Pre-history circa 1970 something.
Well, it has been a few days again since my last post. It seems to be the way of things these days and I can’t see it changing in the foreseeable future. The never ending quest for internet connectivity is a hurdle we can’t seem to jump, and our busy schedule as tour guide keeps me away from mon ordinatuer portable. That being said, there seems to be a pause in activity this evening, so I am going to seize the moment and write a few words. In the past several days we have spent a fair bit of time out and about in a quest to further our understanding of the region. The weather has finally given us a break and we were allowed to stretch our wings a bit and hit the open road. A couple of hours up the road was purported to be a cave that contained within its ancient walls a profound example of prehistoric art. Being a lover of all things artistic, I was keen to see what the cavemen had come up with. Our destination proved to be a challenge from the start. Being a fair distance away and having one too many passengers for the Renault started the day with a logistics nightmare. A problem that we would solve in a somewhat unconventional manner. The cost of driving two cars to get just one more passenger to the destination seemed tough to palate, so we went another direction. We loaded grandma, wife and youngest in the available upright seating and essentially crammed the two 9 year olds in the trunk. I couldn’t help but marvel at the Mafioso resolution to our problem, but we were soon off and running. The small village outside this tourist hotspot was rather quaint and in full fete during our visit. It seemed to be a music festival celebrating musical styles from around the world. We breezed through town and soon arrived at the monument only to find that tickets would have to be purchased at the tourist bureau back in the small town we had just left. It was roughly lunch time upon our return and the wife endured a 20 to 30 minute wait to purchase tickets. By the time she arrived at the ticket counter, the next available tour would not be until 6 pm that evening. Now that we had some time to kill we sifted through the available literature at the bureau and found a suitable time waster just a few miles up the road. We decided the best option was a tour of a local Chateau that would allow the kids some much deserved time to stretch their cramped legs. Traveling by Renault trunk is efficient, but perhaps not the most comfortable ride in town. The Chateau was impressive, all the way down to its now dry moat. I think the kids enjoyed the history of the place and its castle like feel was enough to keep their attention for the duration of the tour. We timed this visit to perfection and even had enough time to wedge in a picnic lunch somewhere in between. With a fairly enjoyable tour in our rearview and well behaved children holding their own, we refocused our attention on our intended destination for the day. To say it was disappointing would be an understatement. We arrived half an hour prior to the tour which allowed just enough time for the youngest to opt for a roadie in the public toilette. Mom took him to the restroom no less than three times without result. Unfortunately this was going to take Dad’s seasoned hands. We returned to the outhouse and knowing the key to success the youngest soon returned to the group to proudly report that he had taken a poop as big as his father. He has taken to referring to me as his “Father” rather than Dad or my preferred “Daddy”. Damn they grow up fast. The wife asked why I was successful where she had failed. The answer? Privacy. I know my boy. He needs to handle his business in private, and Mom staring down on him in such cramped and smelly quarters was not going to let the good times roll. I parked him on the thrown and exited the stall to assume my post outside the toilette door. He was of course insistent on this as in his words, he didn’t want anyone coming in and pooping or peeing on him. I stood guard like a proud red coated sentry at Buckingham Palace. There isn’t a marauder on earth that was going to disturb my little prince during his royal duty . . . or doodie as the case happened to be.
With clear bowls and good intentions, we could now proceed with our tour. Unfortunately, the roadie proved to be the highlight of my trip to the cave. We soon found out that the actual cave had long since been closed to the public. Somewhere in the 60s or 70s, they had sealed the cave as it was discovered that the intense flow of sweaty tourists was beginning to have a deleterious effect on the paintings. I certainly appreciated the desire to preserve the history, but it was a bit of a letdown nonetheless. The faithfully made recreation of the cave was perfect in every detail but somehow lacked that old world feel. In addition to the lack luster Disney World presentation, I felt as though the English speaking guide could have brushed up a bit on the actual history of the site and their “English”. Something about describing events in terms of “long times ago” (and no that isn’t a typo) leaves for quite a bit of interpretation. “The paintings was made long times ago” seemed to be the stock response to most of the inquiries (again, not a typo). I would imagine the original cave to be a fairly mystical place that would have certainly been a sight to behold for those first few lads who discovered it when their dog fell into a sink hole. As for me, I would have rather wiped my son’s ass a little closer to home and save a few bucks.
Given my second round of complete disappointment coming from lands to the north, I was pleased at the decision to spend the following day at home. We would expose our guests to the local Market and had a magnificent morning, basking in the glowing sun and warm hospitality of the local vendors. With some fresh produce in hand and a lovely textile purchase or two, we were soon back home for a quiet afternoon to recharge our batteries. They wife had a bit of actual work to do, so we stayed at the house for the afternoon tending to administrative and intellectual matters that had been set aside since our visitors had arrived. This, finally, brings us to today. We would travel just a stone’s throw from home to visit one of the region’s favorite tourist destinations. This “must see” burg, famous in the region for its wine trade, would be today’s focus. While I have been to this place on several occasions, I was particularly excited on this day, as this would be the first time my eldest boy would see what in his mind is the closest thing to Assassin’s Creed he has ever witnessed. He was particularly taken with the tour we took of the monolithic church located beneath the bell tower. This amazing spectacle came complete with a Templar’s tomb and visible human remains. I could see the history break over his face like a tidal wave. Nothing like taking a piece of pop culture and showing a child that there is a historical significance to something that they can relate to on their own terms. I myself found the tour to be a descent into hell. I love the history of the place and the tour, even though short, is worth a look. On this day however, the tour would take a turn for the worse. The unyielding stench of one of the tourists in our group was enough to make a grown man cry. Since I have been here, I have witnessed all manner of bodily odor, but this was a cut above the rest. I was certain that I would have to vomit before the tour was over, but I was somehow able to swallow the chunks down each time I encountered the wafting cloud of hellish fragrance. Already irritable from the fact that humans are filthy ass pigs and that half of them should be scrubbed with bleach and then doused with a fire hose I was in no mood for piss poor parenting. This is not the type of destination that one usually takes a child and the one’s on my crew knew damned well that any step out of line at this event would meet with swift and righteous punishment. The older boys would not be a problem and I could tell my 3 year old was doing his dead level best to hold it together. He soon found himself distracted however, by a very ill behaved British kid that was running amok without the slightest correction from his stank ass mother. She smelled almost as foul as the old man who had been turning my stomach for most of the tour, and you could have braided the hair she was growing in her armpits. The pig of a woman just let her disgusting little offspring run around destroying damned near everything he touched. He soon turned his attention to my youngest and began to try and antagonize the rest of the well behave children on this tour. You couldn’t even hear the tour guide for all of his constant f_ _ _ing jabbering and shuffling about. As is my way, I lost it and created a scene that broke what silence was left in the tour. The little bastard hung around my youngest about a second too long and I opened fire. My voice boomed above the tour guide and sent the little pimple scampering toward his mother whom until now he had been completely ignoring. He decided to test my resolve and made the mistake of looking at me after I yelled at him. The hatred in my eyes soon burned through his soul and he burst into tears.
1 comments:
It's those damn limeys. I recall similarly bad British behavior at the same location, though it was exclusively of the adult variety.
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