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8 Wine Is For Babies "Hey Campoors! Hey Campoors!" Honk! Honk! Car lights flashed on and off. Music blared. More car tires scrunched on the gravel. "Hey Campoors!" Honkhonk! I groaned and looked at my watch. Five o'clock. Voices began singing. So young adults in France did go out and party. I had wondered if there were any. We may as well start packing. Sleeping was over. At least we would get an early start. I was standing by the side of the tent when three male forms appeared. "Bon matin," I said. Surprised, they laughed. I told them I was from Canada and cycling France. They quickly ducked under the railing to shake my hand and welcomed me with a myriad of questions. I was figuring out what they were saying when Sharon popped her head out the tent door to translate. Surprised again, they rushed over to talk to her. One fella started asking question in English. Eight guys swarmed around our tent. One explained they rarely got foreigners in their little village, so they were very excited. Also, they had been drinking Pinot 5.1 fortyfive percent alcohol and were very jolly. Pinot was supposed to be mixed five parts water to one part alcohol. There was a tap where we were camped. It was the only one for miles around. They stopped for water every weekend. They insisted on giving me a swig of Pinot. "This is for men," one said. "Wine is for babies." It tasted like licorice. Someone grabbed my hat and put it on. They learned our names; swaying arm in arm they belted out a song-something about Neil and Sharon always being in good spirits. "Merde," another said, shaking my hand as he departed. "What's that?" I asked. "Something like "good luck" when travelling." "Gee, thanks." He laughed. "Don't thank someone when they say "merde." It takes the good luck away," he explained. Two cars left. David, speaking English, talked to Sharon. He was twentytwo, worked in the rock wool plant and played drums in a band. "France has nothing good except the food," he declared. David's friend, Pascal, talked to me solely in French. I finally figured out he was telling me a chateau nearby had been bombed during the war and we should go take a souvenir photo. Then Pascal thought my flag pole was a cb antenna and searched everywhere for the microphone. At one point I interrupted David and asked him to translate what Pascal was saying. After a couple of attempts David said: "I can't translate it." "Oh, it's too difficult to put French into English?" I asked. "Oh, no," David said. "Pascal is too drunk to speak properly-I can't understand him. He's slurring all his words. When Pascal's sober, he's an A student in English." Pascal hadn't uttered one work in English-he just babbled on in French and mimed things. We got along fabulously. David and Pascal departed at seven o'clock each giving Sharon a kiss on her cheek-explaining it was the French way. David yelled from the car, "Forgive me and my friends for waking you. We didn't know you were here." Sure. "Hey Campoors!" Honk. Honk. I looked up the word "merde" in my FrenchEnglish dictionary, but I couldn't find it. Watching the sunrise, we ate breakfast. The picture of creamy porridge on the box of cereal I had bought turned out to be justaddwater mashed potatoes. Quite interesting with syrup. We climbed hills with ample views of valleys. By a graveyard, I waited for Sharon. While eating a piece of chocolate, I marvelled at the glass houses over the graves. They would be lucky to last one Friday night in America. In BourgLastic, at the public toilet with squat footsteps, someone had crapped backwards. Stupid foreigners. I bought a kilo of Clementine oranges and we left town looking for a camping spot. Leaves were rust orange and yellow. Descending a steep pitch behind Sharon, I watched the fallen leaves swirl in a mini leaf storm behind her bike. Towards Messeix, I slowly pedalled uphill. In the last oblique rays of afternoon, I looked down the bank and saw a tree so bright it looked illuminated from within. It was a hilly day. I concluded France was nothing but hills and valleys. We couldn't go anywhere without climbing. We had racked up a total of 4000 feet climbing for the day. My legs felt it. A leaf strewn pathway led to the river. I found a spot under a twisted oak tree with a view of the splendiferous autumn hillside. A twocar mountain train, following the river, clacketyclacked past under the starry night. |
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