Nothing is duller than hearing about someone’s vacation. Unless it’s your own, which is invariably fascinating. With that in mind, here are a few observations about my recent trip to France and Spain:
In Europe, everything is essentially the same, but different enough to make things confusing. I found myself in an almost perpetual state of befuddlement.
At our place in Spain, I couldn’t figure out how to operate the sliding doors to the balcony. You had to come up with a certain Rubik’s Cube combination of pressing the button and sliding levers. I felt like I was failing Grade 9 math all over again.
I’d yell: “Can someone help me with this? Oh never mind, I think I’ve got it… No, it’s not working at all. This stupid thing. Come help me for God’s sake!”
Meanwhile, Spanish neighbours had assembled on their own balconies, pointing and grinning as they sipped delicious Rioja wines. By the time I figured out the sliding doors, I’d gone off the whole idea of having a cappuccino al fresco.
Did you know that in Paris, there’s a hot new fashion in the world of begging? I saw a seated man clutching a fishing rod with a paper cup attached to the end of the line. The idea was that you’re supposed to drop coins into his cup.
Transforming the panhandling trope into a skill-testing game seemed awfully clever to me. Bravo! Of course, the French are an ingenious lot, having also invented the roulette wheel and the Etch A Sketch. Then I noticed panhandlers all over Paris were doing the fishing-rod thing. What’s more, no one seemed to be donating.
In other fashion news, all the Parisian women are wearing child-sized leather motorcycle jackets.
In Paris, I’d looked forward to visiting the bar beside our rented flat. It’s called Le Cox and is described in one guidebook as a fun destination for middle-aged gay French motorcycle enthusiasts.
In reality, Le Cox seemed less friendly than advertised. If you peered inside, the décor was uber-industrial. It reminded me of the dank bowels of a Chemainus lumber mill I once worked in.
Le Cox was packed night after night, so much so that patrons spilled onto the sidewalk outside to smoke and drink beer. They were mostly in their 30s and 40s, with meticulously trimmed beards and that single-minded steely air of people intent on making a connection. My notion of exchanging bon mots with affable French bikers vanished.
In Caunes-Minervois, a village in southern France, we attended a choral concert in an ancient abbey. A pre-concert visit to the bathroom seemed a good idea, as the program suggested a long haul on a hard pew.
In English, I asked the woman selling tickets outside where the bathroom was. She spoke only French. Silently, I cursed myself for not learning more of the language. The only phrases that came to mind were from my high-school French classes, queries about the the time of day, libraries and a misplaced ascot.
Finally, I said something like: “Where is the utility for relief? A small building.”
At the same time, I made fluttering gestures in the general vicinity of my fly.
In North America, such a display would get you frogmarched to the back of a squad car. This sturdy Gallic woman took it in stride. She marched me off to a darkened cove behind the church. Half a block away, there was a public lavatory full of German tourists readying themselves for the choral concert. This, she unsmilingly indicated, was my destination.
That wasn’t the only time the French stepped up in a refreshingly un-North American manner.
Our friends took us in their borrowed Citroen to the train station in Narbonne. En route, we got a flat tire. Usually, a flat tire is no big deal. However, my pal Mike and I could not, for the life of us, figure out where the tool kit was located in the Citroen.
Suddenly, a fellow from an adjoining farm joined us. The man in the cloth cap didn’t speak English, but after a few shrugs and a “zut alors,” he pulled out his own tools and replaced the flat.
Yes, Canadians are also good for helping in such a manner. But this fellow, spry and sunburned, must have been in his mid-80s. He was a salt-of-the-earth French person, much like the lady who helped me find the pissoir.
We also saw the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and the Sagrada Familia. All impressive of course, but I suspect years from now, I’ll most vividly remember the old Frenchman in the cloth cap.