I woke up in a Breton country house belonging to my friend Jennifer and her husband, Laurent.
Jennifer and I both studied in Paris together, during the Y2K scare, and at the end of the school year, we went on a hike of Auvergne, a formerly volcanic region in the middle of France, part of the Massif Central.
It's where the water comes from. In fact, we hiked up the volcano pictured below.
[If I were a graphic designer, I'd whip up a mock logo for a competing brand of water called "Vulvic." But I'd have to be a pretty graphic graphic designer.]
My entire trip throughout Europe had been pretty intense, staying with strangers (who often became friends), hitching rides, and never stopping for very long to rest. Finally, in Brittany, I had a chance to rest. Their lifestyle is inherently much slower than most that I'd seen. They weren't exactly farmers themselves, though their garden would be envied by most, but they were surrounded on all sides by died-in-the-wool farmers.
But I had to leave. I had a flight from Paris in a few days.
But aside from flight information, I had little else to structure my time. So I decided one evening, maybe the 2nd or 3rd that I was there, that it was time for me to fly. I did a long, extended a cappella version of Freebird and planned to leave in the morning. Here's my basic route.
They drove me to a rondpoint and I stood with my sign hoping to get to Lorient.
First person to pick me up was a woman about my age; now we're friends on Facebook.
We talked for a while - nice, easy conversation - and talked music, culture, Brittany, Celts, and whatever else. Somehow it came up that I was visiting Jennifer and Laurent, whom she knew through the theatre. Still not quite sure how.
Then, I waited. Je galérais. Finally, I got a ride from an old man who was much more difficult to talk to. I think he was a real paysan with a thick accent. Just when you think you know a language...
He dropped me off in a tricky spot; I was near a rondpoint, but the traffic coming through seemed to be going pretty fast and didn't have time to see me. But further down the road it became more of a highway and then traffic was really going fast.
I ended up waiting down the road for a while before I heard someone calling after me. I didn't remember making any eye contact with anyone, but either I did or they decided after the fact to help me out.
Once again, unusual. A family on vacay driving back to Paris. They were going to hole up somewhere for the night, making it a 2-day trip. They were nice enough, not particularly pleasant, awkward, or memorable. But I'll think fondly of them forever for their willingness to pick up strangers.
They dropped me off on the west side of Rennes. The highway comes in from the west, does a little bypass, and then comes out the east towards Paris.
There, I really felt stranded. After what seemed like an hour, someone finally stopped. I was so excited but quickly disappointed; he was just stopping to give advice: I was on the wrong side of town. Being on the east side would increase the likelihood of Paris-bound travelers.
Also, it was getting late. Late afternoon.
Following his advice, I took the bus into town. Thank goodness for public transit!
I considered taking the train, but it was well over 50 bucks, so I took another bus out of town. I considered staying in Rennes but, at the last possible moment, after finally finding wifi, I got word that I had a couch in Paris. Ali L'Original.
I can't remember his last name, but that's who he is on Facebook.
So I waited for a half-hour at a random rondpoint - after trying and failing at a couple - and, after getting ignored and even flicked off!, someone stopped.
I told him I was going to Paris. So was he. But. He wasn't taking the highway but the "départementale," backroads.
At that point, I was happy to have a sure ride than risk waiting all night at a crossroads. So we had 5 hours to chat, not 4.
His brown minivan betrayed a non-chalance and frugality that many other French drivers do their best to hide. He had some career for a while but was now a Private Investigator. That took me a little while to work out in translation, but it's essentially literal.
It got dark as we got close to Paris; I dozed and dreamt of a bed.
Finally, at 10pm - 22h - we got to Paris, specifically the 18th or 19th arrondissement, a predominantly African, immigrant, and Muslim area. I hadn't noticed, but my chauffeur was Muslim. His name, if memory serves, may even have been Mohammad or some other dead giveaway. His family was Moroccan or Algerian but had been in France for generations.
Then, to couchsurfing host, Ali, also a Muslim from North Africa, Morocco specifically.
I exhaustedly took the Métro to find my host and his cohorts - including several other couchsurfers. They were watching a movie in the park that had just ended and it was time to go out.
Time to go out, time to go to sleep; there wasn't much debate: I was horribly outnumbered.
Fortunately, we had a car. We stashed my bags and went to find a gathering on some abandoned railroad tracks. I wanted a drink, but it seemed BYO so I exhaustedly conversed with whomever, primarily the surfers also staying with Ali: a group of 4 Belgians and a young Austrian couple. We'd fit into Ali's apartment but it was juste.
Finally we left. To go to a bar on the rive gauche, totally touristy. The bar, in fact, was really close to the bar that my friend Ashley's current husband used to work at, also blindé de touristes.
I got my drink; we vacillated and finally got moving towards beds/couches/etc.
Ali's apartment had 2 couches in the living room where I slept, a spare room for the 4 Belgians, and then his room which he gave up for the Austrians. He slept on the other couch in the living room. Quel Mensch!
And finally ended my long day - early to rise, early the next morning to bed.
