Out of the way

I had a bit of a travel jag last week, going to Oslo for a day and no time to sleep before leaving for Italy. I managed to be on Air France, via Charles de Gaulle, which has to be one of the most annoying airports to transit through in Europe (although Heathrow is not a big improvement, and Frankfurt is a small step up from there). Since the airport is so badly organised, despite the fact that we were on time they had moved me to a later flight, since they expected it would not be possible to make the transit in the time they actually claim.

I pointed out that I needed to arrive to do something, which is why I had booked the particular flight I did - and the return was so close I already had a boarding pass. They said I was welcome to try and make it to the original flight. And since I had no luggage, and needed to arrive, I ran, and did make the flight, somewhat by luck. I arrived, tired, but in time to write the slides I needed and give the talk I went to give. And then I was looking for a place to stay. A friend of a friend had made an offer, but when I spoke to him it turned out that he would not be in town. Not to worry, he said, he had friends who could find something. And so I had a phone number for Marco and Cinzia.

They turned out to be great people to stay with, offering hospitality, dinner, and a chance to practice my rusty italian. They were even kind enough to take me to the airport in the morning, although unfortunately it ended up not being in time for my flight, so I had to look for another. (It seems that you can pay a vast amount for an Air France ticket at the last minute, but they are still not prepared to make it variable).

A substantial search turned up the fact that there was a flight out of Nice later that evening at a reasonable price, and that further there was a train connection that was tight, but in principle would work. Fortunately SAS were prepared to hold the ticket reserved but not purchased, so racing to the first train I leapt on just in time to see if I could make the first, tight, connection. A couple of hours later, blissfully slept through, I arrived just in time to catch the connection, ring and confirm the flight, and fall asleep again.

And then I arrived in Ventimiglia (Vintimille in french), the station to catch the train to Nice. A simple local train it runs about twice an hour, and often to Nice St Augustin, a station very close to the airport but which has no bus connection - to encourage the tourists to catch the expensive bus to the centre of Nice I suppose.

When I got out of the train I realised that I had no money in my pocket. And when I went to buy a ticet I found a huge crowd at the automatic machine, and another at the ticket counter. No problem, I had time. But there were also notices saying that for Nice trains I should look to the information office - which had a huge crowd spilling out of it. As they dispersed, I realised that they had been covering up the sign saying "Sciopero" - the french trains were on strike, and only a few was running, none of which could get me to the airport in time.

Time, the one thing I had, was not all that helpful it seemed. The station was packed, since they had organised a single bus to replace the train, but when full (which happened fast, since it was much smaller than a train) it left, and that was that for buses. I went to a bank to get money, and instead got a rude shock because my card didn't work. At which point things looked bleak. Although I have several cards, I did not have PIN numbers, or they were set up wrong, and I had not got around to fixing them, with the result that I now had no money. But time.

A french woman wanted to catch a taxi, and an american guy wanted to get a group together to catch a taxi. I was pretty happy to do either, but first I had to change some odd currency I was carrying in order to pay for the thing. And Italian banks are no longer used to people going to France wanting to change currency, so they are no longer set up for it. Fortunately I went into the bank a few minutes before it closed for the week, so the helpful woman did figure out all the paperwork (there is quite a lot of it) and turn my Australian dollars into Euros.

I met the french woman, still waiting for a taxi (and somewhat upset that a few people had snaffled them when she had been there first), and we managed to get one who agreed to take us. For a significant part of the ride she complained about how the trains went on strike around there - although I could recall other strikes, and other strikes elsewhere in France, it struck me as inconvenient but nothing more than normal life in France.

Anyway, we arrived, she found a bank (she had no money either, it transpired) and the train that she was catching to a wedding, which was actually running. And I went to while away an hour before going to the airport. Sitting in a bar watching "Bewitched" in french is a bit sad, but I get sick of walking around aimlessly, and taking heed from the Man from Ironbark I avoid dropping in on a barber shop just in case. (Besides, Miel had just cut my hair as much as it needed for a while).

A chap who seemed pretty familiar to the bar wandered in, and mumbled to me that he had not caught my name. Not surprised, since I had not said it to him before, I told him. He went to get a drink, came back and said he didn't get my name. About the third go he not only had my name, but the fact that I was Australian - something that seemed to stick better. I think because Australia has a rugby team. In a somewhat rambling conversation, it turned out that he had spent the day in the bar, instead of at work, because he was a ticket collector, on the trains that were immobilised by a strike. Ah, I said, I know the trains are on strike.

And so, a rambling conversation of Heraldry, Football of various kinds, Werner Herzog and Australia, and a few other topics I may have misunderstood, before I caught a bus to the airport. There is a local bus, which is a little slower (although not much) and more interesting. The local bus driver talks to the local people - Nice is after all just a (very big) village in some ways.

And on to Oslo, for a few brief hours again not including sleep, before returning home. A blissful twenty-four hours, mostly spent asleep. Before I headed off to Germany for a couple of days...