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.