CHAPTER THIRTEEN: UP, UP, AND AWAY

The next few days melted into the ‘ideal’ vacation for Suzanna and pure pleasure for me as I kept the car locked atop the little metal thingy and ignored its very existence. Strapping on our sandals and pocketing a few euros, we hoofed our way through the winding streets of our sea side village. We did ‘touristy things’ on foot, such as visiting Le Château Royal, marketing amongst provincial vendors, hop-scotching from one warm sandy beach to another and souvenir shopping at the many bijou boutiques, half hidden by flower laden vines in primordial alleyways. I cooked meals in my kitchen and we dined al fresco, but one night, decided on fresh sea mussels by candlelight in my loft. We gingerly tripped down the cobbles to La Maison de la Mer, a seaside restaurant just around the bend, that oozed savory aromas and quaint provinciality. Our order was taken by the owner himself who not only greeted us with kisses, but after handing over a gigantic platter of steaming mussels, simply requested (and trusted) that we return the empty dish sometime before we left the country. Red wine or Sangria (by the glass as well as the bottle) accompanied lunch and dinner, whether it was with anchovy laced paninis in the market square or bowls of fishy bouillabaisse under twinkle lights by the sea. We marveled at our good fortune as we soaked up the sights, fragrances and tastes of this spectacular village while unable to shake the feeling that we had been time warped into a fantasy world from a bygone era.

After day three of wearing thin the rubber on our shoes, we decided it was time for a road trip. I set aside my driving angst as Suzanna perused her trusty paper map, determining our destination to be Villefranche, a tiny village located in the Pyrenees mountains, a two hour car ride west of Collioure.

The purpose of this trip was not only to reestablish my confidence as a licensed driver, but to take a train ride on ‘Le Petit Train Jaune.’ The ‘Yellow Canary’ as it is sometimes called, is a legendary engineering masterpiece that was originally built in 1903. It transports passengers, commuters and tourists, through the magnificence of the Pyrenees mountains and through the principality of Andorra. The railway connects people from tiny isolated mountain hamlets that are virtually inaccessible by car. The brochures we had obtained prior to our departure, captured images of vaulting landscapes, where intricate trestlework poked out between trees and rocks and bridges which were several stories in height and looming vulture-like over verdant forests. There was also a photo of one of the 19 tunnels that plowed directly through the steep, craggy mountain cliffs, creating a cavernous aperture that swallowed the train, leaving the observer to wonder if it ever remerged out the other side. These ancient wooden train tracks and electrically powered locomotives, have traversed this rustic area and exposed it to millions of voyageurs for over a century.

“Oh yeah…” we concluded in unison, “We gotta see This!”.

I had faith that the Peugeot and GPS system could navigate us through all of the roundabouts and guide us to the destination that would then take driving out of my hands and allow ‘me’ to be a passenger. So after breakfast of a jam smeared croissant and a cup of creamy French-press coffee, we set out. Emily was cheerily on board as the draftsman, but Suzanna, (with paper map in hand) was essential in translating some of her eccentricities. (French streets and highways pronounced with a British accent are very taxing to an American ear.) It was a glorious, sunny morning and we proceeded like veterans to highway N116. The drive was sublime (even to someone who hates to drive), the scenery was picture-perfect (you can’t make this stuff up,) and the friendship endearing! (remember, she’s my go-to-girl)

Life in France was coursing through my veins like oxygen rich blood. Every sense in my body gushed with vitality and a new awareness. Following road signs, arrows and the chirpy instructions from our guidance system, we easily located the parking lot that was neatly hidden in a valley ringed by towering mountain walls. “Goodbye Peugeot.” I humphed as doors were locked and a new adventure begun.

The town of Villefranche de Conflent had a protected entryway with a three story drawbridge that was, in the eleventh century, the key to entering the city. The hand chiseled stone walls welcomed courteous travelers but would have completely repelled marauding barbarians. Modern day Renaissance Festivals have replicated the style of this original for years. The lofty, sun drenched mountains cupped the tiny town in their protective embrace. The brilliant white clouds billowed in a periwinkle sky. We gawked skyward as we ambled through the gigantic portal that soared over our heads. Whimsical shop fronts displaying chapeaus, footwear and ladies garments lined the cobbled thoroughfare in colorful array.

Hunger pangs rumbled just as we happened on a tavern that was bedecked with family crested flags and a sidewalk chalkboard announcing the specials of the day. Once seated, the menu was presented in lacy black calligraphy on an oversized piece of yellowed parchment paper. After surveying our choices, (making an heroic effort to translate the script as well as the language) we settled on squid ink paella, fresh garden greens and a tumbler of red wine. We chewed slowly, savoring every bite.. drank leisurely and swam in our surreal surroundings, while observing the comings and goings of ‘garden-variety’ tourists. We sighed with contentment, tipped our glasses to one another and felt as if we ‘possessed’ the place. After paying up, we casually strolled the streets in a visionary stupor and by pure accident, stumbled on “ La Gare” (the train station). Like a time piece tuned to perfection, and as if with total predestination, the yellow train awaited us. There was no queue and no clock indicating future departure times… just a train, standing like a footman anticipating our nod of approval.

We bought our tickets and boarded, alive with the fact that there was no air conditioning, no glass on the windows and no segregation of seating. All passengers were treated equally and the cool mountain air able to kiss each and every one of us through open windows. Initially as the train blew its whistle and pulled from the station, Suzanna and I chose inner cabin seating, but shortly there in, upgraded to the sun exposed upper deck. The brochure had enlightened us to the fact that the expedition extended for 63 kilometers (40 miles) and was to be rapturous! It didn’t lie. Miniature houses with thatched roofs flecked the hillsides. Lazy spotted cattle and dirty sluggish sheep dawdled in the fields, ignorant of the noisy train laden with sightseers. We were exposed to no smog filled cities… no bumper-to-bumper traffic… no pedestrian packed crosswalks. There were no fences or walls to demarcate ownership.

There was however, pastoral elegance floating as far as the eye could see.

Upward we climbed, almost vertically, chugging over ancient tracks that swayed and creaked and moaned under our weight. The effect was that of an antiquated roller coaster car, laboring to ascend before it dramatically descended, leaving ones heart lodged in her throat. But there was no immediate descent, just the clickety-clack resonance, invoking memories of the “Little Engine Who Could.”

The undulating pastures gave way begrudgingly to rock infested hillsides, then to sheer icy-gray cliffs and towering forest green pine trees. Time held it’s breath as we entered long dark tunnels and emerged to entirely new vistas. “Everyday” life here, as we gaped at the landscape, was something we simply could not register. Our great-grandmothers might not have been in awe… but we were.

Once again, we grinned at each other in wonderment. Suze rummaged through her purse and discovered two paper wrapped cherry lollipops nestled at the bottom amongst the lint. Offering up one to me, she unwrapped her own and we sucked dreamily as the wind blew our hair backwards and the sun shone down balmily on our shoulders. The wheels clanked so noisily and the wind gusted so loudly, that conversation was nearly impossible. So we didn’t talk. We just breathed and enjoyed the indescribable view.

So this is what it’s like to be a passenger? I smirked to myself as I gazed at my friend and my circumstance. We were two, more than willing participants in what felt like an ongoing novel… one that we eagerly lusted to be penned into.

The beauty and tranquility were so exhilarating that we found ourselves holding our breath as we stared. The circulatory trip lasted over well two hours. There were momentary stops along the way where an occasional rider joined or exited the train. Each depot was nothing more than a minuscule rock dwelling, manned by one attendee who dispatched tickets or information in French only of course. On-coming passengers seemed to materialize from nowhere, just as the relinquished ones disappeared. There were no highways circumventing the tracks, just a few dirt roads with an occasional crossing sign warning of the train’s proximity. There were no megacities, just random cottages swimming in green pastures. Isolated church steeples and hamlets intermittently dotted this rocky, mountainous terrain, but actual people were few and far between. I think that the majority of the riders on this journey were tourists such as Suzanna (not me of course, because I am French.) The local population appeared too small to support the transportation system on its own.. Our minds were boggled and we both felt that the exhilarating excursion ended too quickly. We considered a “do over” but understood that the day was waning and we still had a long road trip back to Collioure.

At the culmination of our railway venture, we dallied in the courtyard of a Villefranche hostelry for a glass of Sangria and a few photos. Due to the late afternoon kissing the evening hello,  many wrought-iron tables stood empty. Those few remaining visitors however, chatted jauntily, wagging amongst each other in various foreign tongues. Happiness and pleasure have no language barrier and we treasured being eye-witnesses to this mis en scène. lt seemed impossible to us that there was no “inner city” traffic to spoil this snapshot. No cars, motorcycles or busses are allowed in this (or any for that matter) small French commune. It felt respectful… like leaving your shoes on the welcome mat before entering someones home.

To say that the outing had exceeded our expectations, would have been an understatement. Trusting AAA had proved to be an excellent decision!

The drive back eastward to Collioure was pleasant. Leaving the Pyrenees behind and proceeding toward the coast, Emily performed with perfection and although the highway felt congested after the absence of vehicles, we encountered no problems. With a little wine in our tummies and a memory in our pocket, we cruised home with ease.
When we arrived back in our private parking space and the little black Peugeot was safely nested, we glowed despite our flagging energy. Could life possibly be more ideal or align with the stars in a more harmonious manner? Our first long-distant sightseeing initiative had been a complete delight. I had navigated the roundabouts, mountains and wrong way street without annihilating a living soul. Disaster zero, Jaime and Suzanna one!

Saying bon nuit to the car, we wearily weaved our way on foot through curly-cue streets, back towards our little home. Suzanna was leading the way as I blindly followed. I had a motion picture running in my head of today’s ‘fresh off the grill’ memories when I suddenly realized that I was clueless as to where we were. I immediately arrested, stymied by our location and asked in a whiney voice, “Damn Suze, where are we and how exactly did we get here?” Before she could answer, I shook my head in befuddledment and asked, “Do you think I’ll ever be able to do this on my own? All of these little side streets look identical! Once you leave, do you think I will ever be able to find my way home alone?”

She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Of course you will! You will tramp confidently up hills and down without ever blinking an eye. You’ll cruise by the sea and pick grapes off the vine. Don’t worry, this is your home now. It will come naturally.”

And as these encouraging, maternal words enfolded me, four discouraging and probably far more accurate words surfaced in my head…. “Like HELL it will!”