French Immersion

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There are the typical things you'd expect: in the mornings everyone carries baguettes under thier arm or strapped to the back of their bicycle, and there are some new fashions, such as the super baggy "harem pants" all the girls are wearing. Yet at the same time, I was completely unprepared for so much of France.
First of all, there's the language. I suppose it's rather arrogant and ethnocentric, but I really didn't expect to find, as I have, that the majority of French can't speak two words of english, even though they learn it in school and Nelly Furtado urges them to "say it right" in their malls. This has forced me to learn their language at a rapid rate, which is fun when it's just a casual conversation, but like being crippled when you want to communicate something important.
For instance, on Tuesday we visited Vimy Ridge. The town of Vimy happens to be quite far away from Vimy Ridge, but we were lucky enough to get a ride out to it from an old man (who spoke no english). It was incredible - the white stone monument is huge and dramatically carved. Around it are the trenches and shell holes which have been cleared of brush by the Canadian government so that they're covered only in grass, like the lush green waves of the sea, between the bare red trunks of pine. Ironically, it's all fenced off because there are still undetonated explosives in the ground, beneath where flocks of sheep graze. It was as eerie and surreal as C.S. Lewis' "wood between the worlds", especially with the light mist that dimmed the view.
We had to walk a long way back into Vimy, and when we arrived we found that the last train had left. Vimy is too small to have any kind of hotel, and I was ready to camp out beside the boarded up station, when along came a young man. He stood looking out at the tracks for awhile, then turned and talked earnestly with a man with two little dogs; I caught something about "Canadien". (Obviously only Canadians would go to Vimy.)
Neither of them could speak any english, but with our limited french and some enthusiastic charades, we followed the middle-aged man to his house, where he and his wife agreed that he would give us a ride to a hotel near Arras. He came and picked us up again in the morning and drove us to a train station; we made him a card using our french phrasebook. These are the kind of adventures that make good stories later, but make you cry at the time (and wish you'd learned more french in school). That said, we're so thankful for the all the kindness (that can't be mere coincidence) which we've already encountered along our way. God's certainly looking out for us, so don't worry - I don't think we'll be raped or killed too soon.
Tours, where we are currently staying, is a lovely city, with a shady boulevard down its centre, lively markets, interesting architecture, and the lovely Loire river along one side. Unfortunately, our hostel is rather austere and boring, so we hope to find somewhere more homelike in Paris.

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