Friday, April 1, 2011 (first week in Europe, 2011)
We arrived Paris, Charles de Gaulle, early Tuesday morning, and by the time we picked up our bags, it was already 8 o'clock. This is about the time I felt we could have been in the opening of a late night euro movie, not unlike many that feature on SBS. Once the last of our five bikes had arrived, and I had chased down the final elusive bag on the carousel, at first squeak of our trolley wheels as they turned towards the exit, from apparently nowhere, three customs agents appeared at our elbows, all brandishing impressive ID. Unsurprisingly , a weathered man, a young punk and a woman of age indeterminate, but inbetweenst the others. Mystified by their complete lack of trenchcoats, we allowed them to escort us, rather hamfistedly I thought, against the flow of the crowd, into a very public place for further investigation.
In our best school level French, we parried every question as best we could, all the while expecting a hefty import tax for each bike. But it was not their game. ‘Do you have over 5,000 euros in cash?' ‘yes'....Did they want to see it? No. Are these bikes worth about 3 or 4 thousand? Yes. Of course. (We're not importing ‘Huffy's). Did they want to see the purchase receipt? No. What's this, they asked, pointing to our newly purchased defibulator? We explained. More blank looks. ‘What's this camera for?' We make a TV show for community television in Australia. 'The name?' We answered. ‘Never heard of it...' (I wish I'd have said it was ‘Skippy'). And on it went.
Eventually we walked.
5 days later, I still cannot work out their game. So, ‘twas just like an SBS movie really, ‘cepting that I didn't shag the female agent, that evening, within spitting distance of the Eiffel Tower.
Later that week, (today actually), we had another meeting I was ill-prepared for. In the process of setting up a base in northern Italy, for our business dealings, we had a final meeting on a settlement, that had to be overseen by an adjudicator. A solicitor no less, albeit of course, an Italian one.
I must say, I have never seen anything like it.
After being shown into the long room of the said solicitor's office, we endured two or three levels of underlings preparing us for the entrance of what can only be known as the ‘Grand Poo-bah' (yes, I am quoting from the Flinstones here). Words were read, all parties nodded and agreed, more words were read, followed by more solemn nods. Finally the stage was set for the big entrance. It was impressive. No trumpets, but I swear I did hear a drum roll on His entry. I have seen Queens more shabbily dressed at Coronations, than the way this bloke was prepared. Eyebrows plucked, teeth polished, nails manicured and his suit shone. I swear, it looked like it was fresh from the electroplater's rather than the drycleaners. It was so bright, it was as good as chrome. He sache'd in, and with a limp wrist, passed off a few handshakes, cracked a piss-weak pun about discounts, signed a couple of documents, while all eyes were downcast, and was gone before you knew it. MBW and I looked at each other, no words were exchanged, there was no need, we'd seen it all before. ‘Tosser in a crap suit, with a matching degree'.
We spent the time, inbetween the above meetings, driving from Paris, west to Bretagne, south-east through the Alps, arriving yesterday in Lombardy, Italy. One of our planned lodgings, that we visited, has ‘Chateau Latour ‘98' on it's wine list, at 780 Euros. This, in a small mountain village, behind Alpe d'Huez.
Bring on Le Tour!
(and Latour)
DO.
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