The fifty hours of one day

France

There were some very recognizable faces on our sea-going vessel, many of whom we spoke to at the London pub. Well into the fifty hours of one day. Chris and I had friends. The seas were calm, and the 90-minute crossing was very smooth. Frequently the seas become unpredictable, and balance is at their mercy. First, the foot passenger disembarked, followed by the automobile and lorries. We were on French soil and standing before some exasperated-looking French customs officials. France. 

Soon, the commotion emanating from the ship docks ended. An eerie silence fell upon the port city of Calais. Although the ocean transportation waited to shuttle people across the moat. The French train system did not feel the same way. The SNCF had a schedule, and they were bound to keep it. Stranded under the amber-coloured lights of the train station, we basked in the warm summer night. The first train to Paris would not arrive until 6 am. Many of those we were travelling with opened up their Duty-free purchases, and we made cocktails while waiting for the train. Chris, however, had other ideas.

The war never ended for some.

I understood him to be a man fighting his own internal war from my first acquaintance with him. His purpose for coming to France was to join the French Foreign Legion. His sense of fashion and politics would lead you to believe that this is the road he must take. The rest of us told sagas and tales to one another while sitting on the railway station’s stoop. Chris stood up and announced that he would go to the police station in Calais and “fast track” his eligibility to the FFL. Sadly, he never returned- I hope it worked out well for him.

A once energetic group was slowed by the impending wind and rain, soon we were trying to find shelter. Someone mentioned a disused German “pillbox” not far from here, and a handful of us went looking for it. The rains came and intensified. Finding the enclosure in the darkness, the group of 4 entered into the dank, cold urine-smelling building as a means of staying dry until the rain ceased. Even though it was dry, a heavy unpleasantness lingered stronger than the smell of feces that permeated the air.

Hoping that the night would give way to the morning sun, the time passed very slowly. The memories of what had transpired here were always at the forefront of our minds. The night sky began to clear, and we were able to leave this oppressive shelter with its horrible history.

The excitement began to rise as the dawn arrived, and more importantly, the train station began to open. Welcoming a group of weary travellers destined to make their way to Paris. Sadly none of them were me.

The sun and the moon were entangled by light.

While a new ferry docked, the twilight sky entertained both the sun and the moon. Truck drivers from all over Europe were happy to start their vehicles and get back on the road to their next destination. There was no train connection from Calis to Luxembourg. No matter how I deliberated this, I decided that hitchhiking was the best option. Armed with a soft pack of Camels. I needed transportation to allow my plan to fully take effect.

Car after car, truck after truck passed me as I inhaled large measures of diesel fuel. The moon was no longer visible, just the sun’s corona against a cloudless blue sky. Patiently I waited and hoped, I was on a quest of sorts, to meet an old friend. Reaching deep inside myself, I had an epiphany. “Perseverance has to be the cornerstone of anyone’s existence.” With a new outlook came the eighteen-wheeled Volvo chariot as if summoned like a mythical beast. With French plates heading south with an English pilot.

Engagement

Like any game, it has rules. The role of the hitchhiker is to keep the driver awake and involved in the conversation. Here, you must listen closely and take your cues. Alain, my knight in an Ian Botham challenge hat, was very interested in cricket. Me, not so much. It is incredible what you can learn from listening. Before long, I was quizzing him about cricket. The difference between a test match and a day’s match, wickets, bowlers etc. It was an excellent education. 

I found out that he had a regular route from Southampton to Marseille and a residence in both places. We had a great time, the music was playing and the 3 hours drive vanished before we knew it. Stopping for a cup of coffee, we chatted for a few more minutes before he sped off down the highway—me plotting my next excursion east.

It is a place

Alfred Hitchcock may have this vision too. Standing beside a dusty road, asking yourself: “Am I in the right spot?” I was fully expecting a crop duster to fly by. I was in the “middle of nowhere.” I remembered it because I had seen it before—more standing and more staring. 

Although not reaching its apex of the day, the sun began to beat down on the scorched road. 

A hitchhiker’s life is an odd one, and you have to remain positive. You must have a perfect pair of walking shoes, especially if you are an impatient hitchhiker. The road was silent. The rustling of crops was all that could be heard for long periods. On occasion, you would hear the sound of an engine off in the distance. Frequently it was a tractor. Suddenly as if by divine intervention, a car would stop. After a brief introduction, away I went with some brand new friends.

A now a word

I should make something obvious, French is not my first language, and although I can get by on the basics, I was in the middle of rural France. Here they don’t speak English. They don’t even like the English-kidding. For the record, I can order a beer in 10 languages.

Another Riddle

All rides are good riddles; some just seem to be better than others. We were only just getting acquainted when the end of my journey with them was in sight. Soon I was entering the small historical town of St. Quentin. Walking through the township too quickly to explore its historical ancestry and its importance in the region. However, I did spend an extra few minutes enjoying the beautiful Basilica. Since the fourth century, there have been religious buildings on this site. They have been rebuilt throughout history- a must-see. I soon found myself at the Gare (train station) de Saint Quentin, hoping to find an easier passage to Luxembourg, again no direct or connections east. I was destined to remain under the hot sun with a bag in tow and thumb out. 

A Punchline

Fatigue was starting to set in, and it was still morning. I dropped my pack by the side of the road. Sweat began to pour down my face, and I was drinking my water much too quickly. A blast of hot wind blew across my face, but there was no tree in sight for shelter. Hearing an engine sound, I assumed I was hallucinating or that familiar tractor sound that dances on the wind. I closed my eyes…Honk!!! I looked up, and there she was as if spending a few extra minutes at the Basilica was paying dividends.

She introduced herself as Lisette. Soon we were driving down the rural road in her green MG convertible. Although tired, my day was looking up. With her brown hair flowing in the wind and almond-shaped brown eyes behind her sunglasses, my first day in France was looking very positive. We spoke to each other with great difficulty, yet we both seemed to understand each other. I was on my way east, I explained to her. She was local and was going home from the market in St. Quentin. Soon she asked if I would like to go to her house for lunch. Hungry, tired and in the company of an attractive young woman, how could I say no. My friend would have to understand.

Can’t always get what you want

She pulled off of the road near the village of Vervins. We seem to be on this country road for a very long time. I was getting worried. Perhaps she was a member of a cult that was linked to the Illuminati? Slowly, off into the distance, a large farmhouse and we continued to drive towards it. Stopping and pulling in front of the stone chateau, we were greeted by her family members. These people were not cult members- unless Christianity is a cult? This was their family home, and it had been their possession since the mid-1700s, or so I believe. We arrived just in time for lunch. They were all very hospitable and spoke only French. 

The huge dining table was set under a large pavilion, and the 20 (ish) of us started to chat and eat. The table was laden with local cheeses, bread, meats and ale and wine. It was a magnificent way to be introduced to the friendly people of France. They welcomed me graciously as if I had been a family member- The English-speaking one that no one talks about. Either way, I was no longer hungry. I bid adieu to my hosts, and Lisette drove back to the road where we came in and handed me a sign that said “Charville,” a light kiss on the cheek and a small piece of paper that said, Lisette…

This seems so familiar.

Summertime in northern France, and the sun was directly overhead, I had no shadow. It was too hot; my shadow used me as shade. I placed my pack on the side of the road, standing like a poorly designed statue with my Charleville sign in hand. I don’t know how long I was standing there, but my shadow was still hidden. Soon the first of my two good rides stopped. The sign was a great idea, and I made good time to Charleville- Mezieres.  

I was no stranger to this area as I happened to be here two years earlier on my way to Belgium. Both times simply by chance. Charleville is sometimes called the world capital of “Puppetry arts” and is home to the “International Puppet festival,” which takes place every three years since 1961. Needless to say, the art of Puppetry is a substantial part of the cultural identity of this city. Is it possible that someone was starting to control my strings in this day of fifty hours, too?

It was feeling like Deja-va. Soon, I was standing at the train station trying to get a passage to the small country with the prominent name. Once again, nothing was moving east. Flipping my sign over and borrowing a marker from the ticket agent, I wrote Luxembourg on the palette and hit the road. Standing on an “on-ramp” of a much larger roadway. The sun was ever descending to make room for its corresponding celestial body. Time was no longer an ally.

It was something that Dante said.

Hitching a ride was becoming more and more complex. It seemed that my luck had finally run out. Although I was heading eastward towards the darkness, the progress was slow. In fact, one car picked me up for a ride of no more than five kilometres. When the occupants realized that I had no rolling papers, I found myself liberated from the gold-coloured Renault and now stranded in a forest on the side of the road. The pattern seemed to continue. Just as I was about to lose all hope, a gentleman pulled over in an old Mercedes, this was good, but he did have a “riddle” about him that I am still yet to figure out. Finally, I went far enough east that my destination was once again in sight and with hope returned.

Rejuvenated by the fact that I was now out of France and in the country of Luxembourg, there was just one other item on the agenda. Find the city center and see my old friend. Hopefully, he, too, made it here during our predetermined window. If not, our next spot to meet was six weeks away in Trieste, Italy. I was fortunate to find a ride into the centre Ville and the place I would call home for the next few days, the Youth Hostel. As hoped, he had arrived the night before, and now being 2130h, he had given up hope that I would appear that day. Surprise, or should I say. “Here’s Jonny!”

No Medals or trophies

It was then it dawned on me it was 18 hours since I left Calais, and I had hitchhiked myself (inadvertently) across Northern France. Honestly, I had no intention of hitchhiking this far and for this many hours. Circumstances dictated my course of action. With the expansion of time, it is possible to stretch one day and make it feel fifty hours long.

Have you ever defied your own personal limitations and odds and came out victorious? Have you encountered any drama in your travelling career that may have destroyed your illusions regarding what you were doing? Yet, you persisted against all logic? If you have, you have embodied the essence of travel. Living beyond what you feel is comfortable and reaching out for an adventure. Would you like to share your story? We would love to hear it. You are the rhythm of your rhyme. Your/His/Her story. It is your life, your saga. Perhaps it becomes an internet sensation, “The fifty hours of one day challenge.” What do you think about that? Let us know.

A ship is safe in Harbour…

But, 

That is not what ships were built for. 

-William Shed

I hope we can add some adventure and intrigue into your travel lexicon. However, you decide to travel, do it safely.

Your safety is the most essential item on your travelling agenda, so stay “close” to your limits.

As always, it is our privilege to help you with your next adventure.

Your Vacation, Your Escape.

VTE