Another Day in WonderLand

There’s nothing like being woken up at 730am by rapid French.

But today I was, as Alberte – the caretaker – called my brand-spankin new cell phone to tell me the electrician would be here to fix the light switch by 9. I wonder how coherent I was during the conversation; I did just wake up from too short of a rest with a headache from lots of wine and a dream in which everyone spoke English. I decided as I hung up that I love having a cell phone, but there certainly was something relaxing about being unreachable these past few weeks. Waking up to the shrill ring of Pink Panther isn’t all that fun.

Naturally, I woke up the rents. Someone had to receive the electrician if I fell back asleep. And after chatting with Mummy until 2am and waking up to shut all the doors because of the wind at 5, I figured falling back asleep was quite possible.

It was a gloomy morning, perhaps foreshadowing my ominous afternoon. The electrician never came and we couldn’t stand sitting in the house any longer. So we left. With nothing much to do, my parents decided to help me go scooter shopping. We bounced from one store to another, peering in the windows at the seemingly endless inventory of colorful motorbikes, growing frustrated as we continuously missed each one by just a few minutes before they closed for lunch.

So we went to Géant Casino. Grocery & shoe shopping are always a good way to pass time. We grabbed a panini for lunch – which was a bad idea for my mother, with her wheat allergy and all – and headed to the public beach my L’Esquinade for a bit. Then it was back to business. I need a scooter.

On the way back to the house my father announced he was going shopping as is – dressed in his bathing suit and sweaty tee shirt and beat-up, homemade Rondini sandles that look similar to what Jesus may have worn. Considering that I was planning on making a fairly significant business transaction at the scooter stores, my mother and I protested.

“Why?” my father demanded, stubborn in his leisurely ways. “People wear their bathing suits all the time in St. Tropez!”

St. Tropez is known for being chic. You cant show your face unless you look amazing and seductive, trendy and hip. “Sure they do,” we replied. He was right… kind of. “They wear their bathing suits and linen button down shirts and boat shoes. It’s just not the same.”

We returned to Chez Michel and changed quickly. I sat downstairs waiting for my father to join me and as he casually descended the winding staircase, I had to laugh. There he was in his bathing suit, a linen button down shirt and boat shoes. Oh, B. Haha

Needless to say, scooter shopping has been one of the most frustrating experiences I’ve encountered. (Not quite as frustrating as this evening, after getting some drinks, when the ATM ate my card and said, in perfect English, “BNP Paribas will be retaining your card for safekeeping. Bastard.) No one has any used motorbikes or scooters and the new ones are far too large and expensive. No one is clear on what the rules are regarding licenses and insurances, so I’m left guessing. Not to mention I really don’t speak French. We finally found one that would work – a ’91 Honda POS that would get me from A to B and cost only 650€ (not including the two helmets I’d need and the lock to keep it safe or the insurance in case I hit someone or someone steals it or whatever) – but, of course, someone had come just moments before to put a deposit on it. So I left extremely discouraged, having spent another afternoon at every scooter shop in the area with absolutely nothing to show for it.

I did have a nice dinner out and some drinks, so the evening wasn’t a total disaster. It did suck to have to pay for parking. A scooter, if I ever find one, will change all that…