Last ride of the Euro Velo 6

The "last day" blog really should start the evening before the last day, when we rode into Nantes, France. This river-front, bustling city is full of French charm and urban sprawl and seems to go on forever. We made it into town around four in the afternoon, and our map showed us a few decent locations for camping nearby, so we had some time to visit the city. For three of the camping grounds we saw no signs, no caravans and no camping ground. We asked several people along the way and they all shook their heads, asked how old our map was and told us that their hadn't been camping here in years. Drat. We rode around aimlessly for awhile and then back into the city, where we had heard a camp ground truly existed. we found a carnival next to a beautiful church, a college and finally the camping ground... BUT it was closed for the season. Double drat. It was starting to get late, and we had no real options for sleeping. free camping is pretty impossible in a city, and only vaguely possible once we made it outside the city sprawl. There was a campground about 30km out of town, and if we rode with all our reflective gear and flashing lights on, we could probably make it there by ten or eleven at night.

We set of following a fairly nice bike lane down a busy city road towards the coast. We had just barely made it to where the traffic was decreasing and the city was starting to give way to suburbs when a nice looking silver car pulled up next to us and rolled down the window. Inside was a young, well-dressed french man and asked us where we were headed. He said that he had toured Europe for nine months on a bike with a friend, and he wanted to help out a fellow cyclist. He told us the road was "no good" and we must not go any further, and offered for us to stay "chez moi" meaning at his home. He seemed genuine enough and the offer of staying in a warm home with a bed was a much better offer than the cold, dark ride we had in front of us. We agreed, and he led the way back through the city (back-tracking through the same places we had been for the third time that day). He drove slowly with his flashers on in the bike lane,and we hurried to keep up with him. He led us to a grouping of nice apartment buildings and showed us inside. His flat was the smallest apartment I've ever been in, with just a small kitchenette and living space, adjacent to a small bedroom, toilet closet, and small shower/laundry room. He lived there with his pretty, blond girlfriend, who had decorated the place to look really cozy and sweet. the place was so impossibly spotless and tidy I felt immediately like a barn-yard animal caught in a church. We all sort-of awkwardly introduced ourselves (their names were Thomas and Mary) and showed us some photos of his own cycling adventure. You couldn't help but be impressed: he had traveled through twenty-one countries through snow, rain and sun. He boasted of his record of twenty days without a shower, and record 80 kph downhill speed. Between my French, his English and local wine, we passed the night easily chatting about cycling and eating cheese.
We slept on an amazingly comfortable cot, and in the morning Mary made us petitdejeune and then rode on her bike with us to the edge of town, where she showed us a good way out of the city. And to think that the French are rude and selfish. Nonsense! People in general are rude and selfish, but every country, every town and every subdivision there are a few true gems just waiting to be found.

The door that got us a free drink

We hadn't gone but 30km when I stopped in a small community to take a photo of an old church door across the street. A middle-aged man leaned over the railing of a small porch of a local bar and inquired loudly where we were traveling. We've gotten used to this aggressive sort of conversation style, many people we've come across have no problem imploring into your life. This man was really interested in what we were doing with our bikes and all that stuff in his little town. We said we on a trip through Europe, having traveled over three thousand kilometers so far. This floored him. "TROIS MIL KILOMETERS?" his excitements reached epic proportions "Trois mil? Ooooh! Venu! Venu! You must come for drink!" He was practically hopping with enthusiasm. To be honest, he was in a bar with some rather local-yocal fellows and I wouldn't be surprised if the table they were sitting at had perminate marks from their butts being constantly there. Nonetheless, he shook Todds hand and kissed my cheeks and ordered us a drink. We were introduced to the other fellows at the table, and they all asked about our little trip. Where we had been, where we were going, were we crazy? When we finished our drink, our new friend took off his imaginary hat to us and place it on his heart, wishing us "Bon Traval! Bon Courage! Bon Chance!"Then he gave us his address, begging for a postcard and yelled out some cheesy stuff roughly translating to "I give you all my heart in respect and adoration" (something that only sounds good in French) and waved au revoir!

We made it to the coast by late afternoon, and stopped outside the tourist information center to find out where we could camp. A nice French guy from Bordeaux carrying a trailer full of camping gear said "Bonjour!" and struck up a conversation. Cyclists are so good about always chatting each other up. Turns out he had just biked from Bordeaux (the next big city on our route) and had a couple maps he didn't need. It was great! so far, we have been just giving away tons of maps, we usually are traveling the opposite direction of the other cyclists and just end up giving away our maps... but for once, we got a map! What a superb last day.

We headed for the best campsite around and booked two nights. This place is like resort camping and we took advantage of the place and jumped into the heated indoor pool (it's getting pretty cold this time of year, the outdoor pool just wasn't appealing). There were only two other couples in the entire place, one middle aged, and one elderly, and no attendants on the slides... so we figured we'd just make ourselves at home. The two couples watched us going down the slides as if they had no idea someone besides an eight-year-old ever slide down them. Pretty soon however, they joined us (it just takes one crazy person to influence the masses!)and we had a heck of a good time.

They had a nice restaurant on the camping ground, so we cleaned ourselves up (meaning, I put on my one skirt and mascara and Todd put on a shirt) and made our way to the restaurant. We celebrated making it to the ocean with a bottle of wine and a lovely french dinner. After we ate, we took a walk down to the beach and climbed onto a big rock and watched the moonlight dance on the water. We did it...the plane left us in the middle of Eastern Europe, and we found our way to the Atlantic Ocean.

Now we just have to make it to my job in two weeks (no prob).

Frenchies and Baguettes

After crossing the Black Forest, we rode across the border of  France to Mulhouse. We ended up getting ourselves royally lost and on a deserted major highway late at night. Somehow we made it into the large industrial town in time to find that the only campground was closed and gated for the night. It was past ten at night and we had been cycling for well over 100km... Hungry and exhausted we finally found a hostel and booked two nights. We made it to France, the country where I will be living for the next eight months.

It didn't take long after entering France to notice the subtle changes in landscape. The Terra is much dryer, with thin grassy vegetation and rocky soil. The buildings are made of a lot of stone and brick, and the oldest ones have taken on a weather-beaten slate color which blends into the dry landscape.Gothic churches, miles of vineyards and cobblestone roads greeted us to France, where the bike paths are nicer than the roadways, and the people are always fishing.

I found at once that speaking french is entirely necessary, seeing that many people don't speak English, or if they do, they pretend they don't. I have gotten quite good at asking where there is camping and ordering food. However, french in France is a bit difference then French in a classroom in American.

 At a cafe in Besancon (a very beautiful beautiful city) we got to talking with the Barista, who spoke nearly perfect English. Turns out, he had studied Food Science at Madison and was just beside himself to find two Wisconsin bikers in his Cafe. He pulled up a chair next to us and we talked about everything under the sun. I told him how hard it was to speak French, and how sometimes even though I think I am speaking French to someone, they don't understand me at all and don't listen to a word I say! "I should practice speaking like I have an apple in my mouth!" I teased him, and to which he quickly responded "And to speak American ,we just speak with a hot-potato in our mouths!" which he then demonstrated by moving his mouth like a Muppet on speed, accompanied by loud screech-grunting and frantic, painful gestures. I think he frightened the whole cafe!

France, with its beautiful country side and lovely towns, reminds me often of America. Strip malls and burger joints, run down communities and miles upon miles upon miles of horrible road construction. everywhere you look there is a "deviation" (detour) and you find yourself on pothole infested back roads.

We took a day off to see Orleans, a cultural mecca of France and gateway to Paris and all things fashionable, only to find the city center a bocked off and tore up, completely devastated with construction. We passed a cafe where several of the construction men were taking a break, overlooking their chaos and destruction of bulldozers and cranes. That's one thing I will never understand about France. The entire country shuts down between noon and two pm all of the shops, bakeries, pharmacies, just shut their blinds and turn away customers for a two hour lunch break. If they feel like it I suppose, the towns wake back up around two and life begins again as normal. Maybe if they worked an entire day through, the country wouldn't be crying from bankruptcy and broken roads!

Ah France. So many of the things said about you are so true. Shes a country of great pride, great food and great wine... and everybody loves the word "petite".I'd reckon it's the most important word to know in French, except for maybe toilette, or baguette. Petite ami(e) is a boyfriend/girlfriend, petit dejuene is breakfast, petit pan is a roll, petit(e)-fil(es) is grandson(daughter), faire un petit somme is a nap every restaurant tries to sneak in France tries to sneak in the word somewhere in their store front,there are probably more "petit cafes" in france than any other shop name.

Once, hungry and lost, Todd and I succumbed to eating at a subway. We try to avoid the American establishments at all costs, but sometimes, when your blinded by hunger pains, an American fast food restaurant is sometimes unavoidable.

Looking back, I should have known. I really should have. The advertisement in the store window displayed the "limited time offer" of "petite sandwiches for the petite appetite!". Pictured on the sign were seven tasty bite-sized sandwiches for only "one euro a piece!". In my mind-numbing hunger I tried to decide if ounce-for-ounce it would pay off to order all seven flavors rather than a foot-long (excuse me, thirty-centimeter) sandwich.

When I walked into the store the large, bored expression on the sandwich artistas face made me somehow realize she had much better things to do than make me fourteen mini sandwiches (seven for me, seven for Todd). And so, I hehmed and hawed over what to order, clearly I was a bit lost among all the French options at the subway. In American, man,do I have that ordering at Subway thing DOWN. I'm like a subway-ordering master. But somehow, I had no idea how to order a sub in France. This clearly annoyed the 17-year-old artista, who was more interested in going back to reading her "People FRANCE edition" and chain smoking on the terrace. Somehow, i mustered up the courage to order two 30 centimeter sandwiches, and was doing my best to convince her to put all the toppings available on the sandwich, which clearly annoyed her.Not only did did I have a hard time pronouncing "concumbre" but I quite obviously was making her do too much work. she cut me off during a pathetic attempt to get a few more than three measly tomates with some mumbled question i assumed meant "what sort of dressing?" and that's where I blanked. up until then, I was doing pretty good with the french-speaking thing in the exchange, but suddenly, the only dressing type word I could remember in French was mutard, meaning mustard, and the next question I totally didn't understand, so I just responded with the fail-safe "oui!"

I paid and sprinted out of the store, with a giant-sized ice tea and two french-style foot-longs doused in mustard. Todd and I ripped away the paper and gnawed off a huge bite. Immediately my eyes welled up, my nose started to run and the inside of my mouth screamed in anguish. Todd and I locked pain-stricken, crying eyes and threw down the offending sandwiches in horror. Apparently I had ordered us the tear-gas flavored sandwiches. It must be a terrible joke. The mustard must have been only mustard in color and consistency, because the taste was pure anguish.I dove for the ice tea and drank in huge,grateful gulps and then ripped open the offensive sandwich and used every napkin and scrap of paper possible to scrape off the yellow sauce of death. Todd, on the other hand (apparently he felt a need to prove his manliness) hurriedly ate the poisonous mess in large bites while tears streamed down his face. It was a somber meal.

Besides subway, the food in France is, as you would expect, delicious. I've never eaten so much bread in my life! I think that if I could choose what I become in my next life, I would choose to become a french baguette. Imagine! To be something so praised and valued by an entire culture!A baguette is so incredibly french, its crusty yet soft, good for dippin in sauces or soup, or making into a sandwich. Every day you see dozens of french people, old ladies with scarfs on their heads, dashing young french men, cafe owners and little kids with baguettes under their arms, sticking out of a backpack or a basket on their bikes. At campgrounds, during check-in I answer the questions: "how many people?" "Tent or caravan?" "Do you need electricity?" and "How many baguettes do you want in the morning?" To be honest, they are truly an absurd food (like a three-foot-long bread stick)... but that's part of their charm. What's not to love about a food that doubles as a baseball bat when left outside for a few days?

There are plenty of other wonderful things to eat in France. We've taken to almost daily portions of crepes,pain au chocolate, and crocq monsieurs. And the french take their food VERY seriously. The most serious meal is the evening meal, which is to be eaten exactly before the sky is completely dark (whatever time that may be). One night, around seven in the evening, Todd and I were making the serious and luxurious dinner of instant mashed potatoes and lentil soup when the clouds suddenly turned black and it began to downpour with furiosity. We quickly ran under a small overhang outside the toilet shed with our tarp full of eating utensils bread and random bits of food. A couple had made it there before us, and had carried their little folding table with their flowers, candle, wine, five-course steak dinner and folding chairs into the area as well. We waited until the rain let up a bit and then Todd ran to get our pot, which had previously been boiling water. Somehow the little stove was still cooking away, and Todd proundly brought back a pot full of steaming hot water. We stood there, eating our nursing-home-worthy no-chewing-required dinner, and watched the rain. Just happy to be dry, with warm food.

Now, I'm not saying that one way is better than another, but most of the time I think we look like hobos compaired to the frenchies. We go all out every now and again and get a bottle of wine, and make a nice dinner (tonight we had vegtable. stir-fry with creamy polenta). But even then, we couldn't do it without the help of a french person. You see, we dont have a wine bottle opener, but we love wine. fortuinately for us, most of our wine nights there has either been a french person nearby or we've been in France.

You see, you don't even need a wine bottle opener, you just need a frenchie. When we have wine, Todd just gives me the bottle and says "Go practice your french Kelly." and I trot off to find the nearest camper it doesn't take long, to find someone, and it's almost like they see me comin' with my bottle of wine. I barely have to even ask and somebody whips out an opener (always the good old fashion kinds too) and puts on a big production of opening the wine for me. They examine the bottle, comment on the year, comment on the  winery, laugh because they know it was cheap, and then proceed to open the bottle like they've been opening wine since birth. It's really great. I don't think I would even take a wine bottle opener if you gave it to me, how else would I practice my french? I usually have grand conversations with my wine-opening-friends. They ask about our trip and where we are from, give me advice about roads and good food in the next cities we'll be in. They usually laugh at my accent, and all talk at once so it's super hard for me to understand them, but they really don't care. I think they just like opening wine.

And so, we started in Mulhouse, and followed the Rhine Southeast to Besancon, and then Digoin. Here we caught up with the Loire and started traveling Northwest up to Nevers and then on to Gien and Orleans. Here we began again traveling Southwest to Blois, Tours, Saumur, Angers and finally here, to Nantes. The trip started getting really cool once we made to the Loire. There is a local route called the "Loire a Velo" and is very well marked. The Loire itself is one of the coolest rivers I've ever seen. The whole thing is really shallow, and some areas are almost completely dry, and covered in these gorgeous sandbars. The current is slow and peaceful and the communities surrounding the river are just really darn neat. Cities have been built along the Loire for countless centuries, making these beautiful towns filled with so much culture and ancient air. In Austria and Germany, it was the landscape that captivates you... here in France, its the towns. And the castles. Phew! So many castles, and fortresses and mansions built into the sandstone and looking out onto the river. We took a tour of one outside of Orleans called Chateau De Villandy. The castle was the last of the great castles built along the Loire, and it was chock full of great stories and beautiful gardens. We spent a lovely afternoon touring the labyrinths and marveling at the great halls. This is the sort of thing that really reminds you that you're in France.

The weather is starting to get cooler, and even here there seems to be that fall switch into school mode. The schools have begun to fill with students and you can hear them laughing and playing on playgrounds as we bike past. After we crossed into September, we suddenly found ourselves fairly alone along the windy bends of vineyards and long stretches of forests and tiny towns. I'm getting nervous/anxious to start my job, but we're also trying to milk out the last beautiful days of our epic ride. More to come.

A note about "Free Camping"

A Note about free camping

I love to camp. I love everything about it. I love sleeping inches away from the world around you. I love listening to the rain while I'm tucked away in my tent, and never getting wet. I love cooking over a little camp stove, and coming up with creative dinners.I love taking my home with me in a little bag, and setting it up wherever I want.I love people watching at campgrounds... oh man. Some of the worlds most interesting people go to campgrounds in their rusty old RVs and old lawn furniture. When we slept outside of Nevers We had a hobo-looking man in a child's tent to our left, a hole heap of carnival looking people piled into a big tent in our front yard, a woman wearing a chefs apron making the most fancy looking dinner I've ever seen to our right, a duo of dirt bike dudes blaring music and doing that male-ego thing, a couple in an RV who thought this was just the berries, and laid out half-naked till then sun went down. I'm telling ya, camping is awesome.

Each campground in Europe, we've found, has its strange little quirks. In Germany you had to pay for your shower (usually a euro for 5 minutes), almost everywhere you camped. In France, showers are free... but they don't provide you with toilet paper, toilet seats, or hand soap in co-ed bathrooms. And then there's free camping

Free camping is the art of camping... for free. The rules are: 1) Wait until it's almost dark 2) find a hidden and safe location 3)Leave in the early morning 4)don't get caught. Almost every cyclist we've talked to understands and abides by these general rules, and they usually include their own. Such as, camping above traffic rather than below, having dinner in the desired free-camp location, asking farmers if they mind you sleeping in their fields,using a green or dark tent,stick to forests and densely covered areas, avoid public places and parks. Here's the part that gets me;
"Nobody cares if you free camp in France, everybody does it, and besides-- it's legal! Just be smart about it and don't get caught."

So, it's legal (apparently) but you have to hide. Does that seem odd to anyone but me? I dunno, maybe people get a real kick out of being sneaky
putting up a tent along the side of the road. Sure, you save a couple bucks, but you're not getting a shower, you can't sleep in, there's no fresh water there's nowhere to wash your dishes, there's no bathroom, there's nobody to talk to... and you're not going to get a full nights sleep. BUT! Everybody does it. It's almost like this secret club that you have to be a part of. When we crossed the border to France, the amount of cyclist we see by day increased, but the amount of cyclists we see at campgrounds has almost shrank to zero. C'mon, that's part of the fun! I love meeting other cyclists; talking about your trips,
discussing tomorrow's ride or the weather, comparing gear...and now, nothin'.

Alright, so I'd be lying to say Todd and I have never free camped. Sometimes, it's the only option: it's getting dark, there isn't a campground for 30 more kilometers and you are dead tired. We follow the rules, and find a safe spot...but we never sleep well. I'm tense the entire time and become startled by the slightest sound "Todd! Did you hear that? What was that!" I become this bundle of nerves... just awaiting my crucifiction when the farmer sees my tent parked in the grass
next to his corn field. Bottom line is, we don't like it.

Maybe Europeans (French) are more lenient with their property laws, and for them, it's not a big deal. But I think, as an American, Private property is just that, private. I think that just about every American I know would have had a coronary if they woke up and saw some rando camping in their backyard. You'd get slapped with every sort of trespassing, disturbing the peace, general misdemeanor law that's out there.

And so, this is my blogging justification of why Todd and I are willing to fork over the eight or ten euro a night to sleep in a designated campground. We sure do miss all the other cyclists, but we're having a good time hanging out with the French version of the Griswald family "That there's an R.V." Caravan Camping lands.

Rainy days of Germany

Well friends, here we are, in our destination country of France. A lot has happened between the lazy afternoon of Dunaworth Germany and here! It is now September and we have less than a month to finish the trip!
After passing through the middle of Germany, we spent long days riding through flooded plains and sleeping next to cornfields. The days were long and uneventful. Full of getting lost and admiring all the fancy German Audi's, Porches, and Volkswagens, parked in steep gravel driveways next to old farm houses. Somewhere along the journey, the landscape changed and the sun came out. We rode along through adorable step-back-in-time villages where the world seems to move a bit slower, with stronger purpose.

The route took twists along limestone covered bluffs, meandering along a small stream. The huge tourists cruise ships and barges of the Danube were gone... and instead the mighty river had become this delicate trickling brook which was sometimes lost among the wildflowers and forest covered hills. We were nearing the source of the Danube. This great river had been our guide and our compass, leading us through the European world along its shores. We always knew we were headed the right direction if we could find the river and travel against its mighty current. Once we out rode the Danube, we had to find our way ourselves.

We spent two days climbing through gravel paths along the mountainous landscape before we reached the source in Donaueschingen. The actual reaching of the source was a sort of anticlimactic experience. Several hundred years ago, the churchy folk of Donaueschingen had decided to make what they determined to be the source into a sanctuary for God. The little bubbling well was lined with brick and adorned with cherubs.

After we left the Danube, we we're like two little lost puppys trying to find a map. We ended up on the outskirts of some town and Todd looked at me and said "left or right?" we decided to skip the "easy" route down into Switzerland (we were feeling cheep)and instead tackle the path right through the Black Forest. Using a road map, and lots of luck, we somehow managed to make our way through forest. We climbed for 2 straight days and free camped along the side of the highest point on an abandoned loggers road. The next day we didn't touch the pedals for an hour and coasted into the mountain side community.

I must say, the experience of biking over a mountain range with all your belongings is humbling... and there were a few times I wasn't too proud to get off and walk my bike up a particularly rocky and steep incline. Yet it was entirely worth it to be inside that old, majestic forest.

Before we reached that point however, we shared the gravel path with families, day-trippers and avid cyclists. This is the most beautiful thing about traveling by bike. There is this intimate feeling you encounter with the landscape and the people that is unlike any other type of traveling. You can feel the slightest temperature change, and sweeping through towns and past people you can catch wisps of life on the breeze, the smell of a bakery or laundry waving in the wind, a snippet of conversation or radio playing in someones car.

When we left, I said that I wanted an authentic European experience. I didn't want to take the well traveled path and end up in hostels, talking to twenty-somethings from California. I wanted to meet the salt-of-the-earth Germans and hang out with Frenchies and compare accents with chicks from London. Well, did I ever get that wish granted. We have met so few Americans that people actually do a double take when we tell them where we came from. In Germany, people assumed that we were German and would greet us rapidly in German, or shout little German well-wishes as we passed by on our bikes. If they took the time to talk to us, they usually thought we were from Great Britain, Ireland, Canada or Australia... never did anyone guess the U.S. unless we were staying in a hostel.

The best part of being able to blend in with the locals (until we opened our big mouths) was that they were so flipping friendly to us. We were just one of the gang and people were so willing to help out. On several occasions, we'd be just riding along, having a merry old time, when we would hear someone following us on bike. Sometimes they would whistle casually to get our attention, or wait for a clearing to ride along side us, mostly they would just pounce on us if we stopped at an intersection. Once the well-wishing German had our attention, he, (generally it was a dude) would break the ice with some rapid German joke, that he would end up being the only one laughing at. We would feel bad and stammer back with "Nicht Spreken De Deutch!Ze Spreken English?" and they would say "A little!" and they proceeded to talk to us in fluent English.

Usually the conversation was "Where are you going?" and they would demand to see our maps, and tell us the best route to get there. These friendly folk would give us tips, tell us cool cities to stop in and generally just tell us things we already knew like; "Ulm is 50 kilometers that way, the direction that you are going." Thanks dude.

Our favorite friendly biker was this sixty-something guy from Freiburg. He fit the description well: on a bike and retired. He stopped Todd at an intersection right outside town and struck up a conversation. It was raining and we had a big day ahead of us (we had spent the night before in the Black Forest and were hoping to make it to France that night). and I was just anxious to go. But, this guy was persistent, and he was thrilled that we were American. "I love biking American!" he said "I biked Death Valley four times with my son, three times in summer!" The guy is clearly nuts, but you couldn't resist his upbeat zest for life.

I conceded to having a chat with him on the side of the road. He asked how we like Frieburg, and we bashfully admitted that we had just biked along the out-skirts and skipped the town center. We were in a hurry to get to France and our map was written in German, so we didn't know one cool thing from the other and probably ended up missing quite a bit.

For our German friend though, this was terrible! How could we miss his beautiful town of Freiburg! He insisted that we follow him and he would give us a tour of Freiburg. It's impossible to argue with a German, so we decided to follow him back to the city. He cheerfully led the way through the busy streets, whistling and gabbing all the while about his town. "It is Famous!" he insisted. The guy was a charmer.

His name was Walter, he hadn't owned a car in 30 years and spent his days as a retired school superintendent riding bike and chilling out in the black forest. He took us straight away to the town Zentrum to see the "largest and most famous Cathedral." We stood in a quick moment of silence, admiring the flying buttresses and sharp steeples through the misting rain. Walter broke the silence with "You like sausage?" (only in Germany would this question be appropriate and normal.) Todd responded that yes, indeed we did like sausage. "You are hungry?" he asked "Freiburg has famous sausages!"

Before you could say "extra mustard", we found ourselves in a little open air market where he ordered us each a sausage. He insisted on paying in a way that only Germans can do,(you just don't argue with Germans). Once we finished our sausages (which, by the way, were quite tasty) he told us "I watch your bikes, you go look at the cathedral." Now, normally, I would never agree to such an outrageous proposal.... but you couldn't help trusting the guy, really, what else better did we have to do? There really wasn't room to argue anyway, he pretty much just told us what to do. And so, we took a stroll through the big church building, lit a candle for Todd's newborn nephew, and came back outside to find Walter, standing guard over our bikes. "You like it?" he asked, "it is famous!"

By now, we had realized that everything is famous in Freiburg. "You like fruit?" asked our eager tour guide "Freiburg has famous... uh uh, I don't know word in English... like cherry and plums!" It was as if he was standing there, waiting for us to come back out, thinking of all the things one must not leave Freiburg without experiencing. He cheerfully led us to another stand that sold these delicate little plums, called mirabelle. He bought a bagful and hooked it on the handle of my bike, and before I could protest, he asked: "You like Honey?" and then, (you guessed it)"Our honey is famous! Black Forest Honey!" He skipped off to a different stand, where he bought us two jars of honey. "A present!" he said "Famous honey from Freiburg."

Walter continued to lead us around the city, and finally stopped outside the Rat Haus to show us a plaque on the ground boasting of all the sister cities of Freiburg. Sure enough, good ol' Madison Wisconsin has a little plaque, right there in the town square. He took a photo of the two of us standing next to it and continued to babble on about Freiburg and all sorts of knowledge he had. I think he knew we were anxious to get back on the road, and feeling satisfied that he had showed us

some of the more famous parts of Freiburg, he started leading us back to the bike route. We walked our bikes along the "famous" river that flows through the streets of Freiburg. Some smart fellow had coaxed the river into flowing through a sort-of tile-lined gutter thoughout the city. The stream (Walter told us) was lined with polished rocks from the Rhine river. Indeed, it was the most beautiful gutter-river I had ever seen. In his excitement over the little stream, Walter lost his step and tripped right into the water.

He made such a burst of fright that we both thought that he had seriously hurt himself during the fall. "This is very bad, very bad indeed." said the suddenly quite somber man, "This brings much bad news into my life." We had no idea what he was talking about, but he lowered his voice and told us of the misfortune he was now in "When one falls into the river ... it means he must be married soon." He was truly unsettled by such an idea. "You are not married Walter?" I asked. "Oh no. Never!" It was clear that up until that point he intended to keep it that way. Poor bachelor Walter!

He eventually recovered from his misfortune and bid us farewell and good journeys along the rest of our trip. We pedaled away, with our plums and honey in tow. He was certainly the kind of person you don't forget easily.

Later that day, before we crossed the border to France, we came upon the Rhine river. Across the way we could see France, where I will be calling home for the next eight months or so. As a farewell to Germany, we stopped in a grocery store and bought a couple pints of good German beer, and sat on a park bench overlooking the river and ate sausage and mustard sandwich's washed down with lukewarm German lager. Life is good. We crossed the border into France with a slight beer buzz and excitements for the next stage of the journey.