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.

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

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.

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.

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!

CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN 7

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

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

Shopping in Paris / Sleeping in Tours

When in first arrived in Paris my first question was "where is the ATM?" my second question was, "what do you mean the entire country is having a sale?" and my third and final question was, "can in sleep in your front yard?"

There are magic genies and they do grant your third wish. Sometimes their names are something hyphenated like Jean-Louis and sometimes their lanterns are actually just converted loft spaces that they share with their artist wife and feral cat. 

I can't stop buying everything I see. Here's how it makes sense: the whole country is having a sale-- every place from French K-Mart to French Hermes is nearly 50% off THIS SEASON'S collections! I mean, I'd be a real asshole NOT to splurge, right? And once the plastic gets ripped through that little machine (an exhilarating sound) you KNOW that the luxury handbag item you just purchased is probably CLOSE if not ON PAR with what it would cost in the US. So what's the upside you ask? Do you even know how AMAZING it feels to skip down the streets of Paris with a BRAND NEW Louis Vuitton bag? Or to sit at a Parisian Cafe in a new pair of WHITE YSL cargo shorts you put on in the CHANGING ROOM ACROSS THE STREET!?

After the third hour, I walked down to the only bar that was still open. The group of Turkish men seated outside avoided eye contact when I asked for a beer. "Ferme!" 

I'm just gonna clean it out. I'm going to suck this country-wide sale bone dry. And after that, I'm gonna charter a boat down to St. Tropez for me and four of my friends. Alright let's be reasonable, 3 of my friends. 

I'd been hanging out at McDonalds. The homeless in Tours are more prevalent than in Paris or Orleans. Tours was also hotter so I could really smell the junkie sitting next to me. She smelled like a hot New York
City underpass-- like dried piss and cigarettes. 

We ended up just chartering a boat down that big river that goes through Paris and we invited EVERYONE it was insane. We ONLY had champagne. Have you ever seen the Eiffel Tower through a glass of REAL French champagne?  Let me tell you what I got so drunk I didn't care that I RUINED my first favorite pair of shoes I bought that afternoon after brunch. 

People will take pity on you so long as your not offensive. You might be the highlight of their day. Go back a second time. Sneak a seat at the cafe and casually ask for the same beer you had yesterday. They'll remember you even if you're wearing different clothes. Your smile will be the same. Just don't ask to use the phone again. That's offensive. 

Holy. Shit. Is that Chance Crawford? Naturally we are at the same bar and naturally I'd say hey but I'm SO sunburned from running after that taxi in the sun this afternoon. We had no joke like thirty bags and there was only ONE taxi left in Paris-- the rest were occupied-- so we ran after the last taxi and it was SO silly but boy am I sunburned. 

Jean-Louis really did come. I had expected him to come from the other side of the road but there he was, on his bike with his wife not to far behind. Their little headlamps swerved around they must have been pretty drunk. But they saw my stuff in their driveway before they saw me. I was in the alley around the corner from the driveway. A sobering experience for them to see me there. They took me inside and fed me old pasta, fig flavored yogurt, half a grape fruit, orange juice, cheese and a little bottle of 1667 beer. 

What hotel is this? It looks like the one with that really ornate headboard except without the headboard and plus an AMAZING Persian rug. Let's get room service. Do they have bloody Mary's in France? Whatever get the French version. That plus I'm wearing my new sunglasses for the rest of the day not just because I love them it's because I'm hung over. 

I could only get five hours of sleep in before my train. Jean-Louis was awake just after me and immediately he went to the bakery to get bread. Only then did I realize that somehow a baguette was the French equivalent to a giant cup of American coffee. They have almost the opposite effect for me, except for this morning when the bread was still warm from the oven and Jean Louis led me to the train station on our bikes. I put my packs on backwards in our hurry and my heels scraped the red reflectors all the way there. 

Flying back to New York. What a load of shit I had to pay $55 for my second and third extra bags. Paris was SO fun oh my god I love France. 

On the train to Bayonne the windows were open and that pressure thing happened where it felt like someone was lightly boxing my ears. I feel in and out of sleep, not really knowing when I was reading my book or when I was dreaming. I dreamt someone had published an article of mine in Rolling Stone against my will. I was very angry. 

July 10th - ON BEING ROUGH WITH GINGER

*NOTE: I'm very sorry for any weird word mistakes on this post; I'm using my iPhone and can't scroll down to make corrections.





I DIDN'T REALLY THINK that little piece-of-shit computer I bought back in the Union Square Best Buy was actually a piece of shit. Turns out it is. Damn. But hey, typing on this cracked up little iPhone screen with my thumbs isn't ThAT bad.

It's been some days since my last post because things have gone bonkers quick. While typing in my tent one night, my computer shut off from drained battery. No big deal? Right? Wrong. The thing won't stay alive for more then two seconds with a full charge. That means three full entries vanished into cyber-hell.

Anyway that very same night turned out to be quite scary. The day was alright-- I decided to take Ginger (my bike) off road to test her durability. She did great until I crashed us into some stinging nettle in the mud by the river. After pulling out we made it back to a more reasonable road and pushed on towards our next campsite in Chaumont sur-Loire, a really beautiful town. The campsite was also pretty, and after following a country bike trail through Valaire all day, we were happy to arrive and shower.

After setting up the tent, I thought I heard American voices. At first i took it to
Be an auditory hallucination-- but then I met some American teens. There were at least thirty of them. The last group of Americans that big were the retarded people on the flight into Paris.

I walked over to their site to borrow a knife for my local cheese and sausage dinner with a beer in my hand. I hadn't thought this inappropriate until I got there and realized these kids were barely in highschool. I borrowed a knife and retired for the night to read and write.... Storm clouds gathered....

The most intense lightning storm of all time happened. I hadn't been securing my tent properly, and when I was evacuated for lightning reasons, I didn't even think of the trouble thy would ensue. Twenty minute later I'd be running out into the storm, bolting down my crippled tent. Nothing was wet, though.

I met an Australian couple while taking refuge and we agreed to have breakfast in the morning. All through the night the storm raged and it was hard to sleep. When the morning came all my clothes were soaked, but I put them on anyways. I pumped Ginger up and we got some pain chocolate with the Aussies. Then it was off to Tours, on the south side of the river. It was an excellent morning to explore thenoutlying towns on La Liore-- the rain had cooled off the day substantially. I even climbed a couple challenging hills!

Eventually I made it to Tours, starving of course, and ate a full lunch from the supermarket on the cheap. Then it wad time to arrange the night's lodging. I figured I could find a campsite, but tonight I longed for something more. Nathalie, the poor woman I'd been in and out of contact with for weeks was finally going to have the pleasure of having me. Trouble.

Nathalie couldn't be contacted and it was getting late. My phone was near dead and my computer wad nothing more than scrap metal. I Began to panic. Camping. I started biking South towards the closest site. Turns out I went East and fount myself in another factory park. Then I really started to freak. I just went. And went. Eventually I was back in Montlouise sur-Loire, and had nearly doubled all the way back to my previous campsite. Starving, and with little sunlight left, I started yelling the word "camping!?" at every poor French person I passed. At first no luck. Then a young, beautiful, bra-less French lady said I had to turn around for camping. I looked at her giant front yard, on the verge of asking if I could stay with her, but no, she didn't want this hot mess. At this point I was so covered in little gnats I just pretended my freckles had magically darkened. I could feel them squirming in my sweaty arm hair.

Down the road I went, back towards tours. I passed through another little town and found a stranger talking on a phone in English!!! He could tell I was freaking out and he gently have me directions to a campsite not 500 meters away. I thanked the Scotsman and went to there.

Naturally, the office was closed when I finally arrived at 11. I tossed Ginger over the rail and set up camp next to some vacationing Brits. They chatted with me while I set up my tent. They ogled Ginger's sleep, breakaway frame and my matching orange tent.

I showered an got all the bugs off me. I ate a bite of my sausage from the day before and finally retired. I don't have a towel with me so I've been using the only cotton shirt
I brought. Either way it didn't matter- fevers aside- it was the sweatiest night ever. I slept nude on top of my sleeping bag until I woke up from the cold and crawled inside it. I woke up and had hot instant coffee from the Brits. After chatting about our journeys I was on my way back to Tours. Magically, in found this cafe with wi-fi, couches and electricity. I left my computer to charge and bought a train ticket to the
South West coast in time for my surfing lessons. Looks like everything might work out afterall. I'm sleeping somewhere tonight - A LUKE ALONE.

Sweet Jesus the girls out here are beautiful. Asking them for extra toilet paper hasn't been a successful pick-up line. "Wanna see my tent?" hasn't been working either.

July 10th - THE WATER PRESSURE EN FRANCE

I haven't stopped writing! I have two more new posts the only trouble is they're inside my computer which refuses to start back up after a nasty and potentially debilitating crash. In case you're wondering, besides the bike riding, the past two days have been hellish. I've spend an inappropriate amount of time at mcdonalds, using their wi-fi, trying to find somewhere to sleep. I've also been treating the tourist office in Tours like some sort of American embassy. I camped illegally last night and met some awesome Brits and an Australian couple. Now I'm sitting in an American style cafe trying to figure out how to get 500 km south. Shouldve asked those hot Russians to give me a lift. Hopefully when I get back from the train station my computer will work. I've been through hell-- I've seen the horror-- I am a new man.

Luc

OUT OF THE FRIEND ZONE

The road from Pussay to Angerville is one I've traveled plenty of times in New York. In France it isn't metaphorical-- it's an actual road.

DAY: July 6th
ROUTE: Paris to Monnerville
DISTANCE: 70 Miles, including getting lost.
TOP SPEED: 100 MPH.


Leaving Meredith wasn't hard-- she really wanted me to go and I think we'd had enough of each other. I mean, she's got all that STUFF to do in Paris anyways. Her friend Tara came late the last night in from London JUST to hang out with some Brazilian model she met. Tara was hilarious and looked like a painted doll with a tan and denim. Tara is also successful-- Meredith mentioned many times how she paid for all her jet-setting ON HER OWN. Tara flipped through a French vogue and made it sound important. Maybe it was because she personally knew everyone in it.

Saying goodbye to Meredith at her little American school got me into superhero mode. I stripped down to my tights and finished putting my pack together. I printed some google maps and tucked them into my handlebar viewer. It was time to go.

With sunscreen applied (somewhere around $5 worth) and a basket full of butterflies, I turned left on Rue de Grenelle. Then I turned around and went down the other way. Then I turned back around and went back to where I came from. Then, when I figured I was going the right way I just started to follow the river west. Then I got really lost. I crossed two bridges and resolved to find "Le Grand Rue", which I did eventually-- but the time wasted cut into my day substantially. Along the way I had my first baguette sandwich of the afternoon-- this one with ham.

Eventually Le Grand Rue adopted a bunch of different names and became very pleasant for riding. I knew I was headed to Versielles, but I didn't know exactly where I'd be going through town. I ended up on the long, straight road headed towards the most cartoony fancy palace thing I'd ever seen in my life. It was out of my way to go towards it, but I thought as a tourist I should at least check it out.

Not a second after I made that decision out loud to myself, there was a crash just ahead of me. I saw a black sneaker fly into the air and heard a yelp. A man had been hit by a small car on his motorcycle, making a crater the offending windshield, shattering the motorcycle. Besides the angry driver and her small child, I was the closest to the scene. I got off my bike and ran towards the man, who began to roll over. He propped himself up with his hands and my stomach sank as I saw the white bone from his forarm jutting out of his ripped-open elbow skin. Blood ran out fast on to the pavement, and then quickly stopped. A French man yelling for him not to move came off of the sidewalk and held his head up. I think he was a doctor. There wasn't much for me to do. Everyone was usuing their cell phones and speaking their French so I slowly clipped in and headed towards the palace. A few emergency vehicles passed me on the way.

I walked into the palace courtyard, surrounded by tourists. When I say surrounded I mean like sold-out concert in New York City surrounded. Lines in places for things I couldn't see. Cameras around every neck . A French man approached me and started talking about something. I think it was about my bike. I think he was suggesting a better way to see the palace by bike. Either way I wasn't getting a word in. Then a policeman yelled at me and I was gently escorted to the exit. Bouncing back over the cobblestones, I made it to the scene of the accident, which looked now as if nothing had happened. I remembered the bone. That's what she said.

The next bunch of kilometers (a group of kilometers is called a bunch, right?) were especially awesome. Besides some construction and a few intense uphill climbs, the ride was gentle and cool. The weather was ideal. The laughter. The children. The cows and fields. I was in heaven. Then I got to Dourdan. I got lost in Dourdain. It had become so late that I thought I'd follow the "camping" signs until I found the site and just settle there for the night. I ended up going in circles. I needed wi-fi badly. I took it for granted in Paris. Every bar and cafe I lugged my bike into in Dourdan laughed at me when I asked them for wi-fi, which in French is pronounced "wee-fee", so the laughter seems appropriate. I was getting annoyed with the fact that I had next to no plan for sleeping. There was a left over webpage from a search I did earlier on my iPhone that told me there was an camp site somewhere called Monnerville, which was just East of Pussay, where I had planned to take lunch (it was now almost 7). I went into my last bar asking for wi-fi and decided to stay and have espresso. They kindly filled my waterbottles. After explaining to them that I wasn't Italian, one man at the bar with a pretty wife offered to fill one of my bottles with Rum. NON MERCI.

I got some directions and went. And went. Straight, flat, hot farmland produces some serious bugs. I like to think it contributed to dinner. Eventually I made it to PUSSAY (HAHAHAHAHA) and turned right. When I got to Monnerville I pulled up to a pizza store and asked some people about camping. They pointed me towards a little unmarked road that headed into the woods. I biked down and made it to a camp site gate. I thought it was closed but eventually a lady came out and let me in. I paid, set up my tent, and then, in my smelly bike gear, I ordered a steak with french fries and a beer from the food cart where everyone was watching the game. The mustard was spicy and the fries were excellent. All the campers in the room were from the Netherlands somehow and it was fun to watch their excellent victory.
During the game I somehow managed to sit between a pregnant French couple whose two born kids were playing a little too close to the pool. They kept looking out the window like meercats in the desert. It was distracting. At halftime I took a shower without soap. I don't know why I expected them to have soap but that's just another one of the little things I'm out here to realize, I think. You can't rely on others when you're A LUKE ALONE.

French twins in matching bathing suits. Yikes. Can someone spot me some toothpaste?

SUNSCREEN COSTS $30

I'VE ALWAYS DEPENDED on the kindness of strangers. Is that how the line goes?

Last night the city of lights pumped my hype levels up beyond even New York City levels of hype. Translation: I went to the to the hottest club in Paris. The MEN who made The Beatrice Inn (a hot, hot club) in New York speak some French and have another place "Le Barron"? (spelling?) around the 8th. We went up to the door and a little French man with an attitude let us in. Meredith was shocked that the little door man hadn't been friendlier to us because he added her as a friend on facebook.

The place was empty at 12:30 AM but Meredith promised the place would explode around 3 or 4. We ran into some New York friends (not surprising) at one of the tables. In the center of the dancefloor was a grand piano played by a Parisian who rapped in French. There were microphones and songbooks. It didn't take long before I realized this was French Karaoke. Us Americans decided we should sing an American song dedicated to the 4th of July. Naturally we came to the collective decision of "Sweet Dreams" by the Eurythmics. The four of us really turned it on. Between Serge Gainsbourg songs we would continue to inspire some American staples.

I took a solo turn with 10 cc's "I'm Not in Love"-- complete with national anthem-style voice solos in the instrumental breaks. I dedicated the song to Meredith, not really knowing how she would take the message. It didn't really matter, no one knew the song anyway and it turned out to be a bust. I sounded great, though. By that time the place was full up with fancy Parisians and I wondered if they all thought I was some musical theater jerk.

We continued drinking and things started to get blurry. The little door man introduced us to a guy from California built like a walking stick wearing a leather jacket from the lady's department. The stick man tried to say that he was Swiss, emphisizing his dual citizenship. He wanted to be European very badly so to make him mad I spoke in California surfer lingo but he wouldn't have it. I offended him. He would tell Meredith later that he hated me ("I don't have to take that kind of shit anymore") and I would later see him sitting on a parked motorcycle with a girl, asking him how his French was coming along. His question of the evening: "how many langauges do you speak?". Rhetorical. His dad spoke 10.

An off-duty French DJ was rubbing my friend's nipples on a bench by the dancefloor. I asked her to do mine next. She did. "You have gay nipples," she said, "Maybe you are a homosexual." Then she got up and left. This girl didn't like me even though she would later tell me that she did.

Later I was doing my dance with some girls when a frenchman pointed to my armpits and smirked. Worried, I stepped outside and asked a group of seated smokers if I smelled bad. Four of them proceeded to sniff my armpits with the same negative answer. In return I had to smell their mouths, all of which were surprisingly fresh. We decided we all smelled good enough to return to the dancefloor.

Before we left the CLUB the owner bought Meredith a few more drinks and spent some serious time touching her neck and the back of her head. Meredith had had too much. We got a cab and she had her hand over her mouth the whole time. When we arrived I had to wait at the door while she sat splayed-legged on a bench in the park trying to ralph. She ralphed later in the bathroom and we fell asleep.

Hangover. Bad. Our 15 Euro drink of choice the night before was comprised of Champagne, vodka and something that tasted like how a Jamba Juice smells. Meredith was rather chipper thanks to her vomit-fest in the bathroom and I was jealous. I never puke. NEVER! I had a coffee, some yogurt and a banana. Then I thought about ripping my eyes out. We went to the school and used the internet and now we're split up for the first time since my arrival. I had a list of things to do on my own, including buying sunscreen for my journey. There are only two brands of 'screen in Paris and they both cost twenty Euro. And also, I'm totally lost.

Meredith said that if I ever got lost I should just head towards the Eiffel tower to get back to her place. The trouble is I'm sitting under the Eiffel tower right now and I have no idea where the apartment is. A LUKE ALONE.

VOUS AVEZ CHANCE... VOUS AVEZ CHANCE...

IN NEW YORK there was a large group of mentally challenged people at the gate, and naturally my enthusiasm to get out of the country paled in comparison to theirs. During take off the more verbal ones cheered; "Oh yeah baby now we're movin!", "we're going FAST now!" and they all broke into applause when we landed. I clapped with them. At that point I couldn't help it-- I felt little retarded, too.

Because I don't really know what I'm doing here. I brought a bike, a tent and enough clothing for a day. I'm trying to stay three months. I left New York with a college degree and a broken heart. Whatever I'm searching for here is still a mystery. Maybe I'll find a doctor here who can stitch up this leaky ticker in my chest and the questions in my brain. And maybe she'll have all the answers. Or maybe she'll have all the sweaters. All the sweaters a boy could ever want.

Charles de Gaulle was its usual chaotic self. I waited an hour and a half for my bags to arrive. When the belt started moving a young French man gently woke me up from my slumber at the other end of the baggage claim: "Your bag... Maybe it arrives now?" he said. FRENCH PEOPLE ARE SO RUDE.

Then I had to decide how I was going to get to the center of Paris. IT RAINS. At 9.40 Euro the bus was the least expensive. I met a nice, tan British lady who was sick and tired of waiting for the bus. She had a connection to make to get to Madrid. They shoot buses in Madrid, don't they? The rain started to let up as we drove into Paris, but the traffic we were stuck in squandered any smiles. The man next to me smelled like twenty thrift stores and chewed gum so loud and rythmicly I'm sure everyone else thought it was part of the bus mechanics. I knew better but I didn't have the guts or French vocabulary to tell him to stop. When the bus driver had to break hard to avoid hitting baguette delivery van, the gum chewer slammed his face into the seat in front of him. Instead of knocking the gum out of his mouth like I had hoped, the impact caused the bus cieling to magically crack open and unleash a steady drip of water on Mr. Chewy for the rest of the ride. Then he smelled like a wet thrift store.

The bus let me and my new friends off in Opera, a particularily touristy part of town. I tried to hail a taxi to take me to the 8th district where I was staying at a friend's house. No luck. I walked around the corner with my 20 pound duffel bag haphazardly strapped to my back and my 40-pound bike case in tow. I stopped to rest. A French man bent down in front of me and came back up with a giant, heavy, gold ring in his hand. He placed it in the palm of mine. "Vous avez chance... vous avez chance" he said. I took one look at the ring, then at the man walking away, and suddenly all the warnings of gypsy theft came roaring into my mind. "Hey!" I said to the man. He turned around and looked at me. I flipped the ring at him with a ding and he caught it just barely. He slowly said "fuck you" just as softly as he'd said "you have luck" and walked away. I stopped looking at him and quickly checked my pockets. Nothing gone.

Turns out I did have some luck, though. Do to some freak wi-fi signal at the bottom of a baguette factory I managed to reach my friend, Meredith, and impose myself on her. Then we were off to walk around town, peeking in stores and eating at cafes. Even though I was jet lagged as hell I couldn't wipe the stupid smirk off my face. Paris never fails to impress. Everyone knows this. The children. The laughter. The lights. The smells. The fashion. The people. The cafes. The laughter. The history. The languages. The nightclubs. The children who frequent the nightclubs. Drinking a bottle of wine on the Seine across from the bow of the firefighter ship. Wondering why the firefighters in France have no body hair and only wear tiny shorts. Being a god-damned human being for Christ's sake.

The next day is full of touring and espresso. The next day is now. I am in the next day. What will the day after next bring? I have to put my bike together and begin the real journey A LUKE ALONE.