Deux Canadiens Errants

Well, here we are - Joan and Lorne -  having safely arrived in Avignon, we're enjoying our time together with Virginia, Barry, Grace and Lily.   I thought I'd try my hand at blogging and tell you a little about our travels.

After a happy reunion in Toronto airport with Lois, David, Mandi and Robin, we said our goodbyes and boarded the plane for the long overnight flight to Paris which began auspiciously as the doors closed and the loading ramp pulled back right on schedule.    Then five minutes of nothing - no sense of motion, no hum of starting engines, no “Please fasten your seat belts for takeoff”.    Instead an announcement  from the fight deck - one I’ve never heard before.    The plane needed to take on some water and there would be a short delay while we tanked up.   I had a sudden mental image of us steaming our way to Europe.

An hour later the Captain informed us that we had taken on the required water but there would be an additional delay because the water hose had frozen to the airplane.  This was another late departure excuse I’d never heard  before.   You have to give them  10 out of 10 for originality  I thought to myself as I watched a gigantic hair-dryer-like trailer pull up to the tail.  Thirty minutes later the engines spun to life - for about two minutes, then wound back down.   This time we had a more typical delay - a fault indicator light had come on.  Finally, after a visit from Air Canada’s friendly Maytag repairman, we were on our way - almost 3 hours late.

This time, fortified by the experience we had acquired during our arrival last August, we negotiated safely the confusing labyrinth that is Paris’ CDG airport and boarded one of France’s slick Intercité trains for Normandy - the first leg of our vacation.

I’m really impressed with the trains in France.   They leave and arrive exactly on schedule, they’re smooth as silk, quiet enough to converse in whispers, and they go like a scalded cat - especially the well-named TGV (Très Grand Vitesse) trains.  Our 1st class coach out of Paris was at the tail end of a long train, and we raced in quiet luxury across the already-green fields of western France.  The first stop was in Caen, and as I  watched  people disembark onto the platform beside our window, I was full of excitement about our upcoming visit to this historic part of France.

We were to spend 5 days in Bayeux, the next stop.   As  we approached the city, the PA system announced our imminent arrival, and I was quite pleased that I understood what was said.   A nice feature for nervous travellers is that you are constantly reassured by scrolling signs in each car of the stops along the way - and there was Bayeux showing up exactly as expected.   At the announcement, the lady in the seat ahead of us, clearly intending to get off at Bayeux as well, put away her book, donned her sweater and headed back to the ladies’ room to freshen up before arrival.

The train slowed as we passed through the city’s outskirts, then stopped.   The lady in front of us  looked out the window then settled back in her seat.   There was no platform in sight - the train had stopped short of the station.   "Probably waiting for a signal light to clear", I said to Joan.   After a minute we pulled slowly forward, and I watched as the station house came into view in our window, and then disappeared out the back of the window as the train picked up speed!   We had missed our stop!

The lady ahead of us sat serenely in her seat.  Clearly she had never intended to get off at Bayeux - her whole preparation routine had been a ruse!   I took off down the aisle in search of the conductor.   One car, two cars, three cars - finally  I stumbled into four of them conversing quietly in the front coach.   “We missed our stop at Bayeux”, I said breathlessly.   They exchanged quick glances of disbelief, and one said, “But, Monsieur, how did you miss your stop?”   I answered, “There was no platform - we couldn’t get off.  The train stopped short of the station.”   “Monsieur, in Caen, the platform is on the right of the train.  But in Bayeux it’s on the left.  Did you look on the left?”    I have seldom felt more foolish than at that moment, as the four conductors stood looking at me with mixtures of sympathy and incredulity on their faces.

Then one of them said, “C’est pas grave, monsieur.”  And he explained that his colleague would arrange for us to get off at the next station, Lisson, where we could catch the next train back to Bayeux.  We had 30 minutes.  Whereupon the young lady of the group said, “Suivez- moi. Vite”, and we were off, hurrying back to where Joan awaited in the last coach.   Back through the long line of swaying cars.  In each one, passengers, having seen me rush forward, now watched with obvious curiosity as the two of us hurried  back in the opposite direction.  What could be the matter?  Perhaps a fire in the back? A medical emergency?  A murder?  I’m sure none guessed the real reason for my distress.

As we drew into Lisson the young conductor scribbled something on our tickets and told me to tell the station master what had happened.  Inside the waiting room I explained for the second time that we had missed our stop in Bayeux.  The station master’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.  “Mais monsieur, comment avez-vous raté l’arrêt à Bayeux?”   Now, my French is not exactly eloquent at the best of times, but when stressed it becomes even more garbled.  Nevertheless, it was apparent from the smiles that were appearing on the faces of those standing around that the good bourgeoisie folk of Lisson were understanding me quite well.   As I finished my sad tale of ineptitude, I tried to make light of it all.  I  pointed at my temple and moved my finger in circles to make the universal sign for craziness and said, “Comme les touristes sont idiots, hein?”   The station master showed remarkable restraint but I caught a couple of the spectators out of the corner of my eye nodding in agreement.

As we gathered our suitcases to cross the tracks for the return train, an elderly grandmother with her attractive young granddaughter smiled at us and asked, “D’où  venez-vous?”  (Where are you from?)   Clearly she had picked up on some subtle indication in my behaviour that we weren’t from “around here”.    Reluctantly I confessed to being from Canada,  and by so doing I may well have given rise to a whole new genre of French humour - the kind where the jokes would start with “Did you hear the one about the Canadian who ....?”  or “Why did the Canadian throw the clock out the window?”