Wednesday 29 September 2010

Garlic and baguettes

One of the best things about the new Planet, I have discovered, is now that I am in possession of a lovely maroon Interplanetary Wayfarer Permit, I am allowed to cross the small stretch of water between this planet and those on the other side of 'Le Channel', with nary a sniffy look or very-costly-long-waited-for-ridiculously-expensive visa in sight.

Imagine my delight at sailing through the Portation Gateway on the other side with only a polite 'Bonjour' at the border control man who barely even glanced at me or my Permit. I could have been a traveller with murderous intent, for all he knew, but the maroon document gave me instant access...or perhaps I simply don't look like an international terrorist bent on carnage and mayhem. I allowed myself a small smile (smirk?) at the holder of a blue Permit (I'm not sure what planet this poor soul arrived from)and the barrage of questions, not to mention the queue, that greeted him. And no sooner had I arrived in the great Baggage Claim Hall than my black and grey striped suitcase came trundling out of the black hole that had earlier consumed it on the other planet, and I was on my way into a glorious land of garlic and baguettes.

And what a beautiful place it is to be sure. From the tiny medieval villages perched on hilltops, the ancient, crumbling monasteries and churches, to the the tree lined roads and fluffy sheep grazing on mountain sides (obviously the legs on their left side are shorter than on the right otherwise they would roll down the mountain and land up in a mouton stew), to the vast expanses of golden sands and Blackpoolish tourist areas. It amazed me how no matter what planet you are on, a seaside town remains a seaside town, and apart from the language and the currency, they are all the same...rows of postcards, tacky hats, plastic 'crocs', hand-crafted shell ornaments (!) and plastic-tasting hamburgers. Why? Why, I ask myself, does this happen? Is there some vast warehouse in a distant galaxy that dispenses grotty stuff to be flogged on the seafront of every planet with a coastline?

And just as I was about to despair at the sight of tattooed, beer-swilling, socks-with-sandals-wearing tourists from the New Planet (so instantly recognisable it makes the stomach churn), I discovered a small fishing village uncorrupted by 'les Anglais', where the coffee was thick and pungent, where the food had been caught merely hours earlier, and where not a soul spoke the language of the New Planet. Here I was forced to speak in la langue I was certain I'd forgotten. But, to my delight, the natives on the planet understood me and, if they spoke slowly and didn't switch to Catalan, which sounds like Greek to me, they understood me too and I was able to navigate my way around the village and the menu with very few nasty surprises. Okay, maybe I did end up eating horse or cat, but if I did, I didn't know it. The sheer joy of discovering I had not lost 'it', cannot be adequately expressed, but has certainly resulted in a surge of desire to speak la langue a whole lot better.

Imagine the joy of my companion and I when we found ourself in Collioure, the charming coastal town where the planet's commandos train. Not only did we get to see the magnificent fort where they are stationed, but we also got to watch handsome men in skin-tight wet suits with very large guns slung across their chests, practising their canoeing and swimming skills. What more could two girls on their holiday ask for? And once we had wrenched our eyes away from their well honed and taut bodies, I discovered that this was where the first ever commando unit was trained during WW2 and where the term 'shock and awe' originated. Wandering through the cobbled streets with its coloured houses and wooden shutters in pastel shades I found myself transported and enthralled. All those people that live and work there and I didn't know a single one and will most likely never see any of them again, although I'd quite like to meet up with one of the commandos on a dark night....


My friend and I stayed in a medieval town with tiny winding streets where we got lost every night while trying to get home, going round and round trying to find the actual street that led to our gite, hysterical with fatigue and fury at constantly finding ourselves going the wrong way up a one way alley that is only wide enough for a horse and cart. Fortunately the natives were friendly and shook their heads and waggled their fingers at us, saying 'non, non,' before ushering us backwards towards the right street, except in the middle of the night when we simply went round and round before giving up in frustration and going the wrong way up a one way road because we needed to get to bed...and the loo. And by day seven of our ten day holiday, we finally cracked the code and figured out the route.

I did not however, get used to the clock in the 16th century church two metres away from us tolling every 15 minutes, all day and through the night. Four dongs before the hour, then the dongs to signal the hour. And then, just as I was falling asleep dong, one dong on the quarter hour, which woke me in a fright with my whole body quivering in dread. And back to sleep only for dong, dong on the half hour. Once again the body jerked awake, but drifted off until dong, dong, dong, on the forty five minute mark, followed by four dongs just before the hour and then 10, 11, 12, 1, 2, 3,dongs...you get the picture. I won't even mention the dustbin men who trundled the bins down the streets at 4am, every morning. Have you ever heard a wheelie bin being dragged down a cobbled street in the middle of the night? The first night I was certain it was the Anschluss.

By the fifth night or so I could pretty much cope with the donging and no longer woke in fright, until one early morning, a siren began wailing at about 3pm. I woke in panic, dived under the bed, convinced we were being attacked, that it was an air raid, that the Germans were coming, but then it stopped and I took a breath only for the wailing, like a cat inside a washing machine, to suddenly start up again five minutes later, by which stage I was wide awake and convinced the Gestapo was about to arrive and carry me off to be tortured. The next day while at the boulangerie purchasing the daily delicious baguette (WHY can they not make decent baguettes on the New Planet?) the air was rent once more by the siren, which everyone else ignored, and I wondered if I was losing my mind and hearing things. So I asked the boulanger, to be told it was only the 'pompiers'. Obviously a local volunteer fire brigade being summoned to duty. What a relief....until it went of at 4am once more!

There's so much more to tell, I think I will curtail this epistle and leave the rest for another time...