urban bicycle journeys

Let’s go for a bike ride in France the first week of November! What would the weather be like?

After landing Lyman and I met up at a hotel in central Paris. We had each brought a folding Bike Friday in a hard shell case on the airplane from America, and we had arranged to leave the hard cases at that hotel for eight days while we took a bike ride in the south of France.

Traveling internationally with a folding Bike Friday is very doable but not simple. A simple fold of a Bike Friday takes just a few seconds, but the more complicated fold to put it in or out of a hard case for airplane travel requires unscrewing a bunch of stuff. The process takes about half an hour.

Switching from airplane to train is not always simple. I had booked two tickets on a TGV leaving Paris’ Gare de Lyon station the next day at 7:15 AM. One of the few similarities the French national railroad SNCF has with Amtrak is that both systems have complicated rules about when and where and if you can take a bicycle on the train with you. The fast long distance TGV essentially prohibits conventional bicycles. We worked around that by each of us transferring our Bike Friday from the hard suitcase to a soft canvas bag that would qualify as regular carry-on luggage but the soft bag was still something that we could also transport with us on the bicycle after assembly.

We overnighted near the Paris station and walked everything over there at 6:30 AM. We could not find any luggage carts. Once we found the correct track we had to schlep everything out onto the track. Here is a Lyman hauling the floppy folded bicycle to the train in the early morning light.

On the platform finding the correct car with challenging; there was no one around to ask questions to, even in my very broken French. All the locals seem to know where they were going. We had to lug our stuff up and down that platform, looking for the correct car number. The cars each had about three different numbers on them. Once we were able to find our car and assigned seats and had stashed the bicycles (barely) in the car-end luggage storage area, the train ride south was a relaxing breeze.

Even while we zoomed south the plan for this trip was still a work in progress. Our planning had mostly worked backwards. We had started with just an airplane destination (Paris CDG) because we both could get almost free tickets on points; myself from Raleigh/Durham NC and Lyman from Austin TX. We planned take the train to somewhere warmer from Paris. I had found an enticing route to cycle by mostly canal trails starting near Bordeaux on the Atlantic coast and heading southeast towards to Mediterranean. With plans set for that a day or two prior to leaving the USA the weather in that southwestern coastal France was predicted to be terrible; rain every day for ten days with temperatures in the forties and fifties. We almost cancelled the trip. Instead Lyman discovered the weather in another area, south central France, the Provence region, was predicted to be better; not great but certainly dryer. Here on the train we were still planing where to go next. We had train tickets for the three and a half hour TGV journey to the small city of Orange, in Provence. We would bicycle somewhere from there.

We needed coffee and some kind of bread, a roll. We walked down to the bar car which was lively at 8:00 AM. The attendant was a true professional. Even on a train he followed the French protocol where each coffee had to be individually made with an expresso press. With coffee and pastry we watched the world go by at 170 miles per hour.

The TGV zoomed nonstop the almost three hundred miles to its first stop near the Lyon airport. Lyman is a retired architect and knows his stuff about buildings. We both admired from the train windows the brutalist expanses of the Lyon Saint Exupery station, designed by famed Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava.

Just before eleven in the morning we got off the train with our folded bicycles in Orange (population 28,000) and its small train station. We chose to hang back on the platform and put our bicycles together.

It was somehow relaxing screwing the racks on and centering the front wheel. For once there was no rush and we could work in a stress free silence. When the bicycles were together, we folded the cases and strapped everything on the back of the bicycles, then cycled off into the Provence countryside. Here is the route we ended up taking during the next eight days.

Cycling south on a minor road with little traffic we discovered a bike trail on a former rail line. Rain threatened but we cycled while it was dry.

We cycled for an hour or so, long enough so as to not feel guilty about stopping for lunch. Directly on the bike path in a reused rail station we stumbled upon likely the only restaurant in tiny Jonquieres, France. We both ordered the same thing, their lunch special of pissaladière, also called pissa, along with two glasses of white wine. We discovered this is southern France’s answer to pizza. Instead of pizza’s tomato sauce and cheese, this pissa had a cream sauce and fresh mushrooms. It came with salad of lettuce and corn, all on the same plate, everthing fresh and delicious. Welcome to France! This is what it’s all about.

The daily special included dessert! It was the day after Halloween so ghosts on the meringue seemed appropriate. And expresso coffee! Bien sur!

The rain drizzled a little while we had lunch under an overhang. We waited a further half hour for the rain to stop. We hoped to make it all the way to the much larger town of Avignon (population 92,000.)

We both carry gear to protect ourselves from rain but neither of us advocates cycling in actual rain if there is somewhere to shelter, if it can be avoided, especially when temperatures are less than seventy degrees, which they certainly were here. We finally pushed off when the rain stopped.

On the way we cycled through the town of Carpentras.

By the time we pulled into the Avignon suburbs it was drizzling and getting dark.

We plugged onward to reach the medieval center of Avignon. We sat on a public bench under a tree and looked for hotels on our phones.

We settled on a hotel nearby. Avignon is famous partly because of a religious/political problem in the 14th century where the Pope was forced to live away from Rome in Avignon for sixty-seven years between 1309 and 1376. Our hotel was near the Palais des Papas, where to Pope was said to have stayed. We chilled in our rooms until time to do dinner.

Somewhat refreshed we walked around town in the drizzle, looking for somewhere to eat. Before leaving I looked out onto the street from my balcony.

Restaurants in Avignon were crowded on a Wednesday night!. We did learn that French restaurants, like Italian ones, really like that you call for a reservation, even if only half an hour in advance. We had not called anywhere, and we “settled” on a Moroccan restaurant called Le Riad which sat on a dark side street.

The cold appetizers of hummus, baba ghanoush, and roasted artichoke were fine but not stellar. The main course we shared; pork cooked with prunes, delivered sizzling, was wonderful. This video is only three seconds long.

The next morning we enjoyed a good breakfast at the hotel. After breakfast I stared out the hotel room window at the rain.

About ten or eleven in the morning the rain had stopped and we decided to push off. We first cruised by the cathedral and the Palais des Papas, both built in the Middle Ages, which are across the street from each other.

Saint-Remy-de-Provence and Avignon are only ten to fifteen miles apart but we were dodging serious rain. The predicted break in the rain failed to materialize and we ended up cycling in an actual cold rain.

For a while the rain slowed to a drizzle. In the middle of nowhere I felt inspired to sing about it.

On arriving in Saint Remy we were relieved to duck into a restaurant and take off our some of our wet stuff.

Eating is fundamentally a very personal thing. I think about food all the time; how it looks, how it tastes, where it is procured, is it good for me? I sometimes lie awake at night thinking about cooking. (Should I sauté the onions first?) I try to eat healthily with mostly vegetables and less red meat but I often splurge. I like to taste innovative textures and flavors. I like to make every meal an event, even if just for myself. Lyman does have a different outlook than me on food. He successfully lost over twenty pounds when he was in his sixties and is proud of the good shape he is in. He has admirable willpower. He is a fan of a big breakfast, which I am not. When we stepped out of the rain at 2:00 PM into a casual restaurant in Saint-Remy-de-Provence he took a look at the menu and just said no. He joined me for a beer but I couldn’t believe he could just watch as I ate an entire plate of delicious pasta amatriciana. (How can you just skip lunch?).

It was raining hard so we cancelled further mileage that day. We found rooms at a low cost small hotel in Saint Remy, rooms that sit above a restaurant, a place that texts you a code to get into your room rather than having a front desk.

Saint Remy (population 9,700) is a lovely medieval town and seemed to be our waking call to the not necessarily unpleasant gentrification of parts of southern France, of Provence. Not all towns in Provence have the upscale feel of Saint Remy. We had passed through many towns on the bicycle, many with an apparent majority Arab ancestry, that appeared very working class. In Saint Remy there was only limited street life at 7:00 PM and the people walking around looked well put together; lots of young families. There were stores open selling expensive stuff.

This cat was sitting in a window.

We had dinner at the semi-fancy restaurant adjoining our hotel. My appetizer was octopus salad.

Lyman ordered salmon tartare

Yes, there were language problems but I am certain that Lyman ordered the grilled fish while I ordered a different fish, skate in tomato sauce over rice. We were really hungry and tired and when they incorrectly brought both of us the skate, Lyman graciously let that issue go.

I think we shared the chocolate torte, a flourless cake.

The next morning was one of two times on the trip where an Airbnbesque place left us breakfast with no attendant, but in both cases someone had brought in fresh bread, baguettes, obviously baked early that same morning. The French realize that with bread, freshness is critical.

Later on we packed up and headed out, pausing to look around the town of St Remy one more time.

We headed through the countryside in the direction of the town of Arles, a place my Franco-American friend David said was his favorite town in Provence. Finally the weather was cooperating, and we cycled through lovely countryside and eventually even some sunshine. I got the feeling many of the gates guarded expensive property.

There were signs for real estate developments going up.

We also passed these people. I am not sure what they are doing. Was it a religious thing or was it a touristy walking tour?

We had taken a circuitous route to Arles and passed through a working class looking town on the Rhone river called Tarascon, looking for somewhere to eat. We did not need a giant meal but my opinion was, why not go large when it’s not that expensive? We passed a restaurant unimaginitively named Le Chateau with an enticing looking blackboard outside. Coq au vin? I hurried inside.

There were only two other people eating there. The public face was this welcoming guy. He may have been just a server but I like to think he was the owner.

While I plunged into ordering a feast Lyman was once again hesitant. For the 18.50 menu, my first course was terrine in pastry with salad.

My main course was coq au vin, of course. In America nearly all chickens are killed young, despite recipes like coq au vin being designed to overcome the toughness of an older chicken or cock by slow cooking; braising. The meat here in Tarascon was both pleasantly just tough enough and also flavorful.

Lyman was totally accepting me eating with him not ordering anything but after watching me eat a while he looked for something simple and light. The cheese board was not available so he got the charcuterie plate. It appeared overwhelming in size but actually the chef had just been imaginative in laying out thin slices. Lyman ate the whole thing with apparent pleasure.

We shared the dessert, orange mousse shaped to look like an orange, the thing sticking out being a chocolate shaped like a mint leaf.

I hope we both agreed that this was wonderful, that this is one large piece of what life is about. We ordered expresso coffee, of course.

It was still about fifteen miles to our nights destination of Arles. Back on our bikes we cycled along the Rhone River.

Things looked decidedly less cute as we passed through an industrial area with junk recycling plants, also a prison.

The French build beautiful bridges, we passed underneath this one.

Arles (population 51,000) is a fascinating small city with a medieval center and a history of more than two thousand years. There are several significant intact Roman structures, including an amphitheater, which the town keeps lit at night. Lyman is quite the authority about Roman construction and its legacy. I had not realized southern France has that many Roman buildings.

We wanted a lighter dinner after the big lunch. At an informal restaurant recommended by a friend of a friend way back in Chapel Hill NC I ordered a delicious “regional salad” which featured mostly meat. Lyman got roasted prawns.

We awoke the next morning in our hotel rooms to more rain predicted all morning. At about 9:00 AM in a light rain we explored the wonderful Arles Wednesday-and-Saturday-morning market, with plans to bicycle out of town after that. As many of my readers know I am a big fan of the Carrboro Farmer’s Market back in North Carolina, and this one in Arles takes everything to another level. It makes me want to move to Arles so I can buy food at this market and cook it. There were also lots of great prepared foods. We could have bought stuff for a picnic later in the day; meat, cheese, fruit, but the rainy weather made that impractical. We settled on just browsing.

There is so much to see and do in Arles that we could have spent a week there but the purpose of this trip was to bicycle tour. On a bicycle tour the journey is the experience. I pressed Lyman “let’s go!” but he insisted that we stay another two or three hours on this rainy day and see the LUMA art center; which turned out to be totally a great idea and I was, in hindsight, being completely stupid.

The LUMA center is an art complex built in just the past ten years, located just a few hundred yards outside the Arles city center. Primarily funded by a Swiss donor, the center hired famed American architect Frank Gehry. It is built on the site of a former railroad maintenance yard, which itself had been built in the nineteenth century on top of part of a two thousand year old Roman necropolis, the Alyscamps.

We climbed to the top of the building and took in the view.

We had expected art installations in the middle floors but there was little open to the public. The atrium space had a slide down three floors, one that was clearly not meant for children. While it looks smooth, when you go down on your back looking up, vibrations from grooves in the tube combine with colors from above. It was like a five second acid trip.

At least for the general public, the real action was in the basement. We toured an exhibit of work by the 1950-60’s New York City photographer Diane Arbus. The exhibit room had a full wall of mirror, making the space seem endless. We were wearing our helmets because we had had to park the bicycles outside in the rain. With Diane’s famous photos of freaks, two guys in bicycle helmets likely fit right in.

We had managed to enter the museum just when it had opened at 10:00 AM so when we left the museum at about noon we were ready to ride. The rain had stopped. We cycled heading west along the northern edge of the Camarge, a flat expanse of marshy delta where the Rhone River empties into the Mediterranean.

We first cycled through the streets of Arles.

Out of town we were able to find small roads through the marshy landscape.

Not all food in France is three course fancy meals. The French eat fast food as well, much of it prepared by Arab immigrants. In the town of Saint Gilles we had kebabs on pita at the only restaurant open at 2:15 PM. It is fascinating the French use of English and Italian words on a menu of Arab food; “les sandwichs” and “les paninis”.

We pressed on through the Camarge wetlands, some of it on a trail along a canal that runs towards the coast.

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The sun finally was coming out in the late afternoon! The Camarge landscape was lovely.

We picked the town of Aigues-Mortes (population 8,600) as a place to stay that night only because its several word description on Google Maps said something about “medieval walled town.” We knew nothing about it. It sits about three miles from the coast.

As the canal path led us towards town we passed dozens of boats lining the canal in this touristy area. It was not the first time we saw this trend. Europeans are passionately renovating older commercial barge vessels into second homes, or maybe first homes. It is not clear how many go up and down the canals or how many just sit there; or who the people are that own these things.

Aigues-Mortes is indeed a walled town. One huge advantage in arriving by bicycle we did not have to look for a place to park!

I am not complaining because I really like Aigues-Mortes, but it was the most touristy medieval town we saw in all of France. It was not upscale like Saint Remy where we had stayed two days earlier. As far as I could see there were no Americans, no Asians, just middle class Europeans on vacation. We found a seat outside at a bar and ordered beers. The bar had free blankets to cover your legs in the fifty something degree weather. The guy across from us had on a clearly fake American college sweatshirt that talked about “Florida Athletic USA”

We booked a room at a hotel just down the block then walked around town in the late afternoon.

There were lots of souvenirs for sale.

This couple had matching racing jackets and matching Louis Vuitton bags!

Despite being a tourist town we found our hotel among the most welcoming of this trip. They even gave us each a free 50cl bottle of local white wine, which we saved to consume on our picnic lunches in the following two days.

That evening’s restaurant was welcoming as well. With its name I had no choice other than eat at somewhere called La Table de Paco. It specialized in grilled meat, and the guy’s name is really Paco.

We split a roasted eggplant appetizer.

I ordered lamb chops, Lyman steak. Both came with potatoes with sour cream sauce plus ratatouille. What’s not to like?

We shared a slice of apple tart with ice cream. It was OK but the tart itself was not fresh, its crust a little mushy.

The next day we bicycled out of Aigues-Mortes and headed the five miles towards the beach, then turned west along the Mediterranean coast. We were on a thin barrier island with flat marshy land. The wind had shifted; the day before we had enjoyed a strong eastern tailwind but now there was a stiff west wind in our face. On our bike ride this day the forty something miles to a town called Sete was completely on the waterfront. The first few miles along the coast were undeveloped.

After a few miles we arrived at a string of beach developments centering on a place called La Grande Motte. It was a chilly windy Sunday morning in November but there still people around on a waterfront path.

This is France, not America, not Britain, not Italy. As far as I know most of the people here speak French.

For a country that speaks and writes French, the language bastardization on this La Dune Club sign is astonishing.

A few miles of waterfront trail brought us to another new looking town called Carnon. We had looked forward to some kind of picnic lunch this day and we had our small bottle of wine given to us by the hotel the night before, We just needed bread, cheese, maybe a little dry sausage, and a corkscrew. The usual bakeries seemed closed on Sunday and in this resort area we could not find a supermarket open at 1:30 PM. The best we could find was a mini-mart in a poorer rough looking area with a couple of sketchy looking guys hanging outside. In American mini-marts we have all seen premade sandwiches in a triangle shaped plastic box. In my food snobbiness I certainly have never eaten such a thing. Here is France on a Sunday two of those sandwiches seemed to be the best choice, we could split halves. We bought a corkscrew and found a bench along a canal. The sandwiches tasted better than expected. We had forgotten; did we have glasses for the wine? The sandwich boxes would have to do. When wine is involved any picnic is a success.

Beyond the town of Carnon there was a twenty mile long rough path along a breakwater through the inland waterway. There were signs maybe prohibiting bicycles but we were not certain of their meaning and we did see other bicyclists. It was quite a slog because of the headwind.

We were tired and hungry at 5:00 PM when we pulled into the town of Sete. Among the touristy waterfront spots we looked for an ice cream place. Note the Italian language on the cups.

Sete (population 45,000), is a small city that developed in the late 1600’s when canals arrived that provided access to the sea. To me its look is vaguely Dutch.

We found hotel rooms nearby. I had been vaguely sick, a common cold since the second day of this trip and now Lyman seemed to be coming down with the same thing. My outlook is that the evening meal is the highlight of the day. I was astonished that Lyman, after the milkshake at 5:00 PM and not feeling well, he just said no. (No matter how sick you are how can you skip dinner?). Going solo I had one of the best meals of the trip. On a back street near our hotel at 8:30 PM I found a tiny but elegant looking place with maybe ten tables, only two occupied. I was warmly welcomed.

The first course was described in French as fish soup. It was a thin broth with a pleasant fish flavor, accompanied by hard toasted bread slices, shredded cheese, and a delicious fatty substance I think was aioli. One assembled one’s soup in the semi-enclosed bowl that kept it piping hot. The effect was similar to French onion soup.

The place was fancy enough to not offer low cost bulk wine carafes; I got a fifteen Euro small bottle of white.

My main course was a fish Google Translate called “mahi-mahi.” I doubt the translation is accurate but it certainly was delicious. The curly-cue things are fried potatoes on top of cooked vegetables.

The feeling after all this was really sublime. By the time I finished my main course there was no one else left in the restaurant. It was just me and the staff so I skipped dessert. By American standards this meal was still a great deal.

The next day, since dry weather was predicted, Lyman and I were determined to buy supplies for a picnic lunch during the day’s bike ride. Les Halles of Sete, a permanent municipal market, was just a couple of blocks away our hotel.

We perused the food items for sale. One vendor had huge anchovy selection, another had prepared pasty items.

We kept it simpler, we bought one large apple, two kinds of cheese, and four slices of salami. In another building we found a bakery and strapped the loaf to the back of my bicycle. Lyman was carrying the other 50 cl bottle of wine from two days before. With lunch ready when we needed it, we bicycled west out of town.

The first fifteen miles would be along the coast towards the town of Agde. There was a bike path most of the way.

For many miles a bike trail ran along a undeveloped waterfront seascape.

“Mobil Homes” seem to be a big deal in southern France, I guess they are vacation homes. We passed a large number on this beachfront bikeway.

At the town called Agde near its downtown we found a bench on a pedestrian walkway overlooking the water. Lunch spot! We opened the wine and poured it into paper cups. Cheese and sausage and bread; bien Sur!

After lunch we headed inland, looking for the canal path that would take us to Beziers. France’s bicycle infrastructure is not nearly as developed as the Netherlands but better than the USA. Nevertheless, in France there are marked bicycle routes that stop and start with no real rhyme or reason. Which way to Beziers?

Inland from the sea we saw more large “mobil home” developments and signs for them; even a junkyard of old trailers.

We finally did find the canal, the beginnings of a hundreds mile long system of canals and their bike paths called Canal du Midi, heading northwest towards Beziers, then eventually Toulouse and Bordeaux. We would ride a short piece of it during the next two days.

Beziers (population 78,000) seemed working class on first impressions. It sits on the top of a hill above both the canal path and the Orb river. It was the site of a religion-inspired massacre in the year 1209. It is the center of the French bullfighting culture. (who knew?) We found two hotel rooms on a wide street near the center.

For a working class town there is still room for fancy eating. It was a Monday night and many restaurants were closed. We found Pica-Pica, the fanciest and most expensive meal we had on this trip. They handed us menus in English. We both had felt mildly unhealthy not having many vegetables for the past six days so we were comforted by sharing two appetizers, “Black Houmous” and the fifteen Euro “Beaux Broccoli.” The hummus was the best hummus either of us had ever tasted, and the broccoli, avocado, and cheese pile was delicious.

For a small city the restaurant scene on this Monday night was lively. At an adjacent table a group was ordering all sorts of stuff, including at the end of their meal, an expensive looking white dessert wine which required decanting. They were speaking multiple languages, including English and French. I theorized it was a work group.

The serve staff were friendly and solicitous. I caught this one in a photo while she was catching her breath.

Lyman’s main course was a special of the day, tuna tartare. I thought it too small, he said the size, for him was just right.

My main course was monkfish, its slices arranged to look like it was sitting on a tortilla.

We each got desserts. Mine was something made with a pear, his was a chocolate delight.

They had this old Fiat on the street in front of the restaurant.

The next morning we went looking for somewhere to get picnic lunch supplies. Beziers also has a public market, a Les Halles. Some of the stalls are either empty or closed on a Tuesday. We easily found cheese, sausage, and fruit. Bread and wine were available close by.

On the town’s wide square on this weekday morning there was an outdoor market selling antique stuff. Old cameras in one stall, 1970’s LPs of German muzakie artist Bert Kaempfert in another.

Beziers is an old city. We had to cycle through the narrow streets as we worked our way down the hill heading out of town.

Leaving town we looked back from the canal and the River Orb at the walled town of Beziers on the hill and its medieval Pont Vieux bridge.

Americans in New York State crow about the Erie Canal but the Canal du Midi was a similar project, except built 150 years earlier, in the 1670’s and 80’s under Louis XIV, connecting the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. We cycled along locks just outside of Beziers.

We continued cycling northwest along the canal.

Only a few miles west of Beziers the canal goes through a tunnel! The signs for the bike path directed us up and over the small hill but Lyman the architect could not tolerate not personally seeing this seventeenth century engineering achievement. We mindfully walked the bikes down a rocky slope from the road.

Things go fabulously until they do not. We had been cycling along a lovely canal in lovely weather and were looking at a lovely canal tunnel. On leaving the tunnel Lyman’s front tire went flat. Normally this would have been a twenty minute fix, but we had pump problems, mostly related to my attempts to change my schraeder valve pump to fit his presta valves, because his presta valve pump wouldn’t work properly, and then losing the piece that fits on my pump. We spent more than an hour messing with tubes and pumps and valves. It was a miracle, really, that we finally assembled his front wheel, put my pump back together and got some air in the tire. While much of it was jury-rigged, we headed down the road. I felt spent, physically and mentally. I really thought we would have been stuck out here. We only cycled a few more miles before finding a spot for lunch, sitting along a bridge abutment. It was nourishing on all levels.

Things got better. We cycled much of the afternoon along that canal as it circuitously threaded through the southern French countryside. When cresting a hill, there were views.

Our trip was nearing its end. We had bought TGV train tickets back to Paris, leaving from a nearby town called Narbonne at 12:40 PM the following day.

The canal passed by a town called Capestang, somewhere we knew nothing about. We had intended to cycle further on the canal but on my phone I found a really low cost and nice sounding hotel in Capestang. The hotel sat above a restaurant. Why not just stay here? We would have an eighteen mile ride the following morning to the Narbonne train station. What could go wrong?

We were the only guests in a hotel run by a local guy who we never met. He texted us codes to get in. We had the two rooms on the top floor and my window looked over the town. In good weather the light here is amazing, you can see why Van Gogh loved painting these views.

Just after dark I took a walk around town. I had not realized that Capestang (population 3,200) was a lovely medieval town.

I could see that outside money is making its way into this town, likely helping to keep the place picturesque. I saw more than one group of people speaking English English. Downtown Capestang seemed to have an unusually vibrant bar scene. I think owners of those fixed up canal boats use Capestang as a stopping point. There must be expats. For a tiny town I saw an abnormal number of banks.

The restaurant underneath our hotel rooms was of different management than the hotel. Except for a pizza place it was the only real restaurant in town. I stopped by and asked if we could eat there in an hour. The friendly staff appeared all female. When we arrived we both ordered seafood main courses.

dinner for two

Our shared dessert was “aiutour de la pomme”, (I think) tour of the apple.

The next morning, as had been promised, for each hotel room costing less than eighty dollars including tax, our hotel proprietor or someone else came up the stairs and hung a cloth bag containing a very fresh baguette to each of our door knobs. I was impressed that the bread was in a reusable cloth bag, not something plastic. Each of us could now make a gourmet breakfast in our hotel room, because if you have fabulous French bread, the rest is twiddling about details. We had been given little packets of Nutella, butter, and jam, as well as a coffee machine.

Our train that day to Paris was scheduled for 12:40 PM. We were slightly less than twenty miles away. It should be no problem, even though I knew if we had a tire problem our one semi-functioning bicycle pump was held together with baling wire.

Narbonne, where we would be catching the TGV train, is not on the Canal du Midi, a subject that has been debated in Narbonne for three hundred years. We cycled away from our hotel at 8:30 AM for a scheduled hour and a half ride and headed across the southwestern French landscape. I read somewhere that a French bureaucrat recently suggested that the French nation could save hundreds of lives per year if they cut down all the lovely trees that line French rural highways, because cars continue to crash into them. They are beautiful. There was not much room for a bicycle either but there was not a lot of traffic.

We just had to make it to the train station. Lyman suddenly had tire trouble, (of course!) this time the other tire, the rear. The tire itself was failing, the tube was poking through the tread of the tire. What to do? I proposed he let most of the air out of the tire and keep going. This lasted about three minutes when the tube, of course, failed. We would have to change both tire and tube. We turned the bike upside down on the side of the road and removed the rear wheel.

One saving grace about the way the tube failed was that it made it easy to find the leak. I patched the tube while Lyman pulled out his spare tire, one that he had had sitting folded in his bag for five years. Would that stiff tire even function? Working on the tube, I waited for the glue to dry, then applied the patch. Both of us working together, we struggled to make the folded tire and now the tube go around his rim. This process went on for fifteen minutes but finally the tube and tire were ensconced onto the rim.

We next had to fill it with air with a pump that was coming apart. Using a presto to schraeder adapter, we both held the whole apparatus together with our hands. It didn’t work. We tried again, and again. Finally, it did work! We put in a measly twenty or thirty pounds of pressure. We hoped it would carry us just for the next hour. We put the wheel back on the bicycle and headed down the road. The new tire was much skinnier. Cross your fingers!

We settled into a rhythm and cycled down the highway. Maybe things were going to be alright! We passed a farm advertising vegetables. I thought the sign picturesque.

I am sure Narbonne is a lovely town but we did not see it. Their station, their Gare, is on the north side of town, the direction we were coming from. We glided into the station with at least an hour to spare. We sat outside, trackside, and unscrewed stuff so our bicycles would fit into our canvas bags. Just before the train arrived on time at 12:40 PM we surveyed all our stuff, two bicycles and luggage.

It was four and a half hours by train from here to Paris. On arrival we splurged and took a cab from the station to our hotel, so we would not have to put the bicycles back together again. Both of us had separate flights departing the next day about 11:00 AM.

That evening in Paris we went to a spot called La Tourelle, somewhere an American friend had said was his favorite restaurant in Paris. It was barely just OK. At least it was not super expensive. Everyone eating there looked old.

The next morning at 7:30 AM while I was on the street, waiting to go to the airport, I saw bicycles zoom by. Some were from the bicycle share program, many were not. Paris has a recently developed bicycle culture that we saw nowhere else in France. Cyclists break the rules with abandon. They often ride at night with no lights. I found it fetching.