France; Another Planet

The Photos-

My new French dog friends, A view of a vinyard near Carcassonne, and the famous palace in Carcassonne where Robin Hood was filmed (with Kevin Costner).

Leaving Spain

The last day in Alhaurin el Grande was another one of those with the increasingly loud Alfred Hitchcock music in the background,. Isabel had gone to Granada with Marcos and family on Saturday, so I had a peaceful day by myself at the estate, mostly reading Hemingway’s ‘Fiesta’, known as ‘The Sun Also Rises’ in the English version. I was happy to note that my need for the dictionary was gradually decreasing, and I was enjoying the reading. I was also contemplating leaving on Sunday instead of Monday as planned, as the hostess had become more and more irrational, or should I say ‘mental’- I don’t like to diagnose people, generally, but there was a definite manic thing going on, what with her being up all night listening to loud and dramatic music, singing, and laughing, all by herself as she worked on a painting or other project.. She would then be awake the next day, but with a diminishing capacity to say anything coherent, or behave in a way that resembled normalcy.
Sunday was the day that Marcos mom and girlfriend were scheduled to fly out of Malaga, As Marco was trying to negotiate with Isa about transportation to the airport, it became more apparent that nothing could be counted on. I was concerned also about making my flight the next morning, so I decided, along with Antju and Alice, to go now to catch a bus to Malaga. We went to the bus stop just outside the gated community- we were expecting a bus at 1. I read the schedule while waiting and realized Marcos had misinterpreted, and it was 3:30 before a bus came. So the three of us took another bus into Alhaurin and sat at a sidewalk café playing UNO and drinking Tinto de Veranos for a few hours.
Then we caughtthe bus, Antju and Alice getting off at the airport, and I riding on into Malaga. I found a hostel close to the bus station, and then wandered the streets of Malaga- as usual, being around 5, the streets were mostly deserted during siesta. The city was largely unimpressive. Dirty, under construction, boring buildings, maybe built during Franco’s reign. I had seen a nicer old section of town a few days earlier, but it farther than I cared to walk from my bus station neighborhood.
I did get occasional glimpses of a tall blonde fellow, however, and at one street corner he caught up and asked me if I spoke English. He was a Brit, but in seemingly unusual circumstances. His name was Robin, and he has lived in Spain for over 20 years, but still didn’t speak any Spanish. I bought him a beer at a sidewalk café, and pried for more information. His story was that he was penniless and homeless, living in a shelter normally reserved for Spanish residents. He had been robbed of his winter’s wages (something about working and banking in Gibralter, and taking the cash out as it was tax free that way) and everything else while sleeping on a park bench. He said he had had a bad reaction to some medication he was taking for the flu. He wound up in a detox place, and when he got out his house in a town down the coast had been repossessed. He was now seeking a job, in sales.
Good story, anyway.
Back at the hostel, the guy in the next room coughed and gagged all night. The linens smelled like stale cigarettes. I had also been trying for days to contact my next host, a lady named Jean in Carcossonne, France. I had not been able to get through by phone or by email and was starting to be concerned about the plans- did she change her mind and not want to tell me? I told myself that it didn’t matter, I would find something, somewhere, but could not get comfortable about the uncertainty.
. I was up early to take a bus back to the airport, to try my first Ryanair flight. Cheaper than bus or train, I was doubtful it would actually work out. But it did, the 25 euro flight plus 15 euro for one checked bag- all went well. I had been especially worried about the strict rules regarding weight and size of carry-on, but others were not so concerned, some even had big backpacks that were obviously oversized, and got away with it.
The only down side is that throughout the flight, the crew are presenting commercials for things like smokeless cigarettes, food and drink (no free anything here) lottery tickets, amusement park deals, etc.
In Girona, I found a bus (Frogbus) that went to Perpignan, which as I had found on the internet was as close as I could get in one hop. I did however finally reach Jean, and felt immense relief to hear her cheerful voice and promise to pick me up at the train station. Train? Whatever. It was 6:30 when I got to Perpignon, and I asked the bus driver where to find a connection to Carcassonne. He pointed to a building across the street- a train station. Seems the only way, so I went in- now in France but not speaking any French. Turned out one ticket person spoke a little Spanish, and nobody spoke English. A bit awkward, but I managed to figure out that I had to take one train to Narbonne, and a different one from there to Carcassonne. With a 10 minute layover.
I do love the trains- smooth, comfortable, and scenery very unlike the bus, away from the highway. I was feeling happier and happier, to see big pine forests, lots of castles, palace ruins, even an aqueduct. Then the coastline, so very different from Spain. Unspoiled, with pretty farms, and flamingoes wading in the shallows of the Mediterranean.
Narbonne is a bigger station, but I did remember to have my ticket stamped there. The train was late, in between other trains, and I wasn’t sure which one but found it and was on, last leg of a long day.
More and more beautiful, the countryside of France worked its charms on me. I felt happier than I had been since Haza del Trigo, and Granada. In fact, those were the only two places in Spain that I would even consider returning to. Granted, there is the north and northwest of Spain, as well as Portugal, that I have missed- so maybe later for them.

I managed to get off the train in Carcassonne, and tried to call Jean only to find that my cell phone had no signal. I tried a payphone but couldn’t read the instructions, it required a card but didn’t like my visa card. Nothing left to do but ask for help- some 'older' people could not understand me in English or Spanish, but I found a young lady waiting out front of the station who spoke a little English, and she was so kind as to let me use her cell phone.
Jean came to get me, and we drove to her place about ten minutes outside of the town. She is warm and welcoming, and fun to talk with, once I get accustomed to her Glasgow accent enough to understand her! Her place is a large house on an acre of yards, gardens, a rental cottage with a swimming pool, and yards for goats and chickens. It’s gorgeous.

Even the weather is dramatically different- cool and drizzley, and after the dry heat of Spain, I am really enjoying it. I slept very well in a basement apartment, listening to French frogs, and today helped Jean with weeding and picking cherries. Life is good, as my t- shirt says.