October Snow, French Connection

22.10.10

Metz, France

The past 24 hours has produced two valuable lessons for the remainder of the trip:
1) A heavy frost makes tents, sleeping bags, and all it touches very wet. The wetness quickly freezes, rendering a heavy frost essentially a dew from Hell
2) French people are very kind to Americans who cycle across Europe and make a deliberate effort to speak French

Last night, following dinner, we got our wish for the rain to stop, as the night sky was perfectly cloudless and the near-full moon was rising silently over the treetops (anyone else see that moon? I'm sure you did, and so we saw the same sight, separated by a mere seven or eight hours). Finishing our tasks and pining for sleep, we stepped out into a silvery night made so by the thin layer of frost that had already settled over all the land. Climbing into the tent, we first had to shake off chunks of ice and work loose the zipper from the grip of a sudden freeze. We knew it would be cold; we knew it but we were determined to beat the cold into submission using our layered clothing and hyper-synthetic sleeping bags. When we awoke at 06:30, we finally admitted we were a bit chilled and went inside the camping shelter. It is amazing what vivid and turbulent dreams manage to come through the foggy haze of a frozen night. Better is the overwelming amount of interest and support we received the following morning from fellow campers who spent the night warm and cozy in their heated campers, emerging only to waddle out to a hot shower in their bathrobes and fuzzy slippers. It seems that people familiar with the elements and challenges of nature respect what we are doing a great deal more than even we do. Perhaps their understanding of the power of nature and its unforgiving attitude is all that stands between them and cycling everywhere they should please. We lack this intimate connection, but it is developing by way of these invaluable experiences.

Around noon, after completing several successive cycles of warm-cold-freezing-burning-warm while riding in sub-zero temps (shout out to all you Celcius fans out there), we stopped in a quaint cafe in the center of a French town for a cup of hot cocoa. The proprietor openly invited us to eat any food we had brought along, which we of course had (baguette et fromage de morbier). They, too, expressed a great deal of interest in our travels following our meal and gave us solid encouragement in the form of joyful laughs, hearty grins, and eager nods of the head. When I arose to pay the bill for our two mini hot cocoas, the lady refused our money, saying that the owner, seated next to us, supported our cause and was treating us to a warm break from the cold. With many a "merci! merci" we rode off into the hazy chill of northeastern France. Within minutes, we felt the first snowflakes of the year landing on our faces and wrists, the only two exposed spots on our bodies. But we were warmed by an inner fire, one that fed off the wild, improbable, yet wholly natural - near to the point of being supernatural - beauty of what we had just experienced, overjoyed to be breathing and laughing and singing in the frigid crispness!