Angel Sighting in France

A couple years ago during our first house exchange to the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France, we realized (albeit latently) that we were visiting during the hottest month in the hottest region during the hottest period of time in recorded history. The area is often called “the cauldron” to give you a feel for what I’m talking about. I’m clarifying that this was our first house exchange in the hopes you will take pity on us when I tell you this story. I’m not saying it was like we were pounding rocks in the Sahara Desert, but; considering the children’s complaint level, it was as if that were exactly the case.

My Yankee Problem Solving New England parents came the last week we were there and after seeing one day of the heat and the French ‘air conditioning’, they decided a nice long American road trip to the Alps was in order. I think we all had grand ideas of running in the cool breeze like Maria and the children did in ‘The Sound of Music’. Anyway, the general idea was that we would drive until it got cooler, then pull over and get a hotel for a couple nights. No problem, right?

Au Contraire.

Part of the problem is that even in a rental car you have to shut off the air conditioner to get the car up the hill, so it took us longer than expected to get to there. The other problem was that every other family with a car and two brain cells was doing the exact same thing. So, when we got to the most famous mountain region in the world, there was no hotel to be had. Sad to say I was surprised. Further up we were told about an annual music festival in July that sells out a year in advance. I was starting to get really nervous but, with a ‘stiff upper lip’ we carried on.

The man in the tourist booth at the next town was extraordinarily kind as he gently suggested we turn around and start back. He even took our cell number and said he’d check with hotels or off the road B&Bs in that direction (a huge thanks for the effort but we couldn’t get cell reception until we were 20 minutes from home). Exhausted and depleted, we ran around the center, listened to some bands warm up, got some dinner and climbed back in the car. Surely we would get a hotel along the way following our guidebook’s directions….

I’m sure you’re going to ask why I didn’t look this up on my wireless Internet and figure it out in advance. Let me jus say that now there are probably Internet café’s left and right of every little bistro in town but back ‘then’ (just five years ago) that wasn’t the case. We did have a laptop with us but couldn’t find a connection to hook up. Yes, the guidebooks were helpful in warning it was a ‘busy’ time of year, but we unfortunately didn’t give it a second thought because July is a busy vacation time everywhere (well, maybe not everywhere – but you get the idea). Our fault entirely, but I’m still complaining.

Of course there was no room at any Inn on the way back. Every mile we ticked back I mentally slapped myself in the face for my stupidity in leading our little group astray. Why didn’t I go to the cell phone store and get a better phone before I left? Why didn’t I go to a sister hotel in our town make a reservation? Why didn’t I heed the guidebook’s warning?! The kids nodded off along with my Mom. Dad tried to keep me awake talking about things like structural damage to bridges and cement fortifications of tunnels.

Around midnight we pulled over for gas and to our horror realized the station had switched over to credit cards only: French Gas Credit Cards to be exact. At that point, the lighting switched from ‘weak’ to ‘weaker’ (or what would qualify officially in America as ‘off). A small group of skinheads waiting for a bus decided they wanted to talk to us in slobbering German. There was no one else about for miles. We hopped back in the car and locked the doors.

Now I am not lying, exaggerating or recapping a made for TV movie about what happened next: a gorgeous man drove off the empty highway and guided his motorcycle over to the window of our car. He took off his helmet, his brown locks flowing in the night air (really, I’m not kidding) and asked us in French, then Italian, then English if he could be of assistance.

After our summary, he hopped off the bike and chased off the skinheads with a wood stick he had on his bicycle key chain. Then, he filled up the tank with his Official French Gas Credit Card and only took half of the money my Dad handed him (we stuck the rest in his side pack on his bike when he wasn’t looking). Then our hero dialed a ‘friend’ at a hotel in town a few miles away and ‘voila’ all was corrected.

My Dad and I stood there, mouths agape. The kids blessedly snored throughout the event. As our guy handed us a hand written map to the hotel that had our reservation, I finally found my voice and asked, ’What is your name? How can we possibly thank you?’

He slipped on his helmet and started revving the engine ‘It was nothing’ he said in typical low key French, lifting one shoulder. As he drove off he yelled back over the engine,"My name is Gabrielle."

"Was he an angel?" my younger one asked sleepily.

"Maybe," I replied. You see, that’s the thing about traveling with small children. You never know when you're going to get personalized assistance from hot French man-angels!

Magnifique!