Travel tip #347

If you're in a French village searching for a WiFi connection, all French McDonalds have free wireless.
So here I am in a place I never thought I'd be--a McDonalds in France. I'm feeling guilty somehow, like I'm betraying the French culture.


written earlier:

Another long day of driving; it’s over six hours from Avignon to Paris. We set out early this morning to begin our route up from Provence. France is almost the size of Texas. Usually when we think of European countries, we think small, but France covers nearly _ square miles and is one of the most diverse countries in Europe—both physically and culturally. Today we drove from rolling hills covered with grapes, to mountains, gorges and pine trees and tonight we’re back in the Central Region and close to the Loire Valley. In our rush to get back to Paris, we didn’t make a reservation for tonight, thinking we would play it by ear. The idea was that we would stop at some town, use the WiFi and look up hotels. Unfortunately wireless hotspots are few and far between on the A71. 

One rest stop promoted free wireless but when we drove in, the woman in the rest stop “Cafeteria” told us it wasn’t working. At one point, we pulled off into a small village, hoping to find a café with a connection. It began to pour just as we drove in and soon the rain was accompanied by an immense clap of thunder and jagged bolts of lightning. Within minutes the entire town lost power and as we drove along the quickly flooding cobblestone streets, I gave up any luck finding an Internet café.

            

           So it was back on the road, heading north without any idea where we would stay tonight. As we neared Bourges, the 14^th century capital of France, my mom suggested we turn off into a smaller village and try to find somewhere to stay. Agreeing, I drove to Saint-Amand-Montrond.

           The town was a quaint spot and compared to the bustling streets of Avignon, it was deserted. The central square was surrounded by cafes and outdoor tables, but no one sat in them and few of the restaurants were even open. We drove down one narrow alley, than another, looking for hotel. Finally we stumbled upon the Office de Tourisme or tourist office—every town has one. I parked and we walked to the door only to find the office locked and the shades drawn.

            I turned around to tell my mom it was closed but the minute I did, the door opened and a woman beckoned us in. I told her we needed a room for the night.

            She nodded and pulled out an entire book—listing the nearby hotels and amenities of each.

My mom interrupted her.

            “Is there a bed and breakfast?” she asked hopefully. The woman nodded and pointed out a woman’s house near the end of town.

             “Very charming,” she told us. “Do you want me to call her and see if there is room?” Surprised by her offer we chanted “oui” and she made the telephone call.

             The bed and breakfast is two rooms in the attic of a family’s house. The room we’re staying in is small and charming, complete with ancient beams that stretch across the ceiling and a small cat whose fur reminds me of fudge ripple ice cream.

              Unforunately, there is no Internet here, so I am taking a break—writing a little now to publish tomorrow morning.

              I can hear the rushing of the river outside and the cooing of doves as I type, nestled in a thick down comforter. Rain drips from the eaves, a reminder of the earlier storm. Without the Internet, a phone, or television, I feel completely removed from everything; it’s quite nice.