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6 Writing Home Up before sunup. We had no problem being seen due to the glow we gave off after sleeping beneath those nuclear power plants. At the patisserie I delighted in saying, "Give me some pain." The Marie (town officemayor's office) was across the street. I had to go to the washroom. The Marie was locked. The same building housed the post office, so I decided to check there for a toilet. The post office, an eight by ten foot room, held one clerk behind a desk with phone and computer. Not wishing to appear rude, I hoped that revealing my background would allow me to use the washroom, even if it was normally for workers only. Using my best French, I told her I lived in Canada and that I was cycling around France. Having made my introduction, I got to the crux of the matter. "Twahlette?" I asked. She looked at a chart on the wall, then pulled a pamphlet from her desk drawer, then got on the phone. After three tries she reached someone. Hanging up, she pulled out a book of stamps and checked another chart. "Trois?" she asked sweetly. After all that trouble I figured I had better buy some-besides, I had four postcards, so I said, "cat," and she sold me four stamps. "That's damn small toilet paper," flashed through my mind as she handed me the stamps. That out of the way, but still of pressing concern was another matter. I changed my pronunciation and tried again. "Toylette." A strange look hung on her pallid face like I'd slapped her with a wet turd. She said something I didn't understand. A woman standing behind me added something that I didn't understand and pointed outside. I kept the stamps-maybe they were washroom passes. I told Sharon what had happened and she burst out laughing. About now, ready to mess my drawers, I didn't see what was so darn hilarious. Sharon enlightened me: "Your French accent is so bad she thought you were asking for stamps for three letters: trois lettre. At this rate you could be writing home more often than you originally planned." A workman busy hacking down flower boxes was loading armfuls of stalks and dried flowers into his work cart. "Toilette," I said to him-half expecting him to send me back inside to the post office-but he took me to a little building with a sunroof. Inside was a urinal, sink and three doors. Would it be door number one, two, or three? I opened the first door. It was a shower. I wouldn't have guessed that. I turned the tap and hot water came out. I should have brought my towel. Door number two? Locked. Door number three? Bingo. Clean and spacious. It even had a roll of pink toilet paper. We bought pears, bananas, grapes and Clementine oranges that were like Japanese oranges, but came from Spain. Leaving town around a traffic circle three men at the café started shouting and waving their arms. Sharon and I went over to them. The road we had chosen went only to the cement plant. There were three roads out of town and we had come in on one of them, so that narrowed our remaining choice. We hadn't bought bread yet-and no lunch in France was complete without a baguette. At the next town we hit the bakery. The woman cut the loaf in half. I asked her how to say "cut" in French. She didn't understand what I was trying to ask and tried to cut my loaf in four pieces. No. Lengthwise then? No. How about slices? No. I gave up. She was still trying to figure out what I wanted when I returned to my bike. I was bungeeing the loaf onto the back of Sharon's bike when the woman came running out with a plastic bag. "Ah, sac!" she said triumphantly and pointed to the ever darkening afternoon sky. "Pluie," she nodded knowingly and quickly wrapped our precious cargo in a waterproof coat. "Oui," we said. "Tout suite," she said and pointed to the bread and then to her mouth. "Oui," we agreed. Out of town we came to a forest with two rustic picnic tables made from logs. It rained as we ate our baguette. I stood under a leaky tree with the baguette's plastic bag on my head. I noticed the sign on the corner read: Sangarue 12 km and pointed it out to Sharon. "Hmmm. We passed there a long time ago," Sharon noted. "We should be farther than that. And we shouldn't be going toward it." We had taken a wrong turn. I knew that tailwind was too good to be true. The road was marked 978; what we wanted. But in France they didn't put North or South on signs. It was difficult to tell what direction we were heading when there was no sun. We were bemoaning our fate when a car stopped. They looked at the sign, studied their map, then turned around and motored back in the direction they had come. Being lost appeared to be a national pastime. It continued to rain on us. It stopped. I took off my rain pants. It rained again. I didn't put my rain pants back on. After becoming soaked I discovered there were no Laundromats in France's small towns. I was wet and chilled. In late afternoon, I should have been looking for a camping spot but my numb brain was no longer rational. At a farmhouse I didn't stop. At a forest I didn't stop. In the next town there was no place to stop. We continued. The rain pummelled harder. I was past saturated dripping and cold. When it got dark I couldn't see any camp spots. We rode through LurcyLévis and out into the black countryside. I couldn't even see the road edge. Our flashing Vistalites were on front and back. Approaching cars slowed to a crawl, checking us out. Some pulled completely off the road and waited for us to pass. With our front light flashing yellow they must have thought we were some type of new emergency vehicle. I felt safer riding in pitch black in France, than I did riding in broad daylight in America. A car cautiously passed. In its headlight beam I caught a glimpse of an opening in the hedge. Sharon took her flashlight and explored past a ditch into the trees where she found a small clearing. We struggled with our loaded bikes through the deep ditch. Thorns. Brambles. Uneven ground. Leaning our bikes against a tree, we set up the tent. My hands were like a pair of useless lobster claws. I crawled into the sleeping bag and shoved my hands under my armpits. Sharon fed me. We had managed to cycle 120 kilometers, but we had ridden before light and well after dark. It was raining heavily when I fell asleep. I woke up. Rain still beat down. The ditch we had crossed sounded like a rushing river. Our own private moat I mused as I fell back into slumber. I woke again to hear pounding rain. It sounded as if a river was rushing by our tent. Deciding my ears were playing tricks on me I dozed and dreamt we were being washed away. |
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