Trains Banks and Beaches
Remember what I said about expecting the Frence
train people changing
my
ticket and how I suspected they’d changed it to a train where bicycles
were not allowed?
Getting up and ready to go in Paris was no problem.
I pulled myself out
of bed about two minutes before the wake up call came. Within a half
hour I was fully packed, downstairs, out the door, and at a coffee
shop,
The Mainz, near the Montparnasse train station.
Along the way I stopped to take a couple photos of
myself with the
Eifel
Tower in the background. It was a damp morning and the old city hummed
with busy-ness. Some local ladies got a kick out of watching me try to
take a photo of myself, but none offered to assist. I was having fun
with the chore, and got into clowning it up for the girls. They were
all
laughing and I managed to get a shot of me smiling.
Once inside the station I had to wait, and wait some
more. When that
was
done, I did a little more waiting until the gate number finally
appeared
on the big screen. That’s when the real fun began.
At the train platform officials were checking
tickets. When the fellow
saw my velo (French for bicycle) he began to wave his hands and speak
swiftly in French. I heard something like “jea ne pa velo” “no bike”
“velo prohibito” as he tried to speak several different languages, from
what I could tell, none to any great degree of success. At one point he
came up to me, pointed at my bike, and drew a box around it, then
pointed me back towards the main part of the station.
While all this was going on a small crowd of
passengers had built up
around us. As soon as I turned away they swarmed him. I noticed I could
no longer see him amid the crowd of questioning travellers, so I made
myself small, very very small, and snuck on by his post and onto the
train platform behind him. Lucky for me there were no more train
officials along the platform, they were all busy inside the individual
cars helping people get settled.
I found my car, where a man helped me pull my beast
on board. I quickly
uprighted Wheels onto its back wheels, slid it into the narrow luggage
space at the back of the car, then threaded my U-Lock, you know the
cryptonite ones you can’t cut through, between the body of the bike and
the little bars on the luggage rack. Then I grabbed my loose bag, found
my seat, took off my cycling jacket, tucked it away and sat down.
Just before the train was about to pull away a
couple conductors came
into the car wanting to know, in French, who had put a velo on board. I
kept my mouth closed, did not respond, and neither did the sweet old
lady who was sitting beside me. The conductors went up and down the
car.
Then they went out to the luggage rack where one of
them tried to pull
Wheels out of its wedgie. He pointed at the lock. At that moment one of
them looked at his watch, then they both made the hand motions for
perplexity and shrugged. They gave Wheels the “oh well, too late now”
signal and
left the area. The little old lady beside me smiled when she saw that,
then winked, then grabbed my hand and said, “you are a very sneaky man,
they should be more accomodating to people on bikes.”
The train pulled
out of the station.
It took about two hours for the high speed train to
zip north west
through the rolling French countryside to the ancient and lovely town
of
St. Malo. Had I know this town existed I might have visited it sooner.
In a shelterd horseshoe shaped cove along the English Channel, with the
islands of Jersey, Guernsey and several others off in the distance, the
town sits on a small hill overlooking a former Napoleanic era walled
city, the beach, and the sea. It is a purely French city, with all the
architecture, tall narrow buildings, stone work, sea walks, little
shops, and narrow lanes that are so famous here. I would spend eight
hours just wandering around the place, eating a snack on the sea wall,
and thinking about my trip. It seemed a poignant way to end my Euro
weeks, in a quiet old town with the Atlantic Ocean, the sea breeze, and
a warm sun. Many people stopped and talked to me as I hung out, some in
French, some in English. One old fellow from the Brit side actually
stopped, sat down, and spent a good hour chatting. He was from Poole,
but had moved to the French side of the channel to escape the
“crowding”
on the English side.
It wasn’t until shortly before my hovercraft was due
to leave that I
decided I should stock up on cash for the upcoming trip. I would need
either train fare or money for a B&B on the other side. I went into
the
little downtown area and found a cash machine. It wouldn’t allow me to
take any money. I found another, it wouldn’t allow me any money. A
third
machine told me my institution had declined my request.
Checking my wallet, I found about 75 euros, or 50
BNP. I found yet
another cash machine and tried again. This time it came back with an
“account suspended, contact your financial institution,” warning.
Panic set in. I went to a local phone and tried to
make the 1 800 call
to the bank. I couldn’’t get through. Time was running out, I had to
make the boat. Off I went, to be greeted by a French woman in a red
pill
box hat who had a smile that could melt glaciers and a voice that makes
others want to sing. She was truly a delight, with big blue eyes that
looked right at you and said, hey, its okay, I’m here, how can I help?
Which is pretty much what she said.
It took nearly an hour to work my way through all
the pre-boarding
rigamoural but with this lovely woman as my guide it was no problem.
British police stamped my passport, and I loaded onto the ship, where
my
financial fiasco finally hit me. I had 50 British pounds to get me
through three days, and over 200 K of ground. It wasn’t going to work,
and that thought weighed on me as we blasted across the channel in the
bumpy and rocky riding hovercraft. I tried to catch some winks, ate
only
the food in my food bag, and copped some hot water for my own tea from
the stewards. I spent nothing on that boat, except the fare, which had
been 63 euros.
The napping didn’t take. I was restless, worried,
but somehow sure if I
could get through the night without spending, I might be able to work
something out in the morning. There had to be money left in my account,
I knew that. I told myself it was a small glitch and would work itself
out.
Arriving in the town of Poole, on Englands south
coast, at midnight, I
discovered my headlights were no longer working. At first I was
wondering
why everything was suddenly malfunctioning, then I thought it was
probably for the best. Lights would attract attention, and to do what I
was about to do I needed to be pretty much invisible.
I checked a map I’d picked up on the boat and
noticed there was a cycle
lane through a green zone, a park or wild area of some sort. I headed
for it, but missed a turn in the darkness, and wound up in a heavy
industry zone. Riding in circles I spotted an fenced alley between two
big factories. I rode up it to find a green space, just as a large and
rather hungry looking fox of some sort, went running across the trail.
I
turned into the green space, found myself a clump of bushes and a big
old oak tree a little off the path, pulled Wheels into the shrubbery,
pulled out a tarp and my sleeping bag, laid down beside Wheels, and
fell
into a very deep and instantaneous five hour sleep.
About six am I got up, tucked away the sleeping bag
and tarp, then
headed back into Poole, where I promptly emailed everyone on my mailing
list who I thought might be able to help me out of mess I was in. Then
I
went to the bank machine. It didn’t work. Then I went to a telephone
and
managed to get in touch with my bank’s main office in eastern Canada.
They told me I would have to wait until my home branch was open, later
in the day.
Then I went back to another bank machine. It let me
see what was in my
savings account, but would not let me access my chequing account, where
my money is. I then went to the local train station to find out how
much
it was going to cost to get to London. It would take half the cash I
had
on me, and leave me less than 30 pounds to get by on. I went back to
the
bank machine, still no luck.
Then I went back to the train station and asked
about a ticket to Brighton,
it was a little cheaper. I opted to go there, where I at least knew I
had a place to crash and could get a train to Heathrow. Loading myself
on the train, my day turned to fun.
From the conductors on down to the lowliest
passengers everyone seemed
interested in my and my big rig of a bicycle, and all seemed eager to
help, and to hear stories of my trip. For then next four hours, as I
trained across the south of England, I was talked to, assisted, even
guided to elevators and correct platforms, through three train changes
and finally into the bustling seaside town of Brighton. Midway I
managed
to check email, while stopped at a changeover, and received a welcome
mailing from my friend Jim in Brighton, yes, I could stay over a night
or two, and another friend had dropped a little cash in my account.
Upon landing in Brighton I ran smack dab into a
fellow I met here when
I
visited with Peelee back in the early part of my trip. We stood outside
the rail station and talked. It was a nice conversation and he invited
me, almost demanded, that at some point in my day I would have to do
some time on the beach. I agreed.
A phone call and a few minutes later I was in a
local park, meeting
Jim,
who was on his way to a gig in Birmingham. Jim’s a guitar player,
sometime drummer, who used to play music behind my poetry in Vancouver
way back in the 1990s. We don’t know one another very well, but we’ve
always been friendly, and I’ve always admired his musical ability. I’d
hoped we’d get a chance to get to know one another a little better, but
once again, he was going out the door as I was going in. He gave me a
map and showed me how to get to his place, a cosy little one room self
contained unit in a row house up on the hill in Brighton.
Once here, I unloaded, then went out to check the
town. I spent my
whole
afternoon on the beach, listening to live music, people watching, and
visiting with strangers. It was a nice way to pass the day. Middway
through I managed to get in touch with my bank. I’ve apparently used a
bank machine in France that was tampered with. All the accounts
accessed
from that machine have been frozen, including my chequing account,
while
the banks try to figure out what went on. After some discussion, the
bank and I agreed my best bet was to wait until I’m in Vancouver on
Monday, when I can visit my chequing account’s home bank at Broadway
and
Commercial. I’ve been assured that as long as I’m who I say I am there
will be no problem.
With all this information at hand, and suddenly
greatly relieved, I
realized how tired I was, made my way back up the long steep hill from
the beach, and had a good night’s sleep.
Which brings me to where I am, at my friend Jim’s
place, in uphill
Brighton. Today I will go find a bike box, check the train station to
figure out how to get to Heathrow for Monday morning, then decide my
course of action. I will either remain in Brighton until Monday
morning,
if a direct connection is possible, or I will stay until Sunday and
then
go to London for my last night over here. I’m hoping to stay in
Brighton
because Jim and his Vancouver music partner Kirsten are doing a gig
here
Sunday night and it would be great to hear them again. It’ll be like
being back on the west coast of Canada before I’m on the west coast of
Canada. I hope it works out.
Anyway, that’s all for now. I’m still having an
adventure.
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