I need to be honest. This was not the easiest day of the trip. We drove from Lake Como to Avignon. We made it. We are still talking to each other. And I am still writing these posts. I thought for a bit today might have been the end of the Traveling Johns. But more on that later.
We tried to pack the car more intelligently that we had in Milan. We managed to consolidate some of our stuff, and so we were able to use one seat in the back of the van. This was a huge improvement over the ride to Lake Como. Tom Giles did the driving and I navigated. We had a couple stops along the way. John wanted to stop in Turin to visit a famous coffeehouse there. Driving into the city and finding a place to park proved to be a bit difficult. People not given to a certain kind of British understatement might even call it a nightmare. Yet it was a fascinating detour into a city that few tourists ever visit.
The scenery as we went through the Alps was extraordinarily beautiful, and it might have been nice to have had more time to savor it. But we were supposed to be in Avignon by 6:00. We made it there about 25 minutes late. The crew seemed happy to see us as we were the last to arrive. I had our group pull all of the luggage out of the van so Tom and I could get the van back to Hertz. We were supposed to have returned that 90 minutes before. I asked Antonella, the principal tour guide, for the address to give us the address so I could get a taxi from the train station. She thought it would be better if she arranged for a taxi to meet me there and bring me back to the ship.
With some difficulty, the cabbie and I finally met up inside the train station. I tried to make some polite conversation with him in Spanish — his parents were Spaniards and he spoke that language quite fluently — but I was frankly pretty tired. I just looked out the window as the he drove off. And as I kept looking out the window, I began to wonder where exactly we were going. It seemed like we were headed in the wrong direction. I glanced at my phone and thought about checking Google Maps. I was down to less than 3 percent charge. I decided to use it as little as I could.
The cab kept on going. I wanted to ask him, “Are you sure you know where you’re going? Where exactly is the boat?” But I kept thinking, he’s the local, and Antonella told him where to go. Finally, we drove into Arles. At this point I knew we were in the wrong place. And my phone was down to about 1 percent charge. I somewhat melodramatically sent John one of those the-airplane-is-about-to-crash-but-I-want-you-to-know-I-love-you texts. The cabbie pulled up to the quay. “La barca no esta aqui. ¿Donde estan?” he demanded. “No se,” was the best I could mumble back. John must have shown the text to Antonella because she called him right then. They began arguing back in forth furiously in French. I understand French much better than I speak it, and I could largely follow the debate. He said that she told him to bring me to Arles. She said, no, she had told him specifically to Avignon. She insisted he bring me back. He refused to drive an additional 50 kilometers. He hung up on her. He began to tell me that she was “mentirosa,” a liar among other sobriquets. She called again and he refused to answer. I was desperate to get out. I asked him in Spanish if there was train service to Avignon. He drove the car around a square to the entry to the train station. “¿Cuanto le debo?” I asked. He demanded 60 euro. Fortunately, I had it in my wallet. I jumped out of the cab before he changed his mind.
I checked my phone again. It was completely dead. And the Arles train station was virtually abandoned. The electric signboard showed a train in one hour and twenty minutes. I managed to buy a ticket from a machine. I wondered if I could find a charger somewhere in the city. The old part of town looked like it was only a few blocks away, so I started walking. Some sullen teenagers and a gypsy family stared at me. Entering the old town I realized that absolutely nothing was open. Some of the shops looked like they had not been open in years. Not all historic European cities have been restored, I guess.
I went into the first hotel that looked like the rooms were not rented by the hour. I asked the clerk if she spoke English. She did. I started to explain the situation and asked if I could pay for a phone call. I figured I should call John to let him know that I was okay and that I would be coming back on the train later in the evening. Antonella must have grabbed the phone away from him. I explained about the train, but she told me that she was sending Marco, the bike repairman, one of the staff members, to pick me up. I agreed to meet him in front of the station. I pulled out my wallet and tried to pay the helpful hotel clerk. She refused. “I want to apologize on behalf of the entire nation of France,” she said. “French people don’t act like this."
Riding back with Marco was interesting. He was born in Venice, but his real passion in life is skateboarding. There is obviously a problem with skateboarding in Venice! So he had lived in a half dozen places around the world in his life, including several sojourns in Southern California. He like Venice, California better than Venice, Italy! I suppose if I had the same interest in being a thrasher I would, too.
Everybody seemed relieved when I made it back to the boat. They insisted I eat a reheated dinner. It was pretty terrible, but I thought it would be rude to refuse. Tomorrow we have our first bike ride.
