fuite la France : partie un
For those of you not up on your french - title translation:
ESCAPE FRANCE PART ONE
eh? Many of you may be saying. But Susan aren't you supposed to be in day four of walking your epic 2010 pilgrimage? ...Many of you may be questioning. Well the tale is a bit long (not to be confused with tall) and therefore I have decided to pay my respects to the great tellers of suspense (nod/ thumbs up to Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Wells, and hell James Patterson) and all that encompasses the great misadventures of classic literature (the Odyssey, the Iliad, Gulliver's Travels, Rip Van Winkle to name a few and if you don't know any of these, I weep for your illiterate soul) that i will prolong (or maybe milk) the retelling so all who read may receive full extent of atmospheric ambiance. ....
We begin... the date: June 16th, 2010
the location : St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France
After successfully navigating France from the port at St-Malo *pronounced San Malou* ( from St. Malo, I took a train to Rennes, a bus to Nantes, another train to Bordeaux, another train to Bayonne -where i stayed the night in a seriously sketch hotel near the train station yes i put moved a table in front of my room door for the night- and finally an early bus to St. Jean Pied-de-Port) I found myself ready to tour the historic gateway of el camino Frances. Making my way from the bus stop to the Pilgrims office I went through the registration process, obtained my pilgrims passport which would allow me into the designated hostels, my shell to attach to my backpack identifying me as a pilgrim (important for the basque country) and various maps/literature to help guide my way. This was a bit difficult as only one person in the office spoke broken English but we managed between that and my broken French. With these official procedures out of the way I was led to the pilgrims hostel which unfortunately was closed for cleaning- I was directed to leave my backpack next to several other backpacks outside the hostel- this would allow me (as i discerned from the gestures of the pilgrims official helping me who did not speak English) to walk around the historic center unhindered by my backpack.
Now even though I had read that St. Jean was a notoriously safe area- very small town attitudes who tend to protect their heritage and take their duty of guarding those traveling the way of St. James very seriously- I did not want to take my chances. Throughout my travels prior to this moment I had separated my three credit cards, money, drivers licence, and passport between myself, my backpack, and my camera case (like any good traveler knows to do). However, faced with the prospect of leaving my backpack open to someone poking through it, made me nervous. I decided that for the next few hours I would carry everything between me and my camera bag.
Walking up to the old Citidal (pictures to be posted at end of trip because I unfortunately do not have my transfer chord) I toured the old walls and marveled at the spectacular view of the Pyrenees which I would be passing over the following day to reach my next destination of Roncesvalles. How exciting to be where so much history had taken place! From there I meandered down to a phone to let home know everything was well and actually three days ahead of schedule. After a chat with mom, I head up to the little cafe across from the pilgrims office which i had seen early to have a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. I met up with a Canadian couple I had talked to early on the bus who were very pleasant and I couldn't be happier- people to walk with in the morning HUZZAH! Fully sated the sky had clouded over and the mist which had been lurking for much of the day turned to rain. Not wanting my passport- which was in a white bag around my neck- to become wet I tucked it into my camera case - which after a moments consideration added my licence credit cards and money to so my bag would be organized and nothing would fall out. My pockets of the capri's that i was wearing were very shallow so I didn't want to risk my credit cards falling out or any money- so putting everything in the bag seemed like a logical choice. Briskly walking back to the hostel I grabbed my raincoat and decided the to walk down down to the 14th century church a stones throw away from the Pilgrims office, the cafe, and the hostel. I had passed it earlier and couldn't resist popping in to snap a few pictures and light a candle in memory of my dad whom in part was one of the many reasons i was walking - now settled I would have enough time to really reflect on what I was doing there and what I wanted to accomplish. In fact everything was on one medieval cobbled stone road named the Rue de la Citadelle convenient right? Once in the church i brushed the water from my jacket and sat down to pull out a euro to pay for the candle i had used earlier. Unhooking the top of the camera bag and reached down for the white satchel....
and that was when I was sent to what can only be described as my own personal hell.
The bag was gone. Not there. Absent. Time slowed down the world didn't really exist.
Then I snapped back to reality and realized I had to move quickly and efficiently. I retraced my steps throughout the church. Not there. I ran back to the cafe-not there. I tried to communicate what I was looking for to the couple behind the counter who had served me my coffee. They did not speak English and I was butchering my French. No they had not seen a white bag. I ran back to my backpack- maybe it had dropped next to it when i grabbed my jacket- nope. As I made my way to the pilgrims office, I ran into the Canadians- understanding the dire circumstances immediately they followed me to the pilgrims office where I frantically tried to explain that it was a real passport i was missing not the Credencial del Peregrino (Pilgrims Passport). One of the Canadians spoke french and helped me do this as once again only one spoke English. From there we again searched the road for any sign of the white bag - it was only a field of about 100 to about 150 feet from where I had been from the last time I seen the bag and total of about 20-30 minutes since the cafe. Nothing. I searched garbage cans, corners, and the Canadians asked in the three shops with in the radius of where i had been. Nothing. Don't worry the pilgrims office assured me- it will be turned in to the office of tourism....go there. I and the Canadians made our way down to the office where we were told no it would be turned into the police station lost and found. We quickly went and checked. Nothing. We then went directly to the police who wrote it down on a post it and sent us on our way.
By this time I was starting to lose what little calm I had and the nature of the situation really began to hit me. I an American (believe me in this day and age not a perc), with no identification other than a digital scan of my passport on my email, and no money or credit cards. Don't panic.
The pilgrims officials helped search my things on the outside case that I would have maybe shoved it in a pocket and forgotten. Nothing.
I had really screwed up. My dream of walking the Camino- a dream that I had been nursing for five years was started to fade. Spain was not going to let me in the country, I was stuck in France.
Remain calm. Think. Don't panic.
....call mom, call the bank, call an embassy. Using the land line at the pilgrims office I attempted to get ahold of someone who not only spoke English but could help Only I had problems connecting to the United States. After about 30 minutes finally I got through to mom who immediately began work on finding out what i had to do for a passport and where i could get money from a western union. I called the bank. Dead ends all the way around. Night was setting in and I didn't even have enough money to buy a piece of bread. The pilgrims officials let me have dinner with them- an promised I could stay at the hostel another night if need be- *remember only one of them spoke English*. Don't worry, I told myself things will work themselves out in the morning.
I didn't sleep.
The next morning I watched as the pilgrims around me set off for the Pyrenees in the steady rain. I would not be going with them and it damn near broke my heart. I considered how far I had come - trains, buses, even a transatlantic voyage. The planning, the fundraising and the generosity of my friends back home who helped me get here. I felt physically ill.
No. Don't Panic. Don't give up.
As soon as the office opened I immediately checked my email for news from mom. Not good.
I need an I.D. of some sort to get money from western union. They would not just accept a scan, not that I had a printer to get a scan- and the officials didn't know where i could access one.
I needed to go to an embassy to get a passport. The nearest one was Bordeaux.
I was going to have to leave St. Jean somehow but I didn't have any money for a train ticket.
I had nothing but a two sets of clothing and gear suitable for walking.
I was in trouble. I felt this person stole from me, stole everything I had in the world at that point- essential my dream. This summer that was meant to be a turning point in my life had exploded into my worst nightmare.
However.....
Even when things were as awful as they were at this point, and it seems like the world can't get much worse- somebody proves that a giving soul does still exist and then things don't seem so bad. The pilgrims office managed to scrap together 50 euro (it is not a money making institution and is run by volunteers) and my Canadian friends pitched in 20 euro. Enough to get me to Bordeaux with five euro to spare.
With tears in my eyes I thanked my new friends and the office. Moving through the rain to the bus station, I have to admit I was afraid. No I.D., five euro and bus ticket to Bordeaux.
As the bus pulled out of the station the rain began to fall harder- the rivers began to rise- the roads began to flood. I felt so alone and I was starting to panic. What if if the bus gets stuck and I miss my connection, what if it gets swept away? I won't be able to be identified. I have nothing proving who I am. An hour later the bus pulled into Bayonne station- here the streets were flooded too. No phones to call home. Worse the train to Bordeaux was delayed because of the rain. What if it gets canceled? where will i stay? The consulate in Bordeaux closed at 3:30 pm it was now around 11 my train was supposed to get in at 1:50 but now it was an hour behind.
I was now soaked - and when i finally got on the train to Bordeaux I was looking at the prospect of not having a place to stay that night and not enough money to call home.
ESCAPE FRANCE PART ONE
eh? Many of you may be saying. But Susan aren't you supposed to be in day four of walking your epic 2010 pilgrimage? ...Many of you may be questioning. Well the tale is a bit long (not to be confused with tall) and therefore I have decided to pay my respects to the great tellers of suspense (nod/ thumbs up to Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Wells, and hell James Patterson) and all that encompasses the great misadventures of classic literature (the Odyssey, the Iliad, Gulliver's Travels, Rip Van Winkle to name a few and if you don't know any of these, I weep for your illiterate soul) that i will prolong (or maybe milk) the retelling so all who read may receive full extent of atmospheric ambiance. ....
We begin... the date: June 16th, 2010
the location : St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France
After successfully navigating France from the port at St-Malo *pronounced San Malou* ( from St. Malo, I took a train to Rennes, a bus to Nantes, another train to Bordeaux, another train to Bayonne -where i stayed the night in a seriously sketch hotel near the train station yes i put moved a table in front of my room door for the night- and finally an early bus to St. Jean Pied-de-Port) I found myself ready to tour the historic gateway of el camino Frances. Making my way from the bus stop to the Pilgrims office I went through the registration process, obtained my pilgrims passport which would allow me into the designated hostels, my shell to attach to my backpack identifying me as a pilgrim (important for the basque country) and various maps/literature to help guide my way. This was a bit difficult as only one person in the office spoke broken English but we managed between that and my broken French. With these official procedures out of the way I was led to the pilgrims hostel which unfortunately was closed for cleaning- I was directed to leave my backpack next to several other backpacks outside the hostel- this would allow me (as i discerned from the gestures of the pilgrims official helping me who did not speak English) to walk around the historic center unhindered by my backpack.
Now even though I had read that St. Jean was a notoriously safe area- very small town attitudes who tend to protect their heritage and take their duty of guarding those traveling the way of St. James very seriously- I did not want to take my chances. Throughout my travels prior to this moment I had separated my three credit cards, money, drivers licence, and passport between myself, my backpack, and my camera case (like any good traveler knows to do). However, faced with the prospect of leaving my backpack open to someone poking through it, made me nervous. I decided that for the next few hours I would carry everything between me and my camera bag.
Walking up to the old Citidal (pictures to be posted at end of trip because I unfortunately do not have my transfer chord) I toured the old walls and marveled at the spectacular view of the Pyrenees which I would be passing over the following day to reach my next destination of Roncesvalles. How exciting to be where so much history had taken place! From there I meandered down to a phone to let home know everything was well and actually three days ahead of schedule. After a chat with mom, I head up to the little cafe across from the pilgrims office which i had seen early to have a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. I met up with a Canadian couple I had talked to early on the bus who were very pleasant and I couldn't be happier- people to walk with in the morning HUZZAH! Fully sated the sky had clouded over and the mist which had been lurking for much of the day turned to rain. Not wanting my passport- which was in a white bag around my neck- to become wet I tucked it into my camera case - which after a moments consideration added my licence credit cards and money to so my bag would be organized and nothing would fall out. My pockets of the capri's that i was wearing were very shallow so I didn't want to risk my credit cards falling out or any money- so putting everything in the bag seemed like a logical choice. Briskly walking back to the hostel I grabbed my raincoat and decided the to walk down down to the 14th century church a stones throw away from the Pilgrims office, the cafe, and the hostel. I had passed it earlier and couldn't resist popping in to snap a few pictures and light a candle in memory of my dad whom in part was one of the many reasons i was walking - now settled I would have enough time to really reflect on what I was doing there and what I wanted to accomplish. In fact everything was on one medieval cobbled stone road named the Rue de la Citadelle convenient right? Once in the church i brushed the water from my jacket and sat down to pull out a euro to pay for the candle i had used earlier. Unhooking the top of the camera bag and reached down for the white satchel....
and that was when I was sent to what can only be described as my own personal hell.
The bag was gone. Not there. Absent. Time slowed down the world didn't really exist.
Then I snapped back to reality and realized I had to move quickly and efficiently. I retraced my steps throughout the church. Not there. I ran back to the cafe-not there. I tried to communicate what I was looking for to the couple behind the counter who had served me my coffee. They did not speak English and I was butchering my French. No they had not seen a white bag. I ran back to my backpack- maybe it had dropped next to it when i grabbed my jacket- nope. As I made my way to the pilgrims office, I ran into the Canadians- understanding the dire circumstances immediately they followed me to the pilgrims office where I frantically tried to explain that it was a real passport i was missing not the Credencial del Peregrino (Pilgrims Passport). One of the Canadians spoke french and helped me do this as once again only one spoke English. From there we again searched the road for any sign of the white bag - it was only a field of about 100 to about 150 feet from where I had been from the last time I seen the bag and total of about 20-30 minutes since the cafe. Nothing. I searched garbage cans, corners, and the Canadians asked in the three shops with in the radius of where i had been. Nothing. Don't worry the pilgrims office assured me- it will be turned in to the office of tourism....go there. I and the Canadians made our way down to the office where we were told no it would be turned into the police station lost and found. We quickly went and checked. Nothing. We then went directly to the police who wrote it down on a post it and sent us on our way.
By this time I was starting to lose what little calm I had and the nature of the situation really began to hit me. I an American (believe me in this day and age not a perc), with no identification other than a digital scan of my passport on my email, and no money or credit cards. Don't panic.
The pilgrims officials helped search my things on the outside case that I would have maybe shoved it in a pocket and forgotten. Nothing.
I had really screwed up. My dream of walking the Camino- a dream that I had been nursing for five years was started to fade. Spain was not going to let me in the country, I was stuck in France.
Remain calm. Think. Don't panic.
....call mom, call the bank, call an embassy. Using the land line at the pilgrims office I attempted to get ahold of someone who not only spoke English but could help Only I had problems connecting to the United States. After about 30 minutes finally I got through to mom who immediately began work on finding out what i had to do for a passport and where i could get money from a western union. I called the bank. Dead ends all the way around. Night was setting in and I didn't even have enough money to buy a piece of bread. The pilgrims officials let me have dinner with them- an promised I could stay at the hostel another night if need be- *remember only one of them spoke English*. Don't worry, I told myself things will work themselves out in the morning.
I didn't sleep.
The next morning I watched as the pilgrims around me set off for the Pyrenees in the steady rain. I would not be going with them and it damn near broke my heart. I considered how far I had come - trains, buses, even a transatlantic voyage. The planning, the fundraising and the generosity of my friends back home who helped me get here. I felt physically ill.
No. Don't Panic. Don't give up.
As soon as the office opened I immediately checked my email for news from mom. Not good.
I need an I.D. of some sort to get money from western union. They would not just accept a scan, not that I had a printer to get a scan- and the officials didn't know where i could access one.
I needed to go to an embassy to get a passport. The nearest one was Bordeaux.
I was going to have to leave St. Jean somehow but I didn't have any money for a train ticket.
I had nothing but a two sets of clothing and gear suitable for walking.
I was in trouble. I felt this person stole from me, stole everything I had in the world at that point- essential my dream. This summer that was meant to be a turning point in my life had exploded into my worst nightmare.
However.....
Even when things were as awful as they were at this point, and it seems like the world can't get much worse- somebody proves that a giving soul does still exist and then things don't seem so bad. The pilgrims office managed to scrap together 50 euro (it is not a money making institution and is run by volunteers) and my Canadian friends pitched in 20 euro. Enough to get me to Bordeaux with five euro to spare.
With tears in my eyes I thanked my new friends and the office. Moving through the rain to the bus station, I have to admit I was afraid. No I.D., five euro and bus ticket to Bordeaux.
As the bus pulled out of the station the rain began to fall harder- the rivers began to rise- the roads began to flood. I felt so alone and I was starting to panic. What if if the bus gets stuck and I miss my connection, what if it gets swept away? I won't be able to be identified. I have nothing proving who I am. An hour later the bus pulled into Bayonne station- here the streets were flooded too. No phones to call home. Worse the train to Bordeaux was delayed because of the rain. What if it gets canceled? where will i stay? The consulate in Bordeaux closed at 3:30 pm it was now around 11 my train was supposed to get in at 1:50 but now it was an hour behind.
I was now soaked - and when i finally got on the train to Bordeaux I was looking at the prospect of not having a place to stay that night and not enough money to call home.
posted by susan at 6:11 PM
2 Comments:
Your story is making ME have a panic attack.
You should really write a book. Something along the lines of "The mis-adventures of a caffeine soaked mind."
This is one of those horror stories that always happens to "other people" — you know, the kind that you never actually meet, just hear about. I'm unbelievably sorry for you.
Post a Comment
<< Home