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Onward
For nearly a month we relaxed on the French Riviera, rejuvenating our weary minds and bodies. By the time Roger and Suzanne returned to their "normal" lives back in Canada, Sharon and I were almost ready to get back on the road. It wasn't the thought of cycling into the unknown that bothered us mind you; it was the frigid January temperature. Winter snows licked the Esterel mountain range behind us. After Roger and Suzanne checked out, Sharon and I sat in the quiet hotel room, and pondered our next move. We had to be out in two hours. We had narrowed our choices to either cycling farther south where we hoped it would be warmer, or rent an apartment on the Riviera for a month or two and wait till the weather warmed up. But we still didn't know which one to choose. And with our checkout time looming near, our anxiety level was on the rise. When the going gets tough, the tough take baths. Maybe the soaking time would give us the answers we needed. We drew a tub full of steamy water, and shared it. We had been in Europe long enough to learn that even in three-star hotels there would likely be only enough hot water for one bath. The price of energy was just too dear to waste on something as frivolous as heating water to pour down the drain after only one use. (My European encounter made me aware of how much I took hot water for granted and how much of the resource I "wasted." After returning home from our travels, the experience stayed with me for some time. My first few showers back home consisted of turning on the water and hastily getting wet, then immediately shutting off the water. Do the soapy thing, turn the water back on, quickly rinse in one ballerina pirouette and in the finishing motion reach down and twist off the taps. It took a couple of months of deprogramming before I allowed myself to leave the water running for my entire shower.) Due to our luxurious indulgence of a shower a day, Europeans referred to us North Americans as "the sterile race." My word! Such extravagance! But I must concur, one can survive without a shower a day ... but not nearly as happily. After our soak, we were no wiser as to what we wanted to do. So, in no hurry to greet the frosty morning, we ate a leisurely breakfast. Finally, procrastination (and the check- out deadline) came to an end and we departed the hotel which had been our home for the past month. For the first time in days, it began to rain. "Oh, this is predictable!" I called out to Sharon, remembering we had already endured more than our fair share of cold rain since landing in Europe. She remained silent, but I noticed I wasn't the only one protesting being on the road again. My red Cannondale was objecting as well. With every turn of the pedals, a disturbing click-click arose from somewhere deep in the crank arms. I could tell it was beginning to get on Sharon's nerves. While I was a card-carrying member of the "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" school, Sharon was in direct contrast, constantly fiddling with her Norco machine at every opportunity, oiling, cleaning, and tweaking. It drove me crazy. But, as a result, her bicycle was clean and efficient, whereas mine creaked and groaned and tottered along like an old rickshaw with bent wheels. "The clicking is nothing to be concerned about," I assured her. "It's possibly even beneficial," I continued, trying to sound knowledgeable. "Pedestrians will hear me coming." Sharon (unreasonably I thought) insisted I get it checked out at the nearest bike shop. And from the tone of her voice, I realized it would be useless to argue further. To appease her, I agreed. We headed out of La Bocca towards a "gross" bike shop a kindly Lycra clad elder racing gent had informed us of. We pedalled fifteen kilometers before stopping and checking our map. The closer inspection revealed ominous gray shadowing -- meaning the town we sought was in the mountains. And since it was raining at sea level, undoubtedly it was snowing at the mountain village. Even on our Mediterranean coastal route, we had already passed rock walls heavily adorned with long shimmering icicles. Sharon, realizing our intended route, suddenly wasn't as insistent about getting my bicycle looked at. In fact, the annoying click abruptly elevated in status to a charming cricket-like chirp. That problem solved, we returned to the question of what we were going to do. Should we head south to Corsica and Sardinia, two islands smack-dab in the middle of the Mediterranean, and hope they were warm enough for pleasant cycling? Or should we admit that Europe, even for Canadians, was too cold for cycling in January and rent an apartment? Our quandary prompted us to enlist the opinion of an impartial third party. I phoned Hélène and Paul -- a Canadian couple living in France -- and asked their advice. They surprised me. Their response leaned heavily on riding south. I hung up the phone, and realized our decision had been made. We about-faced one hundred eighty degrees (that's what I love about bicycle touring: one can be so spontaneous with no worries about messing up cast-in-stone schedules) and headed towards Nice's ferry terminal. Back in La Bocca, I stopped at a travel office and picked up a ferry schedule. The efficient agent informed me that ferries left Nice for Corsica every evening at eight o'clock. It was still early afternoon. Since we had the rest of the day to cycle the short distance to Nice we chose a meandering scenic route over back roads. My favourite place en route was the ancient port city of Antibes with its exquisite architecture. Passing through downtown, I marvelled over its narrow cobblestone streets, the perfect width for a bike path, but barely wide enough for one car. We arrived in Nice at sunset. Coloured lights played on a waterfall above town. "How about that?" I said smugly, like it was my great planning that got us there at dusk to see the spectacle. "And we won't have to wait long before the ferry departs." An immense stone arch carved into the mountainside guided us towards the port. At seven o'clock we arrived at the ferry terminal. I leaned my bike against a large potted palm and confidently strode into the ticket office. "Two tickets to Corsica for this evening," I warbled in my best French accent. The lone agent informed me, alas, there was no eight o'clock sailing. In fact, there was no sailing until Monday night. Three days away! After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I changed my mind about the efficient travel agent who had told me ferries sailed every day. Indeed she was right -- except in winter. I flagellated myself for not checking the ferry pamphlet I had picked up. And when I did, there it was -- in multi-coloured tables no less. Woe was I! It was quite dark (too dark to safely ride somewhere to look for camping) by the time I returned outside. I told Sharon our predicament. She was not amused. We stood on the dock of France's fifth largest city, wondering how our perfect world had suddenly become knocked so off kilter. "Maybe there's a hotel nearby," I said. Sharon stayed with our bikes while I went off and scoured the quay area for hotels. I found one ramshackle place, but it was well out of our price range. I returned to the dock and reported my findings -- or lack thereof. "Well, where are we going to sleep?" Sharon asked, more than a little worried about what my answer might be. I confirmed her fears by pointing to a row of potted plants next to the ticket office. "No way!" Sharon exploded. "I'm not sleeping on some dock like an old bag-lady!" A long and hot argument ensued, centred around how she had never slept on a dock in her whole entire life and had no intention on starting now. I countered that she had never slept on a dock before because she had never had the "opportunity." "If you weren't such a tight-fisted skinflint," she said, "we could already be snugly ensconced in that rustic inn." "It's not a rustic inn," I replied. "It's a sleazy overpriced flea bitten hotel with drunken sailors." When Sharon saw that I wasn't going to give in, she finally agreed to stay on the dock for the night. "At least it's flat," she conceded with a huff. |
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