The Other Side of the Ocean

Here, we’re nearing our destination. Take a photo, will you?
You’re switching lanes! There are bumps in the road! There are splattered bugs all over the windshield!
Shoot! Waste photos! Or else I’ll do it!
You’re driving, hand me the camera and tell me what you want!
You know: traffic, skyline, construction, all that I think of when coming up on Chicago.






So this is it, the drop off point – the end of the 1000 miles. Thursday, I drive the remaining paltry 150 alone to Madison.

…where I will not sleep for three days straight so that I can finish all that I need to finish before taking off for a long stretch across the ocean.

One-sentence posts, coming up. Until Monday.

There is something brutal about this hugely democratic movement of people across America’s highways. It’s morning, I am at a Holiday Inn in Batavia, New York. Not one of my readers will have heard of Batavia. Or maybe they will have been here, for it is well represented by a clump of motels at the foot of an entrance ramp onto Highway 90.

The Holiday Inn has a lobby that smells of swimming pools. They all do. When I was young, motels had outdoor pools and you drove up to the door of your room in most every roadside inn (for the handful of years that I lived in the States then, my family was big on road trips). I’m thinking that the pools should have stayed outside because chlorine is only slightly better in smell than stale tobacco. (Thank God for nonsmoking rooms.)

We are looking to have a Bob Evans breakfast. Me, I have been won over by Starbucks counters with great coffee and boring but serviceable baked goods, but there isn’t one here in Batavia and so we are likely to order the traditional Bob Evans plateful of foods that do well with maple syrup (pancakes, French toast, etc). With weak coffee on the side. In thick mugs.

Then we will enter the stream of traffic. Pick up a ticket for the thruway, point the nose of the monster car west and push the pedal down. And I will stay in that position for hours, watching the sun move from behind me to in front of me.

My eyes will focus on truckers whose vans ask me to call random places to report on their highway behavior and on highway patrol cars that chase random sinners in the speed lane. I will count down miles to the next service area and then the next one. We will not stop at hardly any, by they are markers of progress. Nothing else gives me the feeling of movement. I am stuck on a highway that looks the same in Batavia as it does will in Toledo and Elkhorn.

Like millions others, we are off, ready to be sucked into the westbound lanes. To be spit out tonight, in Chicago.

Come on, put on a cap so we can take a photo of you – it’s your school, your celebration as well! It’s your JD &MA!
No, I’m here for my little sister’s college graduation.

One has logged in four, the other - eight years of a New Haven life

All the details, the opening hours, the short cuts, the foods, the habits of this city are suddenly immaterial to us! It all no longer matters! So sad.

We disperse. One stuck on a broken Amtrak train, somewhere between Baltimore and DC. One waiting for a flight back to Chicago. And two for the road. Car packed with books, a stack of tapes to listen to, hitting America’s great (and oh so boring) highways back to the Midwest.

(toddler’s voice) Mama? Mama?
Mamma is getting her degree. You’ll see her in a while.

(elsewhere:)

My son took seven years. Toward the end of his senior year he had a meltdown and wanted time off (to ski). All the relatives had to get refunds for their airfares for his graduation. Today they’re all here. He finished! Seven years later, he finished!

(elsewhere:)

Uncle! Uncle! Climb over here, can you? You can see him walk by here!

So, how do you photograph it all? (See here? I'm not the only one with trepidations.)

...Me, I'm just just biding time, waiting for the right person (out of oh so many) to walk by with a content grin...





Overwhelming? yes, though if I wait long enough, there will always be the food to help me regain my composure.

It’s a week-end thing, this graduation stuff. And that’s good. Some of us travel far to see the square hats on our kids’ heads. May as well roll out the carpet for the grads all week-end long.

In the morning, when the streets are still not peppered with black robes, a sole grad takes the time to walk her puppy. Did the puppy come to her with a card saying – good luck! This is your future! He is yours now!?

The Baccalaureate. They gather in their robes and they listen to speeches about their time here in college. A (known to me) young woman gives one last look up toward the gallery, where her family is sitting, beaming…

But solemnity be damned. Today is the fun day. Where black hats are tossed aside for more creative options.

Wait, is someone importing emblems of my home state?

I listen to it all, I sing the songs that over the years you pick up at these events:

Bright college years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life…

Mine weren’t that. But things are different now – with pleasure rife – for my kids.

Spoken like a true immigrant, no?

A reader commented – doctors practice medicine; artists do not practice art.

Makes sense. But I do support the practice of supporting art. And I would very much like to be supported for finding art.

All that as a backdrop to my walk through the campus this morning. So much of what is here shouts ART!

If you take pictures of art, are you contributing to its creation? Or just supporting it?

The last photo is from the newly renovated Yale University Art Gallery (a modernist building that is as old as I am). The permanent collection here is mind boggling.

A warm warm day, much of it spent walking through art, thinking about art, wishing there was more time for participating actively in its creation.

I would say an eight-year relationship is pretty hefty, wouldn’t you? It gives you time to make friends and get bored a little. You develop a history.

My relationship with New Haven has been eight years and now it’s time to call it quits. I’m bowing out.

I hated you when I first saw you. Drab, I thought. But you wooed me. That dinner on the cold rainy March day! I still remember it.

I’m into ratings. I rate your food as awesome. From the pizza to the ethnic beauties – I’ve eaten Ethiopian, South American, North American, Indian, Malaysian, Spanish -- ohhh, I’m having regrets! This is not good!

The reality is that I came here only because my daughters made this their home. Good old daughters. Quirky daughters. New Haven??? It wasn’t meant to last. Now, one has chosen DC, the other is heading west to PA in CA – stay put already, so I can get bored again!

Okay, I haven’t always been bored in New Haven. I have cried here at the various events that I have attended. I have cried when I have left daughters behind and headed home.

And, I have acted stupidly here. Never more stupidly than on the night of September 1st, 2005. The Hot Tomato's bar. Those in the know will nod their heads sagely. Yep, she was an ass then. You are right. I cannot sing je ne regrette rien since that day.

But mostly, it has been a place where my family assembles every now and then. Solid love. And, memories of physical toil (the moving in, the moving out). And mental anguish (did anyone read the New Yorker bit this week about college being one big ride on the anxiety train?).

So, it’s my final visit here.

New Haven. Such a place. Wonderful to be back, this one last time. [I’m staying away from Hot Tomato's.]

Tomorrow, I’m off to watch a college graduation. Of the youngest one. Yep, I’m that old.

I can’t pay attention to age implications. I am just so… dazed. A college graduation of your youngest is one of those moments you cannot even imagine as you’re trying to get her out of the womb.

Kid, you made it out. You’re good now.

A sudden reconfiguration of schedules has created absolute chaos here, on Ocean. Our family will be there, cheering her, yes, that was set four years ago. We assumed she would graduate. [And guess, what, we will be celebrating law and grad degrees for her sister, same time, same place. Oh, the champagne that all this warrants!] But after the celebrations? We have decided on a road trip of sorts, as she and I will rumble along from the east to the Midwest and then, later in the summer, from the Midwest to the Pacific coast.

In the months between, there’s much ocean and continent crossing and, let’s not forget, there’s teaching, grading and all the other incidentals of work.

And a move.

Am I crazy?


And yet, if you hung with me today, you’d think this was just one of those ordinary, laid-back, late spring days.

I called my traveling companion of the velo trip.

Ed, I have a million errands to run and I am leaving tomorrow and, well, I could use some company.
Motorbike okay?
Yes, of course, just hurry up because I have a million errands to run.
I’ll be there in a few.
(later)
Where to?
The AAA on the far far west side. I need maps for my road trip!
(halfway there)
Don’t you have an AAA across the street from where you live?
I do??? I never noticed! Why didn’t you let me know earlier??
I figured you knew what you were doing.

I’m not sure Ed ever believes I know what I am doing, but it’s a good line.

(later)

We’re at the mall. I am canvassing endless stores for, well, for stuff. Stuff does not interest Ed. He falls asleep sprawled out on a bench at Banana Republic. Three young things stand nearby, chatting as if he wasn’t there. And they are right. Ed is snoring.

We are outside now.

It is about to rain!
We will get wet.
Is it okay to be wet on a motorbike?
Only a little worse than being wet on a regular bike.

We get wet. He’s wrong. Being wet on a bike sucks more than this. The rain is warm, the sky changes patterns, all is okay.



I'm flying east tomorrow.

All is okay. All is okay.

One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss. Isn’t it always like that.

I biked up to the Law School and was immediately reminded how it feels on Bascom Mall during the summer.

Where is everyone?

A small group takes to the green space and plays croquet. Croquet?? One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss…





The day was so beautiful and it was so lost on me. Preoccupied, busy, call it what you want. I was not outside except to bike to and from my office.

Until, finally, just before sunset, I went outside just to look and smell. There’s only a parking lot there, before my loft. But at the side, there are small lilacs.

The butterfly and I chased each other for while. Until finally he relented and let me take a photo.





After, he laughed and flew away and I went back to an empty-feeling loft.

I am waiting for someone at an outdoor café on State Street. A young man, sitting on a bench nearby, looks at Isthmus want ads, then makes a cell call.

Hi, I’m selling my laptop. I’m done with school and so I don’t need it any more. I’d rather have the cash.
(pause while other party speaks)
It’s a Dell Latitude. It’s got the usual stuff – Internet, word processing…




After the call, he strums some more on the guitar. He sings, too, but not very well.



Earlier in the day I asked Ed, my traveling companion of a few weeks back, if he would help me clean up the tiny Sony laptop I was returning.

Can we take off the email program?
Sure. Let’s empty out the messages there first.

Click, click.

Ed, my Inbox on my (clunky) home computer is alerting me I have exceeded capacity!
Oh, I must be trashing things from the server, not from the Sony.

7842 messages have been inadvertently moved to the trash bin.

Hmm, let’s delete those that are both in “Trash” and in your “Sent” box – they’re overloading your capacity.

Click, click.

Ed, my mailboxes on the server are now almost entirely empty! What happened to the 7842 messages that a while ago where in the "Sent" box?
Oh my gosh (actually, shockingly, stronger words were used here)! I think we deleted all of them, from both places!
You mean all the email I have ever written is all gone?

Dial tech support at UW.

Sorry, you’re right, it’s all gone. Forever.

All gone?

Tech support at the Law School laughs along with me when I tell them what happened.

It’s kind of liberating, isn’t it? – they say.

Sure. I’m feeling free.

Like a retired person with suddenly too much time on their hands, I am a person with suddenly too much available space on her server.

Now if I wanted to feel really free, I’d call the ads and sell off the rest of my technology, like the young man on the bench on State Street.

I can’t do that. I was raised in Commie Poland. I never thought personal freedom was as important as connectedness.

Please don not correct me. I know that baby geese are not called geeslings. [They're goslings, aren't they?] But geeslings sounds so perfect.

The children of geese. They appear to hover near their mother goose...





...but really, don’t you think that it is only a rouse? When you look deeply into their souls, can you see the independence? From both parents? Sure you can.




My day, in great measure, was made up of geesling thoughts.

Today is the kind of day you’re glad not to be hiking. Or biking. Cold rain, gray skies.

But yesterday, now that was a day!

Perfect for the market. And for buying lillies of the valley.




… and for reaching for a chestnut bloom





…for tossing a ball around at a graduation celebration





…for planting things





… for pausing on the ride in to admire a view of the city






Really, a perfect spring day. A shame spring weather is so damn fickle.

Many hours into the day, I climb up a hill to bid a graduating (and therefore parting) student a fond adieu and I am handed a cosmo. I sit down, put my feet up (figuratively) and exhale.

You cannot expect a person to recoup and regroup after that. So, no elaborate postings tonight.

But tomorrow... ah... tomorrow. So many hours, yet unfilled. See you then.

...to be back home.

Sigh... I'll be down to one sentence and/or one photo per day. And that may be a good thing. Who needs to read about how it felt to call Sony and Cingular and tell them that I would be returning their products, never again to be traveling with the luxury of a 2.85 lb. computer and an infinitely ready to fire cell modum wireless?

One has to be realistic. The day has too few hours, the bank has too few dollars. That about sums up this Friday, a glorious day of graduating ceremonies for many. A tough day of reality checks for myself.

But, in about two weeks I am packing books, notes and assignments into an old bag and crossing the ocean again. So keep reading. Because everything is always different than we would have predicted it to be and kids manage well without us.

It always surprises me how far away the rest of France feels from Paris (and conversely, how far away Paris seems from the rest of France).

This morning, we picked up a small commuter train in the Provence town of Isle-sur-la-Sorgue…





…this afternoon we got off a TGV (bullet) train at the Gare de Lyon and stepped into Paris…





…just as the about to be President of France was stepping into his new post.

The political events completely passed me by as I reveled in the great pastry & people-watching opportunities of this city.











Ed isn’t much of a city boy anymore and I have given up on selling him on Paris. He speaks with enthusiasm about the place when we are here…

You don’t like Paris!
I like it, I like it!

… but on the next round, looks for every conceivable way to avoid it.

…what if we stay in the south and catch a morning train straight to the airport the day of our flight?
No.

We hike from the train station to our hotel (have backpack, will hike). In the past I have tried to keep Ed away from tourist hotspots…

…so many people here!

…but this time our path crosses this way:




..and so there you have it. We are surrounded. Half the people around me are speaking Polish. I am not surprised.

In the afternoon I go searching for a bottle of wine to bring home. I cannot explain why I think this is a good idea, given that there are millions of bottles of French wine available in the States at comparable prices. I never open any of the stuff I buy here anyway. The bottles are made precious by the fact that they are purchased, fussed over, lugged and finally, lovingly uncovered back home. And so they wait. For something.

Ed tells me we should send the bottles through in a box, wrapped in dirty t-shirts. The entire idea sounds so awful and unworkable to me that I have distanced myself from the effort, handing over the challenge to a person who hasn’t sent a single piece of luggage through on a flight in his entire life.

Meaning, I am writing off these particular bottles with such beautiful labels (for how else do you select here, when so much is so good?) and concentrating on protecting my jars of seaweed tapenade from Brittany.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Tomorrow, it is true, I return to Madison. But this day (I’m still on Wednesday here) still has the fragrance of Provence around it. Must be the country inn shampoo I’ve been using.

What stays in the mind from a last day of biking in the Provence?

The last field of poppies?





The last lunch salad, with grilled goat cheese aux herbes de Provence and a glass of local rose (carafe: 2 Euros)?





The last vineyard? Olive grove?





The last steep ascent, with a commemorative photo from the summit?





The last bad road, that turned out to be not bikable? And so it was back to walking and pushing? Twice, because Ed lost one of his shoes along the way?





The last town, from which we will be picking up a train to Avignon in the morning and then continuing on to Paris?



l'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue

The last plane tree? The last country inn? The last dessert?






I’m sitting at the train station, waiting. The bikes are returned, the backpack is retrieved. It’s cooler now and my sweater barely keeps me warm. Ed, of course, is in shorts and a T-shirt. (I’ll change before Paris, I promise!)

I’m thinking of the people we met at the inns – the French, the Belgians. And how they described their lives. Lots of low-key travel, not too far from home, always with a nose toward good food.

And the innkeepers: Christophe with his three daughters, keeping the lasagna warm for us, Monsieur Ancienne Cure – taking four months out each winter to be in Chamonix, because he loves the Alps so much, Madame and Monsieur Mas de la Pierre du Coq who keep the inn running for just four or five months and spend the rest of the time with family near Lyons, or vacationing.

We French, we’re not so rich as you Americans, but we know how to vacation well – he tells me. Maybe we haven’t found a balance between work and time off. Maybe the Scandinavians do it better. The next generation here, in France, it is working harder. They are earning more money. Maybe that’s a good thing.

One of the (French) guests talks about how he will be taking his bike up Mount Ventoux, just a short stretch from where we are (the biker’s dream is to do the ride to the summit – a 22 kilometer ascent and a very big moment in the Tour de France), the next day, if the wind dies down.

Do you ride regularly?
Oh, maybe 60 kilometers, once a week. It’s not much.

His little girl is arranging Playmobil characters around my computer. She’s wearing a beautiful pink dress that goes down to her mid calf.

Don’t let her disturb you! The parents say to me. They think I am working on my computer, but I am mindlessly playing with photos. I haven’t done a lick of work for the last five days and I don’t intend to pick it up again until I am on the plane, crossing the ocean.

I have European blood, after all. I am an EU member. I know how to vacation well.

I am sitting at a brasserie (Chez Max), out of breath and shaking. What unbelievable luck.

We had left in the morning, right after the rains had stopped and the thunder claps had rolled back toward the mountains. We were on the retreat. Biking along the upper ridge was out. Time to find a more modest route, along the river valley.



turn my back to the mountains




so many shades of green here


Halfway down and around the mountain (there’s still disagreement raging as to whether these are large hills or small mountains; it’s my blog: I say mountain), I hear thunder.

Ed, are we going to be struck by lightning?
We have rubber tires, we’re safe.
Do you know that for a fact, or are you making it up?
I’m making it up.

Please, please, any shelter will do.

My burst of speed gets us to a decent village café-bar. We wait until the rains and thunder pass.

Neither of us are sure if this is the last of it, but the next village is a modest ten kilometers away and the skies are looking kinder, gentler. Rolling countryside. Pretty stuff. I pause, take photos…





But then, a mere 3 kilometers from the town, the wind picks up force.

It’s the mistral.

I am on a downhill, with all gears set at their lowest and I am making almost no progress. Big, ugly clouds are suddenly pushing their way in.

I can’t do this! I shout back to Ed. He doesn’t hear. We are about to get pounded.

But around the corner, there is Chez Max and it is lunchtime and there are happy, DRY customers inside.

We make it before the torrential downpour swallows the world in its wall of water.

And we eat and drink a lovely rose to our good fortune…





Outside, the downpour continues...






…and I wonder, what if we had been halfway up the mountain still? Or on the ridge?

Ed says – we would have gotten very very wet. But it’s more than that. When you hike, being wet means only that – there is moisture. You’ll dry off. On bikes, wetness has a trickier dimension. You are wet. The roads are wet. Your brakes are wet. Your glasses are wet. There is something very threatening about the whole combination.

Another hour and this storm passes as well. But we are done with our race with the clouds. I call a b&b in a village just a dozen kilometers down the road and we make our way to it, this time without the madness of running from a storm.





This b&b (Le Mas de la Pierre du Coq) is different from many of the others. It’s a private residence, sure, an ancient farm, set among vines and olives trees, that’s not unusual. But here, we are the guests and, along with four others, we share the evening with the owners. They cook for us and eat with us and between French, English and Spanish, the talk of politics and life in general takes on the force of the mistral.

By 11, I am spent. Upstairs, I hear the plane tree outside resisting the wind and think about the next day – the last one of our velo run.

I had always thought of Sunday as a family day in France. Most everyone eats a big meal en famille in the afternoon. People go to parks, sit in cafes – Sunday is about the embrace of your own little familial community.

Still, if you happen to be riding through towns and villages on any spring or summer Sunday in, say, Provence, you’ll get a glimpse of a separation that is uniquely French. (Or at least uniquely not American): men are chasing hobbies and women are somewhere on the sidelines, or at least – far less visible to the passerby.

We biked relentlessly. What more can I say. I am logging in 60, 70 kilometers a day (ok, a little less today) and I am feeling like my strength is diminishing.

Isn’t one supposed to get stronger over time?

Not me. I wake up, look outside, see a blooming chestnut tree..




..and think: that is some chestnut tree. Good bye, chestnut tree. Me, I am off to bike over hills and mountains.

My attitude on a ride is all wrong. Instead of “go go go!” I think “oh shit, another incline!”

True, at the end of the day, there is that great sense of accomplishment. But before that, oh the swell of feelings of despair! So why do it? I suppose it’s much like labor: kid pops out, you’re elated and go on to have another. We choose not to remember the tough parts of the day, or else we’d never get out of bed.


Ed and I set out ten minutes before noon. We’re ahead of yesterday by ten minutes!

We come to a village that is celebrating old tractor/car/motorbike day. People are driving in old models of all the above. Did I say people? No no. This is a guy thing.





We get off our bikes and walk around, looking at the ancient models of this and that. Maybe I see a woman or two. Maybe. She’ll be the one standing to the side while a guy she’s with swoons over some engine part.

We bike over to the next village. What’s this? A bike race?





Oh, but this is not novel. You need go down any hilly country road on a Sunday in France and you will understand. There are a lot of skinny, muscled men riding around on their velos out there.

Though for me, this particular race, which consists of four repeats of a twenty kilometer loop, is a source of terrific embarrassment. Their route is along the roads we were riding. Occasional cheering groups are parked along the side. Imagine how fun it is to be panting up a hill where some fifty riders are soon to whizz through in a matter of seconds.

People smile and shout encouragement (allez allez! courage!). I feel like a comic sideshow to the main event.

Okay, male hobbies. There is also the matter of what men see and what you sometimes wish they would not have noticed.

We are in the village of the bike race. Eureka! This is the time to go begging for a spare tube! We used our last one yesterday and we are only halfway through our velo trip.

And so I ask a guy (because I think a guy would know this and besides, I’m not seeing many women) about where on this Sunday I may purchase a spare tube.

Not here, he says. It’s Sunday. Everything is closed. Maybe in the next town? But then, I know you were there already. I was driving behind you as you biked through. I recognize that little suntanned strip on your back!
Ed is grinning - I meant to tell you about that...

Sure you did.

The thing is, pants these days are cut low. And my t-shirts are not long enough. So there is this strip of flesh exposed to the elements where shirt and pants don’t meet. It’s not evident when one stands, like this:





But when you lean forward on your velo, well, if you happen to have a tattoo, say of a sparrow on that part of your torso, that sparrow is going to be in a band of suntanned skin by the time the ride is over and done with.

[And yes, one of the support cars to the racers did have spare tubes and yes, they shared.]

The rest of the day is all about mountains. What a surprise. We have entered the Haute (as in high) Provence, the Rhone-Alpes department. I cannot believe I chose this route.

One last village to pass through. This one at least is at the base of a hill. Kind to the biker. Pierrelongue. So similar in name to my Pierrerue of last June!





We overnight in Buis-les-Baronnies, a village surrounded by high, jagged cliffs. I am trying to focus on everything but the fact that there is no way in hell of biking out of here without doing a lot of ups and downs. And even more so, on the fact that it’s supposed to rain and thunder for the next two days.

I’m sure I’ll survive.

Right?

At night, all is calm, all is – southern France villagey.




And the food – oh, so very excellent. As usual.




And tomorrow? Courage! Allez, allez!

Late start (determined to put post up). Who sets out biking in the Provence at noon? Hot sun. We get lost quickly. But it’s pretty here. Monet land. A few hills, yes, but manageable.





Refreshing cherries – in season. We pause, eat a whole bunch.





Then starts the climb to Gordes. A punchy climb. I think I may turn around and catch the first train to Paris. But I don’t. I make it to this beautiful hill town, though just barely.







zooming in to valley below


Sustenance. A nice salad (tomatoes on a painted tomato plate), an outside terrace. Okay, I can continue.




More climbing? How can there be more climbing when I am already at a summit? People shout out of cars and at the side: courage! Allez, allez! (Have courage! Go, go, go!). Finally, a descent. Road goes down to a beautiful valley with an abbey amidst lavender fields.





And then starts a brutal climb. I pause once. 200 meters later, I pause again. 100 meters I pause again. I’m panting non-stop. But the pauses give me a chance to catch some air and finally, I reach the top (where Ed is sprawled out in the shade, on a bed of rosemary and sage, having paused far fewer times than me). I collapse and say I am going no further.

Staying on top of a mountain for the rest of my living days sounds appealing for only five minutes. We continue, downhill now, through gorges, down, down,





...to a countryside of vineyards and cherry orchards.





We are considering stopping. We are twenty kilometers short of our destination, but it is 6 pm, we’re tired, I am hungry for a good meal. We tell ourselves that the first nice b&b will be it for the day.

Ed is behind me. He calls out my name – I think he wants to show me something. Indeed.
I have a flat, he says.

The man knows bikes and so a repair is only a matter of time. He tells me to check my tires for pebbles. I do. He fixes his, we’re off.

Except that five minutes later, he has another flat. It’s Saturday evening. We have one more spare tube left. We should be eating dinner.

Ed examines the second flat, finds the hole and decides the spare was someone’s bad tube, mistakenly given to us with the bike. He changes it, pumps it up as best he can and we continue.

By now, it is so late that we may as well struggle til our destination – a b&b (Mas de la Lause) in the village of Le Barroux. Yes, perched on a hill. Why not.

We bike up at 8:30. Christophe, the owner is waiting. He has cooked dinner for us – salad, country pate, lasagna, apple tart. A bottle of rose. Outside on the terrace, with frogs making a racket.





We are surrounded by vines. So you make wines? It’s my wife’s family, he tells us. Ah. He cooks, she raises three daughters and has a finger in the wine making business.

Christophe understands a biker’s day. They all do here. Can’t tell you how many bikers one sees on these mountainous roads of Provence.

I ask who stops here in this remote place? He tells us it’s mainly the French, and Belgians and Swiss, some English and occasionally the Americans. Americans? Yes, a hikers tour group has affiliated with him. They go from village to village and a taxi service takes their bags from one place to the next. Sounds good to me… Oh, but you should see the size of their suitcases!

I think of last night's evening dinner at the spiffy little farm hotel we had stayed in. There were just a few other guests, all French. One woman wore beautiful linen shorts, another had a casual skirt, pressed, well-fitted. Clearly they didn’t squeeze their clothes into a yellow sack to strap onto a bicycle. For a minute, I had wondered why I was stuffing my yellow sack with a only a couple of items that I rinsed out nightly.


And now it is Sunday morning. I look out the window…




Take a deep breath, so that we can strap on our sacks and start all over again.

At the Avignon station – the big meet up, between bike people and two renters from Madison. One renter is very very tall and very very fussy about his bikes.

Nina and Ed? Here are you bikes.

I say goodbye to my pack for the week. Everything I will need (including laptop!) is rolled into a yellow sack clipped onto the rack. Do I look nervous?





We take ourselves and our bikes by train to Arles. From here we are to proceed north and east. It’s 10:30. We’re off.



starting point:Arles


It’s 10:35.
We need to stop. My saddle is not right.
We stop. Ed takes out many shiny tools and adjusts his saddle.

It’s t0:40.
We need to stop. My clip pedals are not working well.
We stop. Ed adjusts his clip shoes.

It’s 10:45.
I’m sorry, we need to stop. My saddle is still not right. Is yours okay?
It’s okay. Though I’m beginning to understand why the French aren’t reproducing at the rates they once did…

It’s 10:50.
Don’t you want to stop for a coffee?
No… but I’ll take a look at the market in this town.
Good. I’ll work on my saddle.

The market is small but nice. A southern France type market. They are so ahead in terms of the growing season! Ah well.





We continue.









I have a problem with the next leg of the trip.
What?
The medieval town – Les Baux? You wont like it – it’s very authentic but also very very touristy.
So, should we skip it?
No, no – there’s a magnificent view from it.
So what’s the problem?
The reason the view is magnificent, is because the village was built on top of a mountain.
These are not mountains, Nina.
They’re not hills either. I don’t do mountains. I prefer not to even do hills.


The most remarkable thing abut the following photo is that it was taken from Les Baux, after the ride up. Meaning, my entire being had stopped shaking long enough for me to snap it.





I take time for lunch..





..but Ed is in some kind of biking trance where he insists that food isn’t necessary. Though I coax him to take one of these off my hands:





Okay, the ride down has a few hairpins, so be careful. It’s a nice 4.5 kilometer spin.
(halfway down:) I think I should rest!
You need to rest going downhill??
My wrists are sore from clutching so tightly on the brakes!

Would you believe it, the ride down is harder than up?

At Saint Remy de Provence, I insist on a café break.
Great! I’ll use the time to exchange our saddles!
You are taking away my saddle?
You hate yours, I hate mine, let’s switch.

The problem with riding with a person who knows bicycles better than I know my own children is that he is prone to doing things like this.

That’s okay, I take the time to study the colors of Provence.



2 noisettes? oops...


The next bit is long and on a busy road. We are pedaling fast, just to get through it. We come to a small town with a traffic signal.

Hey, you just ran into me! You want to run me over!
Sorry, I missed the brake.

Two minutes later, at the next intersection, my loaded down bike topples.
I think we are getting tired.

Let’s pause for a minute and look at the map. Why are you sitting on my ankle?
I don’t want to get grass stains on my spiffy new cropped pants!

Are you sure you know where the farmhouse restaurant-hotel is?
It should be right here!

Two hours later (two hours later!), we find it. It is an oasis of tranquility. It has been a sunny, hot day. It’s 7 in the evening, there is a pool, we just want to slide in and release every tense muscle. But in the minute that it takes me to go upstairs and unload the sack, Ed falls asleep.

While he naps, I shower, then settle in the little bar overlooking the terrace, with a campari soda and my laptop, waiting for him to come down for dinner. We unwind in different ways.



And now it’s morning again. The view from the window is all about plane trees and the terrace below.



Mas de Cure Bourse: view from room


Time to set out again. We logged in 45 miles yesterday. Today’s route has more hills…

Can we take a day off?
No.

Can you tell I’ve gone south? Forget even the temperature jump from the fifties to the eighties. Forget the still air, the clear skies (mistral effect!). Or maybe think of them as the culprits. The people act differently (and eat differently!) here. It’s noticeable.
Photos.



Avignon: southern light




Avignon: southern night




Avignon: southern food


[By the way, may I suggest a "can do" and "don't panic" attitude when travel details unravel? So that if you are waiting at a Brittany bus stop and you learn it's the wrong one, running a mile to get to the correct one before the one and only bus takes off may pay off? And say you have to move from Gare Montparnasse to the Gare de Lyon in Paris, and you have 45 minutes, and say, moreover, that your traveling companion suggests walking and you set out to do so, even though you think it's a bad idea, and say you finally convince him you'd better take the bus and you lead him to the wrong one, and say you then get off and find the right one, and you almost make it except that a passanger picks a fight with the driver and you are two minutes delayed, and say you pull up tp the Gare de Lyon 15 seconds before the TGV pulls out -- don't give up! The train my be on "track A" and the conductor may keep the door open for you as you madly run, backpack loaded with seaweed products from Brittany, and jump inside.]

Tomorrow we set out on les velos. We're so unprepared for this huge amount of daily biking! It should be a bloggable event.

[A reader commented recently (paraphrasing) – I decided to follow your travels on my recent trip to Sicily. Thank you! We had hilarious adventures! Well now, I feel gratified. Ocean put forth some ideas and the reader took it from there, understanding that it never will be as you expect it to be. So, I get questions about what to see and do when in France. Here’s an idea - though mind you, it wont be as you would expect it to be:]

Oh, to get out of Paris a little! To walk along empty paths, to smell spring flowers and ocean breezes! To eat well, sleep better, to spend not too much…

Sure, sure, there are many ways to slice this banana. How about this: take a rapid train and then a local and alight in Roscoff (Brittany). It’s a town, not a village, but not to worry, it’s a good destination.

Book a room ahead of time at the Le Temps de Vivre. You want details? Click onto Ocean View (it's in the sidebar; no, not now – after May 25th). Ask for the cheaper room, in the tower. It’s beautiful! (View provided in previous Ocean post.)

You’re there. Now what? Get your shopping over and done with. Go to the Algae Center and look at all the fantastic things you may do with seaweed! Impressed? Loaded down with algae purchases? Head back to your hotel room, dump the stuff in the closet and head out again.

Walk along the little streets, admire the detail – the knobs to latch the window shutters, for example.








Go to the port and get your bearings. You’ll want to know what’s what. Walk out onto the footbridge and study the tides. Make sure you have a windbreaker on (see post below).

So now you’re hungry. Lucky you. Your hotel is right next to the restaurant of the same name. Feeling poor? Order from the cheapest set price menu. But if you’re going to splurge on food once in France, don’t do it in Paris, do it here.


Next morning, the hotel will provide a nice little breakfast. Eat up – a crepe, a Breton cake, breads and jams and yogurts. Oh, and the kitchen next door will have prepared a delicious little fruit thing. You wont want to skip that, nor the freshly squeezed juice.

You could, this morning, visit the onion museum. This is the region that wants to give AOC status (special French certification, reserved for such things as wines and cheeses) to the onion. It has a Roscoff terroir, you see. And a history. You’ll want to know about it.

Then, head back toward the little port. You may want to take your lunch now. There’s a great place – Auberge du Quai – it’s bustling at lunchtime, but they’ll find you a table. Tell them you’re in a hurry though. You’ll want to make the 13:30 boat. So order something simple like a half dozen oysters and an Ocean salad (no, I’m not copyright here, on Ocean) – with shrimp and smoked salmon.








Now you’re ready to explore the countryside.

Get on the ferry with the locals. (The docking point is different depending on the tide; watch what the others are doing and follow them.) It’s a fifteen minute ride to the Isle de Batz. You wouldn’t want it to be longer – the waters can be choppy here.



island view


On the island, head to your left and follow a path along the coast. You’re in the village now.

…but not for long. Just always take the path closest to the water and you wont lose your way. It’s about 15 kilometers around the island, so pace yourself well. Don’t be like this foolish American duo I know who had to run like crazy, waving their arms to keep the ferry from pulling out without them. There are only so many ferry runs and it would be sad if you missed the last one.

So what’s the walk like? It takes you past small Brittany homes, through pastures, past coves. You’ll stop to watch the waters crash on rocks as fishing boats brace their bows against the ocean waters.













At the tip of the island you’ll lose a lot of time watching the gulls, so be prepared for that. After you’ve taken the n’th shot of their splendidness, move on.








And don’t forget to look at the other island inhabitants. No, not the people, the horses and ducks and what have you. Looking out at the ocean too long and hard may keep you from seeing a mother duck feed her young one.





So you managed to not miss the boat back? Great. Poke around the little harbor and watch others pick up their lobsters and crab for the evening meal. Don’t be tempted to do the same. There’s no room in the minibar for it.





So, not yet time for dinner? There are great tea rooms and pastry shops that’ll sustain you. Sort of like this one:





It’s evening. You’re wondering if you should go back to the same restaurant or try something new. Choices! You have choices! You don’t expect to be guided here every step of your way? Explore! Consult the hotel staff. It is your last night on the Brittany coast? Make it great – go to a place that serves mountains of seafood. Maybe like this:





Of course, leave room for the main course. And the dessert. And a noisette maybe?

Another night in the tower room, another breakfast of crepes and cakes and then you can return to your Paris.

Anyway, that’s what I would do.

What’s a day like here? Yes, I walk, there are misty rains and plates piled high with shellfish. The fields are covered with artichoke heads and cauliflower globes and every person that passes shouts out a greeting.

But what’s it like to be here in the midst of spring?

One day at a time. Take yesterday: I wake up in a b&b just outside the sizable town of Treguier. A bird is at the window and it is sort of fitting.





The inn (Kastell Dinec’h) is an old house, run by an older woman, with the help of her daughter and granddaughter. OK, maybe the little girl isn’t much help. She’s only two and in the morning, she runs up to me, jumps into my arms and demands a kiss. She’s their charm agent and you forgive her running footsteps upstairs, above your room.

After breakfast, Ed and I hike to Treguier...





...to catch a bus to Lannion, an even bigger regional town – the only one in this area that has a train station. Except I read the bus schedule incorrectly and so we don’t really have a bus to catch. A costly mistake which only a taxi can save. Sigh.

We are waiting at the station, with still a few minutes to spare. Good thing there is bakery across the street. Good thing there are plenty of apple croissants and raisin croissants – you know, for variety.

We catch the train to Plouaret, where we catch another train to Morlaix where we catch another train to Roscoff. All on time, no missed connections.

Roscoff by the sea. Yes, there are a half dozen hotels, but the coastline remains untarnished by us, the tourists. This isn’t a beach casino town. There are no tour buses either, though maybe it is early in the season? Roscoff looks like what it tries to be: the "pink onion" capital of the world.





We wander into an algae store. A new variety is discovered every week (the store clerk tells us)! I’m in. I buy algae soap, algae spread (great with toast or artichokes!), algae scrub. I walked on the stuff at low tide and now I plan to smear it on my body. How odd we are, the occasional tourists who can’t get enough of their place.

The main street of Roscoff has a number of eating spots and one or two souvenir stores. At some point in the summer there will be tourists here, but now, the streets are empty but for the occasional French family out for a brisk walk..





A footbridge runs into the ocean waters. At the end, there is a platform for passengers of the ferry that runs back and forth to the offshore island. Walking it at low tide feels windy, dangerous, spectacular! The gust runs between groups of rocks and blows at you so hard that you are certain you'll be thrown into the waters below.





It is amazing how high the water level is by evening! Rock islands, so visible in the late afternoon are gone. Someone turned the ocean faucet on and let it flow too long! It happens so quickly! One, two, three, all flooded.






We eat a cheap meal at a pricey eatery. I say without hesitation that it is always better in France to do this rather than eating the expensive selections in a moderate eatery.

Here, take a look at this seafood and seasonal asparagus amuse bouche:





Then comes the meal. I have eaten so much seafood the past days that I am beginning to feel the addiction. What, no snails for breakfast? But here, at dinner, the chef works inordinately hard to create masterpieces. Yes, he has his emblem – his Michelin rosette. Want to find him and the wonderful little hotel his wife presides over? Check Ask for an Ocean View (link in Ocean sidebar) in several weeks. It will be there.

My images of Brittany include a night walk under a brooding sky. Forget it. I’m spent. Tomorrow. Definitely then. Or the next day. Oh, I’ leaving then. That’s okay, I still have a Brittany post in me – about offshore islands and kind ferry captains. In the meanwhile, a glance out the window, just for balance.

The posts have been a tad shorter, the photos – less numerous. Why? Because I did not finish all my work for the semester before leaving and so I’ve had to take some waking hours each evening to attend to it.

And I said little about the trip basics. How is this a hike? And where is the bike?

Let me explain:

We chose to hike along the GR trail (no.34), which for the most part, hugs the northwest coast line. Most of the time it is a dirt path. Sometimes it crosses beaches and stones, still wet from the receding tide. Sometimes, when a stretch of coast is impassable, we pick up a country road for a while.

We are carrying packs and I’ve grown used to the weight of mine. It helps to have a light computer!



through fields of artichokes



close up


The weather was fantastic the first day, fine the second and at first drizzly, then downright pouring rain the third.

I would say that, therefore, this third day of hiking was the best. We were energized by the wetness of it all! The scenery was well served by the gray, wet skies. We encountered the occasional person picking the night’s supper, or a fisherman digging for bait, or a farmer tending to the artichoke fields, but otherwise, there were few people out and about.









Brittany weather is like that – rarely cold, rarely hot, often changeable. Flowers thrive on it. I see plenty of evidence of this.



yellow and blue


When the drizzle first started, we paused at an old inn in a village of a few houses and ordered hot fish soup and a shrimp salad. A simple place with exceptionally cheap prices. Such wonderful, nourishing food!



a village with an inn










We were so buoyed by it all that we set out to hike further. That’s when the rains came down. No jacket could keep the wetness out of my pack. But we did not give up. Hearty Polish peasant stock here! (Ed, lacking that, is starting to sniffle.)

We hiked until the evening and then turned inland toward an auberge for the night. No buses here, nothing. Ed thought it would be fun to hitch a ride, but I balked. I’m too old, too wet, too something! Besides, there were too few cars going our way. And so we walked and walked some more until we found a bar where we could call for a ride for the last several miles. The country auberge had dinner ready for us. Good and hot.




with mussels and mushrooms



with morrells and white asparagus


So ended our hike along this stretch of the Brittany coast. We’re taking a train and a series of buses to a different location now, still in Brittany, but even further west. We only have time for one day-hike tomorrow. After that, we’re heading south to pick up a couple of bikes in Avignon.

Okay? Explanations typically come before an ocean crossing, but this time, my work got a huge grip on my time. By tomorrow I should be done with it and I can truly exhale. Actually, I’ve done a fantastic amount of exhaling already. And hiking. And eating. I have seasalt on my skin and in my hair and Brittany flowers in my head. Powerful combination.

Having myself lived in two countries where the political leadership has been, at numerous points, tremendously unpopular among those within and those outside the particular nation, I am sympathetic to the sizable minority who voted for the losing candidate in yesterday’s election in France. And even more sympathetic to those who felt the choice was less than perfect on all counts. Oh, politics.

For us, the day was only mildly touched by the presidential fever here (with nearly 85% of the French voting, you have to think that it was a feverish event). On the Brittany coast, all was calm, the tide was again low, the rocks and cliffs were dramatically positioned at every turn, the flowers were at their spring best.





We spent a while watching the occasional person try windskating on this beach. And the small, dads only, soccer game, with kids playing in the sand and moms chatting. And the two swimmers who thought nothing of the cold water. Scenes from nearly empty beaches are mesmerizing. Three photos for Ocean – of the tall firs protectively looking down on the cove below, of the biker who chose not to bike across, and of the solo walker.














At the local creperie -- one of only two places selling food here, Madame Louisette was taking a break from the kitchen duties. Monsieur Fernand was in back showing off how “award winning” crepes are made, granddaughters were helping out. A Sunday in Brittany.

It is late Sunday afternoon. Monsieur has yet to vote, but he made for me the most “perfect” (his words and he is correct) crepe, with acacia honey and lemon. I eat this as dessert, having downed 6 oysters that he just shucked for me (another 6 for Ed) .

We walked for a long long time. Internet connection has been spotty to say the least, but now, in this remote place on le Cote de Granit Rose, in the middle of nowhere, where Monsieur Fernand Bricout and Madame Louisette Bricout run a creperie, I am connected.

They are stunning people, but you wont see a photo today. Let me only post pics from yesterday. And then I have to move on. The path is long, the lodgings for tonight? Unlcear. Are there any nearby?

So, from yesterday:



low tide



rocks and castles



coming in for lunch



my lunch



towns and beaches



low-tide, close up



the youngest sailors, hauling in their boat

Internet or no Internet? It's always a cliff-hanger here and today I tumbled into non-connectedness again.

Once again kind strangers stepped in to lend me their life line. But I wont abuse their generosity and so I'll be brief and photos wont appear until I again establish a connection.

Thankfully, I have Ed's calm shrug to remind me that Internet issues are still ever with us and they are to be solved or ignored. No room for fretting.

In the meantime, we are indeed hiking along the granite coast, albeit in the French way. Two hours into our stroll (let's call it as it is) we pause in front of the most tempting terrace, where families are eating great quantities of Brittany seafood. Wouldn't you pause? And after, wouldn't you take out some work papers for a slow review, right there at the table, sheltered from the coastal breezes?

Our goal was a mere two dozen kilometers, but I can't say we made it.

Still, the tides were low, the sun was out and the views were spectacular.

My one issue (apart from the Internet stuff) is Ed's constant longing to rent a sailboat to take us out on the Channel. I may have to say yes eventually. My last excuse (Jason wont like it if I get salt in my hair) seemed pretty thin.

More tomorrow. Unless both Internet and kind strangers will completely disappear. Very unlikely. People are beyond friendly here. Nothing could change that. Not even tomorrow's big deal election.

A bientot!

My occasional traveling companion, Ed, has sometimes expressed a desire to bike across France. Maybe “desire” is a little strong. Maybe it’s more like a wee little interest. In any case, I have been aware of this and not at all indifferent to it. I tell him – pick your dates! And in the end, I don’t even wait for his decision here. I pick the dates and book the trip before he changes his mind.

I am very much up on biking. Of a reasonable type. Meaning, not across the whole of France. Let’s be real. I am not Tour de France material. I like flat rather than terribly hilly and I balk at the idea of carrying all my travel paraphernalia in a little sack strapped on a bike rack for several weeks.

As Ed and I discuss the possibilities and the dates draw closer, we strike a compromise. We’ll hike, then bike. The first week, we’ll firm up our leg muscles hiking along the coast of Brittany and the second week we’ll bravely bike across Provence. And if it rains, I get to stay indoors and play with my spiffy new computer (WHICH IS PICKING UP A WIRELESS SIGNAL ON THE FRENCH TRAIN, AS WE SPEAK!!).

I also insist that we skip the camping thing. I want a cozy room and a warm shower. And croissants every morning and wine in the evening.

Remarkably, Ed agrees and so here we are, making our way toward Brittany. And even more remarkably, I am traveling with a small pack filled with tres cool hiking pants and not much else.

God, what have I gotten myself into?

Half asleep from the long flight and the crazy last days of work. It’s barely noon, but I am already thinking of dinner. It’s the way my mind works.

Overheard (on train, in France):
Excuse me, may I use the outlet to recharge my phone for a few minutes? It’s Friday, I’m not likely to get many calls, but still…
Ah, the week-end is here.
Elections on Sunday…
A holiday on Tuesday. Wait, didn’t you just have a holiday here?
Yes, but that was last week.

I am in France.

Late in the afternoon we arrive at our chosen starting point – Trebeurden, on the coast of Brittany. Oh, but it’s splendid here. The view from the terrace window:





We walk down to the water – a stretch of sand along a sheltered bay. Not many people here at this time of the year. Just some school children, learning about sailing, having great fun kicking a soccer ball around, building sand sculptures, pulling in boats from an afternoon out on the Atlantic waters.





The wind is sharp, the coast is magnificent. Tomorrow Ed and I will hike along the craggy shoreline to the next village, then the next. But now, I’m focused on dinner. Lobster bits and sea bass pieces, chocolate tarts and frothy berry mousses – it’s what you would expect from a remote village dining spot in the far northwest corner of France

I look out my loft window Wednesday evening and I watch a plane come in for a (still distant) landing. People coming in, people leaving.





I’m thinking -- in a few hours that’ll be me, with only a carry-on back pack, heading overseas.

More later.

You know how utterly idiotic it was to have Prominent Government Officials appear on American Idol last night (I need TV to help me write lectures) to thank y’all for participating in the Fight On Poverty by voting for your favorite AI performer? Yes, THAT was dumb (not the donation, but its link to voting).

I have a better idea. Forget American Idol voting. Do something REALLY useful. Click on to Asia’s blog and sponsor her ride for the American Lung Association. I know, a million people are on your back to donate to one cause or another. But Asia is one of the coolest writers around and she is offering her writing talents for your donation. Imagine, you could help fight lung disease and have her write something on your blog. Win Win.

(Asia, Ocean welcomes you. I have only once had a guest blogger a long long time ago and at the last minute he succumbed to inertia. Or fear, or something. Not to pressure you or anything.)

To give. So many of us do it in countless ways. And maybe it’s enough. And maybe you’re tired of being bugged about this. Still, it’s Asia and lungs, and chances are you haven’t given much thought to lungs. Chances are your idle moments are spent visualizing a plasma screen TV instead.

Forget the TV. Who needs all those entertainment devices anyway. Just scramble some eggs, bring out the laptop, catch up on blogs and news stories and then click to make a donation. In support of lungs, for God’s sake. So satisfying. So, well, HELPful.

You know you need help when, for the third day in a row, you are posting pics of random flowers and this time, you can’t even move beyond the dandelion.





Never fear, there is only one more day left of this madness and for that day (tomorrow), I may … well, if I told you, what incentive would you have to check back?

So, check back.