Once again I'm writing this blog months after events. We are now back home in Australia. For various reasons I couldn't summon up the necessary energy to write a blog 'in real time' but I did keep a diary which I'll use as an 'aide memoire' and some of what I'll write will just be the diary transcribed.
We spent an excellent couple of weeks in Scotland visiting family before continuing to France. Covid and Brexit have both affected travel in negative ways. Everything is just 'more' although I suppose we should just be grateful we can do so at all. It's not so long ago that we weren't able to move more than 5km from our homes.
'Tuesday 21st June 2022 Dijon
Had a near panic attack at Charles de Gaulle airport. Message 'access refuséé' flashed up on the electronic passport reader. An immigration official instantly materialised at my side. 'That's not good, ' he said sadly. A pause and then 'The Shrug'.'
'The Shrug' is a bad sign. It usually means there is nothing more to be done. Nothing good at any rate. Being in receipt of a shrug at the bank, or the phone shop, or lost luggage, for example, means end of discussion, full stop, now just go away. However, should the shrug come from the hefty shoulders of a representative of officialdom such as a police officer (or immigration official) the next words may very well be, 'Follow me.' I speak from experience.
A couple of years ago I inadvertently left a small backpack on a train as we disembarked laden with luggage at Dijon en route to l'Avenir. I realised about 15 minutes later and, leaving our bags in the waiting room under the watchful eye of Rob, (signs everywhere about leaving unattended bags) I went racing back to the platform hoping against hope that the train would still be there. French trains are usually pretty punctual so I was surprised to find it hadn't yet departed.
The platform was crowded with people and luggage making it difficult to hurry my way to the front carriage where we'd been sitting. It didn't occur to me to wonder why there were so many people on the platform until I went to step on board. The carriage was completely empty of passengers. It did, however, contain several gendarmes and, more alarmingly, rifle bearing soldiers preventing anyone boarding - and guarding my bag. The penny dropped. Everyone had been evacuated from the train.
'Mon sac,' I said pointing a trembling finger. Hostile eyes swivelled towards me. A stony-faced gendarme stepped forward. 'Je suis desolée. I'm so sorry,' I mumbled over and over. He just glared at me, slowly shook his head, shrugged and turned on his heel.
'Follow me.' We stepped off the train and into the crowd.
He wanted to see my ID. Who was I? Where was I going? Why was I here? I could hardly tell him my passport was in yet another bag which I'd abandoned in the waiting room (hopefully not unattended). Instead I pulled a crumpled train booking from my pocket which did at least contain my name. I then made the emergency decision to play the clueless tourist. The tourist, moreover, who doesn't speak or understand the local language much beyond beyond 'I'm sorry, I don't understand.' (Apologies to Sylviane, my lovely French teacher of some years).
I was lucky. I know because I was informed of my good fortune at some length. Lucky I was just an idiotic tourist. Lucky I'd owned up to leaving the offending bag. Lucky it didn't contain anything dangerous. Lucky I'd arrived before the bomb squad (gulp!). Lucky not to be charged with delaying a train and hundreds of passengers, all of whom were now glaring at me. There was a minute or so of discussion with his colleagues before he turned to me and once again shook his head. Then, there it was - 'The Shrug'. This time with added upturned hands. A curt nod toward the exit. I was dismissed.
All this flashed through my mind as I stood with Monsieur Immigration. Maybe there had been a report written. Of course there would have been. French officialdom is famed for its bureaucracy isn't it? Maybe there had been passenger complaints, compensation claims for the delayed train, missed meetings. The incident would have been on the station cameras. Maybe my passport photo had triggered an alert.
Monsieur Immigration took my passport; looked carefully through it and at me. Then he replaced it in the machine a couple of times and -wonder of wonders- it worked! The barrier opened and I was through.
And it was to Dijon station we were travelling once again. We caught the train from the Gare de Lyon and managed the journey successfully without misplacing our belongings or alerting any of the emergency services. We were to stay one night before making an early start for St Jean de Losne the next morning.
As we walked into the city centre that evening, for dinner, we passed a long line of police vans. There were large crowds milling around the Porte Guillaume and down the main street. Our first thoughts were that it was some sort of protest but as we drew closer, we could see a stage set up and we realised that, by happy chance, we'd arrived in Dijon on the night of the summer solstice: the night that towns and villages all over France celebrate La Fête de la Musique. We dined and then strolled around the ancient, lovely streets where every laneway had a different performer: singers, bands, drummers, DJs, musicians of every genre. It was great - until the heavens decided to put on a display as well. The skies blackened, lightning flashed, thunder boomed and the rain poured. By the time we made it back to our hotel we were drenched to the skin.
FYI hotel hairdryers are useless for drying clothes.
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Fête de la Musique Dijon
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