Not a Trip Report - France
Oct 4th, 2012, 10:46 PM
#181
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Michael : it has nothing to do with the amount. The bank has to check first that the person who signed the check has sufficient funds in his account. Unless it has an agreement with the other bank (and such agreements are rare) it has no access to the account
Oct 5th, 2012, 04:30 AM
#182
Uh oh, I'm seeing my hopes of a house exchange, which had been growing, starting to shrink again.
Meanwhile, isn't the mayor the one who's having an affair with his secretary? (just to show I've been paying attention)
Meanwhile, isn't the mayor the one who's having an affair with his secretary? (just to show I've been paying attention)
Oct 5th, 2012, 05:18 AM
#183
Keep on babbling StCirq 
Having just returned from The Dordogne this post has been such a good read. You really should write a book. The books that are true stories of owning houses in France are my favorites. The most recent of my reads was "Bon Courage" by Ken Adams. Your writing style would definitely keep a reader's interest---go for it!!
BTW, if I was younger, had more money, could speak French better, and did not have grandkids to see every week, I'd buy your house in a heartbeat. Alas, it's not to be.
Having just returned from The Dordogne this post has been such a good read. You really should write a book. The books that are true stories of owning houses in France are my favorites. The most recent of my reads was "Bon Courage" by Ken Adams. Your writing style would definitely keep a reader's interest---go for it!!
BTW, if I was younger, had more money, could speak French better, and did not have grandkids to see every week, I'd buy your house in a heartbeat. Alas, it's not to be.
Oct 5th, 2012, 08:25 PM
#188
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The scenery was lovely, totally absorbing, if you like grapes. Lots of grapes. Which I do, though St. Cirq and I disagree on the merits of raisins. If there was ever a time and place to dislike grapes, this was it. Of course it's not the grapes' fault. Long ago, someone prescient, or thirsty (and patient) said "Let's do grapes." Then hundreds and thousands of people said "We'll do grapes, too." Next thing you know - countless hectares of grapes. And more and more grapes. And then more. Driving through Cognac is like driving through the Nevada desert, if uniformity landscape is the metric. Nevada: so much sand. Cognac: so many grapes. BTW please disregard St.Cirq's protestation. Despite having presented this leg of the journey as a three-hour jaunt, every one of the seven it took was lovely, and so was my beloved. Unless I missed something.
Oct 5th, 2012, 08:42 PM
#189
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I'd like to add my thanks to everyone who's commended St. Cirq's unflagging, stubborn, "what crutches?" soldiering-on dauntlessness. She deserves every commendation and more. Three weeks, every step a silent "yowch," and not a word of (audible) complaint. I'd have asked for a medivac out.
Oct 6th, 2012, 01:01 AM
#190
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Ah, Credit Agricole. We usually end of waved away to the naughty bench because we want to do something as audacious as withdrawing 1,000€ from our own checking account. After much huffing and puffing and waiting on everyone else in the queue, the teller finally calls us back up to tell us we can have the money THIS TIME but never gain without 24-hours notice.
Resisting the urge to slink out like chastised children, I slowly re-count the money then thank them for allowing us access to our own funds.
Alas, even that miserable level of service is gone as the CA branches in our area are re-vamped to virtually nothing more than a bank of ATMs, with a lone receptionist who controls access to people in frosted glass offices but it better be for serious bank business. Business such as cancelling your three-months free cooking, gardening and health magazines which are now appearing as a 15€/month fee which requires 3 copies of a 3-page document to cancel, with a two-month lag time while the charges continue.
Resisting the urge to slink out like chastised children, I slowly re-count the money then thank them for allowing us access to our own funds.
Alas, even that miserable level of service is gone as the CA branches in our area are re-vamped to virtually nothing more than a bank of ATMs, with a lone receptionist who controls access to people in frosted glass offices but it better be for serious bank business. Business such as cancelling your three-months free cooking, gardening and health magazines which are now appearing as a 15€/month fee which requires 3 copies of a 3-page document to cancel, with a two-month lag time while the charges continue.
Oct 6th, 2012, 12:42 PM
#194
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The day is here. It’s time to bid St-Cirq goodbye and head to La Rochelle. But even with a few days’ worth of preparations and an early start, it’s clear we’re going to miss my targeted departure time of late morning. We’ve dropped off the key to the house and my coordinates for M. Touron at the grotte; cleaned out the fridge and packed a picnic with what’s in it; gathered up the used linens in a plastic bag and thrown them into the big chest in the living room; taken Franck’s electricity cable, plus a smattering of désherbants and other garden products, down the hill and left them in front of his door; bought and looked at a new IGN 2012 nationale routière map; turned off the gas and the water and closed the fireplace flue; closed all the windows; bagged up a bunch of linens that Mme. L has said she’d like to have, because “Americans have the best linens in the world”; and tossed all the refuse in the trunk of the car. It’s past 1 pm when we’re done with the final chores, and we still have Mme. L to say farewell to.
She makes us a truly delicious café with some new coffee maker her son Raymond has given her and brings out a plate of cookies. We give her the linens she’s asked for, and tell her there are plenty more if she needs or wants them. We tell her that if there’s anything else in the house that suits her fancy, she’s welcome to it, and she says “Je peux m’en servir?” We say yes, and she says it’s hard to think of a nicer concept than “help yourself.” And then it’s time for drawn-out hugs and kisses and good wishes and promises to be in touch and find a way back soon,…please, please, find a way back soon. And so we drive off down the lane, with Madame in her blue French housecoat waving, already with a forlorn smile.
It’s another stunning day (we’ve had nothing but stunning days, except for one brief early-morning shower that dissipated by noon). We stop at one of the roadside dumps to toss the refuse, and then head to Périgueux. I’ve chosen to take the as-the-crow-flies route, partly because the alternatives are few and involve big highways that don’t appeal, and partly because I want to see some new territory. It’s past 2 pm, though, and I’m a bit worried the trip will take longer than anticipated. Little did I know…
Traffic is slow getting out of Périgueux. In fact, getting to the next town on the route, Ribérac, is a bumper-to-bumper crawl, through a less than scenic, industrial landscape, and takes us more than an hour. We need gas, so we pull into a LeClerc on the main road, but it’s unmanned and we don’t have a chip-and-pin card, so we press on. I’ve been to Ribérac before and have it earmarked as a good place for our picnic and, sure enough, once out of the traffic and into the town, it’s delightful, with a lovely park with fountains in front of the town hall. We find a bench and pull out our bits of ham and pâté and cheese and tapenade and olives and cornichons and two cold bottles of Stella and enjoy a tasty, quiet repast in the sun. When we pack up and get back on the road we encounter road construction that spins us around in circles for a bit before we find the route sign to Montmoreau-St-Cybard, but eventually we do. But even though it stays light here until 9 pm or later, I’m already fretting that it’s going to be a much longer day on the road than I anticipated.
We get to Montmoreau and then Blanzac-Porcheresse, where we find a manned gas station. There’s a sign on one of the pumps that says it’s only for “gazole non-routiers.” Maybe it’s because of the era during which I learned French, but to me “non-routiers” translates as “non-truck drivers,” “routiers” being the term I learned for the guys who drive big trucks. So I assume this is the pump we’re supposed to be using, as we’re clearly not truck drivers. But then I second-guess myself and get out of the car and ask the attendant, who says “Oh no, Madame, that is the pump for ‘engins mobiles et tout ça.’” Well, glad I asked, as I’m not here to pump up a lawn mower or small tractor! So we move the car back to the right pump, fill up, and press on to Châteauneuf-sur-Charente, and here’s where the landscape gets interesting.
At first there are just a few vineyards, interspersed with corn fields (and with regard to the corn fields, for a nation that doesn’t actually eat corn, it’s just astonishing how much of it they grow…I know it must be animal feed in large measure, but still, it speaks to how many animals they have to feed!). Then the terrain becomes hillier and the vineyards begin to dominate. Until there is nothing as far as the eye can see, for mile after mile after mile, but vineyards…and signs naming them, Pineau de Christian Baudry, Guy Bonnaud – Cognac, Distillerie des Moisans. We are lost, lost in grapes.
Moreover, we are quite simply lost several times over. Upon entering and exiting even the smallest of towns one encounters myriad traffic circles, and as I’ve never been to any of these places before, I need to quickly look at the signs to the next town we’re headed to each time we hit a circle. Runningtab keeps asking me “Which way?” but I don’t always know soon enough, so we are constantly doing the “European Vacation” Chevy Chase in the Etoile in Paris scene, going round and round the circles until I can spot the name of the next town and steer SO to the right exit. We’ve been on the road for 4 hours now, and as I’d mentioned it was about a 3-hour drive to La Rochelle, I’ve already lost some credibility; not being able to navigate easily isn’t making me look good. It isn’t helping that I’m a frightfully nervous and just plain horrible car passenger to begin with, and this is the first time I’ve ever been in France and not been able to drive, and that’s making my Type-A self just nuts. And while runningtab can easily get lost a block away from our house in DC, I instinctively know when I’m headed in the wrong direction, so our navigational skills are at odds to begin with. There are a few explosive moments and some sharp words.
So we stop in some remote town between Châteauneuf-sur-Charente and Cognac to cool our heels and get out of the car for a bit. There’s a small square with a café. The lady who runs it is also the mayor of the town and the postal clerk. You can come here for a beer, file your local taxes, and mail a package. She has a sign up above the bar that says “No credit if you want to remain friends with us.” We share a Leffe, recuperate a bit, use the town washroom facilities, take a look at the church, and move on toward Cognac. Only we…thanks to a split-second decision of mine…end up suddenly, after being on tiny rural D roads most of the day, on the fast-moving N road headed toward Angoulème. I realize this almost immediately, not because of signs, but because the sun is behind us and we’re supposed to be heading west. But we wait until we actually see a sign confirming it, then turn around and head back to Cognac. It’s cost us about a half-hour. Through the center of Cognac, which I’ve been to before, though it’s expanded since I was last here. A nice enough town, with the expected Cognac and Armagnac stores all around and plenty of attractive restos and cafés, but no huge appeal, at least along the main road through town. Despite about a hundred traffic circles on the edge of town, we do manage to find the road to St-Jean d’Andély.
We are heading almost due west at this point, and the sun, at 7 pm or so, is right in front of us and blinding, not helping our attitudes. And the wine wine wine wine wine is actually becoming monotonous. I don’t want to look at grapes anymore; I want to drink a bottle of it. In St-Jean d’Andély we simply cannot find a sign anywhere pointing to Surgères, our next destination, and after a desultory tour of the local school, housing complexes, and hospital, we stop at a Peugot dealership and ask for directions. “Suivez-moi!” says one of the men gathered outside, and he hops into his car and takes off, with us behind. A few rights and a left, and we’re on our way. More sun in the face, more vineyards, more calculations about what time we might arrive, and after 30 kms we’re passing through Surgères and there are…signs to La Rochelle!
She makes us a truly delicious café with some new coffee maker her son Raymond has given her and brings out a plate of cookies. We give her the linens she’s asked for, and tell her there are plenty more if she needs or wants them. We tell her that if there’s anything else in the house that suits her fancy, she’s welcome to it, and she says “Je peux m’en servir?” We say yes, and she says it’s hard to think of a nicer concept than “help yourself.” And then it’s time for drawn-out hugs and kisses and good wishes and promises to be in touch and find a way back soon,…please, please, find a way back soon. And so we drive off down the lane, with Madame in her blue French housecoat waving, already with a forlorn smile.
It’s another stunning day (we’ve had nothing but stunning days, except for one brief early-morning shower that dissipated by noon). We stop at one of the roadside dumps to toss the refuse, and then head to Périgueux. I’ve chosen to take the as-the-crow-flies route, partly because the alternatives are few and involve big highways that don’t appeal, and partly because I want to see some new territory. It’s past 2 pm, though, and I’m a bit worried the trip will take longer than anticipated. Little did I know…
Traffic is slow getting out of Périgueux. In fact, getting to the next town on the route, Ribérac, is a bumper-to-bumper crawl, through a less than scenic, industrial landscape, and takes us more than an hour. We need gas, so we pull into a LeClerc on the main road, but it’s unmanned and we don’t have a chip-and-pin card, so we press on. I’ve been to Ribérac before and have it earmarked as a good place for our picnic and, sure enough, once out of the traffic and into the town, it’s delightful, with a lovely park with fountains in front of the town hall. We find a bench and pull out our bits of ham and pâté and cheese and tapenade and olives and cornichons and two cold bottles of Stella and enjoy a tasty, quiet repast in the sun. When we pack up and get back on the road we encounter road construction that spins us around in circles for a bit before we find the route sign to Montmoreau-St-Cybard, but eventually we do. But even though it stays light here until 9 pm or later, I’m already fretting that it’s going to be a much longer day on the road than I anticipated.
We get to Montmoreau and then Blanzac-Porcheresse, where we find a manned gas station. There’s a sign on one of the pumps that says it’s only for “gazole non-routiers.” Maybe it’s because of the era during which I learned French, but to me “non-routiers” translates as “non-truck drivers,” “routiers” being the term I learned for the guys who drive big trucks. So I assume this is the pump we’re supposed to be using, as we’re clearly not truck drivers. But then I second-guess myself and get out of the car and ask the attendant, who says “Oh no, Madame, that is the pump for ‘engins mobiles et tout ça.’” Well, glad I asked, as I’m not here to pump up a lawn mower or small tractor! So we move the car back to the right pump, fill up, and press on to Châteauneuf-sur-Charente, and here’s where the landscape gets interesting.
At first there are just a few vineyards, interspersed with corn fields (and with regard to the corn fields, for a nation that doesn’t actually eat corn, it’s just astonishing how much of it they grow…I know it must be animal feed in large measure, but still, it speaks to how many animals they have to feed!). Then the terrain becomes hillier and the vineyards begin to dominate. Until there is nothing as far as the eye can see, for mile after mile after mile, but vineyards…and signs naming them, Pineau de Christian Baudry, Guy Bonnaud – Cognac, Distillerie des Moisans. We are lost, lost in grapes.
Moreover, we are quite simply lost several times over. Upon entering and exiting even the smallest of towns one encounters myriad traffic circles, and as I’ve never been to any of these places before, I need to quickly look at the signs to the next town we’re headed to each time we hit a circle. Runningtab keeps asking me “Which way?” but I don’t always know soon enough, so we are constantly doing the “European Vacation” Chevy Chase in the Etoile in Paris scene, going round and round the circles until I can spot the name of the next town and steer SO to the right exit. We’ve been on the road for 4 hours now, and as I’d mentioned it was about a 3-hour drive to La Rochelle, I’ve already lost some credibility; not being able to navigate easily isn’t making me look good. It isn’t helping that I’m a frightfully nervous and just plain horrible car passenger to begin with, and this is the first time I’ve ever been in France and not been able to drive, and that’s making my Type-A self just nuts. And while runningtab can easily get lost a block away from our house in DC, I instinctively know when I’m headed in the wrong direction, so our navigational skills are at odds to begin with. There are a few explosive moments and some sharp words.
So we stop in some remote town between Châteauneuf-sur-Charente and Cognac to cool our heels and get out of the car for a bit. There’s a small square with a café. The lady who runs it is also the mayor of the town and the postal clerk. You can come here for a beer, file your local taxes, and mail a package. She has a sign up above the bar that says “No credit if you want to remain friends with us.” We share a Leffe, recuperate a bit, use the town washroom facilities, take a look at the church, and move on toward Cognac. Only we…thanks to a split-second decision of mine…end up suddenly, after being on tiny rural D roads most of the day, on the fast-moving N road headed toward Angoulème. I realize this almost immediately, not because of signs, but because the sun is behind us and we’re supposed to be heading west. But we wait until we actually see a sign confirming it, then turn around and head back to Cognac. It’s cost us about a half-hour. Through the center of Cognac, which I’ve been to before, though it’s expanded since I was last here. A nice enough town, with the expected Cognac and Armagnac stores all around and plenty of attractive restos and cafés, but no huge appeal, at least along the main road through town. Despite about a hundred traffic circles on the edge of town, we do manage to find the road to St-Jean d’Andély.
We are heading almost due west at this point, and the sun, at 7 pm or so, is right in front of us and blinding, not helping our attitudes. And the wine wine wine wine wine is actually becoming monotonous. I don’t want to look at grapes anymore; I want to drink a bottle of it. In St-Jean d’Andély we simply cannot find a sign anywhere pointing to Surgères, our next destination, and after a desultory tour of the local school, housing complexes, and hospital, we stop at a Peugot dealership and ask for directions. “Suivez-moi!” says one of the men gathered outside, and he hops into his car and takes off, with us behind. A few rights and a left, and we’re on our way. More sun in the face, more vineyards, more calculations about what time we might arrive, and after 30 kms we’re passing through Surgères and there are…signs to La Rochelle!
Oct 6th, 2012, 01:46 PM
#195
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20 minutes to admire the carvings on the front of the Surgères church might have put you in a better mood.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/...57622845839973
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/...57622845839973
Oct 6th, 2012, 01:51 PM
#196
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Nice, Michael!
But we were not in the mood for any more stops. I was surprised, btw, that the train we took back to Paris from La Rochelle made a stop in Surgères. I'd never heard of it!
But we were not in the mood for any more stops. I was surprised, btw, that the train we took back to Paris from La Rochelle made a stop in Surgères. I'd never heard of it!
Oct 6th, 2012, 05:33 PM
#199
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I laughed at your description of circling the round-abouts! Driving in Provence with my son a few years ago, he would exclaim (after my inability to make a directional decision), "look kids, it's Big Ben!" ala Chevy Chase. It still makes me laugh to think about it.
Your story is fabulous!
Your story is fabulous!
Oct 7th, 2012, 12:00 PM
#200
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St. Cirq, your story is magnificent! I laughed, I cried, I empathied. I have been in French banks with no cash, and after 40 years of French travel, I am not as surprised as once I might have been.
About the endless rond-points, I have of late begun using a GPS in CERTAIN circumstances, and find it useful frequently but too often wrong (directing me to turn the wrong way down a one-day street) or more often just silly (detour off a main highway in order to pass through a medieval village because that way is 100 meters shorter). Still don't use GPS in Dordogne, as I do not need it, but it was a godsend in Austria and Germany this fall.
And finally I bless the day 12 or more years ago when I opened an account here in California at a Bank of the West, and thus was given entrée to open one at BOW's sister bank, BNP. The chip-and-pin card I got has bailed me out of a lot of almost-out-of-gas jams.
Fervently hoping you do not have to sell the house, and that if you do sell, it is because you want to. It is truly a magical place.
About the endless rond-points, I have of late begun using a GPS in CERTAIN circumstances, and find it useful frequently but too often wrong (directing me to turn the wrong way down a one-day street) or more often just silly (detour off a main highway in order to pass through a medieval village because that way is 100 meters shorter). Still don't use GPS in Dordogne, as I do not need it, but it was a godsend in Austria and Germany this fall.
And finally I bless the day 12 or more years ago when I opened an account here in California at a Bank of the West, and thus was given entrée to open one at BOW's sister bank, BNP. The chip-and-pin card I got has bailed me out of a lot of almost-out-of-gas jams.
Fervently hoping you do not have to sell the house, and that if you do sell, it is because you want to. It is truly a magical place.
