Murphy's Law

Murphy's Law is alive and well in Nantes, France this weekend.

Got up, had a leisurely breakfast (alas, no grits), and planned a little car trip up the Loire River valley.  Loaded up the GPS and headed out.

First Stop: Le Ceilier, France
Le Ceilier is a small ancient village on the banks of the Loire River.  Beautiful little town, though, frankly, I haven't seen an ugly one over here.  I pulled through here because it looked quite quaint and old as I toured through it on Google Earth.

Just before entering the village I pulled of at a little parkway and took the following pictures.

(Click on any picture to enlarge)

 

 

Beautiful area.  I can't wait until spring fully arrives to see it coming to life.

Last Stop: Le Ceilier, France
It was here that Mr. Murphy showed his ugly hand.  Returning to the car the little strap on the camera broke and it did a double-twisting-1 1/2 full Gaynor onto the rocks in the parking area.  Now whether or not it powers up is a lottery running 6-2-and-even against.  Sad because I had to cancel the rest of the trip and doubly so because this little Sony camera has been my friend on over 60,000 miles of road.  It took all pictures on my Alaska trip, through the rain and cold, and just kept clicking right along.  I'm gong to try to see if I can find someone who can check it out.  Perhaps it's just a connection that needs repairing, but I suspect a new camera is in order.

Meanwhile, there were a few places we didn't get to today.  I will show some highlights from off the web to whet the appetite, as they say.  As soon as I have a camera and, perhaps, even Betsy, we'll make this trip and get the real (Kilroy was here) photos.  Certainly are interesting potentials here.

Chateau_de_Clermont

I believe this is now owned by a famous French actor. 

Chateau_de_Serrant

Chateau_de_Saumur

Chateau de Usse








And, knowing how I love the off-beat and unusual story, my favorite:

Les Folies Siffait

All this, and more, coming to a theater near you in the very near future.

Potpourri

What's happening to the Texas boy in France?  Well, let's see...some stuff...some good, some bad, and some confusing (thought I was going to go for the ugly, didn't you?).

I haven't updated the blog lately because I've been busy as the devil, trying to work, trying to learn French, and trying to both find Betsy, and a home for her.  And makin' some real Texas chili for our teacher and friend, Florent.  We'll start with that story.

Real Chili
As part of our lessons Florent suggested we take turns cooking lunches.  This not only keeps us in the house for lessons, it offers the opportunity to learn new words associated with cooking...something at which the French are pretty damn good.  The only potential flaw in the theory is Morgan.  He not only has never cooked anything (but possibly eggs), he won't eat much of anything either.  And I do mean, won't eat much of anything.  If it doesn't moo or cluck he pretty much wimps out on it. And zero for vegetables, I think he thinks the devil created them, so he limits himself to three main food groups: beef, beer, and pasta.  I'm convinced when he was a baby he was fed in one of those "compartmentalized" plates with the high separators that won't let the food mix.  So, he learned the smashed carrots aren't supposed to mix with the smashed peas, and nothing, I mean nothing, is supposed to touch the vanilla pudding!!  It's a short jump from there to"I don't eat no stinkin' vegetables," or anything without the texture of a piece of meat.

Deborah (Jerry's mother) you need to fess up on this stuff.  He says he refused to eat almost everything and, in order to ensure he ate something, you'd fix him PB&J on request.  My mother would have said, "You eat what I put on the table, or you don't eat."  And I guarantee you by the end of the second day little Jerry would have eaten whatever was put on the table.   But, I guess that didn't happen, and now it's fallen to Florent, Carrie, and I to square this lad away.  Carrie managed to get him eating firm-fleshed fish like sea bass before we got to France (for those who won't eat sea bass: 'Get a rope.').  Since coming here he's actually eaten escargot (snails), a few "accidental" vegetables (my chili), something I can only call potted meat (as a Florent-supplied great appetizer today), lamp (for those who won't eat lamb: 'Get a rope and two knives.").  You can see how it's going.  The lad is not only learning to cook, he's learning to eat.  This is a good thing because he was having such difficulty finding sufficient meat and potatoes I was starting to worry he'd be the only affluent person to ever starve to death in France.  The good news, of course, is, where this category is concerned, he's got a great mentor.  I'll eat a rock if you'd put a little gravy on it.  (For my French friends,  sauce.)

Anyway, the long and the short of this is when my turn came to cook, I decided on chili, real chili.  For those of you not from Texas, that means, no beans.  There ain't no bean in chili!!  It's a rule, a law, an act of God, for crying out loud!   There ain't no bean in chili!

Believe me, it's not easy finding ingredients for good chili when you don't speak the lingo.  The only chili pepper I could find that looked remotely like a serrano, or a poblano, was something they call "Piment."  I'm not sure, I think it was green cayenne, but, fortunately, it worked, and pretty well.  The secret to good chili is simple: good meat and fresh vegetables.   My favorite meat for chili is to buy a nice large sirloin and have half of it ground, then dice the rest into bite-sized pieces.  I found a good looking piece of steak but didn't know how to ask for it to be ground up, plus the meat counter was packed with all kinds of people I didn't want to have to expose to my french, so I just bought some 15% fat hamburger.  Not what I would normally do, but, actually, the hamburger was quite good.  (It has to be..they eat it almost raw here.)  I then got some great looking bell peppers (not their name around here), roasted them (that's the secret, by the way), and chopped them fine (hiding 'em from Morgan).  Of course, I wanted cilantro and jalapenos.  Couldn't find cilantro and the only jalapenos I saw were in a jar, pre-cut; I like fresh, but these turned out okay.  I'm sure cilantro must be around here somewhere, the plant is native to Europe.  But I didn't find it, even under the name 'Chinois Persil' (Chinese Parsley) so I bought some pre-packaged "épices mexicaines," because it had cumin (cumir), coriandre (coriander), ail (garlic), piment du Mexique (what else could that be but Mexican chili powder?).  Anyway...enough Julietta Childs...I made the chili and, surprise of all surprises, it turned out pretty darn good.  Morgan liked it even though there were vegetable in it he couldn't pick out, and Florent liked it as well.  The hit for Florent, though, was my "salsa."  I make a fresh vegetable salsa of white onions, red-orange-green bell peppers diced fine, jalapenos, piment peppers (whatever they were), very little tomatoe (diced again, not crushed), and squeeze lemon and lime over it.  I've always thought it very special and Florent agreed with me.  Of course, Morgan will never know. If he ate vegetables his toes would curl up and his hair would fall out.

Where's Betsy?
During our lesson last Saturday I walked over to the apartment office to check the mail and there was a fax  from Le Havre.  I was able to discern it had to do with Betsy and, after Florent translated, it sounded like Betsy was there, and I had three days from that day (meaning the 23rd) to make arrangements to get her out of there, or I would have to pay storage (outside).  It also informed there was no insurance on the bike after that date.  All this, of course, was somewhat confusing because a) Betsy was supposedly on a ship heading to Antwerp, from where she was to be shipped to Paris to clear French customs, and b) she was insured for the entire trip.  This is France so no one was available on Saturday or Sunday at this shipper's office so I determined to call Monday.


Upon going into work Monday, one of our French consultants called the number for me and talked to the guy who sent the fax.  He basically said the bike was there and acted as if he would release it directly to me if I would come to Le Havre and pick it up.  Meanwhile, I had sent the shipping agent back in Houston a translation of the fax I'd received and, late Monday afternoon, I received an email stating that I shouldn't have to contact their agent to get the bike, that it would clear customs in Paris and they'd call me to arrange delivery.  Oh, and by the way, the bike is on a ship to Antwerp.  What????


Tuesday I received a status from the shipper stating the ship was going to be one day late getting into Antwerp and that they anticipate getting the bike to Paris by the 3rd, with it's release from customs around the 7th.  So...I'm still confused.  I don't know if Betsy is in Le Havre (how would the guy know how to contact me if it wasn't legitimate???), or in Antwerp, or on the road (or a ship) to Paris.  I still don't know, but, then, I've been busy working and trying to find a home for Betsy...and a little insurance.


A Home For Betsy
When I received the note about Betsy being in Le Havre and available to me by Friday (the 26th) I moved into panic mode.  I'd been trying to find insurance for her because my nice Allstate policy covers her in Mexico, Canada, and the U.S., but not in Europe.  Surprise, surprise, surprise.  If you read on the internet it sounds as if almost any insurance company will give you a "Green Card" for Europe if you "just ask."  Evidently, Allstate hasn't heard about this.  Or, more probably, they just haven't figured out how to screw their customer out of more money for the service.  But, not to worry, there are folks here who've figured it out.


My "new" bank offers insurance products, so I emailed my new buddy, the branch manager, asking him if he offered motorcycle insurance.  I thought he was my new buddy.  After all, he came down here and assumed that prone position on the carpet over his service only ten or so days ago.  But, surprise me, no one responded to my email though it went to a "common" email address with ATTN: M. LY (the manager's name) on it.  The language thing is such a problem in such things as this, I couldn't very well call a bunch of local insurance agents, and we had visiting bosses in this week from Houston so everyone was quite busy.  I also didn't want to spend our resources chasing down this stuff so, having found a company in Germany that specialized in Green Card insurance, and without a response from the bank, I made arrangements for three months liability insurance at a whopping 386 Euros.  This compares to the 205 Euros (equivalent) I paid for a year's coverage in the U.S. including comprehensive and theft.  See, I told you someone had figured out how to price this problem.


But, the subject is Betsy's home.  A young lady here named Emanuelle has been great helping Morgan and I get settled in.  She's been a real brick putting up with our housing, vehicle, visa, you name it, needs.  And she exceeded herself finding a secure place for Betsy.  You can imagine how important this is to Betsy, and, if it's important to Betsy, it's important to me.  Emanuelle, found a garage in downtown St. Luce (about 2 Km away), with a locking door inside an electronically controlled gate.  I mean this is the bomb!  I couldn't have been more pleased with this property.  But, this is France...and France is for the French.  The systems aren't geared for anyone else.  What, you ask, can he possibly be talking about here?  Well...insurance again.

It seems, in France, when you rent property from someone, the law says you have to provide insurance. Sounds like a sensible thing, doesn't it?  NO!  IT DOES NOT!  As those of you in the U.S. know, the owner of a property gets insurance on it. Why?  Well, because he wants to make sure he is covered all the time; not just the time a renter happens to be occupying the premises.  Further, in the U.S. the property owner includes the cost of insurance whenever he considers his costs for setting the rental price.  Just makes sense, doesn't it?  Why, then, would they put the onus on the renter, I ask myself (and all of you)?

The only reasons I can come with for such a practice is 1) making the renter purchase a policy means he has more "skin in the game," or 2) it takes the cost of insurance "off the table."  The fact that his own personal property and, perhaps, life, wife and family are in the rented edifice must not be sufficient motivation if the goal is to have the renter have more "invested" in the transaction.  My money's on the second reason.  Taking the insurance legally off the table means the property owners don't have to worry about the elasticity of supply or demand when setting prices, at least where the costs of insurance is concerned.  It's like charging for luggage separately on airlines.  But, in this case, we can't go to the carrier who doesn't charge for luggage (Southwest), because the government requires all to charge.  I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that business and government are as much in bed, if not more, in France, as in America.  And, as in America, they ain't motivated by good-for-the-customer concepts.

So, okay, I have to get insurance on a bloody garage.  Hard to believe, but true.  Well...it turns out it's not all that easy to do either.  I went to the bank to wire the guy the first and last month's rent on the garage because the contract starts Monday.  We'd called and asked them to check out the possibility of issuing coverage for the garage.  I found out while there they could probably write a policy for Betsy (well, damn, aren't you a little late in that little piece of knowledge?), but, whoops, can't write one for the garage.  Why?  Well, we'd write it if you have your home policy with us, but we can't write a policy on just a garage.  Who would write a policy on just a garage?  I live in what are called residential apartments.  It's sort of like a hotel, except it's a two-bedroom apartment.  Hey, wait a minute, don't I have to buy insurance on the apartment I'm renting?  Well...I don't know.  The company made the deal here, but my guess is the owner purchases the insurance on the property if it's a hotel.  What an irrational f*&^%g idea!  Someone call a governmental representative and get this crap fixed.


Status?  Paid first and last month's rent on a garage I can't rent if I can't find insurance for it and I, evidently, will have problems getting insurance on it if I don't have another, more meaningful policy on my apartment, or something.  AARRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!


School 
I reported on Feb. 7th (School Days School Days), Florent drilling us (me) on the very similar sounds for the letters 'U' and 'Y.'  Actually, it's a way of differentiating between the sound for "ou" and "u," with the ou represented by the "U" and the u represented by the "Y."  Don't ask.  Especially me.  I don't know why they are denoted in this fashion.  But, trust me. they are different, markedly so, for real French speakers.  And they are ubiquitous...I mean every-bloody-where.  And they matter.  Big time, they matter!  Example?  You bet.  Try this one on:
Everyone has heard the term "beaucoup."  It means much, or many, as in "merci beaucoup" (many thanks).  Keeping in mind that the sounds are very (I mean very, very) close for me, let's contemplate the term beau cul. If I mispronounce beaucoup and make it sound like beau cul, I just went from "many" to "nice ass."  Now, there's a place for both expressions in this world, and God know, I know it; but you really need to get it right, mon ami!!








Tomorrow, hopefully some pictures.

Sick and tired

I've managed to cover the two kinds of cold: weather and head.  Guys at work started asking me if I was feeling okay Thursday afternoon.  I told them I was fine, then, about noon, Friday, my head turned into a water pump.  Took off about 2:30 pm, stopping by the supermarche (super market) to get three boxes of tissue.  I've spent the rest of the weekend consuming those soft little pieces of paper.

We had our French language session Saturday morning, but by noon I was essentially out of it.  I managed to lay on the couch and participate some, though I was (falsely, I'm sure) accused of snoring at one point..  Since it looked as if I'd have to get better to die we elected to forego the lesson for Sunday (today).   Took my cold and miserable sinuses to bed at 9:00pm and was there until 10:30 this morning.

By 11:30 my heart had started and, though still feeling relatively miserable, I decided cabin fever was worse than any cold and called Morgan and asked him if he'd like a short road trip.  He said yes, so I gassed up the buggy and picking him up, headed south and east from Nantes.

Destination: Machecoul, hereditary home of Gilles de Rais, Seigneur and Baron de Rais (1404 - 1440).   Old Gilles was a companion-in-arms of Joan of Arc, a Breton knight, and a Marshal of France.  But he comes down to us through the pages of history as a truly prolific (and horrific) serial killer of children.Gilles_de_Rais - Wikipedia

Leaving Nantes, we wend our out way out of town, past the airport, hitting D758 just outside of Port-St-Pere.  Our friends at Garmin told us to turn left just before Sainte-Pazanne onto D95, but the tall spire atop the huge edifice dominating the town just down D758 said, "stick around awhile, and look at this."
So we bore right and entered the small town of Sainte-Pazanne, following the tall spire into the center of the city.

(Google Earth)

(The Google guy had better light than I)

Again, more of that wonderful craftsmanship so painstakingly created...I am totally out of adjectives.  Same thing happened to me on my Alaska ride looking at God's handiwork.

 

Wonderful stained glass windows.

Turning back we finally get the "Garmin" lady to shut up by taking the right road into Machecoul.

Entering the town of Machecoul.  I just love these quaint little towns where, as Morgan pointed out, no "cookie-cutter" housing exists.

Yet another of the ubiquitous churches, this one probably attended by Gilles de Rais.

Then a little further down the little road from the church, Gilles' place.  It is open for tours between 1-June and 30-September so we couldn't get in.  At -1 degrees C, I barely wanted to get out of the car, so my feelings weren't hurt.  But we did get out of the car for a few minutes.

 

An appropriate symbol outside this gate.

Bad jokes and plays on the saying "Suffer the little children..." spring to mind, but are quickly obliterated by the shear horror of this guy.  There's not a hell hot enough for people who prey on children, but, evidently, the Church is more forgiving than I.  Gilles de Rais was excommunicated then immediately reinstated and allowed to make confession, and buried in the church of the monastery of Notre-Dame des Carmes in Nantes.  Perfidity, thy name is organized religion.

Couldn't get in so we moved around the gate area looking for a place to "peak" in.

 

 

When spring comes I want to ride Betsy back out this way.  The small country roads are great.  After 1-June I can see it up close.   The following are photos from Google Earth.

Okay, he was a bad guy.  But it's still amazing to be looking at a structure where a general who rode with Joan of Arc was born and lived.  History is every where you look around here.  And I love it.



Tomorrow: back to work. You've heard of Typhiod Mary, well I'm "Cold-Carrying Jerry."  Probably infect the entire plant.  Note: Decided to work from home today and not infect the entire plant.

"Olly Olly Go Home Free"

I was sitting here at home doing a little work listening to CNN live out of New York a little while ago.  Top story of the hour: U.S. forces in Afghanistan are involved in a massive buildup in Helmand province with plans to launch a major offensive within the next few days.  According to the story, the objective is to take the area back from the Taliban, install "normal" Afghan people and show the government can protect their citizens in the area.

I don't know about you, and I'm certainly not privy to military plans, but it seems to me announcing a major build up of forces and plans to launch a major attack in the next few days sort of compromises that old tried-and-true military tactic called "Surprise!"  Looks more and more like a play on the old children's game 'Hide and Seek', this time called: "Olly Olly Go Home Free."  All you bad guys get outta here because, we sure as hell don't want to run into you out there.  Go home and come back after we leave.

Five hours later
It's amazing how au currant your correspondent is.  A few hours after posting the above there's a giant debate going on about whether or not they should announce their intentions.  

Same Story, Different Day

I think most are aware I'm a Florida boy, born and bred, Gator by birth, Texan by the grace of God. Raised in the sunshine state, used to moderate temperatures, I have zero love for snow. In fact, as I've said on many occasions, other than in a cup with syrup poured all over it, it has no useful purpose in this universe. So...this was my trip to work this morning.

Some of the largest snowflakes I've ever seen.

I have it on good authority that snow is water at or about 0 degrees Celcius.  That's 32 degrees F for those of you on the "left" side of the Atlantic.  (Hehe...bet it makes my conservative friends cringe to be so juxtaposed, huh?).  In any event, that's below my MTT (minimum tee-time temperature), below which I've found little to do that's enjoyable, or worthwhile.

On the good side, my friends here tell me it snows here about as much as it does in Houston.  That's not bad at all considering we are north of Quebec, Canada in latitude.  Thank you Gulf Stream!

Bank Shot
Okay, I reported on the 3rd our little problem with the banking service here.  Basically, they don't have any.  So...here's the latest.
I reported that Morgan got his banking card, but no pin number with which to use it.  Sort of like a gun without bullets, huh?  Here we are over a week later and we have determined they have reordered his pin number...it should be in, "oh...I don't know...two or three days."  Meanwhile, they mailed his pin number to access his on-line account to his home address IN THE U.S.!!  Convenient, what?  But wait!  It gets better.  Morgan's lady friend in Houston scanned it and sent it to him and....ready for this?...it didn't bloody work!!!  Isn't this priceless?  They reported today that they've reordered it and it should be in in "oh...I don't know...two or three days."
Now, you ask, I am sure, what about your account, Jerry?  Well...it seems, at least for a little while, I have caught up with Morgan.  Today I was given a card...for which I have no pin.  One could have hoped, I guess, that they'd have given me a pin number instead, and we could have tried it to see if it was a bullet for Morgan's gun.  But, alas, as it is, we both have empty guns. (And, now that I think about it, that's probably a damn good thing.)  But, we're not through yet.  They sent my on-line access pin number to my address in the U.S. too.  But, it doesn't matter because the address (street number) was wrong, and there was no City, or State, or BLOODY *$%^ING Country on it either!!!  Can you believe this?  (Max Sennett is alive and well and directing banks in France!)
So, I have a card with no pin, and no pin with which to view my account on-line.  I made a rather substantial deposit (in dollars) to that account upon opening it, and, today, sixteen days later, have no earthly idea how much I have in Euros after the exchange rate (which I don't know) and fee (which I don't know).  But, they have reordered both pins for me and we expected them to be in by NEXT THURSDAY!  I don't even rate a "oh...I don't know...two or three days."
But how do we know this?  It certainly isn't because anyone at Credit Agricole gave a ferret's fundament about us or our accounts.  It's because the CFO here called down and told them they were within a hair's breath of losing his account and it's several million Euros.  A little while later there are three representatives from the bank in our conference room assuming a prone position trying to look appropriately embarrassed (but I don't think any of them gave a single, solitary damn...and that is the problem).  So, the net of it is we learned the status, if you can call it that, and, oh yeah, the branch manager is going to bring me cash tomorrow morning, and, in the event our on-line banking pins ever show up, they are going to send someone by to ensure we can get on-line and show us how to use the system.  Right now I have good evidence they have no system.  But, we'll see.  Meanwhile...makes for great blogging, huh?

Again, my disclaimer: This became such a comedy of errors, piled upon errors, it just begged reporting.  This level (or lack) of competence is certainly not representative of the folks I've met and worked with here in France.  They are wonderful people who laugh easy and often, and have been helpful to more than I could ever ask.  I am honored by their friendship.
Jerry

School Days, School Days

I reported a couple of posts ago that Morgan and I were going to get some professional intensive instruction to help us along with our French. We began this weekend working from 9:00am to 3:00pm Saturday and Sunday (today). It was very interesting and helpful...but tiring and stressful as well. There's this old saying about you can't teach old dogs new tricks that keeps running through my head, and I'm beginning to wonder if, like many old sayings, there's not an element of truth in it. I'm absolutely mentally worn out.

Florent, our instructor, was very good and had a lot of patience. He's going to need it. We must have spent an hour and a half on the sounds for the letters "Y" and "U" in French. They are very close in French...so close, in fact, I'm still somewhat unsure of the exact intonational difference. I was reminded of one of the best comedy routines ever: Gallagher's routine on the English language (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDFQXxWIyvQ&NR=1 ). The part starting at about 3:30 on is one of the best commentaries on the complexity of the English language you will ever hear. Right now, French is seemingly as complicated to these old ears.

But, the good news is these old ears still work, and the old brain still stores data (albeit with intermittent connection problems), so we're going to stay after it.

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Good Deal?
I needed a guitar stand, so Saturday, after our lesson, I went downtown to a music store on Allee Baco. Finally found a good (economic) deal in France. The stand was only 9€ (~$12.25). That's a good deal! Of course, while there I looked at the good guitars and saw a couple of Martin and Gibson "dreadnaughts" that were really nice. They were in the area of 3,000€ ($4100), creating the possibility that perhaps this could be one of the most expensive guitar stands in history.


*******************************************
But we thought we were!
After getting the guitar stand, Morgan and I met up to have a couple of beers and get something to eat. After working on French all day I was in the mood for ordering it in a vein while laying on a gurney...but settled for a couple of pints in an Irish Pub. After the beers, we resolved to get something to eat, stopping first at the place where we'd gotten the kangaroo meat in October. By this time they were booked until 11:00pm, and I wasn't about to wait that long. So down the street we went stopping at this intriguing place called La Spigna.


We were greeted at the door by one of the most beautiful and healthy young ladies I think I've ever seen. Olive skinned and mysterious, she seemed perfect for this Italian restaurant. Somehow, through my stuttering (was it the French or the beauty?) we managed to get a small table in back. In addition to greeting and seating, she turned out to be the one to take our order, assisted by a young man who spoke less English than she. At her suggestion, however, the young man provided Morgan with, I think, their only menu in English. He eventually found a selection from all available he thought contained only pasta and meat, making him a happy man. As for me, nothing is ever that easy. After perusing the French menu for ten minutes I decided that "Escallapes" sounded like the way to go. Sea scallops with pasta is a real favorite of mine. Wanting to be sure, I checked it on the English menu. That was no help, having the same name as on the other menu, so, when the young lady returned to take our order I asked if the entree was sea scallops. She, obviously, didn't understand me, but, when I held up my hand with thumb and index finger joined in a circle and said, "round?" and "blanc?," she gave a smile that damn near melted my belt buckle, and nodding her head emphatically, said, "Oui, oui." Who could fail to order after goddess confirmation? Not me. I don't have that kind of will power.

The veal scallopini was actually quite good, though my heart was set on sea scallops and pasta. Can't say I wanted or liked the frites (french fries), but what the heck, I ate 'em. We did get a very nice Italian rosé that went well with everything.

About half way through the meal Morgan mentioned he would like some bread so, after the usual five-to-ten minute pantomime show trying to get the waiter's attention, we both said, "Le Pan." Seeing his confusion, we said it again. And again. Several times. But, evidently, that didn't work. Then looking at us in all seriousness and smiling, he said, "En Français?" We almost fell on the floor. That's what we thought we were doing!!!

During today's lesson we asked for the correct pronunciation and learned that our "pan" with the sound of "pa" or "paw" didn't quite meet the guttural requirement of "pawn". But we did get the bread. And, I, later, determined that the young lady was from Tunisia.

Chilly Sunday Morning

My original plan for the day was to learn the metro (rail) service into town and back.  There is a large station about a mile below where I live and, given what I hear about the zero tolerance of the authorities regarding driving under the influence, it seems like a good idea.  One can drive a mile, park and ride the metro in, get snockered, then come back and only run the 1 mile risk.   Not prone to overdrink anyway, one would expect the tolerance to be a little higher if your sitting in a metro seat and not the driver's seat.  But, it was just way to cold for that idea.  I wasn't about to stand around on platforms waiting on trains to come in with the temperature a very cool -2 degrees (C).

So, I decided to ride around Nantes and gain familiarity with the roads.  It was a nice little drive.  I managed to get turned around several times, but, now that I'm getting used to the road signs...and am not too proud to do a 360 (degree) on a traffic circle...I found getting around much easier and less intimidating. 

Another "newcomer" adventure
About noon I was getting hungry so I thought I'd go downtown.  First you have to understand that the sidewalks roll up in this area of about 800,000 people sometime early Sunday morning.  I'm surprised I haven't heard the "snap" when they click together before descending into their Sunday resting places.  No joke.  With the exception of restaurants and confection vendors, if you want something for Sunday you'd better plan ahead and get it on Saturday.  It will NOT be open on Sunday.  For a comparison, imagine Thanksgiving or Christmas Day and the services available in America on those days.  That's what every Sunday is like here.
Anyway, I head downtown and, as mentioned before, parking is at a premium there at all times.  So, I follow the signs to the parking garage for the Boufay area.  It's an area with which I've become fairly familiar so I felt comfortable going there.  I pull up to the garage entrance, punch the little button, and pull my parking ticket from the machine.  I then park and go looking for some food.

Walking from the parking lot I see yet another old church peeking out from between the buildings.




 

A little further on one of those "great" old alleyways in which I keep expecting to run into Humphery Bogart and Claude Rains
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
But, it was just too damned cold.  While hovering around 39°F-40°F the wind was blowing and my little ol' south Texas body (well, maybe not "little") just couldn't stand it.  So, I turn around and head back to the car.
 
Upon entering the parking lot I look around for an indication as to how I pay for the parking and get out.  Meanwhile, a car comes down and, stopping at the gate and entering his ticket into the machine, he exits when the little arm conveniently raises.  I see a sign painted on the wall that indicates, I thought, a customer entrance and points up a small flight of stairs, but don't think anything of it. 
 
So, I get in my car, drive up the the exit, place my ticket in the little slot and get a message that indicates my ticket is invalid.  Thinking, "Yeah, I thought so too, but where and how do I validate it?"  The machine, of course, said nothing so I backed up ( a dangerous thing to do in parking lots ) and, fortunately, there was a narrow path back onto the "safe" side.  I parked and walked back outside to continue my quest for a place to pay for parking.
 
Not finding anything I determined to ask the next person who came by for help, no matter how foolish I might appear.  (I can take foolish better than cold.  After all, I've had oh so much more experience with it.)
 
Now...this for all those who talk about the French being aloof and unfriendly.  As I've said before, everyone has been great to me and, believe me, I've done some pretty stupid things here.  This is just an example of why I'm liking the French so much.
A gentleman, approx. 35-40 years old comes walking down the narrow, deserted street.  I go up to him and say, "Je suis désolé, mais je parle petite peu le français (I'm sorry, but I speak very little French...approximately).  Then, "Parlez-vous anglais?"  He smiles, shrugs his shoulders and indicates very little.  I then show him my ticket and say in mixed French/pig-latin, "Comment payee?"  He understands and points back into the parking garage and rattles off a sentence I will understand six to eight weeks from now.  I must have been looking more stupid and helpless by the minute, because he motions for me to follow him and he leads me back in and up those rather inobtrusive stairs I mentioned earlier and shows me a machine indicating I should stick my ticket in the slot.  I do, and the machine says I own 1€.  I nod, stick the coin in, and the machine spits my ticket back out.  I thank the man profusely and he leaves.  I go back down, crank my car, drive to the exit and, voila, the ticket now works! I get out of jail and have another experience with which to bore.  Aint' life great?
 
By the way, I've always heard the same about New Yorkers in terms of being aloof and not liking visitors, but my experiences in New York are much as they are here.  I think it has everything to do with the visitor's attitude.
 
On the "dark side" though I'll relate a little of my experience with French banking.  Last Tuesday, Morgan and I were taken down to the bank used by the company.  We need local banking accounts so we can stop having to pay conversion fees when using our credit cards.  The lady took our information and, in my case, a deposit of both a cashier's check and some cash.  We were told our ATM (Debit) cards would be ready by Friday or Monday.  Yesterday (Tuesday) I asked Morgan if he'd heard anything from the bank.  He said no and got with Yves (our stalwart, French-speaking ally who assisted us in setting up the accounts) and they head down to the bank.  I catch them on the way out and Yves reports that Morgan's card is ready but mine isn't.  You can imagine how I took this news.  In any event, it seems Morgan got his card, but no PIN number yet so a) the card is worthless and b) he can't get online to tell them.  Meanwhile I have nothing.  In short, I believe French banks are where French waiters go to work when they "graduate" from no-service school.  This will get more and more interesting I expect.  Morgan and I both owe large sums for the intensive French lessons we begin Saturday and will need access to cash.  If we don't have it by then I think American-French relations may be somewhat tested.