The French Are On The Move!

In spite of the title that sounds (reads) like something out of a 1950s newsreel, it accurately describes what is happening on the roads of France this month of August.

Here is a piece of advise:

If you come to France, don't come in August! Like lemmings that jump over a hill, or army ants that relentlessly go through a forest eating anything and everything in their path, or herds of wildebeest that inexorably swim through crocodile infested waters in their yearly migration, the French jump in their cars, hook up their caravans (that's what they call mobile home trailers here), lock the kids in the back seat, put a rack of bicycles on the back of the caravan, and rush toward the nearest "autoroute" to form part of a kilometers long traffic jam as they head for their dream vacation spot, usually a muddy lake in the middle of a sea of similar caravans, or a beach side "resort" where an ice cream cone costs a day's pay.

A note on the so-called caravans: This weapon-of-choice of the French comes in all shapes and sizes, from a miniature contraption that has to be assembled into a pup tent and where all ten members of the family sleep like rabbits in a warren, to a huge, luxury apartment on wheels, with an array of antennae on top worthy of a CIA snooper's post. Whatever the size and shape, this rolling accident-waiting-to-happen is pulled along at fantastic speeds that prove Einstein's Theory of Relativity (since the people on board those things seem to be oblivious to how fast they are going). They swerve in and out of traffic as if they were on motorcycles, frightening the hell out of anyone in their way, (mainly us), and fish-tailing over all the lanes as if they were intent of sweeping the road of laggards and slow-riders like we are.

We, unfortunately have no choice but to join the yearkt migration, since we rent out our house to a family that, like the hordes of Parisians that invade Biarritz every summer, come regularly every vacation period to our sea side town. Therefore, we, in turn, invade Paris in August. But, since we are in no hurry to get to that tourist-choked city (choked mostly by Americans, the British, and other foreigners), we usually take the "national" roads ,rather than the autoroutes (super highways), because the former are more scenic and user-friendly.

We always decide on two or three stops along the way because we (by "we" I mean my wife) have decided we are going to know every part of France before we leave this life. Hence, our yearly planning session to discuss and comment on the possibilities (both cultural and economic) of sojourning in different towns and villages. The sessions usually go like this:

My wife: "Darling, where should we go this year?"

Me: "Oh, how about Toulouse, I haven't been to..."

My wife: "Oh, not Toulouse, it is so crowded and beside I studied there and I already know it so well..."

Me: "You studied there 40 years ago, dear, so it might have changed and..."

My wife: "How about Brieve-la-Gaillarde?"

Me: "Yes, that is a good choice. I've read that it is..."

My wife: "No, no, that's too far. It is already half way to Paris. We need something closer first. I suggest Marciac."

Me: "For the Jazz Festival? I would love that!"

My wife: "But, we will not stay there. We will stay in Vic-en-Bigorre."

Me: "Ah, that's a nice little town. Quiet, friendly, and cheaper than staying in Marciac."

My wife: "Right! So, it is decided. Thank you, darling. Your idea was wonderful."

Me: "Well, I, uh..."

My wife: "Tomorrow we will decide on where to stay on our way to Paris."

Marciac was a wonderful idea. The jazz was great, with groups playing in open venues under tents that kept the broiling sun at bay but did not discourage the drinking of cold beer. At night, we would go to the "formal" payed sessions, with two groups, one playing from 9 PM until 11 PM and the other from 12 PM until 2 AM.

Between the outdoor, free sessions and the nightly ones, we wandered around looking at the many trinkets for sale in the stands that crowded the arcades of the main square and the side streets of the town. There were also LOTS of places to eat and bars where to drink the local wine--hearty, full bodied reds and fruity roses from the near-by Madiran region.

So, after a couple of days of Jazz, off we went on to Paris.

Of course, we had not had another "planning session", what with the music, the drinking, the eating, and the sleeping until midday after the long nights of music and revelry. But, being the every optimist, we said that we would stop somewhere before or after Limoges, one of the larger cities that is on National Route 21, a road that winds through the beautiful valleys that form the center part of France and that form a sort of backbone between southern France and northern France.

It is indeed a wonderful car trip. Many fields are covered with sunflower crops and they shine bright yellow in the summer sun. There are corn fields and wheat fields, and even those fields that are left fallow are nicely trimmed and green with new grass. Many sections of the road are lined with trees and every few kilometers you come upon a charming village or town. Some are even done up for their local summer festivals, such as Monflanquin, with its towering castle built in the 13th Century and side-streets preserved pretty much as they were then.

French highways have excellent rest areas (some not only have toilettes but free showers as well), so we stopped at one with picnic tables under beautiful trees and we had a picnic lunch there with stuff we had taken in a cooler from our fridge back home. Of course, after hours of driving, the wine and the food took their toll and we drove to a near-by village to have a snooze.

We parked the car under a tree in a park located in front of the village church. (My wife has suggested, and she was right, that there is always a park in front of the church in French villages.) We were both promptly asleep on the soft grass in the quiet and cool shade of the mimosas.

But, as luck would have it, the village fool was about! I heard a loud yell, "Eaiyyy, gars!"

Startled, I opened my eyes to see a man dressed in an undershirt and pants, with a huge beer-belly, a walking stick and a beret, yelling at us from the far side of the park. Thinking that there might be some sort of local law against sleeping in the park, I got up on my elbows and asked the approaching man if he was talking to us. (I translate the conversation from the French.)

The man: "Yes, I am talking to you. Is that your car?"

Me: "Yes, its our car."

The man: "Well, get up and go on. You are wasting time lying around here."

Me. "What do you mean?"

The man: (Who was not standing next to our prone bodies.) "Are you Parisians?"

Me: "No, we are from Biarritz."

A long conversation ensued in which the man told me he had a brother (who lives in Biarritz) that had told him that prices of land in Biarritz were three times what they are in his village. I have no idea why he said this unless perhaps he was a land salesman in disguise as the town fool.

Our rescue from the bizarre conversation came in the form of a car that stopped in front of the church. Two people got out so the man yelled at them:

The man: "Hey, did you bring any flowers?"

The startled couple: "What?"

The man: "If you are going in to pray, you should at least bring flowers."

The couple did not move as if paralyzed by the man's admonition and off the man went to harass the churchgoers.

We rested a bit more but our sleep had been interrupted so we decided to take the fool's advice and to go on our way.

Tomorrow: A Stopover in Périgueux