Posted on 3/31/03
This is the last installment of Pat, Cat & Lil’ Scotty. We will cruise together all the way to Stockholm, Sweden. What will become of Lil’ Scotty? Will she be sold to a stranger, will she go to the scrap yard? You’ve gotta read the last of the chapter to learn the surprise. We’ll move back to cold places and warm friends. What a tour of Europe. WAR will be on every ones minds. Many of you will ask how we are treated. That one is saved for the end of the chapter, too. SO, Good readin’.
Barcelona and Beyond
January 15 to February 24, 2003
Our day on the bicycles was a beauty. We rode on a bike path through the city to Port Vell, the small craft marina and Port Olympia, the waterfront area created during the Olympics of 1992. After coffee and a croissant in a sidewalk café we cycled through the beautiful Parque de Cascada with its huge fountain waterfall. The park is full of wonderful buildings and though the plants are sleeping in their winter mode they portrayed a sort of stark beauty. At Mercado Santa Caterina Cat bought bread, cheese and meat. We sat in the sun, made sandwiches and talked with a young couple, as best we could, who were also riding bikes.
During our bike ride we saw the tower of the Transbordador Aeri, the Tram that hangs above the harbor and dangles it’s way up to Mountjuic (Jewish Mountain) named thus because there was once a Jewish settlement there. Above the gardens and almost over the hill lies the Temple del Sagrat Cor, Church of the Sacred Heart and is Barcelona’s version of The Sacre Cour in Paris, France. I really wanted to ride the wire. On our last day in town we made our way to the middle of the harbor and walked up the stairs of the imposing middle tower. It was after 4 PM and the last car would leave the top at 5:00. We went for it. Cat was a little queasy but the view held our attention. We tried to rush to the Sagrat Cor but had to turn back to make the last car into to town. Still a very worthwhile effort and some good pictures.
As we walked the tiny cobble stone streets I again began looking for peoples faces. One, a guy seated in front of a church who had a great look, agreed then looked up and to his left as I shot. When I walked over to show him the picture he pointed to some pockmarks in the wall and said, “We owe those to Mr. Mussolini,” in broken English. Somehow he got the point across that the Italians had fought Spain in 1939. I though he might have been here at that time but when we traded birth dates it turned out that we were the same age. We had both just been born when the pilot strafed the wall of his church. What a nice guy.
One of our days was spent walking and visiting museums. Not the usual buildings filled with relics of the past but specific places like the home of Pablo Ruiz Picasso. Yes, his house is a monument to his growth to the leading edge of art. It is located on one of the streets dating back to the 12th century. They have works of his from early things he did as a student to his most famous. It is interesting to walk through the hallways and see the progression from room to room. We accidentally stumbled across a gallery nearby where they had a large selection of the work of Salvador Dali. During the terrible real estate market of the 1980s I took several signed Dali prints in lieu of cash as commission. That was the beginning of an admiration of the man and his strange, interesting work. The display was surprising in that, unlike that of Picasso, there were no guards. In fact there was no security and no one other than us in the rooms. We really made a close inspection of the pieces.
On Friday, the 17th we tried one last time to find an adapter for the camera mini CDs so we could load the pictures into the computer. Another wild goose chase. We spent a couple of hours enjoying the last of our really cheap Internet connection. It was after noon and I wanted pictures of a couple of places before we would leave town. We were both getting hungry but couldn’t find food to go. I double-parked across from the strange La Sagrada Familia Temple. Cat was beginning to get the shakes, that low sugar thing, we think. I rushed up and down the sidewalk and rounded up some bread, meat, cheese and soft drinks. The Temple is so huge that it isn’t a very good subject for photos.
Leaving Barcelona had a couple of hitches involved. The first was our attempt at getting Lil’ Scotty up the steep ramp of the garage. There was a Mercedes van parked at the bottom of the ramp in a space with a huge sign on the wall forbidding parking there. It made the turn very tight, and I hit the curbing. Foot to the floor, I was stuck so we backed down. The clutch was hot, actually smoking. I backed down, almost into the Mercedes, waited for Scotty to cool, and then gunned her again. She made it about half way and died. I feared that we would burn the clutch out. It took three more tries to finally crest the sidewalk then we had to jump up on the curb, again. The smell of burning clutch was heavy in the alley and inside Scotty. We parked and let her cool then set out on our last cruise through Barcelona.
Our last quest was to drive back up to the Sagrat Cor. Winding our way around the city streets we missed the turn and found ourselves on the freeway and headed in the wrong direction. Not wanting to give up easily I pulled off into a strange place. They call it the Cemetiri del Sud-Quest, a huge cemetery. The tombs cascades down a hillside, almost a cliff in a bizarre scattered looking disarray. We had decided that we would skip the Church and get back on the freeway toward France. As we turned in a cul de sac we witnessed a young guy sitting on the curb injecting a needle into his forearm. There was a girl nearby, reading a book and rocking back and forth like a lost soul. Another leather and spikes kind of guy came walking from under the bridge we were entering to get back on the road. He was coming out of a cardboard jungle, a collection of garbage, old worn out furniture and tiny lean-to shacks in the shelter of the overpass. We were shocked, Cat was almost ill as she hadn’t quite recovered from her hunger spell. We turned north and escaped that grizzly moment and rolled back into our gypsy lifestyle.
Finally, we were off to Figueres. It was late by the time we pulled in and too cold to explore on foot. We caved in and had dinner in the Hotel Restaurant. It would be a wonderful meal and the whole thing including a bottle of wine was only 25€.
Today, our final day in Spain would be a Salvador Dali day. He was born here and always remained entrenched here though he lived in Paris, New York and lots of other exotic places in the world but always returned to Figueres. In fact he would buy a place, an old theatre here and make it his gallery and his home. He would live out his final years and in fact, die here. We thoroughly enjoyed the entire experience, from the work of other artists that Dali admired to some of his most bizarre and interesting things. It was tough to drive away but France beckoned.
Saturday January 18, we stopped on the edge of the very busy roadway to take a picture of the EU sign, proof positive that we were out of Spain and into Francais. We had been playing tag with an SUV that had bikes on the back. It passed us then they must have made a stop because it passed us again. We were drawn in to a roadside rest out of necessity and there they were. Mom and Daughter were from Holland. The Daughter’s boy friend was Brazilian, living in Holland. They were headed home from a month long journey that included cycling and skiing. He had been in a motorcycle crash and almost lost his leg. No skiing for him but he was able to ride the bicycle. We had a fun time talking, promised to stay in touch via e-mail then they drove out of our lives. The vow of communication must have been forgotten, too bad.
Time flew yet distance dragged slowly behind us. We fell short of our goal to reach Arles and pulled up at Montpellier. Cat was driving and entered a traffic circle going the wrong direction, luckily no head on traffic. We saved that thrill for later. As we circled in the streets looking for lodging she turned into the oncoming path of a Metro Train. It wasn’t her fault, the street pattern is weird, and I would have turned there, too. It did cause a pretty good stir of excitement and heart rates. Finally ensconced we, being the creatures of habit that we are, had pizza for dinner. Well we did have French wine!
We chose the old roads and beautiful countryside for our drive into Arles. It was just noon and drizzling rain when we pulled in. Though the girl tried hard there were no short-term apartment rentals. We discovered that though they are plentiful in summer most are rented to students during the winter months. The hotel she suggested was wonderful, a family operation that included a couple, their daughter and his Mother. Hotel de la Muette, the mute woman, is in an old stone building. The arch now filled in out front, was constructed more than eight hundred years ago. The spiral stairway is also stacked stone and our room held the feeling of antiquity midst modern fixtures. We loved the place and the family who work hard to maintain it and serve their guests.
Three Days in the Heart of Arles
More than picturesque, there is a feeling of history and art that seeps from the stones in this city on the Rhone. The streets wind through the old buildings in a confusing pattern. In the heart of Arles, all roads lead to the ancient Roman Coliseum. We broke out the bikes and cycled or walked every tiny street and alleyway on both sides of the river.
Our first evening in Arles was a treat. As we dined a flamboyant looking Frenchman swept through the door and greeted the chef and waitress with a flurry of French. He boisterously took a table next to us and began to chide the waitress. Long hair accented by his unique clothing and jewelry. I couldn’t not watch him. Cat nervously said, “You’re going to talk to him, aren’t you?”
When I turned to him and said hello he responded, “Bonjour”. In very slow English I asked if he was from here in Arles. He chuckled then really surprised us, “No, I’m from Burbank, California,” he said with the same gusto and delight he had expressed in French when he first entered the restaurant. We all enjoyed a great laugh and evening together. Michael McCormick is a classical guitarist. He has been living and playing here in France, off and on, for the past four years. We shared wine and stories until late in the evening.
The next day was a workday or at least a work morning. Laundry is the necessary evil of travel. It wasn’t easy finding the Laundromat then we had to wait our turn and finally run up and down the street looking for change. While in the process we ran into Michael again. He has a place on the third floor just across from the Laundromat. We walked together to Café au Nuit, made famous through the eyes of Vincent Van Gough. (Café at Night) Michael, described Arles as a place making a living today off of a guy that they treated so poorly. He said that they all thought he was crazy and treated him thus, as was the custom in those days. Well, if you think about it, here’s a disheveled guy, sitting on the street corner making scribble marks with thick oil. It was contrary to all other artists of the time, yet he called it art. You and I might have treated him like a homeless person if we came across him today. For us he was as interesting as Picasso and Dali. He died sad and poor yet one of his paintings, Sunflowers, has sold for over $30,000,000. Oh Vincent, how they underestimated you!
Michael led us on a small town tour as we walked to his favorite restaurant to make reservations for tonight. Darn, it was closed on Mondays so we decided to make our dinner plans for Tuesday. He left us and we started to buy the pass to the ruins and museums but they too were closed on Mondays. Seems that most restaurants are closed on Mondays here as they were in Spain. Only the most industrious are open and they always seem to be Asian. We had very good Vietnamese food with out conversation. The chef/waiter only spoke French and Vietnamese. We talked as we dined about the history of Vietnam, how the French had fought the northerners for 20 years or more before bowing out and allowing the US to give of their money and young for another 15 or so? Well the memory is tainted but the food was not.
Two Sunny Days of Cycling
There is a place, the Parc Naturel Regional de Camarque, just south of Arles. It is the delta of the mighty Rhone River. There you find streams, swamps, flamingo, wild horses and great roads to cycle. Although we missed the flock of pink flamingos we did see the black bulls used for bull fighting and a herd of the wild horses. It was a perfect day on the bikes but we got just a little lost on the way back in. For a moment we thought we had a flamingo in our sites but it turned out to be quite white. A Swan, we decided then it took to wing and passed overhead. Its long neck was extended 2 ½ feet ahead of its body and it let out a whoop every time it made a flap of its wings.
Time got away from us and hunger set in. Finally we stopped a lady in a car and she explained. Fortunately Cat’s French lessons are coming back to her so she got the message, we turned the corner and were back on the streets of Arles in no time. We picnicked on the bank of the Rhone then set out for another landmark made famous by Vincent, Pont de Langlois, The bridge at Langlois just 3 Km south of Arles. He painted the scene in 1888. Sure it has been rebuilt since Vincent swirled his bold brush across the canvas but it feels like history. It even looks like history. Maybe it’s the copy of Vincent’s painting there that sets the mood.
It was 5:30 by the time we got back to La Muette. We had to hustle, Michael was coming by to meet us for dinner. His friend, Angele would join us there. Another fun evening with him. They have been friends for several years but for us it was a little difficult. Angele is from Spain, along the southern edge of the Pyrenees. She has lived in France for 20 years. Our problem, she only speaks French and Spanish. Even with our high school backgrounds we struggled. Cat did best, she is starting to recall how to construct sentences. Michael told of how he struggled when he began trying to converse in French. At first you learn words that get you by then you want to make conversation so you must learn grammar and the nuances of the language.
The McCormick Come Back
When we talked about how the French don’t seem to look at you as you pass by or smile or say hello. Michael told us that when he learned Conversation he was still in his California mode so he would smile and say hello to people passing by. Then he laughed and told us that the French have a little saying that translates, “Do I know you?” That’s how they respond to a smile and greeting. Then as they walk on they say something like, “I don’t know you!” This really isn’t a reflection of disdain, just a cultural thing. Our friends in Denmark say that most Danes think Americans spend a lot of time saying trivial things like, “How are you,” when they don’t actually care how you are. They’re right of course but then, that’s our culture. From that moment on we made it a point to smile and say hello just to watch the look in those French eyes as they pass by. We had another great evening then Michael slipped over and bought dinner. That wasn’t on the agenda and he refused to let us pay our share. We vowed to repay the debt, here or in California.
Another bicycle day that started out sunny but slowly clouded and cooled. Our route was up and over Les Baux, a mountain with famous Chateau Les Baux atop, another spot immortalized by Vincent, then down into St. Remy. This was the first real climb we have made since Marbella up to Mondo. The scenery is worth the effort but the best of it would lie in a small restaurant in St. Remy. The up had left us hungry and the screaming down had chilled. Chez Momo is a real peoples place. We saw it as we came into town but circled before making it our choice. The Chef works in front of a window open to the street. A chalkboard sign advised us that the special was Pot au Feu, pot roast with potatoes and vegetables. There are only 5 tables in the place and a stand up bar that was crowded with locals. We had to stand outside, waiting for a table but slowly worked our way in as others left. This would be our “best yet” French experience. The wife of Chef and mother of the maker of crepe seated us. There were two dogs in attendance, very French. Several of the guys at the bar tried to help us. One fellow boasted that he was Vincent Van Gough’s great, great grandson. Who are we to disagree? He did have the look. The Mom is Momo and she runs the place. When we took a family photo she had Dad and Son hold her up, she is short and wanted to look taller in the pic. What wonderful people, what a wonderful memory.
On the way back up the hill we stopped off at the Le Cloitre St-Paul de Mausole where Vincent voluntarily checked himself in. Here he painted the Iris, Night Stars and of course La Chambre de Vincent, what I call “Chair in Room”, the place where he cut his ear? They charge a fairly hefty sum to enter, the areas where Van Gough lived and painted more than 200 canvases are off limits and they wouldn’t allow bikes. We decided not to risk leaving them outside so took a photo and rolled up, up, up. Lost again, we finally wound our way back into Arles in a bone chilling wind. We missed Michael but had a pretty nice meal at “Café au Nuit” and raised our glasses to Vincent.
Avignon, Aix en Provence, Vaison la Romain, Carpentras, Nyon & Montelimar
We chose to just wander the small roads. The ice up north isn’t giving way to spring so why not? Small beautiful villages, castles, vineyards and countryside. Avignon is a walled city. The mote had been filled in so the walls just jut up out of parking lots and behind buildings. We had read about the place and wanted to stay and see the sights. It was now cold, windy and very cold. The tourist office provided a list and map. We were on our own in the hunt for hotel. The first three on the list were terrible, cheap but terrible. Back to the TO, they sent us to a place outside of town. It was fully booked but the girl there called trying to help us. No rooms there either then somehow the girl found a room for us but we could only spend one night. We took it, bought groceries and ate in. It was just too cold and the wind had played havoc with my sinuses.
Two Days in Aix en Provence
Our visit to Avignon was a Lil’ Scotty driving tour. We passed by the sights said to be important then set out on the country roads, again. Cat wanted to see Aix en Provence so off we went. We were in the city by noon but spent the next three hours shopping for a room. It was getting colder as sunset neared. We finally gave in and took a place on the outskirts. The bikes were stored in a meeting room, we thought we would take a ride the next day. Public transportation, the bus, was our ride into Aix. We zipped up and explored a little. Found an Internet Café and cleaned up our e-mails then bought bananas and other essentials and bussed back home. The restaurant at the hotel was more than adequate and reasonable for their buffet.
Between the cold wind and the lack of bicycle paths we shelved the idea of a ride and chose the bus in and a walk around town. The Cézanne trail has bronze markers at every place where artist, Paul Cézanne, lived, ate, drank, talked and painted. It becomes fairly boring in a short time. The most vigorous part of the tour and the most interesting was up the hill to the house he lived and worked in for many years. No, you won’t see any pictures here because they don’t allow photography. The studio is sitting in the same state that it was left in when Monsieur Cézanne died, almost 100 years ago. The woman there, like the tour, was almost too detailed in the info she offered. We were intrigued by the fact that he painted the nearby mountain 48 times. He is known and his work now loved but he was quite normal when compared to Van Gough, Picasso or Dali. We did drive out that way when we left and I got several good shots of Cézanne’s mountain.
Cat loved the crowded Saturday Market selling food, flowers, antiques, even clothing. We ate a bowl of hot soup and watched the pandemonium through a window. The restaurant was typical French with elbow-to-elbow seating. The soup helped cut the cold. Though it was clear and sunny the cold chilled us both.
For the sake of convenience we decided to have dinner at the Hotel Restaurant again. When we returned we found hat it was closed for the evening. We drove to a nearby shopping center and had terrible Pasta. They had very little wine but allowed us to get a bottle from the adjacent Super Market. We found an English language newspaper that took the rest of the evening or should I say we made it last the rest of the evening.
The Small Story of The Small Town of Carpentras
After a slow start we just crawled through the countryside and enjoyed the sights. Small villages, Castles and vineyards. Gordes is a spectacular sight, clinging to the hillside above farms and vineyards that reach out toward the horizon. It was a steep climb just for a picture but Scotty was up to it and the picture is wonderful.
Another strange place, the walled Village des Boires, a village built entirely of stacked stone. The village isn’t named Boires, the houses are. Boires are constructed of limestone without mortar. Kind of beehive shaped there is even a two-story model. First built here in the Bronze Age, they were used continuously until the 18th century. There are 20 that were rebuilt over 150 years ago. It’s a pretty good walk to the village and it is maintained like a museum so you pay for a ticket but it is definitely worth the effort.
We decided to stop for the day at Fontaine de Vaucluse, an anomaly where water just comes pouring out of the mountainside in a large river. It was cold and windy but we walked the 2 Km to see the phenomenon. Just as we reached the roaring gusher we ran out of disk space, we would have no pictures. I thought of running back to Scotty but dark was closing in and cold preceded it. We had left Scotty in a parking lot. The attendant agreed to keep an eye on her and the bikes but warned us that he would leave at 5:00 PM. So, no photos of this strange natural event in a place where men have lived for centuries. The Romans defeated the Celts here and took over in the 2nd century, BC and there are abundant ruins scattered about. Fontaine de Vaucluse is a big tourist stop and this wintry day was no exception. Hundreds of bundled up folks walking up stream and all over the streets of town. Plenty of shops with the usual tourist stuff. We tried to find a Hotel and were surprised to find it fully booked on a cold windy Sunday.
Fountaine de Vaucluse
Onward, we pulled into the village of Carpentras at dusk and found a nice hotel owned by a young couple, Frederick and Christine. Again, it being Sunday, there was only one restaurant open and it was Vietnamese, of course. We walked down the narrow streets in the gusty cold and found good food and a portable heater that they pulled over to our table.
Vaison-la-Romain
Rather than take the offered breakfast we had our bananas and orange then walked to a local Coffee place. It was more than cool. Well the gals who work there made us feel at home, we joked about our French and their English. The food and café au lait were great but what was really cool was the breeze through the open entry. Brrrrr. Forget the cold, we walked the tiny streets and alleys exploring, getting lost and found again.
We caught a picture with Frederick and Christine then he hurried off to a Doctors appointment and we wandered off toward the north. Vaison-la-Romaine straddles the Ouveze River, a creek now but one that swells and floods, often. It’s another one of those Romans ran off the Celts stories. There are a lot of ruins including a bridge still in use. Somewhere around 6th century AD the people moved up on the hillside then 600 years later a castle was built on the hilltop. It is really picturesque but the hotel room was lacking. We took a couple of pictures from the window, walked around until we started to shiver then found a nice restaurant. Although they served only red meat we ate and ate.
In the morning we took a brisk walk up to the ruins of the Castle. It was a treat to walk the paths and stairs of the medieval city where others have trod for more than 1,000 years. We did make the Castle but it was shuttered and barred. The tour was just around three walls, the other was on the top of a sheer cliff. Cat loved the Tuesday Market that was going on in the square adjacent to the hotel. There was even a good Internet Café. We loved Vaison-la-Romaine and decided to find a better room and stay another night. The tourist office was closed and we couldn’t find anything so we decided to gypsy on up the road.
Nyon, Olive Oil and Rene
Lil’ Scotty loves these kind of days. We have just been slowly meandering around the French countryside. Each of the past few days has only covered 50 Km or so. Nyon had the same feeling of charm as Vaison without the medieval and Roman. We found a decent room then went looking for an Olive Press. The one we found was busy bottling but the press ended last week. The people were friendly and told us about an Olive Oil Museum. We found it then in walked the man who works there, Rene. He is 81 years young and loves telling the story of Olive Oil. Of course he only spoke French so he worked with Cat and got his points across. He did have a piece written in English that helped. We had never even thought about how they press the oil out of olives. We just dip our bread in it and pour it on salad. Pretty interesting.
Rene's Olive Museum
As we were leaving Rene came out and picked a yellow flower like branch off a tree and gave it to Cat. He called it Mimosa or something close to that. Then he invited us to follow him next door. There he took us through the gift shop and into the modern Olive Oil processing plant and gave us a personal tour. He loved talking with the guys who worked there as we walked. And, he did a great job of explaining the modern process. Then he led us back into the gift shop and insisted that we have a glass of wine with him. He also made us taste the olive oil and told Cat that you should take a glass of it every day before any other food, it’s great for digestation. Rene was the frosting on the wonderful Olive Oil story he had created for us! Cat felt that he was a lot like her Father. She thought he would do things quite the same way Rene had. What a joy!
Huile
D'Olive Moderne'
All that olive oil made us hungry, for Pizza. Okay, we’re always hungry for Pizza but there was no Pizza place in Nyon. We ended up at dinner in the hotel dining room. Not Pizza and not too good.
Montelimar, La Voulte sur Rhone, Elana and Politics
Apre coffee and Internet we moved onward, ever northward. We were easily in Montelimar by early afternoon, had lunch and looked for a room, no luck. I remembered the place because it was here that I met Bill and Barbara, you know the bi-coastal couple from Seattle and Chicago. I had memories of a wine-buying contest with Bill but who knows where that place was or if it still exists? We found only sad looking hotels and industrial buildings, onward, ever onward.
It is well known that the Rhone is home to the world’s largest cluster of Nuclear Generating Plants. They produce a huge amount of the electricity for much of France. Here we are in the world’s best wine region and it’s a Nuke region, too.
We passed through La Voultre sur Rhone and went seeking a B&B. It was in a simple residential neighborhood and it was closed. By now it was raining so we backtracked and met Elana. She was gracious in a forward sort of way. There is a restaurant in the hotel and she seems proud of it. She told us that she had owned a restaurant in South Africa for 15 years before coming back home to France. Because of her experience there she spoke very good English. The room was COLD. We turned up the little electric heater and showered but the chill remained. We complained and Elana came to the room then offered extra blankets. It was obvious that the heat was not going to get the job done.
Dinner was simple, one choice on a fixed menu. Curried chicken on rice and it was just okay. When we entered we were the only patrons but the crowd swelled to about a dozen. We were seated in the corner window, the glass was cold but the heater beneath the table cast a warm glow onto tour feet. As the crowd thinned Elana took a seat at our table and asked about our trip then filled us in on details of French lifestyle, religion and politics from her perspective. Religion was easy, she feels that the French have given up on it. She says they go to church for Christenings, Weddings, Funerals, Christmas and Easter. Her ideas about French lifestyle we jaded by her time spent in Africa. Too liberal socially, especially when mixing colors, races and cultures. The most heated part of the conversation was politics, she like most French have a definite almost defiant objection to what they call Mr. George Bush’s war. It is a fact that the vast majority of French oppose war in Iraq. As we watch the events of the day unfold we see more and more the affect of leadership and how so many fall in line. It is obvious that the drums of war are reaching our fellow citizens in the USA. We see people on CNN and BBC from the states that have a strong opinion that war is the thing to do. Just as many French and German feel exactly the opposite. Even e-mails we get have messages of dislike, almost hate for Iraq, in a joking way. Now they are also poking fun at France, how they never won a war in modern times without the USA, etc.
Bridges over the River Rhone
There is no wining or losing this type of argument and we refuse to be involved. I personally hope that the situation will work it’s self out without guns and bombs. Peace is something that we all say we want, whether French or American. Funny, most French seem to be lining up against President Bush, not the people of the USA and vice-versa. Back in our cold, cold room we huddled down under the additional layer of covers and got a pretty good nights sleep.
Happy
Birthday, Lori Lee
Today is January 28 and both daughters are in Las Vegas. This is a big day for Lori Lee, the anniversary of 40 years of life. Every Father who is fortunate enough to live as long as I should have the good fortune to have a wonderful 40 year old daughter, as I now do. It made me inventory my own life in a strange way. I began to think of all the things I have done and seen since turning 40, myself. I had not skied, flown in a passenger jet or traveled anywhere that couldn’t be driven to before I turned 40. Lori, as always, has a very positive attitude and is a bundle of self-confidence. Unlike most of us she sees age not as a detriment but more of the great learning experience of life. Though she has been in sales for 20 years, she had just begun a career in Real Estate. That adds another layer of joy and admiration to this already proud Papa. She and husband Dave are consummate Yuppies, they work for the toys and joys of life! We sent her Happy Birthday e-mails and spent several days trying to have a Jeroboam (huge bottle) of wine shipped to her. It didn’t work, not because the French didn’t want to. California has rules about importing and wine is one of them.
Four days in Lyon
January 30-February 2, 2003
Elana had offered us the use of her computer to check e-mail but it wouldn’t open America on Line? We were hoping that this wasn’t due to the rift between our governments. (This is just another WAR joke.) We loaded Lil’ Scotty and continued our quest toward the cold.
Our route was along the Rhone but somehow we took a wrong turn and circled several areas before stopping to use the Pissoir at MacDonald’s. In our first in some time weakness we decided to get food at the drive thru. We ordered in the usual fashion then when we got to the window the girl couldn’t fit the bag of food through Lil’ Scotty’s window. What a laugh, all the other kids had to come, look and laugh with us. Once the sandwiches were in our car we decided that it would be too messy to eat and drive. Parked in the lot, as we ate a truck driver pulled up, got out and looked the car over. He came to the driver’s door and said something in French. It was positive because he gave us thumbs up. When he saw the plates he asked if we were from Portugal. We told him we’re Americans and only speak English, he then, in English, said, “I know you no Portuguese, they don’t drive Renault 4 into France.” We couldn’t figure that one out and as Cat scurried to find words in the dictionary he turned and walked away.
Into and back out of Lyon, we were trapped on the freeway and had to drive through a very long and sort of dark tunnel. It took us away from town. It took a turn around and replay of the dark drive to get us into the streets of downtown Lyon. For some reason trucks look even bigger and more menacing in the dim light. The two-tunnel trip sort of reminded us of the 3-bridge crossing it took to get us into Lisbon, Portugal.
Lyon is a BIG city. We circled and studied the map then looked for a parking space. Finally I pulled down into a Service Station that is under the main square. Cat walked to the Tourist Office while I topped off the gas. The attendant told me that I couldn’t park in the pump lanes or adjacent to them. I saw a vacuum cleaner so fooled with it and vacuumed Scotty and stalled until Cat returned.
She found what would turn out to be a great place for us. It’s a furnished studio apartment and the rate is very good for a big city. The more days you stay, the less it is per day. They don’t have maid service, they only replace the cover on the douvets weekly and towels cost extra if you want a daily change. We felt right at home, that’s our schedule there. Oh, and the place has a garage, one of those with an elevator that takes the car down then you pull up on a ramp and it drops down so that another can park above. Lil’ Scotty looked pretty tight in the vault, we couldn’t see how one much bigger would fit. The bikes were right against the wall and we thought we were going to break her antennae on the ceiling. Very tight! Another wonderful feature was a washer and dryer, included in the rent.
Scotty's Bedroom
We cooked in all three nights. Dinner in, Cat Cookin’ and room to lounge. Even Scotty got a few days off in the deal.
Our other needs were easy, too. The Internet place was just 3 blocks away. One of the guys there was interested when we showed him our web site. Alain always talked with us and helped us when we came in. He even put our pictures of Spain on CDs so we would finish them and send them off to Wally the Web Master.
It was cold every day we were in Lyon. It snowed pretty hard a couple of times. The snow stuck for most of the time we were there. In fact when we awoke on Saturday Feb. 1, the ground and all the cars were covered with white. Our original plan was to take the Funicular up to see The Lyon Baccillica and Roman Theater but the operators were on a one-day strike. We did marketing then back to our little home. Cat went to have her hair cut and I worked on the journal as BBC droned along in the background. I took a break just as they cut to Cape Canaveral to cover the return of Space Shuttle Columbia. When the time for expected landing passed there was an announcement from NASA that they had lost contact with Columbia but that sometimes happens during re-entry. Just as Cat came back in they began to report that Columbia was missing and started speculating on what had happened. In the next hour NASA announced that Columbia had disintegrated on reentry. WOW, it seemed unreal. Cat is always a lot more emotional than I but we both felt a kinship to those who travel around the world whether in space or on an orbital pattern like ours. What a tragedy but then we who press to the edge know that it can end in tragedy. We doubted that any of them would trade their experience for security. We can relate to that, not that our Odyssey compares to the risk of space travel but we do face dangers, weigh them against the possibilities then, move onward. (If you doubt the wonders of space travel go to our “Languages of the World” page and see the WORLD at night from the International Space Station!)
The sun came out, we walked and explored, even took the Funicular up and wondered at the architecture of the Basilica. The Roman Teatro is as Roman Teatros should be except for the view of Lyon. We thought of playing our Cajun Music there with the crowd above and the City behind the Band.
We slept late every day and wallowed in the luxury of our Studio. We walked every little cobble stone street and saw the Traboules, the little passageways connecting what were silk shops in the old city. We stopped there for a photo of a sign, Casse Croute, that reminded us of our friends, Michel and Lucie in Quebec. We met them at a Casse Croute and they taught us what it meant, a snack shop. Nearby was a restaurant with a guy standing in the cold making Crepes. We watched, took pictures then sought warmth and found real French Onion Soup and a nice guy, Christophe, waiting for his girl friend to meet him. They are going skiing, he is pleased with the snow that has fallen off and on for the past three days. Sort of like that old lesson about, “Rain on the Parade, bad day. Rain on the Crops, halleluiah! Same day same rain.” For our part we feel that Spring has been given a back burner and it will delay our start in Finland.
The Rhone and Soane Rivers meet here in Lyon. One day we set out to exercise and walk to the confluence and back. It was further than it looked on the map but we wouldn’t be foiled. Walking and walking we finally found it and found it to be pretty un-photogenic. One thing we did see was a lot of little campers parked in the industrial area. They all had a candle, burning incense and women in the cab. We started to get the picture when a truck pulled up and the guy got out and talked with one of the Ladies. These Ladies of the Night were Ladies looking for Truck Drivers.
On the way back we passed through The Gare de Lyon, the train station. That was the only memory I had of this place that I visited on a Bicycle Tour in 1987. Bicycle France was our guide. Richard and Kristen Taylor came along and I met Bill and Barbara our bi-coastal friends there. In fact we set out from Montelimar after arriving here and rode south to Arles. Those were the days when I started to know that I would have to go around the World on a bicycle, someday.
Cat was a little nervous when she saw the French National Police guarding the station with machine guns in hand and standing at the ready. I thought ahead to Africa, I remember young nervous guys with guns in Egypt, Pakistan, China and Russia. My most fervent memory of young men and guns was in Romania. They looked like they were just looking for a reason to draw and shoot! Funny, how the guns always look older than the guys holding them.
Political Protest Snow/Lyon/Rhone
High Noon, Lyon
We were pleasantly surprised with Lyon. It has plenty of things to see and do as tourists. It is interesting and picturesque. However, it was cold most of the time and snowed on our heads as we walked. Spring seems a long way from Lyon!
Lyon to Macon Villages, Beaune and Puligny Montrachet
As we were leaving Lyon we stopped at the office of Gites de France. These are homes that rent rooms to travelers. They seemed like a good option for a few days stay in Beaune. However, like all good things there were restrictions. None of them were located in Beaune. This is a beautiful City that I remember from 1988. There the kids, Lori and Stephanie met me and we cycled together on a tour, Chalet Cycle Tours. Of course my memories were in the fall of the year but I did have a cold most of the time and the weather was pretty chilly, too.
Gites of France seems like a good deal for families but they wanted a membership fee and 4 or 5€ for each directory. Without joining the Gite thing we set off up river and out into the vineyards. Well we did have to brave the dark tunnel again but like most things in life, it seemed a lot less ominous, now that we knew the way.
The mere sound of, “Beaujolais Wine Route” drew us to turn left, off the beaten path. It was a fantastic drive through countryside on small winding roads. We left the level roads that flank the Rhone and began pushing Lil’ Scotty over undulating hills. The snow in the rows of vines accented the beauty. Of course we were soon lost. Time was waning so we took the first sign pointing back toward the National Route. We were in Macon, in an okay room and eating Pizza in no time.
The sun shone brightly as we set out for Beaune that next morning. Shortly the skies grayed then we found ourselves in an honest to goodness snowstorm. The huge flakes were so thick that Scotty’s wiper could barely keep them from piling up on the windshield. The snow was covering the highway when Cat cried out, “We had better turn back!”
I slowed Scotty to a crawl and felt the road, the snow was pretty wet but slick. We pulled up at a Service Station for gas and guidance. The guys there could only speak French and Cat was in the car. As I tried to converse the sun broke through the clouds and seemed to point the way to Beaune. We pulled into town at Noon.
Chains Required?
In the heart of beautiful Beaune, on the square, is the tourist office. The village felt familiar in a stark sort of way. It was autumn the last time I was here. The trees were loaded with leaves turning red and gold. Today the trees were stark but that is another form of beauty, don’t you think?
The girls at TO weren’t very helpful or was it that our expectations were too high? They did provide a booklet full of Gites and B&B places but most were closed for the season and they had no list nor would they call to see it the places were open. We began to drive and search. Out of town, on a hillside, we found a fantastic house. The owner was there and would rent us a room. We would have had the house to ourselves except it was completely rented for a party today. That meant we would have to find a place then move. Also, as fantastic as the place was, it was beyond our budget.
We circled, looked at small, junky hotels and knocked on doors of Gites. Finally we gave in to the cold and approaching dusk and took a motel room. The Kyriad is like an upscale Motel 6 with a fairly nice restaurant. As we pulled into the parking lot it began to snow so hard we hated to get out of Lil’ Scotty. I backed her into the bushes and covered the bikes with the plastic mattress cover that Alain in Arles had donated.
By the time we were inside there was an inch of snow piled up on the parking lot. We stayed in, and watched the snow and Scotty from our room. Winter had reared its beautiful head, again.
Determined, we set out the next morn on a quest. We had decided that we would hold up here for several days in the hope that the weather pattern would change. Tourist was again, not too helpful. We tried a Real Estate Office to no avail then another and found help. The Broker, reminded us of a French speaking Joanie Young. She got on the phone then indicated that we should follow the young guy, he would show us a place just outside town. It was 25 Km to the place he was showing us. We felt badly that he had to go so far out of his way, on his lunch hour. Slowly we began to put pieces together and when we arrived he confirmed our suspicions. It was his Mothers place, he was going home for lunch. The place, a full apartment on the rear of the house, was very nice. We stood in the place, felt at home but hated the fact that we were so far from Beaune and the wonderful wine region. We went to lunch and thought it over. As nice as it was and as well priced, it was just too far off the beaten path for us.
Our next step was to drive back through Beaune and south. We found a nice place, a little above budget, in Pommard just 4 Km from town. Same problem as the big house, booked for tonight, available tomorrow. Onward, we found the Tourist Info in Meursault and the girl was really good. She called around but was finding the same problems, either they were booked or closed for the season. Then she found a place in the tiny village of Puligny Montrachet. If you know white
wines, well wines of any color, these two places are the pinnacle of small villages and the heart of the Bourgogne (Burgundy) region. I once met a Frenchman cutting roots on his vines. I asked him about irrigation and fertilization because California vineyards seem to do both. He laughed then in his wonderful accent he said, “You may fertilize and irrigate but ONLY GOD CAN MAKE PULIGNY MONTRACHET!”
The Gite is a house, almost a chateau, that was once a large farm. It is divided into two now and Maria and Antonio own the largest portion. We took a bedroom and they arranged use of the kitchen. When we say arranged, they have been working to build a stovetop but it is a ways away. What they arranged was a camp stove with butane gas sitting on a cardboard box. It worked, it left a strong smell of gas in the room but we were able to cook dinner every night. On our first night Maria offered a bottle of their own wine, from the grapes behind the house. It was so nice that we bought a bottle every night.
One treat was watching a woman work the vines behind the house. She was trimming and burning the branches. Her wheel barrel is a 50-gallon drum with holes cut in the bottom. As she burns and moves down the rows the ashes drop out and regenerate the soil. Very French, very vineyard.
Trim and Burn
Although the weather remains unsettled we rode the bikes into Beaune. We checked e-mail but the weather in the shop was as cold as the outdoors. We were bundled up and decided that this was Finland practice. On the way back we looped out and up to several smaller villages and through vineyards with barrels smoking. As we came back around we found a Renault Dealership and booked a tune up for Scotty.
Our second ride was similar, cold but scenic. We did stop and have a bowl of real French Onion Soup in Beaune. As we sipped we watched a guy and gal sort of climbing all over each. We thought they could be on a lunch hour rendezvous or just starting a relationship. After she left he, Max turned to us and opened a conversation. He is an engineer currently working on the Nuke Generators we saw along the Rhone on the way in.
For a third day of riding Maria suggested Bouilland. It was on the far side of Beaune, about a 60 Km round trip. This would be the longest ride we have taken since Marbella. The skies were clear and the sun shone but it was cold. We were ready for the cold but the ride was a bit more challenging on the way out than we thought it would be. Once through Beaune we looped out through Savigny-les- Beaune. It lies in a small river valley with rolling hills covered with vineyards. From there the road rises slowly through wooded hillsides along a crystal clear creek. In Bouilland we found a boulangerie and bought the ladies last loaf of bread. We had forgotten that it was Sunday and most places are closed. A nice woman saw us stopped and offered help. She pointed out a place that she said was sort of a restaurant. It turned out to be a bar, they did allow us to eat our bread while we thawed out and sipped soft drinks.
We backtracked and found a place called The New Rock Café. It was very California in look and the food, although good was the strangest hamburgers we had ever seen. It was billed as a double and it did have two small patties but they were on a huge bun that was sort of like thick pita bread. Of course we were starving so it tasted great. The décor was so interesting that the pictures and little movie here are needed to get the point across. It is a bar with lots of California, Americana memorabilia on the walls.
Californians in France
As we cycled through Meursault on the way back we stopped at the winery where Antonio works, tasted a glass, bought a bottle and tried to buy a Jeroboam, the giant bottle of Merseault to mail to daughter Lori for her birthday. They only bottle reds in the large bottles there. It was a serious day of cycling and the hot shower after, really felt great. We’re not roadworthy but today did help to boost our confidence.
For Scotty’s day in the garage I got up early and took her in then cycled back. Brrrrr, it was really cold. When we picked her up we were shocked. The bill came to 336€! Well, I did have them change all fluids and flush the radiator and make sure that it would handle the cold we were headed toward. Also, I had them change the points and spark plugs. The labor charge here in France is more than twice that of the place in Marbella and Lagos. Also, the French have a huge tax thing, 20 percent of the bill, which came to over 60€. On the upside, Scotty really ran great, she had been dieing at stop signs and idling roughly. She was road ready for the final push.
Oh, we did take time out to tour Patriarche, the Caveau with more than 4,000,000 bottles of wine stored in the old sewer system, the catacombs, under the streets of Beaune. Patriarche has been in Beaune since 1780. The labyrinth of cellars dates from the 13th and 14th centuries. The oldest bottles on the wall have been there since 1905.They only keep wine on the shelf if they have more than 12 bottles. They taste one bottle each year to make certain it is still holding well. I tried again to buy and ship a huge bottle of wine to Lori but they would only ship a case of 6 and that was way out of our budget. The tour costs 9€ so you must hurry to make sure you get your Euros worth. Today they were only tasting 13 so it wasn’t much of a challenge. When I visited here in 1988 they had 28 bottles open. As for the wines, they’re not really that great but the place is so unique that you must try it when you visit Beaune. King Louis IV said it and it is engraved in stone, “The wine of Burgundy is the wine of Kings!”
Also, while in town we almost bought the ticket to tour Hotel-Dieu. It is a charity hospital that was founded in 1443. Since it is an architectural wonder, we wondered around the outside and enjoyed the gardens.
Another fun event was the Marche, like a farmers market, in the main square of Beaune. It had snowed the day before and people were slipping and sliding but they had cleared it and set up the all the booths full of colorful fruits, vegetables and flowers.
Our five days in Puligny Montrachet had flown by. Although Maria and Antonio had left us to ourselves we felt a strange closeness to them. We didn’t get to meet their boys, they were in school, at a Soccer game or away for the weekend. Their wine, that we really loved, even the thrown together kitchen that we made such good use of. Our parting was like our stay, quiet and only attended by Maria. Her sister was there and she took our picture together on the porch of their great, old house. We were on the road, again.
One Night in Luxembourg
We just drove, first to Nancy in the far north of France then on the next day to the tiny Country of Luxembourg. It was cold outside but toasty in the breeze from Lil’ Scotty’s heater. Frost covered the ground and the trees and it stayed there, all day.
Cat went to seek a place to stay while I stayed with Scotty, parked at a yellow curb. As I stood next to her a short, stocky guy with an important looking leather valise come to me and said something I couldn’t understand. It was obvious that he was the Parking Police. When I answered him in English that I was just waiting for Cat he said, “Yellow zone, you move!” When I persisted that I was just waiting a few minutes he took out his ticket book and pen then looked me in the eye and repeated, “Yellow zone, you move!” As the pen moved toward the paper, I moved.
Despite the cold we walked a lot of the City they call Luxembourg-Ville. It sits on both cliffs of the ravine created by the tiny river, Petrusse. It seems to be a blend of the cultures, languages and customs of the larger countries, Germany, France and Belgium that surround it. We were surprised when we drove into town, several other drivers honked at us. At a stoplight a couple of young guys rolled down their window and spoke to us. When we said we only spoke English one asked, “Are you Portuguese?” I said, “No, are you?” They vigorously nodded affirmatively then honked and drove away. We were wondering how a couple of Portuguese guys got to Luxembourg but the question was answered when we visited the shopping center across from our hotel. It was like a breath of Portuguese air. There is a large Portuguese population here. We weren’t ready to head back to Portugal and we were also happy to find a bottle of French wine midst the Portuguese but we were inspired to call our pal, Jose in Lisbon. He was such fun to talk with, almost like family. Although we didn’t have a lot to say it was just great to hear his voice. He scolded us for not having called sooner, like our adopted Jewish Mother, Celeste often does.
Ten Months on the Road, Ten Days in Germany!
Yes, today, February 12th is our ten-month anniversary on the road. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday that we pedaled north out of Oxnard then in the nest moment it seems like eons ago. We really have covered a lot of ground. Although uncomfortably cold much of the time, this segment of the Odyssey in Lil’ Scotty has added a dimension that we are glad to have experienced.
Luxembourg, the country is only about 50 Km long, north the south and 40 Km east to west at its widest point. We though we would drive due north on what is billed as the Castle Route. A very nice guy, Erwin from Chile, told us that we must visit Trier, a very beautiful city on the Moselle River.
In just 20 Km we found ourselves in Trier and out of Luxembourg. That was a quick trip? We thought that we would be on the border as we drove the Moselle north. Another lesson in geography, the Moselle immediately wanders off to the east and into the heart of Germany. Like France, all foliage is lacking leaves here and shares that stark beauty of winter. The hills roll upward away from the river and are covered with vines. Sometimes cliffs jut almost straight up and they too usually have vines clinging to their rocky surfaces. These are Europe’s steepest vineyards and most of the production is from the Riesling grape.
It was the Romans, those far a field Romans, who introduced wine to this area more than 2000 years ago. We would see some of the ruins of their early production amidst that of the later castles and fortresses. This route, along the river, is also one of the most popular for cycling, too. We could see that if one starts upstream it is virtually flat or slightly downhill for the length of the valley, some 240 Km.
We pulled up in a village called Bernkastel-Kues only to find that it is actually two villages, Bernkastel on the east bank and Kues to the west. It is picturesque to the point that Cat called it “cutesy”. More so Bernkastel than Kues. The tourist office was able to suggest a hotel with a room for Scotty. We walked through the quaint streets and deep freeze to dinner at Kartoffelhaus, the Potato House. The waitress was less than friendly and
