Saturday 13 September 2008

The Girl's In Seine


This morning I came to wondering: what makes for the perfect holiday? Sun, sea and sand - for some. How about a little wine and fine food? No? Pigeon decapitation? Tunnels on fire? Total transport meltdown?

Well, let me tell you. If any of the latter struck a chord, I would recommend that you relive the past 48 hours in my shoes.

Yes, France. Sunny, bonny France. Yes please! came my response, when the idea that my friend and I might spend the first two weeks of September in the sunny South of France was formulated. When I let my mind wander to the notion of all that wine and bread and patisserie, I became transfixed with a romantic ideal - sipping a kir on the veranda, perhaps delighted by the soft playing of a Spanish guitar, dining for five hours at a time on luxuriously lengthy courses of non-stop delight.

Alas, unless this encompasses a soggy, packaged, plastic chicken sandwich accompanied by half a tomato and some slug slithered lettuce, it was not meant to be.

Pain came in a variety of forms. And just when you didn't think it could suck any more, it sucked harder still. These were dark days of flatulence, fear and luggage-related ferocity that I would not wish on any other soul. Very disturbing territory.

For the sake of ease (and my delicate nerves), I have chosen to list these disasters in bullet point format:

- The Trolley Bag from Hell. One thing I would recommend that you do for your walking/train travelling French holiday is take your wheelie suitcase, attach it to a piece of string, attach the piece of string to a massive rock and plunge it into the depths below. My trolley bag-related stress became so high at one point that I lost control of my senses on the mean streets of Paris, screamed like a petulent five year-old child and attempted to kick said trolly bag with all my might only to miss it and strop off in an embarrassing fashion whilst onlookers hung back tentatively.
- Dogs. On each train journey we completed around France (five in total), we were met by some form of yapping dog. Not large, loveable and obedient dogs, but shitty little yappy little nightmare-looking dogs with ignorant owners who do not deserve to live, let alone own an animal. Yes, the train journey I particularly enjoyed would have to be the one where just as I had settled myself down to a nice nap, I felt this little lick against my big toe, followed by an inevitable leg-humping routine. Doe-eyed though this shitsu might have been, I was prepared to shove all five of my toes plus foot, plus potentially ankle, right into its face. Doe-eyed? Huh! Not for long!
- Farting Grannies. Ah, the essential accompaniment to train travel. Grandmothers (no doubt adored by their grandchildren) leaning forward in their chair - perhaps to pour a bowl of water for their cutesy-wutesy little chihauha - and letting escape the loudest and wettest fart you have ever heard or smelt in your life. You just don't know a glass of wine until it's enjoyed with one of these.
- Pigeon Decapitation. Tree rats they may be, but I am the last person in the world who would wish any kind of creature a painful death (regardless of the above tirade launched on yappy little dogs and their owners), and the poor pigeon whose demise I witnessed in Nice is no different. Rest in peace, Cheepy (post-humous title, ceremony to be announced).
- Would You Like Fries With That? Our final resting place came to be Paris. After eleven arduous days of train travel from Bordeaux to Montepellier, Montpellier to Nice and back again, we had one final night of relaxation booked at a reasonable little hotel just minutes away from the Seine. My friend settled down to a book whilst I idley flicked to the BBC World News channel, preparing myself for my reintroduction into the world of England and everything it has to offer. Rolling green pastures, right hand drive vehicles and sane traffic light systems. Imagine my surprise, delight and terror when I learned that just hours earlier a freight train had scorched a gigantic hole in the channel tunnel, basically rendering us fucked. Utterly fucked. I mean real, horrible, terrible fucking here. First thing in the morning, we got on the phone to EuroStar...

Us: What would you recommend we do in the face of this fire? How can we return to the UK?
Eurostar: Well, we are not offering any other alternative, and are basically going to do absolutely boot all for you. Best we can tell you is that you can get a boat, fly or swim back home and we may or may not refund your return journey fare when you get there.
Us: Right... so, is there any particular mode of transport you think would be best?
Eurostar: No.
Us: Ok then.

It transpired that we would have to travel by taxi, train, coach and donkey to Caen where we might get a boat to leave that Godforsaken country otherwise known as France some time after midnight, but our souls and sanity were not permissable to pass. Horror... pure horror... as we boarded (eventually, after being forced to allow a party of 39 on first), found our seats and settled down to the eight hour overnight ferry trip, a chorus of three snores came ringing across the room, and I knew, right then, that this is what hell is like. Solid gold nightmares.
- One Final PS. Just as we were about to make our ferry connection, we witnessed the knocking over of a man as he crossed the road, wrapping him in the foetal position around the front left tyre of the offending van. Although this did not directly involve us in any way, I'm sure you can grasp how this may have added to the tension and concern.

There you have it; our holiday. I hasten to add there were some good parts, but where's the fun in that? Enjoy your next trip to France at your peril. You have been warned.

1 comment:

Lara said...

how terrible! what about the beach bits? URGH!!!!!!!I can't believe that all really happened. ALSO - i like the title x