Our man in...

As I waited at the bus stop in Tarbes on Thursday for the one bus a day to Marciac, more and more people gathered looking suspiciously like fellow volunteers at the jazz festival. The telltale sign seemed to be a Decathlon tent under one arm and something guitar-shaped under the other, and even if I didn't have the latter, my bike in its travel bag made for a suitable substitute (it has proved to be an excellent conversation starter throughout my trip so far...), and we were soon all chatting together. Most of them were students at universities across France - some studying music, but many studying other subjects too - and all but one of us first-time volunteers at Marciac. Mars, for whom this is the fifth festival he's been a volunteer at, was thus our much-needed guide to help us find the Camping des bénévoles (a short walk away from the centre and *almost* out of earshot of the main stage) once arrived in Marciac. Our first encounter with French bureaucracy ensued: no, we c...

« Vous êtes de Toulouse ? » It's always a fun game to play whenever you're in France: see how long it takes any given French person to work out you're English and, from that moment on, speak nothing but English to you. Nine times out of ten they can tell before you even open your mouth. So you can see why it was a pleasant surprise for my first French encounter - at the ticket machines at Toulouse airport's tram station - to begin like this. Me, French? Let alone a local... Had this lady not seen my huge Karrimor rucksack with a big Berghaus raincoat strapped onto the top? (Not a drop of rain has fallen so far, as it happens...) How about the large padded bag with my bike inside, with the words ULTIMATE TRAVEL BAG plastered across the front? What about the trouble I was quite evidently having trying to find the 2 euro coin the machine wanted among the other coins in my wallet? Clearly, she just hadn't looked me up and down properly yet, because before I knew it she ...