The Long Way Back
I often complain about the severe lack of taste among the people living in Zion. It seems this is related (again!) to the issues of survival. In other words, why invest in aesthetics when at any moment the Gentiles could burst in through the door with guns or machetes and once again we will find ourselves jumping out the window or handcuffed and thrown into a basement or dungeon. In short, the location of a tree or its type, color, and size in the landscape rarely makes it onto our "must be internalized" list.
In contrast, in France, the refinement found in aesthetics is the primary principle by which people live their lives. Every clochard (something between a loafer, a beggar, and a drunkard) knows which tree must stand beside which shrub, rock, or house. Every clochard knows what flowers should bloom from which pot on the window sill at the base of a window that opens and closes with shutters or curtains that match in texture, material, and color the pot and plant beside it. And let's not forget that every clochard knows exactly what wine pairs perfectly with the half-sandwich found in the trash can, matching in color and height with the fence he is leaning on. This developed aesthetic sense is found everywhere, in every dimension, and is also part of the French genetic material. For an Israeli like me, this is a breathtaking experience.
It cannot be said that Germany is not beautiful, orderly, precise, and well-kept, nor can it be said that Spain does not inspire awe or that its villages are not soul-soothing. However, when crossing the border from any direction into France, one immediately ascends to a different level of enjoyment from the infinite beauty found in the small details.
On my way from Girona, I decide to stop for an overnight stay in a place called Clermont-Ferrand, a typical French town located west of Lyon. On the highway leading to the town, the rain pours incessantly, the skies are gray, and not a single ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds. Yet, the scenery enchants me, and I feel that even without a sixth gear, moment by moment, Nadedet and I are becoming stronger and livelier.
As evening approaches, I find a small parking lot at the entrance of what looks like some kind of town hall, and when I peek inside, I see that behind the glass doors on the right, there is a bathroom. Only someone who travels and carries their home on their back understands the joy of finding a clean restroom in a well-kept building. I know there is a chance that access to the restrooms is only permitted for council members and city residents, but the place seems quite deserted, and I tell myself that I will be in and out before anyone notices me, and I immediately enter.
Since I am already in such a beautiful, clean restroom, why not wash my armpits, neck, and face? In short, I spend about twenty minutes in the building's restroom. Refreshed and in good spirits, I emerge from the restroom and approach the building's doors. To my astonishment, I discover they are locked, and I can't get out. Through the glass, I gaze at my deserted van and quickly calculate that my chances of sleeping in it tonight are slim to none. Apparently, while I was enjoying the luxuries of the bathroom, someone had locked the hall doors, and thus, my moment of joy came to an abrupt end. I shake the doors repeatedly, but they remain locked. And as we learned in previous chapters... what do you do when you're feeling stressed? You stop everything for a moment and just breathe.
I take a deep breath and try and relax my Trapezius muscle, and then, only then, I hear human voices coming from one of the rooms. A dilemma arises within me — should I reveal myself to these strangers and embarrass myself for using the bathroom without permission, or should I hide and take a chance that the muffled voices will eventually lead to someone opening the door? After a few more breaths, I decide to take the risk, and if, God forbid, the local policeman is called, I will act the clueless old tourist and thus extricate myself from the predicament.
I walk down a dark hallway until I arrive at a door behind which a female voice is instructing, "Inhale and exhale" in French. Is it possible that a French yoga class is taking place here? Yoga is good. Yoga means that these people are also breathing so there's a better chance that no police will be involved. I knock on the door, and on the other side all goes quiet. Eyes wide, I wait, and then the door opens. "Yoga!" I say, "C'est très bien!" and the people lying on the mats, most of whom are women, laugh.
One woman comes up to me, and again I somehow speak fluent French and explain what had happened, and she leads me back to the door and shows me how, by pressing the button here at the top left hand side, the door opens. Thank you, merci, merci beaucoup! I express my heartfelt gratitude and once again reunite with my dear camper van.
The next day, on June 10, 2023, at around 6:30 in the morning, I wake up to the sound of French chatter. They aren't arguing, heaven forbid; they are simply talking about something in excited voices, and they have parked their cars right behind my vehicle. It seems that some kind of a discussion is taking place, and the people had just gotten out of their cars, wherever the cars where standing, to continue the discussion face to face, making it impossible for me to escape. It is clear to me that they are all talking about me and the audacity of all these travelers who park their large vehicles everywhere without asking for permission, expecting everyone to be accommodating. The problem is that my bladder has unequivocally declared that I can't hold my urine in any longer.
What to do? What to do? Breathe. But after a few breaths my bladder feels like it is about to burst. I open the door of my vehicle, and about fourteen pairs of eyes silently turn towards me. "Bonjour, bonjour," I half-smile at them and make apologetic gestures with my hands. I am sure that the mayor or his deputy will immediately come over and give a speech about the illegality of stealth parking in towns and villages and that I would have to pay a fine of 20, 50, or 100 euros.
But the French don't seem to mind my presence and say "Bonjour" and "Oh là là" and "Déplacez les voitures..." Yes, yes, they'll move the cars immediately, and within minutes, the way is cleared for me to exit. The problem is that after thinking such bad thoughts about them, I don't dare ask them to use the sparkling bathroom again. So, I take my full bladder into the driver's seat and speed off to the nearest gas station, which thankfully is just around the corner.
That's it. Now, relieved and equipped with food, drinking water, and fuel, I drive for ten hours until I reach the German border.
The A36 highway, which turns into the A35 along the way, is beautiful, but I have gained enough confidence to get off the main road and drive through all the towns and villages where the speed limit is between 50 km/h and 30 km/h. No problem. Everything is fine, and as we've already said, when the body is in motion, the pendulum is held in a balanced position, and the feeling in both body and soul is excellent.
After yesterday when the rain drizzled incessantly and the sun was nowhere to be seen, today has turned out to be perfect. The skies are blue, the fields lay in every shade of green, and the mountains to the east are lush and filled with streams, springs, and melting snow. I have no choice but to burst into song.
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