The SNCF are the legions of Satan. Mike accompanied me to the station first thing in the morning and the bikes are still missing. I had dressed again with my cycling shorts under my pants just in case, but all I am doing is giving myself false hope. Now the agent is saying that the bikes are in Marseilles. I relate the other stories we have been told to date but the agent insists they are in Marseilles. We ask how him how he knows but he won't tell us. It is obvious that this is just another lie and I am boiling up inside.
Mike can see this and knows me well enough by now. He offers to remain until the customer complaints office opens and to pitch our concerns to them. I go back to our room and immerse myself Anna Karenin. The novel does wonders to calm me down. Mike returns with his report. The complaints office clerk spoke to him in English to get the full story and then called the baggage agent. The clerk, unaware that Mike is fluent in French, asked the baggage agent in French what story to tell us.
Once again we pack our bags and check out, leaving our bags in the dining room near the front desk in case our bikes arrive. They have not arrived by noon. We decide at that point to stay a fourth night in Avignon. Mike buys a bus ticket to the Chateau Neuf des Papes winery, but first we return to the hotel to book another night and move our bags back to our room. I decide to hang out in the main square, la Place d'Horlage, after Mike leave on his bus trip with the tourist crowd. I read my novel in peace against the wall on the steps of le Palais des Papes.
The steps are a congregation point for travelers in Avignon. I meet a handsome Berber from Morocco there, who has been living in France for five years. His name is Gamal. He says he is relatively new in Avignon, having recently moved from Montpellier. He has the most wonderful, sparkly blue eyes and a curious, intelligent mind. He asks me many questions about my journey. He seems lonely too. At first he is cautious but he warms to me quickly. 
After a few minutes, he sits against the wall right next to me, allowing his forearm to casually brush against mine. Each time I look at him he bursts into smiles and looks down bashfully. My heart is pounding with anticipation. I haven't felt this good in months! 
I can't concentrate on my novel any further. I suggest we have a picnic lunch on the Rocher des Doms, a rocky outcropping above the Rhone River at the north end of town. He has to visit the library first, where he was headed when he stopped to talk to me. He is researching courses he'd like to take at school here, but he agrees to meet me there in an hour. I can't believe my good fortune. All of a sudden it doesn't matter if our bikes don't show up for a few more days. I race home and pack a picnic lunch of bread,
Camembert cheese, sliced meats and tomatoes. I also pop into the supermarche to buy apples, yogurt and drinks. I climb the Rocher des Doms and sit in an open grassy area waiting for Gamal to appear. It is a beautiful afternoon. From here, 30m above the river, I can see most of the walled city and the big river with its broken stone bridge from ancient times, made famous in the French song: "Dansez, dansez/ sur le Pont/ d'Avignon..." (dance, dance, on the Bridge of Avignon). Time passes but by 3pm Gamal hasn't show up. I return to the Place d'Horlage and find him there, on his way to meet me in the park. He says he got involved in his research in the library and forgot the time, not a very satisfying answer when he knew he had half and hour but took two hours. We return to the picnic spot on the hill where I had been waiting for him.
He has not offered to pay a cent for the food, and before we have eaten two bites he discloses that he is broke and asks me if he can ‘borrow’ 50 francs. Suddenly the sun feels cold. He gives me some story having been robbed. I reluctantly give him 50 francs, not wanting to believe the obvious. Instead of thanking me he begs me for 50 more. I feel like a fool but I give it to him anyway, knowing that I will regret it. Why not, I justify to myself. I am already a fool for falling for his acting job in the first place and I’ve paid for theatre many times in the past. He is gone without a thank you as soon as he has the money. I hope I never see him again. It is not the end of the world but it has ruined this beautiful afternoon. This town is feeling very stale and I want to leave.
Gamal’s antics have put me in a nasty mood, perhaps not in the best space to return to the train station to been disappointed and lied to again. The baggage clerk has seen me so many times that he refuses to even check the register to see if the bikes have come in. You’d think he’d want to give us our bikes so we would stop returning, but SNCF never hires staff that are intelligent enough to connect the dots. When I start listing off the lies he has told me personally over the past four days, he cuts me off. He announces that transporting bikes over as distance of 300 km always takes at least 5 days, NOT including the weekend, a deliberate and complete reversal of all the lies he has told so far.
“I can CYCLE 300 km in less than 3 days. Why should a train need a week to do a three-hour trip?” I snarl. “If I was coming down here on a two week cycling vacation and it takes my bike to go a week each way, how much vacation do you think I would have?” I’m shouting by this point. The clerk couldn’t care less; he turns away. “You are nothing but CRIMINALS!” I scream on the way out.
Stomping back to our hotel, I meet Mike coming back from his bus trip with a bottle of Chateau Neuf de Papes – Cote de Rhone under his arm. “What’s wrong?” he says, sounding concerned. I tell him what has just transpired, and he suggests we go to the Tourist Information Office in the Place d’Horlage right away, before they close for the evening. The office manager, a handsome, efficient, matronly woman in her mid-forties, looks sincerely concerned about our state of agitation over our bike situation. She listens to our story of what we have been through over the past four days, and makes copious notes. She looks worried as she listens, especially when she sees at the wine bottle in Mike’s lap. Mike catches her gaze and casually pulls his jacket over the bottle.
She agrees with us that SNCF’s customer service has been atrocious and a detriment to Avignon’s valuable tourist industry. She picks up the phone like a woman on a crusade and dials the number of the train station. She begins calmly explaining the purpose of the call to the station agent, in a tone of reasonableness and authority. She tells him that everyone should be concerned about our tourism industry and ensuring that visitors have a wonderful experience while they are here so that will visit again.
She certainly is not impressed by the station clerk’s response. Her responses deteriorated from there, first to judgments (That’s just not reasonable), then to accusations (No, you’re not being reasonable!), then to shouting orders (You CALL the other stations and ask them!) and eventually to name calling—(No, you’re being an asshole!). OK, my French isn’t that good, but I think that’s what I hear. When she hangs up the phone and turns back to us, her face is flushed and her mascara running. “Are they going to call the other stations?” Mike asks. “Non,” she shakes her head while she’s blowing her nose.
Back in our room I am at a loss of what to do next, but Mike has a plan. Our ad in Gai Pied this past winter, to meet gay men across France, has produced several responses, and the closest responders live in a small town an hour east of here. They have offered to give us accommodation for a couple nights when we get to the area. Mike suggests we call them tonight and ask if they would host us for the next two nights. He hates tension so I am not surprised he’d want to run away from our situation, but he is right this time. We all need to calm down for a couple days or else I end up murdering them or they’ll smash up our bikes when they do come in – or both.
He calls our contacts and they have invited us to come. We will catch a bus (not a train) to Aix-en-Provence tomorrow and they will meet us at the station and drive us north to their country mas in Cotignac. Their names are Michel and Philippe.
To celebrate, Mike opens his bottle of Chateau Neuf des Papes / Cote de Rhone and we drink to several toasts. We promise not to mention our bikes or the SNCF for the next two days. We are laughing like two prisoners who have just escaped. My ribcage hurts sharply when I laugh, and I am reminded how angry I was at him only half a week ago. It’s a pity that we seem to do better when we are not cycling.PHOTO 1: statue by the Palais des Papes
PHOTO 2: in front of the steps of the Palais des Papes
PHOTO 3: carousel in main square in front of Avignon Theatre
PHOTO 4: sidewalk cafe in main square
PHOTO 5: le pont d'Avignon from Rocher des Doms
PHOTO 6: night scene in Avignon
1 comment:
...wow. I thought the customer service at Greyhound was bad at times. I would have been going crazy!
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