I am taking full advantage of this nice weather to head off to Brittany – La Bretagne and check on the family house and maybe, if the spirit doth move me, even take a walk down to the beach by way of the bakery. Heading out to Brittany always leaves me with the choice of going via car or SNCF’s Le TGV. Slugging it out with every other Frenchman behind the wheel on the Autoroute de Normandy will cost me an arm and a leg with the tolls which seem to escalate in price with each stop. In the United States, I use to think that driving north to Connecticut from Maryland meant I would have to take out a loan against my house; but that was before I did the autoroute. My other option, the TGV means that I need to pick-up a rental car most likely in Rennes though there is a location de voiture – rental car agency – Avis closer in to my eventual destination at Lamballe. Sanity and piece of mind ultimately won out and I took the Metro to the Gare Montparnasse and arrived in time to catch the 10:35 TGV to Rennes with one stop at Le Mans – known for its famous Les 24 Heures du Mans (24 Hours of Le Mans car race). That race is considered to be the world’s oldest sports car race in endurance racing, and held annually since 1923. It’s also commonly known as the Grand Prix of Endurance.
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But that didn’t happen because right then and there I could barely speak a word of French why it just plain ol’ done left me and I played the Ugly American and received my Oscar in the shape of a stamped railroad ticket. I could have pleaded eloquently enough in French but ignorance of the law in France equals a firing squad with not even a last bite of baguette before they shoot you. I am not a specialist in composter machines and have torn enough tickets in the process but I grant you this much, when I can’t find une machine I break out in a sweat and start looking over my shoulder for the ticket squad.
But this time things were going smoothly for me. My bags were stored above me and not three cars down due to lack of space. We were gliding away from the station, I had a great seat, spacious area (just me) nice and comfortable, headrest adjusted a bit and getting into the zone. Right about then, three giant backpacks came from somewhere and landed perfectly in the remaining seats; they were followed three mammoth looking pimply youths of undetermined ethnic origins (I had thought Nordic but didn’t see any hatchets) who decided they would join me in my peaceful and restful journey westward. They shoved their bags into the overhead and what didn’t fit very quickly became the fifth passenger. I wasn’t sure what they were speaking but it was loud and they were telling one joke after another followed by loud guffaws and high-fives (now apparently a universal language.) Since they were obviously not French, I played the “American card” and opened Time Magazine which I had planned to read and catch up on the world news. Yes it worked…”You American yes?” “Why, yes I am” expressing amazement at his power of deduction “how did you know?” He pointed at the magazine adding “I go soon to New York for school!” The rest, ladies und gentleman, is history. Diplomacy can take so many forms.
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The second leg of my journey was not the plush seating of the TGV but rather wooden benches. A definite difference, I mean you could feel it. The train chugs along, more families are on board, a couple of picnic baskets appear, ruddy faces all around smiling at each other. It’s already very pastoral, a bit other century-ish which I am truly thankful for after the hustle bustle of a big city. En effet, I’m going home. Shortly thereafter we arrive at our destination; it looks vaguely like a train station where you might expect Wyatt Earp to be waiting for you and no one else. Or better, an MGM movie scene with a couple nasty looking characters in raincoats waiting for you. I could slip out the back…slide under the car, make a run for it… Well you get the idea I think. Passengers disembark and seem to drift away, somewhere. A couple of sisters greet each other, one in a black button sweater, smock and kitchen slippers the other in a blue sweater and comfortable but rough looking travel shoes. In a measure of efficiency, the station management also handles car rentals and likely could book you a hotel if you wanted one. Madame sees me and actually recognizes me from prior visits. We chat I hand her my papers, she stamps them a couple of times, runs my card through and with a big smile and merci monsieur, points to her right where I know is a little parking lot with a fleet of even smaller rental cars. I walk to my car, a Peugot 207 made for one Americain or several Europeans, put my one suitcase in the trunk with little room to spare and somehow manage to squeeze myself into the cockpit being ever so careful of the stick shift.