MARCH 30, 2022 – (Cont.) We departed Montpellier around 10:00 in the evening with the idea we’d drive through the night and arrive at our destination in time for Michel to get to work the next morning. He didn’t speak any English, and though my French had improved quite substantially over the previous couple of weeks, it was still quite elementary. Nonetheless, we were able to converse at that level for much of the ride.
By daybreak, however, both of us were fatigued to the point of extreme drowsiness. I’d snooze—until a sudden swerve of the vehicle woke me. I then saw that Michel was . . . all but snoozing. I’d shout in the fashion one does when trying to cure someone of the hiccups. This would shock his eyes open—for about three minutes—after which his eyelids drooped and chin dropped, and I’d have to yell again to keep him awake. This cycle continued until I was barely able to stay awake.
Happily, we reached Argèles-Gazost without going off the road—and worse. Michel stopped at a café to get us coffee and pastries before we continued to his apartment. I was left to catch up on sleep, while he departed for work.
When I awoke, several hours later, I was not feeling well. By that evening, I was feeling quite sick with the flu and wallowed in that condition for the next two days. It was the low point of my entire travels. But in the words of Menander, “Time cures all wounds,” and I willed this medicinal axiom—along with cornflakes and fresh yoghurt—against my ailment.
On the third day, feeling much better, I hit the hiking trails. In no time I reached magnificent views of the rugged hautes pyrénées. In an area that at the time—1981—was unspoiled by generations of eager tourists or other signs of civilization, I felt like a trail blazer. For hours I hiked toward sharp peaks of exposed granite and bright snowfields reflecting the summer sun. No other gawkers appeared around this remarkable scenery; I had the whole gallery of mountains all to myself.
Smitten by the views and rarefied air, I repeated the trek the next day—but to my detriment. If my GI track had recovered, I was now plagued with cold symptoms. I found myself sliding back into despair. The fix, I decided was . . . Spain, Portugal and lots of warm sunshine. I bade farewell to Michel and caught a train to San Sebastian in the Basque region of Spain.
Basque separatists were an active threat at that time, and the border between France and Spain was manned by serious-looking guards toting automatic weapons. I kept my fingers crossed. It worked. Without incident (apart from a thorough search of my pack)—and without so much as a passport stamp—I exited France and entered Spain. The hotter, drier Iberian air worked wonders on my cold. By the time our train from San Sebastian reached Madrid, I was feeling much better.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
