Invisible buses

Just back from a return trip by rail to Quincampoix (north of Rouen) to pick up father-in-law, who was keen to travel despite nearing his century on this planet. With my wrinklie's travel card, I was able to travel first class, a revelation in terms of leg-room and general comfort. This convenience is paradoxically only available to the leisured and pampered, whilst the single mothers and disabled, who could really do with a bit of space, have to put up with cattle class.

The journey, first to Paris by TGV, then across Paris by métro, then to Rouen by ordinary train, passed smoothly until the last stage, which was to catch a school bus from Rouen station to Quincampoix. Outside Rouen station, no sign of a bus stop. I asked the café staff, the police, even the women's lavatory attendant. All of them swore that no such bus existed. Eventually somebody told me to walk down to the bus station, down by the Seine. Once at the bus station, I climbed aboard my bus, which appeared to be real, and sat down as it took me back... to the train station and on to Quincampoix. The lesson is clear. Buses are absolutely invisible to the average Frenchman and woman, whose love affair with the car far exceeds American levels of auto-worship.