French and Farmers

Good on you New Zealand. Drill those Frenchies! France was never too kind to me. In my opinion: Napoleon was probably just an average Joe. Well a short average Joe but not any more arrogant or self-centered as the rest of them.

Barbara and I had the privilege of traveling from the beautiful boundless counties of Scotland all the way south, across the channel and along the multi-country coastline to Monaco. It was a journey I could never put into one short blog but watching the All Blacks decimate the French at the Rugby World Cup reminded me of one particular moment during that epic journey.

We had been told by family and other travelers how the French are rude and unfriendly to English speaking folks. Apparently it is due to the pale and pasty British that invade the French lands during the peak season to destroy all Ale and Pastries that fall into their path. To us, here in South Africa, tourism is a massive economic funder that we all group together quite wondrously and drive with passionate flair. Tourism to us means showing off our astonishing country and pulling in a few pounds for the SME market. To the French, through my experience, they see tourism as a plight and an infestation.

Okay okay, to be fair we spent all of 4 days meandering through the French southern coastline which is hardly the time or geographical scope to judge so harshly. However, it is what it is.

So, we are on a train from the sunny and sexy city of Barcelona heading towards Montpelier. At the Spain-France border you have to switch trains.

Long story short, I left my wallet and my cell phone in the darn train. I had to sprint back from the French train to the Spanish one however the French cleaning crew had, in a moment of honesty, decided to keep my wallet and my phone safe in their pockets. So safe in fact that they even used my cards and my phone later on just to make sure they were all still working. Such nice people. Anyway, after a frantic few minutes with my translator dictionary it was 20 seconds before departure. Nobody was keen to help me.  I gave up searching and surrendered my possessions to the French.

Traveling along on the French train I entered into some lengthy negotiations as I managed to talk with his highness, his holy, the all mighty, French train conductor. I explained to him my situation and my little plan: Right, I want to use a phone please. Any phone. Let me call my cell phone and then perhaps a good Samaritan has picked it up and will return it to me.

His Holiness was not interested. He even took his cell phone out of his pocket to show me how I wasn’t going to use it. Okay, no help there. So I asked him what the layover time at our next stop would be.  Some tiny little place in the middle of nowhere. “Eh, le’ 5 minutez” he tells me. Five minutes? I confirmed with my hand and my watch. Great, that’s enough time for me to run off the train, hit the phone booths and call my cell phone. Watches set and synced with Barbara’s and as the train came to station I left her and headed for the phones.

I ran up to the phone, popped in my Euro call card and dialed my cell phone. 90 seconds gone. It’s ringing! Yes, perhaps somebody has it. No answer, 120 seconds. Now, the phone booth has these little chrome mirrors at eye level, much like the ATM’s do in SA. As I was leaving my last-hope voice message is see the reflection of a train slowly start shifting. Yip, 180 seconds on the dot and I was stranded in Le’NothingHere village in desolate France. They left me behind. The conductor knew I was heading off the train, he knew he said 5 minutes and he knew that this story, of ditching the English speaking asshole off in the middle of nowhere, would make a great story in his local coffee shop later on.

So screwed. In a fortune teller movement of clarity I took 50 Euros out of Barbara’s purse just before I left her. Fortunately the 50 Euros brought me a ticket on the cattle class farmers’ market train that painfully trickled along from village to village picking up random items and farmers with their fresh (and not so fresh) produce. I had to train hop a few times but I eventually got there and met up with my rather distraught wife. It was just so surprising how nobody was interested in assisting the tourist.

There was one shining light: After I had brought my ticket I figured it would be good to get a message sent out as evidence of life. I asked around and nobody was interested in lending me their phones. I was able to purchase a 2 Euro sim card but after my purchase the lady explained to me that they have a similar thing to RICA over there and so that was a laughable waste of 2 Euros. The lady behind the counter found that quite entertaining.

Anyways, one younger chap walks up to me and offers me his phone. “No call, but … eh… text good. Um, eh… leaving now” as he explained the strict parameters of his charity. I opened up the text box while walking alongside him to his train and with a flurry of French auto correct I somehow got a message out. It must have read:

“Alive. On le’ way. Poop.”