TheBanyanTree: It seemed like a good idea at the time

[Peter Macinnis]

The phrase "it seemed like a good idea at the time" seems to have no
obvious source, but it is widely known. Britons regard it as a catch phrase
of the Royal Marines, in north America, it is something heard from rednecks
after a non-fatal attempt at breaking into the Darwin Awards. In Australia,
it is known colloquially as "the streaker's defence", but streaking was far
from my mind when I used the phrase on a street corner in Le Havre, one
wet, miserable, cold and windy Thursday morning in early May. April in
Paris may be grand, but May in Le Havre can lack a certain something.

It wasn't my fault we were there: knowing the train timetable, and that the
target museum would not open until 2.30, we had headed in a leisurely
manner for the Gare Saint Lazare to get the train from Paris. We wandered
around, deciding where we would go for a coffee and a paper, as our train
was still two hours away, and then I made my mistake. I asked one of the
staff in my best French where to get the train to Le Havre. Never tell me
that the French lack efficiency. With a speed that amazed me, she rushed us
along the open area and onto a train that was about to depart, assuring me
in fluent English that we could buy tickets on the train, as indeed we
could. We felt powerless to resist, and so we arrived, coffeeless and
paperless in Le Havre, at the mouth of the Seine, some three hours before
the town's natural history museum opened.

Le Havre is shabby and unattractive at that time of year. Brave, wet-suited
souls sail little yachts in a basin, mother-henned away from the tidal
outfall by three young men in inflatable runabouts, but most of the shops
are closed, and workers are busy cleaning off the winter accumulation of
seagull guano from the buildings that will, come summer, welcome the hordes
of British tourists who land there from ferries. In early May, the streets
of Le Havre are slippery with washed-down fish-rancid guano, and water
dripping from buildings should never be trusted.

And we had three hours to kill in this unprepossessing and dingy town in
unprepossessing and dingy weather. We stood on the corner as I spoke the
standard phrase of mild regret, and then I looked up and saw with delight
that we were on the corner of Rue La Perouse and Rue Lesueur, outside a
small bar that would be an ideal location for a soapish sitcom about the
travails of tourists in a foreign land, or a remake of Irma La Douce. I was
as much taken by the street names as I was by the prospect of warmth,
though the thought of a coffee and a beer attracted me as well.

We entered, were made welcome, and asked by our host and his customers
where we were from. I have just recently learned that the bar is in the
centre of the town's small red light district, which may explain why we
were slightly exotic specimens to them and why they seemed slightly raffish
to us, but no matter. I explained that we were Australians, seeking two
navigateurs français who had once left Le Havre and sailed to Australia.
They were, I said gesturing dramatically at the street signs outside, La
Perouse and Lesueur. I was, I told them, researching some background for a
historical account of the people who mapped Australia.

I like the French. They all reassure me that they speak English, just as
soon as I speak French to them. Perhaps this is because, while we speak
that accursed English tongue, we are from a small and interesting country
that is neither Britain nor the USA. Perhaps they are just nice people.
Working in relays we exchanged franglais comments on sundry matters, while
we refuelled on coffee, tea and beer. If they knew that Laperouse had
actually departed on his last voyage from Brest, not Le Havre, they were
too polite to say so. In the end they directed us to a cheerful eatery and
bade us fond adieus, though I am still uncertain why one of them said "auf
wiedersehen" as we left. Perhaps he was confusing Austrians and
Australians. Or testing us.

We ate at the recommended place, found the Natural History Museum, admired
Lesueur's specimens, but found little trace of Laperouse, so we walked back
along his chilly damp street (which was at least guano-free), and caught a
train back up the Seine valley. It was only later, as I dug further into
the lives of my two navigateurs that I realised that each of them might, at
various times in his life, have said "it seemed like a good idea at the
time." But that's another story.

peter



  _--|\    Peter Macinnis, Manly, the birthplace of Australian surfing
 /     \   feral wordsmith, also herbal remedies, bespoke fish
 \.--._*<--hooks, umbrellas mended and budgerigar requisites     
      v    http://members.ozemail.com.au/~macinnis/index.htm