Way Down the Weighty Decision
June 11 St. Martin de Villereglan, France
Its early evening in the south of France. A full
moon rises.
Have just returned from Limoux, where I found the town closed down for
Sunday, like the rest of Europe. Still, it was a lovely ride along the
narrow roads and through the stoney streets of the town. Did find a
wireless signal down by the riverfront, which allowed me to check
email,
and will permit me to send out this travelog in the morning. Found out
my pals Kees, Marjon and Tomas have returned to Holland already. Guess
it was good I didn’t go searching for them out of Avignon! They had
some
difficulties travelling with little Tomas, although I suspect the
little
guy was quite enjoying himself.
Spent an extra night in Avignon and managed to get
some pictures of the
place. It was the most scenic city I’ve seen. I’m told there’s a town
near here called Carcossone that rivals it, but when I buzzed through
yesterday it was laden with traffic and I was aching for some peace and
quiet. I’d trained through from Avignon, and was eager to get somewhere
and sort things out.
I’m sad tonight. It appears my Euro-trip is about to
end! After trying
again, with no success, to get British Airways to alter my departure
date, I’m left with few options. Yes, I could throw caution to the
wind,
stay, and risk not having enough money left to pay my way home, but I’m
not sure if such a move would be wise. My tiny attempts to find work
here have been responded to with requests to see my working visa, which
I don’t have. And yes, I have enough income to keep me fed, and to
camp,
but if I have another breakdown with the bike it could get sketchy.
Bottom line, without the 500 euros I'll need to replace my plane
ticket,
I have little choice but to go catch my flight.
What’s more, I’ve just had a chat with Emma, who’s
house I’m
currently staying in. Its a lovely little place, and it makes me want
to
stay, which she has said I could do, until she gets here in about
three weeks, with half her family. I’d have to move on by then.
Guess I could tuck in the belt, spend only on food, and pretty much
come
out of it with having saved on rent, about 210 euros. Still, its not
500.
Think part of my sadness is in realizing some things
about Emma. She
was
one of the people I really wanted to see when I came over here. I tried
to give her plenty of warning, and she assured me she’d find a way to
meet up. Now she has her family coming, and after that her boyfriend!
Oddly, she’s not mentioned him before. She mentioned
a Kiwi boy years
ago, and a cowboy last year when she went to Texas, but, until now,
nothing! She's also sent me invites to join an online dating service
she
belongs to, and has repeatedly said things to me like: "It will be good
if we meet up in France, we'll have more fun," and: "I hope the girls
bend over for you."
Not that I had any particular designs on this woman,
other than
meeting up with her again and finding out how our years of mail, and
repeated good telephone conversations, translated into real life, but
its seems a strange ommission. “Could there be something else going
on,”
he wonders out loud. In the end, like Don Quiote, I have travelled
halfway across Europe, at great personal expense, to be stood up again.
Them windmills can sure put up a fight!
Guess its okay. I had a feeling it might go this
way. Its not like I
haven't seen the chicken dance before.
Anyway, it seems my option is to head out on a train
for bonney old
England. My plane is due to leave on Monday June 19, eight days, and
I’ll have to get there by the weekend in order to properly pack Wheels
up, rescue my luggage from Helen’s, and make sure I don’t miss the
flight.
The good news is I now know what to expect over
here. I know what it
takes, and what sort of resources I’ll have to come up with. Perhaps
with that knowledge I’ll find a way to come back someday, and do it
right. Two months is definitely not enough time, especially on a bike,
and one needs about 2000 euros on top of a regular income.
Realistically, everything is about twice the price, except chocolate
and
cheese.
Still, for those of you who’ve been enjoying the
adventure, its not
quite over yet. I still have to travel clear across France, which is no
small country, then through the south of England. Who knows, maybe if I
move soon enough I’ll be able to pass a day or two in the lovely city
of
Brighton, like I wanted to when I was there.
My computer was out of commission for a few days so
I wasn't able to
keep up my regular journal, but here’s some excerpts from my most
recent journal entries, just so you know its not all, “love walks out
and the blues moves in.”
June 8 Avignon, Baguette Campground
Rough morning. They didn’t let me boil water at the
hostel in Lyon. No
wonder the clients ravage the place when they get treated in that
manner. The much ballyhooed breakfast was a bowl of corn flakes and
sugared juice. It was pathetic. Tie in the traditional French rudeness,
especially when they mistake you for an American, and I was eager to
roll.
I got out as quick as I could, made the train
station in time for a
9:25
connection here. It was a long two hour ride, during which I was asked
for my ticket four times in five minutes. Seems the conductors had
little to do.
The town here is interesting and the rent in the
campground cheap, just
under six euros. I’m thinking I’ll stay a day, see the sights, then
train. I’m across the river from the walled city, which is ancient. It
probably is one of the prettiest relics I’ve seen so far, right on the
river Rhone, its walls bleached by the sun, with a large ornate pier
stretching out into the river, and a high tower perched on a small hill
with a golden Christ atop it. I’ve not really looked at it much, but it
could be fun, or at least interesting.
Cycling here is a bit haphazard but not as severe as
Lyon, which was
downright insane. Breezing through the rush hour traffic there this
morning gave me some confidence, in me and Wheels, but it is not
something I want to do too often.
The campground itself is fairly nice, well treed,
mostly with spotted
maples, right near the river. I’m in an area where they don’t allow
vehicles, up on a little rise overlooking the caravan section. Its
quiet, except for the sound of traffic off a nearby river bridge.
There are a few crazy people around but no one too
weird. One kid about
16 years old came up and started hassling me when I first arrived
telling me “No Fires”. I’m not sure what it was about because I wasn’t
doing anything even remotely related to fire, not even smoking. I told
him to mind his own business and go back to his site.
I’ve kept an eye on him since, think he might be
smoking crack.
Otherwise there have been no issues, although I’ve noticed a gypsy
woman
scanning the campground.
Met a woman from the Netherlands who is just winding
up a trip from
Bourdeau to here, then heading home on the train. There are a few other
long distance riders around, but I’ve not been able to catch up to any
of them. I can see the tell tale signs, bikes with weight bearing racks
and fat spokes. There are some walkers too. Its something people do
hereabouts, walk overland for days and days. Haven’t had a chance to
talk to them.
Really was rough coming out of Germany, not sleeping
the night before I
left, then checking into the looney bin last night. I really needed to
just take a day and find myself. Did it by following some “fruit and
legume” signs to a nearby farm where I found an incredible array of
fresh veggies, melons, Vans cherries (delicious and juicy they were)
and
some homemade feta cheese. Made myself a big pasta with the loot from
that place. Between it, dinner, a bar of French Chocolate, and being
under my tarp with my bike, I’m finally starting to feel myself again.
I was too long off Wheels while in Tubingen. The
little riding I did in
Lyon and here had my calves in a tight ball. Need to ease back into
things. I’m thinking I’ll head for Carsoconne, spend a night, then give
myself an easy ride to Limoux. From there I’ll do some day trips while
I
make the decision whether to stay or catch my plane home. My mood being
what its been the last couple days I’ve been thinking a lot about
aborting the mission and just heading back, take what money I have left
and whoop it up in Paris or somewhere, then meet the plane. Don’t want
to act on that because I know I’ve only seen a little bit of Europe.
So, at present, the plan is to head for Emmas and
give myself about a
week to make up my mind. I’ll be conservative with the cash and see how
I’m doing as the time nears. In the meantime I’ll do a little exploring
out towards the Pyrenes.
More later, or tomorrow.
June 9 Baggette Campground, Avignon
I’ve slept and feel more myself than I’ve felt in
days. Had a large
pasta dinner last night.
I was totally bagged when I arrived here. The lack
of sleep my last
night at Andy and Angela’s, followed by the night at the hostel in
Lyon,
really threw me for a loop. I was foul and ugly by time the train
pulled
into Avignon. Growled at the conductors near Orange, who three times in
five minutes asked for my ticket. Then one told me to hang my bike up,
this particular train had a system for hanging bikes by their front
wheel, not a good idea when there’s a load as big as mine attached to
it, I’d just taken the bike down in preparation to disembark. As I was
rather forcefully explaining this, a troop of police came into the bike
car, but mercifully did not get involved in the rather abrupt
discussion
I was having with the conductor. He finally backed off when he found
out
my stop was just two whistles away.
Hilight of my day was visiting a fruit and “legume”
farm nearby. The
cheerful and considerate farmer had some gorgeous produce. It cheered
me
up, and the bounty I left with made for a great meal. I ate most of
what
I purchased, it was so good.
Need to seriously look at what I’m doing. I’ve got
less than a week to
decide whether I’m catching the plane or not. At this point I’m leaning
towards it. The last couple days have been hard on me, physically and
emotionally. I don’t know if I want to endure it much more. I also
don’t
know what to expect from Emma and wonder if she’ll be open or not. She
didn’t make time, although she says she couldn’t. Almost all the people
I’ve visited lead busy lives, still they found ways. Perhaps its a
sign.
I may be best off to just head home, although I fear I may live to
regret that decision.
Everyone I talk to says I should stay here. I don’t
know what to do.
June 10 Baggette Campground, Avignon
Cranky. I’ve been drawn from sleep by people talking
at six in the
morning. “There’s no wall between us folks, ferme la bushes!”
I was already half awake, freaking out about the
decision I have to
make
regarding my time here in Europe. I’m growing irritated the more I
think
about having to be in London in nine days. Think I’d rather listen to
what everyone else says and stay. It will depend on what I find up the
road over the next day or two.
Perhaps I should throw caution to the wind. I don’t
want to feel rushed
going back. I don’t want to be rushed period. Just writing about it
calms me down some, but still, I’m concerned how I’ll react if my money
gets seriously low. I’d rather not have that experience, been there,
done that.
All I can really do is focus on today.
Met a very nice woman last night, named Rita, from
Brazil. She’s camped
across from me. We talked travel, she too said I should stay. Made her
some Java this morning, which seemed to perk her right up. She’s gone
sightseeing in town now. Gave her my email and website directions
before
she left. Her travels, by cycle, have brought her across France, and
she’s heading for Barcelona, Spain.
Did manage to take some photos and see a bit of the
town yesterday.
Geez I wish I was better set up for money. It will
be an awful large
financial hit if I just let my British Airways ticket lapse.
Anyway, hope my mood improves.
June 11, St. Martin de Villereglan, near Limoux, France
Swallows make a raquet in the mid-morning sun that
skips between the
rooftops and down the narrow laneways of this little stone village.
Arrived here last night, following a sleepy train ride along the
Mediterranean coast and into the sloping foothills of the Pyrenes
Mountains, where I rode uncluttered rolling backroads along the River
Aude.
St. Martins, set on a small rise above the vineyards
and farm fields
nestled on low mounded hills, is a busy little place filled with brown
skinned children, stoic seniors and Sunday morning churchgoers. Little
Renault cars, driven by well groomed but stern looking adult men, from
time to time, zip up and down the alleyways. Last night young teens
raced around on dirt bikes, their already noisy engines amplified to
deafening volumes by the treeless stone, stucco and adobe lined
streets.
Now the church crowds are in the street, the bikes have disappeared.
I sat up late, cooking a midnight pasta, aquainting
myself with the
digs, a lovely sparse and serene interior done up in pastels that belie
the grey tumble down exterior, beat up wooden doors and bank vault
security.
The town is an ancient former church enclave, left
to ruin, then
revitalized, by folks, like Emma, and families who have moved here, no
doubt seeking lower mortgage rates and relief from the mad French
cities. There can’t be more than a few hundred people here, but when
they get to it, they make more noise than thousands.
About a block away, in either direction, are village
squares. One is
very clean and respectable, the other a patch of gravel where old meets
new, with electric lights strung by their power chords bobbing beneath
old
fashioned umbrella shades. This second square features a large stone
barbeque, a toilet (the sort you squat upon), a bare essentials shower
stall, a high pressure hose the local kids play with, and a potable
water tap protruding from an ornate cast iron mantle.
Emma’s house is a mall three story rectangle
situated on a corner. On
the first floor is a large kitchen, modern and comfortable, with all
the conveniences and a big shuttered window over the sink. In the back
is a
cozy lounge, with a deep sofa, an active fireplace, and a few photos on
the walls. Upstairs, a narrow winding climb, are two large bedrooms, a
bathroom, a linen closet and a hallway. There is also a door to the
third story, where I have not ventured. The first level floors are a
cool marbled tile that seem to keep the house cool in this hot climate,
that reminds me a lot of Mexico.
Out back, and a little along the side street, is a
locked courtyard
with
a two-storey wall around it. I’ve locked Wheels back there.
Woke up this morning with the continuing tumult over
my trip, and
whether or not to end it as scheduled. If I am to end it then I must
make the decision by Wednesday at the latest. Much will depend on a
phone call I make to Emma later today.
When I’m done this entry, and have eaten my
breakfast, I will lock up
the place then spin Wheels the 7 K into Limoux. Hopefully this country
isn’t all sealed up like a drum on Sundays, like the rest of Europe.
More soon, wherever I wind up.
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