A french May finds me walking along the quai at Paulliac gazing across the huge Gironde estuary. I pass an aging ruddy-faced character sporting a threadbare army jacket, talking quite loudly to himself, happily so. I ask his permission to take his photograph. His response is garbled perhaps by the Aquitaine dialect which has a strong Basque influence. But his eyes sparkle and his head nods yes.
I grab a few shots and ask if he wants a peek. He peers at his likeness for a moment, unvarnished delight in his eyes. I start to stroll away but it seems he’s coming along. “D’accorde”, I shrug.
On the quai is a French naval frigate used for coastal patrols . In luck, it is open for public inspection. Being ex-navy, I step aboard, take the Captain’s hand and say “Je suis Canadien”. His response was to yell at the entire crew ' Il est Canadien!’ I follow him up the ladder to the bridge. Right on my tail is my ruddy-faced friend. It seems Guy-Louis is a well-known local who, the officer signals, is a bit odd from ‘la guerre’ and welcome. So the two of us enjoy a royal tour, culminating with Guy sitting in the captain's chair at the wheel. He spots a big red button and slaps it with his palm. We all jump a foot as the ship’s klaxon sounds off. Talk about a mischievous grin!
Mud-filled foxhole,
shell-shocked
into bliss
Later, still sticking to me like glue, we relax with a café noir at the Hotel Angleterre, enjoying the warmth from the setting sun. As we leave, he snatches ‘l’addition’ from the waiter and slides a five euro note to him with a ’merci, Marcel’. My friend is a regular, no doubt. So, what’s next, I’m thinking? Guy gestures to a tarted-up french carousel on the quai. The last little kids are getting off; it’s about ready to close for the day. He grabs my arm and hauls me over, says a few words to the old man operating it. Before I can protest, he and I are astride a couple of fancy stallions. La Marseillaise starts up. Guy-Louis straightens and salutes. Of course, I do the same. Caught up in the spirit, we whirl around singing the national anthem as loud as we can. Suddenly I catch a glimpse of my wife. I realize I’ve been A.W.O.L. for a few hours. Jumping off, I say, “Don’t ask. Riding a stallion, singing and saluting is an old and worthy French tradition. Specially for veterans like Guy and me.” Still out of breath, I wave ‘a bientot’ to Guy, my Paulliac warrior.
I’m betting he’ll be on duty on the quai tomorrow.
Red poppies,
then clouds
cross an empty face
On the quai is a French naval frigate used for coastal patrols . In luck, it is open for public inspection. Being ex-navy, I step aboard, take the Captain’s hand and say “Je suis Canadien”. His response was to yell at the entire crew ' Il est Canadien!’ I follow him up the ladder to the bridge. Right on my tail is my ruddy-faced friend. It seems Guy-Louis is a well-known local who, the officer signals, is a bit odd from ‘la guerre’ and welcome. So the two of us enjoy a royal tour, culminating with Guy sitting in the captain's chair at the wheel. He spots a big red button and slaps it with his palm. We all jump a foot as the ship’s klaxon sounds off. Talk about a mischievous grin!
Mud-filled foxhole,
shell-shocked
into bliss
Later, still sticking to me like glue, we relax with a café noir at the Hotel Angleterre, enjoying the warmth from the setting sun. As we leave, he snatches ‘l’addition’ from the waiter and slides a five euro note to him with a ’merci, Marcel’. My friend is a regular, no doubt. So, what’s next, I’m thinking? Guy gestures to a tarted-up french carousel on the quai. The last little kids are getting off; it’s about ready to close for the day. He grabs my arm and hauls me over, says a few words to the old man operating it. Before I can protest, he and I are astride a couple of fancy stallions. La Marseillaise starts up. Guy-Louis straightens and salutes. Of course, I do the same. Caught up in the spirit, we whirl around singing the national anthem as loud as we can. Suddenly I catch a glimpse of my wife. I realize I’ve been A.W.O.L. for a few hours. Jumping off, I say, “Don’t ask. Riding a stallion, singing and saluting is an old and worthy French tradition. Specially for veterans like Guy and me.” Still out of breath, I wave ‘a bientot’ to Guy, my Paulliac warrior.
I’m betting he’ll be on duty on the quai tomorrow.
Red poppies,
then clouds
cross an empty face
©morganearl 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment