I’m cold, wet and tired! We are standing in the middle of a deserted
industrial estate, its 10.30 at night and it’s frighteningly quiet. The only sound, the click of a rotating
advertising sign. It’s like the bomb has gone off and everyone has disappeared. “What can we do? Where can we go?”
I shrug my shoulders, grab my bags and start walking towards some
distant lights. I hear my husband
groaning behind me. “What was he
thinking?” He mutters over and
over again. “Leaving us here in
the middle of nowhere.” The
thought flashes through my head “More like what were we thinking, to get off
the bus in the middle of nowhere?
The flashing, red light turns out to be the Mercure Hotel. “Excusez-moi madame notre bus…” In my
poor French, I stumble through the explanation that we are looking for our
hotel, the Camponile. She looks at
me as if I am mad to be walking around in the rain with a heap of luggage in
the middle of the night. “Come to
think of it, I agree with her!”
We sheepishly follow her directions, left at the parking lot and
straight ahead. When the pavement
runs out and we are dragging our cases through knee length grass, it dawns on
me that maybe I didn’t understand her as well as I thought I did, and that we
are going the wrong way!
It is now over two hours since our RyanAir plane landed with a fanfare
and loud cheers from the punters.
Faro heat, freshly Barbequed fish, cool wine and aquamarine beaches seem
a long way away.
The Paris air strike had suddenly given us five extra days in Portugal. Our Brittany trip disappeared before
our eyes and the hotels we had so carefully chosen were now just a dubious
expense on our insurance claim.
We had truly lucked out though, on our hotel bookings in Portugal,
scoring a beautiful traditional hotel in Tavira. We were welcomed warmly by the great granddaughter of the
original owner who lead us through the luscious gardens to our private room…“Amor
Perfeito”, and it was!
Our morning started with breakfast eating fresh fruits collected from
the garden; figs, strawberries and peaches, followed by croissants, fresh
breads and home made jams. Ah! So
full couldn’t eat another thing and then came eggs and prosciutto, cheeses and
hams!
After all that we just had to walk. As always in Portugal there is amazing street art, a castle
and an abundance of characters sitting chatting animatedly… but about
what? We never know. When the 30o heat finally gets
to us, we stroll back for a swim by the pool and a lazy read before drifting off
for an afternoon snooze. Bliss!
Typically the evenings take us on a stroll through the town to a local
restaurant where a smiling waiter leads us over to an overflowing fish
counter. A fine selection of Sea
Bass, Sardinhas, Mackerel and countless other fish tucked into layers of
ice. We point at what we want and
the chef pounces on the fish and it’s off to the BBQ.
By the time we are seated couvert has arrived– fresh bread, olives, cheese
and my favourite a sardine pate. Oh the memory of it!
But here we are now cold, wet and lost in a Parisienne
industrial estate. It had seemed
such a good idea when we had lost our hotel booking in central Paris, to book one
near Beauvais (Ryanairs’) airport 80km outside of Paris. We calculated that we could enjoy a
French dinner and then head out for Paris early the next morning.
The airport hotel advertised a regular shuttle so we thought it was a
great solution. After an hour
waiting for the shuttle in the rain and I’m thinking differently.
“Oh well, nothing for it but to put on a cheerful front and do
what?” I know I’ll flag down a
car… French phrases flash through my brain “Au Secours!", maybe a bit strong, "Aidez-moi",
a bit pathetic, but it will do. I
leap out into the road, problem is there is no traffic. We wait and wait with tummy rumbles and
increasing anxiety. Ah ha! A car to the rescue, but no, it slows and seeing a
mad Australian waving her arms drives on.
Eventually after several cars have passed, a car slows down cautiously and
then stops. It’s a young couple,
in an old Citroen. They listen
anxiously to my story and then assure me the hotel is just behind us, only five
minutes away and then they roar off leaving us once more to face the cold, wet,
dark night.
We turn and with aching arms drag our bags through the long grass once
more. Flashing lights and a car
horn, we turn startled to see the young couple waving to us. “Venez! Venez! Venez Vite!
Oh the relief. “Merci,
Merci beaucoup, vous êtes très aimable.”
A ten minute drive brings us back to the exact spot where the bus driver
had dropped us. We had been
walking with heavy bags for well over an hour. My quip about it being cheaper than going to the gym did not
go down well.
But where to now? A swift
turn down a small unlit driveway leads us between two huge industrial buildings
and to the hotel. With much
shaking of hands and air kissing we bid farewell to our rescuers. Its midnight but our thoughts and
senses are awash with images and smells of freshly cooked steak, red wine and
warm baguette.
Our receptionist is suspicious and frosty. A key is plucked briskly from the board and clicked in front
of us. My question “Avez-vous
quelque chose à manger?” is treated with derision. So, nothing to eat then. With a brief nod in the direction of the Mercure hotel she
tells there will be food there.
Ahead of me is the hotel block.
For a minute I could be back in Australia. The two storey hotel is seventies' style, complete with a veranda
which streaks in front of the rooms.
I look back across the car park and the reception lights are now
switched off. We watch, as with
the roar of the engine, the receptionist takes off. Just us, hunger and fatigue then.
We haul our bags up to the second level. I’m so exhausted and hungry I
don’t even peep into other people’s rooms as we trundle by.
Five minutes later we set off through the long grass once more towards
the Mercure. As we get closer we
can see flashing lights of a steak restaurant and in the far distance, KFC and
Macdonald’s. I’m feeling cheerier
by the minute.
“Bonsoir”, I beam. I can
see from the expression that there is No bonsoir for us. “Non, non, nous sommes fermés. Non, il n'ya pas de restaurant ouvert
ici". Ha! So no restaurants open at
12.30 am. What is the world coming
to? I find myself pleading, “Peut-être
un petit morceau de pain” …just a
little bread perhaps. “Mais non,
je n'ai rien!”
So we walk back through the long grass. My joke about the gym falls flat for a second time but this
time is accompanied by a kind of strangled growl. I fall silent.
Back at the hotel, I search through my cavernous handbag and find a few
crumbled biscuits which we share miserably. “Oh well tomorrow Paris” I say.
I’m awake, it’s still dark, or is it. I realise Roger has put down the shutters to block out the bright
streetlight that was glaring into our eyes. I stumble to find the time. 8.45! Breakfast finishes at 9.00! We are up and out and looking blearily at bread, croissant
and coffee in minutes. I pick up
the shuttle timetable, but it doesn’t make sense. I check with the receptionist. “La prochaine navette est à cinq heures cet après-midi.”she
says. “You mean to say there isn’t
another shuttle until five o’clock this afternoon?” I’m close to tears, exhaustion is taking over.
She begins a long tortuous explanation that we can walk to the town and
then get a shuttle to the airport.
How long a walk? …”Peut-être 30 minutes!” A thirty minute walk with all our luggage. My arms are already sore from
yesterday’s debacle. My question
“What about a cab?” receives a Gallic shrug. “Just book us a cab to the airport.” I say assertively.
Our cab arrives, in minutes.
The driver cheerfully loads our luggage, picks up a Canadian couple from
another hotel and within 15 minutes we are at the airport. 8 Euros, the same price as the wretched
shuttle we caught yesterday!
“C’est la vie” I guess.
We hop straight onto the Navette and into Paris… but that is another
story!
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