Papacy and panic

You will be startled to hear I did nothing much over the long weekend other than picking DD up from the airport, going for a walk with friends and having a swim at Palm Beach with the youngest. So there’s not much to blog about … fortunately DD has come through with the final post from his fleeting French sojourn …

My third and last day in France started – mais bien sûr – with a walk to the boulangerie with my much lightened box of Euro coins.  

In the afternoon I would make my way to the airport and fly to Glasgow to visit my youngest daughter, while Ben and the kids planned to visit to a local amusement park called Candyland (leaving Ben’s wife Eliza in peace to pack up the house ahead of a trip to Italy).

But there was still a morning to fill with adventures. Once again in convoy we set off, with the kids choosing to travel with me. I took great delight in introducing them to a song about their Dad, Elton John’s “Benny and the Jets”, which they immediately embraced and asked to be played on repeat while we drove a very scenic route into Avignon.

“B-b-b-b-Benny and the Jets!”

Located on the Rhone River, Avignon is mainly famous for being a 14th-century papal capital and its even older 12th-century bridge. We scored on-street parking near the Lambert Collection for a quick squiz at some of the outdoor art before arriving at a piazza surrounding the Temple Saint-Martial where we sat taking in the ambiance while sipping espressos.

Continuing up the Rue de la Republique, we paused to buy the kids a recharging slice of pizza before walking past the formidable white walled medieval castle (with formidably long entry queues) to the “Jardin des Doms’, an elevated park with wonderful views of the river and surrounds.

I could see a river cruise was in town – something Ms House and I are contemplating doing in the near future – which partially explained the large number of tour groups in town that day.

After taking in the views Ben and I enjoyed a quiet coffee while the kids played around us, before descending to the Castle. We had a quick peep inside the Grand Chapel where the Avignon Popes used to pray (very atmospheric with a pipe organ in full flight), before, on a whim, taking a sharp left turn through a narrow alley between the foundations of the castle.

We emerged into a delightfully unexpected labyrinth of narrow streets, small squares and a multitude of speciality shops, cafes and restaurants.

We continued our impromptu exploration before Ben guided us to an Italian restaurant for lunch and a sad, fond farewell.

After such a fun and busy time with Ben’s family it felt strange to be on my own – I did a little further exploration and mis-read some more French before I located the car and drove in the general direction of Arles.

It was an easy drive, but the parking in Arles was not – a festival had caused several main parking areas to be closed off and after a frustrating 30 minutes of kerbside crawling I decided to abandon my plan and head to the airport via an area of marshland that Ben had told me was home to migrating flamingos.

Following my nose (instead of google maps) out of the town, led me to a very different, socially disadvantaged side to the south of France with big tower blocks and roller-doored shops.

I pulled into a McDonalds to enter directions into Google Maps while nervously watching Gendarmes requesting ID from a gang of youths.

Google maps assured me that Marseille airport was a comfortable 45 minutes away, allowing plenty of time to refuel and return the rental car and check in. After a few more minutes in gangsterland I rejoined the freeway and all was well until I hit a very complicated five-way interchange where I unknowingly took the wrong exit.

Google Maps meanwhile must have quietly rerouted me and, despite having driven around 20 minutes more, when I next looked at the screen I was now one hour from the airport and my time was increasingly tight … as was my chest as I knew there were no other flights to Glasgow that day.

I had no choice but to risk manage the situation by accelerating and watching for speed cameras while marvelling at some other speed demons who weaved past me well above 130 km/hr. (My speed camera detection was clearly inadequate as a few days later I received an email informing that a “violation au code” would be sent to me. Sigh.)

Despite gaining some time, I still had to refuel the car and had another “Stranger in a Strange Land” fiasco. Putting the nozzle into the tank I waited impatiently for the fuel to flow before realising that I first needed to have my credit card authorised. My first card was rejected, the next was accepted and finally the gasoline flowed, my pulse elevated with the decreasing time window as well as the $4/litre price tag.

Thankfully car hire return, check-in and security were mercifully fast and uncomplicated and I finally started to relax until I saw and felt how hot and crowded the west facing terminal was.

It was around 6pm and a cold soothing beer was what I wanted, but there were long queues for everything and nowhere free to sit.

Instead, I bought some cold water from a vending machine with some of my last corroded Euro coins and sat on the floor, very much missing the relative uncrowded comfort of Australian domestic travel.

The Lufthansa flight via Frankfurt went without incident until we arrived at the gate and were informed that despite this being the same plane that would take us to Glasgow we would need to disembark due to the fact that many passengers were now non-Schengen due to Brexit, get bussed to immigration, queue and be processed before walking the approximately one kilometre back to the same boarding gate, where a long snaking queue for boarding was slowly moving.

(Schengen is the treaty that allows passport free travel for citizens of the EU, which sadly due to BBB-Brexit the UK no longer qualifies for.)

It was good exercise, but damn you Brexit! 

Onward travel to Glasgow was uneventful and walking off the plane I was greeted with a blast of cold and wet air – definitely not the South of France!

I checked into my airport hotel at 12:45am and was reminded how compact UK hotel rooms are compared to the US and Australia.

The Scottish part of my whirlwind holiday awaited as soon as I could ” punch out some Zzzs” … as my Dad used to say.

Song of the Day: Elton John: “Benny and the Jets”