Jul 26, 2009 | Written by Patricia Murphy

Day 8 Trish’s Bad Day

Trish’s bad day. It started early, with me feeling very sad. I have been having days like this since my mom died—simply weeping. On this vacation everywhere I look there are families, and I keep hearing the words mommy, and daughter, and it makes me feel overwhelmed with the idea of my own mother being gone. I’m sure it’s hard for anyone. People have said everything there is to say—all the right things. But my mom’s death brought up some long-buried sorrow, and it won’t go away soon. So I was a little weepy already over breakfast, and John was his usual wonderful self trying to calm my nerves. We had 500 km to drive from Beynac to Marseille, and I was not looking forward to it. Plus we had such a lovely time with the Hinckleys that it was really hard to leave.

So we set off with the GPS and promptly got ourselves a little lost. Nothing Samantha said matched the signs in front of us. We were trying to get to Rocamador, which John wanted to see instead of taking the main freeway. Samantha kept insisting we go one way, but the signs suggested something else. So after about a 10 km detour, we were back on track and did find the hilly, swervy country roads that led us to the unique town of Rocamador. It was a truly beautiful town nestled into a canyon.

Rocamador

We continued driving, about 4 more hours. It makes me a little punchy driving that long. So we stopped in Arles to stretch our legs and we saw a beautiful Roman coliseum that I visited 20 years ago when I passed through town when I spent a summer session at Universite de Paul Valery.

Coliseum in Arles

Finally we approached Marseille, after such a long and tiring drive. We got to the place I had rented, and it was more rustic than had been promised. Immediately I wanted to leave, but John suggested we try to stick it out since we would not be there long. We went into Marseille’s Vieux Port and toured around and ate some dinner. We noted that the area seemed less posh than some we had been in. On the drive home, just after dark, we passed through a beautiful intersection with four ornate and stately buildings forming a square. I wanted to take a picture, but John admonished that I should not open my car windows. It was indicative of how we felt in Marseille.

Then, next thing we knew, we were at the next stop light and my car door flew open. I did not understand what was happening until I heard John screaming “Ah! Ah! Ah!” Suddenly, in my lap was the helmet of a motorbiker who had seen our Spain license plates and decided he wanted my GPS and purse. John and I had thought all along that the car had auto locks—I swear they had locked by themselves before, though now I know they had not.

So when my car door opened, there in my lap was the helmet of a motorbiker who had his grimy paws on my body and on my purse, which was lodged in between the seat and center console. John continued to scream while he also did a masterful job of clenching the motorbiker’s helmet. John held the motorbiker while I proceed to beat him with my fists and kick him with my knees, both me and John screaming at the tops of our lungs. There were plenty of people all over the street and no one budged. Finally the biker broke free, but then he tried coming in the back door. The light changed, and we were able to drive away.

We have traveled all over the world and nothing like this has ever happened to us. I guess it’s a good lesson, and we are moving on now. We are leaving Marseille for a smaller town.




1 Comment

  1. OMG! I’m just catching up on your blog now . . . I am so sorry that happened! Marseille has always been a scary place for me, just a gut feeling. I trust the rest of France was safer and happier? I’ll keep reading to find out!

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