Fresh Air

The largest lake in France should not be this difficult to find. Alas, sometimes your bus driver pulls over on the side of the road and says “get off.” You don’t really have a choice. For those of you already incredulous that I simply did something wrong or didn’t plan well enough, I would like to cite several factors. One – the final stop on the bus line I took is called Plage (beach) and the map shows that it’s actually right next to the beach. Two – I’m sure I was on the right bus because the destination marquee on the front of the bus read “Plage.” Three – the bus driver literally pulled over in the middle of some campus, not even at a bus stop mind you, and kicked us off. This is not normal bus driver behavior. I’ve ridden to the end of enough bus lines, both on purpose and accidentally, to know they only let you off at approved stops, even if you ask. Usually they tell you that you’re at the end of the line, that it’s the last stop. Not this guy. In the middle of the road he just says, “I’m done, get off.”

My theory is that he was seriously jonesing for a cigarette. This is not just idle speculation, but an informed hypothesis. You see, I’m fairly certain someone forgot to tell France about lung cancer. Seriously, it’s baffling. When I go to a bar or a café, I generally choose to sit inside to get fresh air, and even then people have cigarettes hanging in their mouths because they can’t wait. Pass a school at lunch time, and it’s a cloud to rival Boulder on 4/20. I’ve seen my bus be late because the driver was smoking. I was there sitting on the bus, watching the scheduled departure time come and go while he sucked down carcinogens.

This speculation however, is irrelevant. Not knowing where I was, I decided to follow the stream north which took me into a small town. It was lunch time, i.e.: sometime between 11am and 3pm, so naturally everything was closed, including the Office of Tourism. I took a path into the woods, which, as best as I could tell by the extraordinarily inaccurate map, would take me to the beach. It didn’t. It did take me to the ruins of the Castle of Thomas II, Duke of Savoy. Walking the forest path, with pebbles dancing merrily in my Birkenstocks was when I had the thought, the largest lake in France should not be this difficult to find. As it turns out, it really shouldn’t be. There is a bus stop about a twenty second walk from the entrance to the beach. I had a much easier time getting back from the lake than I did in getting there.

Aside from my ongoing struggle against the buses of Chambéry in which I always lose, day to day life has taken on predictable rhythm. Work out, have brunch, espresso and writing at Café de l’Horloge, cider and writing at O’Cardinal’s, dinner, Grey’s Anatomy. It used to be dinner and Grey’s Anatomy together, but the doctors are always messing up and it had a negative impact on my appetite. I also think I might be losing weight, perhaps due in part to not being able to finish dinner thanks to aortal spurts, but I can’t be sure. I only mention it because it’s rather confounding considering my diet: cheese, butter, cheese, sausages, cheese, wine, cheese, and Brussel sprouts.

I was in the midst of said predictable rhythm, writing over a cider at O’Cardinal’s, when something changed. It was Saint Patrick’s day, and there was to be an Irish singer performing at the pub that night. The outside area was packed, and I was fairly certain that he’d be performing there. However, I was early and decided to get some fresh air inside while I waited. Then a man strolled in and started setting up his equipment. I have long considered myself shy at heart. It’s under much better control than it once was, but it’s still there. However, when you find yourself in a foreign city with a veritable paucity of expats, the fact that someone speaks your native tongue is enough in common to strike up a conversation.

Tim O’Connor and I sat sharing a pint at an Irish pub in a medieval town in the French Alps. We talked about music and travel and commiserated about the wall of formality which makes it so difficult to meet people here.

Throughout the night, I enjoyed lively music, listened to a Frenchman complain for twenty minutes about how America is ruining France (just stop, please stop talking to me), watched an Irish step dancer, sang along to the Beatles with a bunch of French people, and had my name announced to a packed pub. The last of these was an odd experience. Tim had introduced other people throughout the night, but had had a reason for each. There was Bejamin, his fiddler. Next was Ricky James, Tim’s friend who sang a few songs with him. Then there was Maeve, the Irish girl who danced spontaneously and on request accompanied Tim with vocals on a traditional Irish ballad. Then there was me, who had absolutely nothing to offer. “There’s an American here: Elizabeth!” he called into the mic, introducing me. An awkward smile. A half-wave. A confused silence. And then a French hippie took off his Guiness top hat with a rolling flourish and bowed to me as he shouted my name. Thank you, stoned white guy with dreadlocks. If it weren’t for you, who knows how long we would have sat awkwardly before Heart of Gold got started. 

All in all, it was probably one of the best St. Patrick’s Days on record.  

The Brevity Report:

• Lac du Bourget
• Castle of Duke Thomas II
• St. Patty's Day festivities