Napoléon Had Elba
History can relate many stories of being exiled for heinous acts, mostly heinous only through the eyes of those in power. Dante Alighieri could never return to Florence, Italy because of perceived political wrongs in the struggle between the Guelphs and Ghibellines. Famous French writer Voltaire was twice sent to the Bastille for attacking the monarchy. And probably the most famous of all banishments was Napolean to Elba.
Though there have been others in real situations, plots in works of fiction have used the concept of exile in order enhance the plot. One that comes to my mind is Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Romeo slays Tybalt and he is banished to Mantua. To save the secret marriage of the two teenagers and his reputation, the good friar offers a potion that will make Juliet seem dead for a day. In that time he can get a message to Romeo outlining the plot and Romeo can return in time to rescue her from the tomb. Of course the priest’s timing is flawed and the conclusion is tragic. Another great novel based on exile turned into a good movie was The Count of Monte Christo by Alexandre Dumas.
I began serving my exile from familiar surroundings a week ago, but unlike Napolean, I chose my venue and I chose well. Marseillan is a village of about 10000 inhabitants on the Etang de Thou. My arrival hopefully was not indicative of what the next seven months would be, but I have already figured out how to avoid a repeat. I must tell of my “rookie” mistakes on my maiden voyage. I booked the TGV from Barcelona, where I spent my prelude to exile in Reus, to Montpellier. Look at a map; it’s definitely the closest stop to Marseillan. I could have saved fifty euros by booking to Narbonne which I did successfully this weekend.
The second error was not recognizing that the Gare was in Marseillan Plage, the beach area on the Mediterranean which is six kilometers from the Centre Ville where my house is located. The Gare at the Plage consists of a platform with a boarded up building on a dirt road surrounded by swamp growth. No bus stop is within that six km radius nor were there taxis lined up to take me or a family of four to the town itself. They knew and had kiddie bikes for their six block walk. “Just follow the bike path, it’ll take you to the harbor.” Very helpful walkers and bikers looked amused and I trudged onward. The joy of seeing my favorite bartender (yes, it seems the first friend I make in every town is always the bartender-Michel at the Palace) and seeing my cold beer in his hand on the way to my table among the locals cannot be adequately described. My trip this weekend avoided all the pitfalls. One euro bus 650 to Adge, the local train to Perpignan and the TGV to Barcelona takes only about five hours.
I have adjusted to the house well because it’s a great house only three blocks from the center of the village. The problem is that it’s in the ancient section of winding streets to nowhere; again I have bested the foe and no longer back track. The village is cool but without the tourists I hear little English. It’s a blessing in disguise as my French needs fine tuning. I have located most of the essentials. The Spar is larger and well organized. The butcher is near the Spar but Richard and Myriam are not there. The boulangerie is also handy but again Marciel and Jocelyn are not there. There are two pharmacies on the square but the smiling beauty is not there and the papier is nearby. There are two small shops with fruit and vegetables displayed out front and a tabac. Numerous bars and restaurants dot the village, but the Marseillan Glacier is a restaurant with great seafood and no face snarling as I pass.
The harbor is great. It’s small but the boats are not. Restaurants surround the water and ice cream shops abound, but I have yet to find a typical tourist shop selling memories of the week in Marseillan, T-shirts, banners and coffee cups with I love Marseillan emblazoned. I had a wonderful shellfish platter the other night for only fifteen euros. Compared to Spain it’s expensive. Compared to Paris it’s cheap.
After a month in Reus, Spain the pace of life has nearly stopped. Once you exit the A9 at Bessan and catch D28, life slows down…you have to in order to arrive safely. Napolean’s troops must have marched single file. The trees are planted so close together that meeting another car is a game of chicken where each driver must pull off the paved road to allow for passage. However, once safely in Marseillan, no horns honk, no brakes screech and no hand gestures are repeated at every roundabout. Citizens often greet you with bonjour but it’s not a requisite. Right now I’m a little lonely, but I’m certain that will change. At least I’m not tortured or imprisoned like Poe’s character in the Pit and the Pendulum. And I think the pendulum is beginning to swing my way.