My friend Marty and I decided to take a road trip to France. Why? Because we can! He had some guests coming from out of town and needed some good, cheap wine. I just thought it would be cool to drive to another country to buy wine. Also, Marty had been a few weeks early and bought some La Creuset look-alike pots (although we thought they were actually La Crueset until we got there!) and Sue and I decided we don't care if we can actually cook, we know we want those pots. Meanwhile, one of our other friends heard about the pots and wanted a set for herself, as long as we got the ugly green ones.
Here are the pans we're talking about:
but they are not the proper puke green, and they are not La Creuset. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Why bother going to sleep?
We had to leave at 6am to catch our train under the chunnel. I never sleep well, of course, so I didn't bother going to bed early. Marty tried and gave up. All night I was dreaming/day dreaming of the whole event, and as my 5:15 am wakeup time approached I started humming the song I knew my iPhone would start playing: Breathe Me, by Sia. This was the song they used at the end of the series finale of Six Feet Under, in case you are wondering. What good is an alarm if you start anticipating it several hours in advance?
I needed 45 minutes to get ready because my coffee machine takes 15 minutes just to warm up! Still, I have apparently finally mastered firm foam and crema-laden espresso in my crazy espresso maker, so that is good.
Marty was up basically all night, so we were both in great shape for the two hours drive to the chunnel. And here's what it looks like at 6am in London this time of year. In June it will look like mid-day this time of day, but in March, it's more sane:
You might notice that Marty is driving a Prius. If you think it's weird that a right-wing nut case is driving a Prius, I will just say that he is a right-wing nut case in conflict right now. Meanwhile, I don't like Priuses because they lie about their mileage and have gotten away with it for so long, whereas the Honda was more honest about the Civic Hybrid mileage but took a hit for it.
First Hint of Trouble
The problem with getting to Folkestone to catch the train is that its in the south of england, and we're in north London. Being the GPS dependent guys we are, who try hard never to look at maps and put all our faith in the sexy voice of our trusty garmin GPS units, we knew we didn't want to drive through the center of London to get there. That's all we knew, actually. We we also knew of a road called "North Circular" which we have driven on from time to time, but we didn't really know if driving on it for a while (ignoring the pleas of the GPS unit to turn around) would be a good thing or not, because we left the map book in the trunk, uh, I mean boot.
That's when Marty said, "Usually Sarah tells me when to turn left and turn right, and I'm comfortable with that." Oh oh. Because I was thinking to myself, "Normally Sue has 5 different maps for where we're going, with an optimized, down to the minute plan for arriving and departing each stop along the way, based on an assumption that the GPS will not be able to acquire satellites until we're supposed to be there … and I'm comfortable with that!" Right then I think we each said a private prayer and just crossed our fingers.
Eventually the GPS and my trusty iPhone were in agreement of where we were going, how we would get there, and when we would get there: namely in plenty of time to make the train, possibly early enough to catch the one before ours.
Here's a small sample of the English country side along the way:
Kinda reminds me of central New Jersey if you want to know the truth.
Second sign of trouble
About 25 miles from our destination we were diverted off the main highway. Our GPS complained but we ignored her and followed the signs. It was puzzling because we were sure we saw a big truck get on the highway but no cars. One blocked highway entrance after another started concerning us, as we continued down a small back road parallel to the highway for mile after mile. Luckily the traffic was moving and our estimated arrival time did not really change that much.
Sure enough we ended up taking the back roads all the way to the Chunnel and as we got closer we saw miles of 18-wheeler trucks backed up on the highway. We thought the bad weather might have shut down some of the ferry services, causing all the cargo trucks to have to switch to the train. Whatever, it didn't matter to us it turned out; we arrived at the check-in station, slipped in the credit-card, and were given a boarding letter. We had time to get coffee before we got on the train. Here's Marty doing what all professionals do when they get a moment: consulting his iPhone.
The train is interesting, and here's a few pictures that show how it all works. I love how they remind you where you're going:
The part of the train for cars is a double-decker and you better make sure you fit:
Follow the divided lanes around, up, across, over and then you see this:
They open two doors on the side of the train, one for each story, and up/in you go:
I will admit that I started to feel claustrophobic inside there, especially when I started thinking of the whole tunnel thing, but I put it out of my mind, and Marty and I did what we always do when we get together: give each other lots of shit about our opposing political views.
Actually, this time I think we talked about cameras but I am trying to keep this story interesting.
35 minutes later, we pop out the other end:
and get started with some power shoppping:
Sing it with me: Proud to be an American:
Third sign of trouble
Well, at the huge Cite Europe mall shopping center, we struck out on the La Creuset pots. That's when Marty starting realizing that he hadn't bought the fancy, over-priced La Creuset pots as he had thought, but rather, some reasonably priced alternatives. After all, how expensive does cast iron really need to be?
But we decided we needed to go to another store just a couple miles away. Unfortunately we couldn't remember the name of the place. Luckily we have wives on the other ends of cell phones, and we sent emergency texts and made phone calls to get the information we needed. Sadly, getting there turned out to be a major hassle. Why? Because there were diversions all over the place, just like on the other side of the channel. It took us way too long to get the three miles to the next store in large part because we were stuck following some uniquely French vehicles:
We went around various roundabouts several times, before admitting defeat. Then we just went another way and let our GPS lead us.
But by then we were hungry, so we stopped off at this fine French establishment:
and rejuvenated ourselves. BTW, the Wi-Fi Gratuit was not gratuit at all. Or, perhaps they password protected it so dumb English people who cannot speak French would not know how to ask for the access code. Oh - except many people in England can speak French - it's just the dumb Americans living in England who can't speak French. But I thought the current Frecnh administration was the most Pro-American in recent memory…
Where was I?
The Wine
Well, without going into the detail, we ended up buying a few cases of wine each. At the store they list the wine prices in British pounds, and tell you exactly how much we are saving per bottle by buying it there rather than in England. It seemed to be about 25% to 40%, which adds up quite quickly if you are into fancy wine, but works its way up rather slowly if you're into cheap wine like I am.
It's slightly possible that we saved some money by driving all that way, hopping on the train and paying the £50 fare. We were in a Prius so we actually produced less emissions than had we huffed and puffed out way across the street from where we live to the liquor store. But most importantly, we had fun doing it, a couple a guys on a day trip to France, no real plans, confronting real problems like traffic diversions with confidence, a GPS, an a sense of amazement that we succeeded without our wives, it was all good…
The trip back
… all good, that is, until we had to get back.
First of all, there is a time change of one hour between England and France. We took that into careful consideration and made our plans to get back to the train by 1:20 pm British time to catch our 2:50 pm train ride back to England.
Well here's what we discovered when we tried to drive the 1 mile to the trains:
Losely translated, I think that means "Screw you, dumb Brits". So, off we went on a deviation, following the signs trying to understand what was going on:
We were basically forced to get on the highway and drive in the exact opposite direction of where we wanted to go. (It reminded me of when Sue was going into labor with Jason, and I drove away from the hospital as fast as I could, instead of meeting her there as fast as I could … but I digress.)
Every time we tried to outsmart the deviations by getting off the highway and making a U-turn, we were thwarted by blocked entrance ramps for the other direction. We still didn't get what was going on, but we saw plenty of trucks lining the roads on that side of the highway. Still there was room for cars, as we knew we were being directed way down the highway so we could eventually turn around.
Of course, while we were driving away from our intended destination, our GPS was now practically yelling at us to turn around, or at least to pull over and ask directions. It was no longer our sexy, female friend showing us the quickest way from point A to point B. No, now she was a dumb bitch who didn't know when to shut up.
(This is where the "Men Behaving Badly" comes from.)
So, anyway, we're finally on the correct side of the road driving too fast towards the train station, when we catch up to all the trucks lining the roads for miles and miles.
See what I mean? And then we really screwed up because we saw this "glimmer of hope" between two trucks and made a split decision to get off the highway:
If you look at that sign on the exit ramp, you can just make out the edge of a sign pointing to the tunnel train. Unfortunately, being the dorks we are, we didn't realize until a split second too late that it was a sign describing the round-about at the end of the exit ramp, which included a description of how to get back onto the highway to get to the chunnel train … OH SHIT! Entrance ramp!?!? They are all closed!?!?!?
So we were yelling and screaming at each other, "We are so dumb! We suck! We are morons!" back and forth, as we got back onto the freeway and drove 5 miles in the wrong direction AGAIN and basically had the same conversation as before, yelling and screaming at the GPS to shut up.
And then we noticed that we had run out of time, and that we were going to miss our train! So, then began yet another round of yelling and screaming at each other, "We are so mind-bogglingly dumb!"
It was hilariously and pathetic at the same time. Texts were sent, phone calls were made, could Sue please pick up the kids from school because we missed the train, etc.
Then we noticed two pieces of paper with two train reservations for different days on it, and we realized that we had been looking at the wrong piece of paper, and in fact we had one extra hour to get there! So then our tone changed to, "Yeah - you the man, we went, we bought, we're coming home, it's all good, yeah!"
So we get to the train station early for our train, and when we check in with the credit card it says, "You missed your train but you can take the next one for free." We dismissed it as confused by our manly, early arrival, and got our ticket, did some last minute shopping and then got on the train.
At which time we noticed that we had been right the first time, and we did miss our train. More hysterics! It was truly mind-boggling. While on the train a lady came by and asked us for feedback on the whole experience with the trains, and we said it was great, but what was up with all the traffic diversions? She said, "The French ferry works are on strike …" Typical. This is where my right-wing nut case friend and I agree: the French were probably complaining that the 32 hour work week is too long, or something. They need their crazy, messed up, crack pot, immoral, Dad-to-be, American loving president to whip them into shape.
Here we are back on the other side of the Channel looking at the huge lines of truck traffic:
The saga doesn't quite end there, but I think enough is enough. Suffice it to say that we got home, in time to pick the kids up from school even, and to do so we even pulled out the map book from the trunk, and I will even admit that I looked at the map and it actually helped.
Behaving badly is fun
OK - one more thing. Marty and I both agree that if you swear a lot, you just basically end up looking stupid, lacking in creativity or imagination, and seriously lacking in style as well. We know, we're practically experts in it.
On the other hand, it was a hell of a lot of fun letting loose, like we did in the good old days before kids.
So we chalk it up as yet another of many sacrifices we make for our children … I wonder if they will ever appreciate just how hard we work at being such good role models?