An overcast morning in Bayonne (Tuesday the 7th of May). Breathing in the fresh air from my window, I know that I'm in Europe. Using a diaper pin to finish drying my socks over the railing seemed like a good idea until I looked up from my e-book and realized that a rain shower was passing through.
Amidst the usual assortment of choices from the breakfast buffet was a yogurt with a label in greenish hues that read "Pomme Granny".
When leaving home, I use a travel checklist (it's a pilot thing), but not while I'm on the road. When I was flying, in a previous life, I had the habit of mentally reconfirming 2 items: flaps and trim, even though they were supplementary to the "taking the runway" checklist. I can see that I'm going to have to develop a Camino equivalent for my rucksack before I hit the trail each morning.
My train to St Jean isn't until 10:48 this morning, but one hour before departure the quiet urge to do something gets me off my comfortable bed and heading for la gare, even though it is only a 5 minute walk. Enroute I pass one of the locals enjoying a Gauloise and a beer at an outdoor cafe. Waiting for my train, the platform across from me is crowded. Checking the departures board, I see that they are, of course, waiting for the 10:26 to Paris Montparnasse.
The trans-Atlantic flight, the Paris CDG train station, and the journey to Bordeaux were all familiar events. Since Bordeaux though, I'm in uncharted territory and that generates a frisson of adventure. Yesterday my arse was a bit sore from sitting in various ATB's, planes,and trains. By the end of tomorrow I expect that I'll be whining about something else.
The train to St Jean arrives in Bayonne station on time and then, double-ended, pulls out the way it came in. As we exit the station, the sun breaks through briefly. I'm not a believer in omens, but it's a pleasant feeling. At one of the enroute stops a very large gentleman wearing a black beret boards the train (as friend Peter Krayer would say: if we have to haul ass out of here,he's going to have to make 2 trips). There is a collective holding of breath around me before he wedges himself into another quadrant of seats. The sight engenders a memory of an old Flip Wilson line: I'm not fat, I'm just too short for my weight.
From my window, I spot a wild goat and some type of eagle. The ground becomes uneven; somewhat reminiscent of the sand/scrub hills in parts of the Okanagan Valley. These hills get higher and craggier as we near St Jean.
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