E-travel with Drom!

Clary, you are too kind; but, if someone ever does publish me, then I would certainly consider it. As you know, despite becoming anxious when it comes to meeting five people from the Internet, I can happily speak to hundreds. My only problem is that I cannot summarise at all, and that it might damage my elusiveness. Besides, are there many people who should like to listen to me go on!? (Have you enjoyed it thus far, by the way? Say hello to Robin Cook for me, if you meet again .)

C.I.; what a story! Was that the first time that you imagined the second coming? ( with Walter)

Piffka: I am very surprised that Armenia was on the front page of one of your biggest newspapers. Maids, over in that part of the world, only fetch the equivalent of £10 a month for doing an hour or so of cleaning every day save Sundays. Although I'm in no need of a maid-- I am very tidy with my space, or else I cannot concentrate-- it would be a crime to let these people go.

At the moment, my friends, I am wiping myself clean in Mâcon. I was having quite a nice time, if not a wonderful one; Piffka's wishes for clear skies finally came true. I have had to re-organize my trip around a bit, to change my going to Paris to August (when I'll be able to get free accomodation ). Mapping things out, I dallied around in Boulogne for more time than I should have liked. So, eventually, I decided to spend some time going around anywhere, as long as 'anywhere' were accessible by trains.

I ended up in Macon at about mid-day today, after hearing something nice about it once from a weird French teacher who had chair races. Perhaps these races were a sign of some higher sensibility, who knows, but Mâcon is an adorable town, thriving on the banks of the river. I got there in time for lunch, but I was not hungry; so I sufficed myself on pain au chocolat and a glass or two of beaujolais, made from very near Macon, as I found out. I soon found that Mâcon was not a down in which there was a great deal to do, apart from seeing a jazz-club (then closed,) a few beautiful churches and museums, and going on a wine tour; the local people just walked from one distant spire to another, or bought narcissi and other flowers and fruit from the market in the Place aux herbes. I admit that I am rather exhausted, to-day, so I spent most of my time either in the library, or under the shade that someone's yellow house cast, right by the Quai de Lamartine.

I walked around for a while, an hour, a few hours. I never wear a watch while travelling, which can sometimes be a mistake. I admired the unusually tasteful hanging baskets on the shops, the pre-baroque church towers, and the gentle clamour of people with carts passing by, making notes of where I should visit tomorrow. I always take a long tour of the town, not stopping much, on the first day; if I dislike the town, or something arises, I will have got my money's worth: if I like it, I reason, then I'll know where everything is. And I liked Mâcon, it was just rather stifling with its sunny atmosphere and undiversity.

Those were, of course, famous last words. I had decided, tonight, that I would pitch myself right by the River, to enjoy the crisp night before it started to rain again, and to stay there until the moon was aloft. Some young visitors, from the South East of England, by their accents, destroyed the illusion of a lunar romance, and, into the bargain, a decent copy of The Red and the Black. They had nothing to do with me, but poured their drinks-- lager from cans-- over my head. They were raving about being thrown out of some restaurant, and started picking on me. From instinct, as I start thinking in the language of where I am, I ejaculated 'regardez un peu ce foullis que vous avez fait.' They carried on with their drunk talk, patronizing me for 'not speaking English--' even though none of them could speak French, it seemed-- and then I went home, to here. I'll be going somewhere else to-morrow, probably.

Yoiks.

Ahhh, I didn't wear a watch for at least a decade after I stopped working in/running laboratories. Once in a while it became a problem. Now I wear one sometimes, and it's true, the sometimes is for days when I might just need a watch.

This is all making me want to acquire a really good atlas. (My exhub got the good one when we broke up, since I had given it to him for a present at some point. I was the person who distributed stuff, so I can only blame myself.) What I really miss is my parents' old world atlas, rather huge with dark green cover from, I am guessing, the late '40's. I have no idea where that atlas ran away to...

I know this can all be seen on line somewhere, but I don't get the same pleasure out of it. Plus, a lot of sites want you to fill in some form about where you are starting and what is your destination, which I feel is an ephemeral matter and in any case none of their business.

Please write here as you will, I really enjoy it and I know others do too.

Reading & enjoying your impressions, Drom.

Oh no! Yobs abound everywhere, don't they? They are such a highly visible side of Britain that they have an effect far beyond their numbers. Here have I got a house with 8 people between the ages of 18 and 21 sitting talking - the most civilised of beings! Yet if you mentioned that age group to most continental Europeans they would automatically shudder with disgust.

No talks this morning that interest me, but one about 'Watching the English' this afternoon which seems germane.

Mâcon is solely a wine in my experience, though of course if you lose the circumflex you get to Georgia or somewhere equally southern. Sounds like a not-enough-stimulus town. Where next??

Thank you, everyone, for popping in and writing. I have quite a bit of my writing typed up now; I have the habit of writing all about a book, if I'm writing about past days and something in the present strikes me, so there are lots of fragments that need organizing. The time in Spain was the most eventful, so far, so I will post about that, next.

I agree, Osso. The best journeys are ones with no destination. After being so kind to others, you should treat yourself to a good atlas.

Hey, Clary! 'Watching the English?' What is that talk about? Yes; it is an awful shame that this is the image that England projects to many; no wonder why Die Welt were so critical of the place. I was rather startled that they were in somewhere as random as Mâcon, but there you go really.

As for where I am and where I'm going; I am in Mâcon station, tapping away because of this 'phone-link' thing. I was thinking of getting out of France altogether; it seems dead at this time of year, despite its being Bastille Day yesterday. I was thinking of going somewhere like Helsinki, but it will be a long train ride. I'm going to Paris first, and there I'll decide; but I'd like to go to somewhere that I've never been. Perhaps the Polish mountains. I'll keep everyone posted.

Drom-, you really do write so beautifully! I can't wait to read what you write next! And darned anyone who would ruin someone's reverie. Happened to me (us) yesterday - sort of. It was noisy. Some workers were pouring a concrete square for the sidewalk in front of the house across the street. Being five and a boy, Cole couldn't help but be attracted to the truck and everything ... We were watching from a little distance, but with all the noise We could still hear the workers (about the age you mentioned) just swearing every other word! I had to get Cole away, and of course he had a fit. I had to make him watch from the house, not as good a view. I was so disgusted! I know plenty of nice college-agers, but these were nothing of the kind, at least in language!

drom, I didn't wear a watch until I retired. When I worked, I didn't need a watch, because I always completed my task rather than how many hours I worked. Now that I'm retired, I need a watch to make sure I'm on time to catch my transportation, meet tour groups, and make myself available at meal times on cruises and group travel. One aside: I was almost shocked when I went shopping for a watch. My wife was with me, and she encourage me to buy a rather expensive one. The jeweler showed us a Movado and a Rolex. I chose the Movado. I've been retired for six years, and it's kept perfect time.

Oh goodness... watches are so easy to lose, CI, I would never purchase an expensive one! LOL

Drom, I want you to know that I'm amazed at your story and look forward to your postings so much. It is wonderful, really, that someone gets to have such adventures as you! Following your nose... wonderful. If you want us to do any checking online for anything, just say and/or PM me. I know that even with links to a computer, the lines can sometimes be slow. I was telling my younger sister about you... she was very interested, so know that your stories go on beyond here.

It is horrible that those jerks would pour some beer (Was it beer?) on you! I would have been so angry, I would have been unable to think of anything but revenge! Glad you could calmly fritz them with your wits. <smiles> Good for you! I have never been treated like that by Brits, but I have heard stories of hooliganism... that's what this sounds like to me. So unbelievably rude. I hope you have no more of that!

Osso, you NEED an atlas, but meanwhile, are you checking Google for Drom's towns?

French Map showing regions... and a
Burgundy Tourism Map






Very glad you're going to write about Spain next.

amigacho got in, I swear it. There was a group coming here, they had booked all the châlets except the one at the end, for some reason; when he heard you were coming, he said to give the "lucky room" to you. We complained that this would mean splitting up the group, but he said that you were a Doñawas going to sleep, but I did not want to waste my time lying about in a pine chalet, looking at the Pyrénées thin in the distance, when it was so nice outside. After making my bed, laying my books out, putting order to the clothes, and supping fresh pineapple juice that I had bought in a stall near Bilbao on the way down, I took the walk down to the town from the camping.reallyMonday:

and

Tap tap tap...

Wow! I just found this thread. I am now waiting with baited breath to know what's been happening!

Drom, I have been reading Anthony Bourdain's "Cook's Tour", am allllllmost finished with it. He spent some time in San Sebastian.. and elaborates on all the good food there.

Hey, Fortune, Osso, all who could be reading;

Things got a little mad from where I left you off-- it involved freaky people and sounds like a bad soap opera-- but I thought that I would write a few things now, to take you up to date in little chunks.

Would you like to go to San Sebastian, Osso? Did you enjoy the book?

I arrived in Paris at about five pm to-day. I had had to return to England to give a eulogy at a funeral of someone barely connected to me. I had the whole of Paris to choose from.

Naturally, I decided to go somewhere random. Amidst a few casual Parisians standing slack in the heat, and plenty of tourists chattering off syllable after syllable in harsh tongues, I went out from the dreaming yellow splendour of the Gare d'Austre, with its boggling murals splashed about on the Métro.

I let my finger dash gently over the grand carte de Paris that I had just got, stopping on Issy de Seine station. I sat back patiently in the relative uncomfort of the Métro chair, making out the art deco wallscapes and clambering adverts that brightened each stop.

By the time we had got to Issy, most had already gone. The station's in sharp contrast with the clashing colours that one sees whenever the Paris Metro is shown. One comes to an impressing green hut and a few walls, grafittied with laments about this and that.

By the side of the track, I saw an African saxophone player stooped in his own projected shadow. He held the instrument clumsily, but expertly, up to the bone-white sky and his lips blew out melancholy softly. I stopped for a minute, putting down my six bags near to my feet, and I looked toward him discreetly. He stopped playing. 'Desirez-vous boire quelquechose?', I asked. He reluctantly agreed, so I got overpriced orange juice and passed it into his deep hands. 'You're really quite good. Have you played the sax for long?', I queried. 'My uncle taught me some, I've had to rely on it; I'm over here to get some money to send back.' I looked nonchalantly; I had known lots about scams during my time abroad and at home. 'I play this all day, sometimes build if I'm lucky out by Bicetre, and then I do work in a service station out; but I get paid s___t.' He seemed sincere. He took an unsightly, but reasonable, gulp at the orange juice. 'Nothing to do back there but die. Nothing.' He saw a train coming the way again, and started playing. I adjusted my dress, gave money into his old hat, and walked towards the Gare's inside itself. I heard his music drift differently.

As I walked into the much-needed shade and towards adventure, his notes fell as loose poiniards onto the dusty ground, and each stall he made was a trip of the family he lost along the way.

[If it had been next Saturday, you could have joined us for a petit noir :wink: ]

(O, you'll be in Paris next Saturday, Walter? That would have been so wonderful. We might yet meet, if I stay.)

(Well, only close to [very close, actually: 5 km ] - Paris might be the other Monday.)

(You're 5 km away? How long do you think that you'll be staying? Have you any plans to see Paris in the middle of the night again?)