Escape from Castets (January 1969)

Paris by midnight was our goal. After an early start and shared nonstop driving, it seemed within reach. From the sandy beaches in the south through the snow-capped Pyrenees in the north we had driven ten hours and now, with Spain behind us, we had only seven to go.

The sun was beginning to set when the knocking began: a steady metallic thumping that got louder and louder until there was a terrible bang. The car lurched to a stop and an acrid smell began to seep in from behind—from exactly that place where one might find the engine of a Volkswagen Beetle, a yellow, 1968 Volkswagen Beetle such as the one we were driving.

Six months earlier I had taken a freighter to Europe with $125 dollars in my pocket and a headful of plans to work my way around until I had both the inclination and money to return home. After brief stints pulling fabric in a Dutch umbrella factory and making breakfast in an English youth hostel, I found myself dusting and oiling stringed instruments in a small music school in Paris. It was there that I met Jill, an American student on a year abroad. Her sister, living in southern Spain, was looking for help at a friend’s restaurant over the Christmas holiday.

Now here, on the side of the A63 motorway, on the first Saturday of the new year, we watched smoke drift from the open back and wondered how much rest we might get before school and work began on Monday morning. A passing good Samaritan stopped to help. He remembered that in a town only a few miles away there was a garage with two mechanics. And, since it was unlikely that the car could be fixed this same night, wasn’t it lucky, he said, that there was a nice hotel just down the street? We agreed and he called for a truck to come tow the car.

Castets, France was a small town with just one main street. It took no more than two minutes to discover that the nice hotel just down the street from the garage was actually directly across the street from the garage, and the nice hotel was actually Castet’s only hotel. We laughed when the sagging mattress immediately rolled us both into the middle. After all, what was one night of imperfect sleep? In the morning, we would eat, go to the garage and, soon enough, be on our way.

The hotel recommended the café next door for breakfast but when we arrived the door was locked. We peeked under the curtains and saw baguettes on the counter. A woman on the far side of the room, was tying an apron around her waist. We knocked and waited. When the door opened, we were startled to see how much the café owner looked like the hotel owner. A twin, perhaps? No, the café owner and the hotel owner were the same. How handy. And just twenty feet away, across the road, our car waited like an abandoned puppy outside the locked doors and dark windows of the garage. Was that hers too?

We were sitting on the car bumper when two thirty-something men approached, dressed in shirt and tie, hair combed, shoes shined. We guessed they were brothers on their way to church but they stopped and introduced themselves as the mechanics. With only a quick look at the ruptured engine, they announced that we had un grand problème. And since there were not the necessary parts on hand, they would have to place an order, which would take some time. Would we like to sit with them in the garage? No, we said we would like for them to order the parts. They shook their heads and looked at us with sad eyes. They could do no ordering today but promised to do it soon. Soon? Le lundi, one said with a tiny shrug. Petit matin, added the other. Jill and I looked at each other. If not early Monday morning, when were they thinking of doing it?

They asked again if we wanted to sit for a while in the garage. They even had chairs for us. We told them no, we needed to call Paris to explain our absence. And, just as much, we needed to explore the town in search of enough French village charm to offset our disappointment.

When the order of pistons and rods did not arrive by Monday afternoon, we returned to the hotel, consigned to a third night in a sagging bed. There was no delivery of new parts on Tuesday. Nor was there on Wednesday when, we were told, the delivery truck got lost. Our sagging bed, once a source of hilarity, stopped being funny and started being painful. On Thursday, or maybe Friday, we heard that the delivery driver had stolen the 2^nd order of parts and had disappeared. No one could find him.

The town, which had little charm to begin with, now had none. Jill and I spent the weekend, taking turns jaw-clenching in anger and head-holding in despair. It had been a week since we arrived in Castets. Our money was running low; we were sharing meals at the café. Even when emergency funds from her father arrived, they did not lift our sinking spirits. As often as we asked what was happening with our car, the mechanics would not give us a solid answer. All they would do was shrug, circle a hand in the air, smile and say, Bientot. Soon.

On Monday–day eight–we were sitting on the curb, losing hope, when the café and hotel owner stepped outside to speak with us. “You are not happy,” she said. She was right. We were not happy. She clasped her hands and tipped her head. “Quel dommage.”  Jill and I looked at each other, what did she mean, Too bad? Before we could catch our breath, she went on to say that when she first saw us she had great hope. She hoped that we would fall in love with the mechanics and marry them. You see, she told us, the town was very small. Trop petit pour avoir beaucoup de femmes. Too small to have many women.

So, Jill and I were supposed to marry the mechanics? We looked at each other and tried not to laugh. One of them, we learned, was her son; the other was her nephew. She asked if we didn’t think they looked handsome when they came to introduce themselves that first morning? Yes, we assured her, very handsome. She reminded us that they had worn their Sunday best. We reminded her that we were supposed to be at work and school, 600 km away.

More than a week had passed. We had spent our money in her hotel on a sagging single bed that smelled like old shoes. Day after day, we had eaten all our meals in her café. We told her we never chose to live in Castets, only to have our car repaired in Castets. There was no way that we would marry the mechanics. We needed to go home and we needed our car to get there.

The hotel and café owner dropped her head and gave us a pouty but final, quizzical look, to which we shook a definitive no. She paused, nodded her understanding and headed for the garage. Along with her delivery of our decision, there must have been a delivery of parts sometime in the past week. Within hours, we were back on the A63 motorway, heading to Paris.