This grouping of pictures was what I saw while waiting for the bus this afternoon.
While I was waiting, I had difficulty buying a bus pass because the site was in French and my card kept getting declined. Turns out they hadn’t fully activated the card and I was finally able (after missing the bus I needed) to get things arranged correctly and purchase a month pass.
While at the bus stop, a woman approached me and asked for water which I’d just purchased. She had blood all over her pants and it didn’t appear to be hers. I don’t usually carry tissues in my bag, but today I did. With a few of those and some of the water, she was able to get most of the blood out of her pants. She thanked me profusely.
Not even two minutes later, a young man no older than 20 approached, his nose was gushing blood. I gave him the rest of the tissues because he needed them more than I did. Merci’ was repeated several times. I felt pretty dang good being able to help even when language is a barrier.
The number 23 bus arrived and I used my new ticket…on the wrong QR code. OY! But with a bit of squeaking, I was able to actually get the right one.
Riding on the bus has never been like this in the States. There are random plaques stuck on walls, the busses are clean, and the neighborhoods are insanely beautiful. I thoroughly enjoyed the entire experience on my way to Rosel to work with my client.
As the bus pulled into the end of the line, the neighborhood was graced with gated gardens, colorful roofs, and flowers everywhere. And, sheep. Sheep?
Freaking sheep! As it turns out, Line 23 of their buses alternates between a tiny little village and Cairon, which is where I was supposed to be. Dude…
Anyway, with Google translate in hand, I had a conversation with the conductor (They aren’t called drivers here) and she graciously realized my mistake and confusion. We chatted for a bit using our phones as the go between. The sheep, she explained were white or black mutton according to their wool color.
The breeze and scent of that stop was breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve experienced such bliss at a bus stop with sheep bah-ing nearby as the wildflowers danced.
She got me to the correct stop and alerted the other driver about the idiot on board (just kidding, American (although that can feel synonymous here.) And off I went on the correct bus.
It was 1.4 miles from my destination on foot. I can do that, right? Sure I can! I started off at a brisk pace carefully following the GPS as if it were a religion. As I slowed, because I’m fat and out of shape, I began to pay attention to the world around me.
As I walked the path I was told to, I was in awe of the provincial sites I was witnessing. It gave me a sense of deep peace, curiosity, and wonder. It practically felt as if I were living in a dream with no grounding in reality.
By the way, 1.4 miles isn’t that far, I acknowledge that, but when you’re not really sure where you are and a bit hesitant to trust when the GPS sends you down a literal cow-path, it feels daunting.
Finally! I arrived in the small village of Rosel. The roads are very narrow so there is a gravel rut on the side so the vehicles can pass one another. Watching the conductors skillfully navigate the extremely tight turns was rather impressive.
AND! I MADE IT!
I spent time with my clients and realized how dramatic of a difference two weeks without exercises had been for him. Although I have to admit, playing ball with him again was total top hat. I was able to do a load of laundry, but dryers are not common here. I packed up my folded damp clothes and toted them back with me.
You’re not going to believe this, but I got on the wrong bus AGAIN! I mean it was the right one, but going the wrong way. I explained through the translator where I needed to go. The conductor told me to get off the bus, cross the street and wait. After a turn-around, she was ready to head back to Caen. I’m going to be a pro at this rate!
This is the correct stop for me to find my way back to the city. It was a hard lesson to learn but lucky for me, I’m evidently a slow learner.
Once I got back to the apartment, I pulled out my handy portable clothesline, unpacked my damp clothes, and hung them to dry.
It wasn’t long after this that I crashed for four hours. It’s been a physical challenge for me to walk as much as possible. I need to get down to where I feel like a human again instead of a large person.
I love you. I miss you. Not enough to come home yet, but eventually. 🙂
Mare Martell 