The Champagne Valley:
Some castle, there was no signage as to whose it was:
The next four or five hours on the motorway weren’t terribly exciting. It was raining on and off, windy and just generally not a nice day. I passed Troyes, Dijon and then got stuck in some traffic in Lyon. I found out that my luck with the “on strike” toll staff was limited to the north as I must have paid close to 70 Euros in tolls. I then passed through Grenoble, the location of the headquarters for the company I used to work for, Schneider Electric. The clouds obscured a good portion of the mountains but the scenery was still quite stunning.
I began a vicious climb out of Grenoble to a place called Gap. Poor Betty doesn’t really like hills and I pulled over a number of times to let more able vehicles pass by. I reached the top of a climb and there was a beautiful lake with some sail boats plying about. I noticed a wedding party walking from their cars out to a statue of a man on a horse for some post ceremony photos. Just after a small hamlet, I decided to stop in a picnic area for a pee break. After some bladder relief, I hopped back in Betty and she wouldn’t fire up. Damn! What now? I grabbed my rain jacket and iPod and began walking back from where I’d come trying to rack my brains of the last gas station I had seen. I passed through the little town (if you’d even call it that) called Pettichet). I saw a guy walking towards me on the narrow road so I decided to ask him if he knew of a garage. His answer was not encouraging. He figured it was ten kilometres in either direction and the chances were, being Saturday, that they would all be closed. Excellent. He told me to follow him and we retraced the last 400 meters I had walked and then popped into a building. I was greeted by one of his friends who was interested in my predicament. This guy was quick to offer to drive me the 10km to the garage to see what we could sort out. It was a small bar inside and as the first guy met had a small powerful looking coffee from the mother of the second guy, the second guy went to change his clothes. They both then jumped in a small, terribly dirty car with me and we were off. We tried a few different places but no one could help us. Guy number two decided to call the Gendarmerie and they got a tow truck on its way to Betty. Guy number one jumped out as I guess we were closer to his house now and guy number one and I raced back to beat the tow truck to the campervan. Arriving at Betty, I thought I’d try her again so the guy could see what the problem was. Lo and behold, she fired up! Sweet. He called and cancelled the tow truck and I felt as though I’d saved another 113 Euros. The kind guy’s name that had helped me out was.....drum roll...Christophe! What?!? Is there a patron saint in France of St. Christophe, the saviour of stranded motorists?
Gorgeous views en route:
Okay, no more stopping until I arrive at St. Andre des Alpes, where I should meet up with Pierre, Jodi and Torge, paragliding friends from Victoria (well the latter two now live in Germany). There were more steep climbs and descents and poor old Betty was working hard. Arriving in the larger town (or small city) of Gap, I noticed that my fuel gauge was abnormally low. I chalked it up to the fact that Betty was on such inclines and declines that perhaps the fuel had congregated on one side of the fuel tank...but I better keep an eye on it. Just past a place called Sisteron, I had a difficult decision: stop to fuel up and risk her not starting again, or continue on and risk running out of gas. I decided to pull into the next aire. Strangely the indicator didn’t seem to be functioning correctly as it was just a solid light on the dashboard. Before arriving at the pumps, I got out to look at them from the outside. Betty lurched forward as I hadn’t properly checked that she was in neutral. Damn, I’ve stalled her. I guess I’ll find out now if she’ll start again. What?!? The battery is dead now too?!? This is going from bad to worse. I tried to open her hood but even the lever to open it wasn’t working. The gas station was devoid of any cars and I figured that it might be shut. I walked up to the building and thankfully there was a lady there. I explained my situation and she called for a tow truck. Having not had a proper meal yet today and figuring I had at least half an hour till the truck arrived, I began to cook some ravioli, at least Betty’s stove still works!. Before I had finished 4 mouthfuls, the truck arrived. The driver didn’t even want to look at Betty, he just wanted to tow her. I guess I was probably disturbing his Saturday night. He quickly loaded the van up and we were off to a place called Chateau Arnoux. Nothing would be done to the vehicle until Monday morning...damn.
Betty and I were dropped off next to the Renault service station and Marc said that I would be good here for the weekend and there were even public toilets 50 meters away. I asked whether there was anywhere with Internet access as that was how I could communicate with Pierre but he was unsure. Once he was gone, I set about exploring nearby to see what I could find. Some young teenage girls asked me whether I had any cigarettes and were disappointed when I replied that I didn’t smoke. I asked them back about Internet access and they suggested I try a nearby restaurant. The restaurant had aa mass of empty tables and chairs outside, a covered patio type area with a sad looking bar and a big screen TV and then the proper restaurant inside which looked to be of a northern African flavour. I sat down at a long table near the TV as there was a football game on. The proprietor asked me if I wanted something after he had finished his rolled cigarette. No luck on the Internet but I decided to get a beer and watch a bit of the game. It had been a long day, about 14 hours with Betty.
Near the end of the game, a darker skinned man came in with his 3 or 4 year old daughter and sat close to me. In French he instructed his daughter not to talk as she would be disturbing me. I responded back that it was okay as I couldn’t understand half of what the commentators were saying. I briefly mentioned my predicament in my broken French. When he learned that I was a Canadian, I had an instant friend. It turns out that Ahmed, originally from Morocco, had travelled across most of Canada by Greyhound bus in the late 90s and he loved how helpful Canadians had been to him. We chatted for another half an hour after the game was finished. He then insisted that I should come and stay with his family which consisted of his wife Assayi who spoke next to no French, only Arabic, his 3-4 year old Sofia and 8 month old daughter Ocean. My first instinct was to decline the offer but then I thought “When in Rome...”. Ahmed explained that they would first be going to a fête, which to me means party in English. I thought “Strange, they’re going to a 4 year olds birthday party at 11pm? Don’t these French people know how to raise kids?” (not that I’m an expert!). Turns out that it was a party for the whole town! The annual carnival had arrived so there were your standard rides like bumper cars and merry-go-rounds and also the “pathetically rigged so you rarely win” games like ring toss. Ahmed is a popular guy in town as every third or fourth person came up and gave him a big hug and kiss on the cheek or at least a handshake with a big smile. How could you not like this guy, his energy is infectious. He introduced me to a friend of his, Nicole, who was a fifty something woman all decked out for the event complete with black pants, black mesh shirt that was a bit revealing for someone her age (typically at least...I know Cher does it) and a black jacket. Turns out she’s a “bergère”, which is a shepherdess, I think the first one I’ve ever met. She should me a few videos on her phone of her flock and some of the dogs that helped her. She was quite a nice lady but I got the impression that she was attempting to use her herding techniques on me.
After Sofia had gone on a few rides, Ahmed bought us all a drink on a patio as we watched a dozen or so teenagers dancing to some rock music across the street with a foam machine attempting to add some ambiance. Sofia was noticeably tired and I couldn’t blame her, it was 1am.
The Chateau Arnoux fair:
Sofia on a ride:
Super friendly Ahmed:
Shepherdess Nicole and Cool Ahmed:
I piled into Ahmed’s white pickup truck sporting a purple bumper with his family and we headed about five kilometres to their rented upstairs apartment of a house. It was relatively small and only had one bedroom...and yet Ahmed had insisted I come and stay with them...heart of gold I tell you. Ahmed had not only traveled across Canada but he had been to New York City and gone up one of the World Trade Center towers just a few months before 9/11. He had various memorabilia from his two trips, including his bus tickets, which he proudly showed me. Assayi got the kids ready for bed and I was ready too myself as I had started driving at 6:30am, but Ahmed was full into it and it took another 20 minutes of subtle hints from me and not so subtle ones from his wife before we all went to bed. I slept on the couch in the living room which was comfy enough but there were a number of flies in the house that kept landing on my face in the early morning so I had to pretty much cover myself completely up.
Ahmed's house:
Cute Sofia and Ocean:
The next morning they offered me breakfast and then Ahmed gave me a lift back to Betty. He was a sportsman hunter and there was some shooting competition that he was taking part in that day. I bid him farewell and thanked him for opening his home to me. Some people are rich with money, others are rich with family and a joie de vies...and he was definitely the latter.
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