On the road again

AUGUST 09, AUBAGNE, FRANCE—I’m at home again. Or at least, what I consider my second home. France. Stefania and I left Italy last Saturday (Aug. 6) for ten days in the south of France. This is the payoff for some of the other indignities suffered in my other posts.

We left bright and late on Saturday afternoon, about 4 p.m. We had dropped the cats off at a pensione or kennel for cats and dogs on Thursday. We had to look around but found a place on a farm near Bologna. They are very well organized. There is a separate air conditioned building that houses the cats. There are large, double-sized cages. We took their litter box, scratching post and favorite blankets for their stay. I’m sure they weren’t happy but c’est la vie. Our goal was to make it to San Remo, near the French border before it got too dark.

Driving the Autostrada is always fun, but especially so when everyone is racing to get to the beach first. We started from Modena, drove on to Parma, still in Emilia-Romagna, and then headed towards La Spezzia whic is just south of Genova. From there we went along the coast past Cinque Terre and on to San Remo. We found a dingy little two-star hotel to bunk in for the night. Worked fine for me.

The next morning, Sunday, we headed out after a hearty breakfast through the city of flowers, San Remo. It is the city of flowers because of its world renowned flower markets. There are greenhouses dotting all of the hills that rise up over the bay. From San Remo, it was a short jog up to Ventimiglia and the Italy-France border. Since there are no longer any border controls because of the EU, we wound through some over passes, through a toll booth, paid, went through a tunnel and were in France. The ‘Welcome to France’ sign was there and everything. I immediately dialed in a French radio station and started checking out the talk radio. It was about soccer, of course.

Sunday’s goal was to make it to our target destination, Marseille. Actually, Aubagne, a small town just outside of Marseille, near where my friends’ parents live at the foot of the Ste. Beaume in Gémenos. On our way, we dropped another 40 bucks for a load of diesel and pulled off the road to check out Nice. European cities are pretty well signed now. With no map in hand, I easily followed the arrows to the Promenade des Anglais, the famous boulevard that runs alongside the Baie des Anges and the famous pebbled beaches. One trip up and back was enough to tell us that we should move on rather than trying to hit the lottery by finding a parking place. So I pointed the dusty little Micra back to the Autoroute and cruised on towards Marseille. (Speaking of cruising, there is no such thing as cruise control on cars in Europe. There’s just too much traffic. Remember when driving on the Autostrade/Autoroutes: Slow cars and trucks stay in the right lane. Cars going about the speed limit (130 km/h) drive in the middle. Passing and psychos in BMWs and Mercedes are reserved for the left lane. Motorcycles drive wherever they want. People drive a bit more slowly and respectfully in France. It helps that France now has over 1,000 hidden radars with high-speed cameras in place along their road system. And man, those gas taxes sure do pay off (70% of the priceof Euro gas is taxes)—you can eat off the Autoroutes in France. Side roads are hit and miss as you would expect.

Another couple of hours in the saddle brought us to the turn off for Aubagne. This town is famous as the birthplace of the famed French novelist and playwrite Marcel Pagnol. He wrote Jean de Florette among other works. We had left the number of our hotel back at home so we parked in the center of town. Displaying my trademark cool confidence (that has gone missing in Italy), I strode into the first bar I saw and asked the bartender if she had a phone book handy. She said it was over by the bigscreen TV. We walked over and promptly found the number and address of the hotel, called and asked directions. This is when cell phones really come in handy. Good luck finding a pay phone that works in France; they are quickly disappearing.

Stefania navigated as I steered our venerable piece of Japanese steel through a few of the ubiquitous traffic circles and on to a departmental highway that headed towards Pont de l’Etoile. This little spot in the road is halfway in between Aubagne and Gémenos. Our little two-star hotel with pool was named, you guessed it, Hôtel de l’Etoile. Nothing special. AC, a room with a view of the Garlaban (one of the famous hills in the area), bathroom and TV. I might add that three-star hotels would better meet with the expectations of most Americans who are traveling abroad for the first time. But you’re going to pay for it. At least 100 euros a night depending on your location. I like to travel franchise free when possible and like the charming family-run atmosphere of the two-star inns, which can indeed be hit and miss. If you speak the language, the owners tell you all of the good stuff to do and see.

After checking in, we unloaded and then I told Stef that I wanted to call my friend Alain-Philippe’s parents’ house. He is a professor at the University of Rhode Island and was in town for the weekend before heading back home to the U.S. with his two young daughters in tow. Of course, the numbers I had to call didn’t work. Now I was worried. My only thought was to drive to Gémenos and look for their house. I had visited their house 11 years ago and figured this would be the only way to get a hold of them. I knew that there phone was unlisted so we set out to do it the hard way.

We headed out in the car. It was bright and sunny and late afternoon. The road starts to pitch up outside of our hotel as we head in the direction of the Ste. Beaume mountain. We took a spin around the village center then I started trying to orient where I remember there house being in relation to the surrounding hills. I drove slowly past a street called Rue de la République and thought that that sounded familiar. I cruised slowly down the street like I was casing some houses for a break in. I asked Stefania to get out and read the mailbox of one house. Nope. On the next one we hit the jackpot. I jumped out of the car and rang the bell. Alain, Alain-Philippe’s father answered. I cried out that it was me and he promptley opened the electric gate. Both he and his wife, Josianne, came bounding out to greet us. I apologized for ringing without calling first and explained our predicament. I then introduced Stefania whom they had never met before.

Alain waved off our apologies with characteristic Marseillais hospitality and invited us out by the pool for a drink. He said that Alain-Philippe and the girls, Eva, 4 and Chloë, 8, would be back shortly. We all had a couple of cold ones and reminisced about old times and what we had been up to since I had last seen them in Kansas City a couple of years ago. Stefania speaks some French too and worked hard to keep up. I thought my French would be really rusty but being in familiar surroundings and with familiar faces had me right back in the thick of things. A couple of Italian words popped out every now and again but by the end of the night I was back up to speed. That’s the big difference between my French and Italian: I have studied French language, litterature and history for 25 years. I have never really formally studied Italian. When I sometimes get frustrated with my Italian I just try and remember how many years it took me to master French and the incredible base that I had built up. I liken it to playing piano at a high level. If you work for years and years playing scales and learning music theory and mastering a broad repertoire you will never really lose it. Even if you put it aside for a while, when you start back again, those old reflexes come back remarkably fast.

In no time, Alain-Philippe was back with the girls. Chloë looks like her dad while Eva takes after her mom. Josianne had dinner on the table as if she had been expecting us all along. There was tapanade (an olive paste), baguette, spicey grilled sausage, quiche and french fries. We ate until we almost burst. It was getting late after dinner so we said goodnight and promised to be back the next morning at 10 to have a guided tour of Marseille from Alain-Philippe.