Retro Blogging: Thumbs up for France and Spain Pt. I

28 April 2009

I walked down the ramp and onto the autoroute, filled with the joy of uncertainty. I didn't really know where I was, I didn't know how long I would have to walk before being picked up... it was all terribly exciting.

I tramped along the shoulder with my left-arm extended straight out and my thumb pointed towards the sky. Dozens of Citröens, Peugeots and Renaults zoomed by me on the French highway. Every now and then one would honk at me as it passed. Whether it was in support or more of a "get the hell off the autoroute!" I couldn't tell. I walked for ages with all of my earthly possessions strapped to my back and started to wonder if I would have to walk all the way to Madrid. But just then, I noticed a holy temple off in the distance...

...and although I'm not a religious person I thought that at this particular time I could really use some divine intervention. Clasping my hockey stick in both hands, I raised it above my head and prayed to the gods of "le skating" to send someone who would pick me up. Within moments, rain started to fall from the sky. Was this an acknowledgment from the hockey gods? Was this just more shit luck? I believe it was the former because only minutes later a small commercial van with carpentry decals on the side pulled over onto the gravel just ahead of me. I caught up to the vehicle just as a short, burly man wearing stained overalls with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth was cautiously getting out of the driver's seat. He came around to the safer, right side of the van and in English, asked me if I could speak French. "Oui, un peu," I responded. In a raspy voice he proceeded to tell me that it was way too dangerous to be walking along the autoroute, especially in this weather. He opened the sliding-panel door to the back of the van and helped me load my rucksack and hockey stick in with a collection of tools and paint cans. He got back in the driver's seat and I hopped into shotgun. After we both buckled our seat-belts, I held out my hand over the centre console, "Jozef," I said. He grasped my hand and did one of those handshakes where you only squeeze and don't shake, "Jean-Marc."

Jean-Marc explained to me that nobody (except him, I guess) is going to pull over in the middle of the highway to pick me up; it's too dangerous. He told me that I would have a better chance at a busy rest-stop and that's where he said he could take me. A few kilometres down the road he pulled in to a tourist information centre and wished me luck. I thanked him sincerely for the advice and putting me in a better situation. With my bright red poncho on I found a place to stand near a sign for Bayonne that every car leaving would have to pass.

After about twenty minutes a man in a small two-door hatchback slowed down in front of me and waved me in. Bertrand was on his way home after a weekend in Bordeaux. Incredibly, he was able to take me from just outside Bordeaux all the way to Saint-Vincent-de-Tyrosse; a distance of about 150km. Along the way we shared great conversation, sometimes bouncing back and forth between English and French. Bertrand is probably the nicest guy I met during the entire journey. Before I got out of the car in S.V.-de-T. he gave me his phone number and told me that if I couldn't find a ride to give him a call and I could crash on his couch for the night. It was a great offer and I felt really lucky to have been picked up by Bertrand but I had my sights set on Spain, so, I decided to press on.

I was now off of the major highways and walking down the D 810 (much safer ground). For a while I saw no other evidence of life... no people, no cars, no houses. There was a sign indicating that it was 18km to Bayonne and I started to calculate in my head how long it might take me to walk there. Eventually, the first sign of civilization did appear...

I was intrigued.

Yes, by the inviting pose of the cartoon legs wearing fishnet stalkings and garter belts, but more so by the words found in parentheses; NON CONFORMISTE- words I use to describe myself. What goes on inside a private, French, non-conformist club with no windows in the middle of nowhere??? Curiosity was killing my cat, so I easily convinced myself that I had earned a refreshing beer. Unfortunately, when I reached the entrance it was not only locked but heavily fortified. It appeared as though 'Le Liberty's' had been out of operation for quite some time. Looks like 'the man' had won again.

I crossed back over to the right-shoulder of the road and put one foot in front of the other. Still, not a car in sight. It was late-afternoon and within a few hours the sun would be setting. Perhaps, I should have taken Bertrand up on his offer after-all.

(Stay tuned for Part II of this exciting journey- Featuring lesbians, gendarmes, roasted peanuts and more! Plus, find out if I ever do indeed make it to Spain.)