Alex:
The bike ride through Tuscany to Siena was our roughest yet, but definitely the most beautiful. We started the day going practically straight up--the steepest terrain we've encountered--and ended up having to occasionally walk our bikes up dirt roads through mountain olive groves.
It was just one of those days where we climbed for 5 or 6 hours and were descending or on level ground for maybe one.
The countryside made it all worth it. The variety of the terrain and textures of the landscape are unmatched. Thick hedges framed fieldstone farmhouses and parallel rows of vines swept down the hillsides like lines on a topographic map. But the wide variety even extended to the trees. My favorite is the slim and solitary Cypress, which has a rich, dark green color, and stands like a somber sentries to mark the boundaries between farms.
There is another tree whose name I do not know which always rises head and shoulders above its companions in a copse of trees, awkwardly standing out on the horizon like a mossy parasol.
One of the best moments of the day for me was reaching the top of a particularly high hill to find a whole forest of dark Cyprus trees--more than I'd ever seen before--conspiring together like a murder of crows. So strange did it seem to see these lonely creatures in congress together that it felt like I had stumbled upon an alien forest, or a forlorn company of spearmen-- frozen in tight ranks for battle, but overgrown with foliage now, a thousand years after turning to stone.
All this ran through my head as we plunged down the mountain, past that slumbering wilderness, to the vertiginous slopes that gave out on the valleys below and--far beyond in the distance-- the city of Siena. For the next hour and a half, it did not leave our sight for more than a few minutes. We could catch glimpses of it through gaps in the foliage as the mountain cast us deeper and deeper down into the valley, banished, as it were, for our Icarian folly.
All the way down we rode, carried freely by gravity until the effort of pedaling became little more than an eccentric hobby-- kind of like homemade paper-- quaint but redundant.
Practically flying and drenched in the cool air whipping around us, we exuberantly rolled into the Siena campsite, albeit 3 hours after Anton. The people at the reception were expecting us, and indicated on a map of the campground which site Anton had chosen--the most far flung and obscure corner of the whole site. It seemed our journey wasn't over after all.
Kenneth:
Siena is an incredible city, filled with the soul that Florence lacks. We walked the 3km or so to the city center and in the process walked straight through old city gates, complete with statues of she-wolves, the mascot, if you will, of the city. Guys, don't mess with the she-wolf; trust me on this.
We continued climbing up towards the center, passing through small alleys adorned with the flags of Siena's 17 families.
Alex:
Each of the families historically controls one of the city neighborhoods and have their own schools, churches and civil society. The territories are marked off by sigils and banners at street intersections.
We spent the day strolling around the city with Anton and visited Siena's central square which is the culmination point for the city's iconic, yearly, bareback horserace.
20 July 2010
15 July 2010
Days ??: Nice to Siena
Alex:
The following day, the three of us went across town to see the hospital where my mom was born, right across from the city's only Russian Orthodox church.
It was the hottest day we'd had so far, so we headed for Nice's famous boardwalk and beach for a swim. The beach was crowded, but not as bad as we had imagined considering the fame of Nice's coast. That reputation is well founded though--the water is still clear and blue and instead of sand, and the shore is covered in smooth, round rocks--as if the beach was carpeted in millions of stone eggs. East and west along the shore are hills which slope directly down to the water and are studded with villas like gemstones.
Nice itself is like Paris' hip younger sister--the kind that rebelled against the elder's prim propriety by wearing a lot of garish colors and dying her hair pink. There's something of Paris about her, but more that is altogether unique and fresh. Maybe it's the sun that shines here more days per year than anywhere else in France. Maybe it's the Italian pedigree with its fine gelato and harlequin piazzas. Or maybe I'm just a starstruck tourist.
That night, we headed to the famous seafood restaurant: Café de Turin, which is on Place Garibaldi. The envy of the night was my seafood salad for which Kenneth and Anton swore solemn oaths to someday return and order for themselves. We then headed back into Nice's old city--a colorful labyrinth of Renaissance churches, baroque chocolate shops, gellaterias, and bistros.
The following day, we stocked up on food and headed easy along the coast to Monaco on foot. We passed by sunny, turquoise inlets by the shore and climbed up into the manicured hills filled with walled villas.
We took a siesta and went swimming in the warm, azure water of a secluded cove overlooking Villefranche-sur-Mer; the main town between Nice and Monaco. From Villefranche, we decided to take the train the rest of the way to Monaco.
The Principality of Monaco must be a much better place for people who can afford its outrageously priced hotels and amenities. Soggy and trailworn in our flip-flops and bathing suits, we were hardly the recipients of the principality's famous hospitality.
The beach was unremarkable and the buildings themselves were all high-rise hotels built in the 60s. Aside from the luxury yachts and expensive cars, there's really nothing interesting to see if you're a penniless pedestrian.
We took the train back to Nice and met up with Liz Edouard-- another Mamaroneck High School and Middlebury alum. Needless to say, it took her a little bit to recognize Anton, bearded and grizzled as he is.
Kenneth:
Everyone we discussed our trip with in France had exactly one thing to say: don't bike from Nice to Genoa! Given that Anton was already with us, a train trip to Florence seemed in order. Refreshed from out night out with Liz, we headed to the Nice station. Nobody seemed to know how to get to Florence, but they did tell us to go to Ventimiglia, the beginning of a black hole that is the Italian train system.
It took two trains to get to Ventimiglia, where Alex and Anton waited on an enormous line to purchase tickets. When they returned, they had some interesting news: we would be arriving at Florence at 5:37. I was elated. Then, they clarified: 5:37am, the next day.
We headed off to the local market to kill the first of many waits, and Anton happened on some homemade buffalo mozzarella, which took the edge off the first bit of traveling. We also purchased the flakiest loaf of bread ever to be baked, and like Hansel and Gretel left a breadcrumb trail from Ventimiglia to Florence.
A few transfers later, we found ourselves in Pisa at 11:30 in the evening and nothing to do until 4. Nothing, you say? Not with Anton the wanderer around. We packed up our bikes with his bags and strolled out into the city leading our bikes like pack camels. The city was hopping for such a late hour, and we even stopped off for some much needed beverages.
After journeying a few more minutes, we approached the tower of Pisa itself, abandoned by tourists at this late hour. The open grass was so inviting after our long journey, so we lay down and looked up at the awkward tower before us. I felt, lying down, as if I was on a hill, my glasses were on sideways, or perhaps the lack of sleep was finally getting to me. It was a great view, but a few minutes later the police were there to lock up. These are not the French police that we had previously seen; no, they looked as if they might actually be willing to arrest you. A long walk back to the train station later, our adventure in Pisa was over.
The night, however, was still young. We snuck into the train early to catch a few winks with the conductor, and soon we were in Florence. We had a few hours until the hostel opened, so we walked the long way around a deserted Florence, over Pont Vecchio, and to our hostel.
Alex:
No doubt, we had just experienced Train Hell. At Arenzano, we had only 5 minutes to transfer trains. It was blazing hot and crowded. Often the train cars had a few steep stairs we needed to climb and center rails we needed to navigate all while hoisting our bikes and hollering.
I started out the day asking people to move with a humble, proper French-- "pardon" or "excusez-moi"-- but by noon I was roaring "Awaei! Tassez vous, crist!" in Québécois French which loosely translates to "OY! Pile yourselves...! Christ!" It got the job done.
I did manage to have an interesting conversation with a fellow passenger while I was separated from Kenneth and Anton on the train from Monaco to Ventimiglia who was a legal advisor for a major French political party. He was like someone out of "All the King's Men"-- a shifty, old-school, political boss type who pontificated about the French all being sheep and the duplicity of journalists.
He refused to tell me what party he worked for until we arrived at the station. By then, I guess he had judged me to be cool or harmless enough to intimate it in a low voice. We shook hands and he left the station for his villa in the Italian countryside. Kenneth and Anton, on the other end of the train, only sat next to some boisterous local youths.
We finally got to Florence, stumbled around in the early dawn gawking at the city, and eventually made our way to the hostel. At 7 a.m. The hosteller, hostel-keeper, or whatever you want to call him, showed up and cheerily let us in.
Since our room wouldn't be ready for a few hours, we left our gear at the hostel and wandered back out into the city. It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday in Italy so our chances of finding anything open were next to zero. We dozed on the deserted steps of the Duomo and sleepwalked back across the Pont Vecchio.
We retuned to our room to sleep for a few hours and then ventured out again that afternoon to find a place to catch the world cup final.... (Kenneth: Go Orange!!)
... and watch Kenneth's hopes get crushed.
Our second day in Florence... Well, it's kind of sad, but after seeing the inside of the Duomo and finding out that the Accademia wad closed, we curbed our expectations and spent the rest of the day wandering from gellateria to gellateria. To be honest, we weren't too inspired by the city's atmosphere which was cold and touristy. The whole city felt like an overpriced museum, not a living metropolis.
The following day, Kenneth and I traveled from Florence to Siena by bike. Anton planned to take the train and meet us at a campsite there.
Kenneth:
I was extremely excited to bike in my second home country of this post, and the scenery and terrain did not disappoint. We mapped out a route from Florence to Siena along the most direct path, which, as we should have known, means over the hills, not around them.
The first hill led us up into the mountains high above Florence, where we could see the entire valley spread before us. Still, that view paled in comparison with what was to come: up and down we went, with four major climbs of over 1000 feet. In France, fields had been spread out before us, one cornfield after the other, but here the terrain was so varied, with towns next to vineyards and forests next to olive trees, like a patchwork quilt of rolling hills, with each square more beautiful than the last.
Finally, we reached the peak of our journey: Castellina in Chianti. It is a beautiful walled city located not just on a hill, but at the peak of a mountain overlooking a vast valley of rolling hills in the very heart of Tuscany. From the lookout point we could see all the way to Siena some 20km off in one direction, and for miles around to all the other cities. It was literally all downhill from there, and we rolled into camp with Anton around 8.
The following day, the three of us went across town to see the hospital where my mom was born, right across from the city's only Russian Orthodox church.
It was the hottest day we'd had so far, so we headed for Nice's famous boardwalk and beach for a swim. The beach was crowded, but not as bad as we had imagined considering the fame of Nice's coast. That reputation is well founded though--the water is still clear and blue and instead of sand, and the shore is covered in smooth, round rocks--as if the beach was carpeted in millions of stone eggs. East and west along the shore are hills which slope directly down to the water and are studded with villas like gemstones.
Nice itself is like Paris' hip younger sister--the kind that rebelled against the elder's prim propriety by wearing a lot of garish colors and dying her hair pink. There's something of Paris about her, but more that is altogether unique and fresh. Maybe it's the sun that shines here more days per year than anywhere else in France. Maybe it's the Italian pedigree with its fine gelato and harlequin piazzas. Or maybe I'm just a starstruck tourist.
That night, we headed to the famous seafood restaurant: Café de Turin, which is on Place Garibaldi. The envy of the night was my seafood salad for which Kenneth and Anton swore solemn oaths to someday return and order for themselves. We then headed back into Nice's old city--a colorful labyrinth of Renaissance churches, baroque chocolate shops, gellaterias, and bistros.
The following day, we stocked up on food and headed easy along the coast to Monaco on foot. We passed by sunny, turquoise inlets by the shore and climbed up into the manicured hills filled with walled villas.
We took a siesta and went swimming in the warm, azure water of a secluded cove overlooking Villefranche-sur-Mer; the main town between Nice and Monaco. From Villefranche, we decided to take the train the rest of the way to Monaco.
The Principality of Monaco must be a much better place for people who can afford its outrageously priced hotels and amenities. Soggy and trailworn in our flip-flops and bathing suits, we were hardly the recipients of the principality's famous hospitality.
The beach was unremarkable and the buildings themselves were all high-rise hotels built in the 60s. Aside from the luxury yachts and expensive cars, there's really nothing interesting to see if you're a penniless pedestrian.
We took the train back to Nice and met up with Liz Edouard-- another Mamaroneck High School and Middlebury alum. Needless to say, it took her a little bit to recognize Anton, bearded and grizzled as he is.
Kenneth:
Everyone we discussed our trip with in France had exactly one thing to say: don't bike from Nice to Genoa! Given that Anton was already with us, a train trip to Florence seemed in order. Refreshed from out night out with Liz, we headed to the Nice station. Nobody seemed to know how to get to Florence, but they did tell us to go to Ventimiglia, the beginning of a black hole that is the Italian train system.
It took two trains to get to Ventimiglia, where Alex and Anton waited on an enormous line to purchase tickets. When they returned, they had some interesting news: we would be arriving at Florence at 5:37. I was elated. Then, they clarified: 5:37am, the next day.
We headed off to the local market to kill the first of many waits, and Anton happened on some homemade buffalo mozzarella, which took the edge off the first bit of traveling. We also purchased the flakiest loaf of bread ever to be baked, and like Hansel and Gretel left a breadcrumb trail from Ventimiglia to Florence.
A few transfers later, we found ourselves in Pisa at 11:30 in the evening and nothing to do until 4. Nothing, you say? Not with Anton the wanderer around. We packed up our bikes with his bags and strolled out into the city leading our bikes like pack camels. The city was hopping for such a late hour, and we even stopped off for some much needed beverages.
After journeying a few more minutes, we approached the tower of Pisa itself, abandoned by tourists at this late hour. The open grass was so inviting after our long journey, so we lay down and looked up at the awkward tower before us. I felt, lying down, as if I was on a hill, my glasses were on sideways, or perhaps the lack of sleep was finally getting to me. It was a great view, but a few minutes later the police were there to lock up. These are not the French police that we had previously seen; no, they looked as if they might actually be willing to arrest you. A long walk back to the train station later, our adventure in Pisa was over.
The night, however, was still young. We snuck into the train early to catch a few winks with the conductor, and soon we were in Florence. We had a few hours until the hostel opened, so we walked the long way around a deserted Florence, over Pont Vecchio, and to our hostel.
Alex:
No doubt, we had just experienced Train Hell. At Arenzano, we had only 5 minutes to transfer trains. It was blazing hot and crowded. Often the train cars had a few steep stairs we needed to climb and center rails we needed to navigate all while hoisting our bikes and hollering.
I started out the day asking people to move with a humble, proper French-- "pardon" or "excusez-moi"-- but by noon I was roaring "Awaei! Tassez vous, crist!" in Québécois French which loosely translates to "OY! Pile yourselves...! Christ!" It got the job done.
I did manage to have an interesting conversation with a fellow passenger while I was separated from Kenneth and Anton on the train from Monaco to Ventimiglia who was a legal advisor for a major French political party. He was like someone out of "All the King's Men"-- a shifty, old-school, political boss type who pontificated about the French all being sheep and the duplicity of journalists.
He refused to tell me what party he worked for until we arrived at the station. By then, I guess he had judged me to be cool or harmless enough to intimate it in a low voice. We shook hands and he left the station for his villa in the Italian countryside. Kenneth and Anton, on the other end of the train, only sat next to some boisterous local youths.
We finally got to Florence, stumbled around in the early dawn gawking at the city, and eventually made our way to the hostel. At 7 a.m. The hosteller, hostel-keeper, or whatever you want to call him, showed up and cheerily let us in.
Since our room wouldn't be ready for a few hours, we left our gear at the hostel and wandered back out into the city. It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday in Italy so our chances of finding anything open were next to zero. We dozed on the deserted steps of the Duomo and sleepwalked back across the Pont Vecchio.
We retuned to our room to sleep for a few hours and then ventured out again that afternoon to find a place to catch the world cup final.... (Kenneth: Go Orange!!)
... and watch Kenneth's hopes get crushed.
Our second day in Florence... Well, it's kind of sad, but after seeing the inside of the Duomo and finding out that the Accademia wad closed, we curbed our expectations and spent the rest of the day wandering from gellateria to gellateria. To be honest, we weren't too inspired by the city's atmosphere which was cold and touristy. The whole city felt like an overpriced museum, not a living metropolis.
The following day, Kenneth and I traveled from Florence to Siena by bike. Anton planned to take the train and meet us at a campsite there.
Kenneth:
I was extremely excited to bike in my second home country of this post, and the scenery and terrain did not disappoint. We mapped out a route from Florence to Siena along the most direct path, which, as we should have known, means over the hills, not around them.
The first hill led us up into the mountains high above Florence, where we could see the entire valley spread before us. Still, that view paled in comparison with what was to come: up and down we went, with four major climbs of over 1000 feet. In France, fields had been spread out before us, one cornfield after the other, but here the terrain was so varied, with towns next to vineyards and forests next to olive trees, like a patchwork quilt of rolling hills, with each square more beautiful than the last.
Finally, we reached the peak of our journey: Castellina in Chianti. It is a beautiful walled city located not just on a hill, but at the peak of a mountain overlooking a vast valley of rolling hills in the very heart of Tuscany. From the lookout point we could see all the way to Siena some 20km off in one direction, and for miles around to all the other cities. It was literally all downhill from there, and we rolled into camp with Anton around 8.
12 July 2010
Days 14 to 17: Nice
Alex:
Well, it's been a few days since our last post and, for that, I apologize to our loyal readers.
When we last left our heroes, they were headed for the obscure seaside town of Port d'Alon.
Once again, we ascended the coastal mountains encircling Cassis--an excruciating climb which finally gave out into a long, downward-sloping coastal plain. We coasted down the stunning coast at high speeds for miles, letting the wind wash over us like water.
We soon stopped for some supplies at a small grocery where I conversed with the owner who warned me to be wary of gypsies and gave us some basil and figs on the house, I guess because we're so gosh darn cute.
The goodwill didn't end there. The town of St. Cyr-Sur-Mer is the friendliest place we've been so far. The local baker offered to come to our rescue on his moped if we got stuck in a ditch on the way to Port d'Alon.
Port d'Alon is a one-road peninsula (the size of Orienta-for those of you from Mamk) off the main local highway with little more than a campsite, a mussels joint, and two calanque beaches. After swimming at the first beach, we headed to the restaurant for drinks.
The next day, we got up early and hit the 2nd calanque--the main attraction for this overgrown backwater. It was a stunning turquoise bay, bisected by a tall, narrow, submarine-shaped rock formation, studded with scraggly trees and jutting proudly out into the sea.
We arrived in Nice that night and found our way to the wrong Kyriad hotel (there are 4 in the city), demanding food and lodging until we finally realized our error.
Unfortunately, that hotel address was the one we had given our friend Anton who was coming by bus out of the dark reaches of Eastern Europe to meet us in Nice. We left him a note at the hotel reception explaining the situation and went on our merry way.
Thanks to my Nice-savvy friend, Sarah, we had a list of top restaurants and districts to delve into. We started at Le Bistro du Fromager, a restaurant in a wine cellar, buried deep in the labyrinthine alleys of the old city. The highlights of the meal were caramelized foie gras and veal tartare.
Definitely one of the best meals we've had so far.
Next up on Sarah's list was Finnochio's gellateria which is universally accepted as the best gellato in town--and not to be confused with the 3 Pinnochio's gellaterias which stand empty and listless in the same plaza. Finnochio's boasts 100 flavors, of which we sampled blackberry, rose-pepper vanilla, chili-pepper chocolate (I love the spiced flavors), Irish coffee, raspberry-lemon, peach, and nutella. Needless to say, we were back there every subsequent night we spent in Nice.
After that, we strolled leisurely home to our hotel to find an unkempt and bearded Serbian wearing aviator sunglasses waiting in our room.
Indeed, this was no other than Anton the Global Nomad, unrecognizable from the baby-faced comrade of our high school days now after 7 months of lean living and foraging in foreign lands. It was good to finally see him again and all go out together.
Kenneth:
Port d'Alon was fantastic, but Nice was even a level above. Amazing beaches next to tiny alleys with the cutest shops lining both sides, and that is only the start. The seafood and gelato here are the best I have ever had. More later, we promise!
Well, it's been a few days since our last post and, for that, I apologize to our loyal readers.
When we last left our heroes, they were headed for the obscure seaside town of Port d'Alon.
Once again, we ascended the coastal mountains encircling Cassis--an excruciating climb which finally gave out into a long, downward-sloping coastal plain. We coasted down the stunning coast at high speeds for miles, letting the wind wash over us like water.
We soon stopped for some supplies at a small grocery where I conversed with the owner who warned me to be wary of gypsies and gave us some basil and figs on the house, I guess because we're so gosh darn cute.
The goodwill didn't end there. The town of St. Cyr-Sur-Mer is the friendliest place we've been so far. The local baker offered to come to our rescue on his moped if we got stuck in a ditch on the way to Port d'Alon.
Port d'Alon is a one-road peninsula (the size of Orienta-for those of you from Mamk) off the main local highway with little more than a campsite, a mussels joint, and two calanque beaches. After swimming at the first beach, we headed to the restaurant for drinks.
The next day, we got up early and hit the 2nd calanque--the main attraction for this overgrown backwater. It was a stunning turquoise bay, bisected by a tall, narrow, submarine-shaped rock formation, studded with scraggly trees and jutting proudly out into the sea.
We arrived in Nice that night and found our way to the wrong Kyriad hotel (there are 4 in the city), demanding food and lodging until we finally realized our error.
Unfortunately, that hotel address was the one we had given our friend Anton who was coming by bus out of the dark reaches of Eastern Europe to meet us in Nice. We left him a note at the hotel reception explaining the situation and went on our merry way.
Thanks to my Nice-savvy friend, Sarah, we had a list of top restaurants and districts to delve into. We started at Le Bistro du Fromager, a restaurant in a wine cellar, buried deep in the labyrinthine alleys of the old city. The highlights of the meal were caramelized foie gras and veal tartare.
Definitely one of the best meals we've had so far.
Next up on Sarah's list was Finnochio's gellateria which is universally accepted as the best gellato in town--and not to be confused with the 3 Pinnochio's gellaterias which stand empty and listless in the same plaza. Finnochio's boasts 100 flavors, of which we sampled blackberry, rose-pepper vanilla, chili-pepper chocolate (I love the spiced flavors), Irish coffee, raspberry-lemon, peach, and nutella. Needless to say, we were back there every subsequent night we spent in Nice.
After that, we strolled leisurely home to our hotel to find an unkempt and bearded Serbian wearing aviator sunglasses waiting in our room.
Indeed, this was no other than Anton the Global Nomad, unrecognizable from the baby-faced comrade of our high school days now after 7 months of lean living and foraging in foreign lands. It was good to finally see him again and all go out together.
Kenneth:
Port d'Alon was fantastic, but Nice was even a level above. Amazing beaches next to tiny alleys with the cutest shops lining both sides, and that is only the start. The seafood and gelato here are the best I have ever had. More later, we promise!
06 July 2010
Days 12 and 13: Marseille to Cassis
Kenneth:
Yesterday, we biked from Marseille to Cassis, a small port town on the most beautiful coastline. Bike Purgatory was had by all on the way here: a 1000 foot climb over the mountains that border Marseille, up a winding road with no guardrail protecting us from 300 foot sheer drops. After all that waiting, we finally made it to the top, and another epic downhill lay ahead. As we descended, the village unfolded before us, and then we were in heaven.
Cassis is so beautiful that we couldn't help but stay an extra day. The bikes are useful for climbing the hills, and for reaching the far away, less crowded beaches, which are in limestone channels the size of football fields. I absolutely have to come back here later in life.
Alex:
Before leaving Marseille, we stopped off at a forlorn little McDonald's to make use of the free Wifi. The encounter I had with the manager was something out of another era.
"You're from America?" he exclaimed breathlessly. "Louis! Come here!" he called to the fry cook, gesticulating at me happily. "This boy has come from America!" he shook my hand vigorously. "What is it like there? Is it as wonderful as in the movies? I have always dreamed of going to America!"
It's refreshing to see that there are people abroad who are still uncynical about America.
Afterward, we biked the length of the city's famous coastline. The hot and rowdy seaside road ran by beaches and bistros overflowing with revelers, but at times its tempo would seem to slow for monuments-- mournful statues searching the horizon for vanished ships--and the silhouette of the infamous Chateau d'If.
Not long after, we were painfully crawling up a coastal mountain in the lowest gear possible-- all of Marseille's sprawling splendor spread out behind us. We climbed higher into the coastal mountains, until Marseille disappeared and a steep mesa loomed into view, with the small town of Cassis clustered along the shoreline beneath it.
We coasted into the bay in which Cassis is nestled and proceeded to spend an hour pitching our tent on top of solid rock (not a fun experience). We finally made camp, bought a bottle of the town's famous rosé, and headed for one of the calmer beaches south of the town center.
Cassis is an amazing place full of great restaurants beaches and coves called "calanques". Although the camping ground where we had rented a plot was a 45 minute walk from downtown, we decided to stay two nights.
The second day, we packed lunch and hiked out to the calenques--narrow limestone coves eroded from the shore in which azure water rushes in to white sand beaches. We swam, ate lunch and relaxed, returning to town in time for dinner by the docks and two bottles of good Normandy cider.
Today, we head for Port d'Alon, an even smaller town east on the coast which was recommended to us by a fellow biker we met on the way to Marseille.
Yesterday, we biked from Marseille to Cassis, a small port town on the most beautiful coastline. Bike Purgatory was had by all on the way here: a 1000 foot climb over the mountains that border Marseille, up a winding road with no guardrail protecting us from 300 foot sheer drops. After all that waiting, we finally made it to the top, and another epic downhill lay ahead. As we descended, the village unfolded before us, and then we were in heaven.
Cassis is so beautiful that we couldn't help but stay an extra day. The bikes are useful for climbing the hills, and for reaching the far away, less crowded beaches, which are in limestone channels the size of football fields. I absolutely have to come back here later in life.
Alex:
Before leaving Marseille, we stopped off at a forlorn little McDonald's to make use of the free Wifi. The encounter I had with the manager was something out of another era.
"You're from America?" he exclaimed breathlessly. "Louis! Come here!" he called to the fry cook, gesticulating at me happily. "This boy has come from America!" he shook my hand vigorously. "What is it like there? Is it as wonderful as in the movies? I have always dreamed of going to America!"
It's refreshing to see that there are people abroad who are still uncynical about America.
Afterward, we biked the length of the city's famous coastline. The hot and rowdy seaside road ran by beaches and bistros overflowing with revelers, but at times its tempo would seem to slow for monuments-- mournful statues searching the horizon for vanished ships--and the silhouette of the infamous Chateau d'If.
Not long after, we were painfully crawling up a coastal mountain in the lowest gear possible-- all of Marseille's sprawling splendor spread out behind us. We climbed higher into the coastal mountains, until Marseille disappeared and a steep mesa loomed into view, with the small town of Cassis clustered along the shoreline beneath it.
We coasted into the bay in which Cassis is nestled and proceeded to spend an hour pitching our tent on top of solid rock (not a fun experience). We finally made camp, bought a bottle of the town's famous rosé, and headed for one of the calmer beaches south of the town center.
Cassis is an amazing place full of great restaurants beaches and coves called "calanques". Although the camping ground where we had rented a plot was a 45 minute walk from downtown, we decided to stay two nights.
The second day, we packed lunch and hiked out to the calenques--narrow limestone coves eroded from the shore in which azure water rushes in to white sand beaches. We swam, ate lunch and relaxed, returning to town in time for dinner by the docks and two bottles of good Normandy cider.
Today, we head for Port d'Alon, an even smaller town east on the coast which was recommended to us by a fellow biker we met on the way to Marseille.
04 July 2010
Day 11: Valence to Marseille
Alex:
Having seen our fill of the Rhone, we jumped a sweltering train to Marseille today. We wrestled our bikes into the cramped cars with our eleven bags and take-out from Istanbul Kebab.
Kenneth:
I wanted to ride the tgv, but with the bicycles that turned out to be too daunting a task even for the kindly SNCF ticket lady. Determined, we headed to the regional station to catch our train. Apparently, the only non-tgv trains are the equivalent of cattle cars in rural china. No air conditioning was just the start: they were loud, rattled like they were about to roll off the tracks, and smelled like a very cheap motel (or at least what I think one might smell like. I have never been to one). Still, these cattle cars got us and our bikes to Marseille in one piece, and it was worth it.
The Mediterranean is fabulous! I have been to the ocean before, but this is truly something else: a perfect hue of blue, stretching as far as the eye can see, bordered by cliffs, hills, and, of course, the city. We rode uphill for 45 minutes to reach the hostel, and the view was worth it: all of Marseille was spread out before us.
Alex:
The hostel is a massive, elegant, old building which seems to date back to the 2nd Empire, with fine plasterwork and mirrored walls in the atrium. The accommodations, themselves, definitely date from the 70s.
The crotchety old grounds-keeper only guffawed when I asked for room keys and gradually closed the teller window on me as I continued to press him with questions. Was there Internet? No. Food nearby? No. Public transportation? No!
We trudged up to our dormitory to be instantly greeted by the strangest character we have met thus far: Arthur the Actor from Armenia. No kidding.
I could write a short story on this guy, but I will endeavor to give you a brief introduction.
After finishing studying drama in Paris Arthur was traveling alone in France before returning to help put on a film festival in Armenia. He was lonely and morose in the hostel until we entered the scene--catapulting him into a prima donna paroxysm of histrionic glee. He sang, told tales, pantomimed, and impersonated various dramatis personae.
He was a one-man circus, babbling incessantly in broken French and English as he led us out into the Marseille twilight for dinner, not eight minutes after we had arrived. Before we knew it, we were on the subway with Arthur arguing about everything from the most beautiful singing language and Armenia's ancient claim to the Nogorno-Karabakh region (as a poli sci major, it was fun to witness some actual heartfelt irredentism for once).
We were back at the hostel before the doors shut at 11:30. Growing weary of our irreverent and cracked-out companion, and tired from the day's journey, we turned in less than an hour later.
The following morning, Arthur bid us farewell before heading out to Aix-en-Provence. And that's the last we saw of Arthur the Armenian... For now, at least.
Having seen our fill of the Rhone, we jumped a sweltering train to Marseille today. We wrestled our bikes into the cramped cars with our eleven bags and take-out from Istanbul Kebab.
Kenneth:
I wanted to ride the tgv, but with the bicycles that turned out to be too daunting a task even for the kindly SNCF ticket lady. Determined, we headed to the regional station to catch our train. Apparently, the only non-tgv trains are the equivalent of cattle cars in rural china. No air conditioning was just the start: they were loud, rattled like they were about to roll off the tracks, and smelled like a very cheap motel (or at least what I think one might smell like. I have never been to one). Still, these cattle cars got us and our bikes to Marseille in one piece, and it was worth it.
The Mediterranean is fabulous! I have been to the ocean before, but this is truly something else: a perfect hue of blue, stretching as far as the eye can see, bordered by cliffs, hills, and, of course, the city. We rode uphill for 45 minutes to reach the hostel, and the view was worth it: all of Marseille was spread out before us.
Alex:
The hostel is a massive, elegant, old building which seems to date back to the 2nd Empire, with fine plasterwork and mirrored walls in the atrium. The accommodations, themselves, definitely date from the 70s.
The crotchety old grounds-keeper only guffawed when I asked for room keys and gradually closed the teller window on me as I continued to press him with questions. Was there Internet? No. Food nearby? No. Public transportation? No!
We trudged up to our dormitory to be instantly greeted by the strangest character we have met thus far: Arthur the Actor from Armenia. No kidding.
I could write a short story on this guy, but I will endeavor to give you a brief introduction.
After finishing studying drama in Paris Arthur was traveling alone in France before returning to help put on a film festival in Armenia. He was lonely and morose in the hostel until we entered the scene--catapulting him into a prima donna paroxysm of histrionic glee. He sang, told tales, pantomimed, and impersonated various dramatis personae.
He was a one-man circus, babbling incessantly in broken French and English as he led us out into the Marseille twilight for dinner, not eight minutes after we had arrived. Before we knew it, we were on the subway with Arthur arguing about everything from the most beautiful singing language and Armenia's ancient claim to the Nogorno-Karabakh region (as a poli sci major, it was fun to witness some actual heartfelt irredentism for once).
We were back at the hostel before the doors shut at 11:30. Growing weary of our irreverent and cracked-out companion, and tired from the day's journey, we turned in less than an hour later.
The following morning, Arthur bid us farewell before heading out to Aix-en-Provence. And that's the last we saw of Arthur the Armenian... For now, at least.
Day 10: Lyon to Valence
Kenneth:
Today was a gorgeous ride down the Rhone river valley into Valence. Unfortunately, it took quite a while for us to leave Lyon: about two miles out of town, we ran into a road closed due to landslides. After a massive detour, some help from a friendly gas station attendant, and a little bit of luck, we were speeding down the river and into the wind.
About 20km (what are those again?) from Lyon, we noticed a strange bike path along the river, and, having nothing better to do, we continued down it. Slowly, we began to realize that this was no ordinary bike path, but more like a bike highway. As the signage soon revealed, it was called the Voie Vert, and it continued all the way to Valence.
As the day went on, we began to realize we would not make it on the windy path along the river, so we took the highway to camp. After arriving, it was too late for dinner at the camp, but the bowling alley across the street proved to have a great steak and a killer pool hall.
We really need a place like that in Mamaroneck.
Alex:
One hundred kilometers with the wind in our faces... I'm too tired to question why this bowling alley has a 4 star restaurant.
After our dramatic Escape From Lyon, we biked along the Rhone by vineyards and orchards full of peaches and apricots. Finally, we came across a stranded apricot tree--in the no-man's-land between the road and the river. Needless to say, I was up the tree and throwing apricots down at Kenneth in 10 seconds flat.
Today was a gorgeous ride down the Rhone river valley into Valence. Unfortunately, it took quite a while for us to leave Lyon: about two miles out of town, we ran into a road closed due to landslides. After a massive detour, some help from a friendly gas station attendant, and a little bit of luck, we were speeding down the river and into the wind.
About 20km (what are those again?) from Lyon, we noticed a strange bike path along the river, and, having nothing better to do, we continued down it. Slowly, we began to realize that this was no ordinary bike path, but more like a bike highway. As the signage soon revealed, it was called the Voie Vert, and it continued all the way to Valence.
As the day went on, we began to realize we would not make it on the windy path along the river, so we took the highway to camp. After arriving, it was too late for dinner at the camp, but the bowling alley across the street proved to have a great steak and a killer pool hall.
We really need a place like that in Mamaroneck.
Alex:
One hundred kilometers with the wind in our faces... I'm too tired to question why this bowling alley has a 4 star restaurant.
After our dramatic Escape From Lyon, we biked along the Rhone by vineyards and orchards full of peaches and apricots. Finally, we came across a stranded apricot tree--in the no-man's-land between the road and the river. Needless to say, I was up the tree and throwing apricots down at Kenneth in 10 seconds flat.
Day 9: Macon to Lyon
Alex:
Kenneth and I are writing to you after almost witnessing a fight between the owner of the Irish pub across the street and one of our fellow diners at the Auberge Rabelais. If things got too hot I might have had to jump in on the side of the diner--not only out of a sense of restaurant patriotism, but also because the bar owner is being obnoxious... Honestly, he's shouting obscenities and insults like we're in south Wales, not Lyon.
In any case, today was a brisk ride from Crèches-sur-Saone to Lyon. We were delighted to see the "Bienvenue a Lyon" sign around 3:30 pm .... Three hours later, we staggered into our youth hostel. Today, it seems, getting there was only half the battle.
Lyon is a beautiful sun-splashed city, falling over itself as it sweeps from the valley heights down to the confluence of the Soane and Loire rivers. From our hilltop hostel, we have the best view in town.
Kenneth:
The ride down the Saone was gorgeous, and, thankfully, flat. We booked it from Macon down to the city limits of Lyon, but that was just the start of our trip. You see, we did not know that half of Lyon, the part where the Hostel is, in fact, is one enormous hill. It was as if yesterday was back, only this time, instead of lush farmland and cozy villages, we were darting between busses and negotiating seven-way intersections. It wasn't pretty, but we eventually got there.
And boy, was it worth it! The hostel is on a hill overlooking the city center, and we could not believe the view from our window! Lyon is where two rivers meet, and we can see the entire city laid out before us, a predecessor to, say, Pittsburg, but many times more beautiful (and far fewer iron foundries, plus no joke of a baseball team). We set sail for Valence today, and I hope that goes well! It's gonna be a scorcher.
Kenneth and I are writing to you after almost witnessing a fight between the owner of the Irish pub across the street and one of our fellow diners at the Auberge Rabelais. If things got too hot I might have had to jump in on the side of the diner--not only out of a sense of restaurant patriotism, but also because the bar owner is being obnoxious... Honestly, he's shouting obscenities and insults like we're in south Wales, not Lyon.
In any case, today was a brisk ride from Crèches-sur-Saone to Lyon. We were delighted to see the "Bienvenue a Lyon" sign around 3:30 pm .... Three hours later, we staggered into our youth hostel. Today, it seems, getting there was only half the battle.
Lyon is a beautiful sun-splashed city, falling over itself as it sweeps from the valley heights down to the confluence of the Soane and Loire rivers. From our hilltop hostel, we have the best view in town.
Kenneth:
The ride down the Saone was gorgeous, and, thankfully, flat. We booked it from Macon down to the city limits of Lyon, but that was just the start of our trip. You see, we did not know that half of Lyon, the part where the Hostel is, in fact, is one enormous hill. It was as if yesterday was back, only this time, instead of lush farmland and cozy villages, we were darting between busses and negotiating seven-way intersections. It wasn't pretty, but we eventually got there.
And boy, was it worth it! The hostel is on a hill overlooking the city center, and we could not believe the view from our window! Lyon is where two rivers meet, and we can see the entire city laid out before us, a predecessor to, say, Pittsburg, but many times more beautiful (and far fewer iron foundries, plus no joke of a baseball team). We set sail for Valence today, and I hope that goes well! It's gonna be a scorcher.
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