I am in Rabat now & uploaded photos I took whilst in Spain. Read more for my collection of photos from Spain!

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It was nice for a while, zero traffic since the last “road closed” sign; the quiet rural hills of Olive Country Spain warming me up after another freezing cold morning camping. And I was due to arrive in Granada by mid day, where there’s a shower and a house and a bunch of people to meet! Oh luxury, oh what surprises await?

Construction site. Wow. They, uh… they really mean business…. There was no road, only a labyrinth of huge puddles and muddy tractor ruts, winding out of view where the road used to be. Certainly traversible, especially since it was deserted – I guess it was too wet to build a road out there – but very wet, and very expansive. Well, no choice but to carry on.

I was able to actually ride for a little ways, crawling along choosing the sturdiest-looking tracks, but then I got off and started pushing; the bike was taking a beating and navigation was getting treacherous. I picked my way along, the mud starting to cake onto my tires and brakes, binding up under the rack platforms. Then I was going around a huge murky water-hole, formed by an actual stream running through the construction site, crossing a raised-up little plot that seemed more sturdy that the rest, when the front end started sinking in the mud. Before I knew it it was six inches deep, and I realized I was facing what amounted to a raised-up little mud hole. Let´s call it quicksand, because that´s how it was – I stepped forward to extract the front wheel, and sank up to my ankle myself… trying to lift the front end, I sank up to my calf. Trying to remove my buried foot from the suction effect, my other leg sank up to the knee, gripped in this sticky thick slop. I had to push up off the bike just to get my own legs free of the stuff, which of course left her sunken even deeper, now up to the bottom of the panniers. It took a moment for me to fully realize the situation I was in… I was stuck. There would be no pulling the bike out like this… maybe if I had a boat or a big door to stand on or something, but when I tried to stack rocks(the only thing I really had to work with) next to the bike, as a sort of platform, the whole pile just sank into the mire. That’s when I noticed everything was continuing to sink, every minute I delayed. Slowly but persistently, the mud was swallowing my bike.

Critical mode… I gave up trying to keep things clean or dry, resigned to being covered in mud up to my knees and into my boots and splattered on my face, and set to saving my rig. I piled even more rocks into the mud, which were just enough to keep my own body from getting trapped while I removed all the bags and panniers. Several trips to dry land schlepping all the gear through the mud warmed me up, enough even to remove my jacket in the crisp January air. I finally freed the bike itself and looked it over with dismay – it’s just mud, but how can it be so pervasive?!? It started to dawn on me that having huge chunks of gritty wet mud, like glue, between the cogs on my cassette, smearing the braking surface of my rims, or smothering the pivots on my derailleur, could be pretty bad. I had to clean the bike, not for aesthetic reasons, but to prevent accelerated wear on the poor components. I actually was wishing for a car wash… but there was nothing out there but olive fields and more mud; no hose, no pressure washer, nada. Except, there was that murky stream, and I thought it could be pretty damaging even just to ride ten kilometers with all that mud, so I sat down and tried my best. But it was nasty stuff, this mud, sticking to my cleaning stick in comically large chunks,  dense, so much like clay that the icy winter water I splashed around just moistened the surface…

It was a good hour and a half delay, all told, including a little nap afterwards on a dry spot in the middle of the endless construction site. A minivan arrived on the other side of the mud-trap and yelled across to me, asking if there was a way through; they had to turn around. Well, yeah, I made it through on a bike, but just barely!

]]> http://bicycle4earth.org/2010/02/recent-mud/feed/ 2 http://bicycle4earth.org/2009/12/boots-of-spanish-leather/ http://bicycle4earth.org/2009/12/boots-of-spanish-leather/#comments Tue, 01 Dec 2009 15:19:15 +0000 charlie http://bicycle4earth.org/?p=115 The trip started around the corner from my friend Lena’s squat, at the public library. It was one of the few times in Catalunya I sensed animosity for speaking in Castellano(regular Spanish)

– this anciano behind the desk didn’t humor me at all, and I only caught little snippets of his directions in Catalan. I think it’s great that the language – and hence the culture – is still alive, don’t get me wrong, but to my ear, it sounds like a mutant Italian-Spanish biogenetic tongue experiment, failed, aborted, and carved out of the mouth. Thankfully he drew the route on my map.
Once out of Valldoreix village it was up to me, though. I explored a gravel forest track over a huge hill(a bit taxing on day one), found my way out the other side onto the farm road, into another village(from the back where they don’t post road signs), and finally onto the N-340 to Vilafranca del Penedés.
The elevation started rising, interrupted by short descents to let me know I was still climbing. The hills were one thing – the word “Sierra” was written all over my maps – but I can handle mountains. Just put it in low gear and push on over; besides, what goes up must come down. But that wind! The wind was the first thing, the worst thing. For five days I dodged tumbleweeds and gusts; five days of headwind, five days of wind in my face, filling my cheeks and drying my eyeballs, robbing me of downhills and turning climbs into nightmares, never letting up…. After five days I learned: this wind has a name. El Cierzo, with a capital C, cruel Eastward product of Iberian weather patterns. Ugh. The only thing going in my direction were the wind turbines. I had to cackle like a crazy person when I saw the newspaper celebrating the first time ever in Spain that ecological energy beat out the rest, for five hours on a Sunday morning. Yeah I remember that Sunday morning, it was hell….
Besides that, it was freakin’ cold (my air mattress has a half-hour leak and I left my winter hat and scarf back in Croatian summer), but it was nothing compared to last winter in Scotland; and I am from Wisconsin, after all.
I took my refuge in cafe-bars and behind boulder ridges, drinking café con leche and peeling mandarins. I sold my first drawing ever, for the price of my coffee, in a freak colored-pencil accident — they saw me taking a thistle sketch and mistook me for an artist. Once I was treated to piping hot bean stew and home-made wine that left a smile on my face even in the cold November drizzle. Once I begged an old man for the sanctuary of a straw-strewn sheep corral, and penned a letter by the light of a vine-wood fire. Several times I was shunned by timid villagers with a “Not here, keep going” or a “Get out of my town” but I found the public library anyway. Every day my Spanish improved, every day I got a little closer to Madrid. And always, as always, the adventure grew inside.

Eventually the wind calmed down and the mountains were replaced by hills; I had reached the high plateau of Castilla la Mancha, Don Quixote’s celestial stomping grounds. For the last week or so all I had to really worry about were frozen toes, internet access, and the worsening condition of my valiant steed….
It was the tires, mostly, though the fork threads had actually all stripped and my front rack was tied on with a baling-twine tournequet…. Okay, that could’ve been a disaster, but I’ve got enough tricks up my sleeve to keep fifteen kilos afloat for six days, so no, really it was mostly the tires.

The front tire, to be precise.

Leaving Madison with this tire was almost an ancestral memory. Long ago, it was already old. Rubber riding surface was a luxury of the past, disintegrated into a ragged missing strip; for months I had been riding on the kevlar alone. The puncture resistance was certainly suffering, and with inreasing frequency I had to resuscitate, stitching a sidewall hole, reapplying duct tape to rusty exposed bead edges, or installing emergency “boots,” as they’re called: a temporary layer of material under an exacerbated wound in the tire, to keep the inner tube from bulging out and exploding.

This tire worried my father, all the way in Wisconsin; it caused friction on the road with Lily; it caused innumerable flats and required thousands of strokes with my old Roadie pump. People cringed when they saw it, mechanics refused to fully pressurize it. But I wasn’t worried about its condition — I had developed an intimate trust in it. What I was worried about was giving it the respect it deserved; allowing the story to write itself naturally. Like lovers, we had carried each other, through so much, so very far. I wasn’t ready to let go. Her grave was waiting in Madrid, i to je to.

It was a close one.

At least once a day, there was a problem with the tire; constantly I was forced to apply ingenuity, not to mention patches, just to keep going. About three hundred kilometers from Madrid, I started to sense the climax of this story surrounding me. My hi-pressure frame pump had given up the ghost a few days earlier and I was on to using the leaky back-up pump. For the first time I began to wonder what in the world I would do if I couldn’t bring her back to life; not a comfortable thought, especially when I refuse to use motor vehicles.
The pressure of the situation gradually coalesced to a single point: two of the larger holes in the riding surface, right next to each other, finally joined together with one sharp *POP*

Boots of plastic, paper, and cardboard, rubber boots of folded inner tube and craft swatches, layered boots of duct tape and rim tape — they had all become insufficient, even in combination stacks. I sat there in the orange dust of the Castilla scrub, searching through various bags and repair kits, assembling all my options for the repair. Nothing seemed tough enough to hold the tube inside the tire for more than a few kilometers of heavily-loaded road wear. I sat calmly with that particular uncertainty, breathing back pushy wisps of potential disaster, and meanwhile installed my biggest patch over the ragged thumb-sized hole in the tube.
Then I remembered: back in Caminreal, I had found a ripped leather wallet while looking in a dumpster for useful goodies! Relief! There’s a cosmic reason for everything, it’s all connected, and now this wallet’s destiny was revealed. With a giggle, thinking of Bob Dylan’s song, I set to work fashioning a pair of boots for my front tire; a double layer to take me to my destination.

Serendipity lasted, happily pedalling in tune with “Spanish boots of … Spaaaanish leather” — but only for about fifty kilometers. Unfortunately, it turns out leather isn’t the best material to withstand extended use either. No wonder they don’t make tires out of leather….

Before another dangerous blowout could occur, I set aside all cute notions of universal harmony and buckled down to hard practical truth. If I didn’t find a working solution, I wouldn’t even make it to Madrid, i to je to.
The real fix was easy to find, a common sight on the shoulders of highways world-wide: car tire. What else? I installed a scrap of busted semi-truck rubber in there – now this is definitely made to withstand road wear. It was so thick I had to sew it in place with needle and thread, and for the remainder of the trip it transmitted a disconcerting thump-thump-thump-thump through the whole rig, but it worked.

I made it to Madrid.

Seven months later than I had “planned,” back in Paris, but I’m here.

Y estoy muy bien colocado aquí con Ricarda y amigos, me han dado mi proprio cuarto, cenas fabulosas, todo apoyo y buen rollo VENGA

My bags are empty, my gear spread to every corner of my room. I’ve been holed up working on Priority One – African visas – but I’ve had a chance to get out into the bike scene here in Madtown-Madrid, and in between… well, I’ve been busy enough! I’ll just copy the huge to-do list I wrote on the back of my map — last chance in Europe….

[some items have been crossed off - NOV 30]

maps to Marruecos
package home
Ciclos Delicias – job?!?
bici crítica THU NOV 26
contact Spanish press – parasaber.com
visit internet friends
bake bread
photo CD
Leukemia & Lymphoma Society
www.bicycle4earth.org – organize & familiarize
tires -video
-photos
-souvenir
-decoration for bike
art booklet
Walden quotes
translate newspaper articles – Croatia, Italy
Hrvatski sentences
scan newspaper articles
Skype
sharpen blades
update email list
collect world MP3s – email requests
organize Zen player
share music
craft origami book
make waterbottle netting
make flag
stove?
LETTER REPLIES

WRITING
travelogues
article
letters

VISAS
Couchsurfing invites / info – fax?
embassy – info(free) meeting possible?
APPT – Algeria
haircut / beard trim
sailboat — Maroc
schools — Arabé

invitations
school programs
L&L?
news articles
bank statement
travel insurance policy
immunizations
passport
original documents?

BIKE
f. rack solution – reform rack?
spare brackets prepared w/bolts
install tires w/ new tubes
true wheels
chain
HB tape – crisscross?
hubs?
decorations
FRAME =(

pulley wheels
bottle cage
brakes
brake levers
full cables
seatpost collar
HB bag

OTHER REPAIRS
pants
hoodie
panniers -patch holes
-bike earth patch
-wash rainflies
mattress
tent -mosquito net patch
-rainfly

GET
Dutch Sampson patch kit box
bicycle earth flag
back-up pump
metric bolts
bike chain
inner tubes
water bottles
HB tape – black
post cards
bota del país basque
boxer shorts

cork for weird little bottle
purple fabric for pants
beer cardboard for dictionary cover

Thanks to Ricarda, Manuel, and Nico for holding my mail for so long and for putting me up so nicely; thanks to everyone who sent me mail — it really helps! And thanks to you all for reading! More writings en camino!

Amor y Gozo, Love and Joy,

Charles Brigham
old website where my caveman brain can figure out how to upload photos : http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/worldtour07
videos : http://www.youtube.com/user/worldbiketour07

All these foreign places that I had only heard about, and never experienced, during my progressive, yet sheltered, upbringing in Madison – I never felt as though I had a right to share in conversations about them; any opinion I formed would doubtless be wrong, in large part or small. I have always believed in giving the benefit of the doubt – it is the basis of a non-judgemental attitude – and I try never to form opinions based solely on the words or opinions of others. One truth is elusive enough. But at least I can always trust my own personal experiences. So if I could see these places with my own eyes… if I could ride the roads, meet the people, eat the food, experience the troubles and the joys, even for a short time, well then, I would have something to say. Simple. See the world, travel, have adventures. “But why a bike?” is a common question. Don’t ask, ’cause I don’t really know. Maybe it’s too many hours sitting in an uncomfortable car, maybe it’s just a gargantuan Atlas-scoped respect for the simplicity of bicycles, maybe it’s the freedom that comes with bike touring, maybe the ecological impact of driving and flying, maybe the breakneck time-is-money convenience of car culture illness… maybe it’s even just because it’s so much cheaper to travel by bike. Whatever the reason, I always knew it would be by bike. I didn’t think, “Now how am I going to travel the world?” I didn’t start looking for cheap train tickets and flights. I thought, “Now where am I going to ride my bike?” and decided to aim as high as I could – the World. So I left, and my only real plan was to pedal around the world, back to where I started. When I reached the ocean, this plan changed to pedal and sail around the world, back to where I started. And at some point, I started really thinking about what I was doing… riding a bike all the way around the world…. To me it was simple. Natural. “But isn’t this the type of thing that people do to raise money for cancer research?” I’ve never been much of an activist, but this bike tour has a lot more potential than a simple vision quest and epic adventure for personal reasons. Sure, I believe that the best way to make the world a better place is to make yourself a better person – if I elevate myself, my own understanding and values, then everyone around me becomes elevated as well. But even this wasn’t enough – it wasn’t proactive enough, it was happening every day just by pedalling to new places. I started to feel like I was being selfish; that I could, and should, be doing more. So what then? I could pick a charity out of a hat, but if my soul wasn’t in it, it just wouldn’t feel right. I have to really care about whichever cause I put myself behind. “So what do I care about?” I asked myself. There’s leukemia, which has affected my life more than I’d care to admit, and that one might still be on the horizon. But the first thing that came to mind, without any searching or brainstorming, was alternative methods of transportation. Obviously. But how do you ride for alternative methods of transportation? Is there a society set up for it? Okay, yeah, there are probably dozens of organizations and companies making efforts around the world that I could help. But I’ve never raised any funds, I don’t know how to do it. And do I even need to? Since when is money the point, anyway? What is needed isn’t more money for bikes or facilities or whatever – what is needed, in our society of technological convenience, is awareness. Many people just don’t realize what they’re doing, because their way of life has become the norm. That generation that didn’t used to drive cars, the generation that watched the frightening auto-future envelop the world during the industrial revolution, the generation that remembered a simpler time – it’s as if that generation is no more. Nowadays, people know only that cars are everywhere, and to most, it might as well have always been this way. But in fact this monstrosity is extremely recent; so recent that it’s doubtful that even the brightest scientific minds have predicted all the ramifications. And forget the unknown future – there are many proven consequences that even non-scientific minds already know about. Yet society continues shading its eyes, chugging along, sucking the oil from the earth and turning it against the skies. I realized that I already was riding for alternative transport, just by being seen on the highway. I was already leading by example, following Gandhi’s “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Even if one person out of a hundred sees me riding on that shoulder and says, “Why is he doing that?” I am making a difference. But I can do more – I can reach more people, open more eyes than just those that see me directly. I decided to contact the press. “I’m Charlie and I am riding my bike around the world – is that newsworthy to you? Oh, it is? Sure, I can meet your reporter…” That’s how it started. It created a conflict within me. My modesty battled with this new power. I don’t care about being famous – I could happily cycle the entire world unnoticed, I’m sure – and actually I have never bought into the whole “famous for famous’ sake” thing. But now I had to use myself, my achievements and my opinions, my virtues, my very personality, to sell something. I felt like I was pimping myself. And even with something as pure and true as bike philosophy, I wondered if I had a right to publicize my beliefs to such a degree. I don’t like making people uncomfortable. What’s more, I knew that the bike-riders, the recyclers and the organic farmers, the already-aware of the world – the people that would say “right on” – they don’t need to hear my message. It’s the people that think it’s impossible to ride your bike back home from a big grocery run, and the people that haven’t even considered the possibility of cycling to work, that would be my target audience. The ones whose perspective I want to change are of course the ones most deeply addicted to their cars and their convenience. The ones that think people on the highway riding bikes are crazy…. Despite the daunting emotional wrestling and potentially adverse reception to my ideas, I continued trying to publicize my tour. It’s worth being famous if I can get more people on bikes. But something my eco-guerrilla friend Derek told me in Florida, during my mission to find a sailing boat across the Atlantic, when I was psychologically battered and considering giving up, kept coming back to me: “It’s the critics that you need to convince, and if you take a plane or a motorboat across the ocean, that will be all they need to discount you completely.” Yes, riding my bike such long distance is impressive, but he was right – if someone wanted to ignore me(car addicts are often intimidated by me), they would find it easy to do as soon as they learned of the smallest little discrepancy in my principles. At this point, starting my international press exposure, I had already stuck it out and succeeded in sailing across the Atlantic Ocean, using wind power. But once again, I knew I could do more. My integrity, and subsequently my message, could be stronger still. Deciding not to get into cars or trucks or trains or buses was easy – I already did a whole year boycotting in 2006, and I do have a bike, after all. In Ireland, after the ambulance and the bus and all the rest of that difficult compound-fracture compromise, I swore off all motor vehicles, citing not only their ecological impact, but also their social degradation. “Cars cause loss of trust.” No more side trips in cars, no more cross-town jaunts on public transport, no more down-time speed. A world bike tourist is one thing, but a world bike tourist that won’t even get into a car? Now that’s news. The real difficulty is traveling over water, and I admit I made some compromises in this area. In Northern Ireland and Scotland, Christmas is simply not the season to go sailing, though I tried my hardest to discover and convince hardcore winter sailors. It was a no-go, unless I wanted to spend the rest of the winter waiting. Could I have done that? Sure – somehow – but in an all-around sense, considering everything, not just my mission to raise awareness and the health of Mother Earth… would it have been best? My friend Robino might say, “Hold to your principles, but not too rigidly.” Balance, in all things, even this. I am rigid about motor vehicles: so much so, that I can actually sense an acute disconnection, a widening chasmic distance, from car commuters or airline patrons. I am finding it harder and harder to remember what it’s like to live with petroleum fuel, the longer I separate myself from oil culture. Maybe this is unbalanced; maybe this constitutes “too rigid.” But I’m not so fame-hungry that I’ll let myself be driven to depression or insanity by some strict boycott in the name of publicity. In the end, as in the beginning, I just want to see the world. By BIKE!

So, want to swing this by you, just because its been on my mind and the ol´man just sung a lyric ´we’ve all been burnt before, we all know how it hurts, but if you hide, you´ll never make it out alive…’ or something… anyway
qu´elle est ton trajet? Which direction do you plan on heading in from mastricht? Only that we are not so far away from eachother, and i was looking at the map and thinking i could do a little round trip ride from frankfurt to the border or nearby, if you were heading south. I think the sense and sensibility thing to do would be to leave our chapter closed… but i dont much feel like being sensible, so if you somehow want to figure into a plan that figures me into it too… make love under a blanket of stars for one last time and dream together a little more… let me know. If not, i more than understand… just putting it out there. The idea of seeing you without a beard! Goodness gracious!
In my mind, as in my reply, there was really no question. As soon as I read it my imagination exploded and my heart started reaching. Paul regarded the news with a wise knowing grin – he had been a “follow the girl” advocate from the beginning. Little did I know just how drastically the “plan” would change.

Suddenly I was rushing again! But this time it was to meet the woman I was in love with – which makes it all okay. Right? Well I can’t think of a better justification, and, as it would turn out, I was only rushing to slow down….

I tried to use a super-detailed xerox map to get to Germany, but in the Netherlands it really isn’t necessary to try and avoid heavy traffic; there are separated bike paths everywhere. After following some gravel farm roads and dirt hiking trails, a pleasant waste of my afternoon, I jumped on the direct roadside bike route to Aachen and the border. I met three girls who had decided on a lark to go camping on their bikes – the type of thing seen only in the Netherlands.

My body, after a week or more hanging about eating and drinking, did not agree with rushing. After one particuarly long hill (a sign I was close to leaving the Netherlands) I overheated and was forced to take a break. But while I was laying there waiting for the hydration to kick in and the stomach to calm down, I noticed a poetic-looking abandoned train track leading into the wilderness, which of course reminded me of Lily. Back on the bike, boy!

The hills had come back into my life with a vengeance. By the time I reached the Rainbow Gathering, I knew it would be a close call to reach Lily by Friday at 3 pm.

I missed the sign for the Gathering but a nice fellow named Twin at the parking lot asked me, “Are you looking for Rainbow?” I said yes, and he gave me a big hug with the words, “Welcome Home.”

Welcome home?!? How could you be so insensitive! Don’t you realize I already have a home, and Imiss my home, and I can’t even imagine anywhere replacing my home???

I admit this line of thinking was an over-reaction, but suddenly I realized this Rainbow thing might not be for me. At least not right now…. I mean, I was really just being a tourist, stopping for one night. I wanted to check it out, I’ve heard a lot about the Gatherings — my sister met her husband at a Rainbow Gathering. And I love hippie stuff like that, hugs for strangers and everyone is welcome. But I wasn’t prepared for a serious experience; my mind was elsewhere. I guess this tinctured my reaction a bit — when dude said “welcome home” to me, I actually felt a little insulted. Gee, I guess I really do love Wisconsin!

The Rainbow Gathering was about how I pictured it – a gorgeous river valley setting, one huge circle of hippies holding hands and singing about love, a misty tent village with lanterns glowing amidst the silhouettes of pine trees, a woodfire-heated bathtub on the river bank, nudists chopping firewood in the rain, a massive music jam in the teepee with offerings of India chai and Dutch joints, and one crazy old German Rainbow dude, naked except for his huge white beard and his bronze tan, jumping over the bonfire and yelling what I assume were jokes at the top of his lungs. Yep, this was hippie heaven, just respect the natural spring source and Hey we need people to help carry ash to the shit-pit! I could totally see my sister falling in love at a place like this.
When I arrived, the dinner circle had already started, so with a wistful glance at the deserted welcome tent (I had some questions about the whole deal), I awkwardly joined the party at a random spot. As they came around with the big pot of soup I noticed they were being very careful about sanitary feeding procedures – good to know. I ate as much as they would give me, ravenous, eagerly hungry, raising my hand “yes I want a mandarin” until the buddhist guy switched to English and told me the fruit was for the children only. But I’m a kinder too! Thankfully my hunger impressed the people around me and they handed me a couple oranges.
After dinner I went back to the welcome tent. It was still empty, just a smouldering fire, a teapot, and a couple cushions under the sagging tarp. I sat down to wait for someone to come – I really wanted a welcome. I felt lost; the first question I had was “Is this anarchy?”
But nobody came to enlighten me. In fact the only people that passed by were newcomers, and after the first group returned my smile with extra warmth I realized they thought I was the welcomer! So I did my best to answer questions and make people feel welcome – though I didn’t say “welcome home.” I even got to be the first to welcome three people arriving by bicycle! Their flute player was really interested in the long pocket on my drive-side Arkel pannier.
Eventually one of the naked woodchoppers came over to put his clothes back on, but by then I had come to my own conclusions. Yeah the email said to leave your electronic devices at home, but people use flashlights. I could put my tent wherever there was space. It’s a hippie gathering, no need to wait for someone to tell me the rules!
The next morning I got to be a part of the whole food-circle phenomenon in full new-age spirit. It took about an hour for everyone, about a hundred people all told, to gather in the big open lawn around the main fire pit. We held hands and chanted love and peace for what seemed like a little too long – I was starving again – but I suppose it was like, “the song continues until the time is right.” I can dig that. Only the little kids and the crazy old man were doing their own thing, making faces at each other. When the time was right we moved to stage two, chanting with our hands over our heads, as a kiss on the cheek was passed around the circle a couple of times. When this petered out everyone bowed to the ground for a long time, offering thanks and respect to mother earth and her humans. Then, finally, everyone sat down on the damp grass and the hippie cafeteria vibe took hold. Another twenty minutes and the meusli was brought around, by which time I had mentioned how hungry I was enough times for my neighbors to have given me personal stocks of apples and chocolate. Thank you beautiful people!!!

I wrote in my journal and met some nice people, but I had to leave that day, with just enough time to meet Lily. Robin hadn’t showed up – I don’t blame him, he’s been on an intuitive slow-travel when-the-time-is-right tip for a long time – so I left my happy birthday wishes on the message board by the entrance and saddled up.

Up. The Gathering was located at the bottom of a valley, which meant a serious climb UP to continue on my way. No big deal, really… it’s not as if that was the last hill on this little adventure. In fact the roads in that part of Western Germany are all steep and winding like mountain passes, only not as long and more numerous. I tucked in and hustled as best I could.
I’m pretty sure I passed some beautiful views, but the mist was so thick those two days I couldn’t see the other side of the valleys. Anyway it was okay; I wouldn’t have seen them anyway – my only thought, every pedal stroke, every hasty food break, was Lily. Head down, push – I’m going to see Lily. Lily, Lily, Lily, up every slow hill, around every sweeping Spring curve. I’m going to see Lily! What will it be like? What will we do? Will it be like it was before? Will there be another first kiss? It would’ve been a great opportunity to practice being “uncomfortable with uncertainty,” if I had been capable of thinking of anything more profound than “Goodness gracious!”

We had made plans to meet in Koblenz – a city somewhere in Germany, a city neither of us had ever visited, never heard anything about, just a city halfway between us. Of course there’s always a public library, though, and about two thirty in the afternoon I was cruising down the last hill towards the riverside city center.
There was some sort of public holiday happening, and everyone I asked for directions told me the library was closed. “That doesn’t matter, I’m just meeting… someone… there.”

I came upon a crowded city square and saw an old feller with an upside-down three-speed bike fixing a flat tire. I knew the library, and Lily, was close – within one more time asking for directions – and this guy might need my help. And I always ask my directions from cyclists if I can help it.
I communicated that I wanted to help him fix the tire, despite not sharing English or German. He seemed glad to have a young guy helping him, though perfectly capable himself. He talked to me while I worked; about what, I wasn’t really sure except for the Catholic holiday, but when it came to the Dunlap valve in his tube, I tried a little harder to communicate and learned some tricks for my future of fixing German flat tires. I did the patch-and-pump work, and he installed the repaired wheel while I tried to ask about the library. He told me where to go, and then, just before we parted, I must have said “muy bien” or something, because he started speaking in Spanish! Suddenly the door of communication was opened, like a magic switch throwing wide the connection between us. (Always try all your languages before resorting to cherades!) I explained the romantic situation that was about to come to the verge, and he corroborated his directions in a language I could understand and wished me luck.
Smiling with serendipity, I turned to push my bike through the crowd… and there she was.

The verge, pushing her bike towards me, just around the corner from the public library.

I didn’t have to look around to know that she was the most beautiful woman in that crowded Koblenz square. That day I just knew, from the first moment our eyes met. The whole city washed away around us, and all we did was… reunite. Suddenly I was deeper in love with her than ever before, and I knew: I was past the verge now, I was in Lily-land. Floating along sublimely justgrinning.

* * *

Three days and three glorious nights found us at a crossroads. On the bank of the Rhein, just before the river Main splits off and goes back to Frankfurt. It was just a simple lunch break on a shady park bench, facing the water flowing past.
But something big was happening: we didn’t want to say goodbye.
We came to talk about it so naturally, I couldn’t even tell you who “brought it up first.”
These are the facts:

Lily would cycle East to join the bike path that runs along the Danube River, and follow it all theway to Budapest(that’s in Hungary, 1000 kilometers away), either alone, or with me.
My mother would be coming to Budapest in a couple months — her plan was to fly to Madrid afterwards to see me.
I was in no hurry to get to Madrid, and
I was absolutely in love with her.

I’m afraid I flinched at the immensity of this idea. I couldn’t even mention it directly. My first answer was “I’m going to go to Madrid.” It had to be okay, but it wasn’t — with either of us. Lily cut her finger opening an avocado after I said it, and as I helped her patch it up, I realized I wasn’t being true to either of us. I wanted to go with her, plain and simple. What else really compares to that? I was nearly totally one hundred percent completely positively convinced that it was just fear preventing me from doing it, but I wasn’t quite sure either. I took a walk.

Let’s see… Danube to Budapest, it’s supposed to be flat the whole way. [go] Nice river views. Get to see more of Europe – what’s that, Austria and Hungary on the list of countries? Go with her. Maybe Italy on the way back? Doesn’t sound too bad. Mom’s gonna be [go] there, less travelling for her… hey, [go] she won’t have to take an extra Go With Her! airplane to see me, nice. Madrid can wait, I’m already too late [go] to attend the Criticona. Everything seems fine. Say Yes!But wait — this doesn’t feel like my tour, it feels like her tour. I mean, what are people going to think when I tell them I detoured my “solo” world tour just because a beautiful woman [go] wanted me to bike with her… across Europe… hey, wait a minute. That actually sounds really good. In fact, hey hold on — wouldn’t I be a complete fool, not to go? We could make it our tour…. go go go go go GO GO GOGOGOOOOO FOOOR IIIIIT

Lily was laying in a sunny patch of grass when I got back, watching the water flowing past.

After, all I remember is her smiling face, above me, silhouetted by the blue sky.

The plan was to zip back up to Maastricht to see a couple of people, then turn right around and rush across France and the Pyrenees a thousand miles in three weeks for La Criticona, the world-wide critical mass in Madrid. Once back in Limburg, I would only check in with Paul, a Belgian sailor mate I met while sailing across the Atlantic, and meet up with Patrick Buckley, son of the Irishman who welded my bike frame, who I’d promised to visit if I were ever in the Netherlands, then quick head back South.

I had had no word from Paul or Patrick; I wasn’t even sure they would be in town. I had a loose bottom bracket that was sure to get worse, especially crossing mountains, and, I hate rushing. I admit, it was a silly plan.
But I went for it.
For a couple of days I went strong, pushing myself as if I actually had a schedule to meet for once. Traffic navigation hell leaving Paris through the Charles de Gaulle airport, a couple nice campsites, a Belgian bike path by chance, some Roman ruins… some bar patrons enthusiastically taught me the word for “hydrated.” Drunk locals are always so happy to see me….
I also started noticing traffic signs upon entering villages that said, “Ralentissez.” Slow down. But I missed the omen there; I just said, “Yeah, slow down, all you cars.”
Once I got directions from an old gray-haired cyclist who said my French was very good and that I’d enjoy Maastricht. His directions were wrong, though, and I had to ask a group of teachers how to get to Dailly. Now, apparently this name doesn’t exactly follow the pronunciation rules(if such things exist in French) and I am certainly not fluent, but these ladies outside the primary school just laughed at me when I humbly butchered the pronunciation. They were so rude that for a moment I actually felt hurt, finding it hard to laugh at myself normally. I interrupted their cruel mirth to ask again, this time correctly, and they shoved their English teacher at me, who, being accustomed to teaching time and present tense to first graders, obviously did not want the pressure of speaking real English.
“You go…” <hand motion>
“Straight?” I supplied.
“You go str-reight. Zen…leift… à la ville….”
She totally butchered the pronunciation, but I just smiled and said “Merci beaucoup.”
I passed by some of the same towns Lily and I had been through on our way to Paris. Here’s where we saw that kid fall off his bike and get up smiling… Here’s where that suave fella leaned in to give us close-quarters cigarette-smoke directions… Here’s that hill that was such a triumph on her single-speed… No time for serious nostalgia though; I had to press on.
It was a four-day plan and I was on schedule, pushing myself over winding cliff ascents and big-ringin’ it across the farmlands. Stopping to explore for internet access isn’t easy, though, when you’ve got miles left on your agenda before dark, so it was day four before I could check for email responses from Paul and Patrick: still nothing. Too late now, just keep going. See what happens.
Climbing the hill out of Dinant, a jet black cat scurried across my path. I stopped, partly to try and feed her a cat treat and partly to wonder — was this a sign, an omen? Is this bad luck?? Did they change the Matrix?!?
I kept on. In the next village, up ahead I saw another sleek chat noir amble lazily across the road in front of me and sneak through the cemetery fence.
Then I was coming around a corner in another village, and I halted in my tracks: a third, all-black cat turned to assess me, fixing his golden eyes on me for a moment before bounding past into a garden.
Three black cats in one afternoon — yikes. You know what they say about black cats crossing your path…. I felt like shuddering; but I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that this was bad luck. I’m like an ancient Egyptian – for me, cats are like totem animals, benevolent spirits; veritable gods in lithe sensual affection. How could they signal harm? Anyway, I figured I would find out soon enough whether fortune was with me or not.
The answer was revealed when I arrived in Lanaye, which according to my unconfirmed information was the Maastricht satellite where Paul lives. Now I was remembering, he had said something about selling his house last year… in fact he flew back from the islands early to close on the sale… hmm.
I passed the sign that said “Lanaye” just after dark, marking potential tent pitches on my way. Outside the very first house of the village, a man was working on a vintage scooter in his yard. I had no address for Paul, only a phone number, but it was a small village so I was counting on everyone knowing each other; Paul’s the type of guy everyone would know, anyway. Loud and friendly.
This fella didn’t know him, but he let me make a call on his mobile… no answer. I left a message as he got the scooter running, tip-toeing through courtesies in French. Jean was his name, and just as he was inviting me in for a coffee, figuring “Maybe he’ll call back” — he called back.
Yes, he remembered me, and yes he got my emails. But I hadn’t made it, I wasn’t coming, why wasn’t I coming?
“No, no, Paul, I am in Lanaye. I did make it! Lanaye, I’m here, I am in LANAYE.”
He sounded drunk, but he told me to keep riding, he’s waiting outside for me… center of town… across from church. Okay! I thanked Jean profusely, and minutes later was greeted gregariously by a grinning Paul, hugged and kissed and shaken and clasped, introduced to his wife Desirée, and offered a seat on the patio outside the cute little bistro he owns. Safe!
As the fine Belgian beer flowed and I began to catch up with Paul, it became clear how lucky this day really was. First, it was Paul’s birthday, or at least he was celebrating someone’s birthday. Second, after about an hour of drinking and feasting and talking, they remembered that it was their ninth wedding anniversary — champagne! And also, a neighborhood cat – this one tabby patched – who had never before been seen on the front patio, decided to hang out with us; he even took his own chair next to mine. I fed him roast beef, and knew then for certain after all, “Black cats arelucky.”
* * *
Patrick Buckley was in town too, as I later discovered, and so I was able to complete a circle, one that began with my broken bike frame in one certain Irish tractor repair barn in rural Tipperary. Thanks again to the Buckley family, the bike is holding strong!
And what of rushing South? What of my plan?
It was a stupid plan; logistically unfeasible, unhealthy for my body and mind, and disrespectful to Europe and its culture. As a matter of fact, I don’t like plans at all — I prefer to adhere to the strict definition of adventure, and keep it alive in my mind.
Adventure. \əd-ˈven-chər\ n. A bold action of uncertain outcome.

How can it be an adventure if I know, or even just think I know, what’s going to happen?

What’s more, I like to take it slow. If you ask me, speed kills. Rushing is exactly the reason our society has so many problems these days. I’ve come to resist not only the oil industry and motorized vehicles, but also, on a wider, more profound level, the speed and convenience with which we live our lives.

Oh, and from a cosmic omen, sign-of-the-Universe standpoint: Paul’s restaurant is named “Les Boulots,” after a type of snail…

I acquiesced, and released that frenetic, stubborn, counter-intuitive idea of attending La Criticona on April 30. Instead of one night, I stayed with Paul for a week, and watched the future open wide before me. I got a discount on a new bottom bracket at a local shop and borrowed some tools to replace it myself; I visited an immense old artists’ squat right on the river Maas and attended vegan dinners and anarchy discussions; and slowly I formed a new plan: to take my time.

In Sven’s tiny student flat I had my first taste of France wine from a bottle — oo là là! We watched the little activist video Lily and I had made about my bike tour, which prompted a rather heated but good-natured debate. Sven ventured that if there were no cars, there would be, for example, no milk in Paris. But I begged to differ — if there were no cars, the dairy industry would just look a lot different than it does now. Think closer cows(smaller cows?)(or just goats instead), urban farms, milk deliveries on box-bikes, cheese trains, vegan radicalism… limited only by your imagination, really.

After a couple days of exploring the city, riding around delivering Lightfoot letters, we had to move to Guillaume’s much bigger, much swankier apartment in the 7ème arrondissement. Guillaume is très Parisien, well dressed, well manicured. Style and class, how else could one live? But he was genuinely interested in all things environmentalist(his coffeetable literature included a guidebook to dangerous food additives) and despite being a little freaked out by Lily’s dumpster-diving movie, the next day he came home with a “Look what I got out of the trash” fully functional flat-screen monitor. I went out to open a few dumspter lids in the neighborhood (there was a weirdo lady doing the same who thought I was making fun of her until I offered her some of the bananas I had found) and along with a baguette de campagne and Guillaume’s insane selection of gourmet honeys, made some kick-ass free-the-food sandwiches, which helped to heal the rift that had been developing between Lily and I….

Yeah, though it’s sad to say, things were not so happy and carefree those last days, despite being in la ville de l’amour. If we were expecting to be blown away in some hot breath of Parisien romance, we’d have been a bit disappointed. We were parting ways soon; Lily was looking forward to a visit with her mother in Antwerp, and my mind was working on my own bike tour plans. Our final days were a clouded with our mutual yet nonetheless impending separation.

But we were still a good team, still flirting on bikes. With our last week together, we took photos at the Eiffel Tower, cycled up the Champs-Élysées boulevard and saw a pink deep-V’d fixie messenger in the midst of the traffic nightmare that is the Arc de Triomphe roundabout. We climbed the big hill to Montmartre, a Paris quarter famous for the film Amélie and a mix of high-falutin’ aritsts and tourist gouging; we had ice cream and crêpes while overlooking the city from the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur cathedral. Lily even took me to a fancy French vegetarian-vegan restaurant for a romantic dinner. The waiter was rude and the food was amazing!

We had to switch hosts once more – usual couchsurfer maximum is three or four days – this time to Colombes, a northern suburb, quite outside of any glitzy Paris arrondissements. For a few kilometers of the ride out there, we cycled with a woman returning from work — when I told her I was from the USA, she was very proud to show me the grease-stained McDonalds to-go bag in her handlebar basket…. Yeah… thanks, I can smell it from here. Way to go, lady. Yeuch!

It was a relief to meet our next host, Mr. Fred. He’s a real grand Frenchman; no Mickey Ds in sight. After a delicious gourmet vegan pasta, I found myself with a glass of red wine in one hand and a piece of chèvre in the other, thinking, “Now this is France!”

She left the next day. It was gray morning, cloudy, moody. She had repacked into hitchhiking mode and was going to leave her bike with Fred, so I pedalled Soleil fifteen kilometers, all the way to the chosen hitch spot, with Lily and her huge backpack sitting Dutch-style on the back rack the whole way. We said our heavy goodbye, surrounded by traffic, there in the shadow of the motorway; a sweet final few minutes and wondering “Will I ever see you again?” I’ll always remember the sight of her army-olive backpack disappearing in the distance.

And then, just before she was completely out of view, she turned and yelled to me,

“You’re so cool!!!”

True romance. It’s never like the movies.

The ride back to Colombes was dreary. Soleil started making rattling complaints and the sky seemed darker than before. Two tough guys on a crowded bridge gave me a challenging look but my tears brushed them away. She was gone.

I was alone.

* * *

My first urge was to move, to get out of town – “What the hell am I doing here in Paris?!?”

But hold on, emotionally triggered reactionary impulses: I actually had an answer to that question — I was trying to organize an interview with the Agence-France Presse. This cold, hard, definable-results goal kept me distracted from the piercing loss of my inspiration-dream-partner, and I was able to occupy myself during the interim with various other activities around town.

Fred and I took a big tour around Paris one day – he loves to see his city by bicycle. He went by Velib, the city’s community bike program. If you’re a Velib-card-holding resident, the first half-hour is free, so all you have to do is keep exchanging the bike every half-hour(if you can find a Velib station with an empty spot and an available bike) and you can ride around all day. The 1500 computerized, magnetic-locking stations all have maps of all the stations in the area, and the city regularly maintains and redistributes all the bikes with big Velib trucks. What’s more, if you return a bike to a Velib “+” station, which are the higher-elevation ones, you get a fifteen minute bonus credited to your card for bringing the bike up a hill.

And they’re pretty nice bikes, believe it or not: rugged Schwalbe tires, (mostly) properly inflated, tough rims and basket-rack combos, Shimano Nexus three-speed rear hub, front dynamo hub for lights at all times. When you return a bike you can press a button to mark it as “in need of repair” which alerts the mechanics.

I met Fred downtown. We walked to the nearest station, he waved his card over the bike’s docking station, and we were on our way, pedalling around taking in the sights. We saw some guys doing parcour on some rocks at the jardin naturelle, we walked our bikes along the promenade plantée. He took me to an alternative coffee shop, “l’Asociatif” where a sewing workshop was going on, and he even took me for a cheap lunch – not an easy thing to find in Paris. I saw a pair of bike cops, one with a “suspect” handcuffed to his handlebar, on foot and struggling to keep up. And it was all really very Paris; berets and baguettes, crêpes and the Eiffel Tower, high fashion, low snobbery, cigarette smoke, scarves waving behind scooters, and little tiny cars smaller than my bike. Aah Paris.

I had been searching for a AA battery charger for my camera for quite some time. Sick of buying batteries, sick of throwing batteries away, and the home-made tire-rubber generator charger I was thinking of building was revealed to be doom for any batteries I connected up, so…. My search results in the city came up with nothing but department stores, but there happened to be one result in Colombes, so close to Fred’s place I didn’t even ride my bike. The fellas in there were quite surprised to have a bike tourist from the States walk into their shop – it’s not even really a shop, just a place they do internet business from. But they certainly had the stock there! One guy had even just finished an order for a bunch of little wind turbine chargers that would’ve been perfect for my handlebar, but I couldn’t wait for it. They were experts on batteries, battery nerds that I could trust, and they patiently explained every last little thing I wanted to know. And they even gave me a discount! I guess that’s buying locally, right? Or do I have to mail-order from Wisconsin to do that?

And then, after a few days, the Agence-France Presse interview came about. Apparently the AFP is on the same gargantuan international level of prestige as the Associated Press… I had no idea, until I got to their offices. Central. Offices. Paris. France. Wow.

We walked with a photographer to the Palais Royale gardens and he took some photos that almost none of the media subscribers chose to use; they ran some other photo of some other bike with front panniers. Maybe he was just an intern or something, or maybe my scraggly haircut was to blame. But the Aussie lady that interviewed me was a pro; relaxed, thorough, and subtle. Mostly. “What other militant activities do you participate in?” Wha huh? She must’ve assumed something from the Dutch army boots and ragged cargo pants; but at any rate I kept my mouth shut about the super-secret mutant feral cat verminocide program in Macquarie. She bought me a coffee and wrote a tiny little mention-article in two languages, which was subsequently uploaded onto their massive world-wide subscribers’ server. Search results for the byline(Un tour du monde à bicyclette … et en bateau) came up as far away as Fiji, but it had mostly only been picked up by online, temporary, news bulletins. I guess I was filler, mostly, but later, Fred did tell me he picked up a cheap-ass paper on the subway one day, and noticed my piece had been printed, on paper, and the publicist at Direct Matin said she would mail me some copies. So my message was spread a little farther….

And what do you know? Lily, away in England with her mom and extended family, taking taxis and trains around everywhere and living the civilized life, had decided to give bike touring another try! Before I left Fred’s place, she wrote me that she would return for the bike and ride solo single-speed from Paris to Germany! Her big red third-hand Dutch postal-delivery panniers that she had left in the corner suddenly seemed much brighter. I left notes for her in there, and drawings, and advice and tire levers and extra ziplock baggies, and I sent all my good wishes her way.

Both on bikes again, hmm, maybe — but no, this time our paths lay separately. It was important for her to try it alone, and as for me, I had unfinished business back in the Netherlands….

The first thing we did in France, just across the border, was Kiss. Bien sur!

The second thing I did was lay down a hundred pump strokes on a slow leak, trying to make it to camp before I did the repair. Damn slow leaks – they ride the line between “better fix it now” and “just pedal harder.”

That first day we stopped for a big grocery shop and had a huge lunch in the parking lot. Food is a big deal in France; chocolate for breakfast and local boulengeries for fresh bread daily, a bazaare of a thousand cheeses and delicate doughs. Everyone that saw us snacking in town squares or picnicking on the side of the road said, “Bon appetit!” In France it’s as common as saying “Bless you” after a sneeze.

Later we stopped to check out a noise coming from Lily’s bike (named Soleil Knoopje – “Sunny Buttons” in French and Dutch) which turned into a full-on bike repair session right there on the shoulder of the road. Lily removed her rattly chainguard like a pro; I don’t know a mechanic who still rides with one. We drank red wine from waterbottles and got our hands dirty with black bike grease, and drew honks from passing cars as we kissed and flirted in the blossoming French spring.

GROCERY SHOPPING, I LEARN FROM LILY

Every word for non-vegan ingredients that could appear on a French food ingredients list.

THE CAR CRASH

Once we were riding two abreast on the highway; we were going with the debatable logic that being too wide to pass in the lane is actually safer than letting the motorists think they might just have enough room to sneak past you at 100 kph… it was all fine, making people slow down and wait until there was an opening in oncoming traffic, just like they would have to do behind a tractor. No problem. That is, until the van behind us(which was crawling along patiently) was rear-ended by some moron in too much of a hurry. Probably oblivious on his cellphone. Suddenly there was a huge crash behind us, barely enough time to yell a curse before it was all over… thankfully the screeching metal didn’t reach us, and the worst of it ended up being the van’s crushed rear end and some frazzled nerves. We took off before anyone could blame us – were we to blame, after all? – and on a side road we calmed our racing pulse with a Belgian chocolate break. It was the closest call with a car I’d ever had out here bike touring; and this being a good reality-check, I really wanted to inquire, “So… you still want to ride your bike to Greece?” But discouragement was the last thing I wanted to extend, so instead I said, “Good thing we were wearing our helmets. Here, try this one, it’s hazelnut.”

A GIRL OFFERS TO TRADE HER VOLVO FOR MY BIKE

No fucking way, honey.

PIPO’S FEAR OASIS

One late afternoon we stopped to supply on water at a place called Pipo’s Musical Cafe. It was just a small hotel/bar with a nice karaoke stereo, but Pipo was really cute and welcoming, gave us water and even some free Belgian beer. Even with the sun going down, we couldn’t turn that offer down… it’s free beer. He even offered to let us stay there – but we weren’t sure whether he would charge us. While Lily chatted with some Dutch tourists about their travels in Australia, I was working up to asking whether it would be free or not. Slow, intermediate French and social subtlety don’t mix too well though, and soon it was “It’slate,shallwego?” No problem – we did have a tent after all.

Except these cramped European villages were so close together there was nowhere to camp… We carried on, peeling our eyes wider and wider, reducing our standards lower and lower. But it just seemed like one big swath of village. As the sun actually dipped below the horizon, we entered a town whose “welcome” sign bore the spray-painted grafitti “LOCK YOUR DOORS.” Great sign. The people with the huge, wild back yard did not come the door when we knocked. Then, while the neighbor told us, hands shaking nervously, that she doesn’t know who lives there, no, it’s private, it’s impossible to camp there, we saw a lady come out of the house, close her shutters and lock them, and run back inside with a terrified glance our direction. Unbelievable! A simple “no” would’ve been fine…. Down the street we saw an under-construction hotel with a humongous empty yard, but the proprieter, behind his huge guard dog, told us there was no room. Fear. It was everywhere. Finally we saw a white cat prowling the edge of a schoolyard, took it as a sufficient omen, and pitched the tent right there in the soccer field, hoping the patrol fliques wouldn’t see us before we left at dawn, and seriously wishing we had stayed at Pipo’s Musical Cafe!

LILY GASPS AS I EAT STINGING NETTLES

The young top-shoots don’t bite back.

NAVIGATION AND ENDURANCE

The rolling hills of Nord-Pas-de-Calais and Picardie are not easy to cross on a loaded single-speed, but Lily did it, and with only minimal help from me during hill-bottom pep-talks. The best advice I could come up with was a hazy cross-country memory of mind-over-matter endurance and coach Shuckman saying “A to B.” Your body will never fail you – it’s your mind that will. The time when your muscles really gain is when they’re tired. Lily preferred a “don’t look up” technique for conquering hills, and before long she was cursing ol’ Shucky and his enthusiastic counsels.

Still trying, with limited success, to use the more flat canal routes to Paris, we guessed our way along with my compass and Lily’s beat-up old Benelux map. I’d stand there pointing North while she figured out where to go; it was a nice change from making all the decisions myself.

LOOKING FOR ESPRESSO, CAFE CHOSEN BASED ON BIKE LEANING UP OUTSIDE

The bike’s white-haired owner refused to let us pay for our coffee.

FRENCH FUNNIES

For a language that is so easy to rhyme(so many silent letters at the end of words!) French sure seems limited in vocabulary. Maybe it’s just that I am not a French scholar, I’m sure I’m missing something(I am NOT an expert!). But still… some things are just odd.

Language and culture are two parts of the same thing. Here are some informative examples:

–There is no word in French for “cheap.” “Cheapest” is le moins cher = “the least expensive.” The closest I’ve been able to discover is bon marché = “good deal,” used as an adjective. High class!

–Aimer. This is the famous word for “like” e.g. J’aime manger = “I like to eat.” But it is also the word for “love” e.g. J’aime Lily.= “I love Lily.” Strange? Romantic? Or just under-specific?

–Husband is marié... but wife? They use femme = “woman.” No difference between wife and woman?!?

–The suffix “-ette.” While being a diminutive, it also lends a sense of feminitity. Uh oh… look out feminists!

–Big, large, great, grand. These are all one word in French, grand.

But so what? Who’s to say that the subtleties of “feeling the context” aren’t better than crisp, satisfying, image-provoking description? Language is just a code for transmitting thoughts, and one that is forever doomed to imperfection, besides. No language comes close to true telepathy, no matter how many words are in its dictionary, no matter how proficient its master scholars. I for one am happy there’s so much variety in the world. I won’t say it makes travelling very easy, but neither am I about to exclaim any pity for French poets or anything.

I also learned that it is way easier to speak French(or any foreign language, I suppose) with non-native speakers. The guy from Yugoslavia, for whom French was a fourth language, gave much clearer directions than any French person ever did… Makes sense, pidgin to pidgin.

AN AUSTRALIAN’S INTRODUCTION TO KOOLAID

Sugar – 100% natural energy. Mmmm.

FINDING PARIS

Late one afternoon nearing Paris, trying to find a certain canal into the city, we realized we were already in the town that the canal runs through. We rejoiced to find a nice quiet bike path running all the way into the metropolis. The suburbs fell behind as the sun set on our winding riverside.

It was nice until I stopped to take some dusk photos of a bridge. I was happily adjusting my shutter speed, jammin’ to some music coming from a scooter across the canal, when the scooter’s owner tried to throw a beer bottle at me and we realized it was a bit sketchy down on the river path….

The “path” turned into bumpy, muddy grass, and the streetlights stopped. We bouced our slow way along, careful not to fall into the water or lose any gear, until we saw some people hanging out under a bridge and asked “Does this path lead to the city center?” As we were receiving a dubious but jubilant array of answers, from “Well sort of” to “Yeah it does” to simply “Go! Go!” another cyclist caught up and stopped, fully neon and blinky lights, and said, pointing up a different path, “This way is better…” He was about to leave, because the bridge dwellers started arguing with him, but I stopped him, saying, “Wait — I trust the man on the bike.” It was an accomplishment to say in French, with a rusty tongue and only moments to spare before he escaped, but he slowed down and led us up to a nice modern piste ciclable. Turns out he was an off-duty cop, on his way to work, and he rode with us right into Paris. There was a detour he was able to shortcut because he had the key to the gate; even gave us a map — a police escort, nice! And perhaps we left him a bit more inspired; surely he went to work that night armed with a great story for his cop buddies: “Guess who I met today while riding my bike to work?”

We found our way to the 6ème Arondissement, well after dark, with the help of several other passersby. By night and on loaded bikes, everyone we spoke with just melted before the sheer romance of our story-clip: an American and an Australian, fell in love on the road, Amsterdam to Paris. By bike.

Sailing for two months from the Caribbean to England, the temperature of the air and water decline ever so gradually, day by day, a natural change that is unnoticable except in hindsight.
Approaching the border of a different country, one can detect shifts of dialect in the simple words of neighbors, like a bleeding language buffer on either side of the invisible line – especially in Belgium, where both Dutch and French are official languages of the state.
Geography follows this gentle course as well. When we left behind those level Dutch horizons, where you can pick out all the villages within fifty kilometers by their church steeples, there were finally hills again! Just a few enjoyable rollers at first, enough to remind me that variety can be more fulfilling that an easy ride. I began to feel sorry for Dutch roadies – they don’t have any hills to train on! I was reminded of Ranulf back at Budget Bikes, taking his lunch break to ride his single-speed on the wickedest hill in the hood. The best you could hope for in the Netherlands is a big bridge.
Lily did well – I only mention it because she was riding a single-speed bicycle…! Even in this tall beach-cruising gear, even loaded down – and with nowhere near the cycling prowess of Papa Ranulf – she was a champion on the hills. I actually felt a bit guilty whenever I shifted to an easier gear, and eventually I started matching her ratio over the hills, just to make sure I could do it. Good perspective!

Antwerp was first… we only passed through. Just a big gray port city, just an hour and a half of urban navigation, just a check on some list somewhere. Sorry Antwerp.

Brussels, capitol of Belgium and executive center of the European Union – now this was a city we had to check out. Lily had been there before, but on a bike now, the city easily mapped itself around us in organic, natural fashion. I imagine the underground metro teleporting my confused subconscious onto a spinning compass-bearing, leaving me upside-down somewhere on a Google printout… bikes are way better!

We had a connection in town, and found our way to the meeting spot just before sunset. Dante, who we met at Casa Robino, is a multi-lingual hyper-network sweetie with a cute Belgian goatee who has been living for five years without an income. Not just without a job, but without an income… don’t ask me how he does it!
The first thing we did was eat French fries, which are of course originally a Belgian cuisine – if you can call greasy fried potatoes cuisine. I was giddy and joking with everyone in line at the little mobile fry-shack, which was a permanent landmark on the glitzy metropolitan corner, between the big be-statued plaza and the perfectly manicured park, right on a main thoroughfare. Belgian fries aren’t just for tourists – the queue was huge! Brazil sauce and mayonnaise was great, sauce Americaine was disgusting. The frites themselves were good – really good, after cycling all day – but I can’t say they were the best I’ve ever had. Only the most famous. We ate them on a bench, out of white paper trays with little multi-colored plastic shrimp forks, watching all the prim Belgians walk by and wrapping our tongues around the French language. Night fell over the park and friends popped by.
The next thing we did was find Belgian beer. The Belgians make some of the best beer in the world, and this was really a major accomplishment for me. We went to a bar that had hundreds of different beers; for my first beer in the country, I had a simple Duvel, the standard high-gravity blue-collar beer of Belgium(which compared to Pabst was like paté to popcorn). Lily had a kriek, cherry beer of some brand or another, a thick, fizzy, swirling-sweet alcoholic delicacy. Yumm!
Dante set us up to stay with some friends for a few days. Lily was confident she could find the place in the dark – I burped contentedly and uttered a wobbly “Allons-y.” We took our beer buzz and explored the night, up narrow streets crowded with cobblestones and compact cars, down broad boulevards banked by dizzying flood-lit buildings, surrounded by a city of ancient centuries masked in modern drag.

On to “La Maison à Dormir Debout” – “The House of Sleeping Standing Up.” We had fallen in with a small group of crafty folks that call themselves NOUR – NOmades URbaines. Henri and Alex were our gracious hosts; for their honeymoon they had walked around Europe for four months, relying on the hospitality of strangers almost every night for a dry place to sleep, AND they love to ride bikes, so they were happy to help us out with a bit of floor space. Merci mes amis!

Our first day in Bruxelles, we gathered at La Maison and headed into the city by bike.

Vinz, a rugged bike-traveler with a special pocket on his rucksack for a dijiridoo and a Rohloff 14-speed touring hub in his bike, zoomed down the hill in front of the European Union HQ building, middle finger in the air and shouting “EU Commission SUX!!!” They took us to an abandoned plaza surrounded by abandoned twenty-story office buildings, where weeds push up through cracks and old broken glass, and the towering degradation of the metropolis is inescapable. The view here of Bruxelles’ cramped city center is a jutting, variegated warren of charming stone chimneys, telephone wires, and TV antennae, rooftops and balconies like the sons of seeds scattered by a frivilous hand, no uniformity, architecture in every angle under the sun. And it isn’t only the thousands of offices in the massive corporate blocks that are in disuse, but also over 11.000 residences all across town – while squatting is against the law. But they tell me that trying to find a flat in Bruxelles is still a superhuman endeavor, not to mention insanely expensive….

After a small headset adjustment, we stopped at “La Maison du Vélo,” a touring-specific bike shop downtown. It was a wonderland of tough trekking bikes and sleeping bags, maps and tents and camping gear, with that satisfying rubber-and-grease aroma of a true workshop. When they saw me, the guys in the shop were like, “He tours with platform pedals and army boots?!? Quiet, here he comes!” The owner, Yves, couldn’t warranty my Brooks saddle, but he did hook me up with a couple metric bolts and some fresh Koolstops. Merci!

We went to a sprawling outdoor flea market, where crowds of people eddy and drift, browsing collections of pre-owned and re-used, knick-knacks and piles of random relics for sale. It’s the type of place where you might discover the perfect coffeetable for your apartment if you look long enough, a place where you can find postcard notes in 1940s Belgian cursive, a recurve bow on discount, strung backwards, a sterling gravy boat, neon bike accessories from the eighties…. I found it much more interesting to raise my eyes from the glittering treasure hoards on the ground and browse the people instead. Here’s a proud old ex-diva with a fresh red dye-job and stylish black sunglasses obscuring her crows’ feet; there’s a dad who hasn’t shaved since Friday morning with his daughter on his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his forehead; the comsopolitan fashion addict sluicing Belgian French into her cellphone and noncomittally glancing at all the junk; Moroccan friends lounging over an easy-afternoon conversation; a dark, well-trimmed Belgian goatee under a delicate Belgian visage….

We biked on to a different market, this time to free some food. We knew dumpster diving was illegal in Belgium – a Dutch activist friend of Lily’s was actually in jail for doing it in Brugge – but this we considered a perfect reason for civil disobedience. Henri and Vinz were a little freaked out at first, and not because of the cops. Once, Lily picked up a peach from the ground near a fruit stand – still good, it had only been “bounced” – and Vinz, confused, asked “Now what are you going to do with that peach?” We exchanged a quick smile and Lily replied, around a mouthful of peach juice, “Mais, le manger!” and handed me a bite. Henri also admitted that the idea was a bit disgusting to him, but he found enough vegetables and fruit to fill a bag all by himself, and he certainly ate plenty of the plum confiture I made later. At one point, our hands full of great trash food, Lily and I were approached by a security guard: “Pardon, madame et monsieur…” We quickly walked away with our booty, no worries, while he was saying something to the vendor, but I think he wanted to give us a ticket.

We went to a little side-street dinner party at another urban nomad’s place; there were two kung-fu naturopath couchsurfers from Germany and a cat that reminded me of Horatio – minus the collar. I picked up some tips on knife sharpening from Regis, observed some delicious culinary tricks in the kitchen, and diligently continued the French practice. Then we hit the streets to see Damien’s band play at the University, a happy gang of bike lovers in action. Regis was relatively new to cycling, but had that refreshing beginner’s enthusiasm. He took ten minutes gearing up in a full-on orange cycling-safety suit and had a bike so full of safety accessories he was like a flashing red-and-white reflective satellite, shouting “One hundred fifty euro fine for running a stop sign!!!” while everyone else cruised through the reds. “ONE HUNDRED FIFTY EUROS!!!” He’s funny.

We got directions from a dude on campus smoking a joint – apparently the students have free run to do what they want, illegal or no. The gig was already under way when we arrived, but Damien saw me in the back and called me up to the front. I took Lily’s hand and we snuck through the press of bodies to the floor right in front. We took off our shoes and started jammin’! It was a very special show; all acoustic instruments in an impressive variety; there was the quirky cute chic singing with guitar, tamborine, and mouth-harp; the sexy young drummer with a very slick goatee and a jazzy hat; the pregnant woman with bouncing curls, dancing and singing; a blonde stunner from Paris, sitting up straight and playing violin-fiddle-violin; and their wind-man, popping out behind us in the crowd with a dijiridoo, or soloing on the panpipes, or busting out his saxophone. All while waves of poetry washed over us: Damien, singing his heart out, eyes closed, wispy black hair in an oriental bun, soul just pulsing. Beautiful. He sang in English – he really respected the best of American music, as sort of a goal, apparently. So of course after the show, he was looking at me eagerly, as if I have some special secret in my ears. Man, sometimes I really feel weird, coming from the entertainment capitol of the world….

One day, in exchange for putting us up during our time in Bruxelles, Henri asked me to teach him how to make his bike last for the rest of his life. Quite an ask! We went out on the porch and began exchanging bicycle vocabulary. I did my succinct best, speaking on frame-saver and metal composition and enamel, praising the value of knowing one’s bike, and recommending frequent service. It was a bright French bike-rant soup with a single grain of salt – “If you really ride it, your bike just won’t last forever.”

I hadn’t used my own rear brake since arriving in the Netherlands on New Year’s Eve – it had been sticking and I just didn’t need it in flat, flat Holland, so I spent two months with it disconnected. Winter had taken its toll though, and one of the brake arms was rusted solid. Thankfully Henri had a bench vise in his basement – whoo hoo! I don’t often have a chance to work with the proper tools; most of the time I am improvising on the road. God I miss the bike shop…. I freed the brake arm and was tuning the rest when Vinz dropped by with an assortment of Belgian beer and helped out. Normally I wouldn’t let anyone work on my bike, but Vinz the Cyclo is a true nomad(and an experienced mechanic) living the freedom of bikes in a way I don’t often have the pleasure of sharing. I drank Chimay Bleu and wiped road gunk off my drive train while he drank Orval trappiste and overhauled my front brake. A proper session of beer and bikes, buzzed and covered in grease – thanks Vinz!

Lily and I lived and played for five days in Bruxelles, reveling, gathering inspiration, and making friends. We never did try any Brussels sprouts in Brussels, and we never found anyone who actually knows the name “Hercule Poirot”(Agatha Christie’s famous BELGIAN detective), but eventually we had to keep moving. Paris or Bust!

We left on a gorgeous March morning, and it was finally starting to feel like Spring! We celebrated the weather with t-shirts, and on our way out of town, we celebrated Bruxelles one last time, eating gourmet chocolate from Van Something, sitting on the sunny side of the street, feeding each other and moaning in pleasure. Whoo! Good stuff!

à é è

A couple more days at the squat in Leiden…. working the security-barricade door at a huge techno party; “Whaddya mean everyone has to have invitations? Nobody has an invitation!”…. an impromptu scavenger hunt, conceived on a whim, with our legs dangling over the canal: one broken inner tube, some cat hair, and a poster with Dutch written on it; one white flower, a high-pitched noise, and one shoestring; all found within 45 minutes on the brisk Spring streets of Leiden…. a speech, requested by our host after a Wednesday night eetcafe, about my trip and my philosophies…. one final, quiet dinner with Sandor – an oldschool squatter with the use of only one arm(still rides his bike – coaster brake – still rolls spliffs no problem and still cooks vegan gourmet deliciousness)…. some city sights we didn’t discover till our last day…. aah Leiden – one of the gems of Holland.

A couple more days in Amsterdam… to say goodbye I suppose, though it isn’t hard to find reasons to stay. I was just getting back to Casa Robino with a big load of dumpster dived vegetables as Lily and Mandi were coming out. And as we were dividing the goodies on the street, Robin just happened to return right at that moment from a big hitchhiking trip to Slovenia(the Casa operates just fine without him). He was shaven-headed now and wrote “HITCH HIKE” in huge chalk letters on the sidewalk, his whole body beaming with pure joy of life. Hitchhiking sounds like a lot of fun, in a serendipitous magic-of-people kinda way. Wish I could try it… but for now I am all bike.
I scored an interview with the Netherlands national press agency, the ANP. The kid said it was his third or fourth interview – I guess they don’t send heavy-hitter grizzled pro reporters to interview American bike bums. I told him, “That’s cool, I’m new at this too.” His Engels was, like most Dutch people’s, excellent. Coffee was on the agency and there was a photographer too. The next day, an article(in Dutch) about my tour and my principles was published in dozens of online and hardcopy papers. But of course, despite saying he would, he didn’t notify me when or where it would be published – those reporters, can I trust ‘em? – so it was only random chance I was able to get hold of a copy. “Ik ben tegen snelheid” : “I am against speed.”

Leaving Casa Robino – this time for real – was a slow process. Natural. The snail in me couldn’t bear to hurry, especially after such a momentous time there.
The scheduled day of departure didn’t feel quite right. The day after, it still felt rushed and I wanted to do a little more around the house. On day three, as the sun came up over Amsterdam, I was finally ready to leave. The time was right, and the way had opened itself. Having been out all night, I woke Lily with a kiss and a cup of tea. We said goodbye to Robin – all other nomads were asleep – and after a few final adjustments, we were on our way to Paris!
It reminded me of the day I left home, a little – low on sleep, emotionally taxed, but ecstatic to be on the road again. And not going to make it very far that first day – we stopped in Leiden for some more final goodbyes.
On my way to meet Josta, my first Dutch friend, I passed a group of squatters I knew, outside the local police precinct. They were exercising their rights, giving away free vegan dumpstered food(Food Not Bombs) and banging on djembes right there on the steps of the copshop; one of the crew was inside, in jail, and they were there for support. What a nice feeling it must be, to be sitting in jail, and every time the front door opens, you can hear your friends shouting and making music, just for you. Later the homie was released, and we all sat on the roof of “the Couch” drinking beer and getting the scoop. The cops had taken his fingerprints but still don’t know his name….

Next on our way was Delft, where we had some other friends to visit at another krakhuis. There I was contacted by a Dutch TV show requesting an interview – they had seen the ANP article somewhere – so we delayed for a day. We made vegan pizza from scratch – the secret is hummus in the sauce – and Lily screened her documentary for a house full of folks. I fixed a coffeetable. And there was this bike dude Jason, an American doing PhD work at the huge engineering school in Delft. “Bike handling” – what a program! Live in Holland, the center of the bicycle universe, and study bikes all day every day with other bike nerds. Wow. He has a totally bike-centro blog on http://www.moorebicycles.blogspot.com/

In the morning I went to the train station to meet the TV crew for the interview. My television debut, how exciting! While I was waiting, I spoke congenially with an elderly couple – seeing my loaded bike there had reminded them of their youth, and a few happy weeks touring across Europe on bikes. Then the charismatic producer appeared – I think he had been spying on me beforehand – and bought me coffee and food. A couple minutes later, a smooth TV personality in a black suit and red tie arrived with the camera guy, and we went out into the rain to do the interview. This slick fella, a Turkish-descent, well-manicured celebrity, standing with the coldsore on his lip away from the camera, was one of “De Jakhalzen” – a small, comedic relief portion of a show called De Wereld Draait Door – The World Keeps Spinning, Holland’s most popular primetime show. He offered me to stand under his umbrella with him – “Uhh, no thanks… when it rains, I just get wet.” And so he put up his umbrella and got wet too – probably his wettest interview ever =P
They put a mic and wireless battery thingy on me and began rolling. Within minutes I got the gist – they weren’t here to give me an opportunity to promote alternative methods of transportation; I was the opportunity. This wasn’t unbiased journalism, this was comedy television. He started asking me questions about Americans thinking they were heroes and leaving messes behind – read: US foreign policy – trying to get a rise out of me or hoping I’d slip up and say something they could shamelessly edit for millions of Dutch people to laugh at over their dinner ofstampot. I didn’t slip – I was actually surprised how cool I was on camera. He prodded me on my trust in humankind – “People LIE, man!” – and tried to get me to ridiculously ask people at the station if I could stay with them tonight. Then, as we’re talking about what I eat and what equipment I carry, he gestures behind him – “Your bike, I mean, it must weigh a lot… hey – where is your bike?”

Oh. My. God. My bike was gone.

Minutes earlier, out of the corner of my eye, I had seen someone move it, but I was almost positive it was the producer, and I just thought he was putting it somewhere better. I could tell it was a gag – no wonder the producer was dressed like a bike thief – and they had been planning it the whole time. The camera kept taping, but I don’t think I gave them the reaction they were hoping for; I told him to call his producer. “Oh he’s putting money in the meter, is he?” “If this isn’t a gimmick, then yes, I do want you to call the police.” The jackal tried to keep the joke going, but eventually the guy came back and we had a laugh. Dicks.
The only fun part was when they taped me riding, shadowing me in their car. They had already told me it was okay, even encouraged, to swear, so when there was another cyclist coming, I told them, with genuine rancor, to “Get the fu€k out of his way, give the man some room!” And they got some good shots of me saying, “I’m not in any hurry.”
In the end, they seemed like pretty cool guys, despite the whole rape-you-for-laughs veneer; I think they were actually feeling a little guilty when they left. And I learned an important lesson – a dubious prospect for promoting my message is not worth my integrity. I’ve got a good sense of humor, and my dignity isn’t much of a foundation for my ego, but still – the last thing I want is to make bicycle touring seem laughable.

Their bigwig emailed me and said they’d air it in one or two days. I wanted to see it, of course, but we decided to hit the road and just try and find a TV to watch it on wherever we happened to be. I picked up a little leather case from the squat’s free-shop, for my spice kit; we said goodbye, and pedalled off in the drizzle.
We passed through Den Haag and Rotterdam on our way to the coast, and followed the North Sea Southwards, battling the wind – it’s not a good sign when there’s a hundred huge wind turbines, all pointing in your direction and spinning like mad – and crossing the mighty dykes that hold back the sea. Fifty percent of the Netherlands(literally the “low land”) is below sea level, and much of the country’s land was actually manufactured – as in: erect a big wall, fill the sea with dirt, drain off any leftover water, and build houses. And somehow it works; they used to use old-tech windmill-driven pumps, but now it’s all electronic I guess. Hope global warming doesn’t wipe ‘em out!

First night out, we stopped in Renesse for water and to try to find a TV. Water was easy, but people weren’t offering their cozy sitting rooms to two dirty hobos. We did, however, get a lead on a Christian vicar whose home is an official stop for pilgrims on the famous Santiago de Campostela trail – which is actually in Spain, but people head there from much, much farther away. We found his house and his wife was appropriately welcoming. She invited us in, fed us coffee and biscuits, and spoke politely before going back to what she was doing. When Peter the Priest got home, he gave me the official Santiago de Campostela bike-pilgrim stamp and agreed to watch De Wereld Draait Door with us. And we were treated to a great family dinner! Their son said it was great to have guests – “Mom always cooks better food when there are guests.”
But my segment didn’t show, and after the credits rolled, sitting there a little embarrassed, Peter told us that he and his family “had their own program for the evening.” It was a polite eviction. We were more than a little surprised – what priest kicks out two poor travelers after dark, anyway? Maybe he thought we were just conning him for a meal and a place to stay…. But they had been more than hospitable already, and anyway, we had a tent. We found a sign out at some rural crossroads that said “Camping –> 2 km” and the grass under the sign was looking pretty lush… we pitched up right there in the ditch and laid in our winter hats and gloves, looking at the stars.

The next day we passed through Goes and stopped at the library to check on De Wereld Draait Door – the bigwig said she would email me – but the library was closed. There was an intercom though, and after I brazenly buzzed it, someone actually answered! After a quick explanation, she agreed to let me in and use the internet – in a closed library! I love public libraries, hot damn! But of course there was no info on my segment. Shyeh, media.
Next door at a cafe we decided to have a hot cup of tea – it wasn’t warm in the Netherlands, by any definition, in early March. We passed a pair of beer-bellied and bearded old codgers outside; they asked where we were from(America! No! Australia!) and I complimented one of them on his crystal pendants. Minutes later, he comes inside and approaches our table with almost zero English, proffers his card(Bert – he’s a drum-maker), gives Lily one of his pendants(!), a rose quartz, and intimates that if we ever come to Katendijk, he will find space for us. Nice! Thanks old dude! Now, where’s Katendijk….
We found it on the map and it really wasn’t too far out of our way. We figured this was a chance to hang out with some locals – Bert was true Dutch for sure – and maybe even have a warm place to sleep for a change. Lily, having grown up in Vanuatu and Australia, is accustomed to tropical paradise – her first time seeing snow was last winter – and despite a few tricks up my sleeve to keep her warm, she was hurtin’ in those frosty nights.
So we pedalled to Katendijk to look for Bert. It wasn’t a big town but we didn’t see the street, so we went back to the bar to ask for directions, and who’s there drinking beer but our friend Bert! Of course he’s in the pub!
Lily bought him a beer and we chatted, but soon our common language was exhausted, and an awkward silence settled over the afternoon village pub. It seemed Bert couldn’t put us up in his place – some big mess, I gathered – and his girlfriend was sick or something…. He made phone calls, he spoke to the other brooding clientele; he looked embarrassed, he looked apologetic; we tried to tell him that any dirty corner of the floor was more than enough, but by the end of the beer, it was obvious we’d be out in the cold again. Thanks anyway Bert!

We never did find a warm place to sleep in Zuidland, but we huddled close and kept the pedals pumpin’. And we never did see the segment on De Wereld Draait Door – maybe they decided I hadn’t acted enough of a fool to make anything out of it. Probably for the best.

We traveled. We smiled and joked and flirted and said “hoi dag” to everyone we passed. We met strangers and were given stroopwaffles and pannenkaken. A woman delivering mail said she’d invite us for coffee if she wasn’t working. There were no hills, just gloriously flat bike paths along the dykes, with Dutch village roofs sticking up over the ridge and a cramped Dutch countryside full of sheep and horses.

Nearing the Belgian border, we were confronted with the Westerschelde, the huge estuary that connects Antwerp with the North Sea. As far west as we were, there was only a ferry service… but with one look in my eyes, Lily agreed to cycle east and find a different way. Farther on, we found a tunnel that goes under it – you can take your bike, and it’s free, but you and your bike have to get on a bus… sorry Lil, I don’t take buses either. A bit inconvenient, perhaps, but this just meant that we had to cycle all the way to the bridge crossing over the River Schelde, and in lieu of visiting Brugge or Gent, to reach Brussels via Antwerp instead.

Shortly before this massive industrial port city, we came to the town of Putte – the border town. We weren’t sure if this was pronounced like “putin,” the French word for asshole, so to confirm I asked some random girl, “Excuse me, which village is this?” I caught up to Lily, reporting, “That girl just called me an asshole!” They speak French, as well as Dutch, in Belgium – maybe the town got its name from border arguments year after year… “Putin!” “Tu putin!” “Non, tu putin!” “Mais non, TU putin!”

We didn’t see any huge sign saying, “Welcome to Belgique,” so I asked another cyclist if we were in Belgium yet – oops, it was a quarter mile ago. We went back for photos – no Belgium sign, just the Antwerp Province sign, but we still took the obligatory border shots. As we were preparing to continue – Lily was actually in the Netherlands, and I was in Belgium – tons of police started arriving by car and van-load, Dutch and Belgian both…. at first I was confused, but then I remembered which border this was. “The Netherlands…. riiiight. They’re setting up a roadblock to check for drugs.” Most of the cops just eyed us with passing interest, but one young buck approached me, saying something in Dutch, then English: “Where are you coming from?” Uh oh.

What I said was “Madison, Wisconsin,” which, thankfully, confused him slightly and pointed him in a “Wow, a world-wide bike tour” direction instead of a “We’re going to search you” direction, which is probably the way it would’ve gone if I had answered with “Netherlands,” or worse, “Amsterdam.” And I think they wouldn’t have been too pleased with a couple of the particular Dutch souvenirs I had stowed away in my panniers…. close. Too close for comfort! But before things got too involved, we saddled up and took off, and the Belgian police wished us a poorly translated “Good trip!”

Now why don’t they just say “bon voyage” like any other English speaker?