After You’ve Seen A Few French Villages, They All Begin To Look Alike

I was on the 11:30 bus, headed for Montpellier and feeling quite proud of myself. My decision to forgo a car in France and to rely on local transportation was working out well.

The timetables were a bit difficult to translate, then to understand, but I’d got the hang of it, arrived at the bus stop in the village ten minutes before my bus was to arrive — just in case it was early — and checked the timetable again.

Just to be sure, I double-checked with a woman waiting for the bus.

“Montpellier?”

She nodded. The bus arrived and we both got on. The fare, amazingly, was just one euro, the seats were clean and comfortable and, unusual for France, the bus was airconditioned and even had WiFi.

Impressed, I sat back and enjoyed the ride through the picturesque French countryside, past quaint little villages, then a stop in Gignac, a market town I’d visited once before; some people got out and others got on. Then more little villages, more picturesque countryside, more little villages.

Still enjoying the ride, after thirty minutes or so, I began to notice that a couple of the villages looked a bit familiar. And then very familiar.

I was sitting behind the bus driver, so I tapped his shoulder.

“Montpellier?”

He did that inimitable Gallic shrug, then chuckled.

“Non, non, pas Montpellier.”

Uh oh.

Things had looked familiar because the bus had essentially made a circle through the quaint villages and picturesque countryside and was now pulled up beside the bus stop in the same picturesque village where I’d been waiting earlier. I understood just enough of the driver’s explanation to gather that I should have got off the bus in Gignac, then caught another bus to Montpellier.

But all was not lost. Early in the day still and the driver said he could take me to Clermont Herault and from there I could catch another bus to Montpellier.

About half an hour later, he dropped me off on a busy main thoroughfare in Clermont Herault, pointed across the road to a bus shelter, and said the bus to Montpellier would be by in about 45 minutes.

It was hot, the air smelled like diesel, I was hungry and, by then, slightly dispirited. I’d flunked my first public transportation test and wasn’t in the mood to wait at the bus stop for 45 minutes. Montpellier would have to wait for another day.

I started walking, following the signs for the centre ville.

Thirty minutes later, seated at an outdoor cafe in the center of Clermont Herault and enjoying a chilled glass of rosé, I felt better. If I considered everything in France, including obstacles, as part of the learning experience, I could handle it. No point in expecting 100-percent on every test.

I was by then ravenous so I motioned to the guy who had served me the wine. A sandwich? Soup? Anything.

“Non, desolé.”

Something I’d yet to learn about France but would have to explain to future American guests. Hunger is only accommodated between noon and two o’clock, the hours that restaurants and most cafes serve food.

No point in strolling in somewhere at three, even if the place is open, and expecting to be served anything to eat. The kitchen will be closed. You’ll have another window of opportunity between seven and ten or so when you can order dinner, but don’t arrive just before ten, or the kitchen might be having an early night.

Difficult to accept when you’re accustomed to ordering food any time of the day or night, mais c’est la vie en France.

Meanwhile, although I’d given up on Montpellier, I still had to return home and had no idea what time the next bus might leave, or even if there was another bus going to my village.

Fortunately, the cafe was next to the bus station. Unfortunately, the guy behind the counter wasn’t in the mood to do anything more helpful than sigh and shrug. Pretty much the same response from the woman in the tourist office next door. Would they have been more helpful, if I’d been able to ask questions in decent French? Maybe. But it wasn’t the first time I’d encountered that type of response, or non-response.

I may work behind the counter and I may look like someone who could answer your idiotic questions, but I have more important things on my mind and you’re annoying me, so go away.

I walked back to the cafe where I’d had my wine. By that time, any desire for another learning experience was gone, along with my confidence. I felt stupid — for not speaking enough French to really get by, for landing myself in this spot, and for just blindly assuming everything would work out.

And then a large blue and orange bus, like the one I rode in on, pulled up outside the cafe — no buses outside the bus station, but here’s one outside the cafe. Go figure.

I ran over to talk to the driver, but he’d climbed out and disappeared before I could get his attention. Or perhaps he saw me but had more important things on his mind than answering idiotic questions from a frazzled Anglo.

Back inside the cafe, I asked the guy who had served the wine if he knew whether the bus outside was going to my village. It was. It would leave in thirty minutes, he said.

I wanted to kiss him. I resisted, I’m sure he was grateful.

A week or so later, I did make it to Montpellier without incident. But I began to see the limitations of using public transport and, especially living in a small village, how life in France might be easier if I had a car.

I eventually bought a used Ford advertised on an ex-pat site and, seven years later, am still driving it. Sure I’d imagined riding a bike and taking buses, but reality doesn’t always match up with expectations.

Yet another learning experience, but life in France is full of them.

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