After an idyllic month in Ustaritz, the Summer University came to an end and it was time for me to make my way back east to Strasbourg. School was still several weeks off so this journey could be fairly leisurely. One of the Ustaritz folks offered me a ride back to Pau, where I spent several more days with the Pau group. My main recollection of this sojourn was an evening spent drinking very cheap wine at a city park, followed by a sleepless night in the university dorm racked by excruciating abdominal pains. Oh, did I mention that I was staying in the dormitory sub rosa? As a result of my nocturnal agony, I was found out and had to leave the dormitory. In fact, I ended up moving to another room with a vacant bed, but I was only staying another evening anyway.
A couple of days later, I was boarding an all-night train for Lyon, on my way to join the Fordham contingent at Grenoble. I had another task as well. During the last days at Ustaritz, I received a letter from my parents including a form which had to be signed and notarized by myself in order to receive the National Defense Loan which I had taken out to finance my junior year abroad. This could only be done at an American consulate, and the nearest consulate was in Lyon, where I would have to change trains for Grenoble. Therefore, my plan was to arrive at Lyon a bit after sunrise, wander around the city until the consulate opened, transact my business and catch the next train for Grenoble.
For a 20-year-old newly released in Europe, there are few pleasures more sublime than an all-night train ride. Armed with a collection of recent issues of Le Monde and Le Canard Enchaine, I rode across South France in the dead of night, and up the valley of the Rhone, arriving at Lyon just after daybreak. Alighting from train, I had now one priority: find a bathroom. This was an urgent matter, since the train station WC's had two drawbacks: they were filthy and they were of the dreaded "Turkish" style, without a seat. I left the gare and wandered nervously around the environs of the station, my bowels bursting. In desperation, I settled on a modest cafe about a block away. I entered and maide a beeline for the WC, but the eagle-eyed proprietess followed me, calling out "Vous consommez, monsieur? Vous consommez?!" "Oui, je vais consommer," I answered frantically, and entered the ... filthy Turkish-style toilet. To make short story even shorter, I made a major cultural accommodation to the situation, and, immeasurably relieved returned to the cafe to enjoy an improvised breakfast of croissant and hot chocolate.
It took about 2 hours for the consulate to open. Sign of the times: the American consulate was on the third floor of an old French apartment building that one accessed by one of those old-fashioned cage elevators. Getting the letter notarized took just a few minutes, and I was off to tour old Lyon. After several hours of walking, the highlight of which was the impressive Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourviere, an impressive edifice which overlooks the city, I caught the train for Grenoble.
Grenoble was about 2-1/2 hours away, and I arrived in mid-afternoon and set out for the University from the gare. Since arriving in France, I had become very comfortable with my ability to get anywhere by foot of public conveyance without asking directions. Somehow, by looking at a fairly basic map of Grenoble, I had convinced myself that the university was only a few blocks from the train station. Carrying my bulky, overloaded leather bag, I set out. An hour and 5 kilometers later, I arrived at the campus of the Faculte de Lettres of the University of Grenoble, which is now referred to as Universite Stendahl. Now exhausted from lugging the constantly-shifting load of my bulky travel bag, I must have seemed a pitiful sight as I trudged through the gates of the university, looking for the student union, whence I could try to find my Fordham comrades. Amazingly, however, when I arrived at the student union, I immediately saw Richard Martin, who led me to the whole crew, (Martin, Lance Compa, Peggy O'Kane, et.al.) who were lounging around in the student cafeteria. I felt as if I had arrived to student traveller Valhalla. Travelling solo had its charms but searching for a clean bathroom and trudging halfway across Grenoble had dissipated those, and I was so relieved to be among friends again.
I had arrived in Grenoble shortly before the whole crew was planning to return to Paris, so I had relative little time to enjoy the pleasant ambiance at the Faculte des Lettres, which enjoyed views of snow-capped mountains in the distance. We were soon headed back to Paris, where I stayed for a couple of days before returning to Strasbourg, this time for good.
A couple of days later, I was boarding an all-night train for Lyon, on my way to join the Fordham contingent at Grenoble. I had another task as well. During the last days at Ustaritz, I received a letter from my parents including a form which had to be signed and notarized by myself in order to receive the National Defense Loan which I had taken out to finance my junior year abroad. This could only be done at an American consulate, and the nearest consulate was in Lyon, where I would have to change trains for Grenoble. Therefore, my plan was to arrive at Lyon a bit after sunrise, wander around the city until the consulate opened, transact my business and catch the next train for Grenoble.
For a 20-year-old newly released in Europe, there are few pleasures more sublime than an all-night train ride. Armed with a collection of recent issues of Le Monde and Le Canard Enchaine, I rode across South France in the dead of night, and up the valley of the Rhone, arriving at Lyon just after daybreak. Alighting from train, I had now one priority: find a bathroom. This was an urgent matter, since the train station WC's had two drawbacks: they were filthy and they were of the dreaded "Turkish" style, without a seat. I left the gare and wandered nervously around the environs of the station, my bowels bursting. In desperation, I settled on a modest cafe about a block away. I entered and maide a beeline for the WC, but the eagle-eyed proprietess followed me, calling out "Vous consommez, monsieur? Vous consommez?!" "Oui, je vais consommer," I answered frantically, and entered the ... filthy Turkish-style toilet. To make short story even shorter, I made a major cultural accommodation to the situation, and, immeasurably relieved returned to the cafe to enjoy an improvised breakfast of croissant and hot chocolate.
It took about 2 hours for the consulate to open. Sign of the times: the American consulate was on the third floor of an old French apartment building that one accessed by one of those old-fashioned cage elevators. Getting the letter notarized took just a few minutes, and I was off to tour old Lyon. After several hours of walking, the highlight of which was the impressive Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourviere, an impressive edifice which overlooks the city, I caught the train for Grenoble.Grenoble was about 2-1/2 hours away, and I arrived in mid-afternoon and set out for the University from the gare. Since arriving in France, I had become very comfortable with my ability to get anywhere by foot of public conveyance without asking directions. Somehow, by looking at a fairly basic map of Grenoble, I had convinced myself that the university was only a few blocks from the train station. Carrying my bulky, overloaded leather bag, I set out. An hour and 5 kilometers later, I arrived at the campus of the Faculte de Lettres of the University of Grenoble, which is now referred to as Universite Stendahl. Now exhausted from lugging the constantly-shifting load of my bulky travel bag, I must have seemed a pitiful sight as I trudged through the gates of the university, looking for the student union, whence I could try to find my Fordham comrades. Amazingly, however, when I arrived at the student union, I immediately saw Richard Martin, who led me to the whole crew, (Martin, Lance Compa, Peggy O'Kane, et.al.) who were lounging around in the student cafeteria. I felt as if I had arrived to student traveller Valhalla. Travelling solo had its charms but searching for a clean bathroom and trudging halfway across Grenoble had dissipated those, and I was so relieved to be among friends again.
I had arrived in Grenoble shortly before the whole crew was planning to return to Paris, so I had relative little time to enjoy the pleasant ambiance at the Faculte des Lettres, which enjoyed views of snow-capped mountains in the distance. We were soon headed back to Paris, where I stayed for a couple of days before returning to Strasbourg, this time for good.
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