22 Jun 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.
06/22 Cherbourg, France
Like a bunch of cattle we were herded from the boat to the train station. It was in this company we met a group of young ladies from Costa Mesa California on their way to a concert in Paris. We were scheduled to see U2 in Dublin but that plan kinda got left behind with a bunch of stuffed animals. We had no accommodations reserved and we knew it would be a late arrival into Paris, so when one of these young ladies suggested that we accompany them to a small hostile located in the countryside between here and Paris we agreed and prepared to follow. I was told that the hostile was right near the train platform and would be very convenient. It wasn’t until the train pulled out of sight we discovered it wasn’t convenient and was some distance away. Since we had no transportation we reevaluated our situation and decided that food had moved to the top of our priority list.
There wasn’t much of a choice in sight just one café. Seemed reasonable to relax here and get ourselves a meal while waiting for a taxi to arrive. The elderly lady who came out from the kitchen presented us with a motherly smile and dusty menu, entirely in French. She also didn’t speak a word of English. One of these young ladies was willing to try out her high school French and the rest of us really didn’t have an option but to trust her judgment. There wasn’t a single one of us not living within a tight budget, so the comedy grew stronger every time another entrée was served. There was always somebody in the group that needed to be reassured one more time that this wasn’t going to cost us any more than we originally agreed to. After another excellent entrée, doubt ran across the face of our enlisted interpreter. In the end it didn’t cost us a dime more than advertised. This was an excellent meal at a surprisingly low price.
Perhaps the taxi driver didn’t get the memo. First he wanted to charge for each person not just the ride. When we suggested that girls ride along with all of our baggage, he wanted to charge us for each additional bag that didn’t belong to one of the girls. After telling him we were no longer interested in his services, the driver eventually agreed that we would pay for the ride including whatever would fit in his cab. The girls were off along with our bags heading north into the French countryside. We walked about a couple of miles in the rain before Mr. Taxi driver made his way back to us. This was not a good day to be out with the elements and we assumed by the length of time it took for him to return, that we had about another eight miles or so to walk. So we agreed to the ride. Apparently he had overcharged the girls to the extent that the people who ran the hostile attempted to fetch us before Mr. Taxi could get back to us, but they were too late. The girls managed to obtain a feather bed in the main house, while we guys slept in a concrete dugout adjacent to a soccer field. This bunker had no carpet and no windows. It was cold and damp, equipped with eight bunk beds and a single outlet for heating up coffee. Eventually we discovered that the outlet didn’t work and neither did the bathroom. If it weren’t for the girl who brought out Irish coffee and spent the evening talking, this would have been an absolute nightmare.
There were no windows yet I could feel the darkness outside. It was late and I had no idea what time it was. Suddenly everybody got woken up by a young man sleeping on a bottom bunk just to my left, who had begun moaning. I don’t know how else to describe it. I wasn’t sure if it was sexual in nature or if wild dogs were mauling him to death, if he was the aggressor or the victim. But one thing was for sure, he needed some type of psychological help. There wasn’t a single one of us willing to wake this guy out of his sleep, for fear of what might happen. That morning, everyone kept a safe distance from our late night moaner. Once we were dressed, Jim agreed that we should leave and not wait on anybody, “Let’s just get the hell out of this place” he whispered.
Jim took the lead because he felt he knew the way back. I had been watching the meter on the way in and didn’t pay much attention to the road signs. We took a wrong turn and went just a few extra blocks out of our way. It was no big deal. Getting lost come with the territory but Jim didn’t have an even keel and got himself all bent out of shape. It began raining harder so we stuck out our thumbs for a ride. But there were few cars heading in our direction and it seemed that each one intentionally tried to splash us with the water that had gathered on the road. Then all of sudden from out of nowhere a little French car slammed on its brakes and did a 180 degree turn on the road in front of us. There was no doubt in my mind that the guy was crazy and we were probably putting our lives in his hands. We weren’t sure if the two of us and our gear could even fit in his little car. It was raining pretty hard, so we figured to give it a try. As it turned out, it took longer for us to get into that little car than it would have taken to walk the rest of the way to the train station.
