Awesome Road Signs of Europe



please. no cute puppys on beach. it makes the ugly muts jealous.



I want to know whose car they used to demonstrate?



Beware. Your car will explode in 1000m if travel this way.




Risk of wild tree attack



mostly funny because three of these things we did anyway.



there's nothing seriously wrong with this sign. it just makes me think "you are the weakest link. Goodbye"



I never been spoiled by iodized air, but I think I will anwser that call to evasion.



Caution. running figures will excape the signs and explode

 


Somebody used google translate... fess up!

 

the best part about this, is that it's not even a push, it's a pull lever.



The coast of France... to the mountains of Pau.

When I was a little girl, I used to keep a very juicy diary. I imagined my diary to be my friend, like some heavenly person who wanted nothing more than to know what I had for dinner or what boy I was crushing on. When I was too busy to keep diary updated on my comings-and-goings, I would always tell diary sorry. Sorry diary, I have been too busy with my life to stop and tell you about it.

Now that people actually READ my diary… I am sorry that I have not updated this blog for such a long time. It is not finished, I simply took a siesta.

Since I last wrote, we rode down the coast of France and made our way into sweet little Pau. The homecoming was grand; riding straight south towards the magnificent Pyrénées. The first few weeks trying to live here in Pau were a complete shock to the system…. but now I have settled, and have a small piece of my brain available to try and comprehend this past month, I begin again!

The month was August, nights were cold, and we entered a leg of the trip unlike any other. Gone was the guidebook giving us hints, trails, maps, details… instead, we had Michelin maps and a compass and a bit of creativity. We only ended up on a few highways (highways make Kelly very unhappy) and only got stuck in a random crop field with random cows and random old French farmers once.

On the subject of entertainment:

Let’s be real, this whole trip was entertaining. But when there weren’t any kilt or beret wearing old men or people dressed up like characters from a si-fi film to people watch, or beautiful castles or rivers or mountains… or immense amounts of traffic to avoid, we had to come up with other ways to not fall asleep on the two wheels.

First we started an “American classics” book club, (not so much of a club actually, we didn’t find anyone else to join in fact). We read The Great Gatspy and Catcher in the Rye together in the tent— gag-me cute. Actually, to clarify, I would read and Todd would fall asleep. Although the next day he would always ask me “so what happened in the story last night?” as if I hadn’t just read it out loud to him while he snored.

Eventually we reached a point where we couldn’t find American classics in the stores any longer (no way!) and instead we took turns telling books and movies from our past. Todd recited (with surprising accuracy) Arnold Schwarzenegger classic, Collateral Damage, the Doom series and the real story behind everybody’s favorites shelled-heroes Michelangelo, Donatello and Raphael. I told him the Twilight stories, Over the Hedge (god, I love animated films) and Nicholas Sparks tear-jerker Dear John. It’s amazing how much you can get into a story! I didn’t miss television once.

The last two weeks of the trip, full of nostalgia and salty air (and Todd’s quite accurate recitation of the Lord of the Rings trilogy) we’re some of the best of the trip... and our lives. Once we found our way to the coast, the temperate ocean air kept us warm and comfortable, and our bodies were running like machines through the miles. The first night by the ocean (after that beautiful resort with the pool and sauna and restaurant and hard ground) we found ourselves without a camping ground for miles. Inspired by our French cycling friend Thomas who free-camped for nine-months, we decided to ditch the kiddy-land reports and get it on with Mother Nature.

setting up camp:)

And after my scathing review of free-camping… here I was, free-camping. We set up camp in the middle of a nature reserve… 30 meters from the ocean, tucked into a little pine forest. We took our dinner (and bottle of wine) to the coast and made scrambled eggs. The sun didn’t set that night, it freaking exploded. Magnificent reds and yellows covered our secluded little beach. The tranquility and beauty of the moment, ushered further by the nearing of the end of the trip, was almost unbearable.

Yet there I was, surrounded by the magnificent flame in the sky crashing into the rolling ocean, with a bottle of wine and the man of my dreams… and my nerves were buzzing like a bee hive. What if someone see our tent while we’re out here and takes everything? Did we lock the bikes? What if there is a bear? Todd just squeezed my hand and smiled. Oh to have his fearless gut! We finished up our wine and dinner quickly in the early dark and followed the light of our headlamps back to the tent. Everything was just as we left it. I scrambled into the tent for that false sense of security it gives me— as if it were a long cabin reinforced by crowbar instead of a thin layer of fabric. We then proceeded to the obligatory ten-minute-blowing-up-the-worthless-air-mattresses routine and finally brushing teeth with our heads sticking out the tent flap and trying to avoid our shoes with our toothpaste spat.

Each foreign noise, I would quickly click off my headlamp and sit motionless… waiting for the predator to pounce the tent and take us prisoners to that dungeon in Dante’s inferno dedicated to trespassers. We sat there like fools in semi-darkness, until the noise subsided. You see, it’s not that I can’t sleep in the wild… I can’t sleep with the thought that at any moment someone could come by with a blood hound and AK47 and break down the tent in a fit of anti-trespassing rage. (Don’t worry, this didn’t actually happen).

We finally crawled into our sleeping bags and Todd started snoring immediately. I strained my ears listening for the sound of footsteps, or monster steps, but heard nothing besides the rumble of my great-protector of a boyfriend dreaming about steak.

At the first sounds of birds I was elbowing Todd, “Hey, hey… we can get up now.” He groaned. “Todd, we have to get up before someone sees us! Look, the sun is rising!” I force-fed him cereal until he was semi-responsive and packed up all my stuff like a bandit. We opened the tent to a foggy cold morning, and took down camp silently. Crawling out of the forest, I tried to remain natural. As if it was normal for two scraggly-looking twenty-somethings wearing spandex to be awake and emerging from the forest with pushing bikes at the mornings first light.

We covered a crap-load of ground that day, we felt like champs. The early morning rise gave us a chance to relax at midday with baguette sandwiches and more instant coffee… truly, the worlds a different ride when you get out of camp before noon. We rode across rolling hills, through small sea-side villages and country roads, catching glimpses of the vast ocean at every turn.

I wanted to take it with... Todd said no.

On our maps, we found a strange anomaly. We knew that we were ahead of schedule and wanted to take a proper tour of the coast, so we decided to take a short detour to a sort-of island called Ile de Noirmoutier. There are two ways to pass through this area, a newer bridge, or the 'Passage du Gois'. This several kilometre long road is completely submerged at high tide, therefore is only open for a few hours each day. Luckily we timed it right and we’re able to travel along the entire stretch of road without any problem. Along the way, there were bent over locals and tourists digging for muscles (molee) and washed up sea creatures still slimy from the sea. Very cool.

When we couldn’t find a camping ground that night, we slowly came to realization that tourist season was officially over. All of the small camping grounds were closed, and many of the big resorts sat with empty parking lots. As the darkness crept in and our bellies grumbled… the sandy forest looked more and more attractive…. Free-camping it is.

And the trend continued, for six nights.

That’s right. The lack of adequate camping sites combined with ample, no-people-for-miles forests… pretty much force a person to free camp. My Todd, he loved it. Just the right mix of hard-core and slightly illegal for him to have a good time. It took me a few nights, but, to be honest, when no monsters attacked us in the night, no people noticed our little tent, and no extreme unknown free-camping disease fell upon us… I actually started enjoying myself. We learned to conserve our water, carry everything we need with us, and set up our tent in partial darkness. It was a bit lonely, a bit hermit-esk, but who can argue with free?

bike path?

Continuing down the coast (after we took a shot visit to La Rochelle, where we met some super cool stoners who invited us to stay the night with them (if it wasn’t 10am maybe we would’ve said yeah). We then took a short ferry trip from Royan to Le Verdon (about 30 km) and entered an enormous public park (I swear, you could bike for days there and see no one). The forest used to be a huge marsh-land, but a smart business man planted billions of pine trees, which soaked up the soggy land and created a rich habitat for… loggers. Nonetheless, there is an abundance of bike paths and beautiful beaches, with small quaint towns just big enough to have a surf shop and a seafood restaurant. What more could you ask for?

This part of the journey is like a beautiful dream. The salty sea air, Todd reciting the lord of the ring trilogy through endless rows of trees and spending the nights tucked away in a bed of pine needles. Unfortunately, this also was the land of the ninety year old bike paths and no grocery stores.

In the outskirts of Bordeaux, we took our last great excursion to the Duna du Pyla (largest dune in Europe… the thing was miles long, and miles above the forest stretching like a massive prehistoric dinosaur sleeping in the sand). We walked up it and ran around like kids in the soft bright sand. We shared some rum and raisin ice cream (Todds new favorite). A few days later, we began our journey away from the coast, the beginning of the end.

To avoid the outskirts of the Pyrenees, we decided to make a gradual shift in direction to south-east and then once parallel with Pau head straight south. This route took us through the small city of Dax (and there we found a lovely camping ground in the burbs, with hard ground and an incredible shower). At this point we were a day’s ride away from Pau… but we really felt like taking our time. The urge to rush to Pau was long past, and as it were, we were arriving ahead of schedule. Although the weather wasn’t on our side, as we found as soon as we left the coast the temperature dropped an astonishing amount, and we woke up to temperatures just a few degrees above freezing.

LAST NIGHT:(

The last night we just decided to stop when we saw a place that looked nice enough. Unfortunately… this “place” never showed up. Neither did any signs for a camping ground. So we decided that the last night of the trip was going to push our new found free-camping abilities. We choose a random farmers road, and hid our tent along a line of trees separating two fields. Our front porch was a grown-in back road with a field of winter-corn chattering in the wind. We nestled in and shared a quiet dinner of mashed potatoes and soup with a boiled shallot (the last of our trail food selection).

smile if you love doing dishes!

We rode our bikes approximately 4,500 kilometers, or almost 3,000 miles. Visited seven countries, heard countless languages, cooked about 75 dinners with one pans and took more photos than you can imagine. In the end, the things I was looking forward to we’re somehow now important (I thought I would look like a total babe; toned and tan, but ended up with thick thighs, greasy hair, freckles and chigger bites) and things that I never knew I would enjoy, I truly did. I discovered that my body can do amazing things, if I let it. But more than that… I learned that our bodies are simply a tool to help us discover our minds, and damnit, I think I’m a pretty cool person. Being alone with your own head and thoughts, with no job, no friends, no real connections or newspapers... you kinda have to have a few chats within your head.

And Todd, well, I have never seen anyone more beautiful. As we rode, he glowed. This was his element, his zone, totally his way of reaching his mind. He has always been in tuned with his body, and how it moves… his personality was perfection on a bike. It was really amazing to watch. Him with his little camp stove… running on faith and gasoline, putting up the tent and greasing his bike chain with an old bandana. It was home.

Thank you world, for being a home.

Voila! I thought I would finish the blog here… but then realized, whoa, I’ve still got a lot to say. So stay tuned, as I will continue the blog through my experience teaching English in France, living on bread and cheese and learning how to speak all over again.

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.