauled up on a sidewalk and ran in to ask where to park. They had a garage with about eight spaces (if no one’s driving a Benz, or anything larger than a Deux Chevaux) and I swung in there faster than a monkey on a banana run.
As it happened, my watch battery had died and I went into centre ville to get it replaced. Maybe knowing the correct time shouldn’t be important to me; but it is.
The receptionist at the hotel said it was about a 15- or 20-minute walk. Maybe if one knew exactly where one was going or walked a three-meter stride. As it turns out it was about three kilometers, so I got my daily exercise but good.
I swear I could not find the first restaurant recommended by the hotel (and I even tried walking there in the daylight just to check; complete phantom.) But another one turned out to be just fine and I lingered over my bavette éschalotes (steak with shallot sauce) and demi-bouteille of red wine.
Actually, some of the most consoling and happy moments in France have been meals. That was true back in ’79, as well. Although, of course then it was an enormous pleasure to make some packaged leek soup in a hostel, and have bread and cheese, maybe some fruit with it. After 100 km of cycling in a day, that’s a magnificent meal.
This time, of course, the meals are somewhat more elaborate, especially in the evening when I’ve finished driving for the day. I sit at table with my journal and Henry IV, Part I (I’m afraid that sometimes I laugh aloud at the exchanges between Hal and Falstaff; and one evening a waiter must have been standing in front of me for at least a minute asking, “Madame?” before I realized I was in Poitiers and not anywhere that I could give Hotspur a potch im tuchis). These meals are a prime opportunity for me to people watch like mad.
It’s been so long since I’ve done this, had a leisurely meal out. Maybe one night last year when I was in Port Angeles, having dinner in a wine bar. Seattle/work/the whole damned thing have just worn me down and I don’t go out. I hadn’t realized how much I miss a really good, sustaining meal
It’s more than just food, nourishment. And I don’t know why I had to come more than 7000 miles to remind me of that.
Okay—one insight from this trip.
(Posted at 2156 at Pau)
She was a little bit suspicious at first—I’m guessing raggedy-looking young women en vélo toutes seules aren’t what she ever expected to see on her doorstep. But after a while she invited me in for coffee (instant!) and offered me a room inside. I declined, but it was a kind offer. (I don’t know what she told her husband when he got home, or what her little boy would have said.)
The concrete floor was hard, and there were mosquitos. I stuck my head completely in my sleeping bag and was okay. (This is a miracle because I’m known far and wide as the tastiest meal for any extended mosquito family in a 17-mile radius.)
During the day I had run into an Englishman who had been following the vendange, picking grapes. (On that trip I’d met a number of such vagabonds of many nationalities.) He’d given me the name and address of a family in Lussec, which was further south, and by the time I got to that garage, I couldn’t ride any further.
You learn to know your limits when you’re travelling by bicycle.
What really seemed to strike people as odd was that I was toute seule—all by myself. That, and being an American; inevitably the question (following something I would say) was, “Vous êtes Anglaise?” (You’re English?) “Non.” “Ah, vous êtes Allemande?” (You’re German?) “Non.” And with that all their possibilities just faded away.
So when I finally said, “Je suis Américaine”, that just broke apart their sense of reality. An American woman, riding a bicycle, all alone, and speaking French. Mon Dieu!
The quintessential experience along those lines was in a boulangerie in some tiny village. I’d gone in to buy my daily baguette and asked the boulangère to cut it into three pieces. She and her friend, who’d been chatting away until I appeared, rested l’Escargot Rouge next to the building and came in, were fascinated to watch me stowing the bread in my knapsack and securing it on the bike.
Whoosh! They whipped out of the shop and asked the usual nationality questions. And then they wanted to know about my trip. Ah—Saint Jacques de Compostelle, très beau! But I should be careful about staying the night in forests because of hunters.
As I was saddling up they wished me a good trip.
Everyone always asked about me being alone, and wasn’t I afraid. I was indeed (alone), and I wasn’t (afraid). I don’t really know why I wasn’t afraid; I should have been. But it (the trip) was just something I had to do.
I suppose my explanation came under the rubric of being a crazy American.
Getting into Bordeaux this time round was somewhat easier, at least until I got into the city and tried to follow Jill’s directions to my hotel. Whole lotta construction going on and I could see the damned place but couldn’t get to it. And when I could get to it, I couldn’t find a place to park.
Finally I just hauled up on a sidewalk and ran in to ask where to park. They had a garage with about eight spaces (if no one’s driving a Benz, or anything larger than a Deux Chevaux) and I swung in there faster than a monkey on a banana run.
As it happened, my watch battery had died and I went into centre ville to get it replaced. Maybe knowing the correct time shouldn’t be important to me; but it is.
The receptionist at the hotel said it was about a 15- or 20-minute walk. Maybe if one knew exactly where one was going or walked a three-meter stride. As it turns out it was about three kilometers, so I got my daily exercise but good.
I swear I could not find the first restaurant recommended by the hotel (and I even tried walking there in the daylight just to check; complete phantom.) But another one turned out to be just fine and I lingered over my bavette éschalotes (steak with shallot sauce) and demi-bouteille of red wine.
Actually, some of the most consoling and happy moments in France have been meals. That was true back in ’79, as well. Although, of course then it was an enormous pleasure to make some packaged leek soup in a hostel, and have bread and cheese, maybe some fruit with it. After 100 km of cycling in a day, that’s a magnificent meal.
This time, of course, the meals are somewhat more elaborate, especially in the evening when I’ve finished driving for the day. I sit at table with my journal and Henry IV, Part I (I’m afraid that sometimes I laugh aloud at the exchanges between Hal and Falstaff; and one evening a waiter must have been standing in front of me for at least a minute asking, “Madame?” before I realized I was in Poitiers and not anywhere that I could give Hotspur a potch im tuchis). These meals are a prime opportunity for me to people watch like mad.
It’s been so long since I’ve done this, had a leisurely meal out. Maybe one night last year when I was in Port Angeles, having dinner in a wine bar. Seattle/work/the whole damned thing have just worn me down and I don’t go out. I hadn’t realized how much I miss a really good, sustaining meal
It’s more than just food, nourishment. And I don’t know why I had to come more than 7000 miles to remind me of that.
Okay—one insight from this trip.
(Posted at 2156 at Pau)
Meanderings at the roadside
There are times on this trip—a lot of them—that I get wound up tighter than a cheap watch. Mostly to do with getting there (wherever “there” is). I don’t know whether I’m terrified of getting lost, or staying lost, or losing the plot, or losing time, or all of the above.
Probably all of the above.
Probably all of the above.
Orléans cathedral vaults with stained glass light.
Sunday I was retracing my steps (or wheel revolutions) from Orléans to Tours, and then on to Poitiers. It was cold and chucking down rain and Jill had put me on to the damned Plague again. I pulled off at the Ste Maure de Touraine exit to take a D-road (usually one lane of traffic in each direction, going 50km through the towns, etc.), and hell when you get behind a commercial vehicle. Ste Maure turns out to have been where I stopped to have my lunch 30 years ago on the way to Poitiers. I ate at a park where two guys were planting a border of yellow pansies.
At one point I saw some fellow standing on a side road, in the drenching rain, noted that le Lapin Gris was telling me it was 9°C, and thinking, “Man, I feel your pain.”
When you’re traveling by bike and on a budget, if the weather is foul you have nowhere to go to get out of it. Hostels didn’t typically open until around 1700. At one point I ate my lunch in the passageway between two buildings, at least out of the rain, but still cold and really dark.
It was around this time I commented on Montaigne’s essay, “On Education”. He was describing a deep sort of friendship, and saying that one can only have one friend of that sort.
Of course, he also said women aren’t capable of that sort of friendship in the first place.
Very disappointed in Michel, I was.
Well, anyhow, Poitiers was a high point both then and now. It’s one of those fortress towns, built originally on a rise with stone walls—thick, defensible stone walls—between the good citizens and whatever would endanger them from the outside.
It’s been the scene of several battles over the centuries. But perhaps the most notable was in 732 when Charles Martel turned back the tide of the Moorish invasion, beginning the drive that would culminate in 1492 when Ferdinand and Isabella (known as los reyes Católicos) pushed the Arabs off Spanish soil.
The Jews went at the same time, but that’s another story.
Back in ’79 I walked along a stretch of those parapets and looked in the distance to try to make out the medieval battle. I thought I saw some pennants flying and heard the clash of arms; but that might have been a somewhat overactive imagination. Not that much of a stretch, though, if you don’t focus too closely on the present and the near distance.
This time I rambled through the old town, which was quiet because on Sundays not very much is open.
Gargoyle on Poitiers church.
The Auberge de Jeunesse where I stayed back then had two “classes” of residents. If you paid a fee you got served a meal that looked pretty hearty. If you didn’t you had to go to a kitchen that was out around the back, where there were about two pans and a stove of questionable capacity. I was there with the other riff-raff, mostly guys from Ghana, Morocco and Zaire (as it was known then). The Ghanaian had been a fisherman for Star-Kist, but was now looking for work in France as a diesel mechanic.
This time I stayed in a hotel in the old town and had a fine dinner of moules marinieres and Sancerre. Splurged on profiteroles, although I ate only one of the three. It was good, but I’d ordered them just to splurge, and one was quite enough for that purpose. Sadly, you cannot pack up leftover profiteroles to take home with you for breakfast..
Yesterday I stopped off in Ruffec, a small town where I spent the night in the youth hostel back then. Ruffec is important to e because after I got settled in the hostel I took a walk around the town. And I came upon this beautiful garden hidden away in a courtyard. A woman came out from a doorway and called to me; I thought she was shooing me away, so I scooted. But she got another pedestrian to call to me (“chaperon rouge”—as I was wearing my red plastic rain poncho).
I said I was just admiring her garden and she invited me in for a closer look. She showed me around it, and it really was lovely. Very small but lots of different plants that all seemed to co-exist very well.
Madame Bertrand spoke with me for maybe a couple of hours. Her father had a lot of sayings:
In a garden you should plant pretty and useful things.
In a war you need infantry to occupy land.
(Her father was obviously no fool.)
She and her sister (both around 65-70) ran the family business distributing liquor but she very much enjoyed working in that garden.
She talked a lot about the wars. During World War II, her husband had been taken prisoner by the Germans. She didn’t see him for a long time. And he had died some years back.
She’d had a pen pal before the war from Orange County (California).And she wrote to her in English. That correspondence of course was cut off in 1942 (after the US entered the war). She said that she forgot all her English during the war because she was forced to learn German, and German and English are similar languages.
Fountain Ruffec.
So yesterday I stopped a while in Ruffec and walked about. I had no hope of finding Mme Bertrand’s place, but I wanted to thank the town for being very good to me back then.
(I was the only person staying at the AJ, and the fellow who ran it actually came back in the evening to turn on the heat in my room. Now, that’s living the dream!)
Likewise, I stopped off in Angoulême yesterday. By the time I got there in ’79, I needed a bit of a break, and enough time so my clothes would dry if I washed them. By then I’d been on the road ten days and those things needed a blow torch. Angoulême is another of those walled, fortress towns, and I’d actually considered staying there on this trip, but in the end only had lunch there.
Getting into Bordeaux was a bit of a bummer. Jill suddenly went silent, and the sat-nav flat out lied to me, saying there were no languages to be found for spoken directions. Let me just say that if getting around cities with medieval warrens of streets is hard with spoken instructions, it’s worse without them.
(Somehow she miraculously came back online today. Don’t know what to make of that.)
And yes. I am afraid of being lost, although I don’t know why. It’s never that hard to put yourself right after a misadventure. As for losing time—well, I am rather time-sensitive. That’s more to do with my entire life, and how much of it I’ve lost, than spending an extra 30 minutes on the road because I took a wrong turning.
And yet, it does make me anxious…
(Posted 0854 Wednesday at Bordeaux)
Monday, November 23, 2009
The road to Poitiers
Okay, although I’ve been complaining about Jill’s propensity for sending me to the Plagues (do you suppose she gets a cut of the toll, a sort of CPA deal, for touting it?), and there’s no getting around it that driving in strange city environs is anxiety-inducing, yesterday as it was chucking it down rain, 9°C and the “vent fort—prudence” signs were not joking…I was deeply grateful that I was in le lapin gris and not on l’escargot rouge (my transport of 30 years ago).
And I’ll admit, having the car does increase my entertainment value for the locals. I’d parked the Fiesta in a public garage close to the hotel Saturday evening; it’s closed on Sundays, so there’s the formidable “call” button on the barricaded door. That’s no use, of course, because you wouldn’t be able to understand the recorded voice in your own language, let alone another one; I believe that’s some sort of rule about recorded announcements.
Well, finally I deduced which way to hold my ticket to swipe through the mag reader. I heard a barely perceptible click at the door and yanked it open.
Then I was faced with the dreaded caisse machine, where you insert your ticket and then your payment to get out of the garage. Somehow I don’t mind so much sticking my credit card in one of those machines when there are other people around doing it—you figure it won’t act up where there are witnesses. But doing it in a dimmed area, with no one else around—what’s to stop it from just keeping your Amex card? Huh?
Okay, so that went fine. And then here’s where my major amusement value took the stage: I couldn’t find my car. And the garage is dark, just some emergency lights, so you’re stumbling around wondering if there have been any serial garage killings in Orléans lately. I went out to Level 1, but it really looked…alien. Well, maybe I was on Level 2. And down there, there was a tiny square grey car parked facing the exit ramp…but not mine. (Did mine have a rack on the top? Evidently not.)
Well, back to Level 1. No—definitely not mine.
Well, could it be on Level 3? I went down there and the first good sign: the entrance ramp. The night before I’d shot straight out of that into a parking spot next to the exit ramp. Little square grey car in my spot. And it unlocks when I click the right button on my key!
All this in the dark, looking for hunchbacks and National Front proselytizers who might be lurking in the blackness, because there were still no lights but the barest minimum.
Only when I started the car and flicked on my own lights did the ceilings light up.
There was another hiccup getting out—can’t just go out that exit ramp, nono, must flail about the Level 1 floor plan and get to an actual exit ramp, with the gate into which you stick your paid ticket. Only then are you free to go and get lost in the city.
That wasn’t actually my full entertainment capacity for the day. I needed to get fuel—this thing runs on either Gazole or Diesel—so I pulled into one of those motorway petrol stations, park in front of a diesel pump…and for the life of me I cannot find the switch that opens the flipping fuel tank. I was going over the dashboard like it was Braille, trying to find SOMETHING that would give me a clue.
After about ten minutes I went inside and asked at the caisse. The woman there sent out a colleague with me, who pushed at the right side of the tank cover, et voilà!
To say I felt like the village schmendrick would be a gross understatement. The only good thing (aside from the fact that I could finally fill my tank) was that I disappeared right quickly and didn’t have to listen to the hysterical laughter for long.
You know—it’s a rental, and you’d think that Hertz would give you a bloody owners’ manual, so you could find things like the light controls, the windscreen wipers and the, you know, fuel tank. But no—you’d be wrong.
I do have to say that I'm also grateful for a car this size. If it were anything but the teeniest-tiniest of transportation pods, I wouldn't have made it through some of the little paths designated as actual streets, in either Orléans or here in Poitiers.
Well, enough of the mundane for now. I’m sitting in my hotel salle du pétit déjuner, trying to keep the croissant crumbs and apricot preserves out of my keyboard.
I still owe reports of Chartres, Tours and Orléans, as well as Poitiers. But looks like I’ve got to find someone who can replace watch batteries.
More later.
(Posted at 0900 Monday 23 Novembre at Poitiers)
And I’ll admit, having the car does increase my entertainment value for the locals. I’d parked the Fiesta in a public garage close to the hotel Saturday evening; it’s closed on Sundays, so there’s the formidable “call” button on the barricaded door. That’s no use, of course, because you wouldn’t be able to understand the recorded voice in your own language, let alone another one; I believe that’s some sort of rule about recorded announcements.
Well, finally I deduced which way to hold my ticket to swipe through the mag reader. I heard a barely perceptible click at the door and yanked it open.
Then I was faced with the dreaded caisse machine, where you insert your ticket and then your payment to get out of the garage. Somehow I don’t mind so much sticking my credit card in one of those machines when there are other people around doing it—you figure it won’t act up where there are witnesses. But doing it in a dimmed area, with no one else around—what’s to stop it from just keeping your Amex card? Huh?
Okay, so that went fine. And then here’s where my major amusement value took the stage: I couldn’t find my car. And the garage is dark, just some emergency lights, so you’re stumbling around wondering if there have been any serial garage killings in Orléans lately. I went out to Level 1, but it really looked…alien. Well, maybe I was on Level 2. And down there, there was a tiny square grey car parked facing the exit ramp…but not mine. (Did mine have a rack on the top? Evidently not.)
Well, back to Level 1. No—definitely not mine.
Well, could it be on Level 3? I went down there and the first good sign: the entrance ramp. The night before I’d shot straight out of that into a parking spot next to the exit ramp. Little square grey car in my spot. And it unlocks when I click the right button on my key!
All this in the dark, looking for hunchbacks and National Front proselytizers who might be lurking in the blackness, because there were still no lights but the barest minimum.
Only when I started the car and flicked on my own lights did the ceilings light up.
There was another hiccup getting out—can’t just go out that exit ramp, nono, must flail about the Level 1 floor plan and get to an actual exit ramp, with the gate into which you stick your paid ticket. Only then are you free to go and get lost in the city.
That wasn’t actually my full entertainment capacity for the day. I needed to get fuel—this thing runs on either Gazole or Diesel—so I pulled into one of those motorway petrol stations, park in front of a diesel pump…and for the life of me I cannot find the switch that opens the flipping fuel tank. I was going over the dashboard like it was Braille, trying to find SOMETHING that would give me a clue.
After about ten minutes I went inside and asked at the caisse. The woman there sent out a colleague with me, who pushed at the right side of the tank cover, et voilà!
To say I felt like the village schmendrick would be a gross understatement. The only good thing (aside from the fact that I could finally fill my tank) was that I disappeared right quickly and didn’t have to listen to the hysterical laughter for long.
You know—it’s a rental, and you’d think that Hertz would give you a bloody owners’ manual, so you could find things like the light controls, the windscreen wipers and the, you know, fuel tank. But no—you’d be wrong.
I do have to say that I'm also grateful for a car this size. If it were anything but the teeniest-tiniest of transportation pods, I wouldn't have made it through some of the little paths designated as actual streets, in either Orléans or here in Poitiers.
Well, enough of the mundane for now. I’m sitting in my hotel salle du pétit déjuner, trying to keep the croissant crumbs and apricot preserves out of my keyboard.
I still owe reports of Chartres, Tours and Orléans, as well as Poitiers. But looks like I’ve got to find someone who can replace watch batteries.
More later.
(Posted at 0900 Monday 23 Novembre at Poitiers)