Today, I attempted to find a place that would rebuild my broken alternator. It turned out to be a bit tougher than I originally planned. After walking from shop to shop and being told, in French, that this was not the right place I decided to try one more place before giving up. At 12:20 p.m. I ended up at Nautisport - one of the local Chandlerys. It was, of course, closed. Exhausted from walking around for 3 hours with a 15+ pound alternator on my back I stared at the window, depressed. I saw three people inside and peered into the front window like a stray dog.

A young man soon appeared and quickly pointed to the sign on the door that displayed the store's hours of operation as if I was some poor confused American that had never seen store hours posted before.

I quickly tried to gain some advantage. "I just need to ask a question," I said, with the saddest eyes I could conjure up. Fortunately, it came naturally.

The young man looked at me, smiled with a, obviously, confused face, and walked back into the building. I pressed my face back on the window. DON'T LEAVE ME, I screamed in my mind.

The owner of the store soon appeared. I asked him if he fixed alternators and he told me no. He started to give me some leads, but I had already been to the places that he was sending me to. I gave him my sad eyes - the ones that the cat used in Shrek 2.

The owner of Natisport brought me into the store. He felt sorry for me and started making some calls. After 5 minutes of waiting outside his office, and listening to him speak French on the phone, he called me in. He hadn't found a place to fix it, but had two more leads. One was a small motor repair place; the other was, the infamous, Mr. Galet. He was infamous because it was now the second time I had been referred to him.

The small engine place was close, so I took off in search of someone to love my poor broken alternator. I walked among a more industrial section of town, now, and tied to figure out where I was going. I was lost, and I was about to give up, when I saw the word "Electic." A man was there; he told me that I was in the wrong place and pointed to some other buildings down the street.

I soon found myself in a warehouse of large electric motors. The warehouse was large, dirty, and disorganized. It could have been the backdrop of any murder movie. There was no front desk so I walked in sheepishly. There were two guys working there, so I pulled out my alternator and showed my sad eyes.

"I'm sorry. We don't work on alternators," he said. I felt defeated. I asked him if he knew of the infamous Mr. Galet.
"Oh yes," he said enthusiastically. "This is the person I take things of this too. He has the proper testing equipment."

I pulled a map out that the owner from Nautisport had given me. The instructions were vague: follow the sea front until you pass the large swimming pool, walk to the park, take an unnamed street and start asking for Mr. Galet. (It's how every great movie mystery starts.)

As the man studied my map, the other man volunteered to take me to Mr. Galet. Knowing that my chances of finding Mr. Galet was about even with hitting the California lottery, I quickly accepted. I felt safe because I was pretty sure that Americans weren't being abducted by Tahitian rebels.

We walked to his brand new car and I sat down in air conditioning. The man that was with me didn't speak any English so I tried to keep my mouth shut. I was getting a free ride to Mr. Galet and I didn't want to annoy him with my futile attempts at French.

As he started his car the CD started playing something I've never heard before. It sounded like some French rap. He looked at me and made a motion asking if it was okay if he turned the volume up. Sure!

It quickly became apparent that this man had spent some serious bucks on his sound system. I was soon enveloped in 20000 watts of sound. I could feel the butt-kicking sub woofers. I started gyrating my head in hopes that I would be fitting in.

Some American music soon came on that I recognized and I began to wonder if I might be able to communicate with this man using song lyrics from America. In my mind I quickly came up with an opening: "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..." Satisfied with my opening, I then added: "But, I still haven't found what I'm looking for..."

I smiled at my cute cleverness and wondered how I could proceed. Could I talk to this man? "This man with no name..."

"I'm bad!" I thought, but quickly dismissed it. I was with a man; I never met, in his 20000 watt, butt kicking, super subwoofer, car. Nothing could be gained by telling him this. Besides, I was pretty sure that I wasn't "bad" and I didn't want to be.

I tried to think of a rap song, but could only think of Vanilla Ice. "Ice, ice, baby." No, that didn't seem to have any relevance either. An American rap song came on at that point that contained lots of obscene lyrics. I decided that I liked the French rap better.

As we traveled down the road, I couldn't help but notice that the neighborhood was quickly deteriorating. Elvis takes over - "In the Ghetto!"


We stopped in front of a set of new tourist buses. The man motions that we we're here and I should get out. We're here: "I'm so excited. I just can't hide it. I know, I know, I know, I want to." I was now going to meet Mr. Galet.

Mr. Galet was a short very round French man. He wore a white T-shirt that was covered in grease. He had a young assistant that seemed very unimpressed by me. The three of them looked at my alternator and talked among themselves for 5 minutes. They then spoke to me in rapid French. I stammered, trying to think of some song lyrics that I could reply with. Then the assistant left. I stood there panicked: "If you leave me now, you take away the biggest part of me. oo, ooo, oooo, Oh! Baby, please don't go."

The assistant quickly came back with a lady that spoke English. She was covered with Tattoos and I tried, desperately, not to notice. "Mr. Galet is very busy," she told me. "He thinks your alternator is completely ruined." I recoiled in defeat: "Another one bites the dust. Another one bites the dust. Hey! Hey!"

I asked if Mr. Galet could fix it and she told me that he needed to examine if first. He told me to come back on Tuesday and he'd tell me if it can be fixed. I asked if it could be sooner, that I'm planning to leave soon. He tells me to come Friday morning. I smiled at my small victory: "When its Friday night, and the feeling's right, oh what a night."

I told the lady that I very much appreciated the ride that the man gave me. He offered to take me back to the marina. I looked around. I had no idea where I was. I was in the ghetto. The idea of walking miles in my flip-flops did not appeal to me. I looked at the man: "On the road again, I just can't wait to get on the road again. I just love making music with my friends..."

The man drove me back to the marina and would accept no payment. It was the nicest thing that anyone has done for a short bald guy in a long time. I thanked him profusely and stop just short of telling him, "Word to your mother."

Update: Dah dah lup, dah dah lup dah, dah lup! This just in - Mr. Galet fixed the alternator for 35 dollars. I knew he could do it.