Bonjour mes amies,
Je suis en France, mais je ne sais pas enough Francais to finish this email in the vernacular. To be a little more precise, I am in just outside the village of La Ciotat, at a very lovely place, but more of that later.
Having spent last weekend watching Australia beat the French in the rugby, I felt it was time to escape the English gloating over Australians voting no in the referendum, and go somewhere where I could do some gloating of my own. Also, having moved out of a hotel and into our new house, I was beginning to miss hotels and wanted to get back into one. So Felicity and I hopped in the car on Sunday and drove from London (where we had been staying for the night with my sister) to Basingstoke (drove is a somewhat misleading term - sat in a pseudo-stationary car might be a more accurate description) just in time to quickly pack and jump in the car and head off to Gatwick to catch a plane to Marseille.
As darkness descended at 4:30pm, we dodged the pheasants in the driveway (there was a whole family there, about 10 of them) and headed off across country towards Gatwick. It was about this time that I started doing some calculations as to what the credit limit on my credit card was and what the sum of the expenses of living in a hotel for a month was, and discovering that they were not significantly different. Well, worrying never got anyone anywhere, and so far it hadn't been rejected even though I thought it should have, so it should just keep going fine.
We made our way through the countryside, via Farnham, Dorking and Reigate, and then arrived at Gatwick. This was interesting, 'cos Gatwick had just bifurcated and miraculously, there appeared two terminals, a north terminal and a south terminal. This was quite miraculous, as I had checked my itinerary and knew that I was arriving and leaving in terminal one in Marseille, and having checked for a terminal number in Gatwick it had remained totally silent on that fact. So, as you do, I confidently decided that I would be leaving from the south terminal (because that was the closer one, so it made sense that I'd be going from there). Felicity dropped me off, we said our goodbyes, and I strode into the terminal, glanced up at the monitors, and couldn't see my flight number. Oops. But not a worry, because my plane was leaving at 7pm, and I was looking at flights leaving around 1700. Of course I couldn't find it. So, with renewed confidence, boosted by the fact that there were plenty of BA flights leaving from the south terminal, I looked for my flight leaving at 1900. Hmmm, still not there. Well, I was at the entrance, and there would be more monitors with more flights inside. There were, and they all didn't show my flight. Better have a look at the ticket, and there, before my very eyes, appeared a line which had been printed in lemon juice, waiting to be exposed to the particular lights of the Gatwick South terminal, which read "North Terminal". Well, I knew there was a reason I had a mobile phone, it was to call Felicity and ask her to pick me up and take me to the south terminal. Which I did. But the English had out done themselves, and Felicity was already making her way efficiently up the motorway, having covered a number of miles in record time, and there was no way she could get back. Which was just as well, because while it takes forever to get anywhere by car, the trains are pretty good, and there was a monorail from the south terminal to the north terminal. I boarded the monorail, and immediately got a call from Felicity. Having carried her far enough away from me to be of no use in my time of need, the motorway had done its dash and Felicity was now caught in traffic.
I now entered the North terminal, with time getting away from me. I hastily looked up at the monitors and made my way to Zone F, where I was to check in. The good thing about flying business class (amongst many other good things about flying business class) is that you get your own much shorter and better queues at the checkin (except in O'Hare at Chicago, where the queues are much shorter and have correspondingly less check-in counters open, and the staff are extra helpful, and take way more time per passenger so your wait is longer - but by the time you get to the front you make the most of the opportunity to ask the really friendly but totally unknowledgable check in staff all the questions you always thought that one day you'd like to ask about flying, and come away far more confused than before). So I saw all the poor economy suckers waiting in their queue, and went in search of the zone F business class check in. I was singularly unsuccessful, and so in the end in desparation joined the line. They were calling people for Geneva and Verona, and then suddenly I heard a call for people travelling to Marseille. I looked up and the lady calling people looked away and then escorted a couple of people to a checkin counter. Not wanting to push my way though 3 lines of people without at least a BA official at my side, I waited for her to call again. It seemed she never would, but eventually she did, and in next to no time I was at a check in counter. The man behind the desk said "Two things about this ticket..." and in keeping with the time to this point I added "...one, you were supposed to confirm it at least 2 days in advance, and you haven't. Secondly, you need a visa to get into France," but to my relief he said, "...firstly, it is a business class ticket. Secondly, the frequent flier card you've just presented me with entitles you to check in at the business class checkin even if you had an economy ticket. The business class check in is in zone C. There's a sign as you come in," and gave me a ticket for seat IA. Well, I'm not sure if the sign is there or not, but it is certainly not in the sort of place you look when frazzled, concerned you're going to miss your plane, and desparately searching for a business class check in queue, but at least I was going to be first off the plane. This gave me just enough time to look frantically around the airport for an ATM to at least withdraw some cash in case my credit card ran out, and once again fail spectacularly. But, and this is a very useful point to know, you can withdraw foreign currency from your Switch card (the equivalent of an EFTPos card for you Aussies and the equivalent of a Cash Station card for you Illinois Yanks, and for the rest of you I wouldn't have a clue what it is the equivalent of, but it's not a credit card), and I got myself some French Francs from the little money exchangers in the corner of the airport furthest away from my gate.
Gatwick kindly has signs telling you how long it takes to walk to your gate from where the sign is, and mine told me that it was 6 minutes walk. My watch told me it was 6:45 and my ticket told me my gate closed at 6:50 and the clocks in the airport told me it was 6:46, so I walked briskly towards the gate. There did not seem to be all that many people waiting around, but they were not calling my name over the loud speakers, so I summoned what confidence I still had left and went on. There was a poor soul with a guitar or some such instrument which he was trying to negotiate past the staff at the gate, and I went through to take my place at the front of the plane. Which was full. Now the trouble with seat 1A is that you do not have a seat in front of you underwhich to place your belongings, and so you have to place them in the overhead lockers, where you should take care when opening as the contents may have shifted during the flight. I opened the locker, and it like the plane was full. So I turned to the helpful flight attendent, the type of people who look after these kind of things for passengers, and she in a very helpful manner pointed out locker not too far from the back of the plane which had some space. So I went and made some room for my laptop in the locker, and received some helpful advice in French from the woman sitting under the locker who's things I was moving ever so slightly in order to make space for my stuff, and returned to my seat, minus my book and all the things I'd wanted to do on the flight. So I settled in with a newspaper and read all the English gloating about Australia not kicking out Queenie, but how ironic it was the John Eales is a republican, and how totally uninspiring the Australian win was, but they'd sort of be happy to accept that maybe we deserved to win because we were still a colony. So much for getting away from it.
The flight took me almost directly over Paris, where someone was kind enough to point out the Eiffel Tower, all lit up and standing out like a the needle that was found in a haystack.
I arrived in Marseille at about 10pm, with my only hitch getting through immigration a comment accompanied by finger wagging, a stamp in the passport, and then a smile. I think there was something in the comment which sounded something like rugby. After having a scare when my credit card was rejected at car rental place, and then having a frantic search through all of my luggage for another credit card (which fortunately did work as it did not have a month's worth of hotel expenses on it, and which drew a sigh of relief from the clerk behind the desk, expressed in the way that I think that only the French can, which seemed to indicate that she was far more worried about not being able to rent a car that I was, which I must say was quite an achievement), and I was settled in a manual diesel left hand drive Golf, armed with a faint idea of where I was heading (somewhat strengthened by the page of directions which had been faxed to me) and the map that I was able to tear off a pad in the office. I headed off, attempting to open the door whenever the revs got too high, then wondering why the car had so little power as I changed from second to fifth. I must say that the car was remarkably accomodating to my abuses, the only time it got anywhere close to stalling was as I drove around the airport for the third time looking for the place to return the car, after I'd tried to change gears with the indicators and strongly applied the brake, possibly the accelerator and not the clutch while entering a roundabout.
About 5 minutes into the drive I took my first wrong turn, but as I had no clue where I was, I decided the best thing to do was to keep driving. I hit the only other road that I had identified on the map (the A7), and before I knew it I was underground, going through these tunnels which I had no idea where they went. Fortunately I had all night to get there, and so I thought it would be a good way to see France. I followed the tunnels to a point where all of a sudden there were gates right across the road. This caused another panic, until I eventually managed to work out that one of the gates was manual. I pulled up to what looked like a deserted gate, when a window opened and I handed over a 50 franc note, very grateful that I had managed to find out about Switch cards and currency exchange. Not having a clue how much I was supposed to pay, I didn't know if it was enough or not. The man in booth pointed at the big sign which said Fr 13.50, and I wondered how that corresponded to the couple of coins which were returned to me, and continued on my way, still with no idea which way I was going, but seeing as how I still had no better options, I went on, remembering that I had seen Toulon on the map in the right general direction, and there was a sign. Then, miraculously I found myself on the right road, the one I'd been trying to head onto. Having got onto the right road was helpful, and I found myself travelling through countryside which looked like it would be very beautiful if I could actually see any of it. After that I missed the turn off to La Ciotat about 3 times from multiple directions, requiring various trips around roundabouts in the wrong direction (which fortunately was the right direction, but still highly disconcerting) and finally I found my way into La Ciotat - which was all very well, except that II wasn't supposed to get into La Ciotat, as the directions told me how to get there after I left La Ciotat. I was sure I could get out of La Ciotat, the problem was getting out of La Ciotat in the correct direction. After a scenic tour of the town in the dark I finally found a way out which seemed to correspond to the directions on the map, and spotting a sign which said "Ciotat Le Cap", then name of the hotel, seemed to indicate I was headed in the right direction.
I finally arrived at a locked gate, and hoped out of the car to press the buzzer. "Bon soir, je m'appel Jonathan Main," I began, and this proved to be enough to get the gate to open, so I popped back into the car, and wandered into the reception, accompanied by the sound of the sea. The night porter gave me a key, and pointed me towards my room. I spotted the number on the wall above the window, and went looking for the door. Eventually I worked out the the shuttered windows were actually the door, and managed to get through the shutters, and with some more fumbling in the dark with the key, I was inside. At that point, the porter, who was watching with some concern, came and found the light switch for me.
The hotel was a little holiday resort, and was magnificent, right on the sea, with a swimming pool as well. The weather did all the right things for us, but I did not venture into the water. On Monday night we all went to the little village of Chassis, and had fish on the harbour, overlooked by a castle on the cliff. It was good food served by a young waiter (at a guess I'd say he was 12), with a great deal of confidence ("my specials today are tres, tres, tres bien") and a knack of selling what he wanted to the patrons.
I would have loved to stay and explore, but unfortunately one of the delicious meals contained something which my body does not have any tolerance for (most likely pinenuts), and I ended up with a fairly severe allergic reaction, and the drive back through the countryside which was as beautiful as it looked like it should be in the dark (all white cliffs and little Provencial houses) was spent battling a severe stomach ache. I found the tunnels again, which went most of the way under Marseille, saving a wind through the city, and took a bet that the signs to Marigne (or some such name) airport were the ones I should be following (I couldn't see any signs to any other airports) and tried to match where I was going to vague memories of where I was lost a couple of nights before, and did the already mentioned multiple circuits of the airport, complete with a stop in a service station where I totally failed to work out which pump dispensed diesel, and I returned the car.
It was a great relief to get on the plane, and the airhostess was a little taken aback that I didn't seem to want the food (chicken pesto [for those of you who like me {until it wiped me out one time} didn't know what goes in pesto - it's pine nuts {and a few other things}]) and found Felicity waiting for me at Gatwick, where she delivered me home to sleep it all off.
One day I'll go back with a map, a beautiful navigator, and enough French to ask if the food contains pine nuts.
Hope you're all well,
Jonathan
© Jonathan Main 1999