Paris welcomed us with torrential rain, and unseasonably cold weather. However,
not being on our bikes, it was easy to put on a warm layer and wait out the
showers by simply hopping from cafe to cafe as the breaks in the rain allowed.
At one point, we huddled under the eaves of Notre Dame Cathedral with hundreds
of other tourists as the rain came down in buckets. Those with a guilty
conscience could wander inside the cathedral and confess in their choice of 5
different languages. (English, Italian, French, Spanish, and Japanese)
That evening, I tried to find a restaurant that a good friend (Jason Binney) and
I dined at on my first visit to Paris. Despite having failed to find it in the
past, I was successful this time and Zen and I enjoyed an amazing dinner in a
cozy little second story restaurant in the Latin Quarter of Paris. The waiter
was very proper, and spent his idle time either with his nose in the corner
(doing crossword puzzles?), or running to the window to wave at what we suspect
was his lover across the street.
The weather was still cool the next day, although we were spared the rain. We
spent the day wandering around in anticipation of a return to the previous
night's restaurant, and watching the excitement as a car near the Arc de
Triomphe burst into flames. As we passed by the Louvre, we noticed that it was
closed due to the striking security guards. It seems that the French like to
strike even more than Canadians.
After the decadence of a break in Paris, we got on an early morning train ride
the following day for Blois where we were again reunited with our bikes. We
arrived with plenty of time to do a day trip and ride through some of the
forests and chateaus of the Loire Valley. It seems that the Loire Valley has
been somewhat of a playground for France's rich and famous, and it is filled
with huge and very elegant estates. The castles are mostly very recent (16-17th
century), and since most of the feuding was finished by then, the castles are
built for pure elegance and luxury as opposed to the austere but well defended
medieval castles we had seen in the south.
The area is also heavily wooded, although one gets the impression that the woods
survived only to shelter the castles and to harbour the wild stags and boars
that the royalty loved to hunt.
We rode to the Chateau Cheverny, and locked our bikes up before doing a tour
inside. The castle is 300 years old, and is built on land that has been owned by
the same family for 600 years. It has been continuously inhabited right to this
day. The furnishings inside the castle were the main attraction, and the
collection was better than most museums I've seen. The rooms were filled with
amazingly colorful tapestries and ceiling paintings depicting greek mythology,
embossed Spanish Cordoba leather used as wallpaper, elegant family portraits,
medieval arms and full suits of armour, 17th century Chinese vases, gorgeous
antique furniture, a chest of drawers ornately inlaid with red turtle shell and
brass, and a 300 year old grandfather clock that is still working, displaying
the time, date, and phase of the moon.
Outside the castle, we were then treated to the most interesting experience of
all. We went over to the pen of hunting dogs (a cross between an English fox
hound and a French Poitevin), and were lucky enough to be there at feeding time.
Before the feeder arrived, the dogs were simply lazing around, sniffing each
other, and barking at the tourists. However, as soon as they caught sight of
their feeder, the frenzy began. All hundred of them came storming over to the
gate, and they knew their routine well. First, they were let into a pen above
their feeder where they barked and lept around in anticipation of their evening
meal. After their trays were filled with 50 kg of dog food, they were allowed
back into their dog pen, but were not allowed to eat. The excited dogs were kept
in line with the crack of a whip from the feeder. After the feeder was out of
their pen, the signal was given and the dogs ravenously descended upon their
dinner.
The dogs are still used in the stag hunts that occur, with 25 stags being taken
from the surrounding forests each year. The trophy room outside the dog pen was
evidence of the successes of past hunts, as the warehouse sized room was filled
wall to wall and floor to ceiling with the heads of past kills.
After a decadent hotel served breakfast in bed the next morning, we loaded up
our bikes and began our trek towards Switzerland. The predominant winds were
from the east, so we ended up cycling into some brutal headwinds. I guess that's
the price to be paid for picking a route to give the even tan lines.
As we cycled along, we passed many more castles including the monstrous and
incredibly elaborate Chateau Chambord. While this castle is one of the largest
and most decadent castles I have ever seen, it has only been inhabited for 20
years out of its 500 year history. It seems that it was built by the French
royalty whose budget and egos far exceeded their need for another summer
playhouse.
We didn't bother going inside as our guidebook implied that the most interesting
part was simply the building itself. Instead, we indulged in another great
gourmet picnic in front of the castle, feeding the hunger that was fueled from
the headwind we were cycling into.
The terrain in the Loire Valley is completely different from the south. The
vineyards of the south have been replaced with fields of wheat and the brilliant
yellow fields of mustard. There are a lot more woods, and the mushrooms, mosses,
ferns, rhododendrons, and aquatic irises near the shores of the many lakes gives
the impression that the region gets a lot of rain. I think we were quite
fortunate to have had the seven beautiful sunny days that blessed us as we rode
through the region.
We also saw a fair amount of wildlife including pheasants, weasels, and stags.
However, the most interesting wildlife we encountered was heard and not seen.
That was the familiar call of the cuckoo bird. It sounded exactly like a cuckoo
clock, although it was a little eerie to be hearing the call frequently and
randomly from the nearby trees.
While riding through the thick woods and past the ancient castles, it was easy
to imagine a time of horses and carriages, with the elegant and frilly nobility
being dropped off at their summer estates, and with the peasants toiling in
their fields. However, we were brought back into the modern era as we were
buzzed by fighter jets and cycled past the nuclear power plants.
We continued our riding along the Loire, often staying in little hotels in tiny
villages. Conserving energy seems to be a big deal, and the combined wattage of
the light bulbs in the rooms often seems to be less than 30 watts. However, no
expense is spared in the bathrooms with their bright 100 watt light bulbs, so
the bathrooms were the only place where we could get any reading done. In the
shared bathrooms, the energy saving devices added a further complication.
Sometimes the lighting could only be turned on by closing the door and locking
it shut. This meant shutting oneself into total darkness, and then fumbling
around and trying to figure out how to bolt the door.
We also still continue to learn the subtleties of shopping in France. We thought
we had everything worked out, not counting on anything to be open on Sundays or
during the extended French lunch hour. However, again we learned the hard way as
we discovered that we shouldn't count on things being open on Mondays either,
which are considered to be part of the weekend. In one town, I asked an elderly
man if anywhere in the town was open, and he replied that nothing is open on
Monday, while looking at me like I was from another planet for suggesting
something so ludicrous.
As we rode along the banks of the Loire, we took advantage of an infrequent
tailwind to zip past a middle aged cyclist. He was a little shocked when we
zipped by, but he was immediately on our tail drafting us. He seemed pleased to
have someone to cycle with, and he began to coordinate our draft pack, letting
us know when we should change positions. His tree-trunk like legs indicated he
had done this before. Zen enjoyed breaking from the pack every once in a while,
and this amused our companion as he would quickly catch up. However, at one
point he simply chuckled and told me that there was a hill around the corner and
we would be able to catch her there. As we rode along, we chatted a bit, and I
found out that he was seventy years old! Not only do I hope that I can be in
shape like that at his age, but I wish I was in that kind of conditioning now!
He has been retired for 15 years, and enjoys traveling around Africa. He has
been all over the continent, and informed me that next month he will be leaving
on a month long trip to Tunisia/Morocco, followed by a month in his favourite
destination of Cote d'Ivoire.
We have been eating out of grocery stores to cut down on expenses (and
calories). However, every four days we treat ourselves to a dinner in a
restaurant. On one of our luxury nights we looked over the tourist brochure for
the town we were in and discovered that one restaurant had a 14th century abbey.
Luckily we are not smokers, as the abbey was the non-smoking room. It was a
small room with four tables for two, and has the original vaulted ceilings and a
well stocked wine cellar downstairs. It was an incredibly romantic dinner, with
food to match the ambiance.
After several days following the Loire, we broke away to cycle through southern
Burgundy and on towards Switzerland. We cycled past a 900 year old abbey, and
stopped to see if we could get a look inside. While it turns out that only
members of the Abbey are allowed inside, we were rewarded with an interesting
conversation with a bright eyed and young looking 72 year old monk. He was
originally from Italy, but left as a young man and has been in the Abbey for
more than 50 years. It became apparent that life in the Abbey is somewhat
sheltered when he asked Zen what language people spoke in Australia. He also
didn't recognize our cycling gear, and was shocked to find out we are traveling
around on bike. After a very fun conversation that Zen carried out with him in
Italian, we decided to buy a little jar of honey farmed in the Abbey. However,
the monk refused our money, gave us the honey as a gift, and with an ear to ear
smile, he wished us a very pleasant journey.
The cycling through Burgundy brought us our first rainy day on the bikes. It
also brought out a resident of the Burgundy hills that rivals the familiar
banana slug of the Santa Cruz mountains. The Burgundian version was equally
large and slimy, but rather than bright yellow, these ones were bright orange.
Given that Burgundy is the region that brought us escargot, I wondered how many
of these "tomato slugs" ended up on French dinner plates before they
discovered that snails were the best way to soak up butter and garlic.
As we made our way closer to the Swiss border, we took some time out to
celebrate passing the magic 1000 km mark with a lunch of wine, cheese, bread,
and chocolate.
On our last night in France, we were faced with the familiar dilemma of finding
an open hotel (even the hotels close down on Mondays). We asked a local if there
was anything open in the region, and they recommended that we try out the "Chambres
d'Hotes" in town. We had seen the signs for these previously, but had not
paid them much attention. However, we learned that these were bed and breakfasts
and regretted not having found them sooner. This one had a beautiful room, was
reasonably priced, and included an awesome breakfast including home cooked cake
and preserves, hearty bread, fresh milk taken from the farm's cows only minutes
before, and delicious cheese made partly from milk from the farm. The hostess
was incredibly friendly, and we were joined for breakfast by an elderly Belgian
couple. Breakfast conversation went on in three different languages as we all
talked about travels, and the hostess described life on the farm. The breakfast
started on an amusing note as the Belgian couple said something to me that
sounded like the German greeting "Guten Morgen", but different enough
that I couldn't quite understand it. Apparently the hostess was convinced by my
looks and my accent when speaking French that I was Dutch, and had told this to
the Belgian couple. I have been confused as being either German or Dutch in
every country that I have been in, including Morocco where one Moroccan refused
to believe otherwise, telling me that I couldn't be Canadian because all
Canadians have dark hair.
We finally made it to the Swiss border, and after getting our passports stamped,
we headed up the pass and over into Switzerland. The hills were a little tough,
but the rewards of a feast of chocolate kept us pedaling for the top.
With a long day of riding behind us, we descended into the little lake town
where we expected to find accommodations. There was a sign for lodging, although
the only hotel that we could find was the "Hotel de Ville" (town
hall). I had teased Zen earlier in the trip when she thought that it was
actually possible to stay at a Hotel De Ville. When we were unable to find the
hotel, I figured that I would ask in the town hall. When I walked inside, I was
embarrassed to discover that this Hotel de Ville actually is a hotel.
After recovering from the sticker shock of Swiss hotel prices, we asked where we
could put our bikes. The clerk said that there is no crime in Switzerland, and
we could just leave them in front without locking them. However, looking at the
heavily chained and padlocked aquarium of trout in front of the hotel, we
decided to lock up our bikes anyways.
Switzerland is an extremely conservative and organized place, almost to the
point of being sterile at times. Zen got some amusement out of the ladies room
in a restaurant we were at as the huge electronic toilet was all computerized
including a half dozen blinking lights to let you know what it was up to
(sterilizing, flushing, etc.). As if that wasn't enough, after flushing, a
little arm came out and clamped on to the toilet seat. The oval toilet seat was
then spun through the attachment to be washed and sanitized.
From the lake town, Zen and I headed to Morges on Lake Geneva where we met up
with my good friend Oscar Buset. Oscar was able to relate other stories of Swiss
life such as apartments that only allow laundry to be done once a week or even
once a month, not being allowed to flush the toilet after 10 at night, and not
being allowed to mow lawns or play basketball on Sundays because it makes too
much noise.
Oscar brought us along to a party at the university where he received his PhD,
and it was invigorating to be reintroduced to the passion of university life.
Beer (and wine) gardens, food stalls, games, live music, and an international
crowd made it a fun evening. However, in Swiss style, the party broke up at
midnight right when the permit expired. The Mauritian band wanted to keep
playing, but the organizers said that the time was up. Just to make sure that
everything shut down on time, at 12:01, the police arrived and supervised the
clean-up.
After spending a few very enjoyable days visiting with Oscar and his wife
Silvana, some last minute rearranging of schedules had us on a train to
Stuttgart, Germany to meet up with another friend Tilman where he is visiting
his parents. We will also be meeting a mutual friend Melissa who is on her way
from Sweden (where she had been a visiting researcher) on down to Italy where
she is meeting her boyfriend for some vacation.
It was no easy feat getting there. Zen and I were foiled by the efficiency of
the Swiss train system, as we didn't expect two trains to use the same platform
only minutes apart. When a train pulled into our platform, we simply hopped on
without confirming that it was actually our train. After getting all of the way
across Lake Geneva, the conductor informed us that we needed to get off and buy
a ticket back to where we started from. As if this two hour delay wasn't enough,
the next train we caught was 20 minutes late which was just enough to cause us
the miss our final train into Stuttgart.
We finally made it in to Stuttgart three and a half hours late, where Tilman
picked us up. We were surprised to find that there was no word from Melissa, as
her train was supposed to be in several hours before. We did a quick tour around
the station to look for her, and luckily we ran into a somewhat frazzled
Melissa. Melissa had her suitcase stolen on a ferry from Copenhagen, and with it
disappeared Tilman's phone number. She had spent the past hour and a half in a
phone booth, methodically phoning all Reinhardts in the phone book, and was
about half way through. We just managed to catch her as she was on her way from
the phone booth to buy another phone card.
It was pretty amazing to have the four of us meet up in southern Germany. The
world is definitely becoming a very small place. We gathered together at
Tilman's place, exchanged travel horror stories, and then put our bad travel day
behind us. Tilman's parents have a gorgeous house in the suburbs of Stuttgart,
and their hospitality made it a very memorable stay. They spoke perfect English,
and we enjoyed some delicious meals and great conversations together.
Tilman played tour guide, and showed us around the downtown quarter, found
several lively beer gardens for us, and helped us sample some of the local
specialties including beer, pretzels, bread, and sausages. It was really amazing
to find out what a green and hilly city Stuttgart is. Around the corner from the
city center are hills covered with grape vines. Just a couple hundred meters
from Tilman's parents' house, we found ourselves on hiking trails through woods
and past lakes. We hiked around for a half day, and you could barely tell that
there was civilization nearby.
On our last evening in Stuttgart, we were treated to a ragtime piano performance
in a tiny little hall that sat maybe 100 people. The music was performed
flawlessly, and during the break I was the big winner in a raffle, coming away
with a elaborately decorated pottery mug.
The next morning, Melissa continued on towards Italy, and Zen and I went to
Geneva where we were greeted with a bit of a heat wave. After watching all of
the stylish Genevans strutting down the streets, we indulged ourselves with some
shopping in a discount designer Italian clothes store. For dinner, we treated
ourselves to an incredibly rich cheese fondue, after which Zen packed up and we
headed to the train station. We bid each other a reluctant farewell as she took
the night train down to Nice where she will be flying back to San Francisco.
I'm currently seated in an old Roman square in Geneva, and tomorrow I will be
taking the night train to the French Atlantic coast where a week of sailing will
begin.
