The little map shows the train times from when we left Albi until we finally arrived in Barcares (Ile des Pecheurs) where we stayed a week in Mary’s timeshare condo.
The bigger train stations, like Toulouse, all have places to buy food, which is handy when you're left too early to eat. For breakfast in Toulouse, Mary bought a bagel with egg, cheese and bacon, while I had a 3-cheese pizza. Another time I’ll tell you about the wonderful ways the French have tweaked traditional pizza.
Our ultimate goal was Barcares (pron. BAR-car-ess), a small town on the Mediterranean. No trains go there, and no-one we talked to had ever heard of it including the usually-helpful folk at the ticket-places in the train stations.
“We’ll just hitchhike if we have to,” we decided.
Meanwhile, we had planned a short stop in Carcassonne, a picturesque and still-living medieval city which we visited in 1961 on our motorscooter.
The Carcassonne train station was dumpy. I needed to use the bathroom so followed the WC signs to an outside coin-operated one. It was standing by itself in a field of weeds, but seemed functional. It cost a Euro, I think, or close to $1.50. I put in my money and stepped inside, not fully closing the door so that Mary could use it after me for free. (Not graft, because inside the train stations the WC is usually 50 cents and as clean and bright as your living room.)
I prepared myself and then sat down. Almost as soon as I did, jets of water spewed forth from invisible spigots in the floor and on the walls! Somehow the cleaning cycle was malfunctioning! Luckily my “business” was finished quickly because I hoisted up my pants, not stopping to zip them, and raced to the door, all the time being pelted with water.
After the flood stopped, Mary tried her luck. We figured the WC cycle was all right now so let the door close. For a minute, indeed, there were no cries of alarm. Then the toilet flushed and Mary yelled that the lights had gone out and she couldn’t find the door! Fumbling around in the dark, she finally felt it. “There’s a button on the left side to push to unlock it,” I told her. “But I can’t see it!” she cried, sounding desperate, and why not? No telling when the cleaning cycle would start again. After pushing all the several buttons she could find, the right one finally clicked and she escaped, as discombobulated by the experience as I had been with mine.
That was the last time we ever used one of those WCs.
We needed to find a bus to the old town. There seemed to be a stop about a block away
near what looked like the town square. Sure enough, but which bus to take? About six older women (as old as we are?) were there, so I asked for help. Immediately they eagerly became our tour guides, telling us that we wanted the “Vielle Ville,” meaning the old city, and making sure we got on the right bus because even this small town had many choices. It’s wonderful to be needy like we were and to see the great smiles that come to people’s faces when they’ve been able to help. We bring joy in our stupidity.
The old city was a huge disappointment. It looks good, but is totally given over to tourists who stuffed the streets looking in all the souvenir shops and buying junk. The crowds, the heat, the tackiness of it got to us and we left after only 20 minutes. That’s a record. I took a picture, though, to prove we were there and not just making this up.
By comparison, here’s how it felt in 1961, riding there from Spain on our motorscooter.
Coming down the slope of a hill, I glanced to my left and there it was, on a small hill above the modern town, practically in my lap! The walls are tall, straight and strong, and it was so wonderful to see them with towers gently illuminated by spotlights from below and a full moon above. It was a perfect, absolutely perfect sight, silhouetted against the starry sky.
I was amazed that we could drive up to and through the old city gates, up a winding narrow road, right to the hostel which is in the middle of the ancient city! We certainly hadn't expected to actually stay in the old city instead of down in the modern town.
After checking in, we went walking by moonlight. I went through an iron gate into
a courtyard by the wall just around the corner from the hostel, and came into a different world. I wish I could draw the feeling I got from looking across the massive towers up to the stars and moon. It was the magic of an empty stage after the performance when everyone has gone and in your imagination anything can happen.
The walls are overpoweringly tall. They make you sit and stare, wondering and wondering why and how the craftsmen did it. Wonder what invaders thought, confronted by this massive structure protecting the city within.
It was a thrill to compare with April in Paris, seeing our Capitol, London Tower, Mont St. Michel, Boulder Dam at night, and New York, and just below the amazement of the first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty and Mont Blanc.
At least I have that memory. Maybe it’s still that romantic in the middle of winter without tourists around. Whatever, we didn’t waste time murmuring about it, but hopped back on the train, hoping to get to Barcares before the end of the day.
In the next blog, you’ll see how it went.
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