Retracing Steps

7.4.2010

   It was time to go home. There had been months of laughs, cries, 3 day friends, all night adventures, hostel bunks, spilled drinks, and the creeping black lung. It had be a wild ride, but I was certainly ready for that lock joint Lufthansa seat to float me back to California. The only thing between me an home was France. I had fled the pastis for better climate, less pouting, and fewer nasal tones. And something within me was opposed to passing through France in a conventional manor, let alone at my own expense. And there was the saddening sense of defeat of hearing the conductor voice those names for, perhaps, the last time...prochain arret: Perpignan, Beziers, Narbonne, Sete, Montpelier, Avignon, Valence, Lyon, Dijon.......  

I'm told that it is very American to smile to the camera.

     I said goodbye to Arthuro and his attempt to cure ailments though floral scents, packed the big green monster, donned the well-patched hobo pants, and caught a bus to Montpelier. My CS host was working, so she sent her friend to meet me at the tram way. Celine was a busty brunette that spoke English well and regarded me with that classic French countenance that American's would describe as "yes I know I'm better than you, so say something interesting or fuck off." I was certain about being in for another weekend of terse smiles and cultural deprecating humor until the host and another surfer showed up.Virginie had worked in Australia for a year, traveled SE Asia, and her time spent associating with anglophiles had left a distinctive mark in her ability to remove the French fence and be real. The ladies cooked up a nice quiche and we spent the evening relaxing on a couch made dank and moldy from a wet spring.

 

    The next day the other CSer, whose name escapes me, took the beautiful Montpelier tram into town an toured around the narrow, expensive streets. After a long, cold, wet winter, people were taking every opportunity to bask in the warmth and celebrate life. 

 

    To the west of centre ville is a 200 year old botanical garden that was established by the adjacent hospital and a parade ground that Google maps does not know the names of. The parade ground is an interesting because it is situated where the aqueduct enters the city and a large ceremonial structure has been placed there. I think it has something to do with showing associating the power of the king with the life of water....but the true significance escaped all inquiries.

     The sun was so warm and it felt good to have a trickle of moisture running down my back. We strolled home through the street in silence to appreciate each sound and sight. From the centre ville to Virginie's it is approximately 3 kilometer, but I talked him into walking with me to give the gals more time to themselves. As we neared the tram tracks something caught my attention... there was commotion to our rear. A group of North Africans were getting yelling and pushing, more guys showed up, but there was no apparent fighting. At 50 meters, I felt safe enough to get out the camera and begin shooting. They took notice of me, yelled, and returned to the tussle. Then one of them screamed in English, "I see what you're doing." At this point I found sufficient reason to flee and boarded the tram that approached. Later examination of the photos reveled that the second group of guys were plain clothed cops. Look closely for the guns and batons.

    The following day was Saturday and we planned to go to the beach. It was a bit overcast and breezy, but the pictures were good. I especially love the idea of vending ice cream on the beach.

    

     Obviously we were becoming friends. I was jealous of Virginie's stories about Thailand and Sydney and she envied my ability to hitchhike. After a bottle of wine we settled on her calling in sick to work on Monday and we would hitch it to Lyon where another couch awaited. I had hitched with my Danish assoicate from Avignon to Spain without much difficulty and assumed that the accompaniment of a voluminous blonde would expedite the process. With the green monster and an overnight bag we made out way to a petrol station that bordered the A9 auto route. You have to understand that in Europe it is common that the station is only accessible from the auto route thereby insuring that customers are heading in your direction. There were some strange looks as she asked around for a ride and eventually I argued our way to the petrol station entrance which quick produced a ride. The first guy thought that it would be best for us to get dropped at a certain toll station. We did and then waited a long time for the next ride, he said we were waiting in a bad place and that it would be better if he dropped us a good toll station for people heading north. He did and the police told us to move. We hiked to a different toll station and were picked up by immediately. He said that we were hitching from a strange place and that it would be best if he dropped us at place he knew was good for hitching. He did and we spend the next 4 hours trying to find a ride. 

We were stuck here for hours.

I surrender... how French ;-)

Soeur (sister)

   Eventually we admitted defeat. Virginie called her sister to pick us up.... she was a very new driver and became totally lost. Some 3 hours later we arrived at the Montelimar Gare, but there was a problem with the rails and trains were not running between Avignon and Lyon. We walked across the street to the cafe by the park and had un precession and glace.  

       Virginie's sister drove us 45 minutes to their parents house in the country. I regret not taking pictures of them, their house, or the AMAZING dinner because all of it was picturesque provincial. They were so nice and we shared our mutual inability to fluently speak a second language, but I was getting a strange sensation of distrust or fear. Virginie laughed and said that her parents were very confused because they have never seen an American in their village. There was some bargaining about the car so we could visit the Gorges en Le Parc Naturel regional des Monts d'Ardeche.... it's a canyon along a river running through a national park.... sound alot cooler in French, no?

Ah such a sweet Renault, I want one.

 The arch was a popular destination for country families to get a way for a day of sun and swim. Finding a good spot in the turmoil was a challenge, but we eventually found a nice lady to watch our stuff while we swam to the arch. On the right face is a 25 foot climb that leads to a tunnel that runs through the rock to the inside of the arch. Grab the rope and swing off into oblivion. That evening we crashed at her friends that run a bed and breakfast surrounded by lavender fields. We drank lots of pastis and remarked on the journey. Hitchhiking had been an epic failure, but the recovery was a heartwarming experience that will not be forgotten.
 The detour had used up the budgeted travel time plus 3 days, so we said our goodbyes and I boarded a train for Stausbourg at the Portes-les-Valence Gare. It was beginning to feel as if everything was finally coming to an end.