14-Nov-13
Trigger: How about your 8 days in Summer?
The Dream Vacation
It was raining…again, as it had been for the first week of our long planned, dream vacation in France. We had done all the museums and spent time inside department stores and restaurants and had grown tired of being close by in each others company. This was not the way vacations were supposed to be. You leave your own little world to pursue adventure and experience the different and charming and new. But this first week had only been huddling inside and running from car, to door, doing our best to avoid the daily deluge.
Finally I could stand it no longer. I looked on the internet for the weather in France. There was no end in sight to the rain and cold where we were. So despite the expense of relocating, we decided to cast our fates to the winds of warmth and sunshine. We were determined that during the last 8 days of our summer vacation, we would actually find summer. Checking out of the charming boutique hotel we had researched so carefully for the year before as we planned this special trip to our favorite region of France, we taxied to the train station and I asked the agent for two tickets to Nice.
“It is difficult said the agent, You must first go to Toulouse, and then to Marseilles. From there you take the coastal train to Nice and you will arrive this evening quite late. After thinking further that we had no hotel room booked, we decided to make Marseille our stopping point for the evening.
Oh an adventure said my wife. This will be fun. We will just flaneur our way along these next 8 days and let happen what will. At least it will be warm. And on to the platform we marched, awaiting the first train in our journey. And we waited, and watched, as the message board announced the train was “en retard” and then heard the announcement that all passengers to Brive were to come to the agent inside. It appeared that a bus had been put on to replace the local that had broken down along the line.
Flexibility my dear, I said as we stowed our bags in the hold of the bus when it finally arrived. And three hours later, after stops in small towns along the way, we were once again on the platform of a train station. Of course our train to Toulouse had already passed through so we were rebooked on a later train and by use of my smart phone, I booked a hotel near the station for that evening. The rain followed. But at least we were on our way.
The next day we awoke to sunshine. Ah, things were beginning to turn in our favor we thought as we pulled our bags through the street to the station to catch the 10:30 train to Marseilles. We found our seats stowing the larger of our bags on the rack at the end of the car. The train moved nicely and we chatted and watched the southern dry countryside of lower france pass by congratulating ourselves on our decision to move on. Marseilles was announced and we gathered our small bags and effects from the overhead bin and headed to the door at the end of the car to pick up our large bag. It was missing. I searched the rack in vain and as the train pulled into the station found an agent on the quay asking for help.
“I’m sorry Monsieur, there is really nothing we can do. It must have been taken off at the stop in Narbonne. You did not go to look for it sooner? I will report it. Often it will be left in a station after it has been looked through.”
After filing a police report which took another two hours, we once again told ourselves that this was not going to be a problem. After all, it was only clothes and we had some items also in our smaller bags and could always go shopping. And after all, in the sun, you really do not need a lot of clothes anyway.
Stopping at the tourist office, we asked for advice on a hotel for our day in Marseille. “Oh, Monsieur, there is a large convention in town and most hotels are already booked.” After some telephone calls we were told that a small hotel near the port did have a room available and that we should go there immediately to claim it.
Thanking our luck and thinking that being down by the port we should be able to find a restaurant to have our first taste of the famous Bouillabaisse Marseilles, we hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take us to “La Rene Rouge”. His eyes widened, “Are you sure that is the hotel you wish to stay at” he asked? We assured him that the tourist bureau had said it would be fine, but with some trepidation we watched the streets pass by along the way. The buildings became less grand and there were more warehouses than homes or shops.
Upon arrival on a long dark street of empty, silent buildings, there was a blazing red neon sign announcing the hotel. The attendant sat behind a barred window through which our credit card was slid and the key returned. “How long will you be needing your room,” he asked. Why “for the night” we answered somewhat quizzically. “Oh, well. There is no elevator,” he said. “Your room is on the third floor.”
Several young women sat on the sofa’s lining the walls reading newspapers and smoking, watching us with interest. Hauling our hand luggage up the narrow steps we were actually happy we no longer had the heavy big bag. The room was sparely lit and small. And we were rather tired from the past day’s events so decided to take a bit of a nap before searching out our restaurant. Pulling back the sheet we noticed that there was a plastic cover over the mattress under the bottom sheet. It was a bit noisy as we lay on it but at least it kept it clean we joked. Outside our room, we heard a continual tramp of feet down the hall and thought it must be the clientele arriving for the evening how lucky we were to have found this room available.
After our nap we went down the stairs and asked if there was a nearby restaurant were we could get our fish stew. It had begun raining and we were quite wet when we arrived at the small storefront with a few tables showing through the window. The place was nearly empty but we were well received and were assured that their bouillabaisse was authentic.
Authentic perhaps but “ordinary” might have been a better word and maybe even “questionable” another. At least the wine was good and cheap and helped deaden our drenching return to La Rene Rouge. We found our way back to the hotel and another set of women were sitting in the lobby. All night long we heard doors opening and shutting and murmurs of voices in the hall. The bed was uncomfortable and we slept fitfully and finally decided to get up early to take the next train to Nice. The taxi driver who picked us up out front asked, “Are you two going together?” “Yes of course, why not?” “Oh,” he said, “This hotel is usually for people who come and go separately…if you know what I mean.”
As we rode to the station, we both began to itch and scratch. Things couldn’t get worse could they? On the train we carefully placed our back packs on the floor under our seat in front to guard them well as we slept fitfully on the train between trips back and forth to the loo to relieve our bouillabaisse induced distress.
Finally, Nice and sun as we pulled into the station. It will be fine now. Even if we did have red welts forming around our ankles and waists from the irritation and scratching. I reached down below the seat to pick up my backpack and realized it was no longer there. Getting down on the floor I looked all over but it was gone, along with our passports, airplane tickets home and my computer. At least I had my credit cards and cash in my wallet in my back pants pocket so we would be fine.
Another 4 hours was now spent with the gendarmes and with calls to airlines and the travel insurance company and the embassy with the promise of replacement tickets and new passports to arrive the following day. With that sorted, there was still the beach and a hotel to find. And 5 more days to enjoy it.
Leaving the police station, we walked down to the beachfront and into the first hotel we saw along the boardwalk. We were greeted graciously and told a seaside room with balcony was available. Ah, finally things were looking up. Reaching for my wallet…oh well, you know the rest of the story!