In which the two nutty retirees discover how to eat vegetarian in France....
It was mid-autumn in France and we were making the long trek from the Charles De Gaul Airport to the south of France. We were at our first rest stop and were trying to find some fast food, but alas, the mini-mall of take-away booths and fast food franchises had very little that looked appetizing to us. Their idea of vegetarian food was pretty limited, though, if we had brought nothing to eat, we could have managed. So we went back outside thinking we were going to have to eat our pre-packed emergency snacks. Somehow, the thought of granola bars just didn't seem very French.
Then, to our joy, a marvelous and familiar Gallic aroma wafted our way. French Bread! Following the scent, we discovered a small café with a deli counter just to the right of the mini-mall. It had a modest striped awning and inside the glow of warmth showcased some white wrought-iron chairs at tiny tables. The display case was full of promise. Quickly, we made our way into the haven that stood apart from the plastic franchises
The rack of French bread alone would have been enough for us at that moment. However, the rows of fresh sandwiches looked divine! It was time to practice our French. “Nous sommes végétariens,” I told the young man behind the counter as I pointed at what we hoped was a cheese sandwich in a baguette. I tried to ask if that would be okay for us to eat. My husband stayed wisely mute. I continued with “Est-ce que ça c’est…” and then I found that I had no word for “okay” or “suitable”. The weight of the long flight, the two hours on the road, and the emptiness of my stomach all fogged my brain. Then, as so often happens when we are trying to do our best in French, the man smiled and said in English, “Eet ees okay, no meat, zjhoost sheeze.”
We happily bought two cheese sandwiches along with packets of chips, French candy bars, and fruit juices. Only the thought of our animals waiting in the car kept us from trying out the cute chairs. Triumphantly, we took our food to the car and left the rest area. Immediately upon entering the highway, there was a sign that said, “Rappel 90”. It looked like a speed limit sign but what the heck was rappel? Even as I was racking my brain for clarification, my husband asked the dreaded question, “What does that sign say?” It figured. “I don’t know!” I worried. “Where’s the dictionary?” he asked. I wondered as I rummaged as best I could between the cat, the two bags at my feet, and my overstuffed purse.
Then a dim memory slowly emerged from the previous 24 hours and I more felt than remembered packing the small dictionary into one of the many pockets on a suitcase. Yes, one of those suitcases... jam-packed under coats, a guitar, the kennels, and the dog. No way was I going to get to that. “Oh well,” I said, “I guess we’ll just pretend we have no idea if anyone asks.” That wasn’t very satisfactory and for the rest of the day whenever I saw the “Rappel” sign with a number under it, it bothered me. We were pretty sure it didn’t have anything to do with mountain climbing. Looking back now, we still laugh every time we see that sign on the roadside, as “rappel” just means, “Recall” and does refer to the speed limit.
The sky was lighter but still cloud-covered. A light rain fell and we kept to the maximum speed limit for rain that was posted as 110 kph, which is about 68 mph. The excellent surface of the super highway made that a safe and fine speed for driving. Somehow, we were not even a little surprised to find ourselves being overtaken by every car and even every truck! We just smiled and made sure that we kept our car in the slow lane as we made our way south.
The rain became snow as we headed into rocky terrain. The bright white peaks on either side as we drove along, told us it had been snowing for more than a while. The traffic slowed and it had nothing to do with the snow. Huge placards with flashing lights began to appear along the roadside. Even with our limited French, we could tell these were advising us of long delays ahead. I tried to see what was causing the delay, but the misty conditions made the future unforeseeable. The weather closed in. Snow silenced the world. The cars crawled along. Appropriately, the next track from the cd began to croon, "Here's that Rainy Day" accompanied by the syncopation of the windshield wipers. It felt like we were in time capsule that might never open... Welcome to France.
Would we make it to our reserved hotel room in Vichy before nightfall? Only time would tell... Join us next time in "Nous Sommes Fous, Part 6"
It was mid-autumn in France and we were making the long trek from the Charles De Gaul Airport to the south of France. We were at our first rest stop and were trying to find some fast food, but alas, the mini-mall of take-away booths and fast food franchises had very little that looked appetizing to us. Their idea of vegetarian food was pretty limited, though, if we had brought nothing to eat, we could have managed. So we went back outside thinking we were going to have to eat our pre-packed emergency snacks. Somehow, the thought of granola bars just didn't seem very French.