My only story about Hurricane Katrina has to do with the Internet. Before the storm hit, D. told me that on one of the computer forums he frequents, a Louisiana poster wrote, as he prepared to evacuate, that he and his family had absolutely no place to go. A fellow board member, from Illinois, offered refuge in his home. The Illinois man may have offered such kindness to any stranger, but I think he was probably moved to stronger generosity out of a sense of tribe that the day to day familiarity of even a Mac forum evidently provides.
I felt that same sense of tribe at London Gatwick, waiting to board the plane for my flight home. As soon as I sat down amongst Minnesota people, I felt relaxed and happy. A couple across from me offered me some chocolates. A businessman next to me asked me to keep an eye on his luggage while he asked about something at the check-in desk. (And, yes, I just knew he wasn’t a terrorist with a bomb in his suitcase, and evidently he knew I wouldn’t try to slip a bomb into his bags when he wasn’t looking.) It’s worthwhile to mention that this feeling of being among one’s own tribe has nothing to do with race and everything to do with, in this case, shared geography and a sharing of the familiar.
Right now all of those people in the gulf states feel like our tribe just by virtue of being Americans, or even human beings. It hurts to see them suffer so and feels a little pathetic just to donate money to the Red Cross, even when it's the best you can do.
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Trip to England and France, August 2005
Day 3: As soon as I woke up on the ferry, I peered out of my porthole and saw mansions and chateaus dotting the coast of Saint Malo. Even in the gray mist--of the day, of my morning brain--the view was stunning and my first thought was, “If the French are snobs, who can blame them? To be the custodians of such beauty. . .”
I scrambled to get dressed and it was the usual travel case of “hurry up and wait”. The officials wanted everyone ready to hop off the boat at 7:30, though we didn’t dock until 8:00 and we didn’t budge until 8:30. I chatted with a British family who were going on a camping trip. Camping is quite common in France, but I laughed because the thought had never occurred to me: to go to France. . .just to camp?
When I finally disembarked and got into the ferryport, the Alamo rental car office wasn’t open yet. I wondered how long I’d have to wait. Finally, I asked and was told, “Oh, they are always closed. They just open up when they have a customer.” So I had to call on a telephone, and eventually a harried young man came to give me my little Citroen. He seemed very worried about his car. I told him that even though I sounded like a boob in his language, I knew perfectly well how to drive a manual transmission.
So, he had no choice but to hand over the keys, and show me where to return the car, "If," he laughed, "you can find a space." There was no Alamo parking lot. Just bumper to bumper parallell parking on the side of the road.
Before I got underway, I realized I had no euros and that I would have to change some money. Although I had cash, I'd neglected to bring my ATM card and that was just plain dumb. (Message to self--and that's why I'm writing all this down: don't forget next time!)
I was told I could change money at the post office, which was located in the old city, inside the walls of medieval Saint-Malo.
Old walled cities are cool; driving in old walled cities—not so cool. But I didn’t seem to have much alternative so I forged through the ancient gates, confronted by street signs I didn’t understand, one-ways and pedestrian-only areas, and did what any sane American tourist fresh-off-the-boat would do: I followed the car ahead of me, figuring sooner or later they’d have to go by the post office. Really, how lost can you get in a walled city?
It worked. I found the post office and a beautiful parking space right in front, although I couldn’t pay the meter since I didn’t have any euros. The man at the post office was the recipient of my first attempts at polite rudimentary French, but he reassuringly brushed them aside with his better English. I gave him a couple of hundred dollar bills to change, but he informed me he couldn’t accept them, since they were Series 1996 and they had too many problems with counterfit ones. Luckily I had a couple other bills with me, other vintages, and I managed to get enough Euros to get me through the next six days.
Voila. First mission accomplished. Next mission: find way out of medieval walled city, and make my way south to Brittany’s rocky coast.
From viamichelin.com, I had these elaborate Mapquest type directions, which were just ludicrous: drive .7 kilometers, take first right at traffic circle, go 7.2 kilos on N764, etc., etc. These directions proved completely useless. I abandoned them from the get-go and just started driving away from the sea, knowing that I had to get out of the city before I could orient myself. It was a little harrowing, at first, but then, as I came out of the first traffice circle I saw a sign that said “TOUTES DIRECTIONS” (all directions) and I thought, “That’s me! I’m TOUTES DIRECTIONS”, at least for the time being. Not until, approximately 18 traffic circles later, realizing I was on a highway heading towards Rennes, did I know where I was and could thus re-orient myself in the right direction. After that it was a snap. French roads are so well sign-posted that maps are practically irrelevant, except in the very-important aspect of showing you what town to head for next. Driving in France is as easy as connecting the dots, and traffic circles are a beautiful thing. I sat at about 3 traffic-lights during my entire trip.
My tiny Citroen, with the manual transmission was so much fun to drive, I think I may shop around for a smaller car when my station wagon finally gives up the ghost.
I got to my hotel in the little seaside town of Port Blanc early in the afternoon and checked in. I was a little dismayed by the room, since it was ugly and smelled musty, but the view of the sea redeemed the place and I threw open the window to let in the fresh air. Ugly as the room may have been, everything worked beautifully—plenty of hot water, moderately comfortable bed, and no problem with the phone. Anyway, it soon became obvious that anyone spending time in the gorgeous area would be crazy to waste too much time in their hotel room.
9:42:56 AM 
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