Naaaaav'n black 'n' blues

26.12.10

Navan, Co. Meath, Ireland

Perusing the last post, I was reminded how I was in a different world a few days ago: Temperatures were cool; the preferred foods were pizza, Parmesan cheese, and prosciutto; and Sean was with me. Here I sit in front of a fire in a drafty Irish home with some lovely cousins of mine, having just eaten a roast of chicken, potatoes, and parsnips. This has been their worst winter in many years – aside from last year – with the thermometer diving to -8 C and the snow piling up nearly six inches. OK, this is really nothing compared to Chicago, but it's still enough to cause a country ill-prepared for rough winters to shut down completely. And, of course, Sean is back home, no longer laughing it up with me in Europe.

Christmas in another place is quite strange. I don't mean that Irish customs are unusual or all that foreign, nor do I mean that the weather or landscape is that much different from home (this is a relatively flat part of the country, caught in a cold spell). This is the only tradition that I feel must take place with family (yes, I'm forgetting National Family Funn Day). Luckily, I have some wonderful cousins here in Ireland who have taken in this bedraggled warrior, or, if you'd rather, this smelly and unshaven man, for the holidays. But talking to my family yesterday made me happy in a way that I've not felt for a while. When you are on your own, feelings are either dampened or amplified, but in either case emotions aren't what you would feel in a stable environment with friends and family at hand. Yesterday, I was struck by how much I missed everyone back home when I was reminded of the distance by a phone call, made Christmas evening here and received Christmas morning there. Nothing like an immeasurable chasm of time and distance to strip away the self-erected layers of protection and reveal how dear something is to you.

Tonight, I'm accompanying my cousin Emma to some sort of club for an Irish celebration of Boxing Day, known here as St. Stephen's Day. I've received many tips how to avoid the common pitfalls of Irish clubgoers. Most importantly, the Happy Bus is to be shunned at all costs. This vehicle arrives at a party “after the seventh pint” and replaces all the ugly, overweight girls with attractive beurs. Another trick is to bring along a set of keys and tell all the girls that I have a Ferrari (You have a Ferrari? A few). But I think it all boils down to being smart and in control, much like the babysitter, and not “losing it.” At any rate, we're leaving soon, so I'd best be off. I only hope they play something decent. I wish I could walk into a place and be hit with one of Brian Eno's walls of sound, now that would be a treat. Or if Prince made a guest appearance and started rocking. Bobby D is out of the question. But I'll take what comes with a big ol' smile and dance dance dance my troubles away. And if said troubles stem from the dancin'? Then I revert to the Eclectic Slide.

Mrrry Chrrrrsmas! And a very merry one at that!

Wren Inn Roam

17.12.10

Roma, Italy



Chianti Beauty



We have reached our final destination together on our journey across Europe: the ancient and eternal city of Roma. Though we have no more kilometers to pedal, our job is not yet complete. Indeed, the last three days have been some of the most frustrating and challenging of the entire trip.

As usual, the approach to Rome was nothing out of the ordinary. We knew that entering any city and even drawing near to the larger ones invites headaches from the tripled volume of traffic and dirtier roads. In this case, we were not prepared for this overload of trucks and cars that occurred 55 miles out. The worst part is that the traffic increased while the width of the road remained scarily narrow: a two lane road lacking a shoulder. Fortunately, we were able to camp in strands of woods that we found along the highway and braved the cold three nights in a row before our arrival. Riding into Rome proper was very instructive in the mismatch between ancient road sizes and their modern applications. The traffic was so bad riding in that we beat many of the cars to the city center. Again, having a single lane on a main thoroughfare is never a good idea for a busy city.

The second trial of our final destination together was the unfortunate situation of lodging. Instead of staying in a hostel or hotel for the duration of our stay, we attempted to cut down on cost by staying with one of three contacts that we had made throughout our travels or through our friends. A girl that we had met in Madrid had originally invited us to stay with her, which made us very happy as we entered the city. As soon as we got internet access - for the first time in three days, actually - we discovered that her mother had become ill, naturally destroying our hopes of staying with her. Fine, we had a few other options.

A dear friend of mine named BHill worked very hard to find a contact with whom we could stay for a few days here in the city and got us in touch with a family that is extremely nice and wonderful. Tom, Brian's friend, even grew up in Chicago, which is a double plus. But their apartment is not suited for lengthy stays and so we contented ourselves with plans for dinner. That first night, after discovering that we were without a place to stay, we sought residence in a hostel, which allowed us to see the Vatican. St. Peter's Square, St. Peter's Cathedral, the Sistine Chapel... I do have to interrupt this story for a bit of good news, which is that true beauty exists at this oh holiest of places. It goes without saying that the Church was one of the most powerful institutions on the planet at one time, and while many poor decisions were made regarding the use of that money, the construction of these beautiful structures is an appropriate and commendable use of these funds. Of course, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick: These are all fine and well, too, but creating works of art and raw beauty are worth something special.

Through the website that we are a part of, we were able to leave the hostel and stay with a friendly guy who was eager to teach us about his Buddhist beliefs, his former 1-kg-of-pasta-a-day-for-breakfast eating habits (though he reiterated how variety is the spice of life), and the joys of cycling in the thick of the craziest of European traffic - found here in Rome. Before we met him, we were approached on the street by a very nice woman who saw us with our bikes and was curious as to what we were doing. After we told her our story and our predicament, she offered us a place to stay. Taking an immediate liking to her enthusiasm and bubbling energy, we decided to take her up on the offer and stay with her the following night, after we had given the internet friend a shot.

Though it was difficult moving all our things again, we figured that this woman was kind enough to open up to us knowing our story, so it must be a positive encounter. We left the first house and, following a wonderfully simple lunch of her vegetarian and organic lifestyle, Giuliana took us on a biking tour of Rome. 2 hours on a bike was not only enough to see the many historical sites of the city but also sufficient to fear for our lives a number of times as she wove in and out of traffic, acting without fear and as though she owned the cobblestoned roads. I should say that, as a phenomenal coincidence, our internet friend, Sem, and the woman with whom we had a chance encounter, Giuliana, were both members of the group Critical Mass, which seeks to garner awareness to the reality and efficacy of cycling in cities by gathering in large herds once a month and taking over the city roads completely, forcing cars to notice and obey, as it were.

Sean and I met up again with Giuliana after having a magnificent time with Tom and Dana Whalen at their 6th story condo in the heart of Rome. The building in which they live is a converted 12th century tower that still forms the core of the structure, with the rooms built around it. Not only did this place have a brilliant and breathtaking view (or maybe it was just the subzero temperatures that stole the air from my lungs?), but it commanded a style that is rare for many places in America. But the true pleasure of the night was visiting with two of the nicest and most genuine people I have ever met.

Finishing up the pathetic story of our lodging woes, we returned to Giuliana's place following a torturous series of frigid night walks, lonely bus rides, and seemingly aimless wandering as we searched for the correct street in unfamiliar territory. Indeed, when we arrived, happy to be back in a relatively warm home with a friendly face to welcome us, we discovered, quite bluntly and plainly and you-should-have-known/don't-you-understand?, that we were to leave the following morning at 09:30. Take into consideration that our dinner with Tom and Dana had lasted until 23:00, meaning we reunited with Giuliana at 00:25 or so. That first day, she invited us to stay with her and knew that we were leaving the 19th, but she all of a sudden said she had a "change of plans" and would be leaving the following day out of town for the weekend. Sean and I had no power in this situation: Arguing our case would never change her mind, forcing her to stay, but would certainly instead bring about an unpleasant exchange that might end in us leaving even sooner. I never felt this terrible for having trusted someone so completely, nearly seeing Giuliana as our savior for Rome, and then being thrown out in the freezing, sunless cold because she had changed her mind and wanted to leave town. Perhaps she just doesn't realize what it is like to be without a home, or perhaps she thought we had other friends here (she was under the impression that we could return to the house we were at the previous night). In any case, the rug was yanked out from under our weary feet, and the worst part is that all the while we were struggling to stay smiling.

But Rome really hasn't been bad. The first three days had been absolutely gorgeous weather. Today is another story: Snow in the morning followed by drizzling, steady rain, and then a massive downpour complete with lightning and roaring thunder. I can only hope the clouds lift for our final day of sightseeing and errand-running tomorrow.

These are the final two days I have with Sean, first in Rome and then en route to Dublin, where I will rest these bones while Sean heads home. I am only beginning to realize the enormity of that fact: the simple, crushing reality. Let us enjoy the little time that remains, even in spite of this dripping, freezing, terrible weather.

Last day in Firenze

9.12.10


Firenze, Italia



A Romanesque yet Gothic Florentine cathedral, read: Magnificence



Today is our last day in the birthplace of the Rebirth. In terms of our health, spirits, and overall vigor, we have experienced a rebirth of our own here. I guess the notion transcends time!

Our next stop along the way will be Siena, which will be simply grand. After Siena, we will continue over hill and dale towards Roma, lovely ancient Roma, where the skies are so blue (I hope this is true, oh do I miss the Sun!). From the Eternal City (does this imply we'll be stuck there forever?), Sean and I will be flying out to Dublin, where I will bid him a fair and fine farewell and enjoy the company of some dear friends and relatives outside of Joyce's stomping ground (along with Paris). When I return to the lower European continent and to my mount, I might just have to take the advice of a few friends and head south, south, south to Sicily and beyond, to Egypt! The northern African coast would be something wondrous to explore.

But looking ahead should be limited to prevent losing sight of what we have in front of us now and whose company we are enjoying at the moment. That is, Firenze has not been completely explored, the villa has many a path to be walked, and Sean - my steadfast companion and keeper of the keys - is still laughing and whistling by my side (but slightly above my head). So with renewed vigor, as a phoenix rising from Arizona, we step out into the cloudy but warm Florentine environment, intent on gozando de la vida actual.


PS I'm including a snapshot of a famous grave site in Paris that I never got a chance to upload, as I never told the full tale of that beautiful city, which Hemingway calls a Moveable Feast. I had to visit what was previously the final resting place of an American hero, before someone concerned with grave vandalism from the adoring fans moved his remains back to California. I had to do this for two people: Dad and Laura. You two aren't overwhelmingly huge fans of his, but seeing the grave made me think of you both immensely (just like the Bears, or the moon). Without further ado, I present to you, the final resting place of Beatrix Kiddo, er James Douglas Morrison.

Italy: Love at first sight

6.12.10

Firenze, Italia

The Italian Garden of Villa I Tatti

Olive groves, rows and rows of vineyards, Cyprus trees towering overhead in long lines, hills offering beautiful views of the surrounding higher hills and nestled villages; these are a few of the virtues of living in an Italian villa overlooking Firenze. It is a shame we are visiting in the winter, for the lemon trees are locked inside, the vines are bare, and the flowers are recuperating from the recent frosts. It is impossible not to appreciate this place for what it is regardless of the season: a tribute to the bounty and beauty of the land. (It is quite telling to note that Lino Pertile, who has opened this treasured villa up to us, still considers Cambridge, Massachusetts, his home and plans to retire there one day, leaving this land of plenty).

This flattering description should not imply that our trip through the Italian Riviera, along the Mediterranean and through the bordering mountains, was devoid of anything spectacular; on the contrary, these last four days – since we landed in Genova aboard a ferry that set sail from Barcelona up until our first day of rest in Firenze – have made us fall in deep, deep love with Italy.

Ancient art meshes so nicely with ivy-shrouded marble staircases, no?

Genova, especially, welcomed us warmly with pastel-colored palaces, archways spanning streets, and a lively mix of grand and accidental architecture. I felt as though I had landed in a mystical land, one that materialized out of the magical salty air of the Mediterranean Sea. The entire first day, whether we were climbing from sea level to traverse the mountains all around or plummeting back toward the blue-green of the seafront and navigating hairpin turns while avoiding the hundreds of motorized scooters on the roads, I was in a state of constant bliss. Undoubtedly, the sun helped and warmed our bones with a power we hadn't felt since Barcelona and before that since who knows when. The mix of sensations was intoxicating, but we knew we had discovered Paradiso.

The past three nights, we have camped out, each one providing a certain story that spans the three extremes of the trip: freezing cold, astonishing natural beauty and power, and adrenaline-inducing danger. The most recent camping found us in the midst of Fucecchio, in a structure that we termed The Fortress. Although we were right off one of the town's main roads, we found a fully enclosed circle of hedges with a 20 foot diameter that completely shut us out from sight. Of course, the noise was still a nuisance, but we felt very safe. Our real enemy that night was the cold, which descended like a bunch of broccoli, catching us by surprise and falling hard.

Towns thriving in the most mountainous conditions

Our schedule when camping is to find a location, set up camp, change clothes, begin cooking dinner, eat at a convenient/fun/warm (i.e. in the tent) spot, clean up, and head back in the tent for map consultation, writing, and eating dessert. This last step is the favorite and most essential one, for we never forget to pick up one or two treats to enjoy in the tent post-dinner. Lately, we have been getting more adventurous, finding a panoply of giant bell-shaped sweet breads, dense and fruity “hard breads,” and cookies and pastries galore. I am still looking out for that perfect biscotti. After we finished our orange- and lemon-flavored hard bread, we went out to brush our teeth. The world we stepped out into was not the one we had left, for it was completely covered by a thick layer of frost. That night, we slept poorly, having to constantly shift positions due to cold and discomfort. I reckon it just goes to show you that Italy in the winter is not at all warm sunshine. Not at all.

The second camping was the ideal spot in terms of security, shelter, and sheer awesomeness. Ladies and gentlegiants, Sean and I that night slept a mere 100 feet from the crashing, roaring, and frothy waves of the Mediterranean Sea.

Firenze, on the banks of the mightsome Arno

The best part is that we found a strip of woods that was not being used in the winter, located a hidden grove, and set up shop. That night, we dined on the finest walnut tortellini around while watching a distant storm whip the sea into a fury. Infrequent bouts of lightning would reveal a bleak void punctuated by the occasional whitecap. Many times while munching, I noticed a funny feeling inside, right next to the tapewormy one and far above the numbness of the feet. I can only describe it as awe and wonder at sitting on the shore of the sea that inspired countless stories from the finest of ancient Western civilizations. And not merely sitting on the sandy beach, watching a mass of black clouds obscuring the stars and reflecting light from the many port towns along the sea, but rather, we had traveled there on our own power and were relying on the sea to be gentle with us that night. In reality, there was a very distinct possibility that a severe storm could cause us harm, which few tourists or strollers-along-the-beach experience. Fortunately, we were spared any real trouble that night, only receiving a light sprinkling that stopped before we awoke.

The final camping [mis(s)]adventure took place on our first night in Italy. I reckon we were again unused to the sun's patterns, having been further south in Spain for two weeks.

That cannon's got beef with the Med

As four o'clock approached, we began searching for a supermarket. It took us a full hour to locate one and finish our shopping, so we stepped out again into the evening just before 17:00. In that hour, the sun had set and the sky was rapidly approaching the color of charcoal. It didn't help that this town was nestled in a valley among the surrounding mountains, resulting in intensified dusk. The rapidity with which we were plunged into darkness resulted in our making some desperate decisions with regard to lodging. Unfortunately, no legitimate options were available, so we began eying parks and grassy rises with little luck. A man in a bike shop offered to take us to the nearest campsite, but when we arrived, we found it had been closed for a month and was reopening the following day. With no other choice, we climbed a small hill next to the campground and pitched our tent on the side lawn of a hotel that was closed for the winter.

Things were going just fine until we noticed the cats. There were at least four of them, prowling around and occasionally getting into quite vocal fights with one another (the sounds they can produce are unearthly). We began cooking dinner and shooed the cats away with a quick get-up-and-run. All of a sudden, I saw a blinding bluish-white flash that my on-edge mind instantly interpreted as a flare gun from one of the neighboring houses down the hill that saw our stove. The deafening boom that issued within seconds brought about the more serious reality: We were camping on a hill among the mountains during a nighttime lightning storm. Not only is this bad, but we had no idea how to reduce our risk of... whatever it is that might happen during a storm. And on top of it all, it began to rain, which is the second-to-last thing you want when camping, right behind lightning. Within 15 minutes, the rain had subsided, allowing us to finish our dinner without getting soaked.

Back in the tent we went for the giant bell of chocolate sweet bread covered in powdered sugar, apparently designed for an entire family during the Christmas season.

Italian Northern Mediterranean coast: so nice

Just as we finished eating, writing, and cleaning up, I turned off my headlamp and discovered a set of headlights streaking across the tent. If you do not know Desert Storm (few have survived the encounter), picture a bright yellow angular tent perched in front of you in the night: It will not be overlooked. Surely enough, the car shut off but then quickly flashed its brights twice as though to let us know we were spotted. And then... nothing happened; no one got out, no more lights, no sounds. Sean and I sat there in the darkness while our hearts beat faster and faster. What could they want? Why would they be here on this dark hill on the outskirts of town just off the busy highway that we could hear? Why won't they say or do anything? No answers came to mind, so we decided to consider the worst possible scenario and get the hell out of that tent. We dressed all in black, gathered our essential possessions, and quickly but smoothly crawled out of the tent and headed directly for the back of the hotel/house we were next to. After a moment's hesitation, someone from the car got out and began following us. That was all we needed to hear, and we took off running as soon as we rounded the corner. There we were, crouched back around in the front of this building, waiting and listening, every muscle tightly coiled and ready to spring to action, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through our systems. After a few minutes, we heard the car start back up and pull back down the hill, stopping before it reached the bottom.

We decided to be as cautious as possible, again considering the worst-case scenario, which was that they were out for us now and knew we would be returning to our base. After 45 minutes without any signs, we gathered ourselves and, headlamp at full blast, marched back to the tent and bikes. No one. Not a soul. Furthermore, nothing of ours seemed to be touched. Relieved but unsure of how to proceed, we debated moving to another spot but decided that it was too late at this point and instead moved the tent to the back of the house, no longer visible from the smallish parking lot there. The rest of the night, we were free of any visitors, cats, or unnervingly loud peals of thunder. Granted, in the morning, a car again materialized in the lot, but we were protected by daylight and made a clean escape.

What could the car have been doing up there? I suppose those in it were probably heading to the small and empty restaurant down the hill and used the lot up there, which might have been designated for both the hotel and the restaurant.

Italian Fog! Concealing Italian ice!

However, this scenario does not fully explain why the person came after us, and why they did not say anything. They sat in their car for a full 10-15 minutes while we were sweating and willing them away. What were they waiting for? Perhaps they were afraid that we would vandalize their car or that it was not otherwise safe up there, but still, why would they come out after us? The bottom line is that they did not mean us harm, for our belongings were just where we had left them, and they did not return to our knowledge.

We learned an important lesson that night, which is to keep out of view of any and all parking lots, no matter how deserted they appear. Also, lightning is scary when you have absolutely no appropriate shelter and it is nighttime. Finally, cats will steal your Parmesan when given the opportunity.

Beached on Barcelona

30.11.10

Barthelona, Espana

We have made it, at long last, to the fabled Mediterranean Sea. It seems like only yesterday that we were in the central mountains of Spain riding through a snowstorm and trying to find a bank that would turn some Benjamins into Jean Jaures. Yes, it did snow quite a bit yesterday, prompting our Argentinian friend Miguel to say that it was the coldest day of his life (right at freezing). Today was much better, only raining in the morning and warming back up to 10. In order to ensure that we make it to Rome in time for Sean's flight, we had decided to take a bus last night from Madrid to Barcelona and a ferry tomorrow from here to Genoa, Italia (a whopping 18 hours! I wonder what the average man overboard rate is on such a long seafaring journey). Now, I had to work quite a bit in order to convince myself that this was an acceptable (and even desirable, considering our schedule) choice of transportation. However, now that we've actually bused 600 km in Spain to the very coast of the sea, I feel as though we are missing out. For one, we cannot nearly appreciate the drastic changes that have taken place between Madrid, one of the coldest cities in Spain, and Barcelona, where palm trees grow with reckless abandon. I love the way that cycling makes clear the intimate connection between places through the gradual changes you witness and the continuation of one road into the next. Falling asleep on a night bus and waking up groggy in a new land is like a magician's trick that is too flashy to feel right.
Secondly, taking a bus breaks the normal flow of biking every day. While I acknowledge the power of properly timed breaks from the constant wear and tear of biking, busing removes the mental edge for a while by completely switching your focus. We are still traveling, but no longer do we need to do anything to get anywhere. This brings me to the final point, which is that we are not doing anything to deserve the free mileage, and so the progress made feels false. Biking is not at all an obsession with me, for I can easily take breaks from the daily grind without any feelings of guilt or the like. Nevertheless, I certainly derive a strong sense of pride at having conquered mountains, the elements, and whatever other challenges have come my way, all without succumbing to the forces that be or seeking the help of passing motorists. I know this is a necessary course of action at this point, but I can't help but reflect on the bruised pride that comes with throwing my bike in the boot of a bus and sleeping while I "see the world" 600 km at a time. This way of doing things, thankfully, is not in my future for long.

Peculiarly, I like the idea of taking a ferry to another land. Perhaps it is because the sea has always drawn me, or perchance due to the foreign medium that is the water, but I love hopping on a boat and watching the green ocean flow by in amazing frothy waves. Of course, it is infinitely more significant that we will be embarking on a journey across the Mediterranean Sea tomorrow, a treacherous and legendary sea that has claimed more lives than I can claim to have met. On the other side of that pond is Italia, the final country for Sean and I together (I would love some input on where to go after, by the way). Sean and I will be wearing our rain jackets aboard the ferry, for our powers will certainly manifest themselves at the worst time possible...

Madriding high

26.11.10


Madrid, Espana


T-1000, advanced prototype, liquid metal; living in Madrid


Well well well, I am now on the other side of my 23rd Thanksgiving and looking back. It is always a bit bittersweet to be reviewing an event you were fiercely anticipating, regarding it now as a memory instead of a heavily circled calendar date, heavy with so much promise. The good news, however, is that Sean and I will be celebrating the holiday twice more this weekend. I reckon there is at least one benefit to being out of the US for Thanksgiving, which would be the multitude of parties/dinners that expatriates throw on the only days they can: the weekend. Saturday and Sunday will be our unofficial Thanksgivings, complete with turkey, stuffing, and pies galore. Further, the camaraderie and general cheer is amplified by the fact that, for many of us, this is our first Thanksgiving on our own in a completely foreign place, and so we redouble our efforts to capture the magic that we took for granted back home. While finding a pigskin or sweet potato is rather difficult here, the gusto with which we search for them is phenomenal. As of this moment, all this is pure conjecture, for the first dinner is tomorrow night with Melissa Ward, Holly Vanderwal, and some other American/Spanish celebrants (how peculiar to have 4 LTHS grads


The changing landscape, the hunched-o'er-bike maneuver


celebrating Thanksgiving together 4-6 years post-graduation in Madrid?). What I anticipate is plenny o' good cheer, but what I fear is an overenthusiastic production in the form of painted smiles and a few too many sips of champagne (when have I ever had champagne for Thanksgiving?). I sit here today and wonder whether tomorrow will be genuine and delicious, or simply a stage for us exported Americans to allow our common foreignness and manufactured spirit-o'-th'-season to resonate to dangerous levels and bring about the destruction of a tradition we are trying to preserve. But mostly I'm wondering what will be on the table.

There is much to update and so very little time. Allow me to abbreviate the last week with a few of the finer points. We have discovered a website known as warmshowers.org, which provides hospitality to touring cyclists such as ourselves. So far, we have used it successfully four times: in Moustey and Bayonne, France; and in Elizando


Elizandoooo!!! A Basque Country fan favorite



and Guadalajara, Spain. These hosts have been some of the nicest and most accommodating people we have met, and they do it out of a keen interest in cycling and an appreciation for what we do, occasionally having a nice round-the-world trek under their belts. Although we at first rejected this way of meeting people, as we felt it was too artificial and relied on forced or staged kindness, we are beginning to realize that it is merely a way to meet those who share a common interest as we do.


Thumbs up for warmshowers! And the Pyrenees!


The going from Bayonne to Madrid was not what I was expecting, although hindsight tells me I should have seen it coming. I knew there would be mountains, and many of them, but I had no feel for the sheer magnitude of desolation in this Spanish countryside. Not only are the towns separated by dozens of kilometers, with some not



The changing landscape, changed once more



having any servicios, but along the road we have encountered fourscore or more destroyed or otherwise abandoned stone huts or houses with no obvious purpose. OK, this exists in America, too, no? But I have never seen American villages boasting a 50% decimated building rate, as we saw in Barahona the night we camped in the middle of town on the hill next to the church. That night, the wind was perfectly calm, and we heard not a single sound. Course, this was not half as unsettling as the previous night, where the town of Agreda put us up in la parrochia - a free room run by the church and set up for pilgrims or


Wild parties abound at Castle Hilltop


travelers - where we had to change multiple heavily bloodied sheets before sleeping (I got the bloody bed!). Why we did not get a picture of this was purely out of concern for the law.

Other highlights? I have never before received so many intense gawks and stares, at least not since I got that fifth arm removed. Spaniards are not at all afraid to let you know via gaze that they are dumbfounded or at least interested in what


Palacio de Algo/Here is a key



you are doing in their town. Also, cities are extremely painful to navigate, but we rode from Guadalajara to Madrid without a map, something we chalked up as a rip-roaring success. Finally, speaking Spanish has never been more relevant, which is a major road block in any learning program. I'd say put the kids in the middle of a market without any food or water and have them find their way into a van with no windows for the promise of a "sweet sweet." That'll teach 'em.

Hace frio

22/11/10

Gomara, Espana

It's oh so cold, and the wind is relentless. There are many mountains in this part of the world, and each of them makes its own weather. These mountains have seemed to have swallowed up all the internets. Please give them back, along with our warmth. Snow-capped mountains.

Thanksgiving in three days. We are riding to Madrid to enjoy a break with a friend. The food will suffer. Canned yams are universal, right?

Wish us luck as we cross another mountain pass today, which will be the fourth in as many days. Good gravy!

Over Yonder Mountaintops!

17/11/10


Biarritz, near Bayonne, France (30 km from the border)


Yesterday, we got our act together, seized the day, and put another 150 km of North behind us. It was glad to go, even gifting us with beautiful weather! The skies were clear, the sun was shining, and the wind was at bay, a rare and welcomed occurrence. What's even better is that the day began in a surreal, misty haze that chilled us despite our best attempts to stay warm. The fog hid the pines that have been surrounding us this side of Bordeaux so that we were flying through a white tunnel and into a far-off white wall. But the fog only hung around the ground leaving the tunnel ceilingless, and the blue skies we glimpsed told us we were in for a treat.

We caught our first glimpse of French ocean today (well, it's everyone's ocean, I hear). Sitting on a sandy ledge watching some magnificent waves crashing 100m ahead with the sun beating down on us is something I wish I could do every day. And if I lived in Southern France, I certainly could, from 13:30 till 15:30, as entire towns shut down for lunch during these vaguely defined hours. Let me explain: We had in our possession some muesli that we were craving hardcore. The only thing missing from the scene was, other than the Jack of Hearts, a nice jug o' lait, (aka Vitamin R Malk). The first town we passed through had four shops, including a chain supermarket, that would normally sell milk, but at 1pm it was all closed, with the shades drawn for good measure. The next two towns we visited had the same story, with some stores not opening until 4:30pm! The other striking characteristic of this part of the world is that the towns thrive on tourists that come during the summer to catch some rays and waves. November renders these towns deserted, with every other storefront, selling surfboards or renting bikes, being shut down for the season.
However, when we finally came to that last town in our search for milk, we understood the purpose of these prolonged lunch breaks as we sat with our feet in the sand watching the waves erode the beach. A combination of already having ridden 100km, feeling the sun on our faces, and watching a stray cat rub up against everything around told us that this was the right way to spend life, even if it was a "working" day.
The rest of the ride brought us at last to Bayonne, the last major French city before the border. Coming over a rise, we caught a glimpse of some mountains off in the distance, our first concrete sign that we would actually be in Spain the next day. After checking out the cathedral, we set about reaching a very nice woman's house who offered to put us up last night. Ah, but rush hour traffic had other ideas than us continuing the pleasant ride till the very end. Riding with cars is fine in general but becomes exponentially less fun as the amount of traffic and the percentage of commuters increases. But we made it and had a very relaxing night, thanks to Alex. But more on her and the program she is involved with soon. For now, we have a job to do, which involves crossing some mountains (I hope we don't make them cross...). Take care, and the best best best wishes to all!

Being Sean Gosewisch

11.11.10 (Happy Armistice Day, where all shops close in France)


Chaaambourd!



Civray, France


Lesson #1: Hurricanes never disappear; they merely rush on to Europe.
Lesson #2: Sunglasses are of no use in Central France during November.
Lesson #3: "Waterproof" means nothing.

As you can tell, we are simply having a ball riding through the most rural part of France during monsoon season. If it weren't for the nifty neoprene booties I purchased, my feet would not allow me to continue in this weather. Ah, but who doesn't like hours of riding at half speed into a driving wind that makes the rain feel like flechettes? That's right. I don't.

One other man who does not care for flechettes except for their appropriate and controlled use in certain combat situations would be Sean Gosewisch. I had the unique pleasure of getting to know the man behind the iron mask, as it were, in this exclusive CycloQuest-only interview. Check it out! For your health.

“An Interview with Sean Dylan Gosewisch: Directeur Extraordinaire”

Conducted by: Robert J. Kenney, Esq.

BK: Hello Sean. Or should I say: Bonjour?

SD: You probably shouldn't.

BK: Yes, very good. Let me begin by asking thee these questions trois: Vhat, is your name?

SD: Sir Goose to some.

BK: Vhat, is your quest?

SD: To Cycle to Rome!

BK: Vhat, would be an appropriate third question?

SD: Blue, no, wait... (Explosion, followed by a scuffle, followed by the sound of a single hand clapping)

BK: Now, let us begin in earnest. Sean, it has been said by many a passerby and acquaintance on “the road” that you have a certain “knack” for whistling. In fact, you are whistling right now. Why do you whistle? If you had a whistle, would you blow it constantly? How about a pink dog whistle?

SD: I whistle because it makes me forget my terrible childhood. But really just because it sounds better than my voice, and who doesn't like a well-known tune every now and then? Or constantly in my case. We both know it's only socially acceptable to blow whistles at demonstrations and sporting events. You don't remember buying me a pink dog whistle to mark our 2^nd month on the road together? I'm hurt.

BK: As well you should be, after eating all those razorblade cookies! On the subject of “Sound, Motion, and Aesthetics,” what song is in your head RIGHT NOW? Are there any songs that keep you going​? Any that make you yearn for home?

SD: Right now it's Journey's “Only the Young”; previously, it was “Hotel California” for days on end. I wouldn't say that there's a certain song or two to hum on those dark days – I don't really operate like that. Music does not have the power to motivate or demotivate me; it rather serves to make me reminisce. Oddly, music does have the power to make me think of home, that's funny in't it? Simon and Garfunkel tend to take me back home.

BK: So we've breached the topic of home. What do you miss most about that far-off place? Have any of our travels or experiences thus far reminded you of Illinois or your own home?

SD: I'm pretty sure I'm going through deep-dish and peanut butter withdrawals, and I miss the people I've left behind (making it sound like I'm never coming back). Having a home was nice. The occasional – and I stress “occasional” - flat farmland reminds me briefly of the old Ill, but I never really lose sight of where I am. I'll have plenty of time in Illinois. I try to enjoy this as much as possible: I'm making the most of a great

opportunity.

BK: Food: Everyone eats it, no one sings songs about it, and a few people use their straws to blow bubbles in their soup. What have been some of your favorite dishes we've sampled, creations we've made, desserts we've devoured, and (culinary) experiences we've had?

SD: That is one hell of a question. We've sampled so much it's hard to remember, and we still have 2 very food-friendly countries to go. It would be too early to make a definite call, but I dug the Irish stew, the English Toad in the Hole, the BK stir fry, roast duck and Bouchee a la Reine from France, and the damn good Belgian chocolate.

BK: And the damn good salty licorice?

SD: Ooh yeah, add that in! Groin grabbingly good! Dutch salty licorice and its sweet counterpart.

BK: A word on Fox's, s'il vous plais.

SD: Scrum-diddly-umptious. Seriously, the English have perfected their “Biscuits.”

BK: On three separate occasions, we have tried cheesecake in Ireland & England, and it sucked. What the hell?

SD: For whatever reason, they think cheesecake means “tasteless cream on soggy graham,” and that somehow passes with the masses. For shame, England and Ireland, stick with your cookies. Let the pros handle the cheesecake.

BK: If you could be any one cheese, which would you be & why?

SD: Hmm, I would have to say Amsterdam cheese. It was a pleasant surprise to find, and who doesn't like pleasant tasty surprises? Pleasant, tasty, creamy, yellow cheesy surprises are my favorite.

BK: Other than those involving billions of Euros, I'm sure. More importantly, if you could be any British lake sounding like a foghorn, which English lake sounding like a foghorn would you be & why?

SD: There can only be one... BLAGDOOON!

BK: Speaking of Non-Mainland Europe, can you briefly describe the fateful Ring of Kerry crash? How much fear was in my scream, 1-10?

SD: Everyone can see the pictures, no one can replay the events over and over again in their nightmares, NO ONE. But it was god-awful from my perspective. Hearing that terrified and somewhat angry yell (a 10 on your scale), looking back and seeing you tumble over your 3 pieces of bike and hit the pavement hard... it was scary for me, too, just a little less painful. I was very relieved to see you get up quickly.

BK: Yeah, my bounce-up-and-continue-moving-forward reflex kicked in immediately. By now, we've seen a fair bit of Europe: Ireland, Northern Ireland, Wales, England, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and France. Which country boasts the best scenery? Which the friendliest folk? Which the crappiest weather? And which the prettiest women?

SD: The best scenery thus far has to go to Ireland, Luxembourg, and bits of France. Ireland easily has the friendliest. Not that people in the others are dicks or anything. Ireland just has an over-abundance of welcoming folk. Each country has all had their bright sunny days and the dark stormy rains, and winter/late fall isn't the best benchmarker. The prettiest women? Well, some countries have a lot more to choose from... and better genes... and they picked up on braces... and hygiene. Toothbrushes help, ladies.

BK: Is “Leffe” synonymous with “drink of the gods” or “God of the drinks?”

SD: If you've tried Leffe, then you don't need me to explain it. If you haven't tried it, I still won't explain it. Just go try it.

BK: On the subject of beer, how do you feel about the switch from multiple pubs in every town to multiple bakeries? (Church is a constant.)

SD: I like having bakeries on every corner more than pubs, mostly because it's easier to eat a ton of bread and bike than down a few (dozen) and head on out. But the pubs had their charm, and the bakeries their delicious goodness. Somewhere there must be a happy middle with pubs and bakeries. I could live in that place.

BK: I noticed you were growing out a little something-something there on your face. Hobovember?

SD: I'm going for the Gillespie Look. I think I have about 10 years to go.

BK: Few can master that technique. Now, a toughie: of all the friends we've made, which have been the most meaningful and which the most enjoyable?

SD: Wow, that's incredibly tough to answer. We've met so many people, and been taken in by the kindest and most generous folks this hard world has to offer. I honestly cannot choose one person or family over the other. From planned stops with people we know, to the strangers and saviors that take in two ragged and weary lads, we have many to tank and none to forget. They were all enjoyable, and they've easily made this trip for me. If they read this, I want to say thank you again; your kindness shall not be forgotten but rather passed on.

BK: Truer words ne'er been spake. Just a passing thought: Have you ever ballroom danced to an Irish folk song with another man of the same gender? Why did you not later “Rock the Boat?”

SD: Funny you should ask, I was just telling a random stranger how one night in Ireland, a little town called Listowel, I suddenly found myself without a partner for a song. What's a lad to do when everyone else is twirling around, and there's narry a lass to be seen? Why, you throw social acceptability into the wind and link arms with the nearest man, who happened to have the same idea and also happened to be the owner of a certain blog. And I didn't rock the boat because that would have been a little too homoerotic for this long fellow.

BK: Who is Mark Gewurtz?

SD: I have yet to figure that out, but he makes one hell of a dessert. I'd like to thank him the next time he comes and eats Kougelhopf with me.

Loire Valley: The Cradle of the French Language

6/11/10

Orleans, France


At Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris; look closely



Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter... As it has done all day, the rain continues to fall outside (and, due to a rather major leak in the ceiling, which appeared to be merely a skylight that was wide open, inside as well) the hostel in which we have holed up for the night. What followed our arrival to the city of Orleans was little more than a fiasco of lodging in a deluge of precipitation followed by the fine art of using an entire dorm room for drying out clothing, bags, tents, and shoes. But to tell the story of today, I should back up a bit.

We awoke early but, as it turns out, not early enough, at 07:30, which is right around sunrise in these here parts. It takes us almost an hour and a half to get on the road following Sean's watch alarm, depending on what type of breakfast we have for ourselves. With the skies darkening dangerously around 17:30, that gives us 8.5 hours of riding/eating/resting time to eventually reach our destination. With an average riding speed of 25 km/h (this is to make the calculation easy; with hills and wind, which seems to be blowing steadily out of the south in this part of France, the actual average is a bit less), we have a possible range of ~200 km, assuming we do not eat or rest. For reference, we rode 147 km today and dedicated a little more than an hour to getting lost, seeing the Chartres Cathedral, snacking on bread and cheese, and keeping dry. As you can see, we are mainly limited by the amount of daylight as opposed to our energy or will to continue; this is a painful and pressing fact, one that we are running into quite a bit.

Getting back to the day's events, after we took off, we found ourselves in what I believe might be my favorite setting: in a forest with trees already turned fall colors and under a gray sky. Even better is that after we passed through the woods, we encountered half a dozen tiny, ancient villages that retained their stone walls from the days of yore. I wonder how many "outsiders" have been on these roads, as they are in the middle of nowhere, far from the major highways, and do not lead to any particularly interesting places. These facts made our stumbling find all the more exciting and profound and heightened the authenticity in my eyes. In some of the towns, we found ourselves riding alongside a 3 meter high stone wall for the entire length of the town, passing houses made from the same old, mossy stones. Nothing like this exists in America.


Do the French love the Bulls or just DRose?


Throughout the remainder of our ride, we fought the good fight of staying warm and staying dry while the elements had other plans for us, spraying us with mist and rain and blasting us with a constant, fierce headwind. However, our one blessing of the day was the flatness of the land. The fields stretched on for miles devoid of hills, highly reminiscent of any area in the Midwest. It was eerie to be riding on a small country road where the view is limited by the mist and the only thing in sight is farmland; for a second, I thought I was riding home from Indiana (as I am wont to do).

We did pass a number of hunting parties and heard some unsettling though far-off gunshots. I'm not quite sure what they were hunting, but birds and deer alike were seen fleeing these groups en masse. A bit further down the road, an army of windmills materialized out of the mist, spinning with


Say, that's a nice bike.



conviction but also much more silently than those we encountered east of Paris. The only other notable occurrence, other than a signpost that was off by 15 km (this all but crushed our spirits), was the four cars that gave us a (friendly?) double-honk and wave. As this is the first outright sign of encouragement from motorists, this area of France must be very pro-velo. Well the better for us!

Finally, following a full 125 km, we arrived in Orleans, looking for a place to eat and rest our dogs. Ah, but things are never easy, are they? The tourist office was closed but conveniently had some pamphlets outside for our perusal, one of which contained a single auberge de jeunesse. Although it was not in the city center, it claimed to be "15 minutes south." Being on bikes, we thought it was no problema, we'd be there in ten at the most. At this point, it began to rain. We should have seen this as a warning from God or at least an unfortunate coincidence and perhaps sought other lodgings for the night, but we were determined to get some bang for our buck by staying in a hostel. The map we picked up made it seem like an easy and short enough ride, but tourist maps, in my experience, are never to scale (they always draw large, colorful buildings and giant families stomping all around the city). Furthermore, the only road listed exiting the city was a good ol' motorway, which would have been disastrous if not for the bike path running alongside it but hidden from view and devoid of any signage. Again, we figured that the path would be a simple, short stretch to the University and its hostel, but, again, we were entirely wrong. (Another entry, I'll touch on our favorite realization: Everything is another thing's polar opposite). Finding the hostel - in the pouring rain, mind you - added on another 10 km, and getting to a grocery store an extra 5 km, bringing today's total to 147 km. But we're alive and dry! And tomorrow should be an easy, short ride into Blois...

From Paris, with Louvre

1/11/10


Paris


Dear dedicated reader,

Greetings from Paris! Comment allez vous? I heard there was a terrible windstorm back home; please let me know that all the cows are alright. Say hello to Bessie for me, but don't linger - she's a real talker, that one! She'll talk your ears numb if you let her.

In the coming days, I'll be sending out a few tasty morsels (or morels, if you prefer les champignons) for your literary digestion, which are as follows: a recap of what we will have seen, done, eaten, and sipped in Paris; a recap of the trip's beginning, the beautiful and wet Emerald Isle; and a very special interview with one long fella (as Colm would say) - that is, of course, Sean.

So if Bessie or her made-of-honor maid of honor asks (never told a lie, she hain't), let them know that we have reached Paris intact following a series of successful but challenging rides that brought us through the scenic and hilly vineyards of Champagne and that we plan to rest here for a few days, taking in the sights and sounds of the City of Lights (or was it blights? mites? e-vites?).

Remain in light,
Bobby

Metz, in conclusion: What a riot!

30/10/10


Reims, France


Another day, another dollar, eh Donnigan? That's right, though we should really convert to the Euro, all things considered. Speaking of things, Sean and I have made some progress in our inexorable march southward. Alright, most of this last part has been due west, but you've got to spend money to have spent money. What does all this mumbo jambalaya mean, precisely? Well listen up and hear the tale (of murder and mys-ter-y)...

Our final day in Metz did not disappoint, and following our trip to the local bike shop (brakes have that name for a reason) we followed an angry mob out to the train station for some good old fashioned French demonstrating. OK, the protesters could hardly be called a mob, and they were far from angry. Most of them were between 40 and 60 and each of them carried either a flag or a beer. The atmosphere thus was one of a party or social gathering more than a down-with-the-government let's-start-breaking-windows attitude. But I'll give them this: the French know how to fit explosions into peaceful demonstrations. A man with a gas can concealing a bit of gunpowder would light the thing off every five minutes. At first, yes, this was quite startling; but after seven or eight BOOM!s, I was just annoyed. Just plain annoyed. But what was a lad to do? So I stepped back in line and started singing along to the lady with the megaphone, periodically raising my fist in feigned anger/angst (angster). The highlights of this march included: one trip to the post office, where everything has seemingly become automated (except for the man whose job is to explain the electronic process);




Ah, Sarko, you penis face you...





a group of badly dressed teenagers who shouted in unison about how terrible the government was, all the while looking around with the most sheepish of grins on their faces; one stop in the fromagerie, where we secured some fromage chevre and some tomme de savoie (with a rind that is straight, pure mold); a walk past the group of the march directly responsible for lighting flares and then throwing their half-finished remains in the streets, kicking them once for good measure (I'm sure they were qualified); and finally, a rally at the end of the march where one man spoke over a loudspeaker, but I couldn't see him due to some badly placed poles, and the crowd continued its socializing throughout.

But at least they try! At least this gives the aura of direct democracy.

One last night with Mark in Metz, watching some more bad cinema, eating some additional tonnes of pasta and chocolate, and then we took off the next morn after a big breakfast of Sean's handcrafted French toast. Getting out of Metz wasn't too tricky, but the unexpected climb caught us off guard a bit, as did the pristine weather (finally getting to the double digits and showering us with UV rays!). At least that steep rise brought about that unique feeling that we were on top of the world. The landscape of this part of France includes vast stretches of green farm fields that stretch on for miles. It would resemble New York, but the hills do not have that rolling component; it would remind me of North Dakota save the civilization and the climbs we encountered. I enjoyed the scenery, though, especially on such a beautiful day.

Unfortunately, all was not well in the Body Compartment. You see, the previous five days went something like this: 3 mile run, getting calves sore as always; 100 mile ride; rest; 100 mile ride; rest. This much work with such little rest (really, I could have done without the run) led to my right calve becoming extremely sore to the point of being in great pain. The intensity of the rides to Strasbourg must have taken their toll on my legs and caused a strain or some other sort of overuse injury. We had to cut the ride short and set up camp in a field just outside of Verdun due to the trouble I was having in keeping the pain down.

That night, we slept for ten hours, which is quite normal when we're camping out and the sun takes about 14 hours to complete its journey around the other side of the Earth. It wasn't the best of sleeps due to the constant noise of the giant windmills across the way (those things are fairly noisy, if you have never actually met a windmill; also very amicable entities, they are). One of the most certain methods for producing that terrible sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach is to awake in a tent just as the rain begins; not before and not after, but simultaneously, as though on command. Luckily, the rain abated long enough for us to take the tent down and pack up to leave, but unfortunately, the rain was not over today, not by a long shot. Furthermore, the calve pain, which I feel at the very top of the gastroc and almost at the back of the knee, spread to the left calve in the exact same location. Ay de mi Alhama! Needless to say, considering the rain and the pain, today's ride was unpleasant and arduous. As Sean pointed out, it would have been a very scenic route if not for the gray skies and constant precipitation. But you roll with the punches and smile in spite of it all, I reckon.

One aspect we neglected today was proper nutrition, which caused us to bonk a mere 15 kilometers from our eventual destination of Reims. Ah, and this is where the traffic naturally picks up, creating a potentially dangerous situation. But a quick shot of honey and a few minutes to steady the old hands and legs did us a load of good, and we eventually made it to Reims. After checking into the hostel, we checked out the city center, which boasts a huge pedestrian street lined with shops, bakeries, and... frozen food grocery stores? That's right, folks: Sean and I encountered our first (and, I hope, last) 100% frozen food grocer. When all you want is some meat and cheese, this is your sworn enemy. Beware. But following this pointless detour, we stumbled upon the cathedral, which boasts chandeliers inside and some sick stained glass, the likes of which I have never before seen. It's a shame that the pictures can't capture the intensity of the red, yellow, and deep blue shards arranged geometrically to maximize beauty. It's also a shame there was scaffolding on the outside of this cathedral. Europe is the #1 bigdog for scaffolding and scaffolding products (#4 in scaffolders, though, which are 2-pocket folders with pictures of scaffolding on them).

As the clock ticks away to midnight (it's very loud), Sean and I are preparing for bed, a complimentary petite dejaunee, and a bit shorter of a ride tomorrow. Ah, I'm not sure how well I'll be able to sleep with this lump of food in my belly - this delicious, delicious food (what food, you ask? beef/broc/mushroom stir fry, quinoa/grain medley, morbier cheese & complete wheat bread, pumpkin soup, and some Leffe beer... do try Leffe - it is wonderful). Next time, if all goes as planned, I shall be reporting from Paris, a mere 160 km distant (but two full days of riding, I'm sure). Until then, keep the eyes, ears, and mind open and pointed to the distant shores!

Merci pour la pomme!

27/10/10

Metz/Strasbourg, France



Did someone order a German Influenceburgher?



I just rode in from Strasbourg, and boy are my legs tired! But the perfect weather today and the picturesque towns we passed through made the hundred mile journey a pleasure and sincere sensation. Anyone who has ever ridden a bike for a length of time knows that wind is the single worst enemy of a pleasant ride. Better put, it makes or breaks the ride, for a stiff wind in the correct direction is worth its weight in gold (dare you seek to hold the wind?) for a man on a mission (from God, no less). Today's ride benefited from a limp flag at the beginning of the day and a gentle tailwind as we approached Metz. These pristine conditions put me in a sing-song mood that did not abate as the ride wore on. Around the halfway point, after having climbed a moderate hill, we stopped to shed a layer and snap a few photos. As we did not expect anything special atop the hill, we were doubly astonished by our amazement at the nothing we found. Guh? I'm serious: Nothing is extremely jarring when it makes you realize you are constantly being bombarded by something. What we experienced was true, profound, and deafening silence - Paul Simon knows what's up. Being out in the middle of vast grassy farmland, no cars could disturb the air; traveling on a calm day, no wind could blow past the ears. The mooing that issued from the cows every ten seconds was muffled by the stillness in an eerie manner, only peculiar because of the constant noise to which we are subjected. Otherwise, the all-consuming silence was quite comforting, promising security and removing all cares.



Ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard



What brought us to these silent fields of plenty in the first place? Strasbourg, where my cousin-in-law Sarah is living at the moment, is a mere 100 miles SE of Metz, some 5 km from the German border. We trekked the full distance on Monday, stumbling upon some of the most picturesque mountain villages in the process. Ah, but a stiff wind hampered our progress, causing us to arrive thirty minutes late and miss Sarah by ten minutes. Luckily, she wandered back a bit worried to the only place we knew to wait for her, so that night we dined on some traditional Alsace fare. This entails white wine, tarte flambee (a paper-thin pizza-like dough with cheese and onions), Baeckeoffe (lamb, pigs knuckle, and pork roasted with potatoes and carrots), and some kugelhopf for dessert. Very good eatin', to say the least.


The following day, Sean and I checked out the Strasbourg cathedral, which rises some 142 meters above the cobblestone square. The inside is currently covered in scaffolding and thus is far inferior to the imposing, almost scary, exterior. At night, we met up again with Sarah after she got off work and toured the EU buildings in Strasbourg. While this was quite a pleasant stroll, it pales in comparison with what was to follow. We chose a nice cafe to eat some dinner and were greeted by a friendly jokester of a waiter who pointed out the fact that we were carting around a bunch of apples. Sarah seemed to be quite smitten with the fella, for he was a French charmer who won all our favor. We had such a delightful time at dinner with each other, with Sean's Leffe bier, and with the waiter's good humor, that we decided to leave him with a special tip. Yes, we gave him one of our apples. Now, this would have been enough of a gas if we had the laugh and left, but we happened to backtrack past the cafe just as the waiter was clearing off our table. He saw the apple, looked out for us and noticed us across the way, grabbed the fruit and leapt out the door, proclaiming to the world, "Merci pour la pomme!" A perfect ending to a perfect meal.


To finish the night, we headed to a bar, had a drink, and sang along to the Billy Joel/Sir Elton John playlist Sarah had with her (alright, Sean and Sarah did the singing; I did the documenting) before moving onto the Beatles and then calling it a night. Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway in earnest), seeing Sarah brought us great joy and giddy happiness. Although the lodging was fairly expensive and the roundtrip was a steep 200 miles, the trek to Strasbourg was well worth every Euro-kilometer.


Cadillac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac-ac!







Oh, and basketball seems to be starting up again, at least according to this European newspaper. Nothing against Joakim, but I'm not sure he's yet at the level of LeBron, Kobe, and Tony Parker. I wonder if his French descent has anything to do with his inclusion here...

Let the games begin! And I wish I could have seen the Celtics/Heat game yesterday; anyone watch it?