|
36 Plum Jam I hated wet socks. Once they were wet they stayed wet for the entire day. And first thing they had become wet tramping along the edge of the orchard's long grass. Recrossing the double arched bridge I noticed the high level water marker was nearly submerged. If it was gone, did that mean flood? I passed a sign advertising "ball trap." I didn't know what it was, but it sounded painful. We bought baguettes and retired to an extremely noisy park along the river. Because of the flatness of the Rhone valley, it was a main north-south transportation corridor. Beside us there were two train tracks, a freeway and two national highways. A house sat on an island of land between the highways and railroad tracks. The trains could almost be touched from their window. I hated to think someone was slaving away to pay the mortgage and taxes on that place. The real-estate listing probably read: "Close to major highways and train." Sharon was depressed. "We don't have to be so far from home to see this," she complained. "I don't mind when we're seeing new and different things. But this...." her voice trailed off. It felt as if we were back on the prairies, but with more traffic. There was even a bumpy bike path reminding us of ours at home with all its frost heaves. I ate some prune jam to take my mind off the homesick feeling. The jam was fermenting, so it must be getting better. I hoped I never bought plum jam again. I thought of throwing it away and be done with it, but it had become a quest to finish the stuff. We followed the bike route into town and crossed a walkway over an arm of the river to a well-tended quieter park. Sharon washed her clothes under a faucet. We were the only ones in the grounds until two park employees stopped for lunch. They ate sandwiches while watching the mallards. Even two fishermen on the opposite bank put down their rods and spread out a picnic basket. Midi was a sacred time for these people. As we were leaving, another fellow set his lunch bag on a table. The first thing he pulled out was a bottle of wine. Bread and cheese were in the sac too, no doubt. We tried the road at the end of the park. It turned into an industrial area. Being lunch time there was no traffic. Things were looking up. We hit a dead-end in a coal yard and had to backtrack to a side road, passing a house with a high water marker mounted on its side. I imagined the real-estate description for that one: Indoor swimming pool. Water beds, water chairs and water couch included. Comes with canoe. Private boat launch from second floor. Close to fishing." What a salesman I would make. Did you hear about the super salesman who sold a milking machine to a poor farmer? Yep, took his only cow as down payment. I walked into a large grocery store. Sixteen people were in each checkout line with only two cashiers on duty. The store had conveniently mounted televisions above the cash register for our viewing pleasure. No wonder--it took half an hour to pay for my pittance of groceries. The woman ahead of me bought $200 worth of groceries and had to bag them herself. While she did, the cashier sat on her chair and stared off into space. I figured she was contemplating the space between her front teeth. The customer didn't pay until she packed all her groceries. Then she asked if she could pay by cheque. The poor guy behind me only had one item: cigarettes--with the brand name Smokes. By the time he paid for them, he could have given up smoking. After I got through I had to stand in another line to buy a baguette. The bread was kept in a separate part of the store. Shopping for deodorant had been a frustrating experience. I couldn't find any--only eau de toilette, toothpaste and shampoo. When I told Sharon she asked, "Did you check the pharmacy?" "The pharmacy?" I was befuddled. "Why the pharmacy?" "Well," she explained, "the French don't use deodorant, so they figure if someone does they must be sick." I nodded. "Will I have to get a prescription?" Just to keep my cycling reflexes sharp, we headed out just in time for Lyon's Friday afternoon rush hour. It turned out to be cake after Genoa. We followed D51 along the river's edge. Buildings were clustered side by side with no space between, but there was no danger of fire--they were one hundred percent rock with the exception of the shutters. One building was metamorphosed half rock-half building, looking as if it had assembled itself. We left town on a bike lane, passing a large bike shop with a sign: Reparations and went to check it out. The owner's son, Eric, was working on a mountain bike when I went in and explained my slipping chain problem. He examined my chain, cluster and rings and pronounced them "All kaput.". No problem with translation there. He looked at his watch: five o'clock. "Bring it inside," he told me. His dad, Louis, in a smart navy blue business suit, was interested in the touring Canadians. He saw my poor neglected bike. I would have cleaned it, but it would just get dirty again. Soon, Louis was taping my fender back on. When the going got tough, the tough used duct tape. He squeezed my brakes, got the squirt lube and did an adjustment. The rusty shifter cables caught his attention next. Like a violin virtuoso he began caressing the cables with oil. Meanwhile, Sharon had been left unattended--a bad situation in a bike shop. She discovered new cycling shoes and was busy trying them on. They were a perfect fit--right down to matching the colour of her pants. She told me she must have them. I protested. "Your toes are barely sticking out of your old ones." The good news was they were on a special promotion for thirty percent off. While Eric regreased my bottom bracket, I tried on a pair myself. It had come time to cash in our sun cheques. When Eric went to replace my thirty-six chain ring he didn't have one, so I chose a thirty-four instead. That made the jump too great to shift easily onto my large fifty-two that he wasn't replacing. Oh well, I hadn't used the fifty-two much anyway. And it only got my pants greasy when I did. After regreasing everything, putting on new chain rings, cluster and chain, the total damage--including Shimano shoes worth over a hundred bucks a pair--was $400. It wasn't as good as our Olmo deal in Italy, but still impressive. Ready to leave, Louis dug Sharon's retired loafers out of the trash can and had us pose with them for photos. "Send picture to you house," he said in broken English. Departing, I noticed the clicking sound still persisted from the area of my bottom bracket. Maybe it was my pedal? D933 was a smaller road on the opposite side of the river. We thought it would have less traffic, so we left our bike lane and crossed the bridge to it. In a couple of kilometers we realized we had made the wrong choice. It had more traffic and it didn't have a bike lane. After twenty hairy kilometers we saw a likely camp spot next to the Saone River. The Rhone had departed to the east. So long muddy river. We pushed our bikes across a field of corn stubble and set up with a view of the red setting sun turning the Saone River pink. "Watch out for the stinging nettles," I said as I pushed a tent stake into the soft earth, brushing a nettle. Immediately three dots swelled on my thumb. I washed it with soap and applied Stingeze, but I still felt it. I wouldn't want to accidentally squat in that stuff. I spread some disgusting prune jam on my bread and thought: "Gee, it sure looks like shit." I took a whiff and thought: "Gee, it sure smells like shit." I took a bite and thought: "Gee, I wish this was shit." Shit on toast. |
|
|
Book Info