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Nevers. Mid-September.
We were only in Nevers for one afternoon and morning, but during that time we went for a long stroll around a medieval government building, an enormous and breath-taking cathedral, many narrow cobblestone streets and yellowed bridges, a couple parks, and our beloved Carrefour. The next morning my mother and I went for a morning walk, and watched as the city awoke. After some coffee and bread, we set out from Nevers and rode about 15 kms outward on the highway. We’d just made it to the cycling path, to the farms and cows and mosquitos, when disaster struck. I felt resistance from my wheel, and then a loud metallic SNAP. Turns out the rim of my back wheel had splintered, caught on the wheel, and part of it had been torn right off. We didn’t know what to do. Some cyclists told us the next town might have a shop (about 8 kms away) but we weren’t sure the wheel would make it, and if it didn’t, it would be even more complicated to get back to Nevers. So after much deliberation, we decided to turn back. The problem was, I couldn’t replace the wheel without replacing the gears/speeds as well, which I didn’t want to do because they were great quality. So, I had to find someone to build me a new wheel using my old gears. We tried every bicycle workshop we could find. None of them wanted to repair the wheel. We didn’t know how we were going to work our way out of this one. One of the bike shops offered to sell us a used Scott bike for a very reasonable price, and help us ship my old bicycle to wherever we could fix it. After an afternoon of deliberation, test-riding the new bike, attaching the tube of an old frame to the rack so I could tow the cello, and more deliberation, we decided to go for it. So, we spent the rest of the afternoon taking apart my bike and packing it in the suitcase to ship to my aunt in Barcelona. We trusted the man at the shop to keep his word and ship it to the address, and bought the new used bike. TER de: Mulhouse a Belfort Ville a Besançon, Besançon a Dijon a Chagny (por accidente), Chagny a Montchanin a Nevers. Mid-September, 2021.
After a series of trains, each of which was easier to board than the last, we made it to Nevers. We were finally getting the hang of it–packing up quickly, scrambling over to the right platform, loading everything onto the train, and sitting tight to repeat the process on arrival. Yes, we'd become pros. Due to a slight confusion with signs, we accidentally got off at Chagny instead of Chalon (look, they both started with Cha-, and the train was moving very fast, and we had 30 seconds to get everything off). Fortunately, this was actually closer to Nevers than the other stop, which turned back westward, and Chagny was one of the loveliest towns I’ve ever visited. I really felt like I was walking through streets that hadn’t changed in the last 300 years. I also found a cute bug in a cake, which turned out to be a French cockroach, and which I christened "Pierre" in a moment of inspiration. Surprisingly, the name caught on and since then the cockroaches that came and visited us every morning at campsites became "Pierres." The next day, we (finally!) made it to Nevers, which was to be the start of our journey down the Loire. La Ruta del Vino Alsaciana: Estrasburgo a Mulhouse. Early September, 2021.
I loved cycling down from Strasbourg to Mullhouse, which is apparently not pronounced “muhl–house.” We planned to follow the Alsace Wine Route, which was part of the Eurovelo 5. Since going on the French exchange, I’ve never forgotten the landscapes I saw on the train ride between Paris and Strasbourg. I remembered rolling hills like grassy oceans, stretching as far as the eye could see, with fairytale-like villages dotting the land like small islands, sometimes blending with the shade of the clouds above. I longed to see these hills and towns once more, this time riding through them on my bicycle. So, I talked my family into adding Alsace to the itinerary. They’d never been, and had to take my word for it. Leaving Strasbourg, I officially took over the navigation. It took a one-day learning curve to get the hang of it, and since then I do believe our navigation system has been top-notch. Even our previous navigator acknowledges this. We rode through vineyard after vineyard, up and down small hills like ripples in the land at the feet of looming mountains. Fruit trees (mostly plums–absolutely delicious) lined parts of the cycleway, and I can’t say I didn’t stop to help myself a couple times. This time, it was all sunshine and warmth during the five days it took us to reach Mullhouse. It actually took us a bit to adjust to the new weather. In cloudy and humid weather, we were constantly refreshed. Of course, we didn’t appreciate this until we were pedaling uphill on gravel in the scorching afternoon heat, under a blazing sun, out of water. Somehow, a mere 35 kms turned into six hours of pedaling. But what better place to be exhausted in than sandwiched between a mountain range topped with castles and towers, and green and golden fields speckled with villages. We also got to camp on a farm. And pizza. Pizza is always a good thing, especially when it’s also the only open shop in the village. The next day we decided to switch to the Rhine Route, which we thought might be a bit less hilly. We enjoyed one more morning through vineyards, then made our way inland to a camp on the French-German border, stopping for lunch in Colmar. Riding in Germany for a bit sounded really cool, so we tried it out for a day. Unfortunately, the path was made of large loosely-packed gravel and overrun by mosquitoes, so we had to flee back to the French side, which was a smooth asphalt cycleway that felt like heaven (and fellow cyclists once again said hi). We actually crossed back into Germany to camp (there were no camps within range on the French side), tried Schnitzel (delicious), and returned to France the next morning. I was pleasantly taken aback at how easy it was to cross back and forth between two countries–no border patrols, no guns, no walls. We reached Mullhouse, rested for a few days, launched this blog, and planned the next and last leg of our journey through France. The TGV and Strasbourg. 09/01/2021
Taking the train from Charleville to Strasbourg was a nightmare. We got to the station 30 minutes before departure, packed up our bicycles in their not-so-little bags, and rushed to get everything onto platform five. Why five? Because we hadn’t yet learned how to read the schedule screens. Turns out it was not the right platform, and ten minutes before take-off we had to haul everything back to the first platform and run to catch the train. Just imagine the scene for a second. A family of four in a panic, rushing back and forth between platforms carrying giant bags, yelling the entire time to coordinate, lugging everything onto the train cart, blocking the entire entryway, keeping the train from taking off several times with the little green button. Once on the train, all sweaty, breathing heavily, a bit dizzy, we finally let the doors close, and now it’s time to reorganize everything to unblock the hallway. We’re also just very loud. We talk and laugh with pronounced volume, one might say. Not sure how we could possibly draw more attention to ourselves. On the train that day, we must have made quite a spectacle. Oh well. I’m getting used to it. A couple stations in, a man boarded with his bicycle, fully loaded with panniers and a backpack. We all stared in disbelief as he quietly and calmly wheeled his bike past us and found his seat. It was the ultimate face-slap moment. Turns out we could’ve boarded fully-loaded as well and saved ourselves the trouble. Oh well, again. The TGV to Strasbourg was even worse, since the luggage compartment was on the second floor (why would anyone do that) and too small for our stuff, so we had to split up: two bikes and a suitcase went upstairs and one person stood guarding those, another person stayed downstairs with the two burleys loaded past their limit with luggage, and a bike, and the other two people (my brother and I) got to sit in seats and guard the last bike and the backpacks. Upon arriving, we hauled our stuff to the front doors and spent three hours assembling the caravan, meanwhile looking for a place to stay. Ominously similar to our arrival in Brussels Airport. But this time, an employee at the station came up to talk to us, and we ended up talking about our whole trip, and she offered to look at a map with us and recommended places to stay. We actually managed to make it home before dark, and went for a walk around Petite France and down the river before heading back home and crashing. Strasbourg was beautiful, enchanting just like I remembered it. We caught up with a friend, walked around a lot, ate more kebab, and got to play some music. We also got vaccinated for Japanese Encephalitis, Rabies, and Typhoid. One step closer to traveling in East Asia! Then we packed up and made ready to head south again. Charleville-Mezieres. 08/22/2021
The next morning, refreshed and happy to have made it to France but in dire need of a warm and dry place to regroup and figure out how to make the trip go smoother, we decided to take a gamble and book an airbnb about 70 kms from where we were, in a town called Charleville-Mezieres. So far, our longest day had been about 40 kms or so, but the amount of luggage we were pulling along made our average distance about 30 kms. The next morning, refreshed and happy to have made it to France but in dire need of a warm and dry place to regroup and figure out how to make the trip go smoother, we decided to take a gamble and book an airbnb about 70 kms from where we were, in a town called Charleville-Mezieres. So far, our longest day had been about 40 kms or so, but our average distance was about 30 kms daily (because of all the stuff we were dragging with us). Nevertheless, the sky looked clear and we felt less tired than usual, and the place at Charleville looked perfect, so inviting, so dry, so clean, so comfy… so we decided to go for it. Besides, we’d packed up quicker than usual and were ready to go by noon and, feeling the rush of accomplishment, 70 kms suddenly seemed well within our reach. What we hadn’t accounted for was the distance added by sticking completely to the Eurovelo 19 cycle route down the Meux, instead of cutting across chunks on the highway. (Actually, that’s not entirely true. One of us did take this into account, but unfortunately, their words went unheeded by the rest. Oh well, no matter.) So, we rode off gloriously towards the far-off city, determined to make it, almost inspired by our own bravery. But hardly did we make it one block in before the usual navigation issues caught up with us and we began puzzling over which turn to take. It was a trying day. Not long after we’d made it to the river, Camilo and I came across a fork in the road: one path led uphill towards the highway, and another small dirt path that was completely overgrown with weeds and tall grass, and which could hardly be called a path at all, led downhill and disappeared around a bend in the river. Guess which one we took? Yup, the grassy not-path, and our parents took the other one when they reached the spot later, so that led to a lot of confusion and the loss of a precious hour. By following the Eurovelo to completely avoid the highway, we ended up adding a whopping 20 kms to the route. And at several points the path diverged from the river, leading us up into the winding hills that sloped practically at the water’s edge. But no one expected it to be easy, and the important thing was that we stayed together and kept pedaling, and I was really enjoying it. The path was beautiful, with trees and grass and fields every which way I looked, a river on my right, people fishing along the bank or in little boats, and behind them rose the hills. Here in southern France I noticed that when greeting passing cyclists, they always greeted us back; not only that–they usually greeted us first. A very pleasant surprise. About 30 kms in we stopped at a small town with a pharmacy to get everyone a Pass Sanitaire, which we needed for most campsites and museums and cafes. Meanwhile, my brother and I went to fetch lunch at our first boulangerie. I got to try out my newly-learned French, and was rewarded with a giant sack full of delicious sweet and savory pastries (to this day, I think that was the best chocolate eclair I’ve ever had). The four of us sat to eat under chirping birds and warm sunshine, and enjoyed every bite. We made good time down the flat riverside, though the navigation system (my mother battling with Komoot) produced a few wrong turns and arguments about which way to take. We kept cycling through towns, all of them gorgeous, with cobblestone roads and houses, ornate window shutters, fountains, more trees, winding streets and squares and closed shops and even children laughing–we’d hardly seen children anywhere until now. One town had an incredibly steep hill that stretched on and on and only got steeper. One old man stepped out of his house, apparently just to watch me struggling to pedal up the hill, but as soon as I waved he smiled and waved back. At the top of the hill I stopped to catch my breath. The buzz in my head died down, leaving me with just the silence of an old town resting peacefully on a sleepy afternoon. Many hills were yet to come, but this one, if not an easy one, was a nice one. Very nice. The sky was darkening. It was the grey clouds gathering overhead. We could feel it–the moist air, the cool breezes, and the choirs of insects as we rode down through the trees. The rain caught us on flat ground, thank goodness. As we had run out of water a while back, and there seemed to be no place in sight for us to buy more, I tried to ask for some. As my brother and I approached a big brown house with a long garden and a little wire fence, a woman with greying hair and gardener’s gloves stepped out of her house and made her way towards us. I didn’t have to open my mouth–she just pointed to the water bottles in my arms and asked, “you want water?” We were so grateful. But as we took our first sips, the first few droplets began to pelt down on our helmets. We pulled out our coats, our neon vests, turned on our lights, closed our bags, and checked the instruments (encased in three garbage bags). Then we kept pedaling. The rain came and went, came and went, but the sky never cleared, and eventually came the downpour. Cycling between treetops, we inched forward until there were only 22 kms left to go. We reached a town called Monthermé (one of the last between Givet and Charleville) just as the downpour reached its worst yet, and ran to shelter under the tiny wooden roof protecting a city map. It was positively pouring. The instruments had me worried. The sun still hadn’t set yet, but it was past seven and the sky was sure to start darkening any minute now. One man came up to ask us if we had a place to stay, and wished us good luck when we told him we did. I think he was going to offer us shelter. Soon we were riding in a full-out thunderstorm. Lightning would flash in the sky and light up the trees ahead of us, then a few moments later we’d hear the thunderclap. It was probably safe, but nevertheless I started counting down between the flashes and the thunder. It seemed the lightning wasn’t getting closer. I love a good thunderstorm when I’m indoors and holding a mug of hot tea, but on the bike, one feels vulnerable–it’s part of what makes bike packing so special and memorable, but in the moment it can feel a bit scary. Then there were the giant puddles, the mud, the overflowing drains with currents that gushed out from beneath with enough force to make the metal gutters bob up and down. We were soaked, not just in clean river water but also in the brown smelly stuff that flowed up from the drains. And then it started to get dark. And the rain intensified. A man ran out of his house to yell that there was a storm. We took cover under a bridge just in time to watch as the last rays of orange faded from the sky. We just kept pushing forward. This was no time to despair. We rode in darkness for almost another hour, until finally we saw growing lights covering a smaller hill and a bridge that would take us across to the city. We'd made it! It was about 10 PM. The streets were empty but lit. We found our apartment, hauled our bikes and bags up in rounds, and I unwrapped my cello. Miraculously, it was dry! And to top it all off, we stuffed ourselves with a wonderful new discovery called “kebab,” with some frites and Orangina. A tough day, for sure, but all in all one of the best I’d had. And in the thick of it, I'd really enjoyed myself–all of us had. This is part of what we signed up for, and the challenges of the day made the joys and excitement even more memorable. An Excess of Dinant. 08/20-21/2021 Leaving Dinant was difficult, not because I had grown attached to the town, but because of the usual–we had way too much stuff, and it was awful having to wheel it through the tight turns and uphills of narrow Dinant. After the usual morning downpour, we stopped at the train station to see if we could find a train, any train really, to catch. Our plan was to ask, “where is the train that goes the farthest from here?” and board that one without a moment’s hesitation.
Unfortunately we found no personnel at the station, and after getting help from the tourist office, we decided that taking a train wasn’t a possibility that day, leaving us with two choices–stay in Dinant one more night to try and take a train tomorrow, or keep riding. Famished, we sat down on a dock to debate our options over a feast of mushy fruit, Nutella, and crackers spread with brie and jelly. As we munched, we realized that we were only 25 kms from the border with France. We immediately decided to bolt. Half an hour later, we were making our way down the loopy riverside of the Meux, making a dash for the French village of Givet. We didn't know we'd crossed the border until we saw the sign. Not a single policeman, guard, soldier, nothing. Incredible. I'd never crossed a border that way before, and it was thrilling. We'd made it to France! We arrived late to the camping, so there was no one to check in with. We decided it was probably ok to set up camp anyway, and pay the next morning. The camp felt less like a campsite and more like a neighborhood of RVs. There were trailers that had obviously been parked there for months, if not permanently, with overgrown grass poking out from beneath, and garden decorations placed (or scattered) across the lawn or hung upon wooden fences. Many of the residents seemed to know each other like neighbors, and there were even a few barbeques. There wasn’t much space for tents, apart from one shared with a camper in a speedo who had his stereo playing at full volume, so we instead chose to camp on a gravel rectangle for RVs. We assembled our tents, all the while closely eyed by one of the residents from across the street, who came out from his camper and just stood there, watching us. When he didn’t return our greetings, we wondered if perhaps it was defensiveness, perhaps because it seemed like we’d made ourselves at home in the neighborhood without checking in, which was somehow taken as lacking respect. And it seemed we had guessed right, for when we explained our situation to another resident, went out to hunt our dinner, and returned with the catch of the evening (delicious chicken burgers, salad, and fries from a fast-food place), I think the friendlier resident told the skeptical one, and this time he shouted greeting from his camper, as if telling us, “no hard feelings.” Regardless, I didn’t like it. We don’t need anyone's permission to stay at a campsite. Whether they like it or not, we have every right, and we don’t need anyone’s stamp of approval. But the chicken burgers were good. And we were finally in France! |
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