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.

This is a very trimmed version of the first few days; they and Tuesday constituted about fifty pages themselves. This is what I call the ?'bit that bores me,' due to my tiredness; the rest of the second day is more interesting, and I'll hopefully have that done by to-morrow. I would actually have deleted this bit, but I am quite a completist.

Sunday:

I arrived at the châlet-site after about an hour's worth of singing from Juan Carlos' little girl, her sharp voice bringing the songs back to where I was sitting. The journey had tired me to a great extent, so they escorted me to my room to my room for the next few days, from their car park: a flat enough piece of gravel on the summit of a little knoll, which led down to Santillana itself. Juan Carlos and his family dropped me off, and then went to mass.

In the car, Juan Carlos had said, many times, that he was going to give ?'honoured guest's suite' to me, despite my not wanting one. I worked for him a few times, translating fire notices and maps, so he must find it an exquisite joke to treat me thus. It turned out to be a normal wooden hut, with a loud-coloured door, attached to all the others. ?'Here we are,' shouted Pilar, looking quite embarrassed. I wanted to know what was special about it, but instead I asked, restrainedly ?'how long has this been the guest's suite?'

-- ?'Ever since Antonio left managing the everyday things to Juan Carlos--.' She paused; despite being Spanish and talking this to me, her voice was like the slow rattle of a tranquillised horse being brought through the muck, and it often caught against itself. ?'Things have been really weird since your 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 Doña and you deserved this, for your health. Then he started splitting into two with laughter.' I assured her that I wanted no (unusual) ?'preferential treatment,' but she said that, with Juan Carlos, what goes, goes.

I wanted to sleep, and I was 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.

They built the camping attractively near to the hills. The hills are not bombastic pillars of grafted stone and ice, but rather pleasant green mounds on which a few houses sprouted. The camping is on quite an elevation itself; when going down to the town, one has to either jump a good distance, or take steps that seem made for two-year-olds' feet. Rather than break my ankle jumping, I tried to negotiate the steps, and got down about four minutes later.

Sartre's first, uncharacteristic, impression of Santillana was that it was ?'the prettiest village in Spain.' Mine was; ?'do these shops really want to spell Us as Vs, or are they just playing the "quaint" card?' My initial thoughts should not be held as thinking the town as ?'under-whelming;' anyone would be stricken by the pretty uniformity of the white and dusty-yellow buildings winding through the stone alleys returning the day's breathy light. Despite the fact that nearly all the old houses are souvenir-shops, it still seems fragile and antique. Santillana also shows a lot about Spanish thinking; its three or four winding streets, and one cathedral, constitute its being a town. It even has its own flag.

Not much interested in the souvenirs and tourist-trinkets, I went looking for a poetry book by Cernuda, but the local ?'estvdio' bookshop was closed for siesta. The bookshop is set in a big, Castilian building: when it is not open to view, it looks like a citadel, with a brass cordon sealing it off. Adjacent to it, in a different row of buildings, was something far lower-key: a dusty grey bookstore with no sign on it and no windows (as far as I can remember.) It was only a very character-full set of steps, leading down to a room with a few standing shelves, from which I heard two people arguing.

An Englishwoman, who could hardly speak Spanish, and a Galician man who could hardly speak English and was reluctant to speak Castilian, owned the shop. They were, in fact, shouting at their children, who had brought down two rows of books. I ended up speaking some ungodly mix of Portuguese and Spanish to them. ?'Sorry to intrude! ,' I said, walking back up towards the step.
?'No, no! Wait! What do you want?' said the man, trying to suppress his gruffness while approaching me.' ?'Poetry; I was looking for Luís Cernuda's Collected Poems.'

--?'She looks for Cernuda!' he said to his wife in strained English.
--?'That gay guy?' She had an awful, Essex accent.
--?'Yeah.'
--?'She's beyond hope then! He isn't gonna change.'
She burst into hysterics at her gag, and then corrected herself, and said that they had none.
?'All right, then; have you any Lorca?'
The man told the name of the book to his wife. She kept on saying ?'Romancero gitano' to herself, repeatedly, and then conceded that they had none after about ten minutes.
?'O! Thanks for your... time, then!' I said, and bolted from the door.

It was high season for tourists, from Spain and elsewhere. As the town was so small, I found it difficult to find somewhere quiet to myself. After about half an hour of rambling around the same, lacquered-looking streets, I found an outside bar, with aged tables and makeshift blue shades. I ordered some €2 orange juice, knowing that a carton cost €,90 back at the campsite but too tired to walk, and I sat there, eavesdropping into conversations, listening to an old, prune-skinned man talk to me about how tourists, particularly the children, disrespect the pigeons. When he went on to tell me about how he wished that every tourist were like me, I was charmed but disturbed, and made my exit.

I was left thinking how badly the heat was not shifting?-it must have been about 30oC; tiny lines of humidity seemed to be bursting against my skin's few exposures. I decided to clambour back up the hill and relax in the azure pool. There were too many people for my liking there, so I double-unlocked the door, then double-locked it, and relaxed with a book on my bed, occasionally looking through to the signs of towns ahead.

Monday: (part one of three:)

When my eyes opened, a blonde-haired woman with a prominent mole and eyes like imitation sapphires was shaking my leg quite violently. ?'What do you want? I have nothing to give to you,' I shouted, thinking that this week had suddenly taken a turn for the worst.

(part I. section ii. of three parts)

--?'I don't want to rob you. Sorry. The guy who owns here sent me to wake you up. He said you're not missing dinner and breakfast.'

--?'Who are you? How did you get in?' I said sleepily, arising so that I would not have to look up at her. She turned out to be some sort of group leader, taking a few children there. I remarked, half-heartedly, that I had gone to Santillana with a group, twelve-years ago. Then I asked her to go away, while I changed.

When I went in for a minimalist breakfast of a mini-croissant and thick glass mug of Cantabrian hot chocolate, Juan Carlos laughed and said that he was great at introducing people to new friends. He then softened up and asked questions about where I would be going to-day, all of which hold no general interest.

I sat down with my drink, looking from the window. It had rained last night, when I had fallen asleep unconsciously, and it continued to spread onto the hills, the shoddy paving and the brisket-trees. The woman from earlier sat next to me, with an old, red-haired woman, and two men, followed her. They sat agitatedly there for about two minutes, and then the blonde woman started talking to me in an implacable, sprightly voice.

?'So, you know who we are; I'm Emma. That's Jean. Those two singing to themselves are Andrew and Alun, Andrew's the one who has colour left in his hair. What are you doing here?'

I explained that I was a writer, and that I was bound towards Armenia. Uninterested, she continued with her life story:

--?'I used to live in Spain, you know, I was a holiday rep in Gran Canaría, have you ever been?'
?'N?-'
--?'Yeah, yeah, I was there for about eight months. I know everywhere around there still, at least I know everywhere as it was a few years ago. I really liked it there, but I met some right weirdoes.'
?'Did you, now?'
--?'Andrew knows the story. What did you say your name was, again?'
?'Ana.'
--?'Oh, great. Anyway, there was this woman who juggled balls who fancied me, and someone else was after me, because they say that blonde haired people fetch more on the market. Ha he ha he ha. Oh dear.'

She sounded like a sped-up speaking doll.

--?'Anyway, yeah, I once was?- it was my twenty-first birthday. And I got on this plane, and yeah, I got on it, and I got a twin, we're really close, both teachers; but she's the American style one and I'm the European, can't you tell? Anyway, I got on this plane, but it was not a "turistic" one, which would have "took" me straight to Birmingham. You know of Birmingham?'

?'I grew up near there, unfortunately?-'
--?'Well, I was going back, I was going back, right, to this birthday party, it was my twenty-first, and I don't know why I booked this plane instead of the "turistic" one but these things happen, don't they? Anyway, it took me from Gran Canaría to Madrid, then Madrid to Heathrow. So, I thought, "sorted." But, you'll laugh. Everyone's got ?'a laugh at this one. You know what put the spanner in the works? Heathrow's Burger King burnt down, burning down the house.'

I looked back at Juan Carlos, with laughing eyes. He looked back in the same way. I then looked out the windowpane once more, as if to test the weather.

--?'Isn't it funny. Isn't it?'
?'O, it is damnably funny. Who should think that burgers held up your flight?'

The other three virtual strangers bore the mark of having had heard this story, too. They were changed for it.

?'That's what I was thinking. So, there I was, December the thirteenth, going to this hotel. They have to give four star hotel places to ya, and so I was in this hotel.'

(Save all your thisses for me, was what I was humming to myself. Jean excused herself in the middle of Emma's monologue.)

?'And this guy followed me. Must o' been seventy, at least. When we got to this hotel, they thought we were together!! I was nice and waited until he was gone to chide the people giving out the tickets. I mean, fifty years between us! Anyway, you'll agree this was pathetic?-he woke me up by phoning my room, croaking out "Happy Birthday," and I was so thinking that he'd got the wrong meaning from them offering a double-room to us. I was kind you'll know, and I had breakfast with him. Once we got going, he sat next to me on the plane, and after, he gave me his number, to contact him. Well, that was weird.'

She laughed, brandishing the wine that she had got, early, for later to-night. The two men said that they had better rally the kids around, and she agreed to meet back with them in a few minutes.

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?)