Toulouse, being a city-paradise of lovely people, wonderful architecture and great restaurants seems like a distant dream at the moment. My departure from Toulouse was punished by the gods by a rapid downturn in my fortunes.
Downturn in fortune 1:
Around 35km out of Toulouse; I was cruising along with a light heart and a feeling of indestructibility. I get a sudden brainflash: "Imagine what people in America would think about a man jetting around the south of France on a moped. It must seem so exotic to them!" which generally expanded to: "Imagine what anyone would think if they could see me now. Those with jobs, kids, urban deprivation issues, rising damp, falling stocks, problems of the heart, problems with their heart etc etc. I'm riding through the sunshine surrounded by extraordinary natural beauty without a care in the world. Sweet!"....
It was as I thought these thoughts that, with a severe jolt that made me think I was going to come off the moped and meet the tarmac, my drive belt snapped, sending bits of old rope and rubber scattering across the road. I pulled over in a cold sweat.
After some initial amateur attempts to repair my moped I saw that there was no way this beast was going anywhere until it got to a garage. I was 35 km from Toulouse and god-knows-how-far from the nearest habitation along the road ahead of me. I didn't cry.
I wheeled my lame duck along the road for a while until I spotted an ancient looking farm house that appeared to be uninhabited/uinhabitable. I freewheeled down the dirt track off the main road and was soon greeted by a very excited looking dog. The dog was followed by a woman in a car who, when I attempted to speak to her said "Parlez avec la madame" and waved me onwards towards the decrepit establishment.
There, amongst a host of chickens, ducks and ancient farmyard equipment sat an old lady of around 90 busily sunning herself and doing nothing. I explained my situation as best I could and asked if I could leave my mobylette there while I tried to get help (my French is sort of becoming usable!). I was greeted with an animated string of what sounded for all the world like grizzled Italian, spoken and full pace and with a face of what appeared to be disgust. I later realised that this must be the much-fabled, little-heard language of Occitane (an aside: I am currently in an area called Langue D'Oc, or language of Oc. This language is Occitane and the street signs are doubled in French and it. My contacts have told me that it is spoken by no-one, but perhaps there is a hidden, ancient generation of speakers).
Through a difficult series of hand gestures and total guess work I left my mobylette on the side of an old hay barn and made a rapid exit back onto the road to try my hand at some hitch-hiking. This proved suprisingly easy and fun and I got three lifts, first with a young IT consultant who spoke good English and took me all the way to the MBK garage in Castres (via a toy shop to buy a pokemon toy for his girlfriend!), second with an arabic French guy who talked to me about American politics, rolled me a cigarette and insisting on me taking a scrumpled old €5 note which he pressed into my hand as I got out the car after the lift, and finally a couple who were on their way to Labastide Rouairoux (the location of the llama farm) and took me all the way to the door. So within three hours of breaking down in the middle of nowhere I was back "home" with the English family and the llamas.
Downturn in fortune 2:
When I settled down with all my stuff and started telling this tale of woe, I noticed that of the shoes that I had strapped to the sides of my bag for the wearing of flip-flops, only one remained. I had lost one of my shoes somewhere during the hiking process. This constitutes a loss of around 5% of my total wordly possessions at the moment and was a bit of a blow.
It turned out that Graham and Renée had left a while back and they had a new helper, also an Australian, who seemed a little slow and dippy, but was reasonably hot. This proved too much for my fragile on-the-road body and I propositioned her one morning in an out-of-character brash style. She told me that she was bored and had nothing to do and I said that we should go up to her room and "fool around" for a while. She seemed to not understand what I was saying so I elaborated a little. This seem to come as quite a shock to her, and before we had a chance to resolve our differences of opinion as to whether or not this would be an acceptable way of passing half an hour or so, the 4-year-old burst in and told us she was making chocolate coins. This incident was not mentioned again for the two days I was there.
I managed to hire a hand who had a 4x4 to pick up the bike (where it had remained in the dodgy old farm. I assumed they would have either sold the parts for scrap or attempted to eat it somehow) and take it to the garage,and within 24 hours I was back on the road with a new drive belt, a new back brake, various adjusted bits and bobs and a brand new and exciting rear-view mirror thing stuck on the handlebars. A return to king of the world-dom.
Downturn in fortune 3:
Little did I realise as I got on the road for Agde, a little town on the coast on my way to Montpellier, that the massive (I mean unbelievably massive) amount of traffic queuing along all the major routes in the area that I merrily undertook along the hard shoulder was no normal amount of traffic. This was something else. This was "The 15th of August".
Apparently Le Quinze Aout is a famous thing in France where half the population are ending their holidays in the campsites, hotels, auberges and, in some desparate cases, roadsides of the south of France and the other half are arriving. It was gridlock in all directions.
This meant that when I arrived in Agde, all the hotels were complet (full) as were all the campsites and hostels and restaurants and roads in the area. I was screwed. I drove around on the bike looking for a place and accidentally stumbled onto the beach at around sunset. I had had no idea I was near the sea and it took me completely by surprise.
I managed to convince the old monsieur at a tiny campsite just of the beach to allow me to put a sleeping bag down on the grass near the toilets. He agreed in jovial fashion and then told me it was 14 euro 50 for the night (the price of a two-person camping place). I thought this was a bit rich and thought about sleeping on the beach but I had no water with me andI didn't fancy being washed away so I plumped for the costly spot of earth under the stars. I headed back into town for the loneliest one-man meal in the history of the world, while France celebrated and holidayed with their friends and family. Low point. On the plus side there was a live blues band playing and a crazy man doing the twist in a really sleazy wierd way, so I got to listen to awful covers of Stand By Me and Cocaine.
Downturn in fortune 4:
The skin on the sole of my foot has become so dry and hard from all the walking and mopedding with flip-flops on, that I have developed a massive fault-line in the ball of my foot that has split the land surrounding it all the way down to the core, and threatens to offer up lava-flows of blood every time I walk on it. Very painful. And I have no shoes.
Still, I'm here in Montpellier have have a bed in a very comfy and busy youth hostel just out the centre, where I'm sharing with, amongst others, a couple of gay catholic Austrians who seem very friendly (I'm not sure if they are actually gay, but they're camp in a way only German speakers can be. They have openly admitted to being catholic) and I've chatted to a nice Columbian girl already so things seem to be going my way a little. I have vowed to myself that I'm never going into the countryside again.
p.s. sorry no snaps this time. Forgot to bring my camera to the cyber-cafe. I've got some good'uns to show y'all.
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