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By Train To
France, 1994
The train raced along the Italian Riviera.
On one side, I watched white curling blue waves unveil and pound the cement-gray pebbles that pass for beaches in this area. On my right, I observed majestic mountains. The layers of snow glittered in the pale sunshine. In quick succession, the express train raced through the port city of Genoa and palm-swaying San Remo.
I was feeling excited as I approached the French frontier.
At last, the locomotive slowed through Ventimiglia and crawled through the first town in France - Menton. On either side, there were medium-height clusters of residential apartment blocks. This city is a peaceful and quiet zone, with large numbers of British retiring to live in this area.
Nice station arrived and a panorama of lovely red-tiled roofs of Vieille Ville. Nice stretched before my eyes. I alighted from the train and began searching up and down the local streets for a place to stay for a few days. Within walking distance from the station, I soon found myself a typical French residential style hotel, the proprietor greeted me in rapid French, to which I requested in my lukewarm French, “Excusez-moi. Est-ce que vous avez une salle pour une personne, si oui, qu’est le coût?”
At once the concierge recognised my accent, and that I was indeed English. Rapidly speaking in accented English, he replied, “Yes, I ave many rooms, come with me and I will show you.”
I immediately accepted the first room I inspected as it appeared clean and tidy. The cost was most reasonable at 50 francs per night, including the use of a shower located down the corridor.
The next day, with the aid of a small map, I strolled about the area to get my bearings. A feeling of complete bliss enveloped my person as I heard the continual conversation of the local inhabitants as they stood about, conversing in French. After traversing through many winding streets I found my way to the Coeur Saleya Market. Whether you are just looking or buying, French markets are a cultural experience that shouldn’t be missed. The smells of a fresh croissant - pain au chocolat - or the fish stall with huge fish heads with their eyes glaring towards you. The bright reds and yellows on a tablecloth, perhaps painted with sunflowers. The perfume of freshly cut flowers wafting into your senses as you dally at this stall, or the next. Grey fluffy-furry rabbits hung on huge hooks, still dripping their blood. Further along, vivid white ducks and geese hung in vast quantities.
In France, the average person consumes vast amounts of ducks, geese and rabbits.
Fruit and vegetables of all descriptions were spread out on all sides. I intended purchasing some supplies every day and prepare my meals in my room to cut down my daily costs. I picked a lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, and a small piece of salami. Then across to a magasin de gâteau, where I picked my favourite cake of all - millefeuille - similar to a vanilla slice, but oh! so superior!
What a market this was! The French create and bake the best cakes in the world, and in every cake shop your mind becomes bewildered by the vast display of creative varieties that dazzle and tickle your taste buds. Next to the boulangerie magasin de pain to get delicious hot bread baked that very minute. Even in the tiniest villages in France, freshly baked bread is available for the passerby - five times per day - so yummy!
Strolling around the Quai Ramba Capeu, I admired the horizontal floral sundial. Further along, was a spectacular display of fountains at Espace Massian. The water from twenty fountains reached high into the air before crashing down with a roar.
My next train stop was at the tiny town of Tarascona, which is situated on the River Rhône in an isolated part of Provence. I marched through the Roman-style city gates and at once entered a maze of narrow winding medieval streets. I was thrilled as I wandered past ancient walls and through old fortified arched doorways, pretty arcades, with lots of little shops and cafés that tempted me to pause and stare. Soon, I found myself completely lost amongst all these picturesque streets and visited the local gendarme station to enquire of the whereabouts of the auberge de jeunesse. The police informed me they had no idea where it was. So I resorted to searching, and kept plodding along.
Eventually, I discovered the hostel. It was located quite near to the train station and I had taken the long way round. Not that it mattered, for I had seen a glorious quaint old village.
The hostel was run by a young French couple, and I found I was the only English-speaking guest. That cold spring evening, I sat down to a typical French meal, which consisted of thick green soup with pieces of a recently-killed boar floating on the surface. A leg of hare cooked in red wine followed, no vegetables, they were to come later. Then a plate of bacon cooked to perfection and seared brown. Another plate with steaming hot baby potatoes and dobs of butter sitting all round them. Throughout the meal, freshly cooked baguettes were tossed on the table, everybody tearing off pieces to dip in the many gravies or bacon fats. Indeed, the whole table was soon covered in bread crumbs. The French do not believe in using side plates, and side food is left on the wooden dining table.
Then came a delicious deep crusty pie of fresh blackberries. Last of all, a platter of six different cheeses.
Sitting around the table and joining me were a young Belgium couple and a number of French male and female professors, who were taking a hiking vacation.
The meal lasted well over two hours as we all exchanged stories about our past lives, and debated world problems. Wine flowed as the concierge presented a never-ending supply of red wine in green bottles.
Now you know why I like youth hostels. They are so much better than the stifling atmosphere of motels!
During the course of the evening, I was told the legend of ‘Tarasque’. A huge monster emerged from the sea and chose the river Rhône as its new home. The story of this ancient creature comes from Roman times. It was described in 12th-century writings as a sort of dragon with six short legs like a bear’s, an ox-like body covered with a turtle shell, and a scaly tail that ended in a scorpion’s sting. It had a lion’s head, horse’s ears, and the face of a bitter old man. Whatever its actual appearance, the Tarasque terrorized the region in the best traditions of unfriendly dragons. It breathed flames, destroyed houses, frightened the animals and people alike. The dragon destroyed the bridges and then devoured anyone who tried to cross the Rhône.
The legend records that Martha (Saint Martha of Bethany) was born sometime in the 1st century to a Syrian duke named Syro and his wife, Encharia of Magdalene, in Bethany, near Jerusalem. As a girl, Martha lived with her brother, Lazarus, and her sister, Mary Magdalene. A group, including the siblings Martha, Lazarus and Mary Magdalene, along with Mary Jacobe, Mary Salome, St Maximinus and Cedonius, were cast adrift in a small boat without sails, oars or supplies. They eventually landed safely at Marseille where they split up and went their own ways. Martha of Bethany went either to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer or Aix-en-Provence, and became a missionary, and was well regarded for her gracious manner.
Martha was in Nerluc one market day to spread the word of her Christian God to the pagan people, where everyone was talking about the dragon. The townspeople challenged her to prove the strength of her religion by subduing the dragon. Martha set out, bare-footed, in her white dress, to find the dragon, with no other weapon than a jar of holy water, and with the whole town following her.
When she came to the dragon’s lair, Martha held up two sticks as a cross and stopped the dragon as if pierced by a sword. It’s also said she used hymns and prayers to charm the beast. She sprinkled holy water on the dragon to quench its fire, then used his sharp tooth to cut off her braids and make a bridle to lead the now-tamed Tarasque back to town.
The townsfolk, still terrified by the monster, attacked it and killed it with a shower of stones. Martha forgave the wretched inhabitants and converted many of them to Christianity.
One source has it that Martha’s feat with the dragon caused the entire province to be converted to Christianity. The citizens errected a new church in honor of Saint Martha and changed the name of the town from Nerluc to the current name of Tarascon.
These legends cannot be traced back beyond the 12th century.
The Tarasque is now featured on the town’s coat of arms.
Tarascon’s sister city, Plague, lay just across the river. In 1720, a ship arrived in Marseille from Syria bringing a cargo of silk and cotton for the great medieval fair. Naturally, the merchants didn’t want a costly delay in the shipment. The port authorities were informed by the captain of sickness on board, but the city merchants ignored this news, and were concerned only with getting the silk and cotton up to Beaucaire for the fair, eventually managing to get the quarantine lifted. The silk and cotton came in, and the Great Plague began, killing 50,000 of Marseille’s 90,000 population. And then it spread throughout the surrounding area.
Throughout Europe, similar stories about the plague cover many centuries.
I arrived in the city of Lyon in drizzling, icy-cold rain. I quickly found a bus and made my way to the nearest youth hostel. It was here on the buses that I noticed a screen above the driver’s head which displayed the name of each stop. What a brilliant idea!
This hostel was easy to locate and I soon settled in. That evening, in the packed hostel, they held a French-style dance, with lots of Edith Piaf accordian music, together with slow shuffling dancing, both partners hugging each other tightly as they slipped their feet along the dance floor. All the French females wanted to dance with me because I was the only foreigner staying there. I am no dancer, but I love this French dancing style. There are no steps to learn, simply hold your partner in a tight embrace, sway your body from side to side, and slide your feet backwards and forwards along the floor. The lights are dimmed, enchanting music is played, which creates a trance of fairy-make-believe-wonderland!
I awoke the following morning to the sound of heavy, teeming rain, so I thought to myself, It’s no good staying in Lyon. Accordingly, I rode the bus to the railway station and made use of my Europass. I decided to travel on the fastest train in the world and go to Paris for the day.
The TGV (Train À Grande Vitesse) electric train travels at over 300 km/h on special rail tracks called LGVs. The journey from Lyon to Paris takes two hours. All seats must be booked in advance, so I arranged to ride on the train which departed at 10 a.m. and arrived in Paris at 12 noon - I would only stay two hours and return at 2 p.m. This is the fun and delight of having a Eurail pass to go wherever you please at the drop of a hat!
Since this was the fastest train in France, I had to pay an extra eight francs for my return reservation ticket. Travelling on this train was an experience I will never forget. The moment the TGV moves forward from the platform, the engine reaches speeds of 100 km/h. At all stops, you have only two minutes to board or disembark. On this journey, there were only four stops. As the train sped through the French countryside, I noticed all houses and buildings had been cleared for approximately 1 km on either side of the track. The reason for this is because of the noise the train generates on its journey. Inside the carriages, there is complete soundproofed silence, and no feeling of speed. At times, you think the train is standing still, and it’s only when you cross over a motorway that you notice how slowly all the cars are travelling. During the journey, I had a glass of beer standing on my table. there was no shaking of the glass and not a drop of liquid was spilled.
These fast trains have been running for over 20 years in France, and they are slowly extending the tracks north, south, east, west.
Most of the electricity in France is produced by nuclear power plants. In fact, they have so much electricity they are able to export it to other countries. In over twenty years, they have had no accidents of any kind.
Exactly on time, I arrived in Paris and was greeted by lovely sunshine. There is a ruling on TGV trains that should your train arrive late, you are entitled to a refund. Over the next two hours I wandered along the Seine, watched the fishermen casting lines, observed tourist launches cruising along with crowds of tourists gasping at the sights. Since I only had two hours, I did not stray too far from the railway station. However, my day was better than being drenched and miserable in Lyon.
I arrived back in Lyon at 4 p.m. That night, in the Youth Hostel over dinner, I listened to everybody complaining about the terrible weather. When I remarked I had been to sunny Paris for the day, there were gasps of astonishment and many wanted to know how.
The following day, I journeyed by train through snow-capped mountains to Switzerland.
- Nomad
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