November 25, 2014
Part 1.
We know from Dorothy's odyssey through OZ, it had all types of tribulation and exhilaration,
We know from Dorothy's odyssey through OZ, it had all types of tribulation and exhilaration,
leading to her being reunited
with her family and friends. Grab your Munchkins kids, we are about
to take a trip down my Yellow Brick Road.
I was cramming the last of my clothes, gear,
tools and whatever into my two bags, Schlep & Tote, when I took five.
During my break I decided to read all the fine print on the plane ticket I had
just bought from Frontier Airlines. Down there in the Tiny Bla Bla I
found that I was going to be charged for a carry-on bag.
I was not only going to be charged, but I was
going to be abused. I looked over at Schlep &Tote to see if those two
bloated whales could possibly take on the contents of my carry-on
bag.
Since they were allowed to only weigh 44 pounds (20 kilos) each and at their
last weigh-in they each were pushing the limit, the answer was, damn
it! I was now confronted with paying the discount airline, Frontier, more
for my little carry-on bag than a checked bag, thereby turning the
word discount into a joke.
Kerrie took me to the Denver airport where she
bid me farewell. There I was with Schlep, Tote, our new high priced friend
Carry-On (C.On) and in a true death grip, was my Personal Bag (PB). A short lived freebie
that Frontier has yet to charge for. The death grip on PB was because inside of
it was months of paperwork that I had gathered up for the country of Spain so
that I might be granted an extended visa. After all that work, no one was
about to get their hands on PB.
Schlep & Tote gladly got on the scale to
show off that they qualified for the upcoming luggage orgy that was going to
take place on the way to Los Angeles. They may be a bit bloated, but those two
know how to party. I picked up C.On, set him up on my back and headed to
the gate. Along the way I stopped at the shoe shine stand. I like getting
my shoes shined at the airport. Whenever I have gone through the Denver airport
I get my shoes shined. Provided of
course, they are shineable (not a word, but I like it) I wore a pair of brown leather shoes that definitely needed a shine. I told the shinearista (not a word either, and stupid) that I wanted her to change the color from just brown to a dark brown with a hint of red. She obviously knew I made up words like shinearista, because she looked at me as if I were stupid. She did her best to dissuade me, but in the end realized that stupid is as stupid does and made my shoes dark brown, with a hint of red. With C.On on my back, PB in a new death grip and a pair of very shinny shoes, we headed off on the Yellow Brick Road to Barcelona.
Some roads are paved in gold, while others are
trails of tears. Mine was littered with paper. The documents that I had
gathered for Spain and the corresponding deforestation required to produce
copies of copies, so that they could later be copied in triplicate led to PB
weighing in at 6 pounds (2.7 kilos). Despite my best efforts, my forest
of paper was still incompetent when it came time to for me to leave for my
audience in Los Angeles, at the Spanish Consulate.
It wasn't for lack of paper making up my cache
of documents. No, not since Weyerhaeuser assured me personally that they would clear
cut Canada, just for me. It was the FBI. The old line "where's a cop when
you need one?" Was no more accurate then when the nice lady at the FBI
told me over the phone, that I would just have to wait. I had been
waiting the prescribed 6 weeks for a computer at the FBI to verify that I was
not a criminal. Maybe after making people wait 6 weeks for the same information
that Google can produce in 6 minutes, the FBI computer begins to check for
intent.
When I discovered that Spain wanted a criminal
background check done by the FBI, I immediately called them for
details. The on-hold recording told me it takes 6 weeks to investigate me.
Then the nice man told me that once they get my fingerprints and money, it
could take up to 6 weeks for the report. My fingerprints and money were
in an overnight envelope the next day. Six weeks came and went without a letter
from the FBI. My flight for LA was leaving in a week, so it was time for the
follow up call. The nice lady at the FBI said to me, "we
should change that message". "It is now more like 12 weeks
". Obviously it wasn't in her job description to change the message,
so I imagine if you called the Criminal Background Check department of the FBI
today the message would most likely tell you that it can take up to 6 weeks for
a completed report. Thereby making a call to the FBI, a joke.
Between Frontier's little joke and the
FBI's, I could do nothing more than laugh my way to LA without the report
that would arrive 6 weeks after I needed it and the money Frontier had
appropriated from me. My plan was to plead my case at the Consulate and
have them hold my request until I could get the FBI report forwarded to
them. Do you suppose I'll ever stop dreaming about the way things should
be long enough to realize that I have my head up my ass.
Schlep & Tote introduced me to about 20 of
their new friends at the LA airport. They told me that they had put the X into
LAX on the flight from Denver. At least that joke was funny. We all made our
way to the curb where I was introduced to a few more participants to the
luggage orgy. As Schlep & Tote were exchanging name tags, my friend Eileen
pulled up.
I stayed with my friends David & Eileen
during my short stay in LA. Eileen was free on that Saturday to make the
15 minute jaunt to the airport. We went to her home and dropped off
Schlep & Tote so they could rest. I put C.On on the bed, since he was
still feeling so valuable and couldn't be put on the floor. PB found a safe
place, so off we went in search of groceries and libations. Since Eileen has
lived in the LA area for close to 25 years, she knew just where to go.
David is a chef, so after putting in a day of
cheffing (not a word until now. I'll be writing Oxford soon) he was going to
make us a delicious handmade pasta dinner. He did, it was, and we were all very
glad he knows how to cook like that. Especially since my dinner specialty is
washing dishes. Not to be banging my own pot, but I'm very good at it. That
evening I spent doing the recon (army talk) for the chores that I had
offered to do. I have no idea why an old pacifist such as myself uses army
talk, but that was my word of choice that day for sorting out what I needed for
doing the chores.
I have decided that if I am going to invite
myself to people's homes, I should do some
chores. It is my hope that it will
help them get over the fact that they didn't invite me, I did. So far it
seems to help, since almost everyone I've done that to has thought of some
chores that needed done. If they can't think of any chores, then I pull
out my Sponge Bob Custom Dish Sponge and wash the dishes.
Sunday, Eileen and I made the big box store
run for supplies, so I could get started on the chores. David was burned out on
Sunday, so it was standard fare for dinner. I got some chores done and Sunday
came to a close early since both David and Eileen get up very very early to go
to work. On Monday I rode with Eileen to work and then took her car to the
Spanish Consulate for my audience. I had time for breakfast in a Sicilian
restaurant owned by people from Japan. Ya, have to understand LA to love it.
My audience was scheduled for 10 minutes.
Apparently that has been determined to be the amount of time it takes to stare
at someone and tell them to come back again. That is what happened to the girl
ahead of me who wanted a student visa. It was to be my fate as well.
Despite the 6 pounds of paper that PB was
holding it proved not to be enough. There was a form that I needed, but it
wasn't on the official list of what was needed. Official, being said with
my tongue in cheek and hand in fist. When I was in Washington DC this past
spring I made an effort to go to the Spanish Consulate General Office to get
information on getting
an extended visa for Spain. You see, most of Europe
including Spain has adopted a policy that visitors not needing a formal visa
may only stay three months. Then you have to be gone for six months. Like
the song says, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. I got
a print out of requirements and thought I had what I needed. After all, this
was Washington DC. Was there any higher office? I don't know about
higher, but each consulate apparently has its own set of requirements. At least
that was my experience, because when I contacted the LA consulate, which serves
Colorado, about making an appointment. I was then made aware of an
entirely different set of requirements.
All the work I had done meeting the DC
requirements was now about half useless and I was now behind the timeline one
would need to get the LA requirements done within the new required time span
and before when I wanted to leave the country. There is bureaucracy
and then there is Buttaucracy. (It's not a word either, and I'm pretty sure
Oxford won't look at this one).
As I stood before my inquisitor I was now asked
to not only provide a heretofore unknown
form, but also copies of my driver’s
license. That wasn't on the list either and apparently their copy machine is
not for helping. At this point my appointment was technically over, but
the woman behind the bullet proof glass felt compelled to see if she could
change another requirement. She sure did. That one was the insurance
requirement. It was not specific in the requirement printout, so I applied
my logic to it. She told me that I was wrong and although the requirement was
not specific, it was implied. Implied! Implied! That glass wasn't bullet
proof, it was can't choke the crazy woman glass. Implied! I just wanted to
be a resident, not a psychic.
I was told to get everything in order and make
another appointment. It would seem that only people living in LA or people with
the time and money to keep flying to LA from Denver can really pull this
off. I had to make my appointment a month in advance, so maybe I could
come back again in December. I had a ticket to London and a good
friend would be there to pick me up. I decided I would try to get the visa in
Barcelona and if that doesn't work then I'll see how Spain treats American
wetbacks when the time comes.
 |
| Venice Beach, California |
I was angry and I was in LA. What's a boy to do?
Go shopping of course! I set the GPS for Venice Beach. One of the grooviest
places on the West Coast. I wanted to buy some T-shirts, and what better
place than the beach? I found my parking place loaded up the meter and
went for a walk. I found some good sea air to clear my head and some T-shirts.
Mission accomplished. Now it was time to get back and see about getting
some more chores done. When I got back to the car I discovered I was 6 minutes
late and that the meter cop must have been there watching the timer because my
ticket was for the minute the meter expired. Just to make sure that my Monday
in LA was destine to be one I'll never forget, I now had a parking ticket that
cost almost as much as the flight to LA.
Ok, so Dorothy had a witch and flying monkeys,
but really, wasn’t this Monday close to that?
So how do I melt this
witch of a day? Work! I'll just go bury myself in work. Good idea, but my witch
was far from dead and the monkeys were full mischief. Suffice to
say that my work that day followed the pattern. Nothing to do but sleep it off
and see if those damn monkeys are still there in the morning.
The next morning on the garage floor, next to
the headboard I had been working on, was a puddle of witch. I saw the
monkeys flying south for the winter too. At least that's what I thought I saw.
I really need to have my coffee before the flashbacks. It makes them so much
clearer. That day went well and I was able to finish my chores without
incident. When David got home he and I went shopping for the ingredients for
the feast that was to be our dinner. During the libation run with Eileen on
Saturday, I had bought a bottle of Spanish wine. Since we had not drank it, it
seemed to Eileen that dinner should center around the wine and my return to
Barcelona.
We were to have David's version of paella. This
was to be the second Spanish feast in my honor. Dennis and Pamela put on a
beautiful Spanish night for their friends this past summer. Although it
was a four course meal, paella was a predominate dish. Now it was David's turn
to put his mark on a paella. It was very nice and the wine was gone much too
soon. It was a very nice sendoff evening.
My flight to London didn't leave until the
evening on Wednesday, so I had time to finish the headboard project and clean
that witch mess on the floor before it was time to pack and shower. Since my 6
pounds of paper wasn't at the Consulate and I had decided to take it with me, I
had to do some luggage remodeling. Schlep & Tote just about wet themselves
laughing as I kept moving things around and in them to get the right
combination of weight for them and my FREE carry-on bag. I had no idea they
were so ticklish. It took some real baggage engineering, but I was able
to meet the weight limits on all three pieces of luggage I was taking to
Europe.
Last year, I only took Schlep and C.On and a PB.
This year I decided that since I at least knew where I was going, despite not
knowing what I would be doing there, that I should take another bag with
me. It seemed that I should bring more clothes and be able to settle in
more than I did last year. I also brought some tools with me in case I should
find some work. I had left tools in Barcelona from last year. I had sent tools
to Marta's house this summer and I was bringing even more in Tote. I hope I
find something for my little iron friends to do before they become bored.
Eileen took me to the airport and bid me
farewell. Schlep & Tote hopped up on the scale to show off their new look
and were given the green light. They were about to embark on a 10 hour luggage
orgy to London. I've never seen them so giddy. C.On and I headed on to
the ordeal that is now airport security. John Oliver recently mentioned that because
of one failed attempt at a shoe bomb, that now we all have to take our shoes
off at the airport. There have been 31 school shootings since Columbine and not
one change in gun regulations.
 |
| Now you know what the TSA sees |
We got through security with a promise that my
full nude ex ray would be emailed to me once it had been passed around the
office. Apparently the boys needed a good laugh. Now it was sit and wait. I
rather enjoy waiting at airports. There are so many people to watch that I
never get bored. I sat there waiting for my flight to take me to London
and to the second part of my Yellow Brick Road.
November
26, 2014
Part 2.
Arlo Guthrie sang about coming into Los Angeles from London, from over the Pole. I knew
that song well in my youth. I liked Arlo and the song was
total nonsense, but drug related, so that made it cool. The truth of the matter
is that you come into London from Los Angeles by going over Greenland. Defiantly
much harder to fit Greenland into a song though.
The flight was comfortable and uneventful. I am now an official buddy in the Norwegian Airline computer. I flew with Norwegian when I left Barcelona this spring. I didn't think to buddy-up then because when would I ever fly with such an obscure airline again? As it turned out, the next time. Norwegian has positioned themselves as the deep discount airline serving Europe, the US and someplace else. Not being able to pass up a bargain, remember how well that worked with Frontier? I booked my one way flight from LA to London with them.
Another line in Arlo's song is "but don't touch my bags if you please Mister Customs Man". That was the first time I had seen customs agents wearing hazmat suits. They not only didn't want to touch Schlep &Tote, they didn't even want to be near them. I barely recognized them as they came around the conveyor. They were covered in tattoos, piercings and jello, singing “chickens flying everywhere around the plane… could we feel much finer". Apparently they knew the words to Arlo's song too. I asked them about their flight, but all I got was a silly grin and another rendition of Arlo's song.
It was hopeless! I got some rubber gloves from the Body Cavity Inspection Team, picked
Arlo Guthrie sang about coming into Los Angeles from London, from over the Pole. I knew
 |
| Leaving LA |
The flight was comfortable and uneventful. I am now an official buddy in the Norwegian Airline computer. I flew with Norwegian when I left Barcelona this spring. I didn't think to buddy-up then because when would I ever fly with such an obscure airline again? As it turned out, the next time. Norwegian has positioned themselves as the deep discount airline serving Europe, the US and someplace else. Not being able to pass up a bargain, remember how well that worked with Frontier? I booked my one way flight from LA to London with them.
Another line in Arlo's song is "but don't touch my bags if you please Mister Customs Man". That was the first time I had seen customs agents wearing hazmat suits. They not only didn't want to touch Schlep &Tote, they didn't even want to be near them. I barely recognized them as they came around the conveyor. They were covered in tattoos, piercings and jello, singing “chickens flying everywhere around the plane… could we feel much finer". Apparently they knew the words to Arlo's song too. I asked them about their flight, but all I got was a silly grin and another rendition of Arlo's song.
It was hopeless! I got some rubber gloves from the Body Cavity Inspection Team, picked
those two up and dragged them out the door. I had a rendezvous to get to
and limp wheels or not, those two were coming along. The next stop was
the Immigration Stamp Man. I had been told in LA that the United Kingdom,
England, Great Britain, Her Majesties Private Island, or whatever the place is
called, had the right to refuse me entry since I only had a one way ticket.
Thanks for the heads up! I spent my 10 hour flight coming up with a
pack of lies, just for this occasion. The stamp man asked me if the jello
was Kosher, stamped my passport and sent me on my way.
 |
| Gatwick Airport |
My rendezvous was to be at the coffee shop on the other side of the hall from
the door to freedom. I scanned the assembled hordes at the door, which in my
case is useless, since I have a hard time finding faces in a crowd, spotted the
coffee shop and headed that way. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
someone approaching me. I stopped to see if it was... Yes, it was…. It was
Marta.
Marta was there to meet me and from there, she and I would drive back to
Barcelona. I had come to know Marta during my stay in Barcelona last
winter. Over the summer she and I had come up with a road trip plan that would
bring her son to London to visit an old friend and get me back to Barcelona. The plan was simple. She and her son Max would drive up to the
Gatwick Airport outside of London, drop Max off so he could get the bus into
London and then pick me up at the coffee shop. We would then get lost in the
parking lot, leave Gatwick going the wrong way, turn around after a while, make
a couple more wrong turns and then finely go the right way. That part of the
plan came together beautifully. Then we would drive straight to the EnglishChannel and to the town of Folkestone, where Marta could stop driving her left
hand car on the wrong side of the road and gather her wits. TaDaa, nothing to
it!
Folkestone
We had an early reservation the next day for the Chunnel, so after a walk around Folkestone
that evening it was alarms set and lights out. Folkestone is
right on the English Channel and very close to the entrance of the
Chunnel. From the Folkestone harbor you can see the lights of France. Its
location relative to France made it a very important loading point for sending
the boys off to the slaughter that was to be, The War to End All Wars.
There is money to be made in sequels, so it was rebranded World War I,
with the sequel soon to follow.
We had an early reservation the next day for the Chunnel, so after a walk around Folkestone
 |
| Folkstone Harbor |
The Channel Tunnel
 |
| Sitting in the car in the train, under the Ehglish Channel |
Chunnel, is the nick name given to the Channel Tunnel French: Le tunnel sous la Manche, that connects Her Majesties Private Island
and France. I had thought that cars could drive through the tunnel. They can't.
Cars and trucks are loaded onto a train that then whisks you under the channel
while you sit in your car. The fact that you don't drive through the
tunnel was a small bubble to burst. The big bubble was popped when we pulled up
to the Immigration Stamp Man's booth.
I had read on the Internet that the best way to extend your stay
in Europe was to go through the UK first. The UK allows its visitors to stay 6
months, whereas Europe only allows 3 months. Nowhere did it say that there was
a French Immigration booth on the wrong side, ready to stamp your passport. I
was dumbfounded. I had read about slipping into Europe via the Chunnel on the
Internet, so it had to be true. Everything on the Internet is true, isn't it?
Like the Bible! I now had a stamp from the UK on Thursday and one from
France on Friday. I'll have explaining to do when I talk to the Spanish
immigration people. It's a good thing I still have that pack of lies.
Calais
We had forgone a predawn breakfast in favor of sleep, so when we got to Calais it was time
for breakfast. A few little twists and turns in Calais and we were
sitting down to a typical French breakfast. We had lost an hour in the time
warp between English Time, yes, they have their own time zone too, and Western
European Time. This meant for a short stay and a long drive. Now that we
were on the right side of the road, it was my turn to drive.
We had forgone a predawn breakfast in favor of sleep, so when we got to Calais it was time
 |
| Calais France |
Having navigated in Europe before, I knew to turn my American
navigational compass to "Ish". Northish, Southish, etc. it's
your only hope for syncing an American compass system to the European
directional system. There I was, looking at a Michelin road map, one of the
best map makers in Europe and it did not have a compass heading diagram
anywhere on the map. We left Calais going thata wayish in the direction
of Honfleur. The plan was to drive in the rain, miss our turn, get some
gas and figure out which way to go and then end up in Honfleur, just as the
rain was stopping and the sun was coming out. Boy! Can Marta plan a trip!
That is exactly what happened!
Honfleur is a harbor town at the estuary of the Seine River
which empties out into the
English Channel. It was a welcome break from the car
to be able to walk around such a pleasant town. Breakfast had worn off, so we
set out to sit down and have a bite to eat. In French restaurants, cafés and bars
you can eat breakfast, lunch and dinner. You cannot eat at any other time. We
sat down outside at a cafe and after being ignored for a time Marta went to see
about getting some service. "Sorry madam, no food. You can only drink
".
This proved to be the case at a few more attempts at getting
something to eat. Fortunately on our stroll through town, we had seen some shops
that had food stuffs for sale. We doubled back through town, bought some things to eat and set about eating American
Style. In the car, headed down the road.
 |
| Honfleur, France |
 |
| Honfleur, France |
Our next stop was Caen. Not that we planned to stop there, but because it was rush hour and everyone had gotten out on the highway at exactly the same time, so they could sit in their cars. The delay in getting around Caen was making a long day longer. It also meant we would be arriving at Le Mont - St - Michel well after dark.
 |
| From a distance |
This place is considered the pearl of Normandy. According
to Wikipedia, over 3 million people a year visit it. Make that 3 million and
two. We found our way to the Mont and to the dead end road that left us
at least a half mile (0.80 km) from the subject of our quest. Not to be
denied, we drove into the parking lot that was so well lit up, I dubbed it Mont
Sant Michel International Airport. Here we were on a desolate portion of the
Normandy coast with hundreds lights illuminating an empty parking lot,
producing as much candle power as any airport. Since the lights were on the
ground and in perfect rows it lent itself perfectly to the illusion of an
airport. We followed the parking lot sign with a picture of a car on it.
It was closed, but the lights were on. It just wasn't adding up! The Mont
was completely lit up as well, so we left the parking lot for a better vantage
point. We pulled over and took pictures of the illuminated jewel, from a half
mile away. All the while laughing about buying a post card in the morning and
taking pictures of it.
 |
| Getting closer |
 |
| At the gate |
As we stood there taking blurry pictures and laughing at our
situation, I noticed not only cars driving out to the Mont, but a bus. There
had to be a way to get to that road or that bus. At the dead end road we had
previously ended up on, was a guest house. I decided I was going to knock
on the door and see if they could tell us how to get out to the Mont. I drove
down to the house and got out. Marta sensing that I wasn't bothered by
protocol or that I couldn't speak French, got out to save the inhabitants from
me. There were people in there, I had seen them, but they weren't coming
to the door. Marta was in the process of dragging me away when the inhabitants
came out from the back in their car. When they stopped to tell us to
leave Marta busted out her best French. Between them telling us to leave and
her asking how we could get to the Mont both problems got solved.
 |
| It's very tall |
We left armed with the code to the Mont St Michel airport. You
follow the signs with a picture of a bus and not a car, despite that you are
driving a car. The bus sign led us around the parking lot to the other
side where cars can also park. There were very few people there at 8
o'clock on a Friday night, but four of the lots were reserved. We
drove down to lot number 1, which had a handicap sign on it, so we backed up
past the reserved lots until we came to lot number 5. I can only guess
what possessed me to ignore this lot, but I decided I wanted to go back to lot
number 1. I think I was convinced that the likelihood of 100 handicap cars
suddenly showing up was pretty unlikely, so why not park there. The man
in the speaker box told me to go back to lot number 5. Figures. I guess the
cars were on their way.
 |
| Marta at Mont Saint Michel |
We located ourselves and the bus.
It was a rather odd shuttle bus. It didn't turn around at the end of its run.
Instead it was made to steer from both ends. The bus took us out to the Mont reversing
point and then we walked the short distance to the entrance gate. We walked
around the Mont, the Abby and the shops. It is a very impressive structure. Not
for its architectural style or brilliance, but because people built it one
stone at a time from quarries on the mainland and then brought everything they
needed across a tidal flat during low tide. The perseverance of these people is
what makes something like Mont-St-Michel so amazing.
We left the Mont and on the way to the car we stopped at the
machine that validates your parking ticket. The ticket went in and the lights
went off. The machine had eaten our ticket. No ticket, no exit. The
trinket shops were closed, so if the plan is to eat tickets and make you come
back through trinketland one more time, it wasn't going to work. It did make us
go hunting for the
 |
| Saint Malo, France |
It was now just a short drive to St Malo and the end of our days
drive. Marta had reserved a hotel within the walls of the restored old
city. We had long ago given up on dead reckoning and Google directions on paper
in favor of my phone's GPS. It wasn't full proof as we had come to learn, but
it was much easier to see in the dark. The GPS was put in charge of
weaving us through the streets of St Malo. It did OK and we even found free
parking close to the hotel. Good, because it had been a long day in the car and
we were both tired.
 |
| Me, happy not to have witnessed a hotel massacre |
The streets of the old city are cobble stone and pavers. After
about a block of listening to Marta's suitcase make the noise that little
wheels make on cobblestones, she snapped and picked it up. I on the other hand
was in full ninja mode with C.On dressed in black and resting on my black coat.
We wound our way to the hotel. It was dark. A bad sign. It was very dark.
A very bad sign. There was a sign on the door. Bad sign, bad! It said the
hotel was closed. But take heart O' tired and uninformed traveler, you can go
to this hotel, on bla bla street. Marta was starting to unravel and I was
trying to get the GPS to find bla bla street, when a nice young fellow standing
on the street noticed our plight and offered directions.
 |
| Marta, in a much better mood |
We came up to the hotel on bla bla street and noticed it was
dark. A very very bad sign. Then Marta spotted the sign on the door. Bad sign, bad!!
This sign, like the other, said the hotel was closed and that we should go to
yet a third hotel on blabla de blabla street. Marta was just about to
completely unravel when I remembered passing that hotel on the way. She clung
onto her last remaining thread as we set out for hotel number three. We
came up to the hotel. There was a sign on the door. It said Ouvert! Open
in French. We went in the lobby and the man behind the desk apparently was not
a good judge of people, because in the process of sorting out our relay
reservation he pulled on that one thread that was holding Marta together. I
stepped back and the hotel manager stepped in. We both saw what was about to
happen.
He was a real smooth talker and soon he had everything ironed
out. Now, if the room isn't nice I could be right back down in that lobby
watching Marta loose the run of herself and eat a hotel clerk as
a midnight snack. (That phrase was for you Mary D., cheers!)
The room was nice and she started to remellow. (Not a word, but I
think it should be. What do you think?) The day was over and the plan for
the morning was now in flux due to the late hour and a desire to sleep long
enough for all the threads to regroup. Tomorrow is a new day and a new
part.
November 30, 2014
Part 3.
During the intermission it was brought to my attention
that there are two famous Yellow Brick Roads.
During the intermission it was brought to my attention
that there are two famous Yellow Brick Roads.
I did some research into the title of the album.
I was interested to see if that album and my story had any connection. I could
find no definite explanation by Elton John or his lyricist, Bernie Taupin
regarding the origins of the title. Internet opinions ran wild and at times
amuck, but there did seem to be one common thread. That being Bernie's
desire to get off the Yellow Brick Road to stardom and fantasy and get back to
his roots. The album is rife with lyrics eluding to Bernie's desire to get back
to "his" Kansas and he knew there was no wizard at the end of
the road, just disappointment.
On the other hand I feel as though the American
dream was over after the Vietnam War.
For the vast majority pursuing it,
they simply found themselves on a Yellow Brick Road to disappointment. Of
course there have been many exceptions to my point of view, but I contend they
are simply a notable few in comparison. I have
said goodbye to that Yellow Brick Road and I've begun to make one of my
own. Fortunately, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing people who have
allowed me a way-station at the crossroads of my road and theirs.
Ding, Ding. Intermission is over. On with the
story!
The morning in St Malo was
short but it did allow us a brief look at the old city and our last look at the
English Channel. Our destination for the day was the small town of Blaye in the
Bordeaux region. It had been our hope to visit Dinan, Vannes and La Rachelle
along the way. Our long day getting to St Malo and the corresponding late start
the next day forced us to forego the last two stops of that plan.
Dinan
We did stop at Dinan for lunch though. A very typical town in the Brittany Region. We
We did stop at Dinan for lunch though. A very typical town in the Brittany Region. We
wandered a bit and located a nice
little crêpe restaurant. I liked it because it had outdoor seating with
blankets. By now my British cold was starting to settle in and that purple
blanket looked comforting to me. We sat in a small plaza eating our breakfast
and desert crêpes, while watching the people stroll by. A roundabout
walk to the car and we were back on the highway.
We were bee-lining it to Blaye on the highway so we wouldn't arrive
there too late for our hosts. We were going to stay at a guest house, and since
it was a private home rather than a hotel, it was important to arrive at a
decent hour. There was one unscheduled stop, but necessary. There were
necessary stops, of course, but this stop was approaching critical proportions.
We needed gas and food. Although there is no shortage of restaurants in France, there is an acute shortage of anytime dinning, so if we didn't have food in the car we could end up going hungry. That seemed as silly as running out of gas, so when we got to Nantes, we set out to hunt down a gas station and grocery store.
Since I was driving, it was going to be a complete turn and hope project. Marta had some idea where they hide shopping centers in France, so as I kept turning this way any that, she began to see the lay of the land. She figured out that a shopping center should be near us so I pulled up to a bus stop to get us out of traffic. I guess you just don't stop at bus stops to think. Oh well, here we are, so we might as well sort out were to go and let the bus have its spot when it comes. There was a sign up ahead that lead us to our salvation.
The next stop was the gas station. Then we went to the supermarket across the street, but
We needed gas and food. Although there is no shortage of restaurants in France, there is an acute shortage of anytime dinning, so if we didn't have food in the car we could end up going hungry. That seemed as silly as running out of gas, so when we got to Nantes, we set out to hunt down a gas station and grocery store.
Since I was driving, it was going to be a complete turn and hope project. Marta had some idea where they hide shopping centers in France, so as I kept turning this way any that, she began to see the lay of the land. She figured out that a shopping center should be near us so I pulled up to a bus stop to get us out of traffic. I guess you just don't stop at bus stops to think. Oh well, here we are, so we might as well sort out were to go and let the bus have its spot when it comes. There was a sign up ahead that lead us to our salvation.
The next stop was the gas station. Then we went to the supermarket across the street, but
not until I had scared the hell out
of a couple of shoppers and Marta. In my book, driver indecision means I get to
go. Apparently that is not a worldwide truth. Now it was time to
wander the aisles of the French version of a Walmart or Super Target. We
were not only getting food stuffs to get us through our remaining day and a half on the road, but also a few things for my apartment, so I would have a few necessities as soon as I got there Sunday night.
This stop was a logical place for us to
switch drivers. It had been discussed that we would switch at reasonable
intervals. It wasn't my ego or love of driving in the rain that made me
get back in the driver's seat. Nope. It was just flawed logic, I think. My bout
of logic gone badly, like Girls Gone Bad, or was it Wild, or Shopping? Whatever
it was, didn't go well. By the time I decided it was a good time to
switch, the good logic part of our driving team was fashioning a hangman's
noose out of her giant euro scarf. At least we then had something to talk about
as Marta drove through the pouring rain.
Blaye
As we got off the highway and started to wander the little roads to the guest house, Marta
started to have Tour Guide Remorse.
Not as common as Buyers Remorse, but just as real. She began to question the
sense in getting off the highway and going to a little, out of the way, town
on the Gironde River Estuary, in the heart of the Bordeaux wine region,
rather staying on the highway and making time. I was having trouble
following her concern, so I focused on the GPS and the umpteen turns that were
coming up.
As we got off the highway and started to wander the little roads to the guest house, Marta
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| In France it may require 2 pairs of glasses and a GPS to find your wa |
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| From the deck |
We pulled into the yard of the guest house about a half hour after the
rain had thankfully stopped. Now we could see the signs and we wouldn't have to
get our things out of the car during what at times had been a downpour of
biblical proportions. Our hosts Pierre and Veronique were waiting for us.
They had built a small cottage in their yard for guests and they had also
created a full suite in the far end of their home with its own deck that
allowed a view of the river. A view that we would take in the following day.
With our accommodations came breakfast. At the breakfast table was the French couple that had rented the cottage and us. Pierre and Veronique flittered about making sure we had a delightful breakfast. Their flittering was not in vain. It
With our accommodations came breakfast. At the breakfast table was the French couple that had rented the cottage and us. Pierre and Veronique flittered about making sure we had a delightful breakfast. Their flittering was not in vain. It
was all homemade and delicious. The French
couple didn't speak English, so they talked to Marta while I tried to figure
out why the woman across from me was drinking out of a soup bowl.
I like to observe people's table and eating
customs prior to eating. I'd rather fit in than be ostracized by my table
mates. I knew that a French woman would never drink her soup from a giant
cup, so what was she doing? As I waited for the mystery to reveal itself
I had some of Veronique's homemade pastries. In due time I watched as Marta
made some tea in her swimming pool size tea cup. I guess that's one way to skip
seconds and fifths on tea and coffee.
With that mystery solved, I was free to have a cauldron
of coffee with my breakfast. Somewhere in the French conversation it must have
turned to Veronique's pastries. She made an about-face and when she came back
from the kitchen she was cradling in her arms her baby. It was an electric
pastry and bread maker. The ladies all admired her baby while the French
guy and I stuck our heads in our coffee vats.
After breakfast we walked the grounds a little,
looked at the cottage that Pierre had built
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| Bordeaux France |
himself and headed out on our final
leg to Barcelona. We gave ourselves over to the GPS and every little road we
could find that followed the river to its confluence with the Dordogne River.
The vineyards of the Bordeaux region go on for as
far as the eye
can see. The leaves on the vines had turned yellow with the
season and provided a beautiful contrast to the overcast sky. We spent
what time we could along the river and in the vineyards, but like the preceding
days, we had a long way to go.
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| Bordeaux France |
When we reached Toulouse, we got off the highway and drove on the
side-road that paralleled it. We had a few hours of daylight left, it wasn't
raining and we were longing for a wrong turn or two. In France
everything closes Sunday evening, so that meant one more gas stop and a
roadside picnic with the bread we bought at the last-call shop we found along
the way. We were going to get on the toll road and jam it to Barcelona, but
first we had to at least one more quick stop.
Marta and I had spent part of a day in
Carcassonne last April and now here we were again,
Through Marta I were able to rent an apartment prior to my arrival in Barcelona. My rent started on the 15th of November and here it was the 16th and we were rolling into Barcelona. Marta had picked up my house keys prior to coming to London, so all that was left to do was get the car close to the apartment, so that the luggage logistics wouldn't require a lot of walking.
Marta had checked out the parking situation
around my apartment when she picked up the keys and had it worked out, so we
could pull up in front of the apartment, off load my luggage and then find
parking. Her plan was perfect except that on Sunday night for no apparent
reason they close the road in front of my apartment. This kind of surprise is
never welcome after a long days drive. We went in search for parking near
my apartment. Normally that is akin to hunting Martians in New Mexico.
You are pretty sure there are some, but damned if you can find one.
Unless of course you know where to look. Marta
spotted one and slid her car into it. I pulled Schlep & Tote from the
back of the car. This was the first time she had really looked at them. She
asked me if they always looked like that. I explained their trip to London as
we rattled their little wheels over the pavers on our way to my apartment. When
we got to the apartment door I asked Schlep & Tote to shake, like the two
dirty dogs they were. Plop, plop went the last of the jello. Marta stood
there in disbelief and then asked if it was Kosher.
Bonnie lives about a 15 minutes’ Metro ride from my apartment, so she came over to join in
Bonnie lives about a 15 minutes’ Metro ride from my apartment, so she came over to join in
the welcoming. When she came to the door
she was muttering about almost falling on her butt when she stepped in some
jello down by my door. She saved the wine though, so let the housewarming
begin! The night drew to a close since it was now morning and there
I was in my new apartment in the old city portion of Barcelona, Spain.
Remember those shinny shoes of mine? That
they were brown with a hint of red? That was Ruby Red and this little
Dorothy was back in his Kansas.
La Fin
El Fin
La Fi
El Fin
La Fi
The End
Photo Gallery
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| In the Chunnel Train |
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| Calais France |
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| Honfleur France |
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| Honfleur France |
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| Honfleur France |
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| Saint Malo |
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| Dinan France |
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| Saint Malo |
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| Dinan France |
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| Gironde River Blaye Frnace |
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| The Gironde & Dordonge Rivers Bordeaux France |
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| A Happy Me Somewhere in Frnace |
