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?