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Twisted Features We were on the road early. With the hot weather the past two days we decided we would pedal in the morning and get in some cooler riding time before the humid thirty degree Celsius heat hit from eleven till four. My fingers were freezing. I considered digging out my gloves, but by that time we were approaching the town of Void. I phoned our friends, Vern and Enza, to see if they were still planning on cycling in Europe. Morning in France translated to late evening in Alberta. The answering machine picked up the phone the first two times I tried the number. The third time a groggy Vern picked up the phone. Vern said he had started his business teaching self defense. And he bought a new racing bike to replace the one he crashed the season before. And they bought a racing bike for Enza too, so she could accompany him on club rides. Consequently they had no money left for a trip abroad. France was a cyclist's paradise with its scenic rivers and streams. I was still charmed at how very rural and picturesque it was. Houses were different in the north of France. Farmers had barns attached to their homes. Sharon's brother, Loran, would like that. He wouldn't have had far to walk to work. He could just cut a door in the bedroom wall and walk straight through to the barn. Or when cows were calving he could put a stethoscope against the wall and listen for labour pains. I wasn't sure if Annette, Loran's wife, would go for it though. Quaint villages had roosters roaming main street. With all the ruckus it sounded like a crowing contest. Barnyard smells permeated the town. Holy cow. Did Paris know about this? It was a different French culture altogether. Even the people were not so petite. Went into two colossal Roman churches. I was amazed at how such small towns could have such humongous churches. The stained glass windows were a burst of kaleidoscopic colour. The lazy Meuse River slid by as we ate lunch along its bank. Suddenly, those non refrigerated eggs struck with a vengeance. I had to take a major dump -- so much so, I was afraid to sit on my seat. I looked for a toilet. Seeing none I asked a person standing outside their house. They didn't understand my "twalet poobleek." Communicating in a foreign language was like speaking a secret code. I was amazed when I said some strange sounding word and people actually understood what I said. Then, another time, I would say the exact same word and no one understood it. It was like they had changed the secret password without telling me. I felt like saying, "Come on people, work with me." At some points I may as well have been speaking Klingon for all the results I was getting. I desperately implored Sharon for assistance. Her version of the secret code brought enlightenment. But the man said there was none in town. My pained expression apparently traversed the language boundary because he looked at me and said I could come inside his house to use his. Mercifully, I did. I was thankful he had let me, but it felt strange to be sitting on a private person's toilet looking at their tooth brushes and pictures. I was still awed by French drivers. Not only were they more skilled than their counterparts on the other side of the Atlantic, but they possessed a completely different attitude towards cyclists. I had a much better perception of the intelligence of drivers when they passed clapping and waving. In America a waving hand was likely to flaunt a protruding middle finger. At Vaucherville, since it was almost time to camp, I went over to an open window and asked for water. The French didn't put screens on their windows, but that didn't stop them from keeping them wide open. The plentiful bugs flew in and then flew back out again on their own volition. Unlike in America where once bugs got into our homes they were imprisoned. French people used their windows like we used our doors. When I knocked on someone's door the owners usually poked their heads out a window. I got into the habit of knocking at the window, especially if it was open. A very elderly woman with one lonely tooth in her head came to the window. I imagined she kept it in case she had the urge to eat corn of the cob. While she filled our bottles with delicious cold water her husband came to the window and soon we had a spirited stilted conversation. They were extremely personable, asking a variety of questions and as we departed showered us with several good wishes. Sharon wanted to camp in a forest beside a stream so she could wash up. When I saw a sign: forest workers only and a bar across a muddy gravel road I knew it would be a good spot. In most cases when we camped in off-limit places it meant we wouldn't have any visitors. I looked around the forest and noticed the entire area was pockmarked with evenly spaced depressions. I knew the area had seen battles in both World Wars and I wondered if the depressions were ancient fox holes. It was dark inside the forest. People outside on the sunlit road couldn't see in. Sharon found a terrific spot by the creek and plunged into the frigid water for a splashing good time. It was so cold, that after she washed her hair she said her brain was frozen. |
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