Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Kindness One and the magic of yellow!). “C'est très magnifique,” she kept repeating as I
took some of her children on a spin in Kindness One before she offered me a tank of gas.
As I drove through the French countryside, I couldn't help but feel that I had just snuck
across enemy lines. The English and the French aren't exactly BFF's (sorry about Waterloo,
old chaps!). I hoped that where my British accent might fail me, Kindness One's yellow-y
charm might help.
I drove into the small provincial French town, Aix-en-Provence, just north of the
French-Spanish border, and about two hours west of the notorious wealth of the French
Riviera. And that's where things started to go, well, topsy-turvy again. I had been on Kind-
ness One for over eight hours; my arms were numb; my legs sore; and let's not even talk
about my “derrière.” I hadn't found a meal all day and was beginning to worry that I was
hallucinating—in general not a very safe way to ride a 1978 motorbike with serious mental
issues. When I finally found a place to park my bike, I didn't even care that it was in an
illegal spot.
I started walking through the local farmers' market to see if there were any crumbs of
kindness to be had. There weren't. In fact, I was facing rejection left and right. Finally, I
saw an Internet café. I was able to get the café to give me a few minutes on the Internet,
but oddly enough, not even a croissant to eat. I sat down and decided to email Lina to let
her know I had arrived in the old world. I thought maybe she would even be online, but I
could see by her status that she wasn't.
My fingers hovered above the keys. I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.
Was it fair that every time I doubted this trip I called the one person who hadn't wanted me
to go? I closed the laptop and left the café with time still on my card. I walked out into the
square again, wondering if maybe I had overestimated the world's ability to care. Maybe
I would have been better off just staying at home and not even bothering with this whole
connecting-with-humanity business in the first place.
As I settled into my “woe is me” crescendo of self-pity, I couldn't help but hear far more
upbeat music playing at a restaurant nearby. I moved to see two African men playing a wide
array of instruments. They seemed to be filled with all the energy that I was now shame-
fully lacking.
The moment I saw them, however, all my worries deserted me. Their music floated
above the café tables and across the courtyard where they played. But it wasn't just two
men who knew how to play instruments. These men were playing with all their hearts.
People were smiling in the square; a little girl was dancing to the music. The music didn't
