France, then Home

     Avignon is a unique city. Walled, from ancient times, but modern, too. Seven Popes resided here from 1309 to 1376, when things got a little hot for them in Rome. There were lots of museums, and we stuck to the free stuff. The way we saw it, we could visit a lot of those expensive, touristy places, and stay a week. Or, we could follow our natural penny pinching inclinations, and stay six weeks. We chose to stay as long as we could.

     The Palace of the Popes was a big draw. We were walking around through it, and came upon a small room with a tomb in it. It contained the body of a Pope, from the early 1400's. Right here. Right in front of me. So close I could touch it. While I was still in awe of that fact, a couple of Nuns came in, started lighting candles. They told me they were about to do a ceremony that they do every day for the Pope. "How long has this ceremony been done, every day?" I asked. She looked at me, like I was slow to catch on, or something. "Every day since he died." Every day since 1400? Now, I was really overcome with awe. When I die, I'll be lucky if someone puts a flower on my grave, once a year, for a couple of years. Now, this is really something. 600+ years?

     There seemed to be any number of stories about the Popes of olden times, there at Avignon.

 One I heard dealt with the story that once a woman concealed that she was a woman so well, she actually became Pope. Things went along smoothly until she went into labor during a big parade. After that, a throne was constructed that the would-be Pope sat on during a ceremony. There was a hole in the bottom of the seat, and someone crawled under the throne and verified he was a man. Now, I have no way to verify these stories. Only that I heard them in Avignon.  

     We enjoyed a rare steak meal that day, complete with outdoor seating. Then we caught the train back to Cavaillon. Uneventfully, a rare thing for us.

     Next we headed for Lyon. For a change, this offered nice, stress free drive along the river through small towns. French drivers are not as pushy as Italians. At Lyon, we would give up our cute little red car, still pretty, and make a mad dash across France on the fast train to Paris.

     Our last laundry day was just as challenging as our first. We cleaned out the car, and Barbara repacked everything into that one giant case for our mad dash across France.

     We found out the right word for "airport" from a guy at a gas station, and he even drew up a map that had all the right words on it. Barbara almost wanted to kiss him on both cheeks like they do here. Not me. After passing the right road a couple of times, we kept looping back and finally delivered our little red car. And guess what! There were no traffic tickets attached! At least, none that had caught up with us in time. I suspect that's a weakness in the system, because a guy in Sweden told me it takes 5-6 weeks to get the ticket. By that time, we would be home, and who's going to extradite me over a traffic ticket? However, when we did get tickets sent to America, Barb paid up. I just know I saw an awful lot of flashing lights. We took the shuttle to the train station, ate pizza, then found a good hotel within short walking distance.

     Now we had a little time to see Lyon. A homeless guy taught us how to ride the metro, with help from two other English speakers. After arriving at city center, we had a little time to walk the streets of Lyon. There are some really different looking people here. We had noticed that before, in Quebec City. Lots of different looking people, who look like each other. I won't undertake to try to explain that, but I've got my theories.

     The fast train was wonderful. Just like watching a greatly sped up film of a very fast trip across country. But it was for real. Everything we saw that was reasonably close to the train was just a blur. Arriving in Paris, we found a Tourist Information, and booked a room. It was very expensive by our standards. Then with a little help we found a bus stop. It got us within reasonable walking distance from our hotel, if you don't take into consideration that I was an old man, broken back, struggling along with a giant bag.

     After we got settled, we talked a lot with the nice couple who own it. At least, with him. She didn't speak a word of English. He said they were going to Alabama, soon, to see kin folk. I told her through him, "If you're going to Alabama, you simply must master these three words: How ya'll doin?" She worked hard at it, but this French speaker just totally choked up on  "Ya'll". She just could not get it out.

     He told us that if we planned to travel in Paris this week, we simply must master the Metro. Well, we were finally able to use it well enough to get around. I won't say we mastered it, but at least, we fought it to a draw. We went to the Eiffel tower, first, and photographed it from all possible angles. Then the Musee D Orsay, where we saw Whistler's mother, and many more great works, next the Louve, with its Mona Lisa, and a lot more. We couldn't see it all in one day.

     Our dear friend Jane Quick gave Barbara a hundred dollar bill when we left home, and earmarked it for one big, fancy meal in Paris. I ate Pigeon, from ze' soute' of Fronce'. It was really good, but it looked just like a pigeon from ze' back alley. Barbara treated herself to a fancy kind of fish that we can't pronounce, and we spent Jane's hundred dollars, and then some.

     We took the metro and the train to Versailles, toured the grounds and the whole package, Then back to the Bastille, and so much more. I lost my bus and metro pass, but fortunately not until the last day. They were doing a lot of talking about the Bird Flu, and scared us about possibly being marooned in Europe, but it didn't happen. Barbara said it well with her last entry in her Europe diary. "Flying home – Yea!"