The first stop on our Scenic Tour before we boarded our river boat was Dijon. We caught the TGV (fast) train from Paris and arrived in Dijon in record time.
We were privileged to have been sitting near (about 3 rows away) from a lady we have dubbed Noelene, because she looked and sounded like the the lady from Sylvania Waters - A "fly-on-the-wall" documentary series following the life of an Australian family living in the affluent Sydney suburb of Sylvania Waters - Remember that?
Now, Noelene was LOUD! We learned that Noelene, and presumably her husband who she talked over had been to every country, city, town, river, place and attraction that you can think of. She was talking at a couple who were lucky enough to sit across the table from them and every now and then they would interject with somewhere that they had been and Noelene would jump right in there, "Yeah, yeah, we've been there.... " and carry on with what they did there, not one bit interested in the other lady's experience at all!
The listenee's husband was spotted sighing and gazing out the window as Noelene went on and on and on and on.
She. Did. Not. Stop. Talking. About. Herself. The. Whole. Way. To. Dijon. (Unless she was sniffing and wiping her whole palm up her nose!!)
BORING!
Everyone else on the train was having quiet conversations with those near or around them, but all you could here was Noelene, so you were forced to listen to her.
For a full hour, Noelene bored everyone (as I'm about to do to you, although you have a choice to not read) with stories about her son, Gavin. Gavin lives with his girlfriend who doesn't cook because she comes from a family where the dad cooks (which Noelene couldn't understand) and so Gavin does all the cooking and Gavin even does the shopping (God forbid!) and the girlfriend is vegetarian and Gavin, well Gavin likes his meat! I mean, he loves to eat, our Gavin does. Gavin also loves fresh produce...... (Just wondering what it is about Gavin that makes his love of meat and fresh produce so special and different?) There was another son, Jason, but he didn't get mentioned much. Gavin was clearly the favourite!
The husband, who was not quite as loud, was a big man who wheezed.
When we first got on the train that group of four - the talkers and the listeners refused to put their bags on the luggage rack, which was right near their seats for fear of pick-pockets who brazenly walk through the train and pick up bags and just keep on walking. So just as the train was leaving, Wheezy got up and started rearranging all the bags on the rack (which was right behind us) so his luggage would fit. I watched as my bag - complete with my beloved laptop in it got thrown on the top and then he banged down on it to squash all the bags down.
I said "oh, that has breakables in it." To which he wheezed, "Well, it's on top!"
Bastard!
He then sat down and bignoted that if anyone tried to take his bag they wouldn't make it to the exit.... not sure what wheezy boy was going to do once he struggled out of the tight confines of his seat!?
Then...... We arrived in Dijon - home of the mustard.
I had been to Dijon once before but only remembered walking around the old town, rubbing an owl for good luck and a terrible up of coffee. So we set off to explore.
On the ground all over the centre of the city are these little arrows with an owl on it. They mark La Pacours de la Chouette - The Trail of the Owl. It is a winding route that takes you all over the city centre and past the little owl that sits on a corner of the Notre Dame Cathedral (the Dijon one). Apparently if you rub it with your left hand, it brings you good luck.
Now, we didn't know exactly where the owl was. I remembered it being in the old quarter on a wall, but there were similar streets and buildings and walls all over the city. We started our tour near the Notre Dame and followed it all the way around for about an hour and a half...
...until we arrived at a pharmacy where Jenny needed to purchase some more blister pads. Whilst in there I used my best broken French to ask her where the hell this bloody owl was. There was a lot of single French words, plus lot of miming (I remember some wing flapping) and she finally understood that we didn't want to walk anymore and that we just wanted to see the owl.
It turns out that we had past the owl about 5 minutes after starting the tour, but there is nothing to let you know you are there! We found it easily with the help and directions of the pharmacy woman. The owl got rubbed and now we're just waiting patiently for all the luck to come our way.
If we're allowed to choose our luck..... could we not be sat next to Noelene for the remainder of the trip please. Merci chouette!
Priceless!!
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