Turns out, I’m a Touron

As I set off on my journey, alone, from Antibes to Saint Maximin la Sainte Baume for my Mary Magdalene mini-pilgrimage, all my lofty musings (Traveler, Tourist, Pilgrim) splatted on me like so much sea gull poop.  Turns out, I’m a Touron.

When my parents lived in St. Simons Island, GA, residents had a term for the tourists who flooded the island during high season—driving slowly, getting lost, and generally clogging up the place in their oblivion. “Touron,” a portmanteau of “Tourist” and “Moron,” was that term.

My English-speaking tour guide, Veronique, had given very clear directions for when and how to meet her at 10:30 a.m., directions to exit the motorway and meet her in a car park where I could leave my rental car. I planned to use my cell phone just for this day, knowing I had an unlimited plan and could roam for a maximum of $10/day (I’d kept it in airplane mode since we landed to save on charges). My rental car was reserved. My plan was set. I prepared a small day pack with sunscreen, hat, sunglasses, phone cable and battery to recharge, and a small journal to capture meaningful moments. I also had a small bottle of Tito’s vodka and some Austin swag to give Veronique as a gift.

My actual path to meet Veronique in the car park is too long and twisted for narrative. I will switch to bullet points:

• Taxi dropped me at Antibes train station, same street as the Hertz office. Driver said rental cars were inside, but all I found was an Avis/Budget office. I checked my phone and saw “no service.” 
• In the station’s lone bodega/shop I smiled at the attendant and used what would become my mantra for the day, “Est-ce que vous comprenez l’anglais?” 
• “Non, Madame, je ne parle pas.” But he kindly took me by the arm and pointed to some train station employees. 
• I repeated my “mantra,” and one said, “Oui.” With my phone, I showed him the email with the address  for the Hertz place. “Don’t you have GPS?” he asked and pointed me down the street. 
• I walked down the street and did not find it. I passed a travel agency for seniors and went in. “Est-ce que vous comprenez l’anglais?” 
• I followed directions from the travel agency, but no luck. I walked back to the Avis booth at the train station and talked to an English-speaking customer who shared his GPS and pointed me down the street.
• I found address 31 but it was an “enfant” care place, no Hertz sign in sight. I took photos to document that my confirmation email had the incorrect address and walked three blocks back to the train station Avis booth to just rent a car, no matter how much it cost. I had to wait for the same guy who had helped me before. When he was finished, I asked the agent if she had a car I could rent, told her I had a reservation but couldn’t find Hertz. She said, “It’s just past the park. You can see it from here!” She looked at me, well, like I was a Touron.
• I walked down the other side of street and, voila! “Hertz” like a sign from the heavens, was illuminated in front of me! 
• After waiting for the Hertz customer in front of me, I got my car. By this time it’s 10 a.m. I have a 1.5 hour drive and was supposed to meet Veronique at 10:30. At my request, the agent called Veronique for me (after I’d written wrong number down and got the wrong person first) she left the message that I was running late.
• I headed to the garage to get the car. But couldn’t find it. I should mention that these are not square grid streets—there are angles and splits and it’s impossible to tell which road you are actually on. Plus, I couldn’t remember the name of street or name of the garage. I walked two blocks back to Hertz where the agent wrote down the street and garage names. I wandered more and finally found the garage but couldn’t find a door, so I walked down the ramp for cars. At level -2, I saw some guys washing cars and after repeating my “vous comprenez l’anglais” mantra, asked how to get to -4. They pointed me to the stairs, down which I FOUND MY CAR! 
• Relieved, I got in only to realize that to save money I’d reserved a stick shift. But fine, most of my own cars had been stick shifts. 
• At last I am starting my pilgrimage. Still no GPS. Not sure where I’m going, I remember my taxi driver saying I would head toward Cannes. I tried that, but quickly realized I needed more specific directions.
• I stopped at the first petrol station I saw to get map. The attendant didn’t comprenez l’anglais. But a customer did and told me how to avoid traffic in Cannes: “Don’t go through Cannes. Go back this way to second roundabout, then up the hill, up, up, up. Then follow signs to Cannes. You’ll come back this way, but less traffic. Just remember stay on A8.
• Finally on the motorway, (A8!) I pass sortie/exit 39 where I see “Saint Maximin” on the exit sign and think, “Oh, I’m making up time; Veronique is just at sortie 34.” 
• After driving more than an hour, past St. Tropez, seeing signs that Aix-en-Provence and Marseille are getting very close, I begin to wonder that I missed the exit. Should I turn around? The Wait Maximin exit was a long way back. Should I stop to call? (my cell service had miraculously returned). I thought I would stop at sortie 35, but then I miss that exit. 
• Meanwhile, I had decided that by because I was so late, I would shorten the tour. I just want to walk through the ancient forest and see the grotto. We can skip the Basilica in town. I will suggest this to Veronique.
• Just as the decision was made for me to keep going to sortie 34, my phone rings. It is a friend of Veronique calling, “What happened?! “ she demanded. “Veronique and your friend are very worried that you had an accident.” I look at the clock. It’s 12:15 p.m. 
• When I pull into the car park—just off the exit as she had said, I see Veronique waving to me from her car. She points me where to park and comes running to my door. She says I must call Stephanie because she is very worried. 
• I call and while Stephanie was concerned that I was safe, the second thing she points out is that I had not reset my phone properly and was not, in fact, roaming on my $10/day plan, but paying premium prices for my cell service. 
• Then Veronique explains that while I was driving, she got a message from the forestry service… the winds are very high today and the forest is closed, shutting off our only path to the grotto of Mary Magdalene. The universe had decided which part of the tour I would do.

Thanks to Veronique’s experience with the locals, we were able to visit the entrance to the forest.

We visited the Dominican monastery at the foot of the Sainte Baume mountain and saw beautiful paitings of the life of Mary Magdalene. Driving to the Basilica in Saint Maximin, we stopped at the marker of the site of where St. Maxime allegedly administered last rites to Mary Magdalene as she died. We then spent the rest of the time in the Basilica where Veronique explained more history than I could possibly absorb. We went into the crypt containing Mary Magdalene’s sarcophagus and her skull. More on all this in a future post.

Veronique, now Roni to me since we became friends, is a certified tour guide in France and recently earned her certification in aromatherapy. She creates oils from the plants of Provence, a beautify legacy of Mary Magdalene who is known for oils and anointing. I purchased a small bottle from her–she had it leftover from a retreat she had done the week before and was reluctant to sell it to me. She didn’t want to commercialize the tour in that way, but I insisted.

Before parting, I gave her the Tito’s vodka and Austin swag. “You can make a martini,” I said. She was amazed that we make vodka in Austin. “On ice?” she asked. “You mix it with juice?”

“Sure, you can mix it with pretty much anything.

“I will try it,” she said. “But I don’t drink vodka.”

“What do you drink?

“Whiskey.”

We hugged as we parted and said we would stay in touch. I still want to go to that grotto.

The drive back to Antibes was generally without incident—except for pulling into an incorrect toll booth lane then having to put on my flashers and back out onto the oncoming motorway traffic to change lanes. Just that. Returning the rental car was slightly easier than getting it. This included refueling the car:

• Employing my mantra for the petrol station attendant to help me understand that you fill up and then pay
• Figuring out which type of gas to use…by putting each nozzle in until one fit (Goldilocks!). 
• Because I couldn’t figure out how to lock the twist-on fuel cap, the kind attendant came out and did it for me, demonstrating, “C’est la.” 

I managed to find the garage and drop the car on the correct level, put the key into the Sixt drop box, and walk up three flights to street level—where the glass door to the street was locked. The final joke of the day. I took the stairs back down and walked out using the car ramp out of the garage. I walked the now famliliar five blocks back to the train station where I got a taxi to deliver me to meet Stephanie and the Lisas for dinner. And gin! Phew. They wanted to hear all about it. 

All I could say was, “Each of you would have had your own separate heart attack at various points on this journey.”

My intention, my hope, for this pilgrimage was guidance, to understand my purpose more deeply (or at all) and with more of myself than just my head. Fully committed, I plunged into the day open to whatever might happen only to realize I may be the Lucille Ball of pilgrimages, a hapless human doing the best I can and coming home with a story that at least entertained my dinner companions. (I’m still reflecting on the actual Mary Magdalene part.)