I havent been writing because things changed. I got comfortable and I turned into a tourist and a friend. So much for being alone.
A chance encounter with Dylan made for less time typing on the phone. The next dry spell was due to a stay with Tom, an old collegehumor colleague, and then I was in London for two fast days. London in 48 hours? Didn't even come close. Now it's raining. More on that later.
After riding for a day through Essex county, then London, I resolved never to bring a bike to England again. Not only do the drive on the wrong side of the road- they also barely have room for one car.
I got my fat back from British food. My skin and bones six pack was obliterated by British pints, fish and chips and all day English breakfast.
Tom lived in an old, old thatched roof cottage called Thatch End in Henham. It doesn't get more British than this place. We saw three terrible movies together: The Expendables, Knight and Day and Piranha 3D. Piranha was the clear winner.
After that I checked into a London hostel in Hamsptead Heath. I visited the British Museum (sparse, huge), the National Portrait Gallery (too many grumpy British faces), and the Tate Modern (never seen so many Asians). I saw two plays in the West End: The Prisoner of Second Avenue starring Jeff Goldblum (!) and La Bête starring the other dude from Frasier. La Bête made me laugh so hard I almost fell out of my ten pound balcony seat. Looque knows where the deals are. I need to go back to London. It's very cool.
Being the frugal Jew I am, I didn't take the chunnel train to Paris. I thought a ferry and some more camping in Normandy would be nice. What's the weather forcast, BBC? Perfectly sunny all week in France?? Alrighty!
My train to New Haven was at 6:47 in the morning. If I missed this one, I would probably miss the ferry to France, too. I am GREAT at underestimating distances even after a cross Europe trip. I thought waking up at 6 would be appropriate. London is huge.
Dear old lady I clipped outside of Buckingham Palace,
If you're reading this, I'm really sorry. I needed to make that train. I realize now maybe I should have stopped to see if you were alright, but it only would have slowed me down. I figured a clean break was the best for both of us. I know nothing really bad happened, there weren't any screams, and I'm pretty sure I only got caught on the bottom of your jacket. If it's any consolation I missed that train. But I caught the ferry. I also paid four pounds for a bagel- that's kinda like getting surprised at 6 AM by a foriegn biker in a neon reflector vest! I love you. And your country.
Looque.
Then I went back to France. I didn't eat anything on the ferry because I was going to Normandy- the best Mules Frites in the world.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Prepare the G-13! (Aug. 20th)
"Amsterdam is pretty." -Me
Third night and I was out of options. My mate Geoff became an Amsterdam ex-pat, too but I never got in touch with him. Instead I stayed at a complete stranger's house! His name was Remy and I asked him straight up if I could sleep at his house after a transaction at a bike shop. He obliged and we stayed up too late drinking beers, playing video games, and making short work of a certain unnamed parcel of contraband I didn't want to travel with (G-13). Broaching the subject of journalism, I was surprised to learn that young Remy was a published reporter in the realm of European high speed trains. He showed me the article, all in Dutch. Dutch is a language Dr. Seuss invented. Remy also encouraged me to get to the ferry and go to England. I booked my ticket and looked at the clock-I could get 5 hours of sleep. I had to do near 100 kilometers, the first bit with rough directions, the longer bit along the North Sea coastline. Forecast was rain. If I left at 8 I would have five hours to make the ferry.
I left the house by 9. I was to the coast by 11. Not good. There was a headwind and I got lost on some foot trails. The headwind increased but somehow the rain never came down hard. I rode along the massive Dunes that wall in the North Sea from eating Holland alive. It was beautiful, and as I made it more south, I found myself in some proper wetlands. I was nostalgic for my bay area childhood. I was also sans a pair of headphones so i was thinking way too much. I rode my bike into the giant ship with minutes to spare, legs trembling from the excruciating pace I had to set in the last half hour.
The ferry was very fancy, and for a while I walked around, trying to find the economy cabin. Alas, it was all first class. I fell asleep laying across two leather benches and was promptly tapped awake by a deckhand saying that if I wanted to sleep, I should rent a sleeping cabin. Yeah right.
Arriving in Harwich, England was magical. The scene was right out of a BBC movie: little houses tucked into lush greenery and hunched over elderly people in Barbour jackets and Mac coats. It was also dark. I had ten miles to my campsite, an interesting sounding one called "The Stranger's Home" that was behind a pub. I was suddenly worried that I wasn't going to be able to handle the dark, windy, driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road roads by myself. Luckily, as I neared the passport checking station an old timer also on a bike offered to ride with me to Bradfield. We rode slowly and talked about the road. Jonathan said he'd just come down through Holland by the same route I had. Suddenly our stories were too similar... both alone, both coming from Holland along the same national route... both biking to Bradfield at 10 PM? Jonathan said he was meeting his wife there. When we parted ways I didn't really care if Jonathan was telling the truth or not, I was just happy to be in my tent in one piece.
Before the tent I drank two pints at the pub and got surprisingly tipsy. The local cider was a treat and the Carlsberg was cold and fresh. I met a couple at the bar who told me some horror stories about traveling in India. I realize now that India is the number one originator of travel horror stories. Apparently the man's lower intestine ruptured on a train and he had to get it totally remade. That meant a colostomy bag for two months in India. He said that he was thankful to have the operation done in India because the same life-saving operation in the UK would be a) incredibly expensive and b) near impossible to do in time before a horrible, poop-related death. Suck on that, Michael Moore!
Tomorrow is a 50-mile ride to Henham. I'm worried about the roads here. They use miles?
ALONE
Amsterdam, Haarlem, Monster (Aug. 18th)
I walked with Dylan to the central station, tiptoeing around the larger puddles, however futile it was. Amsterdam hadn't shown us any sun, but it seemed designed for grayness. Dylan was determined to spend a week in London and I wasn't. He hopped on a train and went. I walked back towards the hostel I'd checked out of earlier in the day. I had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go and nothing to do. Awesome.
Arriving in Amsterdam was like walking into the pages of High Times magazine. The language is mostly Jamaican, people are required by law to wear dreadlocks, and bongs are sheathed at the hip like samurai swords. At customs you're given a gram of G-13 Haze and the option to play with the bomb sniffing dogs for up to half an hour. The train station is totally trippy- all decked out in mushroom caps, pot leaves, peace signs and yin yangs. After walking through the weed forest that surrounds the station, you can board one of the many cat-shaped public transport buses that stealthily crawl all over the city. Then you can totally relax. Totally.
The most stoned person I've ever seen in my life worked the front desk of the hostel. He looked like a really tired and hungry seagull without feathers. He could barely function. By his desk there was a large machine he would inhale weed from like an oxygen tank. Later, he told me after two years in the hospital from a work-related accident he moved to Amsterdam. He was on vacation then decided to stay after finding a job. That was over ten years ago. Somehow I wasn't surprised when he said he spoke zero Dutch. It complements the fact that most Dutch I spoke with didn't smoke tons of weed.
I didn't have any plans after Amsterdam so I made ONE: Return to New York on August 30th. That gives me 12 more days.
The red-light district in Amsterdam really does have hookers in the windows dancing at all hours of the day and night. Most of them are very ugly and only some of them kinda look like porn.
On the train I read Bret Easton Ellis's Less Than Zero in one big gulp, like a handful of pills. I was a little underwhelmed but complaining about the novel would probably be like trying to send a steak back after eating it. It was fine. There were those great disturbing moments that made my hands go numb and forced me to look out the window, but it was child's play compared to American Psycho. Besides, the Millenium trilogy and Dune, (I just started the second book, Dune Messiah), are very hard to stand up to. I'm also reading a Phil Roth about Jews. To characterize: Less then Zero was like a quivering rape victim sandwiched between the literary dynasties of Millennium and Dune.
The hostel had a very strict policy against tobacco. You could smoke weed anywhere, but tobacco was forbidden, even frowned upon. It was the most expensive hostel yet, also the worst. For the complementary breakfast, you got a loaf of wonder bread in a basket and your own personal toaster. The beds were shit. The TV I got so excited about was the size of two iPhones (was it an iPad?). The shower was clogged and moldy. Everyone had to share one toilet. Unreal. And this was one of the better reviewed hostels in town (there are thousands). My future employers will be happy to know I passed out both nights with all my clothes on on top of the covers. Amsterdam's finest lives up to its reputation.
ALONE
Arriving in Amsterdam was like walking into the pages of High Times magazine. The language is mostly Jamaican, people are required by law to wear dreadlocks, and bongs are sheathed at the hip like samurai swords. At customs you're given a gram of G-13 Haze and the option to play with the bomb sniffing dogs for up to half an hour. The train station is totally trippy- all decked out in mushroom caps, pot leaves, peace signs and yin yangs. After walking through the weed forest that surrounds the station, you can board one of the many cat-shaped public transport buses that stealthily crawl all over the city. Then you can totally relax. Totally.
The most stoned person I've ever seen in my life worked the front desk of the hostel. He looked like a really tired and hungry seagull without feathers. He could barely function. By his desk there was a large machine he would inhale weed from like an oxygen tank. Later, he told me after two years in the hospital from a work-related accident he moved to Amsterdam. He was on vacation then decided to stay after finding a job. That was over ten years ago. Somehow I wasn't surprised when he said he spoke zero Dutch. It complements the fact that most Dutch I spoke with didn't smoke tons of weed.
I didn't have any plans after Amsterdam so I made ONE: Return to New York on August 30th. That gives me 12 more days.
The red-light district in Amsterdam really does have hookers in the windows dancing at all hours of the day and night. Most of them are very ugly and only some of them kinda look like porn.
On the train I read Bret Easton Ellis's Less Than Zero in one big gulp, like a handful of pills. I was a little underwhelmed but complaining about the novel would probably be like trying to send a steak back after eating it. It was fine. There were those great disturbing moments that made my hands go numb and forced me to look out the window, but it was child's play compared to American Psycho. Besides, the Millenium trilogy and Dune, (I just started the second book, Dune Messiah), are very hard to stand up to. I'm also reading a Phil Roth about Jews. To characterize: Less then Zero was like a quivering rape victim sandwiched between the literary dynasties of Millennium and Dune.
The hostel had a very strict policy against tobacco. You could smoke weed anywhere, but tobacco was forbidden, even frowned upon. It was the most expensive hostel yet, also the worst. For the complementary breakfast, you got a loaf of wonder bread in a basket and your own personal toaster. The beds were shit. The TV I got so excited about was the size of two iPhones (was it an iPad?). The shower was clogged and moldy. Everyone had to share one toilet. Unreal. And this was one of the better reviewed hostels in town (there are thousands). My future employers will be happy to know I passed out both nights with all my clothes on on top of the covers. Amsterdam's finest lives up to its reputation.
ALONE
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
BERLIN
SORRY, EVERYONE! HERE'S BERLIN! Vingettes of passion.
We're riding down the Eastern Gallery at 3 AM after getting booted from a club. Directly ahead of us are two similar dudes also on bikes. They pass a bottle back and forth, trying to stay in the bike lane. I ride up to one of them and put my hand out for the bottle. The dude-man laughs and hands me the bottle, empty. I ride ahead to his comrade, chuck the bottle in his bike basket and speed off. Swedish. The next day I see one of them in a magazine at the art bookstore.
Our tour guide was extremely emotional all throughout the three hour tour of the Satsi Prison. She was tall and swayed back and forth in the middle of the crowd, violently explaining the violence that took place. She would always end her bits with "but I don't have to tell you what that means" or "you can probably guess what happened", each word slower than the next. She didn't cry, but it felt close. It was a horrifying prison.
I was getting lost in the east, listening to music. A woman outside a storefront ushered me inside, speaking fast German. I entered and saw two beautiful women, one at a desk and one halfway up a library ladder tending to a huge wall of DVDs. I scanned the titles and didn't recognize any of them. They were all names and little pictures. I bolted back out onto the street and walked past a gothic church. Was that a video dating service?
I hadn't ordered anything regrettable until last night. I wanted a big plate of donor kebab with salad and bread on the side. What I got was a plate of red peppers, onions, grease, meat cubes and rice. God damn it! An unwanted ticket to Fart City.
The head Australian held court outside the hostel. It was the one about the hooker in Amsterdam. It was 50 Euro, "brunette all the way", and strictly business. The rest of the boys asked questions, fascinated. The leader cooly smoked a cigarette and didn't even bother talking about his second hooker- his initiation lady was enough. I learned the phrase "have a go" and the word "dingy" (condom).
I went to the most bar-ish looking of the bars with Dylan. There were obscene posters on the walls, an old street sign standing sideways that said "DIE" and girls everywhere. It was Friday and Berlin was dressed up. I was sick of my only set of clothes- the gray nylon pants, the blue shirt, the chambray button up and the white windbreaker. I was especially sick of my shoes, a pair of Tom's that couldn't handle rain. They smelled awful and looked worse, like two dead rats. I smelled awful. I hadn't worn deodorant in a month. I also hadn't showered that day. It was nice to find out later that German girls don't care much about any of these things.
We met some German natives on the couch and we got drunk together. One was tall and blonde and a student, one was a tall, skinny psychiatrist and one didn't speak any English but was very jolly. It was like a scene from a German sitcom. We went to a club and we are all still friends to this day.
The group of French kids were awake early because they hadn't slept for 48 hours. We all went to the subway station together but neither of us Americans had money. When we got the money we didn't have small enough bills to pay for tickets. When we got the small bills and the tickets we were sure we wouldn't make our train to Amsterdam. I was wearing all my layers, sweating in the subway, cursing myself for not biking to the station with a perfectly good bike in fine weather. We made it with little time to spare. I didn't have a ticket for my bike but everything was fine.
We went out to dinner with three beautiful British girls who turned out to be sisters! They said they were leaving Europe (going back to England) after Prague. They only had one more night in Berlin.
I had breakfast in the hostel every morning because I thought it was a good deal.
Rachel hung out with us once even though every night we made some sort of contact, saying we'd meet up later. Eventually I let her have the last word: "let me get in touch wit u lata". She never did but it was a comforting message to leave me with. Something about its optimism or something. The night we did meet up with Rachel we had fun at a dancehall club. I learned how to reggae dance on a weed cruise. Rachel had a friend who was very good looking and we left her at the club with a man and Rachel said something about her being free spirited.
Berlin was a blast.
ALONE
The women are beautiful but they're also huge. They aren't huge in a fat way, they're just big and tall. They use more cloth. They're tan and stylish and if Disney animated them they'd be hot bears.
.
We're riding down the Eastern Gallery at 3 AM after getting booted from a club. Directly ahead of us are two similar dudes also on bikes. They pass a bottle back and forth, trying to stay in the bike lane. I ride up to one of them and put my hand out for the bottle. The dude-man laughs and hands me the bottle, empty. I ride ahead to his comrade, chuck the bottle in his bike basket and speed off. Swedish. The next day I see one of them in a magazine at the art bookstore.
Our tour guide was extremely emotional all throughout the three hour tour of the Satsi Prison. She was tall and swayed back and forth in the middle of the crowd, violently explaining the violence that took place. She would always end her bits with "but I don't have to tell you what that means" or "you can probably guess what happened", each word slower than the next. She didn't cry, but it felt close. It was a horrifying prison.
I was getting lost in the east, listening to music. A woman outside a storefront ushered me inside, speaking fast German. I entered and saw two beautiful women, one at a desk and one halfway up a library ladder tending to a huge wall of DVDs. I scanned the titles and didn't recognize any of them. They were all names and little pictures. I bolted back out onto the street and walked past a gothic church. Was that a video dating service?
I hadn't ordered anything regrettable until last night. I wanted a big plate of donor kebab with salad and bread on the side. What I got was a plate of red peppers, onions, grease, meat cubes and rice. God damn it! An unwanted ticket to Fart City.
The head Australian held court outside the hostel. It was the one about the hooker in Amsterdam. It was 50 Euro, "brunette all the way", and strictly business. The rest of the boys asked questions, fascinated. The leader cooly smoked a cigarette and didn't even bother talking about his second hooker- his initiation lady was enough. I learned the phrase "have a go" and the word "dingy" (condom).
I went to the most bar-ish looking of the bars with Dylan. There were obscene posters on the walls, an old street sign standing sideways that said "DIE" and girls everywhere. It was Friday and Berlin was dressed up. I was sick of my only set of clothes- the gray nylon pants, the blue shirt, the chambray button up and the white windbreaker. I was especially sick of my shoes, a pair of Tom's that couldn't handle rain. They smelled awful and looked worse, like two dead rats. I smelled awful. I hadn't worn deodorant in a month. I also hadn't showered that day. It was nice to find out later that German girls don't care much about any of these things.
We met some German natives on the couch and we got drunk together. One was tall and blonde and a student, one was a tall, skinny psychiatrist and one didn't speak any English but was very jolly. It was like a scene from a German sitcom. We went to a club and we are all still friends to this day.
The group of French kids were awake early because they hadn't slept for 48 hours. We all went to the subway station together but neither of us Americans had money. When we got the money we didn't have small enough bills to pay for tickets. When we got the small bills and the tickets we were sure we wouldn't make our train to Amsterdam. I was wearing all my layers, sweating in the subway, cursing myself for not biking to the station with a perfectly good bike in fine weather. We made it with little time to spare. I didn't have a ticket for my bike but everything was fine.
We went out to dinner with three beautiful British girls who turned out to be sisters! They said they were leaving Europe (going back to England) after Prague. They only had one more night in Berlin.
I had breakfast in the hostel every morning because I thought it was a good deal.
Rachel hung out with us once even though every night we made some sort of contact, saying we'd meet up later. Eventually I let her have the last word: "let me get in touch wit u lata". She never did but it was a comforting message to leave me with. Something about its optimism or something. The night we did meet up with Rachel we had fun at a dancehall club. I learned how to reggae dance on a weed cruise. Rachel had a friend who was very good looking and we left her at the club with a man and Rachel said something about her being free spirited.
Berlin was a blast.
ALONE
The women are beautiful but they're also huge. They aren't huge in a fat way, they're just big and tall. They use more cloth. They're tan and stylish and if Disney animated them they'd be hot bears.
.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
AN UNEXPECTED FAREWELL
Shooting down the road back to Visp from Saas Fee at over 45 MPH, I passed through a tunnel. Small slats in the wall made slivers of light on the asphalt. The light beams danced in the cool morning air. They were projected through a waterfall rushing over the tunnel down to the river 300 meters below.
Today wasn't supposed to be my last day in Switzerland. Although I try to roll with as little plans as possible, I figured I had three days ride to Zurich before I took a train to Germany. But here I am, on a train bound to Berlin.
The morning was amazing. I woke up, packed up and ate as many calories as I could at the buffet. I was riding near a 100 miles with 2 big passes along the way. I paid my dues (two nights at a fantasy hotel or $30) and said my goodbyes. I went down the mountain, all 38 kilometers of it. The first 30 K I was the only person headed downhill. The weather was perfect, and I was reminded once again of how awesome Switzerland's alps are.
On the road to Brig, I thought about luxury. I was constantly cycling to the next bit of free housing or complementary meal. Between destinations I camped. In Europe camping isn't the opposite of luxury but it's damn close. I think I'm about as comfortable as one person can be in a tent, but a room with a bed is so much better. I suppose I could go all the way and camp every night regardless, but that experience would be too limiting in itself. Trains are another luxury on my journey. I could get to Berlin on my bike in a week and a bit. Today I'm doing it in 10 hours.
After Brig was more pleasant riding. Then things started getting vertical. I was hitting 10% grades before noon.
I took note of the lack of road cyclists coming my way. Plenty of sweaty mountain bikers pumping up and down on huge shock absorbers, but no road bikes like mine. I started to get really worried when my signposted road cycling route suddenly turned to gravel. The asphalt came back only to disappear again. I was scared. Suddenly I turned a corner and there was an elaborate cobblestone road so steep I had to get off my bike. An old couple with hiking poles turned to watch the defeated man push his bike up the rocky path.
It was the most beautiful and dangerous riding I've done. I took some of the flat dirt sections well, but I simply didn't have big enough gears to take the steep hills. I got to a bridge and an Italian man let me know the worst was yet to come. After pushing Ginger up 2 K of dirt I made it to the paved road. I cursed the makers of my Swiss map. Upon further examination, I saw there were tiny mountain bike trail signs along the trail, even though it was displayed as a road bike route. I was furious, not only at the incompetence of all Swiss map makers, but also because I had obliterated my testicles on my final mountain bike turn of the day.
I was happy to be on asphalt again. I passed cows with such swollen udders that I wanted to pull over and fill my empty bottles with their unpasturized milk.
The rest of the ride was no cake walk. Rain clouds loomed overhead, and I could smell a storm coming. A considerable headwind had kicked up. I was also hungry. Lucky for me it was Sunday and all markets were closed. I could spend $30 on a mediocre Swiss lunch. I thought about it. I kept on hearing Mr. Wirther say the phrase 'typical Swiss' in my head. I ended up eating all of the 8 bread rolls I took from his hotel buffet.
Then the rain really kicked up and I pondered camping for the night. It was too early. I was in a town where a little train went through a mountain. I took the little train and there was no rain on the other side. Then downhill to where I planned to camp. On a whim I stopped in the train station and jokingly asked if I could get a train to Berlin. They said yes. So I did it. I won't talk about money, but I was relieved to be leaving a nation where money evaporates like water. Had I rode to Zurich, I would have spent just as much camping and eating. Plus I had friends in Berlin. Friends from New York. Am I ready to interact with real people again? I really can't say.
The night train is great. I almost missed it because I took a shower in the Zurich train station. Am I trying to spend the rest of my Swiss Francs? Absolutely. I had dinner in the dining car next to a very regal Italian mother and son who chew with their mouths wide open. This is why I bought ear plugs.
ALoNE
Today wasn't supposed to be my last day in Switzerland. Although I try to roll with as little plans as possible, I figured I had three days ride to Zurich before I took a train to Germany. But here I am, on a train bound to Berlin.
The morning was amazing. I woke up, packed up and ate as many calories as I could at the buffet. I was riding near a 100 miles with 2 big passes along the way. I paid my dues (two nights at a fantasy hotel or $30) and said my goodbyes. I went down the mountain, all 38 kilometers of it. The first 30 K I was the only person headed downhill. The weather was perfect, and I was reminded once again of how awesome Switzerland's alps are.
On the road to Brig, I thought about luxury. I was constantly cycling to the next bit of free housing or complementary meal. Between destinations I camped. In Europe camping isn't the opposite of luxury but it's damn close. I think I'm about as comfortable as one person can be in a tent, but a room with a bed is so much better. I suppose I could go all the way and camp every night regardless, but that experience would be too limiting in itself. Trains are another luxury on my journey. I could get to Berlin on my bike in a week and a bit. Today I'm doing it in 10 hours.
After Brig was more pleasant riding. Then things started getting vertical. I was hitting 10% grades before noon.
I took note of the lack of road cyclists coming my way. Plenty of sweaty mountain bikers pumping up and down on huge shock absorbers, but no road bikes like mine. I started to get really worried when my signposted road cycling route suddenly turned to gravel. The asphalt came back only to disappear again. I was scared. Suddenly I turned a corner and there was an elaborate cobblestone road so steep I had to get off my bike. An old couple with hiking poles turned to watch the defeated man push his bike up the rocky path.
It was the most beautiful and dangerous riding I've done. I took some of the flat dirt sections well, but I simply didn't have big enough gears to take the steep hills. I got to a bridge and an Italian man let me know the worst was yet to come. After pushing Ginger up 2 K of dirt I made it to the paved road. I cursed the makers of my Swiss map. Upon further examination, I saw there were tiny mountain bike trail signs along the trail, even though it was displayed as a road bike route. I was furious, not only at the incompetence of all Swiss map makers, but also because I had obliterated my testicles on my final mountain bike turn of the day.
I was happy to be on asphalt again. I passed cows with such swollen udders that I wanted to pull over and fill my empty bottles with their unpasturized milk.
The rest of the ride was no cake walk. Rain clouds loomed overhead, and I could smell a storm coming. A considerable headwind had kicked up. I was also hungry. Lucky for me it was Sunday and all markets were closed. I could spend $30 on a mediocre Swiss lunch. I thought about it. I kept on hearing Mr. Wirther say the phrase 'typical Swiss' in my head. I ended up eating all of the 8 bread rolls I took from his hotel buffet.
Then the rain really kicked up and I pondered camping for the night. It was too early. I was in a town where a little train went through a mountain. I took the little train and there was no rain on the other side. Then downhill to where I planned to camp. On a whim I stopped in the train station and jokingly asked if I could get a train to Berlin. They said yes. So I did it. I won't talk about money, but I was relieved to be leaving a nation where money evaporates like water. Had I rode to Zurich, I would have spent just as much camping and eating. Plus I had friends in Berlin. Friends from New York. Am I ready to interact with real people again? I really can't say.
The night train is great. I almost missed it because I took a shower in the Zurich train station. Am I trying to spend the rest of my Swiss Francs? Absolutely. I had dinner in the dining car next to a very regal Italian mother and son who chew with their mouths wide open. This is why I bought ear plugs.
ALoNE
Saturday, August 7, 2010
MAXIMUM WAGE
A couple kilometers into the hill I realized I I hadn't really started my 30 kilometer ascent to Saas Fee. Suddenly the grade kicked up a few degrees and I began climbing the 2000 meters of elevation. Traffic was heavy. It was the only road through the Alps. At the crux of the hill and the flat I made eye contact with a girl selling apricots on the side of the road. She gave me a sideways smile.
SLEEPING FOR FREE isn't hard-- it just requires some sneakiness. I was only going to stay one night at the campsite, but bad weather forced another. I wasn't going to pay for it, though. Unfortunately I'd made good friends with the girl at the reception desk, and during my escape we locked eyes. It was a tense moment but she had nothing on me. I was packed up and leaving. For all she knew I was visiting friends. I hope she didn't take it personally.
I was off to a ski resort town in the Alps to meet Mr. Wirth, a successful hotel owner, at his latest acquisition. I got to Visp from Vevey and my directions were simple enough from there. To quote: "go to Visp and then go up." And up I went.
After two days of easy riding I was ready for a challenge. The road to Saas Fee was one giant, 38 kilometer hill cutting into the Alps with over 2000 meters of elevation. There were several towns along the way nestled into mountain cliffs. I traversed over bridges so high in the air I got off and walked my bike out of fear.
I couldn't help feeling silly when I was huffing and puffing through mountain villages where people were going about their daily lives. Sometimes I would have to go through tunnels under mountains. Any car in a tunnel sounds like a freight train.
After Saas Grund (Hasidic Jews everywhere!) the hill really got steep. The switchbacks were tight. It was an exciting last few meters. I turned a corner and suddenly I was face to face with a huge glacier rolling over the Alps above Saas Fee.
Entering Saas Fee you're presented with two options: drive your car into the biggest downward spiral of a parking lot you've ever seen, or turn around and go home. I turned right from the parking sea shell and went in under a gate. The town was jam packed with German speaking Swiss. Given its proximity to the border, I was expecting Italian.
I looked for my hotel and suddenly realized that all the buildings in Saas Fee were hotels. I eventually rolled passed mine. A man pulling weeds in a tiny garden called my name. It was Mr. Wirth! He was tall, happy and wore a red turtleneck. Imagine Werner Herzog as a happy hotel owner.
He showed me to my room, which was actually the owner's suite, and recommended I got some rest. We would meet in two hours and go to dinner. I stood on my balcony and admired the looming glacier up above. Then I took the longest shower ever.
I went to dinner a little less stinky. Mr. Wirth promised me an authentic Swiss experience and he delivered. A three piece band consisting of two accordions and a base played all the Swiss hits. Eventually the restaurant owner joined with his Sax, then his recorder. I let Mr. Wirth order for me. His only question was: "do you like cheese?"
While digging through my cast iron skillet of potato hash, cheese, eggs, ham and pickled vegetables, we talked about the high wages of Swiss workers, how Swiss were possessive and rude most of the time, and covered some basic Swiss history. We finished with herbal tea and a half portion of apple strudel.
During the meal two old Swiss couples danced to the music. One couple was clearly more enthusiastic and eventually booted the other couple off the floor. Something was medically wrong with the dancing man. He could barely walk, and when we complemented him on his moves I noticed he could barely speak. It was really the way he handled his wife. With a plastic grimace on his face, he spun, dipped and pushed his companion around with jerking, quick movements of his arm. She was intensely receptive to his commands, and there was lots of love between the two. After she helped him back to his seat, she would yodel with the band, much to the appreciation of the rest of the diners. "Typically Swiss," remarked Mr. Wirth.
After the meal we went back to the hotel and I ventured out to the festival to meet the girl from the tourism office.
ALONE
Morning came and I drank the perfect amount of coffee: too much. Looking out at the Alps I pondered my next move. Visp-Milan-Munich-Berlin? Visp-Milan-Yugoslavia? This hotel sure is nice.
SLEEPING FOR FREE isn't hard-- it just requires some sneakiness. I was only going to stay one night at the campsite, but bad weather forced another. I wasn't going to pay for it, though. Unfortunately I'd made good friends with the girl at the reception desk, and during my escape we locked eyes. It was a tense moment but she had nothing on me. I was packed up and leaving. For all she knew I was visiting friends. I hope she didn't take it personally.
I was off to a ski resort town in the Alps to meet Mr. Wirth, a successful hotel owner, at his latest acquisition. I got to Visp from Vevey and my directions were simple enough from there. To quote: "go to Visp and then go up." And up I went.
After two days of easy riding I was ready for a challenge. The road to Saas Fee was one giant, 38 kilometer hill cutting into the Alps with over 2000 meters of elevation. There were several towns along the way nestled into mountain cliffs. I traversed over bridges so high in the air I got off and walked my bike out of fear.
I couldn't help feeling silly when I was huffing and puffing through mountain villages where people were going about their daily lives. Sometimes I would have to go through tunnels under mountains. Any car in a tunnel sounds like a freight train.
After Saas Grund (Hasidic Jews everywhere!) the hill really got steep. The switchbacks were tight. It was an exciting last few meters. I turned a corner and suddenly I was face to face with a huge glacier rolling over the Alps above Saas Fee.
Entering Saas Fee you're presented with two options: drive your car into the biggest downward spiral of a parking lot you've ever seen, or turn around and go home. I turned right from the parking sea shell and went in under a gate. The town was jam packed with German speaking Swiss. Given its proximity to the border, I was expecting Italian.
I looked for my hotel and suddenly realized that all the buildings in Saas Fee were hotels. I eventually rolled passed mine. A man pulling weeds in a tiny garden called my name. It was Mr. Wirth! He was tall, happy and wore a red turtleneck. Imagine Werner Herzog as a happy hotel owner.
He showed me to my room, which was actually the owner's suite, and recommended I got some rest. We would meet in two hours and go to dinner. I stood on my balcony and admired the looming glacier up above. Then I took the longest shower ever.
I went to dinner a little less stinky. Mr. Wirth promised me an authentic Swiss experience and he delivered. A three piece band consisting of two accordions and a base played all the Swiss hits. Eventually the restaurant owner joined with his Sax, then his recorder. I let Mr. Wirth order for me. His only question was: "do you like cheese?"
While digging through my cast iron skillet of potato hash, cheese, eggs, ham and pickled vegetables, we talked about the high wages of Swiss workers, how Swiss were possessive and rude most of the time, and covered some basic Swiss history. We finished with herbal tea and a half portion of apple strudel.
During the meal two old Swiss couples danced to the music. One couple was clearly more enthusiastic and eventually booted the other couple off the floor. Something was medically wrong with the dancing man. He could barely walk, and when we complemented him on his moves I noticed he could barely speak. It was really the way he handled his wife. With a plastic grimace on his face, he spun, dipped and pushed his companion around with jerking, quick movements of his arm. She was intensely receptive to his commands, and there was lots of love between the two. After she helped him back to his seat, she would yodel with the band, much to the appreciation of the rest of the diners. "Typically Swiss," remarked Mr. Wirth.
After the meal we went back to the hotel and I ventured out to the festival to meet the girl from the tourism office.
ALONE
Morning came and I drank the perfect amount of coffee: too much. Looking out at the Alps I pondered my next move. Visp-Milan-Munich-Berlin? Visp-Milan-Yugoslavia? This hotel sure is nice.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
CHILLED TO THE BONE ROAST
The Australian couple finally asked me to join them on their blanket. It was a warm night in Switzerland and I bought us all a round of canned beers. We drank and talked about the road. By now most of my stories were well rehearsed. They talked over each other competitively. Their's weren't. They had the same stories to tell, and no way of delegating the role of speaker. I got up to get ready for bed. We said we'd see each other in the morning. That night a storm was brewing. When I stepped out of my tent in the morning it was raining and the Australians were gone.
I HAVE MISCALCULATED. It's not hot
and sunny here everyday like in France.
I got to Pully only to find an email from my host saying his son was in the hospital and couldn't host me. I biked down lakeside and immediately found two campsites. I parked at the one in Vevey and set up shop.
There was wi fi at the campsite restaurant so I packed myself a sardine dinner and stepped inside. The waiter watched me open a store bought beer and expressed his anger. After apologizing, I chugged the whole beer in front of him. He darted off, returned and placed an 8 Franc beer in front of me that in was forced to drink and pay for. Now I was a little tipsy and borderline angry.
In rebellion, I fixed and ate a greasy sardine sandwich right outside the entrance to the restaurant. I made sure to drain the can on the restaurant's property. The owner of the campsite sprayed me and my hobo mess with a garden hose after I told him to fuck off.
Later, I snuck back into the restaurant where my broken computer was charging secretly under a table. Earlier in the day I'd taken the computer to a repair man in the city. To my dismay it worked perfectly for the first time since it stopped working. The computer man laughed at me. When I tried it again at the campsite it was broken. Switzerland is haunted.
The girl who works the reception desk is cute. Later, she was pulling weeds in the garden. I like her little, white gardening shorts.
I went for a swim in the lake and then took my four minute, one dollar shower. I read my book and walked around. I ate some more of the 18 granola bars I bought at the supermarket the day before. The 2-for-1 granola bar deal was the only promotion in the market. I drank beers with Austalians and played cards with some German Swiss girls. Lesbians? Dude, awesome. In the middle of the night the wind blew my tent around. The morning was a hard rain situation. It was so bad I didn't even say good morning to Ginger. I played cards with the Swiss girls again and read. My friend emailed me trying to get me to come to Berlin but it's not as easily done as he claims it is. It's expensive. Everything is. My breakfast (a
baguette and a coffee) cost 11 francs. My next destination is to meet up with the owner of a ski resort. A friend got me in touch with him and it could be great. But if I'm cold here, how cold will I be up there at 5000 ft elevation?
In my experience so far Swiss French speakers have a serious attitude problem. Why would you openly hate tourists at a campsite? Did they make a campsite just to have a place to gather victims and channel their hatred?
The rain is bringing me down. I long for Germany and Garric.
ALONE
I HAVE MISCALCULATED. It's not hot
and sunny here everyday like in France.
I got to Pully only to find an email from my host saying his son was in the hospital and couldn't host me. I biked down lakeside and immediately found two campsites. I parked at the one in Vevey and set up shop.
There was wi fi at the campsite restaurant so I packed myself a sardine dinner and stepped inside. The waiter watched me open a store bought beer and expressed his anger. After apologizing, I chugged the whole beer in front of him. He darted off, returned and placed an 8 Franc beer in front of me that in was forced to drink and pay for. Now I was a little tipsy and borderline angry.
In rebellion, I fixed and ate a greasy sardine sandwich right outside the entrance to the restaurant. I made sure to drain the can on the restaurant's property. The owner of the campsite sprayed me and my hobo mess with a garden hose after I told him to fuck off.
Later, I snuck back into the restaurant where my broken computer was charging secretly under a table. Earlier in the day I'd taken the computer to a repair man in the city. To my dismay it worked perfectly for the first time since it stopped working. The computer man laughed at me. When I tried it again at the campsite it was broken. Switzerland is haunted.
The girl who works the reception desk is cute. Later, she was pulling weeds in the garden. I like her little, white gardening shorts.
I went for a swim in the lake and then took my four minute, one dollar shower. I read my book and walked around. I ate some more of the 18 granola bars I bought at the supermarket the day before. The 2-for-1 granola bar deal was the only promotion in the market. I drank beers with Austalians and played cards with some German Swiss girls. Lesbians? Dude, awesome. In the middle of the night the wind blew my tent around. The morning was a hard rain situation. It was so bad I didn't even say good morning to Ginger. I played cards with the Swiss girls again and read. My friend emailed me trying to get me to come to Berlin but it's not as easily done as he claims it is. It's expensive. Everything is. My breakfast (a
baguette and a coffee) cost 11 francs. My next destination is to meet up with the owner of a ski resort. A friend got me in touch with him and it could be great. But if I'm cold here, how cold will I be up there at 5000 ft elevation?
In my experience so far Swiss French speakers have a serious attitude problem. Why would you openly hate tourists at a campsite? Did they make a campsite just to have a place to gather victims and channel their hatred?
The rain is bringing me down. I long for Germany and Garric.
ALONE
INTO THE HEART OF SWISSNESS
Seconds before walking out the door back onto the streets my bike tire exploded. It was Dan, my most troublesome companion, and she would have finally be replaced.
You've been a very bad girl and now you must be replaced.
I'd patched her twice on the road, and I looked at the patchwork fondly as I scanned the tube for the culprit hole. The problem was a huge slash at the base of the valve. I decided it wasn't worth fixing. I replaced the tube and reluctantly headed out the door into Geneva.
The metaphor of Dan's demise is so inspiring to me. It also highlights some deep character flaws.
OUT OF ALL the major European cites I've either sped through or stayed in, Geneva would probably be the place I could see myself living in the most. It's diverse, lively and practical. Even though it seems expensive it isn't that bad. The Swiss Franc is a little above the dollar. Going to the movies costs $18, but worse things could happen. It's beautiful and interesting. It makes me want to learn French and go into finance. I could settle for a Swiss wife.
But I had to leave, naturally. I always leave. I'll admit I felt a lot more comfortable in France. Switzerland feels a little more conservative, or maybe rigid is the right word. I feel like if I really begged a French person to let me sleep in their front yard it would happen. I don't see that happening with the Swiss. Although I do see fondue happening in my future.
Campsites seem sparse. I'm hoping I'll get to the wilderness fast enough to camp for free, but then again that's the wilderness. In France I was hitting a town every ten minutes, what will the wilderness do to me? For one, I'm nowhere warm enough. For two, I have limited space for food-- maybe two meals worth max. And for three I'm scared of forest beasts-- especially Yetis.
I accomplished none of my goals this morning. I got a message saying my wallet was stolen. After not finding my wallet amongst my things, I accepted the possibility that the message wasn't a scam. The man who had it was the owner of the sketchy Internet cafe I'd visited the day before. I arrived before opening and knocked on the door. The man handed me my wallet, now empty of Euros and Francs. He said he found the wallet in front of the cafe. I half believed him. I was just happy they left me my Swiss bank credit card.
After that I ate some catfood in a baguette and cleaned up some things. I hastily packed my bags. The whole time I was worried. I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going. I had a place to stay the night after, so tonight would have to be a leap of faith evening. I had no map. Instead of buying one I bought another book three sardine cans thick. Am I trying to ruin myself?
Praise Christ I found an expensive campsite on the lake halfway to Pully, my next destination. Things are alright for now.
ALONE
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
EVERY TOURIST'S WET DREAM
I was waiting at the Starbucks outside the Geneva train station for an hour, trying to connect with someone. I would have ordered a coffee but everything was so expensive. The man at the counter gave me the wi-fi password no questions asked. Outside, a guy named Carlos let me use his Swiss phone. Later, Michael, my step step uncle would burst through the crowd and double point at me with blazing intensity. Fireworks were going off and Geneva was buzzing. I was safe.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT a "rent-a-boy" bar is but I had a pretty good idea I wasn't going to love it. I opted for the other option- an alternative bar. Michael made it clear he was hitting the town tonight. No straight bars. We parked our bikes outside and went in. It was very low key and friendly. Older men sat spare at the bar, making eyes. We drank giant beers. I downed my first one in a matter of gulps. No dinner yet.
Michael is my quadralingual, gay, finance working, step step uncle and I was surprised he was buying me drinks. I'd never met the guy, let alone heard of him. At the bar we met Stefan, his partner of ten years. Stefan is quiet and dark, with a youthful jolt in his wrists. He left before us and we did another round. The bartender addmitted to me he was jealous I was going home with Michael. I didn't have to say much to dissapoint him further.
Michael cooked me pasta and fixed me a salad. We watched French TV and talked about family. I passed out.
I woke with a pulsing headache. Beer really gets me. Lucky for me Stefan and Michael had a load of activities in store. We were going swimming, kayaking, biking, lounging, girl hunting, museum trekking and beer driking.
We biked down to a lakeside entry point and blew up the raft. I went for a quick swim. Before I could sun myself dry Stefan came running up, yelling at me to shower off. Apparently a parasite lives in the lake that burrows in your skin if you don't rinse properly. I quickly made for the shower.
I kayaked alongside Michael as he practiced his swimming for an upcoming triatholon. We switched places eventually and when we got back to shore I taught him the butterfly stroke the best I could.
The girls in Switzerland are so tragically ugly. Especiallz the near naked ones on the beach. Poor things.
We went to a foodstand next to the Geneva Museum of Obsolete Scientific Equiptment. We had sandwiches and beers. A pregnant woman in a yellow bikini complained about the freshness of her sandwich. I don't think she realized the sandwiches were from a bag. Then a DJ started spinning reggae and we left.
Stephan led the way to a bar thing that was a giant outdoor peninsula covered in people. It looked like seals on the pier in San Francisco. They promised me women. I feel asleep on the peninsula to the dismay of the beached Swiss beauties. I woke to an unexpected rainstorm and we made off for home.
At the apartment I feel asleep again. We went to a very fancy pizza restaurant. It was delicious and everyone working there was italian. When the bill was questionable Michael broke into flawless Italian, gesturing to our waitress like a native speaker. The bill was sorted and we went to the Swiss independence day parade. There was a promenade decorated with projections and flags and foodstands and people in costume. There was a very surreal show after a long speech that culminated in a pyre fire. Then there was more avant guarde performances and dancing. After a billion tall cans of beer we walked back home and watched French TV. I feel asleep.
I woke at 3 AM to see Michael standing in the kitchen devouring a bag of chips. I think it was part of his triatholon training. With everz dramatic crunch of chips he would toss his head back in ecstacy. I patiently waited until he crumpled the bag up and went to sleep. I wondered if he was sleepwalking.
The next day I saw Inception, got lost, and then got robbed. They took all my Euros and the 10 Swiss Francs I had. Drat. I did manage to get one of the robber's testicles and I'm sending it to the lab for analysis. Maybe I can solve this mystery and get my money back.
ALONE $£$
On Swiss keyboards the z and the y are switched. I think I did okaz, though. Camping tonight, Pully tomorrow.
Monday, August 2, 2010
BACK TO DANGER
That was it-- no more lights. I was somewhere on a road outside Narbonne and it was pitch black. I knew I was within 3000 meters of a campsite-- that was the last sign I saw. I searched desperately for another sign in vain. It was nearly 23:00. I slowed down to let cars light the road from behind me. They honked. My heart raced. I let another car pass. Was this the entrance? Yes. I was in front of the site! 20 euros a night? I'm not paying. I'm a brave, unorganized man who sleeps for free.
LEAVING GARRIC MANOR in Montreal was the worst and best decision I've made so far on my journey. It was the best because I I went out on top of two weeks of luxury culminating in some serious friendships and eye-opening experiences. Wine every night. Laughter. Children. Barcelona. All an incredible memory. I think I also gained my all wieght back. And then some.
It was the worst because I really could have stayed. It would have saved me the hardest two days of riding yet-- including a nasty spill down a gravel hill and 100 degree heat. I also could have been in a real bed, with real friends in a really comfortable zone.
But I've continued on. I headed east from Garric without getting lost to Minerve- a city built into a giant canyon in the black alps. It was spectacular. I decided to stay at the nearest site, which was up yet another giant hill (it was a very uphill day thus far). Nearing the site, I realized I had no money, food or water. The essentials. Back down the hill. Right before the city entrance I encountered some gravel. I didn't stand a chance.
I had to break and I did. Something turned and my weight moved. Then the slow motion started and I was sliding on my side down the gravel path. Onlooking Frenchies came to my aide. I waved them off with a laugh. Nothing broken. Bike in tact. Blood streaming out of arm. Throbbing pain in leg. Clothes ripped.
I went to a nearby outdoor sink to clean my wounds. I howled as I pulled a
large piece of gravel out of my arm. In the sink there were three coffee mugs and some dish soap. I rubbed the dish soap over my wound, snarling at the sharp pains. I watched the soapy water in the coffee mugs below me turn red. I felt eyes on me. I turned to see a woman holding a dish rag, waiting to wash her mugs now filled with bloody soap water. Oh and I was also at the threshold of the ladies room cursing like a banshee.
Ginger sustained little damage in the crash apart from a crooked drop bar and some ripped rubber.
Where was the nearest ATM? Twenty kilometers south. Where was the nearest campsite? Not far from there, actually. I pulled up to a large gate, money replenished, ready to camp. I pressed a button and a very relaxed, tan, man with long hair walked out to meet me. "camping?" I asked. "yes." he said. Then he asked: "are you a naturalist?"
It took me two seconds to realize what a naturalist was. The relaxed man in front of me had probably been nude just before walking through the gate and no doubt he was going to rip off those linen pants when he went back inside. He did send me off with a warning, though. "No camping" he said, pointing to my destination on the map. Later that evening, biking in darkness, I would regret not being a naturalist for one night.
I continued. And continued. I bought some bread and anchovies and beer in anticipation of the eventual campsite dinner. Nothing. A few miles from Narbonne I noticed the sun was going down. Headlights were on and people honked at me. "Thanks!" I'd scream, "I forgot I was on a bike riding down a French highway at dusk!"
Usually when I'm riding on the road I sing very loud. I come up with new songs and improve on old ones. I make dirty lyrics for classics. I have limited musical theater knowledge but I do my best renditions. The music died when the sun went down that day. I could no longer sing. I was starting to get scared.
When I did finally park my bike behind a tree in a far off campsite I vanquished an entire beer to cool my nerves. I showered and set my clothes out to dry. I asked a girl sitting at a table in the next campsite over if I could join her and she obliged. I ate a lemon and basil sardine sandwich with a peach soda and chocolate biscuits after. It isn't Garric quality- but I know how to treat myself on the road for cheap. I slept horribly.
I woke at seven and went to Biezers from Narbonne. The big jump in kilometers was from Biezers to Montpillier and that's when it got very hot. For one euro I bought a sack of old pastries from a bakery. After an hour in my bag they tasted oven fresh! By far the best thing that happened that day.
As I pressed on. The amount of old French men on bicycles started going down. I only ever encounter old men cyclists on the road. The heat would have killed the old men. My advantage!
Slowly the kilometers inched by and I found myself on the outskirts of Montpellier- a city I didn't care about for the time being. The train station was as hard to find as it was hot outside. I just wanted to be on a train with a cold beer in my hand- preferably nestled between the chilled breasts of a Swiss goddess who would invite me to stay at her party mansion.
Instead, I got on the train (no air conditioning) without liquid (beverage car closed, vending machines out of order) and sat next to a modern day French Aladdin who curled up under the seat when the ticket man came to avoid a $200 dollar ticket. I went to the bathroom and when I came back he had been caught. Stupid Aladdin.
The drink car was closed for some reason but a nice gypsy lady gave me some water. This allowed me to eat another sardine sandwich. I hope for the sake of the other passengers the smell of fish was a welcome addition from the smell of me.
Now I'm going to Geneva. My original reason for doing this was to meet up with Dylan Golden but apparently he picked up and went to Paris to hang out with some of his friends of a higher caliber. But now I'll make it for the international Swiss day thing that's tomorrow. Fireworks!
I haven't had time to get properly sad about leaving the manor Garric. Hold on. Ok.
Now I'm sad. Oh, Gusti, with your sugar addictedness and your smarts and your constant pestering to trampoline! Oh, William, with your insults and candid moments of genius! Oh, Joe, with your string bean stature and a Lego heart of gold! Oh, Jasmine, you future heartbreaker beyond your years! Oh Teddy, you opare wanna-be. You'll all reach your dreams! Touch the stars! Tan the leather hide of life!
Adults: you know where I stand. They will get hand written letters.
ALONE
LEAVING GARRIC MANOR in Montreal was the worst and best decision I've made so far on my journey. It was the best because I I went out on top of two weeks of luxury culminating in some serious friendships and eye-opening experiences. Wine every night. Laughter. Children. Barcelona. All an incredible memory. I think I also gained my all wieght back. And then some.
It was the worst because I really could have stayed. It would have saved me the hardest two days of riding yet-- including a nasty spill down a gravel hill and 100 degree heat. I also could have been in a real bed, with real friends in a really comfortable zone.
But I've continued on. I headed east from Garric without getting lost to Minerve- a city built into a giant canyon in the black alps. It was spectacular. I decided to stay at the nearest site, which was up yet another giant hill (it was a very uphill day thus far). Nearing the site, I realized I had no money, food or water. The essentials. Back down the hill. Right before the city entrance I encountered some gravel. I didn't stand a chance.
I had to break and I did. Something turned and my weight moved. Then the slow motion started and I was sliding on my side down the gravel path. Onlooking Frenchies came to my aide. I waved them off with a laugh. Nothing broken. Bike in tact. Blood streaming out of arm. Throbbing pain in leg. Clothes ripped.
I went to a nearby outdoor sink to clean my wounds. I howled as I pulled a
large piece of gravel out of my arm. In the sink there were three coffee mugs and some dish soap. I rubbed the dish soap over my wound, snarling at the sharp pains. I watched the soapy water in the coffee mugs below me turn red. I felt eyes on me. I turned to see a woman holding a dish rag, waiting to wash her mugs now filled with bloody soap water. Oh and I was also at the threshold of the ladies room cursing like a banshee.
Ginger sustained little damage in the crash apart from a crooked drop bar and some ripped rubber.
Where was the nearest ATM? Twenty kilometers south. Where was the nearest campsite? Not far from there, actually. I pulled up to a large gate, money replenished, ready to camp. I pressed a button and a very relaxed, tan, man with long hair walked out to meet me. "camping?" I asked. "yes." he said. Then he asked: "are you a naturalist?"
It took me two seconds to realize what a naturalist was. The relaxed man in front of me had probably been nude just before walking through the gate and no doubt he was going to rip off those linen pants when he went back inside. He did send me off with a warning, though. "No camping" he said, pointing to my destination on the map. Later that evening, biking in darkness, I would regret not being a naturalist for one night.
I continued. And continued. I bought some bread and anchovies and beer in anticipation of the eventual campsite dinner. Nothing. A few miles from Narbonne I noticed the sun was going down. Headlights were on and people honked at me. "Thanks!" I'd scream, "I forgot I was on a bike riding down a French highway at dusk!"
Usually when I'm riding on the road I sing very loud. I come up with new songs and improve on old ones. I make dirty lyrics for classics. I have limited musical theater knowledge but I do my best renditions. The music died when the sun went down that day. I could no longer sing. I was starting to get scared.
When I did finally park my bike behind a tree in a far off campsite I vanquished an entire beer to cool my nerves. I showered and set my clothes out to dry. I asked a girl sitting at a table in the next campsite over if I could join her and she obliged. I ate a lemon and basil sardine sandwich with a peach soda and chocolate biscuits after. It isn't Garric quality- but I know how to treat myself on the road for cheap. I slept horribly.
I woke at seven and went to Biezers from Narbonne. The big jump in kilometers was from Biezers to Montpillier and that's when it got very hot. For one euro I bought a sack of old pastries from a bakery. After an hour in my bag they tasted oven fresh! By far the best thing that happened that day.
As I pressed on. The amount of old French men on bicycles started going down. I only ever encounter old men cyclists on the road. The heat would have killed the old men. My advantage!
Slowly the kilometers inched by and I found myself on the outskirts of Montpellier- a city I didn't care about for the time being. The train station was as hard to find as it was hot outside. I just wanted to be on a train with a cold beer in my hand- preferably nestled between the chilled breasts of a Swiss goddess who would invite me to stay at her party mansion.
Instead, I got on the train (no air conditioning) without liquid (beverage car closed, vending machines out of order) and sat next to a modern day French Aladdin who curled up under the seat when the ticket man came to avoid a $200 dollar ticket. I went to the bathroom and when I came back he had been caught. Stupid Aladdin.
The drink car was closed for some reason but a nice gypsy lady gave me some water. This allowed me to eat another sardine sandwich. I hope for the sake of the other passengers the smell of fish was a welcome addition from the smell of me.
Now I'm going to Geneva. My original reason for doing this was to meet up with Dylan Golden but apparently he picked up and went to Paris to hang out with some of his friends of a higher caliber. But now I'll make it for the international Swiss day thing that's tomorrow. Fireworks!
I haven't had time to get properly sad about leaving the manor Garric. Hold on. Ok.
Now I'm sad. Oh, Gusti, with your sugar addictedness and your smarts and your constant pestering to trampoline! Oh, William, with your insults and candid moments of genius! Oh, Joe, with your string bean stature and a Lego heart of gold! Oh, Jasmine, you future heartbreaker beyond your years! Oh Teddy, you opare wanna-be. You'll all reach your dreams! Touch the stars! Tan the leather hide of life!
Adults: you know where I stand. They will get hand written letters.
ALONE
Thursday, July 29, 2010
SPIKES ON THE WHIP
Somewhere between the Spanish Border and Narbonne we started talking about torture devices. Teddy started describing what a Cat O' Nine Tails was and I remembered it as the whip they whipped Jesus with in The Passion of The Christ. Teddy had never seen The Passion, but she knew about the spikes on the whip that ripped Christ's flesh out. Teddy should see The Passion-- the Cat O' Nine Tails scene is great.
I WARNED TEDDY before we left for Barcelona: "Spain is a lawless, crazy place."
The guardian angel Karin rented Teddy a car out of Carcassonne for some days off to explore. After much deliberation Teddy finally made a move: let's go to Barcelona- it's only 300 KM away and it isn't the south of France.
The drive out was smooth enough in the beginning, hold a couple toll-booth freakouts and some road rage. The A-61 is a very nice highway. As soon as you get closer to Spain you get a feeling that maybe people drive crazy here. It is a lawless, crazy place after all.
We had a night and a day. The plan was to party the night away on arrival, stay in a hostel, then wake up and tour the shit out of Barcelona the next day. On the road home we would camp in the Pyrenees, then return the car early in Carcassonne Thursday morning. Things would NOT go as planned.
If the one-way, up-and-down hilly-ness of San Fransisco was chopped into little pieces then mashed together without any street signs you might get a map of Barcelona. Chaos. People don't just park in Barcelona, they double park. They put on their emergency lights and leave their car for the day- making a two lane death trap one-way Kamikaze mission. The motorcyclists all have death wishes, and the locals aren't afraid to slow down and give you a piece of their mind in mind-boggling, lispy Spanish. I was armed with three different maps of the city and we still got incredibly lost. We drove by the Olympic park, up through the Center and next to three different parks we didn't want to be in. Once we ended up on the highway right back out of town. At one park we asked a man how to get to our hostel. I pointed on the map and kindly asked him for directions in my best restaurant Spanish. His response, word for word: "People don't usually go from here to there."
Defeated and thirsty for beer, we put the car in a garage and walked to the hostel, which turned out to be at the top of a very steep mountain a mile upwards and away from any form of public transportation. The hostel was a very cool place. If the Disney channel sponsored an after-school hangout zone for Christian skateboarders it would look like our hostel. Then we got a well-deserved beer and some TAPAS. After officially moving into the Hostel (our first of many trips from the top of the mountain to the parking garage at its base), we took the metro to the Sagrada Familia cathedral designed by Spanish nutcase architect Gaudi.
The best description I heard of the Sagrada Familia was 'mutant church'. At first glance it looks like the aliens of the movie Aliens put their goo all over a big catholic church and set up camp. But as you look closer you notice it's all methodically planned out-- with saints carved in into the walls and colorful bowls of fruit mosaicked to life atop the high towers. We had a dinner of paella and sangria under the creepy steeples. Teddy looked ravishing in a navy tube-top and high-wasted black trousers. I looked as homeless as ever in my one cotton shirt (that doubles as my towel on the road) and my gray nylon pants. After dinner we hit the clubs. Bigtime.
We stumbled into our eight person dorm room after drinking three one-Euro beers from the vending machine downstairs. Three one-Euro beers from the vending machine downstairs. Three one-Euro beers from the vending machine downstairs. Sleep.
Up at nine. Coffee on the way to the metro. Metro is surprisingly clean, organized and futuristic. Opposite of streets. VERY HOT OUTSIDE. Wanted to stay underground. Got above ground at Casa Mila-- a classic Gaudi aparment complex. Up the elevator. Roof covered in modernist sculpture. Who wouldn't want an erect, spiky penis on their roof?
Exit through the gift shop out onto street. Walk by Casa Batllo. Continue to the center city. Walk down Las Ramblas- finish at Christopher Columbus pillar thingy. Hungry. Walk through the Gothic Quarter. Find small, dark, leopard printed restaurant. 9 euro menu. Gazpacho, whole baked fish, coffee. Delicious. Re-energized. Walk North through Gothic Quarter. Back at center. Take metro waaaay north to Park Guell, another Gaudi monument of silliness. Park mesmerizing-- walk around speechless with thousands of other jaw-dropped tourists for an hour and a half. Come to the realization that Gaudi isn't just the Spanish Dr. Seuss of architecture.
Back to the hostel up the mountain. Check out. Drag bags down mountain to the car. We've lost our ticket. Negotiate price with angry Spanish man. Exit. Buy gifts for host family.
Did we do Barcelona in one day? I think I can say yes.
As soon as we made our way out onto the streets from our triumphant day in Barcelona we were going the wrong way. Eventually we were lost down the road. We circled around the highway like vultures to roadkill. Three maps prove fruitless. Eventually we make it onto highway. Connect to other highway.
Five hours in the car.
We were doing so well. Then we both crack. I started making snide comments about Teddy's driving and she called me some choice names. Last 10 km in silence. Finally back to the house. Food. A bottle of wine. Company. Thank god. Watched the rest of Michael Clayton alone. Amazing movie. Amazing trip. Barcelona is a crazy, lawless place. Feelings unhurt.
ALONE
Heading East tomorrow.
Monday, July 26, 2010
SPECIAL BONUS: Someone Else's Dreams
These are my my life goals in order of importance. I'm in the middle #2, #11 I think I did once, #26 is going to be tricky AND dangerous and #17 is always a challenge ;). Check out the rest of the list I spent A LOT of time on it. Now where the heck can I get my hands on a mango?
1 Run a marathon
2 Go to Europe
3 Go to Nauvoo
4 All my children happy and healthy
5 Write a Book "funny mommy days"
6 Keep whole house spotless for a week
7 No children in diapers
8 Loose 39 lbs
9 Find someone
10 Paint a masterpiece
11 Relate to someone on an intelligent level
12 Masters
13 Doctorate degree
14 Save my way to a million
15 Teach Gabriel and Hyrum to read proficiently
16 Pay off all debt in 5 years
17 Sit through Sacrament meeting happily
18 pull off a successful Girls camp
19 Travel to
great wall of china
20 pyramids of Egypt
21 go inside a real castle
22 help with Aides in Africa
23 teach hygiene in India
24 help orphans in China
25 learn more, to help with poverty in south
26 speak and understand Ebonics
27 Stop "baby momma syndrome"
28 serve a mission
29 or two
30 or three
31 temple mission
32 or two
33 or three
34 spoil my grand kids with cookie making and housecleaning
35 teach my kids to be financially savvy
36 Teach Russians to smile
37 be an advocate for mothers and families
38 have all my children graduate with a bachelors without debt
39 learn to balance my time- so I can finish each day with a smile knowing that I did my best
40 go on a week long bike trip with my family
41 do a triathlon
42 memorize 5 poems
43 read 2 c.s. lewis books
44 make my husband feel like the best man in the world
45 teach the boys how to provide for their families
46 teach my girls to proficiently mother, budget, feed, clean, and nurture their families
47 No empty seats
48 make a garden oasis in my backyard
49 learn to dry wall
50 learn to restore hard wood floors
51 decorate my home
52 keep my car clean
53 memorize all scripture mastery's
54 sew my next dress
55 teach early morning seminary
56 read the standard works and all past conference issues before I am 30
57 consistently wake up at 6
58 1 year supply
59 6 month emergency fund
60 weekly date with Honey
61 weekly FHE
62 Nightly scripture study
63 2 a day family prayers
64 consistently go to bed at 10
65 drive to Boston and see the historical sites along the way
66 go to canada
67 go to samoa
68 go to tonga
69 listen to the islanders sing as much as possible
70 plant rasberry bushes
71 never have a bad day
72 create a family history book that goes back 5 generations full of stories and pictures
73 watch my thoughts always! no gossiping even in my mind
74 buy a farm in Idaho
75 build a house for the kids to visit us in
76 go where he wants us to go
77 carve a figure out of wood
78 get a yearly family picture
79 make a cd with Tom
80 or two
81 or three
82 learn basic car maintenance- no more paying for oil changes! wahoo!
83 be content but not complacent
84 swim with a dolphin
85 make 1000 quilts to give away
86 help make our parents retirements happy
87 Retire with dignity
88 don't let anything from the garden go to waste this summer!
89 teach Hyrum to quite sucking his thumb
90 Teach Gabriel to quite screaming
91 recycle
92 Go to Brazil
93 speak fluent portugese
94 speak fluent spanish
95 play in a family band or sing in a family choir at a concert
96 make curtains for each room- or buy them- but get them up before we move
97 adopt a child -no age requirement
98 foster parent
99 eat a fresh mango
100 eat a chocolate fruit: Black Sapote
1 Run a marathon
2 Go to Europe
3 Go to Nauvoo
4 All my children happy and healthy
5 Write a Book "funny mommy days"
6 Keep whole house spotless for a week
7 No children in diapers
8 Loose 39 lbs
9 Find someone
10 Paint a masterpiece
11 Relate to someone on an intelligent level
12 Masters
13 Doctorate degree
14 Save my way to a million
15 Teach Gabriel and Hyrum to read proficiently
16 Pay off all debt in 5 years
17 Sit through Sacrament meeting happily
18 pull off a successful Girls camp
19 Travel to
great wall of china
20 pyramids of Egypt
21 go inside a real castle
22 help with Aides in Africa
23 teach hygiene in India
24 help orphans in China
25 learn more, to help with poverty in south
26 speak and understand Ebonics
27 Stop "baby momma syndrome"
28 serve a mission
29 or two
30 or three
31 temple mission
32 or two
33 or three
34 spoil my grand kids with cookie making and housecleaning
35 teach my kids to be financially savvy
36 Teach Russians to smile
37 be an advocate for mothers and families
38 have all my children graduate with a bachelors without debt
39 learn to balance my time- so I can finish each day with a smile knowing that I did my best
40 go on a week long bike trip with my family
41 do a triathlon
42 memorize 5 poems
43 read 2 c.s. lewis books
44 make my husband feel like the best man in the world
45 teach the boys how to provide for their families
46 teach my girls to proficiently mother, budget, feed, clean, and nurture their families
47 No empty seats
48 make a garden oasis in my backyard
49 learn to dry wall
50 learn to restore hard wood floors
51 decorate my home
52 keep my car clean
53 memorize all scripture mastery's
54 sew my next dress
55 teach early morning seminary
56 read the standard works and all past conference issues before I am 30
57 consistently wake up at 6
58 1 year supply
59 6 month emergency fund
60 weekly date with Honey
61 weekly FHE
62 Nightly scripture study
63 2 a day family prayers
64 consistently go to bed at 10
65 drive to Boston and see the historical sites along the way
66 go to canada
67 go to samoa
68 go to tonga
69 listen to the islanders sing as much as possible
70 plant rasberry bushes
71 never have a bad day
72 create a family history book that goes back 5 generations full of stories and pictures
73 watch my thoughts always! no gossiping even in my mind
74 buy a farm in Idaho
75 build a house for the kids to visit us in
76 go where he wants us to go
77 carve a figure out of wood
78 get a yearly family picture
79 make a cd with Tom
80 or two
81 or three
82 learn basic car maintenance- no more paying for oil changes! wahoo!
83 be content but not complacent
84 swim with a dolphin
85 make 1000 quilts to give away
86 help make our parents retirements happy
87 Retire with dignity
88 don't let anything from the garden go to waste this summer!
89 teach Hyrum to quite sucking his thumb
90 Teach Gabriel to quite screaming
91 recycle
92 Go to Brazil
93 speak fluent portugese
94 speak fluent spanish
95 play in a family band or sing in a family choir at a concert
96 make curtains for each room- or buy them- but get them up before we move
97 adopt a child -no age requirement
98 foster parent
99 eat a fresh mango
100 eat a chocolate fruit: Black Sapote
Sunday, July 25, 2010
RIGHT IN THE BLOW HOLE!
The ABBA medley was the best. Lady Gaga was also good. The Spanish music at the end was by far the worst, but the costumes were good. The rugby players rolled up our sleeves and bit our arms and showed us their ding-dongs out the bottom of their tiny red shorts. Alice said she went to school with them but she didn't know them. They didn't like my dancing or my blondes. They got rowdy and initiated contact. I pulled his red handkerchief over his eyes when he tried to pull my shirt sleeves up over my shoulders. They were already rolled up all the way.
MILES RIDDEN: 60
RIDDLES SOLVED: 7
TOP SPEED: 124 KMPH
BOOKS NEARLY FINISHED: 1
DAYS GO BY and I'm still in this place taking day trips and tripping over children in the hallway. I gave Ginger a good, hard cleaning all the way up to her chain. I put Paragon and Johnny Utah in the dishwasher for good measure because I was sick of drinking water that tasted a little bit like peaches and coca cola. We went out together deep into the Midi-Pyrenees, penetrating the dark, cold forest, riding up and down small mountains to our intended destination. Even after some days of not riding I felt very strong on the bike. This was also the first time I'd climbed big hills without twenty pounds of cured meats riding on my back wheel.
At the end of the farmland I came to a fork in the road. One road shot straight up into the shadows of a long, treacherous climb and the other veered right back into the sun next to a sunflower field. I was like that scene from that Simpsons episode where they're on the river. I went for the climb and it was cold and was worried I wasn't wearing enough clothing. But I would heat up and sweat and get all extreme and stuff. I sang loudly past grazing cattle as I tried to get their attention with moos. Once I made it to Chalambre I felt like I was in another world. After a seven-minute descent I was level with a tributary river cutting through two large mountains. In the crux was the town. I peeked through the sleepy streets and crossed bridges over and around little streams and rivers. I thought about finding the lake but I got cold and went up the hill I'd just come down.
The ride back was long and hard but I made it to Garric Manor before 7, the time when I'd instructed my crew to start arranging funeral services. The youngsters picked flowers and I had a recovery beer with Gustave. Soon enough the adults had dinner and we put away four bottles of rose and two bottles of cider that Dave brought over. Teddy got drunk and had a cigarette. I think she's finally started to CUT LOOSE or LET HER HAIR DOWN or GET HER GROOVE BACK or whatever chicks do.
During wine and pudding and smokes I agreed to help ALISON with her landscaping job in the morning. What did you say? 8:15 AM? No problem. Back-breaking labor? I'm on it. Please, anything I can do to help. We'll get the job done.
2 chocolate croissants plus 1 diet coke at 8:30 AM equals crazy bad heartburn. Yesterday's 70-mile ride on top of 5 days rest equals tender thighs. Divide by 90 sacks of 40-pound fertilizer moved around an unfinished, muddy backyard. Add on raking, hole-digging and planting and I'll just go ahead and admit I had no plan for finishing this equation. By the end I had a dirt mustache, dirt arm hair and a dirty man-diaper. The slave-driver working the site didn't even let me go boom-boom in the potty. Everyone was surprised that I did it but really WE did it-- we finished the project and made out with time for an extra cup of tea. Hint: when landscaping, make sure you trim your nails BEFORE.
We returned to the Manor in the mega-van just as the huge barbecue lunch was finishing up. It was strange how happy everyone was about me offering to finish the mozzarella salad and baguette. And suddenly, more children had moved into the house-- four more to be precise-- bringing our grand total to 9 children. One of them only spoke Norwegian. She barks things at you with trilled 'R's and expects you to answer and you just sit there and start to seriously believe in fairies.
I showered, read and slept and prepared for the opare oriented village party we'd been invited to attend. I put on my best and only cotton shirt (thank you JCREW) and also my best and only pair of dancing shoes (thank you TOMS). It was opare oriented because a bunch of local opares had been given the night off and we were all going to hook up. All seven beautiful, young, British-accented opares and me dancing the night away in the Centre Ville.
It very fun. The music was good. First was a Tahitian fire dancing group and then there was a French ABBA cover group that played for a jaw-dropping 5 hours. They didn't limit themselves to only ABBA but I wished they had. Iris, a young, blonde opare from the Netherlands sang along with every word. How she loved ABBA. All the while we were drinking too much beer. You could order it with peach syrup. It was all the rage with the highschool rugby team so I gave it a shot then ended up giving it to Iris.
After a very chaotic orgy in the public bathroom at stage left we CAREFULLY drove home and got dropped off. YES there was quiche leftever and YES I had some and YES I ate the bell-end of the baguette in the bread basket with a liberal spoon of Nutella.
Have you ever woken up with a debilitating hangover to the sound of a Norwegian child shitting the bathroom on the other side of the wall? I have-- and it's hard to stop laughing long enough to fall back asleep.
You make some tea and describe the word 'gross' to a Russian mom over toast and honey. You talk about San Francisco and try to describe what Nevada is like. What are you going to do today? Nothing that involves sweating. Or moving. Luckily, hangovers are universal but so are big budget summer blockbusters. Dear movie theater in Carcassonne: I hope Inception is in English with French subtitles and not dubbed. I hear it's hard enough to comprehend anyways.
Don't let me down, Stieg Larsson, this one wasn't as good as the last so far but the final pages COULD make it better.
ALONE
I went to a mid evil festival / in a mid evil town / and touched a mid evil wizard / with a starry lid and gown. / I pet the magic donkey/ saw the woman in the cage / then the wizard blew a balloon / for the kids on holiday.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
THE OPPORTUNIST STRIKES AGAIN
I made tea and had dinner then I put sugar in the tea and took it outside into the rain. The raindrops dripped into the tea cup and I looked up and noticed the rainbow was gone again. The sky was pink beyond the vineyard and it would be dark in an hour.
WHENEVER I'M SITTING IN A CAR moving along a smooth highway I imagine there is no floor to the car and I can see the lines of the highway whizzing by underneath me. I always wonder what it would be like to have to wear rollerblades through this imaginary hole in the car and how scary it would be to sit down in a car wearing rollerblades at over sixty miles an hour. I think about the cleanliness of the highway because at these speeds one insignificant pebble could twist your foot off at the ankle inside the rollerblade. I imagine that everyone except the driver would wear rollerblades through the bottom of the car as a sign of solidarity and they would constantly be looking at each other and winking. The more eye contact you made with the other passengers, the more respect you would earn from the driver. At some point, maybe when the driver has to fill up on gas, you would have to switch out your rollerblade wheels, because rollerblades weren't designed for the high speeds of highway travel, and they would probably wear down very quickly.
The thing I hate most about the beach is the dust the sand leaves on your feet when you walk through the dry stuff before the exit. Your feet are dried out from the saltwater and by the time you're ready to put on footwear your feet feel like sandpaper and they're all sensitive and you can feel every corner of your foot scrape and scratch. The worst is if you have a toenail that is too long or sharp and you put on socks or shoes without socks on and it snags on some rogue piece of material and your nail is so dry that it might crack from the snag.
Because the walk to wherever from the beach is always unpleasant. Sometimes you forgo footwear altogether to avoid the shoe and sock ritual but then you're dealing with the biggest rocks from the beach scattered around on asphalt and it's like you've just walked through someone's game of marbles barefoot. You can't not look like a total idiot walking to the car holding your footwear tiptoeing over hot asphalt from the beach. And I'm always trying to look my best.
I think Leonardo DiCaprio looks really cool and I like how he isn't in the tabloids all the time.
IT'S DARK and good thing we got away to the beach because it was overcast here all day.
The highways in France are very clean and smooth because it costs eight Euros to drive 40 miles on them. If we had that kind of commie bullshit in America shit would get crazy and the Tea Party would start to fuck shit up and armed militias would start patrolling the highways. The militias would be sad when they had to do road maintenance and then they would hire illegal immigrants but then they would be all conflicted and some liberal, Jew-run news organization would pick up the story and plaster it all over GMA and MTV news and shit.
There we a lot of bugs and snails out today on my walk through the vineyards and I was so inspired by the snails that I used 'snails' as the thing I was thinking of in a game of 20 questions later in the day. No one got it correct but they made it to 'turtle' and I gave them a crazy hint by saying that that was "very close!" but they still didn't get it in the end.
Words I can never spell correctly vol. 1: Restaurant, Disappointed and Thigh. ...leads to some of my most misspelled run-on sentences.
Nothing's happening other than I'm in Cambodia and I got a little homesick for jogging today.
ALONE
So. Many. Babies. At. Lunch.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
CHEESE AND BUTTER
I keep wrecking my back. When I stretch, when I yawn, when I sneeze. It's debilitating and it subtracts from my feeling of youthful immortality. I was led to believe that it was a hereditary stress disorder but I'm the least stressed I've ever been. Maybe my adult spikes are finally starting to poke through my back skin. I have been looking especially robust back there...
THE LAZIEST DAY OF THE TRIP happened yesterday, and it was almost the laziest day ever until I decided to go along with the proposed activity. The older set and I (three eleven year olds and a twelve) went to the zip line park outside of Carcassonne. Jasmine sat shotgun and barked directions at Alison, the American mother of Harrison all the way there. Jasmine knew the zip line park well.
We parked next to a wooded area, paid, and got strapped into some serious harnesses. Two thick ropes with carabiners at the end now dangled from our fronts. We also had a a removable trolley on our hip that made the zipping possible. After a short training session we were free to explore the tree tops. And I was shocked. I looked up. Young children zipped through the trees, screaming. They were traversing tight ropes and clinging to dangling metal stirrups. If you weren't clipped onto a wire with one of the carabiners, an easy slip of the foot send you to a swift, neck-breaking death. Does this kind of thing exist in the States? We're talking about nine year olds taking their lives into their own hands.
We did the missions-- Harrison lagged behind. There was a bit where we zipped over a lake. In the advertisements there were pictures of people dipping their heads in the water on the way over. I tried to reach but the water level was too low. Global warming.
The most challenging bits at the end were the only parts to actually shake my confidence. One section had us tightrope walking, no strings attatched. I was surprised I made it. I kept thinking of Man on Wire, the Oscar winning documentary about the insane man who tight-rope walked between the Twin Towers. When I made it across I decided I needed to see it again.
Alison, the mom with us, was supposed to go shopping and leave me to look after the children, but after she saw how terrified her only child was, she spend the next two hours desperately yelling at him from the ground. She gave him tips and kept yelling at me to wait up for him. Her neck was probably sore from looking up so much.
On the last zip to the finish the French people working the park had a surprise: a bucket full of cold water. I was in a karate kick position, intending to surprise the German Shepherd in my path, when I felt a wet slap on the side of my head. The Frenchman had nailed me. "You're welcome," he said, laughing. We were all laughing.
We finished after an hour and a half and got ice creams and cokes. I was mystified by the dangerousness of what we'd all done more than anything else. It would have been so easy to die.
Back to the house-- a quick dip in the pool, opened The Girl Who Played with Fire. We had an early dinner reservation at a local restaurant. A dog greeted us at the door. Taxidermied animals greeted us at our table. We all ordered theduck special-- steak frite for the kids. The duck came in a large bowl with rice. It was delicious. It was only 7 euro each- the cheapest dinner outing I've had in France. At the table we all gossiped about people I hardly knew. I ended up eating most of the duck. We skipped pudding and decided to have cheese at the house.
The kids scattered and I lingered in the kitchen. Karin, our beautiful, blonde, gentle hostess suggested I might like some cheese for dessert. Or rather, she "knew" that I'd like some cheese for dessert. The allegation was too true. She opened some new Roquefort and introduced me to something crazy: putting butter AND cheese on bread-- at the same time. She said she wouldn't do it with any cheese, but the sharpness of the local Roquefort was complemented by the creaminess of the French butter incredibly. She emphasized the fact that it was French butter. The Roquefort was made from goat and the cheese from cow. Together we did some serious damage to the Roquefort and when Karin floated off to bed I decided I better put it all away.
I played with the youngest until it was time for bed. I learned that any mention of the words "balls" "willy" or "fanny" would make the little one laugh to the point of tears. We were all exhausted when we finally went to our separate chambers, full and warm from food and laughter. During the night a storm came but I didn't hear a thing. When I woke up I could smell that it had rained. It was still gray over the neighboring vineyards and the whole manor smelled like wet earth and stone. I thought of riding Ginger, then I made a cup of tea. Teddy and I talked about the adults and books I resolved to have another lazy day.
-ALUKEALONE
I was commiserating with a friend at dinner over how bad French directions were when he pointed something out to me that would change my life. I started talking about how the French are always telling me to go right: I was translating "tout droit" as "all right", or "stay right". Dave, who spoke fluent French, laughed. While "tout droit" does indeed directly translate to "all right", in French it actually means "straight on". This is why I never heard a French person instruct me to go "tout gauche" and this is probably why I kept getting so lost for the first two weeks on the road, going around in circles.
YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY!
THE LAZIEST DAY OF THE TRIP happened yesterday, and it was almost the laziest day ever until I decided to go along with the proposed activity. The older set and I (three eleven year olds and a twelve) went to the zip line park outside of Carcassonne. Jasmine sat shotgun and barked directions at Alison, the American mother of Harrison all the way there. Jasmine knew the zip line park well.
We parked next to a wooded area, paid, and got strapped into some serious harnesses. Two thick ropes with carabiners at the end now dangled from our fronts. We also had a a removable trolley on our hip that made the zipping possible. After a short training session we were free to explore the tree tops. And I was shocked. I looked up. Young children zipped through the trees, screaming. They were traversing tight ropes and clinging to dangling metal stirrups. If you weren't clipped onto a wire with one of the carabiners, an easy slip of the foot send you to a swift, neck-breaking death. Does this kind of thing exist in the States? We're talking about nine year olds taking their lives into their own hands.
We did the missions-- Harrison lagged behind. There was a bit where we zipped over a lake. In the advertisements there were pictures of people dipping their heads in the water on the way over. I tried to reach but the water level was too low. Global warming.
The most challenging bits at the end were the only parts to actually shake my confidence. One section had us tightrope walking, no strings attatched. I was surprised I made it. I kept thinking of Man on Wire, the Oscar winning documentary about the insane man who tight-rope walked between the Twin Towers. When I made it across I decided I needed to see it again.
Alison, the mom with us, was supposed to go shopping and leave me to look after the children, but after she saw how terrified her only child was, she spend the next two hours desperately yelling at him from the ground. She gave him tips and kept yelling at me to wait up for him. Her neck was probably sore from looking up so much.
On the last zip to the finish the French people working the park had a surprise: a bucket full of cold water. I was in a karate kick position, intending to surprise the German Shepherd in my path, when I felt a wet slap on the side of my head. The Frenchman had nailed me. "You're welcome," he said, laughing. We were all laughing.
We finished after an hour and a half and got ice creams and cokes. I was mystified by the dangerousness of what we'd all done more than anything else. It would have been so easy to die.
Back to the house-- a quick dip in the pool, opened The Girl Who Played with Fire. We had an early dinner reservation at a local restaurant. A dog greeted us at the door. Taxidermied animals greeted us at our table. We all ordered theduck special-- steak frite for the kids. The duck came in a large bowl with rice. It was delicious. It was only 7 euro each- the cheapest dinner outing I've had in France. At the table we all gossiped about people I hardly knew. I ended up eating most of the duck. We skipped pudding and decided to have cheese at the house.
The kids scattered and I lingered in the kitchen. Karin, our beautiful, blonde, gentle hostess suggested I might like some cheese for dessert. Or rather, she "knew" that I'd like some cheese for dessert. The allegation was too true. She opened some new Roquefort and introduced me to something crazy: putting butter AND cheese on bread-- at the same time. She said she wouldn't do it with any cheese, but the sharpness of the local Roquefort was complemented by the creaminess of the French butter incredibly. She emphasized the fact that it was French butter. The Roquefort was made from goat and the cheese from cow. Together we did some serious damage to the Roquefort and when Karin floated off to bed I decided I better put it all away.
I played with the youngest until it was time for bed. I learned that any mention of the words "balls" "willy" or "fanny" would make the little one laugh to the point of tears. We were all exhausted when we finally went to our separate chambers, full and warm from food and laughter. During the night a storm came but I didn't hear a thing. When I woke up I could smell that it had rained. It was still gray over the neighboring vineyards and the whole manor smelled like wet earth and stone. I thought of riding Ginger, then I made a cup of tea. Teddy and I talked about the adults and books I resolved to have another lazy day.
-ALUKEALONE
I was commiserating with a friend at dinner over how bad French directions were when he pointed something out to me that would change my life. I started talking about how the French are always telling me to go right: I was translating "tout droit" as "all right", or "stay right". Dave, who spoke fluent French, laughed. While "tout droit" does indeed directly translate to "all right", in French it actually means "straight on". This is why I never heard a French person instruct me to go "tout gauche" and this is probably why I kept getting so lost for the first two weeks on the road, going around in circles.
YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY!
Monday, July 19, 2010
CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN 7
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I WAS GIVEN THE TITLE of director of the Lego Hall of Fame. I decide what creations have what it takes to not get destroyed. Lately the trend has been robots but I don't think the boys realize it's only a trend. I'm open to monsters, submarines and battle tanks. I judge on symmetry, color coordination and originality. Naturally every entry has to have a story-- and I expect it to be good. There's no reason to immortalize the creation on the card table if it's got no soul.
I woke up magically early. I'd eaten so much the night before I could still taste it all in my mouth. The youngsters were up. Teddy and I made coffee and sliced bread for toast. Later, We were all off to the river for a picnic lunch.
Children sunscreened, we piled in the cars and drove out to a place near Limoux 30 km away. We set up under a shady tree and made sandwiches with cucumber, ham and cheese. The younger boys immediately starting sending their Legos downstream while the rest of us waded into the river cautiously. The water level was low, but the temperature was tolerable. The huge, dry rocks were warm and we laid out on them like lizards.
We explored the land thoroughly and captured a large leech we found swimming in a little green cesspool. We drank cider from plastic bottles and re-applied sunscreen to the youngsters.
Gusti, Harrison, Jasmine, Tallulah, Joe, Elektra and William. Aside from Tallulah's brown hair they're all blonde. They're all tanned and pre-occupied with the normal things kids are pre-occpied with: video games, legos, hair-pulling tantrums...
We were all sun-drunk and we headed back to the Manor.
Then it was naptime but the kids thought a second viewing of Cheaper by the Dozen 2 was in order. Harrison maintained it was better than the first. Both of them wanted to make me gag. Steve Martin and Bonnie Hunt love having sex so much that they end up having 12 kids. I assumed that the film was a Brady Bunch big-families-get-together-because-of-death situation but I was wrong. They just love having unprotected sex. The Christian undertones are heavy throughout, just shy of propaganda. Jesus gets thrown into the dialog almost as much as Steve Martin gets doused with scrambled eggs.
Dinner happened in a big way and we got to sit with the adults. We drank till 1 AM telling travel horror stories-- I quickly realized I was only an amateur. Dave told a story about accepting an offer to sleep at an old man's house-- only to wake up two hours later with his penis being fondled on the kitchen floor. He demanded money from the old man for the molestation, but then the man put a gun to his head. He lived. Alice told a story about sleeping through the biggest cyclone of the century in southeast Asia-- she described waking up to the horror of a destroyed nation and having to escape typhoid in a rented van.
Simon, a man with the most intensely London accent ever, told a story about trapping a car thief in his car for 15 minutes while waiting for the police to come. I had to sit there and admire them all, hoping that someday I'd have some stories to shock the youngsters with.
The next day was Teddy's day off from sitting and we hooked up with Maria and went to Corcasan- the biggest city nearby. Dave had given us his Jamiroquai tickets for the night. We went into town, toured around and drank too much beer. We played Rummy in the town square until dinner at a mediocre Vietnamese restaurant. Then we saw Jamiroquai do his thing at the castle which was a very funky thing indeed. It was only the second time I'd seen Jamiroquai perform in a castle. He was a real pleasure to watch. He wore a large, black and white feathered headdress with a matching tracksuit and trainers. He played Virtual Insanity and Dance and all the other hits that I've come to know and love over the years. We left the concert with thoroughly creamed shorts. And to a club where they played house music. And then we looped around the castle a couple times until we remembered where we parked the car. The car was from England and the steering wheel was on the wrong side. Sitting in the passenger's seat made every passing car look like a potential head-on collision.
Today is today. I have jousting lessons at 3:30 and I have to clean the snake skins out of the dungeon in the guest cottage. We have to pick up new light bulbs for the dentist chair in the study and we have to re-upholster the chez lounge for the party on Saturday. This thank you note is practically going to write itself. Don't miss the tent. Haven't spoken to Ginger in three days. Dan's probably flat as a French flapjack.
ALUKEALONE
Sunday, July 18, 2010
HEAVEN CAN WAIT
Epic noodle fight in the pool today. The giant turtle was firstly a shield, but came in handy later for a multi-child offensive attack.
I WENT TO BED WANTING TO WAKE UP on the floor of the hostel in Toulouse, a foot below the German's feet (stinky). I managed to escape unnoticed by the mom and daughter also sleeping in the room, making it out onto the streets of Toulouse as a slight chill still lingered in the air. My train was in three hours. I wasted some time on the web. I was especially smelly.
Made it on the train and met two couples travelling from Chicago. They were boring and I ate my lunch as the Pyrenees rushed by. The pate I bought was delicious and plentiful and it filled me up maybe too much. I would be eating later.
Off at Bram, I rode a hilly, hot and unexpected 30 km (in my pants)to Montreal just before Tranquilliare. After stopping at a few wrong manors, I came to the largest and most correct manor of them all: where I'd be staying.
Teddy greeted me at the door and I put Ginger away in the garage. Before I had something to drink, I was given a brisk tour of all three of the conjoined houses and introduced to a large flock of blonde haired children, all with British accents and bi-lingual capabilities. An unspoken agreement had been made: I could stay here as long as I pleased so long as I would help look after the children. There were lots of them. A trip to the swimming pool was in order. There we had the aforementioned battle.
All the parents are British and/or American, have some holiday house nearby, are impeccably dressed, and are beautiful. The women wear interesting patterned dresses, and the men wear clothes that are somehow loose and form fitting at the same time. I never saw that Mammia Mia movie but I imagine it's something like this. Then the adults went to the ballet and Teddy and I were left to tend to the children.
In the hours since my arrival we'd watched a movie, played with Legos, had a pool battle, built a new trampoline, christened the trampoline, had dinner, cleaned up after the adults and children, had a Lego contest, watched another movie, and made brownies. Legos were involved in most of these activities. By 9:30 I was out cold. Dinner was exhausting in itself-- easily the most food I'd eaten in days-- roast chicken, tomato salad, potatoes, regular salad, bread. There was also plenty of chilled rose wine for Teddy and I. The adults call rose "pink water" here. Then of course brownies and ice cream for dessert. I'm drafting my thank you note already.
Sometimes there are over ten children here and I still don't know all there names. The littlest is William, the biggest is Harrison. The girls are all very blonde and beautiful and have very proper British accents. Some of the kids speak French and some of them bite.
I'm being spoiled. The 50 pounds I'm trying to lose may have to stay on a bit longer. I've been invited indefinitely but I'll have to leave in the next few days... The only questing is... Will have have the decency to do so gracefully? I mean, I have a king sized bed and my own bathroom with a stand-up shower and amazing water pressure. There's toothpaste in the cupboard that doesn't taste like candy.
They even have The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest and The Girl Who Played With Fire so help me god.
Today it's a picnic by the river. We have to get all the kids sunscreened up. Joe, the second littlest, asked me if we could bring the noodles to the river-- I asked him if he thought they'd float away. He told me his friend lost his hat in the river. I've become a Manny and I'm thinking in a British accent.
ALONE blah blah I'm on vacation.
I had a dream with Cameron Diaz in it last night-- unfortunately not The Mask or Something About Mary era Cameron Diaz-- it was contemporary Cameron Diaz, which was a little disappointing.
I WENT TO BED WANTING TO WAKE UP on the floor of the hostel in Toulouse, a foot below the German's feet (stinky). I managed to escape unnoticed by the mom and daughter also sleeping in the room, making it out onto the streets of Toulouse as a slight chill still lingered in the air. My train was in three hours. I wasted some time on the web. I was especially smelly.
Made it on the train and met two couples travelling from Chicago. They were boring and I ate my lunch as the Pyrenees rushed by. The pate I bought was delicious and plentiful and it filled me up maybe too much. I would be eating later.
Off at Bram, I rode a hilly, hot and unexpected 30 km (in my pants)to Montreal just before Tranquilliare. After stopping at a few wrong manors, I came to the largest and most correct manor of them all: where I'd be staying.
Teddy greeted me at the door and I put Ginger away in the garage. Before I had something to drink, I was given a brisk tour of all three of the conjoined houses and introduced to a large flock of blonde haired children, all with British accents and bi-lingual capabilities. An unspoken agreement had been made: I could stay here as long as I pleased so long as I would help look after the children. There were lots of them. A trip to the swimming pool was in order. There we had the aforementioned battle.
All the parents are British and/or American, have some holiday house nearby, are impeccably dressed, and are beautiful. The women wear interesting patterned dresses, and the men wear clothes that are somehow loose and form fitting at the same time. I never saw that Mammia Mia movie but I imagine it's something like this. Then the adults went to the ballet and Teddy and I were left to tend to the children.
In the hours since my arrival we'd watched a movie, played with Legos, had a pool battle, built a new trampoline, christened the trampoline, had dinner, cleaned up after the adults and children, had a Lego contest, watched another movie, and made brownies. Legos were involved in most of these activities. By 9:30 I was out cold. Dinner was exhausting in itself-- easily the most food I'd eaten in days-- roast chicken, tomato salad, potatoes, regular salad, bread. There was also plenty of chilled rose wine for Teddy and I. The adults call rose "pink water" here. Then of course brownies and ice cream for dessert. I'm drafting my thank you note already.
Sometimes there are over ten children here and I still don't know all there names. The littlest is William, the biggest is Harrison. The girls are all very blonde and beautiful and have very proper British accents. Some of the kids speak French and some of them bite.
I'm being spoiled. The 50 pounds I'm trying to lose may have to stay on a bit longer. I've been invited indefinitely but I'll have to leave in the next few days... The only questing is... Will have have the decency to do so gracefully? I mean, I have a king sized bed and my own bathroom with a stand-up shower and amazing water pressure. There's toothpaste in the cupboard that doesn't taste like candy.
They even have The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest and The Girl Who Played With Fire so help me god.
Today it's a picnic by the river. We have to get all the kids sunscreened up. Joe, the second littlest, asked me if we could bring the noodles to the river-- I asked him if he thought they'd float away. He told me his friend lost his hat in the river. I've become a Manny and I'm thinking in a British accent.
ALONE blah blah I'm on vacation.
I had a dream with Cameron Diaz in it last night-- unfortunately not The Mask or Something About Mary era Cameron Diaz-- it was contemporary Cameron Diaz, which was a little disappointing.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF SYD
TOTAL DISTANCE: 140 km
SLOWEST MOMENT: final 9 km to Pau
TOP SPEED: 47 mph
REALIZATION DU JOUR: Even the midi-Pyrenees are steep, surprising and unforgiving.
MY HANDS ARE SO DIRTY all the time. I'm constantly washing them. I make sinks look like wet ash trays.
Morning in Hossegor. I leave camp one more time to the beach. On arrival, I notice the waves are perfect. Then I notice no one is riding them. I look right down the coastline and see a tiny man barreling down a monster wave. Then I notice all the waves are monsters!
The waves are so big the only dudes riding are the ones getting towed in by jet ski. It was fun to watch, but if I wasn't surfing I had to catch my train 30 miles south in Bayonne. I had two hours.
Didn't get lost. Packed up camp. Said bye to Frank. Pumped up Dan (front wheel). Avoided camp director who I never paid. Down the hilly road to Bayonne. Past monkey farm. Past reptile zoo.
Bayonne train station. What do you mean no more trains to Toulouse? Panic. Back on the bike. Nasty fall in botched u-turn attempt. Chain off. Bleeding. Enters highway with bruised palms. Escorted off highway by police.
Follows river West towards Pau. Most beautiful ride yet. Finds ideal campsite. Treats self to fancy-ish meal. Lamb chops, French fries, cauliflower mash, salad, bread, goblet of beer. Intensely satisfied. To tent. Thinks about girls.
Up early. Off to Pau. Route too simple- decides to complicate things. Gets a little lost. White cows, chunky horses, snakes, hawks and hedgehogs. Hills extremely difficult and plentiful. Legs tired, water gone- the sign of a good, hard day on the road.
To Pau train station. Pretty city.
Bought train ticket in a flash. Bikes allowed on board? You bet. One hour-- got snack. Boarded train. Pretty girl sits across, carefully arranges jacket over short skirt. Bummer.
6 pages away from finishing "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo". Read most of it in 3 days. So. Good.
Gets off train feeling good. To McDonalds for wi-fi. Map reveals intended destination 80 km southwest of present location. Back to train station. No trains to Montreal. Breaks down. Gets snack. Back to McDonalds. E-mails couch surfing contacts furiously. Phone battery running low.
A hostel!
Enters hostel gates. Upstairs- reception empty. Closed for the evening. Barrows phone, calls director, gets voicemail. Discouraged. Meets beautiful French dancer girl in hallway. Grad student. Wears nerdy glasses, floral summer dress, has hard-to-pronounce name. Go to her room. THIS JOURNAL IS RATED PG.
She has to leave. Can't sleep here. Stranded again.
Outside-- meets sun burned Australian girl and freckly German talking about manners. Talks until "mozzies" get bad. Sleep on the linoleum floor of their hostel room next to French mother and daughter. Wonders if they're fleeing from domestic abuse.
Can't sleep. Where's that dancer girl? Sun burned Australian not interested in getting a beer. Locked into room for the night. Smells like feet. Little freckly German snores loud.
Wakes up at 7. Sneaks out. Doesn't want to wake mommy. To the train station. One ticket to Bram leaving in three hours. Sneeze attack. Sneezing in the bookshop. Small English section-- no "Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest"--only Michael Crichton. Still sneezing. Holds in final sneeze in for sake of pretty girl. Back thrown out from held-in sneeze. Pain.
Bikes to bakery. Pastry, half baguette. Back still pain. Pain means bread in French. Buys pate for lunch later. Costs .80€. Really? Cheapest meat product. Suspicious. Wish I had tiny pickles.
Runs into huge group of cyclists from overseas following the Tour de France. Receives fist bump from Colorado man on fancy carbon bike.
To McDonalds. Finds better cafe with wi-fi. Table of girls wearing sunglasses under overcast skies. Guessing everyone has yet to sleep. Unintentionally rude to barkeep, although my transaction French is improving substantially. Teddy waits for me in Montreal 80 km southwest. Promises wine, children and river rafting. E-mail from Sam. Thinks of home with no desire to return. Except maybe to take a dump A LUKE ALONE.
SLOWEST MOMENT: final 9 km to Pau
TOP SPEED: 47 mph
REALIZATION DU JOUR: Even the midi-Pyrenees are steep, surprising and unforgiving.
MY HANDS ARE SO DIRTY all the time. I'm constantly washing them. I make sinks look like wet ash trays.
Morning in Hossegor. I leave camp one more time to the beach. On arrival, I notice the waves are perfect. Then I notice no one is riding them. I look right down the coastline and see a tiny man barreling down a monster wave. Then I notice all the waves are monsters!
The waves are so big the only dudes riding are the ones getting towed in by jet ski. It was fun to watch, but if I wasn't surfing I had to catch my train 30 miles south in Bayonne. I had two hours.
Didn't get lost. Packed up camp. Said bye to Frank. Pumped up Dan (front wheel). Avoided camp director who I never paid. Down the hilly road to Bayonne. Past monkey farm. Past reptile zoo.
Bayonne train station. What do you mean no more trains to Toulouse? Panic. Back on the bike. Nasty fall in botched u-turn attempt. Chain off. Bleeding. Enters highway with bruised palms. Escorted off highway by police.
Follows river West towards Pau. Most beautiful ride yet. Finds ideal campsite. Treats self to fancy-ish meal. Lamb chops, French fries, cauliflower mash, salad, bread, goblet of beer. Intensely satisfied. To tent. Thinks about girls.
Up early. Off to Pau. Route too simple- decides to complicate things. Gets a little lost. White cows, chunky horses, snakes, hawks and hedgehogs. Hills extremely difficult and plentiful. Legs tired, water gone- the sign of a good, hard day on the road.
To Pau train station. Pretty city.
Bought train ticket in a flash. Bikes allowed on board? You bet. One hour-- got snack. Boarded train. Pretty girl sits across, carefully arranges jacket over short skirt. Bummer.
6 pages away from finishing "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo". Read most of it in 3 days. So. Good.
Gets off train feeling good. To McDonalds for wi-fi. Map reveals intended destination 80 km southwest of present location. Back to train station. No trains to Montreal. Breaks down. Gets snack. Back to McDonalds. E-mails couch surfing contacts furiously. Phone battery running low.
A hostel!
Enters hostel gates. Upstairs- reception empty. Closed for the evening. Barrows phone, calls director, gets voicemail. Discouraged. Meets beautiful French dancer girl in hallway. Grad student. Wears nerdy glasses, floral summer dress, has hard-to-pronounce name. Go to her room. THIS JOURNAL IS RATED PG.
She has to leave. Can't sleep here. Stranded again.
Outside-- meets sun burned Australian girl and freckly German talking about manners. Talks until "mozzies" get bad. Sleep on the linoleum floor of their hostel room next to French mother and daughter. Wonders if they're fleeing from domestic abuse.
Can't sleep. Where's that dancer girl? Sun burned Australian not interested in getting a beer. Locked into room for the night. Smells like feet. Little freckly German snores loud.
Wakes up at 7. Sneaks out. Doesn't want to wake mommy. To the train station. One ticket to Bram leaving in three hours. Sneeze attack. Sneezing in the bookshop. Small English section-- no "Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest"--only Michael Crichton. Still sneezing. Holds in final sneeze in for sake of pretty girl. Back thrown out from held-in sneeze. Pain.
Bikes to bakery. Pastry, half baguette. Back still pain. Pain means bread in French. Buys pate for lunch later. Costs .80€. Really? Cheapest meat product. Suspicious. Wish I had tiny pickles.
Runs into huge group of cyclists from overseas following the Tour de France. Receives fist bump from Colorado man on fancy carbon bike.
To McDonalds. Finds better cafe with wi-fi. Table of girls wearing sunglasses under overcast skies. Guessing everyone has yet to sleep. Unintentionally rude to barkeep, although my transaction French is improving substantially. Teddy waits for me in Montreal 80 km southwest. Promises wine, children and river rafting. E-mail from Sam. Thinks of home with no desire to return. Except maybe to take a dump A LUKE ALONE.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
MY BIG NIGHT OUT WITH PUFF DADDY
THE INTENSE WIND CHOPPED up the ocean so bad yesterday that I had to drag my board out of the water after an hour. I rode a dolphin, though, and I
have to say they aren't as slimy as I thought they'd be.
Passing judgement on Puffy-armed man so quickly was wrong. The man, along with his wife, turned out to be very generous hosts. After a disappointing day at the beach (rain, wind, clouds, lack of babes, crabs) I spent some quality hangout time with a new friend (Charlie you kiwi bastard). We went to a house that Nike built on the beach, featuring televisions, photo-booths, a bunch of right shoes, tee shirt designing stations, inoperable pin ball machines, free stickers, computers with the internet and French keyboards, a pool and a fake bed. As hard as it is to describe, the Nike sponsored house was designed to be a place of chilling. That is, until the bouncer starts giving you the eye. The evil one not the sexy bouncer one.
Then I bought a hand powered flashlight, some meat, some cheese and a bed-time baguette. Aside from the flashlight, I wish I would have decided against the food, because I was about to have a seafood banquet back at chez moi.
Frank invited me for some wine with his wife at the far tent when I saw that I had no wine to drink with my self made sandwich. I brought my cup over and sat down. They set a place for me and before a knew it, a freshly shucked oyster wad placed in front of me. Along with a bottle of red, it was a little like a dream come true. Frank carefully shucked the oysters in a towel with his huge, puffy hands. I kept wondering what would happen if the knife slipped. Would there be an audible popping of the taught skin?
After the 5th oyster my prejudice faded and I was happy. We finished the first bottle and moved onto some
rose from Bordeaux. Then Frank's wife got a plastic bag out of the car and revealed two long, silvery fish. Frank prepared the small grill and trimmed the fins with scissors. While rubbing the fish with olive oil, pepper and salt, Frank proceeded to tell me about his culinary past as a chef in Norway. The man had dealt with fish before. In no time the crackling skin of the fish got us all hungry-- even after my sandwich and oysters. I meant to leave, but before I knew it (again) there was a heaping mountain of white fish flesh on my plate. As the wife showed me a slideshow of their teenage daughter on their digital camera, I slowly ate the fish.
Apparently their 13 year old daughter didn't want to come camping this year. I reassured them that this was normal teenage behavior, but there was a lingering sadness from Frank-- something beyond the typical French melodrama.
I on the other hand, was happy the little brat skipped out. I'd been adopted for the evening. After a dessert of peaches, I showered. Then they told me we would go into town and watch the fireworks for the Bastille day celebration.
In the car ride there Frank told me about the points on his license and how he now had to take it easy. I told him we had a point system in America, too. I also told him in was glad he was taking it easy. It was my first time
in a car in two weeks, and the sensation of being in a moving motorcar was quite exhilarating.
I thought back to the photographs of their teenage daughter I saw over dinner. Frank was in some of the pictures, unrecognizable. No puffy arms, no yellowy skin-- it must be heroin, I thought.
We parked illegally on the sidewalk and watched the show from the bridge. It was a fine display, even though Frank kept apologizing to me thinking that these fireworks paled in comparison to New York fireworks. I assured him that it didn't matter-- the best part of fireworks is knowing that everyone is watching the same show you are.
After fireworks we headed to the town center, where an elaborate DJ show was taking place. A few people were dancing in the center, and as I drank my beer I thought about how similar this was to a middle school dance. Only at this middle school, all the kids and chaperones are smoking cigarettes.
Frank whispered to me that gypsies were everywhere. I moved my wallet to a front pocket.
The married couple and I danced in the crowd, singing along with the Black Eyed Peas. Some girls took a liking to me. I think they were 15.
Frank pissed in an alleyway and gave his wife the keys. "You never know when police will happen," he says. We listened to Eminem's Relapse on the way back. I enjoyed the track where he kidnaps a lost woman on the side of the road and proceeds to abuse her. I really like Eminem, I said to Frank, but his new songs make me cringe. Someone give him his prescription pills back!
When we got back to the campsite, I was excited to use my new flashlight. I rested it on my chest and read myself to sleep. The flashlight smelled like cheap plastic and in the morning my shirt did, too.
Tomorrow I won't be A LUKE ALONE. I'm off to Toulouse to see my Teddy.
Dolphin slime on my inner thighs.
have to say they aren't as slimy as I thought they'd be.
Passing judgement on Puffy-armed man so quickly was wrong. The man, along with his wife, turned out to be very generous hosts. After a disappointing day at the beach (rain, wind, clouds, lack of babes, crabs) I spent some quality hangout time with a new friend (Charlie you kiwi bastard). We went to a house that Nike built on the beach, featuring televisions, photo-booths, a bunch of right shoes, tee shirt designing stations, inoperable pin ball machines, free stickers, computers with the internet and French keyboards, a pool and a fake bed. As hard as it is to describe, the Nike sponsored house was designed to be a place of chilling. That is, until the bouncer starts giving you the eye. The evil one not the sexy bouncer one.
Then I bought a hand powered flashlight, some meat, some cheese and a bed-time baguette. Aside from the flashlight, I wish I would have decided against the food, because I was about to have a seafood banquet back at chez moi.
Frank invited me for some wine with his wife at the far tent when I saw that I had no wine to drink with my self made sandwich. I brought my cup over and sat down. They set a place for me and before a knew it, a freshly shucked oyster wad placed in front of me. Along with a bottle of red, it was a little like a dream come true. Frank carefully shucked the oysters in a towel with his huge, puffy hands. I kept wondering what would happen if the knife slipped. Would there be an audible popping of the taught skin?
After the 5th oyster my prejudice faded and I was happy. We finished the first bottle and moved onto some
rose from Bordeaux. Then Frank's wife got a plastic bag out of the car and revealed two long, silvery fish. Frank prepared the small grill and trimmed the fins with scissors. While rubbing the fish with olive oil, pepper and salt, Frank proceeded to tell me about his culinary past as a chef in Norway. The man had dealt with fish before. In no time the crackling skin of the fish got us all hungry-- even after my sandwich and oysters. I meant to leave, but before I knew it (again) there was a heaping mountain of white fish flesh on my plate. As the wife showed me a slideshow of their teenage daughter on their digital camera, I slowly ate the fish.
Apparently their 13 year old daughter didn't want to come camping this year. I reassured them that this was normal teenage behavior, but there was a lingering sadness from Frank-- something beyond the typical French melodrama.
I on the other hand, was happy the little brat skipped out. I'd been adopted for the evening. After a dessert of peaches, I showered. Then they told me we would go into town and watch the fireworks for the Bastille day celebration.
In the car ride there Frank told me about the points on his license and how he now had to take it easy. I told him we had a point system in America, too. I also told him in was glad he was taking it easy. It was my first time
in a car in two weeks, and the sensation of being in a moving motorcar was quite exhilarating.
I thought back to the photographs of their teenage daughter I saw over dinner. Frank was in some of the pictures, unrecognizable. No puffy arms, no yellowy skin-- it must be heroin, I thought.
We parked illegally on the sidewalk and watched the show from the bridge. It was a fine display, even though Frank kept apologizing to me thinking that these fireworks paled in comparison to New York fireworks. I assured him that it didn't matter-- the best part of fireworks is knowing that everyone is watching the same show you are.
After fireworks we headed to the town center, where an elaborate DJ show was taking place. A few people were dancing in the center, and as I drank my beer I thought about how similar this was to a middle school dance. Only at this middle school, all the kids and chaperones are smoking cigarettes.
Frank whispered to me that gypsies were everywhere. I moved my wallet to a front pocket.
The married couple and I danced in the crowd, singing along with the Black Eyed Peas. Some girls took a liking to me. I think they were 15.
Frank pissed in an alleyway and gave his wife the keys. "You never know when police will happen," he says. We listened to Eminem's Relapse on the way back. I enjoyed the track where he kidnaps a lost woman on the side of the road and proceeds to abuse her. I really like Eminem, I said to Frank, but his new songs make me cringe. Someone give him his prescription pills back!
When we got back to the campsite, I was excited to use my new flashlight. I rested it on my chest and read myself to sleep. The flashlight smelled like cheap plastic and in the morning my shirt did, too.
Tomorrow I won't be A LUKE ALONE. I'm off to Toulouse to see my Teddy.
Dolphin slime on my inner thighs.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
THE DAY IT SURFED AND TRAPPED BUGS
The Day it Surfed and Trapped Bugs
THE ANTS IN FRANCE are good at what they do. That is, infiltration into enemy zones. I am threatening. I embody all that is man. I am a lone, sun-soaked bully who's been growing some callouses here and there and I'm not afraid to kill with my bare hands.
They're strong in numbers and they took to the toiletry section of Wendy (my right saddlebag) like French people to the bakery. I emptied its contents and the ants were panicked. I zipped them in for the rest of the day. While they were dying I was riding waves on a surfboard!
The morning was slowish. I got my baguette and pain au chocolat at a bakery down the road. Both breads were disappointing. After almost two weeks I think I can begin to tell good bread from bad. Not enough butter in the croissant. Tasted like yesterday's.
I just realized that I didn't have coffee today.
Instead I went surfing. There are about a billion places to take surfing lessons in Hossegor, France and the one I had planned to surf with turned out to be the most elusive. I opted for one right on the beach. I got thrown in a class with a bunch of cranky pre-teens and ONE kiwi kid who was somewhere in my age group. We hit it off because we had to. Neither of us was good at French. (or English?)
We did, however turn out to be the best students. After a while I started catching waves, surprising myself every time. These were by far the biggest waves I've ever attempted and although terrifying, I found myself craving to learn more. Our "teacher" Hugo, who did nothing more than push us into huge waves and give thumbs up, had a large dragon tattoo on his chest. I told him I was reading the book.
After two hours my arms killed and it was time to return ourselves anyway. We went up and hosed off. My Kiwi compatriot said he'd be there same time tomorrow. It was a date. An international friend date. Only he was staying in a house on the beach and I was 5 miles outside town in the woods with a pack of thick-wristed drunks. I can feel a guest room in my near future...
Then I got internet and (sigh) another burger. Wi-fi and cheeseburgers seem to go hand-in-hand here. After that I resolved to get some color on my torso. Presently, my legs and arms are about three months ahead of my chest in tanning years and it was time to get to work. Aside from my nipples, the darkest part of my chest was the rosy red ring around a massive whitehead.
Because the people here really seem to take tanning seriously. Not just tanning, but relaxing in general. Tanning and relaxing are friends, which is probably why I'm a pale dude. I mean seriously why would you want to lie directly in the sun for long periods of time? You can't read, you can hardly speak, breathing becomes difficult. You can't even sing clearly in the hot oblivion of the sun. This songbird got burned. I thought I was doing good, but the burning feeling on my legs right now says otherwise. Its so bad I don't even want to look-- like my final term grades from NYU.
After "tanning" (so stupid) I headed back to the tent, but not before getting more lost than ever. I got another baguette from the same mediocre place and ended up eating the whole thing (with Nutella) before dinner, which would be the worst I've had in France.
Before showering I took note of a sign for a restaurant near the campsite (surprising considering how rural it is) and I resolved to get a beer there later. It was in an industrial park type of place and was clearly a converted warehouse factory space. I sat down, and a man who looked like a modern Jesus showed me just how frustrated french people can get. I wanted a beer, but I had to eat, too. Then I moved seats because they were all in the sun. Then I wanted a sandwich but there were only plates for dinner. So I ate some fried meat for the second time in a day and read my book. The beer was good, but it didn't stay cold for long in the sun. The sun goes down at 10:30
Here. Sunburns are possible pretty much until you fall asleep. At the end of the meal I'd trapped a big yellowjacket in a cup on the table. I'm sure modern Jesus loved that.
I organized my tent. This is the first night aside from Paris where I've slept in the same place twice. The guy with the tight watch and puffy hands walked by my tent in flip flops and I noticed his ankles where as thick as his thighs. Nice guy though--puffy, yes-- but nice
Maybe if I hang around this dump long enough I can have the puffy legs and arms-- A LUKE ALONE.
Oh yeah and the girls here have really big boobs.
THE ANTS IN FRANCE are good at what they do. That is, infiltration into enemy zones. I am threatening. I embody all that is man. I am a lone, sun-soaked bully who's been growing some callouses here and there and I'm not afraid to kill with my bare hands.
They're strong in numbers and they took to the toiletry section of Wendy (my right saddlebag) like French people to the bakery. I emptied its contents and the ants were panicked. I zipped them in for the rest of the day. While they were dying I was riding waves on a surfboard!
The morning was slowish. I got my baguette and pain au chocolat at a bakery down the road. Both breads were disappointing. After almost two weeks I think I can begin to tell good bread from bad. Not enough butter in the croissant. Tasted like yesterday's.
I just realized that I didn't have coffee today.
Instead I went surfing. There are about a billion places to take surfing lessons in Hossegor, France and the one I had planned to surf with turned out to be the most elusive. I opted for one right on the beach. I got thrown in a class with a bunch of cranky pre-teens and ONE kiwi kid who was somewhere in my age group. We hit it off because we had to. Neither of us was good at French. (or English?)
We did, however turn out to be the best students. After a while I started catching waves, surprising myself every time. These were by far the biggest waves I've ever attempted and although terrifying, I found myself craving to learn more. Our "teacher" Hugo, who did nothing more than push us into huge waves and give thumbs up, had a large dragon tattoo on his chest. I told him I was reading the book.
After two hours my arms killed and it was time to return ourselves anyway. We went up and hosed off. My Kiwi compatriot said he'd be there same time tomorrow. It was a date. An international friend date. Only he was staying in a house on the beach and I was 5 miles outside town in the woods with a pack of thick-wristed drunks. I can feel a guest room in my near future...
Then I got internet and (sigh) another burger. Wi-fi and cheeseburgers seem to go hand-in-hand here. After that I resolved to get some color on my torso. Presently, my legs and arms are about three months ahead of my chest in tanning years and it was time to get to work. Aside from my nipples, the darkest part of my chest was the rosy red ring around a massive whitehead.
Because the people here really seem to take tanning seriously. Not just tanning, but relaxing in general. Tanning and relaxing are friends, which is probably why I'm a pale dude. I mean seriously why would you want to lie directly in the sun for long periods of time? You can't read, you can hardly speak, breathing becomes difficult. You can't even sing clearly in the hot oblivion of the sun. This songbird got burned. I thought I was doing good, but the burning feeling on my legs right now says otherwise. Its so bad I don't even want to look-- like my final term grades from NYU.
After "tanning" (so stupid) I headed back to the tent, but not before getting more lost than ever. I got another baguette from the same mediocre place and ended up eating the whole thing (with Nutella) before dinner, which would be the worst I've had in France.
Before showering I took note of a sign for a restaurant near the campsite (surprising considering how rural it is) and I resolved to get a beer there later. It was in an industrial park type of place and was clearly a converted warehouse factory space. I sat down, and a man who looked like a modern Jesus showed me just how frustrated french people can get. I wanted a beer, but I had to eat, too. Then I moved seats because they were all in the sun. Then I wanted a sandwich but there were only plates for dinner. So I ate some fried meat for the second time in a day and read my book. The beer was good, but it didn't stay cold for long in the sun. The sun goes down at 10:30
Here. Sunburns are possible pretty much until you fall asleep. At the end of the meal I'd trapped a big yellowjacket in a cup on the table. I'm sure modern Jesus loved that.
I organized my tent. This is the first night aside from Paris where I've slept in the same place twice. The guy with the tight watch and puffy hands walked by my tent in flip flops and I noticed his ankles where as thick as his thighs. Nice guy though--puffy, yes-- but nice
Maybe if I hang around this dump long enough I can have the puffy legs and arms-- A LUKE ALONE.
Oh yeah and the girls here have really big boobs.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
American Food and Tan Lines
SAW MY FIRST PAIR of French cans at the beach today. They hung from a large, pale woman sitting with her family. I had to cower behind my surfboard to hide my mega-bone.
The last few days I've been flirting with the coast, like a timid toddler along the water's edge. The south west coast is incredibly crowded this time of year, so my main challenge was to find a campsite that didn't rob me blind. All the sites on the maps or advertised on the road are all "four star" sites, meaning they have a pool, a ping pong table, maybe a washer/dryer and LoADS of tourists. The fact of the matter is I'm still going to sleep and waking up in a tiny tent. A piece of grass shouldn't cost 34 euro. Unfortunately, that's the best I could do. And the site was way out of the way of my intended surf spot for the next day. I checked in angry.
Defeated, sweaty and tired I plopped Ginger down and set up my tent. I looked around, and for the first time ever, the cheap camp spot had put me smack dab in the middle of a wild pack of young people.
I managed to avoid them and after my shower I walked up to the bar watch the world cup final. The big screen TV promised turned out to be not so big, and it was recessed into the wall behind a large corner. Its hard to describe, but for the 300 people who wanted to watch the game it was very difficult watch.
I watched the game and in the end all the Netherlands people were very sad. I thought they played a rather nasty game anyway. Go Spain.
I retired to the tent and met the two Holland kids who were adjacent to me, and they introduced me to the very rowdy brits who were in the far corner. We talked (or yelled) late into the night. At one point I was assigned the task of doing all the American accents. Then they did all the English ones. The beers here are tiny and we had a mountains of empties by the end.
In the morning we all dispersed. I sheepishly said goodbye to one of the French girls who didn't hang with us the night before. Then I decided I would surf, even if the weather sucked.
I went back North through Bayonne, caught some Internet, and got some directions to a magical sounding campsite. But en route to said campsite I discovered something even more magical. Monkeys.
French monkeys --or singes as they call them --occupy a small, enclosed plot of land north of Bayonne. They share the land with goats, one pig, and French tourists. And on this day, they also shared their magical kingdom with me.
My favorite monkey took the foot bridge over the pool as his own. Any other monkey that happened upon the bridge would soon be bitten. The monkey would dip his radish in the water, holding the stem, then follow it into the pool Monkey could swim.
I said hi to the goats and pigs, but they can't reach out and touch your pockets like monkeys can.
Why did the most beautiful girl I've seen in weeks work the counter at the monkey park? I bought things from her at the gift shop.
It was getting late and I decided to go to my dream campsite by the beach that cost 7 euro with morning bread delivery.
If you download the iPhone app "campsites" be prepared for lies and deception. Not only was the said campsite incredibly expensive, it was members only. The dream was a nightmare. Out of a place to sleep again.
To the tourist office! They pointed me, with much disappointment in their eyes, to a "rural" campsite right out of town. I'm slowly learning that the campsites Europeans hate are usually the ones I like.
After getting mega lost I found the site tucked away in the woods- the cheapest one yet.
I set up my tent and resolved to go swimming in the ocean. I packed a small bag, put on my suit and headed out. A half hour later, after following signs through, town I finally made it--
--To a fucking lake.
I followed a tributary to the beach. I jumped in the water after locking ginger up on shore. The water was great. I was relieved.
On the way back to my campsite I again lost my way. Certain I could find the way back, I'd left my maps in the tent I now so desperately needed to find. I ducked into an American restaurant for wi fi and ended getting a burger. It was good. The Internet didn't help so I tried my now tried and true method of guessing. I turned right off the highway and went. And went. Oh wait, there's that polar bear billiboard! And the sign! I had rediscovered my campsite. Preparing for the night in the dark sucks. Adding a flashlight to my things to find list right above "a towel".
It didn't take me long to realize my new site was a dark place full of vagrant drunks. The guy I talked to in the bathroom had the characteristically huge, puffy, drunk hands that made his wrist watch look tight around his wrist. The group of men huddled around a table outside had each polished off a whole bottle of whiskey. I just hoped for a quiet night.
I woke up to someone's voice outside my tent. I unzipped and poked my head out. One of the drunks was standing two feet away from me, cursing at his unlit cigarette. I yelled at him (in French!) and zipped back up. Before long he was snoring like a banshee.
The only upside to not securing your tent with steaks is that you have the ability to move it at any time. I moved to the other side of the campsite and fell asleep instantly. Tomorrow was going to be radical.
In France, there is some stigma against constant streams of water. You continually have to press a button to keep the shower going. If only I had someone to press it for me. Then I'd have both my hands free... A LUKE ALONE.
The last few days I've been flirting with the coast, like a timid toddler along the water's edge. The south west coast is incredibly crowded this time of year, so my main challenge was to find a campsite that didn't rob me blind. All the sites on the maps or advertised on the road are all "four star" sites, meaning they have a pool, a ping pong table, maybe a washer/dryer and LoADS of tourists. The fact of the matter is I'm still going to sleep and waking up in a tiny tent. A piece of grass shouldn't cost 34 euro. Unfortunately, that's the best I could do. And the site was way out of the way of my intended surf spot for the next day. I checked in angry.
Defeated, sweaty and tired I plopped Ginger down and set up my tent. I looked around, and for the first time ever, the cheap camp spot had put me smack dab in the middle of a wild pack of young people.
I managed to avoid them and after my shower I walked up to the bar watch the world cup final. The big screen TV promised turned out to be not so big, and it was recessed into the wall behind a large corner. Its hard to describe, but for the 300 people who wanted to watch the game it was very difficult watch.
I watched the game and in the end all the Netherlands people were very sad. I thought they played a rather nasty game anyway. Go Spain.
I retired to the tent and met the two Holland kids who were adjacent to me, and they introduced me to the very rowdy brits who were in the far corner. We talked (or yelled) late into the night. At one point I was assigned the task of doing all the American accents. Then they did all the English ones. The beers here are tiny and we had a mountains of empties by the end.
In the morning we all dispersed. I sheepishly said goodbye to one of the French girls who didn't hang with us the night before. Then I decided I would surf, even if the weather sucked.
I went back North through Bayonne, caught some Internet, and got some directions to a magical sounding campsite. But en route to said campsite I discovered something even more magical. Monkeys.
French monkeys --or singes as they call them --occupy a small, enclosed plot of land north of Bayonne. They share the land with goats, one pig, and French tourists. And on this day, they also shared their magical kingdom with me.
My favorite monkey took the foot bridge over the pool as his own. Any other monkey that happened upon the bridge would soon be bitten. The monkey would dip his radish in the water, holding the stem, then follow it into the pool Monkey could swim.
I said hi to the goats and pigs, but they can't reach out and touch your pockets like monkeys can.
Why did the most beautiful girl I've seen in weeks work the counter at the monkey park? I bought things from her at the gift shop.
It was getting late and I decided to go to my dream campsite by the beach that cost 7 euro with morning bread delivery.
If you download the iPhone app "campsites" be prepared for lies and deception. Not only was the said campsite incredibly expensive, it was members only. The dream was a nightmare. Out of a place to sleep again.
To the tourist office! They pointed me, with much disappointment in their eyes, to a "rural" campsite right out of town. I'm slowly learning that the campsites Europeans hate are usually the ones I like.
After getting mega lost I found the site tucked away in the woods- the cheapest one yet.
I set up my tent and resolved to go swimming in the ocean. I packed a small bag, put on my suit and headed out. A half hour later, after following signs through, town I finally made it--
--To a fucking lake.
I followed a tributary to the beach. I jumped in the water after locking ginger up on shore. The water was great. I was relieved.
On the way back to my campsite I again lost my way. Certain I could find the way back, I'd left my maps in the tent I now so desperately needed to find. I ducked into an American restaurant for wi fi and ended getting a burger. It was good. The Internet didn't help so I tried my now tried and true method of guessing. I turned right off the highway and went. And went. Oh wait, there's that polar bear billiboard! And the sign! I had rediscovered my campsite. Preparing for the night in the dark sucks. Adding a flashlight to my things to find list right above "a towel".
It didn't take me long to realize my new site was a dark place full of vagrant drunks. The guy I talked to in the bathroom had the characteristically huge, puffy, drunk hands that made his wrist watch look tight around his wrist. The group of men huddled around a table outside had each polished off a whole bottle of whiskey. I just hoped for a quiet night.
I woke up to someone's voice outside my tent. I unzipped and poked my head out. One of the drunks was standing two feet away from me, cursing at his unlit cigarette. I yelled at him (in French!) and zipped back up. Before long he was snoring like a banshee.
The only upside to not securing your tent with steaks is that you have the ability to move it at any time. I moved to the other side of the campsite and fell asleep instantly. Tomorrow was going to be radical.
In France, there is some stigma against constant streams of water. You continually have to press a button to keep the shower going. If only I had someone to press it for me. Then I'd have both my hands free... A LUKE ALONE.
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