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The walled City of Carcasonne, where Suzanne was 'totally creeped out' in a 13th Century chamber of horrors...
More: Best of 'What Do You Do On A Friday?' Holiday Reading 2004
Suzanne Greenwood, New World Tourist owner and Bike Touring Guide who hails from Homer, Alaska, sent us this latest postcard from torture chambers in romantic Languedoc to her current location, the land of Bjork.......
Read Part II of this story here.
Received June 23, 2003 Hey Groovers! Just when you thought it was safe to check your emails -- ta-da, here I am again...
I last touched base from the Upper Languedoc region of southern France, where I was enjoying some rare, miserable weather (my first, and last, in France). The perfect excuse for a rest day, I wandered the fairytale ramparts and walkways of ancient Carcasonne, donned in full-body raingear and sandals.
During my guiding years I would inundate clients with the saying "There's no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing" -- it is so true. Warm and dry amidst pelting, sideways rain and gusty winds, I splashed through deep puddles and drainages, clearing the way for disgruntled, umbrella-weilding locals and tourists. The moody weather really enhanced the medieval surroundings and I thought "this is more like it!" Forget colorful souvenir shops and sunny cafes offering Perrier and chocolate gateaus. This weather spoke of darkness and plagues, crusades and crucifixions.
Which is probably why I found myself paying the $5 admission to Le Musee de l`Inquisition, a ghastly collection of 13th and 18th Century torture instruments and other gruesome devices. IT TOTALLY CREEPED ME OUT!!! Not because the acts occured -- there are plenty of personalities today whose inability to find a connection to their souls allows fear and intolerance to reduce them to acts of torture.
What left me with lingering goosebumps was, I think, a combination of the weather, the physical structure and the devices themselves. The passageways had REAL cobwebs with hairy spiders and drips from leaks in the ceiling and walls.
Ominous music droned softly from hidden sources, with a few moans and bloodcurdling screams thrown in. One by one, I passed the "instruments". Far from modern renditions or even refurbished originals, these were worn, rusty, crude -- obviously, horribly real. Having been accused of witchcraft on more than one occasion, I especially related to the majority of victims -- women, just like me, simply using subliminal observation, intuition and instinctive analysis achieving sometimes uncanny results. I'm sure my soul has spent some time strapped to a chair of nails and burning at the stake. I just hope I had a good time beforehand! (And thank God chastity belts went out of fashion -- have you ever seen a real one? HIDEOUS!) The cloudless skies returned as I admired views of the Pyrenees before arriving in the bourgeois city of Perpignan. You know youÂﳲe tan when youÂﳲe on the Mediterranean border of France and Spain and the locals point to your shoulders exclaiming "la bronza!". From Perpignan I did the Teh Zheh Veh Boogie -- the Train Grande Vitesse. Bikes travel for free, but supposedly have to be in a bag or case no larger than the limited amount of luggage stacks available. I say supposedly because, after spending 30 minutes at the train platform meticulously removing racks and fenders and stowing the bike as well as my gear, I spent the rest of the day watching numerous cyclists simply wheel their entire bicycle on board with no problem.
Hmm, I can play this game...so the next day, as I continued my journey northward, I simply threw my panniers on board, then the trailer with protruding hitch and wheels attached, then folded the bicycle in half and stowed it in the space between carriages. Total assembly time upon reaching my destination -- 1 minute! Right on!
I spent the next 2 weeks blissfully cycling past the lakes and canals of Burgundy, where hot summer thermals produced impressive thunderheads often bringing lightning and rain by midnight. Dry again at dawn, I began riding by 6:30 in order to reach my destination well before the oppressive heat of early afternoon.
I began having fond memories of what "real" summers used to be like before 10 Alaskan summers erased them from my memory -- as a youngster I used to spend entire days picking blackberries in the woods around my house which my mother would turn into pies and upsidedown cakes -- YUM.
By the time I reached Dijon, moutarde capital of the world, I began pining for the cooler Alaskan air as temperatures began topping 100 degrees! Too hot for this northern gal, I sat in the campground panting in the shade, counting the minutes until I could fly to Iceland. All the locals said the heat was very unusual for June, more like their hottest August weather. It was so hot you could fry an egg on the seat of my bicycle.
It was so hot I developed an itchy heat rash all over my arms and legs (pitta imbalance for those of you Ayurvedically inclined). It was so hot...well, you get the idea. Finally my travel day arrived and there was noone with a bigger smile on their face than I as the Icelandair plane taxied down the runway.
Well, that was a week ago and I have so many interesting and fun things to tell you about Iceland that it will have to wait until the next email! I love it here and, in the next life would like to come back as an Icelander, I reckon. I have already ridden on bonejarring gravel roads, hunkered down in wicked headwinds that nearly blew me off the road, and, yesterday did a sunny 100 km ride in tank top and shorts with the kind of tailwind dreams are made of. My head is spinning with the things I have to share. Bet I'll be in Kirkjubaejarklaustur before you've figured out how to pronounce it!
A special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to email. You are my company along the way and I am grateful. Zan
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Received May 25, 2003
His name was Roland (r-r-roll the R-r-r) and he was riding a FUNKY folding bicycle! Shiny, angular and metallic, the German-made "Birdy" looked like something out of a Mad Max film. Extremely lightweight and FAST folding, the bike and it's owner have toured the world, including China, Turkey and Iceland. Retired now and killing time whilst his (accidentally flooded) flat in Paris was being repaired, Roland was camped in Avignon the day I blew in on the waves of a warm mistral wind.
As homes often reflect their owner's personalities, each bike touring set-up often says a lot about the rider. Mine probably speaks of organised, expensive, reliable and fun. Roland's spoke clearly of comfort, quality and technology. I dubbed his tent the "bike garage" -- tall enough to stand in, his sleeping quarters were relegated to one tiny section, the remaining space reserved for parking his Birdy and for stowing copious amounts of good French wine and gourmet foods. He was a gadget man, carrying a solar-powered stereo radio, GPS, palm pilot and 4" mini television set.
We admired each other's small-wheeled steeds and, though Roland was quite impressed with the Bike Friday, he really thought I should have some front suspension and was dubious (as many have been) about the travel trailer. He felt it's wheels could be streamlined and assumed it was hard work to tow. I was happy to inform him how thrilled I am with the entire system; how I hardly notice the trailer and prefer it over conventional touring set-ups. But heck, I'll just keep letting people think I'm an Amazon woman -- HA!
While sharing stories, Roland introduced me to Pastis, that favorite French aniseed aperitif that turns cloudy when thinned with water (not that my appetite ever needs stimulating, especially on a bike trip!) He was a kind man and an inspiration -- I hope when I'm his age I'm traveling, learning and as fit as he appears to be!
During some well-deserved rest days following that outstanding cycling through Provence, I attended a much anticipated Grand Marche -- a lively outdoor market held once or twice a week in nearly every French village. I happened to hit "the biggest and the best in Southern France" according to the proud locals of Vaison La Romaine.
Closed to vehicular traffic from early morning until afternoon, the entire center of town and all main streets become chock-full of vendors and their wares. Several blocks are devoted solely to food items, where busy shoppers fill woven baskets with seasonal fruits and vegetables, fresh fish glistening on beds of crushed ice, artisan breads, mouthwatering pastries, local cheese, mussels, oysters, zillions of assorted olives and dried fruit and nuts. Adding a patchwork of color amidst artfully-arranged produce were brilliant flowers and garden plants, including fresh basil and hearty-looking herbs.
Further along were streets dedicated to local artisans handicrafts, including some impressive pottery, paintings and wood and metalwork. Further still, near the outskirts, were imported items from Asia and Indonesia, followed by the obligatory noisemaking, tacky tourist trinkets, all part of the fun.
The sun was shining, people were animated and laughing, musicians were playing and I floated through the congestion smiling in that surreal state of simultaneous Participant/Observer.
Of all the beautiful and delicious things I experienced that day, the most memorable actually had nothing to do with France! Echoing along the cobbled streets, some Chilean musicians were piping out that playful pan flute and South American guitar music that always seems to send me into orbit.
In every thriving tourist destination, from Vermont to Alaska and the south Pacific, there they are -- always four of 'em, always smiling with shiny long, black hair, beautiful brown skin, wearing colorful woven clothing and UNBELIEVABLY HANDSOME. I decided then and there, Chile and Peru are next on the list!
On my way to the campground that afternoon, the streets already quiet and swept as if the market had never occured, I was lucky enough to get "educated" by a couple of young urchins (a.k.a thieving little rat bags). With one on my left and the other on my right, they began talking gibberish, trying to distract me. I made no attempt to shoo them away, curious to learn their moves. They were perplexed by the roll-top rubber dry bag strapped securely on my back, and my amused smile and piercing eye contact seemed to unsettle them even more.
Realizing I was a pocket-less waste of time, the older of the two decided to go for the cheap thrill of touching one of my breasts. Before he had the pleasure, and with lightning speed that surprised even myself, I grabbed an ear in each hand, banged their heads together, and uttered a firm "au revoir" as they quickly ran away, blindsided by the bitch from Alaska! [I have at this point fallen off my chair - with a sore temple - Ed]
Thankful for their harmless reminder to me to be careful, I put some loving energy in their direction, wishing for them a future in which they don't have to bother people to survive.
Sightseeing in Avignon was like being a mouse in a maze -- truly a laughable scene. For every French pooch and poodle, there seems to be an equal number of piles of poop to dodge on these city sidewalks. Somehow the pooper-scooper law failed to take hold here. So far I've managed to avoid each missile, but only just. Kinda gross...
It wasn't long before I was pining for the coolness and quiet of the mountains. I headed north and west and have spent the past two weeks blissed out in the Parc National des Gennes and Upper Languedoc/Rousillon -- France's most sparsely populated region and tops on my list of favorites.
The area's isolation has long been a refuge for hermits, exiles and offbeat characters -- so I fit right in! Soon, its numerous mountains and rivers will attract thousands of parapenters, kayakers, hikers and outdoor enthusiasts, but I am still ahead of the hordes. Now feeling comfortable and strong on the bike, I've tackled several more four and five thousand foot passes, windy at the tops but no longer knocking me over. I've lost track of how many cols I've "bagged" and I couldn't be more pleased or impressed with the quiet, scenic riding. IT IS THE BEST! Often it's just me and the grazing cattle, their cow bells echoing off the green hillsides.
I receive much encouragement from drivers and other riders. Many stop to actually applaud from their windows and, yes, those muscular cyclists with "pile driver buns" shout "Allez, madamoiselle" and I laughed when I realized the direct translation was GO GIRL! The campgrounds are great and only $7-12./night. Just when I thought the weather might be getting too hot for me (and my skin couldn't get any browner), a cooler northerly shift occured bringing refreshing temps. but continued sunshine. Being an early riser (and the rest of the country NOT) I try my hardest to quietly sneak through the many small villages, the main and only route often zigzagging down the cobbled streets. My normally silent transport becomes a noisy, clamoring alarm clock echoing throughout the town. Dogs begin barking, roosters start crowing and I make a hasty retreat as I hear the shouts of prematurely awakened occupants. Hey, that's what you get for being a pet owner!
The gooey road worms have disappeared, replaced by slimy morning tent snails. Acres of orange poppies and lavender iris' are slowly fading, giving way to early summer wheat fields. Cherries and strawberries are ripe and delicious, though the nettles are now too big to eat. Every day I give thanks for not having allergies -- the air is full of fluff as spring's seeds take flight.
I've watched bare brown grape vines sprout bright green arms and now pea-sized grapes are abundant with promise. I've had LOTS of time to admire the beauty of these ancient vines; they've begun to take on the image of headless body-building weight-lifters -- strong feet buried in the clay, then bulging, spiraling muscle supporting huge arms, each clasping the next in line. On their shoulders lie these delicate, seemingly inconspicuous, sun-drenched fruits, yet considering the characteristics and variables that make each season's harvest unique, their monetary value in weight must equal that of a powerlifting champion.
Whew! Have I been spending too much time cycling past vineyards or what? When they actually start talking to me, then I'll worry!
My pronunciation of French words, especially the names of villages, is improving daily. For instance, the town of Florac, when pronounced as if you've just inhaled a large bug and are trying to eject it, sounds perfectly French. Try it!
Well, I am presently enjoying the first rainy day in ages here at the library computer (first email available in 12 days). I toured this morning's Mazamet market and bought a hot, greasy rotisserie chicken and some of those little potatoes that roast in the fat that drips down from the poulets, inhaled the entire thing in about 10 minutes along with some fresh baked 8 grain bread.
Afterwards I stopped at the bakery and got some mini biscotti's and lavender cookies for the road, and, before entering the library, wolfed down an amazing chocolate gateax with mousse and cream and beautiful decorations. Ah, the pleasures of bicycle touring -- guiltless gluttony! Iceland is going to be a shock (but I can hardly wait to get there!)
Till next time, keep the rubber side down. Zzzzzzzan!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Received May 7, 2003
So, there I was, gazing upwards at the famous mountain. Famous due to a couple of enterprising young editors who, in 1903, had the cunning idea of organizing a 21-day bicycle race to boost circulation of their newly established newspaper. Le Tour de France was born.
From it's humble beginnings, the Tour has evolved into a sporting spectacle on a scale that has few rivals. Now extremely commercialized, the race commands 3rd highest viewing figures of any sporting event, following the Olympics and soccer's World Cup.
Consisting of a sometimes confusing series of stages, each day allows opportunities for rider's particular talents to shine -- flat stages give big-thighed sprinters the edge, individual time trials highlight those with endurance, and mountain stages allow elite, superhuman climbers to thrive on lung-busting climbs as they pull away from the pack and charge up the hills.
Mont Ventoux, at just under 6300 feet, is one such featured mountain stage, with a colorful history of triumph and tragedy. Compared to other tour ascents, Ventoux isn't particularly steep nor long. However, in the middle of July, with temperatures sometimes topping 100 degrees and using gears my legs couldn't DREAM of pushing, the amount of physical and mental endurance required to ascend nearly 4000 feet in 16 miles (the last 3 being the steepest), is impressive to say the least.
The mountain has some unique physical features, one being a false impression of year-round snow due to it's summit being covered in white pebbles called "lauzes". It is also home to some unique species of spiders and butterflies, as well as sole habitat to the snake eagle.
With all this in mind, I excitedly coasted downhill from Sault at 6:15 on a Sunday morning, looking forward to everything the day had to offer. It was chilly and clear, but I didn't bother layering, all too aware of the hours worth of climbing ahead of me. I have to admit, I was feeling GOOD. The kind of good that originates from the core and emanates out. I was past the 2-week break-in period and, because I'd gone at my own pace, I wasn't sore nor tired. Yoga was keeping me open and limber, as well as easing back and neck strain by reminding me to "inner spiral" and keep my shoulder blades back (thanks Sandy!)
The first 10 kms were fairly gentle and shaded, as the sun rose on the horizon and the cuckoo birds began, well..., cuckooing! There was just me, the mountain and a few startled chamois and rams, interrupted from licking snails and worms off the pavement. Not a single vehicle nor other cyclist passed as the hours ticked by. I began calculating the remaining distance by present and final altitude. "Hmm, let's see. This will be like riding from Bristol to Hanksville in Vermont, or from Homer to Diamond Ridge in Alaska, except TWICE as high in HALF the distance."
Yikes! I immediately used the time to switch from the topic of math to the topic of time itself. Time. That illusive, all-consuming figment of our imaginations! The Past is only memory, recollection. The Future is simply anticipation. The Present? -- pure awareness. Therefore, time is only movement of Thought. Past and future live in the imagination. Only the Present is Real. (turning the pedals, turning the pedals...) So, by freeing the past (which isn't real) we allow action in the present to produce fertile ground in the future! Voila! Create your own reality.
WHOA!!! Just then I turned a corner, rose above treeline and found I had arrived at the last, steep 5 km of this very Real mountain. I quickly shifted into a sustainable gear, only to realize it was, unfortunately, my lowest one. Suddenly, there seemed to be a lot of action, with cyclists and vehicles converging at a carpark to ride just this final bit to the top. The cool wind became apparent and I made the mistake of looking up to see the challenge that lay ahead. I put my head down and focused on the tour graffiti sprawled across the pavement. I smiled as I rode over a fading but clearly visible MERCKX, visualizing Belgian Eddy, one of the finest cyclist who ever lived!
I was surprised at how many names I recognized, not really being an avid tour junkie. I wondered if the "van Est" I saw could possibly be Dutchman Wim van Est who, in the 1951 tour survived a 70 foot bone-crushing fall while descending a steep mountain in the Pyrenees. Nah, must be a descendent.
Just over a mile from the top, I saw the name I'd been hoping for -- L-A-N-C-E! America's inspirational hero. I wanted to stop and take a photo, but the pitch was so steep I knew I'd never get the momentum to start again, esp. hauling touring gear. But, just seeing the name gave me a burst of adrenalin at the same time that a huge gust of wind came from behind and literally pushed me along. In fact, the wind was so powerful I began to wonder what it was going to feel like coming from any direction but behind...
The final push to the top was hard -- it took all the determination I had. My legs were tired and my shoulders were stiff, yet the combination of touring gear and that fierce tailwind enabled me to actually PASS two male cyclists who had stopped to rest, slaves to "real cyclist" high racing gears (okay, they also had about 20 years on me, but it still felt GOOD).
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the monument to Tommy Simpson, the British cycling champion who, on this very spot in July of '67 died of exhaustion and heart failure (amphetamines were found in his bloodstream). There was a final 180-degree switchback at the very top and, though I anticipated the change in wind direction, as soon as I turned the handlebars and caught my first glimpse of the stunning view, WHAM! -- I was blown over sideways like a helpless paper doll, my chainring teeth piercing the skin on my right calf.
In the time it took to calculate approximately how many years it had been since my leg had seen the ole' cyclist's tattoo, I was back on my feet and struggling to push the load up the final pitch against a wind so strong I could barely move.
Whew! Not exactly my most elegant summiting, but YEE-HA, I'd arrived. After leaning my bike against a concrete barrier, I quickly threw on some tights, a polar fleece and a windbreaker. Some mountain bikers stopped to inquire about the Bike Friday (once again my accomplishment was upstaged by my bicycle...) and I asked them to document the moment with my camera, a Captain's Coffee bag held firmly in my hand -- there's another one for the cafeteria wall, Ty!
Wanting to retreat from the wind as soon as possible, I pointed the trusty steed down the mountain, past a barrier announcing spring closure of this steeper, north facing side to traffic for the next 7 kms. Dodging sharp rocks and skidding on loose gravel, I coasted between melting snowbanks on one of the steepest descents I've done on a road bike.
It actually surpassed exciting and went straight into borderline hair-raising, but I still managed to take a few photos. I hugged the inside of the curves, the edges being a little too intimidating given I was completely alone. Luckily, I was in the lee of the wind and, before entering the forest again, I stopped to savor that heady alpine feeling, not sure when next I'd be at such a lofty altitude.
Then the fun began as I set new personal bests in the maximum speed category on my cyclometer. The road was quiet, wide and freshly paved! I was WAY impressed with several cyclists, including 2 women, grunting their way up this much steeper side of the mountain. Had to peel off some clothing as I lost 5300 feet in 13 miles. Some quiet vineyard lanes eventually deposited me here in lovely Vaison la Romaine, another picturesque medieval village with colonnaded streets and a wealth of Roman ruins. I've even been able to experience Ventoux at one more level -- by drinking the delicious Cote du Ventoux wines made from the grapes of her sunny, fertile hillsides.
Livin' it and Lovin' it, Zan
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Received May 6, 2003:
Bonjour once again from the land of castles, cathedrals and wine cellars. As always, I have lots to share, so let's begin with the topic that occupies most of my time -- NO, not eating (that's 2nd on the list) -- it's the bicycling...
Thank you, Pierre Michaux, for inventing the first velocipede over 130 years ago (lucky dog retired early, 8 years after it's conception). Today, 47% of French people own a bicycle and I nod many-a-smile daily to other riders.
The French also love their cars, however. Oo-la-la, I have never seen so many fine, high-performance vehicles. Saab, Peugeot, Citroen. Everywhere I look people are washing, waxing and polishing their sporty little gems. Handsome men escorting beautiful women wearing colorful scarves around their heads pass by in open convertibles, reminding me of so many old movies I've seen.
Although they speed and squeal and behave like rally participants, it hasn't fazed me sharing the roads -- I think because they ARE such good drivers. On the rare occasion they honk at each other, it is brief and effective. Granted, I am here at the best time -- they tell me July and August are horrible. And, as I cycle along the edges of steep ravines, there are usually a few rusting examples lying near the bottom to remind me they're not ALL good drivers.
But, back to the cycling! My first three weeks in France serendipitously placed me in, what must be, one of the finest bicycling areas in the country (though I've a feeling most are...) Based at a terrific campground 4km from the bustling village of Vence, I spent the first week doing long day trips without the gear in hopes of getting in somewhat decent shape. Seeing as how I hadn't done any "real" biking since moving to Alaska 8 years ago (GULP!) I looked forward to the opportunity.
The campgrounds this time of year are just opening, so they are clean, quiet and friendly. Each day begins with a morning chorus of birds singing their little hearts out (the nicest alarm clock) By the way, am I the only person who didn't know cuckoo birds are real? They call from the forests around me and sound just like Grandfather's clock. Neat!
Having spent the winter in Indonesia, it is total luxury to receive delicious drinking water out of nearly any tap or fountain. At the larger camps, if you put your order in by 7 pm, you'll have fresh baguettes or croissants awaiting you the next morning.
Right on!! (again, July and August are a different story, like most summer tourist destinations). The few fellow campers I've encountered have been considerate, cleaning up after themselves and speaking softly to one another. I really embrace countries where the population covets quietude, especially during mealtimes, while every bite is savored. I've had many interesting conversations with people from all over Europe regarding current politics, etc. We all agree in the end that the best way to eliminate terrorism is to understand what drives people to become terrorist martyrs and then work toward eliminating the CAUSES. I have encountered zero anti-Americanism, only anti-Bushism and his level of sanity is equated to that of Saddam and the others. Vence was a nice town with markets full of my favorite foods: sprouted spelt bread, quinoa salad with hazelnuts and raisins, lentil salad, tempeh, tofu, ripe berries and sweet, mini bananas. The city was clean, vibrant and friendly, with those enviable 6 hour work days and a civilized 2 hour siesta each afternoon (what's the French word for siesta?) Nearly everyone has a poodle on leash, with numerous salons devoted solely to manicuring those foo-fooey friends.
With their bumpy French noses and pointy little chins, I meld right in with the locals -- until I open my mouth, that is. It soon becomes apparent the only French THIS girl ever learned was on Sesame St. when I was 5! I still envision Oscar the Grouch every time I hear 'ferma la porte' It is a beautiful language, easy to embrace, and I am learning enough to get by quite well.
But, again, I digress. Ahhh, the cycling. Between France's Mediterranean coast and the high Alpes region bordering Italy, there lies an interesting series of plateaus, with deep gorges and cols so steep they seem to shut out the sky. Each day I enjoy 7 or 8 hours in the saddle, tackling challenging climbs, rewarded by unparalleled views and exciting descents on near-deserted roads.
The nicest surprise has been the picture-postcard villages, centuries-old fortified towns erected during the Dark Ages, perched on clifftop promontories. Vehicles must park outside the village, as "streets" are often barely wide enough for 2 pedestrians to pass. Quiet and shady, I easily get lost amidst alleyways, unable to resist seeing what lies around the next bend or set of steep, stone steps (precisely the original intent, to aid defense and confuse invaders). The chapels are often perched on near-vertical limestone cliffs, appearing to tumble haphazardly down the rocky slopes.
At the center of each village stands an ancient water fountain, complete with moss and lichens. Belltowers send pidgeons flying as each hour is sounded and I wouldn't be at all surprised if Quasi Modo(sp?) shuffled past me on the street. In fact, if he did, I'd give him a big, fat kiss! (always loved that guy...)
Many times throughout the day I climb to where trees are just barely budding, then descend to new but visibly green growth. The air is filled with delicious spring scents.
Another daily highlight is being passed by a dozen or so "real cyclists" -- men with Lance Armstrong thighs and Greg LeMond calves -- smoothly shaven legs and muscular bottoms in tight, colorful spandex. I see them approaching in my rear view mirror and a smile creeps over my face as I anticipate the view.
It's always the same -- they appear on my left, our eyes meet, we exchange brief "bonjours" or other encouraging cyclist lingo, then, they begin to STARE intently at my ......... Bike Friday? Yup, it gets 'em every time. A true anomaly in the world of French racers. For a few seconds they are directly in front of me and all I can say is "J'adore le magnifique physique!" Yeah, baby! Eye candy at its BEST.
Sunny Provence is famed for it's extraordinary light, which inspired the likes of van Gogh, Cezanne and Picasso. With an average of 7 hours of sunshine a day (!) I am grateful to be here when the air is still 50 degrees at night and 65-70 degrees during the day.
I hear summer is scorching. So far there are no biting insects -- in fact, the only creepy crawlies I've seen lots of are these 2" long, shiny black centipede - like worms. They are all along the roads and, try as I might to zig-zag around them, they're pretty unavoidable. The inside of my fenders are lined with their gooey carcasses. Worst is the sound they make -- first a Pffft, then resounding POP!
There have been two good rainstorms -- one lasted for 30 hours and I'm happy to report both my tent and the travel trailer stayed cozy and dry. The day's ride after that much rain is always memorable, as the gorges are thumping and alive, huge waterfalls cascading downwards. Tunnels are dripping and cool and I'm glad I brought a clip-on tail and headlight.
My Bike Friday is just the bees knees! I love it. Climbing is a breeze with these ultra-low gears (granted, at times I achieve a slower-than-walking pace). On steep descents it feels stable and smooth and seems to perform equally well with or without the weight of 4 small panniers, the trailer and a handlebar bag. The brakes are a little "soft" due to more cable and housing than on a diamond frame, but they're still highly effective. The bike feels spunky and comfortable -- the best I've ever ridden. The trailer feels one with the bike and on a few fast descents I had to glance back to make sure it was still there! On bumpy roads it becomes a little annoying, noisy and noticeable, so we'll see how it fares in Iceland. I reckon I'll just get used to it.
The overall set-up must make it look harder than it feels to ride, because people stare open-mouthed as I slowly pass. Some people laugh (usually school boys), but most just study it all with genuine curiosity. One person assumed it was electric but, alas, I am the only motor this bike will ever see.
For a small-framed person, the trailer and small pannier concept is terrific. When I toured AK in '93 it was a real challenge to steady the bike and get started without falling over -- I was so outweighed. This system feels good -- HEAPS easier for me.
One favorite day was conquering the Gorges du Verdon, the Grand Canyon of France. An early start gave me the road to myself, which wound aroung the very edge of an impressive canyon. After crossing the highest bridge in Europe, I spent the rest of the morning slowly cranking my way up switchback after switchback, through narrow tunnels and along the edge of dizzying heights. At the top, excited tourists congratulated me in several different European languages. The steep downhill was a blast as I barely pedaled for 20 kms. A sunny campspot with bread, cheese and wine left me blissfully wasted and asleep by nine.
As I reached the Luberon region, Mont Ventoux, with it's rich Tour de France history and unique physical features, kept drawing me towards it like a magnet. Having never been an athlete nor a mashochist, I had no aspirations to actually tackle the Mont, especially with full touring gear. Yet, somehow, each day found me enjoying quiet, sunny roads with tailwinds pushing me in it's direction (damn it!) Before I knew it, I had reached the lovely village of Sault and, at 765 meters, the gateway to Mont Ventoux.
The next day's forecast was for continued bliss and, as I ate a delicious salad at an outdoor cafe perched high above a lush green valley, I made the decision to ride up and over Ventoux, schlepping food, shelter and clothing. I am my own worst slavedriver! (besides, my friends Kim and Charlie would never let me live it down if I was this close and didn't at least TRY).
Well, once again this email is twice as long as I'd like, so stay tuned for the story of cranking up Ventoux -- getting blown away by the view as well as literally blown over at the top! and of the hair-raising descent amidst gravel and snow, plus some time devoted to describing some of the delectable cuisine of France, which is an adventure in itself! I am eating wild nettles and being lulled to sleep by hermit thrushes, so Alaska doesn't seem too far away.
I feel all of your good vibes surrounding me like a big bubble -- Keep 'em comin'!
Avec des embrasses, Zan
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Greetings from the south-eastern corner of mainland France, just inland from the cosmopolitan coastal cities of Cannes, Nice and Monaco. I have found myself in the midst of a cycling paradise, where ancient, tiny villages are linked by breathtaking, deserted mountain roads.
As you all know, Provence has been inhabited for an exceptionally long time. After eons of colonizations, conquerors, crownings, crusades, turmoil, plagues, wars and rebirths, there seems to be an atmospere of civility, tolerance and respect unlike any I have encountered. In other words, these folks have got it goin, on! I am impressed daily with my experiences thus far, and the French have much to be proud of.
First of all, some of you out there requested a report on travel conditions these days. From my point of view, they've never been better. No longer frisking old ladies upon boarding, airline personnel as well as passengers seem to be smiling a bit more these days. There are often empty seats to recline upon and I like seeing recycled paper products, organic milk and personal video choices on my very own screen (by the way, only film speeds of 600 or higher risk exposure from the new x-ray machines).
In Newark, the mood quickly changed, as the staff at Continental were, understandably, quite frantic and stressed. With Europe a main market, the war hit hard. From Alaska, the airlines had no problem allowing me to check 2 small panniers along with the folded bike and a dry-bag of camping gear. Continental, however, wouldn't hear of it, and informed me there would be an excess baggage charge of $90.00, defeating one of the purposes of owning a folding bike. I took some deep breaths, wondering how I could convince them otherwise -- I needed a bargaining tool. Just then, the ticket agent informed me that my non-stop flight to Paris no longer existed! Still, I remained calm as they frantically sought a solution.
Eventually I was booked on a similar flight, with a transfer in Amsterdam before final arrival in Paris. Due to my non-confrontational reaction to their screwy schedule, the fee was waived and, voila! I was headed over the Atlantic (yet another reminder to seek the hidden opportunities within perceived "problems").
From Charles de Gaulle airport I hopped on an Easy Jet flight 1 hour south to Nice. After 36 hours of travel I was tired and extremely odiferous. I did manage to retain some taxi-ride visions of an azure Mediterranean Sea, waves crashing inches from the cosmopolitan promenade.
The Hotel Mercure was twice as expensive as any I've stayed in, but somehow I didn't care, and slept for 13 hours. A lovely buffet breakfast was included, and I left the dining room replenished and refreshed (AND, with a smile on my face, knowing my pockets were laden with 4 boiled eggs, a mini baguette, 3 gourmet cheese and several pain au chocolats!) Poor taste, I agree, yet extremely tasty!
The city was bustling with reserved but friendly people, chic fashions, attractive art graphics and lovely architecture (consisting mainly of peach and mauve stucco walls with clay roofs and tropical palm tree landscaping). It was clean and safe, with scents of fresh baked pastries and breads -- oo-la-la!
After exchanging money ($300. US = $273. euro), I took a taxi to the train station, where I laboriously schlepped my gear in several trips down numerous steps, through a tunnel underneath the tracks, then up more stairs to the platform. I was never concerned of theft as I abandoned each load. As the train approached, a kind chap with a St. Tropez tan offered to assist me with my baggage. He spoke no English and I no French, but we somehow managed to converse. "Je m'appelle Suzanne. Comment vous appelez-vous?" "Mo-Mo", he replied. H-m-m-m, what an interesting name. He helped off-load me in St. Laurent du Var and, with a brief "Au revoir", contined on his way.
This was it -- the moment I'd been waiting for -- time to assemble the bike! It was sunny and 68 degrees. I found a quiet spot next to a rubbish bin and began to open the suitcase. Just then, from my peripheral vision, I saw a large gray object approaching my direction at MACH SPEED! It was my first glimpse of the TGV, or high speed bullet train.
I never heard it coming and, as it sucked the wind out of me, I steeled myself against the force, closed my eyes, and, within 5 seconds, the entire lenthy train had passed. WOW! Jeez, I don't know if any poor sops have ever gotten hit by one of those things, but surely there'd be nothing left of the body! I was amazed there were no barriers between the platform and the tracks (other than a strong dose of common sense).
After a quick glance to make sure my hair and clothing were still attached, I giddily set forth to the task at hand. I decided to take my time, greasing every cable and bolt, ensuring a safe and stable bike assembly. WHOOSH!! Another TGV flew past, no warning of it's approach, but a reminder to me to weight down any light objects.
Regarding the bike, I encountered few problems, the only transit "damage" being a slightly bent brake hood (easily restored), a front derailleur adjustment and some fiddling with the front rack for brake clearance.
The suitcase easily transformed into a nifty travel trailer in about 2 minutes. As I began sorting gear, it suddenly occured to me that a scheduled train departure was due at the platform. How did I know this? Because, as I glanced up from being completely engrossed in my work, I found 30-40 waiting passengers staring at me, quietly conversing, no doubt speculating.
I gave them all a big smile and wave, causing some to quickly look away, their French pride caught in the act of showing interest in a stranger. Two twinkly-eyed octogenarians gave me a thumbs-up before the approaching train blocked our view. Less than a minute later, the TGV was off again, one brief whistle being the only signal to MOVE YOUR ASS!
I turned to resume packing gear when I was startled by an exclamation of "Bonjour, Suzanne!" I looked up to find a smiling Mo-Mo -- he was back-back (I wondered why-why??) Through strained conversation, I understood that, on his return to Nice, he saw several passengers staring at my spectacle, realized it was moi, and was inviting me to a cafe' for a drink before catching the next train.
I was torn between appreciating his kindness and wanting him to GO AWAY so I could finish packing. "What the heck" I thought, and haphazardly shoved my gear into random orifices, then enjoyed a cold drink in the sunshine with Mo-Mo.
I showed him the map-map and my intended route-route (okay, I'll stop!) He looked at me in disbelief, rubbing his thighs and stating, "Fatigue, fatigue!" Non-cyclists always think you're crazy to ride a bike when there's public transport available. He thought the Bike Friday concept was "Magnifique!", and he gave me his phone number, insisting I give him a call if ever in Nice. Thankfully, his train blew in just as he was getting to the inevitable "Vous marie'?" and with a heartfelt "merci beaucoup", I watched him depart.
Whew! At last, time to go biking! Within 2 kms I was headed up and away from the busy coast. The next 20 kms were some of the most beautiful "urban" cycling ever. Extremely courteous drivers behind the wheels of sporty, small, efficient city cars -- no gas-guzzling, road-hogging SUVs. More lovely stucco, clay and stone houses with wrought iron fences and blue shutters (to keep flies away). Spring blossoms lined the gardens and roadsides. As my muscles and lungs worked hard, I inhaled the scents of wisteria, lilac, cherry, apple and bright yellow broom. Leaves are only inches out of their buds and songbirds abound.
As the terrain leveled out, my breathing returned to normal, and I felt an overwhelming sense of bliss. I had arrived! I was cycling in Provence in the springtime, on the world's cutest bicycle, feeling strong and independent. Two huge tears of joy welled up, rolled down my cheeks, and tasted salty and delicious on my dehydrated tongue.
Just like the spring blossoms around me, I became aware of the innate yearning we all share to transcend, evolve and expand our consciousness. To reach toward the sun and bear fruit in our own, unique ways. The apple blossoms know there's something bigger going on than meets the eye. Why, as humans, do we so often forget to tap into the core of this creative process?
Stay tuned for continued tales of campsites, tailwinds, gastronomical adventures and, the BEST bicycle ride of my life!
Hugs to everyone, Au revoir! Zan (the fast-becoming avid Francophile).
Read Part II of this story here.
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