Yesterday was a transition day.
Got up to watch the sun cast shadows of the mountains at my back against the mountains to our west. Spent breakfast with Luc, the host of my airBNB on Lake Annecy. He and his girlfriend Clothilde live in a lakefront property in a small hamlet called Taillories on the eastern shore of the Lake.
And hère is Luc showing me goPro videos of his passion: parasailing. He can sail nonstop from Taillories to Chamonix, over 50 km, even to Italy, and does frequently.
Rode my bike back to Annecy to catch the train to Chamonix. Have some nasty saddle soars. Be good to shift from bike shoes to hiking boots.
Arrived in Chamonix late in the day. Met with my guide Fred . . . yes, Fred . . . briefly. Because the telepherique between Augile du Midi and Helbonner is on the fritz, we have had to change our plans. I won’t get to traverse La Valee Blanche; instead, Fred and I are going to the Italian side. Haven’t worn a pair of crampons since Ian and I climbed Shasta a long time ago.
Well, time to get up there while there still are glaciers to cross.
Marthod, Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, France September 08, 2016
Dashing, huh?
First of all, let me just say,
‘WHAT THE HELL IS IT WITH ME AND FLAT TIRES ON FRENCH ROADS???”
Got up early this morning, for once had the appropriate attire for riding a bike, felt kind of jaunty in my nifty Cervello cap, had a nice conversation with my host Luc about my planned mountain route to Marthod, mar-chayed my ass out to my awaiting vélo, pedaled …..oh, I don’t know, maybe 30 yards . . . .and—how do the French ask if you prefer tap or sparkling water??–“gas or sans gas” . . . let’s just say my rear tire was “sans gas” As in SANS GAS. AS IN TAPPED OUT
Then I had the dreaded “Battle of the Bulge.” You cyclists will know what I’m talking about. It’s when you change a tube and, for the life of you, you can’t get a bulge in your tube to go away. Not only is this annoying as your smooth ride turns into “Here-Comes-Peter-Cotton-Tail-Hippity-Hoppity-Easters-On-It’s-Way”, but a bulge usually leads to another flat and, having burned my only spare, and being out in the middle of French-nowhere-ville with no bike shop in sight, that constant worry makes for a nerve racking ride. As in, “Boy, if this one blows, I’m in for a long walk.”
“My Kingdom for a Spare”
On the Road to Marthod
Miraculously, the tube doesn’t blow, and I’m diddy bopping town the Piste de Cycle. This whole country is criss-crossed with dedicated bike lanes, reserved for roller skaters and cyclistes, with pavement–had you a bulgeless rear tube–like glass.
I’ve got a 2 percent négative grade, a 10 mph tailwind, I’m cooking with gas. Faverges wizzes by. I blow by Marlens. I hang a right under the bridge at Ugine, release the spinnaker, and I’m sailing south for Albertville.
Now I’m riding where Napoleon rode. The famous Route Imperiale.
Napoleon Rode this WayGetting Closer
Round the corner, spot the steeple, and climb. Climb. Climb some more.
Roll into the town center with a hour to spare before I am to meet Claude.
I Have Arrived
Sip of water, wonderful view from the cemetery to the valley below.
Cimeterre en Marthod
The bell tower rings 11 . . . then 12 . . . then 12:45. Still no Claude. Think Rob. Think. You said “jeudi” at noon. “Jeudi” is Thursday, isn’t it? Shit, “Lundi, mardi, mercredi . . . what the hell is Thursday?
Despair arises anew. You moron, you don’t even know your days of the week??? Quelle idiot!!
Only one thing to do. I know it’s bold, I know it runs contrary to the Jackson y chromosome, but desperate times, Rob. It might just be crazy enough to work,.
Ask someone, where the hell does Claude Fontanet live?
There, that lady getting in her car. “Pardon Madame, je cherche pour un homme, Claude Fontanet?
And then I heard the words. Magic words. I wasn’t entirely certain what they meant. But they sounded reassuring.
“Suivez-moi”
Back down the hill I went, hot on the rear bumper of her VW. She points out her window and then a kind waive, I barrell up a steep driveway, and there smiling and waiting are Claude and his lovely wife Mado.
Exchange pleasantries. A little awkward. And then as Mado is getting the second of what turned out to be a six course lunch, it dawned on me.
Evelyne lied.
Claude doesn’t speak a word of English. Neither does Mado.
No safety net, Rob. You’re on your own, buddy.
Claude, Mado et Moi
And for four hours, throughout the white wine with grapefruit something, melon with proscioto, chicken with potatoes and légumes grown in their garden, red wine, six kinds of local cheese, and the most divine dessert, “des oeufs a la neige” (eggs in snow) ,
I suppose that in all of our lives there was a childhood friend.
Someone who, usually about the time you went off to kindergarten, or as the French say, “la materrelle”, gave you comfort when first you ventured away from home and family. Maybe she walked to school with you. Maybe he put his “blanket” down on that linoleum floor next to you during “rest time” after lunch.
You know the one. It’s the person whose name you list when prompted by a “security” question to access an internet site. The name that comes so readily to your memory that you use it to verify you-are-who-you-say-you-are to an indifferent digital world.
No metaphor there.
My first friend was Mike Brown. In 1961 Mike had just moved to Marshall, Michigan from Birmingham, Alabama, spoke with a thick southern accent, wore his jeans rolled up by about four inches (I suppose so his folks wouldn’t have to buy new ones when first grade started a year later). Mike came straight out of central casting for To Kill a Mockingbird and might have played Walter Cunningham. We were both scared as hell.
I have not seen or spoken to Mike since the sad day my family moved from Michigan when I was ten.
For Suzanne, it was Judy Bellis. I met Judy just last week. She still lives in San Luis Obispo. Though they seldom see one another, she and Suzanne remain, to this day, very close. You can tell. There’s a comfort in their interaction that I suppose comes with so much shared history. They try to see each other when they can.
For my French instructor and friend Evelyne, her childhood friend was Claude Fontanet. He still lives in the small village of Marthod where they attended “la materelle” together in 1954. They have not seen one other , have not spoken, have not written in over sixty years.
Friends
Well, not until the past few weeks.
When I first started my French lessons with Evelyne shortly after my first trip to Paris, she asked me why I wanted to learn the language. Business? Travel? No, I told her, half jokingly, “I always wanted to spend a few weeks each year, as I imagine Charlie Rose does, in a small French village where I could eat pastries each morning, watch the old men argue politics while playing petanque, and write.”
She said I should go to Marthod.
This is Marthod. It is a drawing by Evelyne of the church in the village. I don’t think there is a patisserie. I doubt old men play petanque. But, it is small and in the mountains and, I suspect . . .I hope . . . it is not frequented by tourists.
There is a French expression Evelyne taught me, “bit by bit a bird builds its nest.” She usually invokes this as reassurance when I am frustrated at what little progress I have made. But it seems apt here.
Bit by bit, as we spoke more and more, I learned about France in the wake of the war, her sister Dany, her father the postman, the school where, in the winter the boys would bring wood to feed the school stove. And of her friend Claude.
So when I hatched this wacky plan, Evelyne wrote to Claude—the old fashioned way– to tell him of her goofy middle aged student with plans to bicycle into the town square of Marthod. And, after a week or two of uncertainty, to her joy, Claude wrote back.
Yes, he has stayed in Marthod his whole life though his work with an NGO has taken him often to Africa. Yes, he is married, has children, and yes, grandchildren. Yes, many classmates in these photographs still live in Marthod
Last night, standing in the dark outside the Musee d’Orsay, poaching off the museum’s free wi-fi, (since my airBNB host Jean Christophe seems unable to answer the riddles of the interface between his new service provider and the router in my aparttement) I received an e mail myself from Claude Fontanet and his wife graciously inviting me to join them for lunch tomorrow.
Evelyne has given me a letter to deliver. I bought a box of chocolates in the Gare Lyon just now as a thank you.
I plan to bike from Annency to Marthod. It’s probably 20 kilometers. In his letter, Claude cautioned me that there is a final 1.5 kilometer climb to Marthod from the main road. Evelyne tells me it is quite steep.
Won’t be my first hill. Or mountain. Hell, I can walk my bike that far. I’ll know I’m close when I can see the church steeple.
I’m not worried about my legs. I’m worried about my mouth. I hope that when I open it, words . . . French words . . . come out. I know Claude speaks English. That’s not the point. I want to deliver a letter from childhood and relay kind regards from a friend not seen in over sixty years.
If you ride your bike through the Bois de Boulogne (a large park on the west side of town) in the middle of the day you will pass several mini vans parked on the side of the road with a bright scarf or sash tied on the driver’s side mirror. It was only after passing by several, not to be rude, but let’s just say Rubeneque women, me waiving and saying hearty “Bonjours”, did it dawn on me that they were hookers. I never quite figured if a sash meant “occupied” or “available”, but I thought it best not to stop, ask or take pictures.
I Serve Like ToonderRoland Garos Statium
Observation No. 3
Tucked in the corner of the Bois de Boulogne I discovered, quite by chance, the famous Stad de Roland Garos. I only realized where I was when I looked up from my bike to the stone perimeter of a very large building and saw the name of my boyhood hero Bjorn Borg who won the French Open in 74, 75, 78, 79, 80, and 81. Admittedly not the most articulate fella, Bjorn was quiet and patient efficiency from the baseline in an era otherwise celebrated for foul mouth chair challenges from the likes of Nastase, Connors and McEnroe. I wish I could have seen the famous red clay.
Observation No. 4
My bike is a sweet ride, but after a day on Parisian cobblestones I have newfound respect for the pros on the Paris Roubaix.
Je Viens de Loin
Observation No. 5
Throughout Paris, you will find recruitment posters such as this. Not entirely sure how to interpret it. Literally, it says “I come from far away and I will go far” But I’m sure I’m missing something in translation. Have to ask Evelyne.
Observation No. 6
Saw these two fellas laying stone near Les Halles. I exchanged comments about “le grand marteau” with an elderly man nearby. I only knew the word because Evelyn mentioned it in our last lesson as a means to remember how to pronounce the name of her childhood village in the French Alpes.
Tomorrow morning I catch a train for those Alpes to find the mountain village of Marthod and Claude Fontanet, the boy seated in the front row of this photograph, now 62 years later.
I want you to say two words out loud and, when you do, think first of how they are pronounced and second of the thought that first comes to mind when you say them. It’s okay. No one is listening. Tell you what, if you prefer and you find these words embarrassing to say out loud, whisper them.
Ready?
“Hot Chocolate.”
Now, freeze! I can predict with near certainty, from half a world away, how you reacted. First, you said, “Hott Chaulk-Lit.” Second, your lips tightened in a polite “thank you for asking but no” kind of way. And third, you’re first thought was one of two disgusting alternatives: either (1) the powdered Swiss Miss you sprinkled into boiling water shortly after crawling out of your sleeping bag while backpacking and thought “damn this tastes good”, only to find, when you tried it at home, it tasted terrible, or (2) the even more disgusting brown water that comes from the dispenser behind the counter that you bought for your kids, hoping to appease them , all the while thinking, “how in the hell can they drink that stuff.”
I know. I agree. I had some at SFO waiting for my plane.
Oh, but my friends, there is another world. Believe me. I have been there. I know. It is not far.
Follow me . . .
No, not here, at Saint-Chappelle:
Upper Chamber Sainte-Chapelle
No, not here at Notre Dame:
The Roof of Notre Dame on a Rainy Day
Those are fine, I guess, if you’re after . . . I don’t know . . . something like salvation, redemption, enlightenment. I guess . . . if you’re in to that kind of thing.
But if you truly want to experience the kind of grace that comes with sublime bliss, if you really want to reach out and touch the face of God, there is only one City and only two places to which one must return each year for prayer.
Petite Déjeuner at Angelina
I am an unashamed devotee. I endure sideways glances from other “adults” at Starbucks when the barrista says in a loud clear voice, “Rob, your extra hot hot chocolate is ready.” I own a double boiler to melt my chocolate bars. Melt my chocolate in a microwave?? You jest. How else, but with a double boiler, can one slowly melt the bars of chocolate, never powder, that are the start of a fine cup of cocoa.
I own a laser thermometer. De requerre. How else can one know the exact moment before the molecules in cocoa butter separate?
I have an account at Chocosphere where I can order just the right combination of 80% and 55% bars from all over the world which I mix and blend, over and over, trying to just once, just once, approximate what is served each day at Angelina or Les Deux Magots.
If you look in each of these photographs you will see a small pitcher. Inside….. it is sinful.
Adjectives don’t work. Roget himself would be at a loss for words to describe what I’m trying to convié. Only the sound can convey the difference.
Say “ Chalk-Lit” my friends and you will forever think Hersheys Kiss. But, ohhhh, mes amis, say “chocolat” (show-ko-law) and magically, by the sound itself, you leave childhood and arrive breathless in adulthood, as if you were Johhny Depp kissing Juliette Binoche.
With such a serious title you were expecting some long winded diatribe. It’s okay. Admit it. But no. . . I mean . . . “non”. Just a lazy title for a lazy post.
There is, as your savvy Parisian tourist will tell you, a rhino on the steps of the d’Orsay. Not the rhino –at least I don’t think it’s the rhino–to which Adrian Brody’s Salvador Dali refers in Midnight in Paris, when he says, “I see a rhinocéros”– I love that line. No, there is a statute of a rhinocéros.
I’ll come back to the rhino.
Yesterday was a challenging day. Despite all my careful planning, there were several unfortunate
developments that I should have anticipated.
In order of magnitude:
First, the wi fi . . .or as we say in Paris . . . “wee—fee”.. . is AWOL at the airbnb to which I moved yesterday morning. This requires that I walk three blocks, plant myself on the cold steps of the Musee d’Orsay, next to the rhino, and try to avert the DTs that come with no internet connection. Last night at about 10:30, I hung with some pretty sketchy characters . . . yes there are sketchy types in this chic city.
Second, and speaking of sketchy, I have been told by Thierry at the bike shop, that under no circumstances, am I to leave my bike for even a moment. Apparently, along with the pick pockets who,were Rick Steeves to be believed, would have every American tourist in Paris reaching inside his pants to access a money belt, the place is crawling with bike thieves. I unwittingly sent Thierry and his staff at the bike shop into spasms of thinly suppressed laughter when, quite proudly, I pulled from myhandy back pack, the cable lock I hauled all the way from California.
“Oh, non, non, non Raub. This is, how do you say, . . . . Child’s play.”
Child’s Play
I suppose I should have noticed, as I milled around the store waiting for my pedals to be installed, that there was not a single bike lock sold in the store. The only thing more locked up in this town than fine bikes is apparently my legendary Sherlock Holmes-like powers of observation.
Note to you neophyte Parisian travelers. If you look around Paris, on damn near every beautiful wrought iron fence . . . you know the kind . . . black, pointy, imposing, but élégant . . . you will find the remnants of bike locks where a bike once was thought safe and secure.
Most Parisians have simply given up.
Let’s see. What else?
Oh, yeah. The airbnb to which I moved, while enjoying the singular advantage of only one flight of strait stairs, as compared to the six flights of circular stairs in my old haunt (try packing a bike up those), is about the size of a closet, and only slightly less ventilated. Pardon the toes in this shot, but I wanted to give some scale and, from the corner of my futon where I took the photo there was nowhere to put them that wasn’t in the field of view. ?
Spacieux, n’est pas
As you can see, I have a window. It looks out into an interior light shaft, maybe 8 by 8, which channels light not nearly as efficiently as it channels the sound of my neighbor’s TV. From what I can make out, over the rattling of my nifty desktop oscillating fan, his “phoot-ball” team is trailing, but not without his frequent and enthusiastic encouragement. I was able to make out “Quelle idiots”
I have to say, charming as they are, your circular Parisien stairway is an exercise in terror. First, they date back a few years and the leading edge of the treads are all rounded and polished so as to make slipping not a question of if, but when. This is not only true at the Arc de Triumph and Sainte-Chapelle, but at most of your airBNB’s. Second, should you have to schlep a bike up or down them, given that the length of the bike will only fit if carried on the outside of the stairwell, your feet are left to negotiate the inside of the double helix where no one, except a doofus schlepping a bike, would dare to step.
I Can Do This
Oh well, remember your Emerson, which I would, if I only had access to my Pinterest page on the internet. Something about, “the day is over;you have done what you could . . . “ Shit, I can’t remember the rest.
On the Rue Tiquetonne, in the 1st Arrondissement, is a small, élégant bicycle shop called En selle Marcel. The proprietor is Thierry Guyot.
When I walked in this morning, a very pleasant young lady greeted me with”Bonjour Monsieur.” I fumbled with my go-to “Pardon, mademoiselle, my French is not well”, sounding like I was referring to an elderly aunt with consumption. She laughed and replied in English, “Non problème” . . . my English is not well either.” I told her I was looking for Thierry, whose name I must have mispronounced, because for several awkward moments she looked puzzeled, and then said in English, “Ohhhh, you mean the boss?”
She called out to a gentleman in the back, “Thierry, Monsieur Jackson is hère” From the back a voice called out in English with a thick French accent, “Ahhh, Rob; you are hère my friend.”
This is Thierry.
Ahh Rob, You are here
My Friend
Oh, and this is the bike I bought.
Ain’t She a Beauty
I know. Doesn’t make much sensé to buy a bike in Paris. I mean it’s a British bike. A Cooper seven speed Zandvoort with a British leather Brooks saddle and handlebar grips, and a stylish leather tool pouch hanging from the seat. Hell, it’s even got fenders.
To quote Thierry when I first wrote to him, “I of course welcome the business, Monsieur, but why would you want to buy a bike hère in Paris only to box it up and pay Air France to get it home?”
I didn’t really have a good answer then and was wondering the same as I left Thierry’s shop this morning, and began to weave my way through legendary Paris traffic. I told myself that it would be a cool commuter bike for my mile long ride to and from work. I told myself it would enable me to see parts of Paris I might otherwise miss.
All well and good, but hell, let’s be honest. Its a souvenir. A big souvenir.
Buyer’s remorse was taking hold and might have prompted me to act rationally but, as so often happens in life, events took control. Riding east along the southern bank of the Seine, I crested a small rise and came upon a group of onlookers at the water’s edge. Hère is what I saw:
Last Tango in Paris
Hell, I’m probably rationalizing — in fact, I know I’m rationalizing — but seems to me that every now and then you need to do something silly– like buying a bike or learning to tango — to really enjoy life.
Think I’ll pull over and watch the world go by. I can’t tango, but I can still ride a bike.
Having just survived an embarrassing conversation…..and I use the term “conversation” liberally…..with a very nice woman at Air France, and having witnessed several acts of ugly Americanism even before leaving the airport, I’ve decided.
I don’t believe in “American Exceptionalism.”
Apart from the fact that I am the poster child for “anything but exceptionalism” in my command of French, I suppose I came to doubt the notion that America is better than everyone else long ago.
When, I’m not sure?
It was probably in those pivotal twelve months between Barry Sadler’s “Ballad of the Green Berets” in January of 1966 and Jim Morrisons’ “Light My Fire” in January of 1967. A lot changed that year.
Truth be told: I didn’t like the idea, as my mom would often remind me, that “America is the only country that doesn’t dip its flag” to the host country in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. That seemed a fitting “in your face” to Hitler in Munich in 1936; not so much to Jean Claude Killy in Grenoble in 1968.
I didn’t like the idea, oft repeated as an argument against withdrawing from Viet Nam, that “America has <b><i>never </i></b>lost a war.” That seemed a thin excuse to stay where it seemed, even to an 11 year old boy, we were doing just that.
I don’t like to hear crowds cheer: “USA………….USA………….USA” It makes me uneasy. I don’t know why, but it does. Didn’t like it when the US beat the Russians at Lake Placid; sure as hell didn’t like it at the political conventions, Republican or Democrat, this past summer.
I don’t like the “medal count” during the Olympics. I admire the athletes individually and, yes, I will root for the home team, but it seems . . . I dunno . . . .”unolympic” . . . to post a graphic comparing countries.
I agree with every bit of Will MacAvoy’s opening rant in <i>Newsroom</i> when, asked “why is America the greatest country in the world?”, he responded “ It’s <b><i>not</i></b> the greatest country in the world” and went on to say “We lead the world in only three categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, number of adults who believe angels are real and defense spending, where we spend more than the next 26 countries combined, 25 of whom are allies.”
No, I don’t believe in American Exceptionalism.
I believe in American Humility.
I believe in the “no-thanks-necessary” genius of the Marshall Plan, the Berlin Airlift, and the Peace Corps. I believe in sports héros who are soft spoken, tip the cap when victorieux, and gracions in defeat. Guys like John Wooden, Arthur Ashe and Jack Nicklaus. I believe in an America where we were all, every one of us, taught it was rude to talk about yourself.
I believe in the unspoken stillness of Normandy.
France is generally regarded by Americans as an arrogant country. The conventional wisdom seems to be that Parisians in particular are rude and dismissive. I have not found that to be true ..
One of the many things I learned from my French instructor and good friend Evelyne is to introduce myself by a simple French phrase: “Bonjour monsieur. Excusez-moi, pour mon mauvais francais, mais je veux essayer.” Loosely translated: “Hello. I know I’m butchering your language, but I wanna give it a try.” This usually generates four reactions: (1) a smile, (2) a rapid response I cannot comprehend, (3) gradually escalating annoyance as I do in fact try . . .and fail . . . and finally (4) a very sympathetic invitation to speak English.
I try to decline this invitation. Two reasons:
First, it’s a trap. It’s a clever French trick to assert bilingual dominance and win the bragging rights that come with that. No. No, sir-ree Bob. I mean, Baub. I mean “Raub.” “Merci beaucoup mon ami, mais je suis un Americain.”
Second, it seems only right to at least try to speak the language of your host. It’s like removing your hat inside, opening a door for a woman, standing when meeting someone, sitting in a courtroom only when invited to by the judge, speaking softly in a public place, or listening politely as another boasts about his children, but never boasting about your own.
We Americans are as parents, and as a people, at our best when we say the least about our own virtues, which are not as many as we would like to think, and are mindful of our own faults, which are more than we would care to admit . There is much to be said for silence.
I’ve slept for eight hours, That flushed, rummy, punch drunk feeling that comes with the sleep dépravation of international flight has passed. I am awake and alert, and apart from the fact that there are at least three more hours of darkness, and I have nothing to do but read or write this silly blog, things are going well. Right on says-shual.
I swing back the large white louvered windows and cool air rushes in to my airBNB flat. A group of young men and women are lazily drifting down the street, arms intertwined at the elbows, singing the Rightous Brothers’ “Loving Feeling” in French
I nibble at the half eaten Apricot Flan which miraculously rests undisturbed, right where I left it, near by laptop . . .on top of the still tucked-in sheets of my bed where I slept.
Eeeeew—Rob, Quelle gross!!
I laugh because right now, half a world away, at the moment she reads that last phrase, my French instructor Evelyne is quietly pulling her haïr out.
Let me explain.
“Gros” , you see, is a false cognate. A true cognate is a word which is fundamentally spelled the same and means the same in two langages. As Suzanne would say, “Same/same.”
For example……take…….well . . .take the phrase . . . “for example.” In English we say, “for example.” In French, we say “par example>”
If you want to fake French, you can go a long way by (1) talking through your nose, (2) summoning up French words you already know that end with an “e” (i.e. resume, blase, crème brûlée, touchée, cliche, cafe . . . you know . . . Chevrolet koo-pay”, and (3) spitting out cognates (i.e. hockey, taxi, dictionnaire, appartement, and my personal favorite…..chocolat.
Try it! In English we say, “châlk-let” In French we say, “show-ko-law”, In English we say, “den-tist”. In French, we say, “dawn-teest” In English, we say “Aaaa”-ten-shun”; in French we say, “ahh–tahn-zee-own”
Ah, but therein lies the rub, my dear Horatio.
Some words you think might be cogates, are not cognates. They may look the same, but they don’t mean the same. They are false cognates or, as the French so nicely put it, “faux amis.” False friends.
The french word “bras” is the not the plural of a lady’s garment. It’s your bicep. The word “déception” in English means “deceived”. In French it means “disallusioned” And the word “gros” in French does not mean “yuck”; it means “fat.” And in French, “attention” does not mean “stay focused” it means, “watch out.”
"Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" 