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Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson

Wine Babies

Bicycle Touring France

2 Foolproof System

The maid awakened us trying to come into our room at 10:00 a.m., but my bike blocked the door in the tiny room.

We got the motel desk clerk to help us place a call home. He couldn't figure it out either but was able to call the operator. It was 4:00 a.m. in Alberta. I talked to Sharon's groggy mom for nine minutes. "Canada is expensive," the clerk said as he handed me the bill.

"Souvenir," I said looking at the amount. For another couple of phone calls we could have paid for another night at the motel.

Deciding to leave Paris for later we continued our quest for N7. I was afraid we were on one of Paris's ring roads and would spend our entire vacation indefinitely circling Paris. We went through old towns with super narrow brick and cobblestone streets. Stone houses with wooden shutters lined ancient ivy covered walls. It looked like medieval times. In some places only one car could pass at a time.

A group of kids on the street pointed and fake laughed as we rode past. Drivers in cars honked and waved or gave thumbs­up signs. After ten kilometers and several stops asking for directions we found N7.

We passed a group of policemen on the side of the road. One clapped as we rode past-probably the cop from the day before.

The wind was strong with a drizzly rain. It was warmer than Canada; leaves were still on the trees.

We hadn't found a grocery store. (No wonder the French were so skinny.) But we had seen several coiffeurs, florists and lingerie shops. The cars were small and the roads abounded with motor scooters and motorcycles. Drivers were courteous and patient. We ate lunch at a bench on the side of a bike path. Several passersby bade us "Bon appétit!" So much for the rude French we had heard of so often. Everyone was quicker to speak English than when we were in Québec.

At Milly we looked for a campground. In the town square a couple asked if we were really Canadians. (I had a Canadian flag on my flag pole.)

We said, "Yep."

They looked at each other, "They're Canadians all right," the man said. "Americans would have said, 'Yes, we are!'" He had worked out a foolproof system.

A guy grabbed Sharon by the arm and dragged her across the street to the pastry shop to find someone who spoke English. A man in line did, but he didn't know the area. Someone explained to him where the campground was, then he translated.

It was dark when we rode off in search of the campground. After fifteen minutes I saw a sign and we headed down a pitch black road. There were no street lights, no cars, no moon, no stars. The countryside had begun. We eventually found the campground.

There was a pizza trailer making pizza for campers. I was surprised there were so many persons in camp. We ambled down a muddy path and found a mucky spot under some trees. There were no picnic tables. We set up by a wooden pallet and used it as a picnic table.

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