writer's moll

You can always rely on the French to provide a bit of theatre when dealing with life’s little difficulties, and however corny the plot, the acting’s always great.

So when we’re bundled off our Italy-bound train at the French border town of Menton because of a strike by Italian train drivers, we find ourselves reluctant bit players in a one act drama.

We’re told that if we catch a bus to the end of town and do a fifteen minute walk across the border, there might be a bus to Ventimiglia, from where we might find a train to Milan when the strike ends mid-afternoon.

In England, a bus is full when the driver says it is: in France, in true revolutionary style, the passengers decide. My loved one and I exchange looks of disbelief as the driver continues to accept fares from anyone who can get a toehold on the platform and an arm far enough in to hand over their money.

Finally, when no amount of jostling will admit another passenger or permit the doors to close either, a stillness descends upon the bus and an expression of calm acceptance on the faces around me suggests that they expect the problem to be solved by divine intervention.

The minutes tick by in silence. It’s obvious something has to give, but what or who isn’t clear, until suddenly the driver, who’s looking through his window as though he’s not part of any of this, has an idea. But it’s not a great one - he just urges us all to move further down the bus.

This ought to mean that those already on the platform can move in far enough to allow the doors to close, but unfortunately, it’s a signal for those not lucky enough to have made it the first time, to launch a fresh attempt on the platform, and for a few resourceful others to try their luck through the back doors.

It’s at this point that all patience and passivity evaporate. Someone’s gone too far and it’s the driver, who, in attempting to close the doors, has apparently hurt someone, and now finds himself on the receiving end of the passengers' abuse. The poor man shouts back in his defence that it wasn’t his fault, but ours.

Now that everyone seems agreed that action is what’s needed, a man, who’s just squeezed aboard by the skin of his teeth, puts on his Napoleon hat and berates someone attempting to get on after him. A murmur of approval from inside the bus and a small chorus of abuse persuades the man to abandon his attempt.

Flushed with success and still deploring the foolishness of the ousted passenger, Napoleon heaves the passengers on the platform a few inches further in, instructs the driver to close the doors and we’re off.

We did get to Milan eventually, but there wasn’t a bus on the Italian side of the border - the bus drivers had joined the strike - so it was a 5 kilometre hike to the nearest town before we could pick up a taxi to Ventimiglia. Apart from that, it was a great weekend.