The
sound of iron wheels and shod hooves crossing cobble stone streets
awakened me. People talked to one another and it took a moment to
realize it was in French. The wonderful aroma of baking bread wafted
through the window.
Tossing
back the feather-filled cover, I placed my feet on the highly
polished wooden floor and glanced at my wrist watch. Six AM! How
could I oversleep like that? I grinned and stretched, rising to walk
to the open door onto the balcony.
Pelicans
skimmed the water of the bay, often no more than a meter above the
gentle waves. About a kilometer to my left, the south, clouds of
terns and seagulls swirled in tornadoes of wings against piers where
fishing boats tied up to unload their catch. More sails glided into
port from the Atlantic.
I
padded over to the bathtub and stripped, pleased at the warmth of the
water from the hand-held shower head. Not quite as hot as back in the
barracks but comfortable. I lathered myself and put a new blade in my
razor to remove what little hair grew on my teenage face. After
toweling myself, I brushed my teeth before donning my OD boxer shorts
and tee shirt. I repacked my handy little shaving kit and put my
dirty clothes into the bottom of my backpack.
The
one reason for selecting that particular inn, beside the security for
my motor scooter, was breakfast. This was my first introduction to a
Continental Breakfast. The small dining room had a half dozen tables covered
with snowy white cloths. A sideboard held plates, cups and small
dishes. A mother, father and a young boy and girl sat at one table. A
couple occupied another.
I
sighed with relief when the one man stood and introduced himself –
in English [or British] – to welcome me. “Is this your first
breakfast like this?” I told him yes and he invited me to join he
and his wife, introducing themselves as being on vacation from some
town in England. His wife rose and went to the sideboard, returning
with a plate holding a croissant, two small pats of butter and a
small cup of marmalade, and an egg in a cup clearly designed to hold
it.
I
had absolutely no idea what to do with the egg. So, the guy
demonstrated how one carefully removed the top, showing the
soft-boiled interior. I rose and went to the sideboard myself to pour
of glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee.
It
was delicious! I hadn't had unsalted butter since living on the
ranch. The orange juice had as much pulp as juice. The bread had to
be less than an hour or so out of the oven.
And
the conversation with my table mates was most enjoyable. He had
served in the British Army during the Korean War. They were on the
first half of their month-long vacation time. The shared their time
between the beach and the town's market place.
The
breakfast room overlooked the beach front and, as early as it was,
people were already out on the sand and even in the sea.
The
women then gave me one of probably the best tips I'd received up to
then – gratuities in Europe were included in the price. To tip was
often an insult and they think you are trying to shove your economic
status in their faces.
I
had no detailed plan for the day's travel except to cross into Spain
and then travel along the southern edge of the Pyrenees. I quickly
reached the border where brightly uniformed border guards smiled and
waved me through, obviously seeing the US Forces license plate on my
scooter.
It
was like entering a new world. The people wore colorful clothing.
Window boxes overflowed with bright flowers on every balcony. Smiles
predominated.
Following
Rand and McNally, I turned inland to reach famous Pamplona. I could
almost see Papa Hemingway watching the running of the bulls. The
mountains to the north began to grow higher as I rode east and I
began to worry whether my scooter had enough horsepower to get me
over them.
I
needn't worry. The well-paved roads kept a reasonable grade, often
with awesome switchbacks.
I
stopped for a light lunch in Jaca, Spain and found someone who spoke
enough English to tell me I could cross the mountains back into
France before nightfall. The scooter had a headlamp but I didn't want
to find myself in the middle of nowhere in the dark. Besides, I was
already having enough trouble concentrating on the highway and the
passing vehicles without trying to ride at night.
I
think the biggest breath-holder of the trip came when I entered a
tunnel that seemed to go on forever. Part of it had those open
arches. I pulled into one and got off the scooter to grab hold of the
ledge as I gazed out at mountains making me feel puny.
I'm
certain this is not the hotel I stayed in in Candanchú
but
it was similar. Again, the person behind the desk greeted me nicely
and I found it difficult to believe I was back in France. I had not
had a bit of trouble at the border. The village was a winter resort
and with little to no snow on the ground, few visitors were there.
That's probably why I was treated so nicely. Dinner was quite good
and I enjoyed a lentil soup along with a piece of roast beef. And
yes, I had a couple of glasses of red wine.
I
walked around the town until about nine o'clock, with a stop at one
sidewalk café
for
a glass of wine and to watch the people in the square.
The
bed was comfortable and I snuggled into the big feather bed, dropping
quickly asleep.
My
interest in Cathedrals came from having lived with Kit, an Irish
Catholic from South Boston who had married Jack [the man who'd never
adopted me]. I think it was due to her that I'd seen the 1940 move,
The Song of Bernadette. With that in mind, my next destination was
Lourdes, in the northern foothills of the Pyrenees.
I'd
quickly become enamored with the Continental Breakfast and the hotel
in Candanchú, France did not let me down. The crescent rolls still
smelled and felt fresh from the oven. Topped with unsalted butter and
marmalade, they went well with everything else.
An
ESSO station near the hotel allowed me to top off the tank of my
peppy little Lambretta. An aside, the current popularity of these
nifty little things always makes
me
smile. I doubt very few Americans truly realize how much Europeans
rely upon them to get around. I checked the map to ensure I knew how
to get to my next destination. Some figuring told me it was about 120
kilometers or just about 75 miles.
Actually
having to back off the accelerator to keep the speed down. Riding the
very edge of the highway while monster trucks roared past. What a
great way to enjoy some spectacular vistas. Rivers and streams joined
mountain lakes. Green evergreens covered the slopes.
It
did
not take long until I reached the village of Escot where the two lane
highway wended its way east through the rugged foothills. It took a
bit over an hour to reach Bilhères where I encountered an awesome
switchback road over a mountain pass.
I
reached Lourdes around eleven in the morning.
The
town itself was quaint and the people did not seem all that upset by
having an obvious American GI in their midst. I found a small café
and
settled in for a bottle of soda pop, a soup and a ham sandwich. It
took but a brief look around to tell me the town had one main
industry – tourism. Everywhere one looked were shops and stores
announcing the grotto and the miracle of the appearance of the Virgin
Mary to a poor, peasant girl.
Every
sign pointed to The Grotto. I found a parking lot and secured the
motor scooter, although an old man missing a leg with a patch over
his eye clearly tried to tell me he would guard it with his life for
a mere sou
or
two.
The
story of Jesus and the money changers in the temple in Jerusalem
instantly came to mind as I neared the grotto.
Everywhere
I looked, some poor, cripple soul in ragged clothing held out relics
and souvenirs for the faithful. Tiny vials of water offering miracle
cures. I don't want to sound cynical here [which I am by the way]
but,
if
the
water miraculously cured all ills, why where there so many sick and
disabled? While I had often felt at peace while sitting in old
churches and cathedrals, I left filled with disappointment – and
even anger.
I
couldn't
get
away from there fast enough.
My
next destination was a town I had read about that supposedly still
had walls surrounding it – Carcassonne. It had been been originally
built by the Romans and expanded into a
city
by the Visigoths. The map told me it was a little over two hours from
Lourdes and I happily marked out side roads so I did not have to go
through the city of Tolouse.
The
view from a distance was awesome. But, what would it look like up
close?
I
had to remember that this part of the country had been controlled by
the Vichy Government and thus escaped the bombing and fighting of the
recent World War.
The
first thing I did was find a small inn not far from the city itself
and checked in. It had a courtyard for the motor scooter and I made
certain breakfast came with the room. I would learn asking that
question was unnecessary as breakfast ALWAYS came with similar rooms.
It was still early so I walked into the city.
It
didn't take long to learn one had to pay to enter the walled city
itself. In 1958, the entry price was very cheap for an American. I
think the conversion came to something like thirty cents.
It
was worth the price.
They
had done an outstanding job of hiding modern amenities like electric
lights. I found a small bar and sat at an outside table to drink a
glass of red wine. After an hour of watching the people – all
clearly tourists – passing by, I got up and climbed up onto the
parapets of the old fortress.
What
a great view of the countryside.
Neatly
maintained farms, appearing like sculptures far below. Here and
there, wagons drawn by horses or mules. Lights showing here and there
as the sun set over the hills to the west, head and tail lights
marking roads. An old man came by with a strange instrument shaped
like a long hook at the end of a pole. I quickly saw he was using it
to light scones on the stone walls. I had already learned that
visitors were to leave the inner city by ten o'clock, unless they had
a room in one of the expensive hotels there.
I
made it back to the inn, my stomach telling me I was going to regret
having nothing to eat for dinner. Much to my happy surprise, the wife
of the proprietor ran a kitchen for guests and was still open.
Another discovery was that only we uncivilized Americans dined before
eight or nine in the evening. The tables were covered in snowy linen
and they served a very nice red wine. The opening course was a fresh
salad followed by soup and the main entrée like the picture above.
And, there was of course, coffee with thick cream and a very tasty
pastry.
I
took a walking tour of the area for an hour before returning to my
room and collapsing into the atrociously warm and comfortable bed.
I
set off to the east after breakfast, my destination the town of
Narbonne. I wanted to see it as I'd read it had been founded by the
Roman sometime in the BCs. Sure enough, I found a set of stones that
were an old roman road.
It
was still early, so I turned around and headed for Toulouse. I was
situated towards the headwaters of the Garonne River that would lead
me back to Bordeaux. Like every other town or city back in the late
1950's, the city was surrounded by farms and fields. I decided to
follow the signs to the town square where I found a small cafe and,
after parking my motor scooter, sat at a table to enjoy a snack.
The
trip had become a bit tiring so I decided to get on my way and head
back to Bordeaux, then Bussac. Instead of going to the city, I turned
north at Agen on the highway to Bergerac. Who did not know of that
town! The home of Cyrano de Bergerac. And they certainly let one know
of their famous hero/lover. Heck! I had no idea that he was a real
person.
However,
there it was
– a statue to the real person. Was I ever shocked to learn that his
first lover was Charles
Coypeau d'Assoucy, a writer and musician!!!
Back
on the road through rambling hills with farms, little streams, and
lots of woods. I still couldn't get used to how manicured and tended
everything was. I never once saw a bit of wild landscape like we have
here in the USA.
I
know this sounds weird, but it was a bit of a relief to return to the
communal barracks. It was “home” to me. I even enjoyed the
ribbing from the other guys in the platoon.
As
some who read this blog might now know, I just received a shock in a
comment posted by a guy who was stationed in the same unit at the
same time I was. How in the heck is that for coincidence. At the same
time, I really hate to admit this, but I just cannot picture Lonny,
no matter how hard I try. He remember Ralph and even the names of our
lieutenant and warrant officer. Maybe he can even tell me the last
name of Harold who came from Redding, California. We joked about it
as I came from Redlands and the two always got mixed up.
Well,
enough of this for now. There's only one little hint I'd like make
for some of the upcoming posts. It is -----
