Nike town

AUGUST 17, NICE, FRANCE—I piloted the Micra down departmental highways, out of the city of popes and towards the autoroute. Through the toll booth, direction: Aix-en-Provence, then Nice. While I drove, Stef had her phone out and was calling some numbers for hotels we had in Saint Tropez. No dice. We were heading into the most difficult portion of our voyage: The French Riviera with no reservations whatsoever.

I told my erstwhile co-pilot that I thought it might not be a good idea to check out the area of Saint Tropez without reservations. I was overruled and we headed off the autoroute and down a departmental highway towards the coast. Traffic was building. As we hit the coastal highway near our destination, the traffic was bumper to bumper. Stefania again tried the office de tourisme in Saint Tropez as we neared the city center itself. They said there was one room in a two-star joint back the other way. “Oh no,” I thought. “We would have to swim back upstream.” We decided to pull over near the main square of Saint Tropez. Stef went to the office to make sure there wasn’t something else. I sat in the car and listened to “Les Grandes Gueules” on the radio, which translates as something like “The Big Mouths.” Interestingly enough, they were discussing the fact that France was the number one travel destination in the world but that her hotels still ranged widely in quality and services, even with the same star rating. I laughed at what they were saying. It seemed to hit the nail right on the head.

After some minutes, Stefania trudged back to my position in the shade of a plane tree watching some men play “boules.” She confirmed that the aforementioned hotel room was the only one left in the area in our price range. We decided to check it out as it was on our way back to the autoroute, anyway.

Good thing we didn’t take the room. We pulled into the lot and Stef’s hopes for staying in Saint Tropez were dashed. It looked like a combination of the Bates Motel and your local No Tell Hotel. I practically did a donut to get out of there. Luckily the traffic going the other way, our direction of travel, wasn’t too bad.

Back on the autoroute I suggested we hit Nice, as it is a big city, very beautiful, with the added advantage that it is near the Italian border. Fair enough, she said.

We pulled off the autoroute and I followed the signs for the famous Promenade des Anglais that bordered the Baie des Anges. Nice (Nizza in Italian) is a former Greek out post named after the goddess for victory Nikaia or Nike in English. After the Greeks came the usual long laundry list of conquerors, Romans to French.

It was a beautiful late afternoon. A bank of clouds hovering over the mountains at the far end of the bay. “Do you think Lance and Sheryl are still here,” querried Stefania, referring to Lance Armstrong’s post-tour vacation to this city. “I doubt it,” I said. “He probably cruised back to the States on his Gulfstream a week or two ago.”

We cruised all the way down the long boulevard, checking out the sunbathers on the city’s famous pebbled beaches. After getting a lay of the land, I steered our sturdy Japanese steed back the other way towards the airport at the far end of the bay. I had spotted some chain hotels and reasoned that that was our best chance, if not first choice, to find a room under our present circumstances.

We pulled up in front of the Hôtel Ibis Nice Aéroport, across from the end of the runway where all the private jets are parked. Stefania went in. It’s a pretty big hotel and sure enough they had some rooms. It’s nice to stay in smaller family-owned places but on short notice in a big city with all of our stuff (my bike included) in the car, it pays to bite the bullet and go for the chain because they always have secure, underground parking. We pulled around the corner. Stef hopped out and tapped in the code for the garage. The door swung open, we entered and went down just under ground. I backed the car in. We then took the bags we needed and headed up to our room on the fourth floor. It was like your typical Hampton Inn-type room: a/c, TV, bluetooth internet connection and double-paned windows which made the room absolutely silent.

After unpacking, we changed and headed out, camera in hand. The hotel was right on the bay. We crossed the busy street and walked passed the end of the airport and a Total gas station. There, before us, was one of the most magnificent views (see photo above). I snapped a lot of photos but the one you see was the first and the best. We continued walking and walking. It is amazing people watching. People in France and Italy don’t eat until eight or nine, so we had some time to kill. Eventually, we settled on a rather touristy spot (they’re all touristy next to the bay) and settled in for a nice meal of steak-frites. It was a three-course meal for 10 euros plus drinks. Not bad for a tourist trap. It was cool. The whole terrace had these little tubes that hung from the awning and misted the patrons with cool water every five minutes. After dinner, we cruised back to the room to count our blisters and sack out.

Stefania was concerned that the clouds of Monday would move in and ruin her beloved beach day on Tuesday. Boy, was she wrong. Beeeeautiful day. We got up, headed down to the restaurant for breakfast (a paradise of bread). Then we walked down a back street where we stocked up on magazines for our day at the beach. We then crossed back over to the beach and decided that if we were going to spend one day at the beach we had to splurge and go to one of the private beaches. It’s the only way to fly. You pay 13 euros for the day and you get the awesome ‘transat’ or what we’d call a chaise longue. They also have ‘plagistes’ or cabana boys that will bring you food and drink. These aren’t cheap plastic beach chairs either but real wooden ones with nice mattresses. Plus, they have laid down carpet in between the rows or chairs so you don’t hurt your feet on the rocks. We took up a position in the first row. I ordered a couple of Cokes and we decided to jump in. The water, unlike Cassis where there is a glacial spring under the bay, is perfect. You see why they call it the Côte d’Azur. It’s really that blue. Unlike the beaches in the Adriatic, there are no breakwaters here. Just the open sea before you. If you ever do go to the beach at Nice, make sure you bring Teva sandals or reef shoes; if you don’t, you’ll regret it. The rocks kill your feet. You look up and down the beach and see people waddling in pain to and from the water.

After a short while of napping in the sun, I heard a comotion behind us. Seems like some punk American college kid and his girlfriend with daddy’s credit cards was making a scene. Of course, this cretin couldn’t speak French and was having a hard time understanding the cabana boy who was trying to explain to him that no outside food or beverages were allowed on private beaches, as the sign at the entrance said. The stupid college kid was screaming that he wanted his money back and that he could drink what he wanted, where he wanted etc. etc. and that he didn’t understand the sign (typical) so how was he supposed to know.

Moron. I wish the college punk would have tried to push the ‘plagiste’ or taken a swing at him. That would have been an interesting call home to daddy from a French jail. When I went to school in France, the first week there, they would always bring some paper pusher from the embassy over to read us the riot act. Really unobvious things like, ‘No, you’re not at home anymore and the stuff that daddy and mommy used to get you out of at the University of X doesn’t apply here. If you get arrested for any crime you are subject to French laws and there is nothing we (the American government) can do about it. If you’re lucky, they’ll deport you and you will forfeit your tuition and fees. If you’re not lucky, depending on the crime, give your new cellmate Pierre, my best.’ Guess this ‘cool dude’ didn’t get the memo. It makes you proud to be an American when you see things like that happen.

That nice day brought our trip to Nice, and France to a close. That night we dined in and then the next morning headed out for a nice 5-hour drive back to Bologna.

Road rage in Roussillon

AUGUST 14, AVIGNON, FRANCE— The day after my adventure to the top of the world, in Provence at least, and back dawned sunny and bright. After having a bit of a lie in, as the Brits say, Stef and I headed down the main drag in Avignon, back to the little grocery store that was under a ‘boulangerie’ or bakery to resupply for the days journeys. Supermarkets in Europe look pretty much like they do in the States; if someone conked you on the head and you woke up in a French supermarché, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding what you need. Perhaps you just couldn’t read the specials. The neat thing about such stores on the Continent is that when you are in dense, historic, city centers, you find them in the oddest places. But people gotta eat.

We performed the usual mid-air refueling operation: “Red Leader, Red Leader, break right and get the baguette. I’m breaking left to pick up the ‘jambon.’ We’ll rendezvous on the fruit aisle.” While in the store, we ran into the charming owner of our hotel. She was pulling the little grocery caddy on wheels that marked her as a resident. We opted for the plastic bags. Don’t forget: at supermarkets in Europe, you pay for the bags that you use and put a 1-euro deposit down on the grocery carts; they are all tethered together in front of the store with little chains that plug into a little coin box on the cart. You place your coin in the slot, move the lever and it releases it from the herd of other carts. When you return, you plug your cart back in to the others and your money is returned. Moral of the story: Always keep reusable IKEA shopping bags and 1-euro coins in your car.

Exiting from the store, we took our wares and headed outside of the city walls to pick up the Micra which was parked in an underground parking garage near the train station. Our destination: the medieval towns of Gordes and Roussillon.

Gordes is a charming medieval town, another of the most beautiful villages in France as the sign says, that sits perched on a hill. The French are super organized nowadays. As you approach the edge of town, you pass a couple of three-star hotels and then come to a ‘Parking Payant’ or private parking lot. There is a teenage attendant seated next to his comic book reading punk little brother. You have no choice but to pay the man. He hands you a ticket for your dash as you complete the transaction. We pull into the lot, drive past the Gendarme station and into the overflow lot in back. It’s mid-day on a Sunday and the lot is already teeming with tourists. I maneuver the Micra into a spot in between two French cars. (I must say that I haven’t seen too many Americans this year. Most tourists are French, followed by other Europeans, the Dutch most notably.) We break out the picnic materials. I slice the baguette with a makeshift knife and build the ham and cheese sandwiches. Stefania cracks open the Orangina soda. I hand her her sandwich and we get our snack on.

After lunch, we hike about a kilometer to the entrance of the village. Again, no cars are allowed except for residents and delivery vans. The streets are abuzz with tourists going in and out of the immaculate stores. Stef and I split up. I walk around staring at the contrails in the blue sky as Stefania heads for the first shoe store she can find. Up and down, up and down. The medieval folk just had to build their cities on hills, didn’t they. My dogs are barking from all of the walking we’ve been doing and yesterday’s ride. We hook up again. I snap some nice pics. We finish our visit and head back to the car.

Next stop, Roussillon. On our way we take a perilous side trip down a narrow road to see an abbey in a field of Provençal lavender that has now gone brown. We park and check out the abbey but they want to jack us for like, 10 euros a pop to see the inside. I veto that idea and return to the gardens to snap a few pics before we resume our journey toward Roussillon.

The trip is beautiful. Up and down winding country roads. Picturesque villages. A few burned areas where forest fires have raged recently. It’s too bad that the lavender has already been harvested. After another half hour of driving we arrive in the hill-top village of Roussillon. It is of note because of the sandstone cliffs upon which it sits. They are of an amazing red, terracotta color. The buildings of the village are painted to match the color of the surrounding cliffs. The sky is a deep blue.

Parking is the same routine. Up the hill and into a sea of campers, station wagons and mini vans. Don’t forget to take your parking ticket with you in France if you get it out of one of those machines when you enter. When you leave, you go to another machine, stick your ticket in the slot, and pay the amount due. The machine then spits your ticket back out with an electronic code that a third machine reads at the ‘sortie’ or exit which allows the barrier to rise out of your way. If you leave it in the car, you have to hoof it back to the car, get the ticket, hoof it back to the machine, pay and then return to your car again. If you parked 10 levels below in some massive parking garage and the machine is on the ground floor, you are in deep doodoo.

The village itself was typical of what we had seen of late: beautiful, organized around tourism and immaculately clean. France and Provence is almost too clean now. Italy still has that little feeling of controlled chaos. The French are a bit more low key.

We stopped for a beer at a sidewalk café and watched the owner’s dog go in and out of the front door. He was like the maître d’ for dogs. Each tourist that came by with a dog, he would run out and sniff the newcomer as if he were taking canine reservations. The cats just sit in the sun in window boxes, laconically observing the proceedings with typical Gallic detachment.

We zipped back towards Avignon but not before I almost got us killed at a T intersection. I paused, wondering if I should go right or left. Stef said something to me as I kind of eased my nose into the road. Just then, a car comes flashing by from the right. I turn hard into the left lane and let him go by, passing me on the right. I think we both had to change our drawers after that close call. Probably the French car, too. I’m sure he was weaving a tapestry of profanity as he continued on.

Then, just our luck, we pulled up behind the guy I had almost cut off at a long traffic light.I watch in slow motion as the driver’s side door opens and out steps a squat man in his late forties. He walks slowly toward my door. I imagine this scene in the U.S. as said driver pulls a 9mm out and riddles my car with lead. I could see the headlines: “American shot in France in road rage incident.”

In reality, I rolled down my window as he approached. He said evenly, “Vous savez, c’est comme ça que des accidents arrivent. Il faut faire attention.” (You know, that’s how accidents happen.You have to pay attention (when you drive).) I said, “I know, I know. It’s my fault. Please excuse me,” making sure to use the formal/polite “vous” form of you. He said that it was okay, wished us a good day and got in his car and drove off. That, to me, is the perfect example of the French penchant for directness that Americans sometimes confuse for rudeness. A French person will (another sweeping generalization) tend not to hesitate to tell you if you have done something that they perceive as objectionable. The same scene in the U.S. would probably tend to have unfolded in a more passive-agressive manner: an obscene gesture followed by a squealing of tires as the offended person sped away. Or, they would have done nothing. The Frenchman was very cordial and simply expressed his displeasure at what had happened. Obviously, speaking the language helps. If I were a tourist who didn’t understand his culture or what he said, I could have interpreted his gesture in a much different manner. More on that when we get to Nice.

The next morning, we packed loaded up the car, bid adieu to our kind hosts and headed back down the autoroute towards the French Riviera.

The Giant of Provence

AUGUST 13, AVIGNON, FRANCE—Today was the day I ventured to the moon and back. A day that will live in infamy. The day I performed my sacred duty as a cyclist. I attempted to conquer what is arguably the toughest climb in all of cycling. The feared Giant of Provence. The Mont Ventoux.

This bald giant (so named because of the treeless, lunar-like landscape at the summit that is its trademark) rises 1,912 meters (6,300 feet) over the Rhône Valley, approximately an hour’s drive north of Avignon. It forms an almost perfect cone that shoots straigh tup into the deep blue sky of Provence and dominates the vineyards of the Châteauneuf du Pape that lay below. Its forested slopes were used to construct ships for the Royal Navy in the 16th century and were replanted starting in 1860. The summit is baren and covered with a carpet of rocks. Nothing grows there because of the Mistral winds, from which the mountain takes its name (vent means wind in French), that blow year-round, sometimes in excess of 230 km/h.

Cycling News editor John Stevenson has described the mountain as neither the highest nor the steepest climb in the Tour rotation, but definitely the most feared. It is relentless and has even killed. British racer Tom Simpson died on this climb during the 1967 Tour de France. He had described it as "a great mountain stuck in the middle of nowhere and bleached white by the sun. It is like another world up there among the bare rocks and the glaring sun. The white rocks reflect the heat and the dust rises clinging to your arms, legs and face." Lance Armstrong has referred to it as “that bastard” and has never won here, missing in the 2000 and 2003 editions of the Tour. He lost to Marco Pantani and Richard Virenque respectively. This past June, Armstrong came in fourth during a stage of the Dauphiné Libéré race.

This morning started out with another crystal blue sky. After another walking excursion inside the walls of the ancient city center of Avignon, I returned back to our charming hotel at about noon, after stocking up on water and some granola bars for my ride. I rested as Stefania went to check out the Fondation Angladon museum that houses a private collection of masterworks by artists such as Degas, Modigliani, Cézanne, Van Gogh, just to name a few. She returned at about two and we set out in the famed Micra, bike in the back, to the north towards the small town of Carpentras. After cutting through the center of town, we turned right onto the departmental highway D974 towards the Mont Ventoux, which is clearly signaled.

There are three different routes that one can ride to the summit. All are approximately the same level of difficulty. I chose the southern route (Versant Sud) that starts in the village of Bédoin because it is the most difficult and the one that is usually ridden in the Tour de France. Once we got outside of the town of Carpentras, the terrain becomes rolling. Sun-drenched vineyards line both sides of the road. The sky was still crystal blue with a few whisps of white clouds hovering over the summit of the Ventoux. My palms began to sweat as I contemplated what lay ahead. Spotting a side road that led to a winery, I figured that it would be a good place to change and put my bike back together. Furthermore, I wanted to get in some kilometers before the real climbing began.

I pulled over under a big tree. Stefania held the bike frame while I reattached the wheels, seat, handlebars etc. I pumped the tires to their maximum (8 bar or 110 psi) and really lubed the chain well (I didn’t want any extra friction on this climb). Like Superman, I ducked behind the car and changed into my cycling garb in between passing cars. Once prepared, I gave Stef instructions to go on ahead a few kilometers and wait for me. We would repeat this process over and over again up the mountain. That way, I didn’t have to carry any extra gear.

Turning right onto the D974, I placed my right hand around the brake hood/shift lever and clicked through the gears until I found one that felt comfortable. I just had my rig tuned up and a new cassette with lower gears put on in back ( a 12-27 for you cyclists out there). That is to say, that is as low as they go for Shimano Dura-Ace (It’s actually an Ultegra cassette, though). But more on the gearing later. The road ahead was definitely not flat. I had about 10km to go to get to Bédoin at the base of the mountain. I would say that the road was at a steady 2-to-3-percent grade. I was rolling a 39x19 for most of the way into town, the theory being that I didn’t want to use my granny gears to soon. I needed to work up a good sweat and get as warmed up as possible before the real fun began.

As I passed a traffic circle on the outskirts of Bédoin, four Gendarmes were setting up a speed trap. The road then jogged left and into the prevailing north wind. The air temperature was 32˚C but not too humid. I pedaled straight for about 500 meters before the road took a sharp right bend and kicked up into the town of Bédoin itself. Back into the wind and through the heavily-shaded streets lined with tourists sitting in sidewalk cafés. As I passed by, they probably were glad that they were sipping a cold beer as they knew that I was headed into the belly of the beast.

The grade had already kicked up to 5 percent as I headed back to the right and out of town. As I looked around I noticed a few empty fields, a couple of houses and some vineyards full of ripening grapes. Stefania was stopped up ahead and was taking pictures of my suffering. I still had the wind at my back and thought that if it stays like this I might be able to handle it. Right as I reached the car, I looked left and noticed the sign saying: Mont Ventoux 18 km. “Great, I thought.”

I was on my 23 sprocket. My speed was down to 18.9 km/h. I hadn’t wanted to click down to the 27 yet, my last gear, but it was awefully tempting. Two more bends in the road made the decision quite easy. Yup, there goes the 27 and I’m only four km into a 21 km climb. Boy, this is going to be fun.

The road was now at a steady 7 percent grade, I was on my last gear with a long way to go. As I entered the pine forest or Perraches, the real climb began. Signs began to appear saying, “10% prochain (next) 2km.” My heart rate monitor read 183 out of a possible 198. I was already in the red zone, panting as I pulled mightily on the bars. The road was a wall that shot straight up into a green, piney hell where there would be another switchback and then more of the same.

For those familiar with cycling in the Kansas City area, think of the hill known as Mt. Baldwin just outside of Baldwin, Kan.Think long and hard about the grade of that hill. Then you will have some idea of what the Ventoux is like. Except that at home, Mt. Baldwin ends after less than 1 km. The Ventoux goes on and on for 20. After the initial run out of Bédoin, there are no false flats or places to rest until a short 100-meter section, 6 km from the top. The average grade throught the forest is 9-10 percent. We’re not talking about how cyclists exagerate and say that the hill they just climbed was 10 percent when it was really more like 5. This is certifiable, USDA, grade-A, prime-cut climbing. I can’t begin to explain how hard it is. I can’t even conceive of how the pros race up this mountain.

So, I’ll cut to the chase and say that I didn’t make it to the top. I tapped out about halfway up, 9 km into the 20 km climb. I had actually started climbing when I left the car and had done 18 km in one hour and seven minutes with a 900-meter gain in elevation. Not bad for having only done 5 hills all summer, but not nearly good enough to make it to the top. I knew I probably couldn’t make it before setting out but wanted to try and see what it was like; I might not get the chance again.

Suffice it to say that I had to swallow my pride and get into the broom wagon. I just didn’t have the right gears or the right training to do the job right. So I cracked a cold one and drove the rest of the way to the summit. There was a Dutch guy that had passed me in the forest earlier who was still motoring ahead. I offered him some water but he waved me off. He looked like he was in a trance.

We drove through the barren moonscape to the summit, stopping to take some photos at the Tom Simpson memorial. The wind was howling and the temperature had dropped to 15˚C. There’s a small gift shop next to the telecommunications antennas. I bought some postcards and a couple cold beverages. Then I raced to the car to get out of the wind and down half of a sandwich before riding the brakes in the car all of the way down.

I wouldn’t say that this was the hardest day I ever had on a bike but that’s just because at my advanced age I have almost 20 years of experience riding and enough horse sense to know that you don’t mess around with the Giant of Provence. At any rate, it was just a simple question of physics. I just didn’t have the horsepower to propel my big box butt up a 10-percent grade with the gears I brought and extend the suffering any longer. Gravity bats last.

A TECHNICAL NOTE FOR THOSE INTERESTED IN RIDING THE CLIMBS OF THE TOUR: Spend the 500 bucks and get the triple chainring set up. I know we were all racers once or thought we were, but the simple fact of the matter is that you ain’t getting to the top without one unless you are in top racing shape and at your ideal climbing weight. I would offer this gearing caveat: 39x24 for pros. 39x27 for Cat 1s and 2s, compact drivetrain (34x30) for good 3s, 4s and masters and a triple for everyone else. And don’t skimp on the training. That’s the problem for us flatlanders. There are hills around, but how do you train for climbs that are 10 km or longer. It can be very dangerous attempting some of these Hors Catégorie Tour climbs if you’re not in top shape and the weather conspires against you. Just ask the 60 year-old dude who died last week while riding up the Ventoux.

By the way, I finally met up with that Dutch guy at the top; he is a racer, who looks lean and mean with a cool mustache (think Ned Overend) and he really worked hard to push a 34x27 to the top. These 50-something French dudes that were talking with us told me that they were going to try it tomorrow on a 39x26. They were a few kilos lighter than me to be sure, but who do they think they were kidding. No way, no how.

Avignon or bust

AVIGNON 12 AUGUST—Before heading out of Aubagne, we had one last stop to make, the medieval village of Castellet, about 14 km outside of Gémenos. It is another charming little bourg that is rated one of the most beautiful villages of France, perched on a hillside near the sea. Most of these small villages make their living entirely from tourism. Cats lounged in windows. Dogs walked in and out of their owners’ stores. Tourists milled about in throngs. Most of the tourists I’ve seen are French. Not too many Americans this year. France is the number one tourist destination in the world and they seem to know it in Provence. Everything is set up and organized waiting for the masses to descend. We obliged them of course, paying for parking and buying a few things on our tour up and down the steep streets.

After the visit to Castellet, we took the Autoroute past the famed Mont Ste. Victoire, the mountain made famous by the impressionists, and did a nice day trip to the university town of Aix-en-Provence, birthplace of Paul Cézanne and Emile Zola (pronounce ‘Aix’ like ‘ex’. One often sees ‘Aix’ or ‘Ax’ in town names in France that were once the site of Roman thermal baths.). We parked in a nice underground parking facility and set out first to see the market that takes up all of the main boulevard of the town, the plane tree-lined Cours Mirabeau.Stefania bought some gifts as I took pictures. We made a giant loop through all of the picturesque squares of the town. Every corner you turned there seemed to be another small church or market that was just wrapping up. As traffic is limited in most city centers, the foot traffic of locals and tourists alike was quite intense. We were beat and decided to head back to the hotel. Stef hit the pool while I went for another ride. The terrain here is very deceiving. You think the road is descending when it is actually going up. The mountains slant one way, the fields below another and then the road again in another direction. I couldn’t figure out why I was pedaling so hard. I stopped twice to look at my chain. Then when I turned around I saw why. I had been climbing the whole time. My senses were completely baffled.

That night we decided to try the pizzeria next door to the hotel and found it quite good. Again, if you’re in France or Italy, you have to change your concept of time and service. People never eat before 8 or 9 p.m. If you’re like my dad and want to eat at 6:30 sharp, most restaurants are still closed. Expect to be seated and have to wait long periods between each service interval: menus, water, entrées etc. It’s just the way things are done here.

On Friday, we paid up at the hotel and hit the road for the long journey up to the city of popes, Avignon in the Vaucluse . It took a couple of hours to get there. We had made reservations at a very quaint two-star hotel owned by two transplanted Parisians where our friends had stayed this past spring. It is inside the ramparts of the old city, right off Rue de la République. We unloaded the car and then were able to park it nearby in an underdground parking garage that has a deal with the hotel. Each room at the hotel has a particular theme. Ours was Marocco. It was on the top floor and quite spacious with a couch and a table and a bathroom/shower in the room.

After unpacking, we went down and talked to the owners. This is again where speaking the language helps. They pulled out a map and told us in detail to see this or don’t see that and to eat here because all of the tourists eat here etc. You really get the royal treatment. The first thing we hit was the magnificent Palais des Papes, constructed for Benoît XII beginning in 1336. The palace is built on a hill next to the park of the Rocher des Doms. From there you can see the famous Pont d’Avignon, the bridge that extends only halfway across the Rhône river. We then wandered through the streets and ended up having dinner near the Porte du Rhône on the Place Crillon.
Tomorrow, Saturday, was going to be the real test, my attempt to climb the Ventoux.

Put on your walking shoes

AUGUST 10, AUBAGNE, FRANCE—We are really on a role here. Another fine, clear morning in the south of France. After the incredible meal of the night before, we put on our walking shoes, headed over to Alain’s and Josianne’s house and prepared for a day of sight seeing in Marseille.

Stefanina had never been to Marseille, so she was in for a treat. France’s second largest city has been a crossroads for all of the civilizations of the Mediterranean basin for over 2,600 years. Alain-Philippe, Stef and I all got into the Renault Mégane hatchback and began the journey through light morning traffic towards the center of Marseille. We took the tunnel that let us out near the Vieux Port. We drove up to the top of the hill overlooking the port and found a nice spot next to the medieval abbey of Saint-Victor. After a look inside, we then walked down the hill and around the Vieux Port on to the Quai des Belges where we began a brief walking tour of the center of the city. We concluded the morning portion of our tour with a stop at the Guess store off of the Rue Paradis to see Stefania’s friend, Sébastien, the owner. Sébastien showed us around and talked a little shop with Stefania before inviting us to the Novotel that overlooks Marseille for a buffet lunch. On his tab, of course. We spent about two hours sitting on the terrace in the sun eating good food and enjoying the view of the fort Saint-Jean next to the Baie de Marseille before parting company.

Alain-Philippe then directed us back to where the car was parked. Nearby is a château that overlooks the harbor built for Napoléon III’s wife, though she never lived there. We snapped a few pics before mounting up again to go take the sinuous, narrow road up to “La Bonne Mère” or the cathedral of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, the church that protects the city. It is quite a drive. On the way one passes an American Sherman tank that was left where it stands as the Allies liberated Marseille in 1944. The citizens of the city repaint the tank every year. Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde offers one of the best views of the city. One can see off in the direction of Cassis to the southeast, the hills to the north of the city and the old harbor.

After the tour of the cathedral, it was back in the car to drive along the Canebière, the road that runs along the sea between the Parc Borély and the municipal beaches. Along this route we stopped for a quick jaunt down stairs in between two buildings to a tiny little protected harbor that you wouldn’t know was there unless someone pointed it out to you. It is called the Vallon des Auffes. We snapped a few photos then hurried back to the car. From there it was on down the road to Les Goudes, where the Calanques begin. The Calanques are the famous limestone cliffs between Marseille and Cassis. They are a protected natural habitat. Some can only be reached by boat and they are quite stunning in their natural beauty. When you reach the end of the road at Les Goudes, you have to turn around.
We went home the long way, over the Col de la Gineste and back to where we started in Gémenos.

After a dip in the pool and some photo ops with the girls, Alain-Philippe, Stef and I decided to go over to a nice restaurant in Gémenos to eat. We bought him dinner for his kindness in showing us around; he must of led that tour a thousand times for various friends and family members. From there we parted ways as Alain-Philippe had to begin his preparations for his trip home to the States.

On Tuesday, the weather was still grand and the Stefster was dying to go to the beach, so we drove over to the small port of Cassis nestled between the cliffs of the Cap Canaille and the Gardiole. It’s about 25 km southeast of Marseille. There is a small picturesque harbor from where boat tours of the Calanques leave and a small beach. It is absolutely crawling with tourists so we parked the car outside of the city and took the free shuttle bus into town. Before hitting the beach with my latest bicycling magazines we went on a boat ride and visited some of the Calanques.

After a day at the beach, we decided not to wait in line for the shuttle bus and hoofed it back to the car, some 5 km away and over some very steep hills. Had to walk off the previous night’s dinner anyway. Once back at the hotel we decided to go out to dinner at the Vallon des Auffes. But first we took a slight detour and headed to the east of Cassis to drive the Route des Crêtes, a dangerous, winding road that snakes along the cliffs overlooking the sea near the town of La Ciotat. After this adventure it was off to Marseille where I made it back to the hidden little harbor without looking at a map, I must say. Great dinner with a very colorful waiter with a heavy Marseillais accent. Stef slurped down the oysters while I had a delicious grilled poisson de Loup.

On Wednesday, we drove into Aubagne to do some shopping. Then it was back to the hotel. I put my bike together to go for a ride while Stef took the car and drove to Marseille to meet with some of her Guess colleagues again. I hadn’t been feeling that hot, nothing serious, just a little crud, but decided to go climb the massif de la Ste. Beaume, another of the large limestone mountains surrounding Gémenos. I’ve never climbed small mountains like this before. It is about a 10 km climb with an average grade of 8 percent. I didn’t have any power that day, still suffering the effects of the virus I had. But, I attacked the mountain anyway. I got about a third of the way up when a rain storm moved in and I heard thunder. Saved by the bell. I immediately turned around and rode the brakes all the way back down. By the time I exited the park and rode back through the center of the village it was raining pretty well. I decided to call it a day and went back to the hotel. I showered up and waited for the Stef to come back saving my strength for later in the week when I planned to try the famed Mont Ventoux.

On the road again

AUGUST 09, AUBAGNE, FRANCE—I’m at home again. Or at least, what I consider my second home. France. Stefania and I left Italy last Saturday (Aug. 6) for ten days in the south of France. This is the payoff for some of the other indignities suffered in my other posts.

We left bright and late on Saturday afternoon, about 4 p.m. We had dropped the cats off at a pensione or kennel for cats and dogs on Thursday. We had to look around but found a place on a farm near Bologna. They are very well organized. There is a separate air conditioned building that houses the cats. There are large, double-sized cages. We took their litter box, scratching post and favorite blankets for their stay. I’m sure they weren’t happy but c’est la vie. Our goal was to make it to San Remo, near the French border before it got too dark.

Driving the Autostrada is always fun, but especially so when everyone is racing to get to the beach first. We started from Modena, drove on to Parma, still in Emilia-Romagna, and then headed towards La Spezzia whic is just south of Genova. From there we went along the coast past Cinque Terre and on to San Remo. We found a dingy little two-star hotel to bunk in for the night. Worked fine for me.

The next morning, Sunday, we headed out after a hearty breakfast through the city of flowers, San Remo. It is the city of flowers because of its world renowned flower markets. There are greenhouses dotting all of the hills that rise up over the bay. From San Remo, it was a short jog up to Ventimiglia and the Italy-France border. Since there are no longer any border controls because of the EU, we wound through some over passes, through a toll booth, paid, went through a tunnel and were in France. The ‘Welcome to France’ sign was there and everything. I immediately dialed in a French radio station and started checking out the talk radio. It was about soccer, of course.

Sunday’s goal was to make it to our target destination, Marseille. Actually, Aubagne, a small town just outside of Marseille, near where my friends’ parents live at the foot of the Ste. Beaume in Gémenos. On our way, we dropped another 40 bucks for a load of diesel and pulled off the road to check out Nice. European cities are pretty well signed now. With no map in hand, I easily followed the arrows to the Promenade des Anglais, the famous boulevard that runs alongside the Baie des Anges and the famous pebbled beaches. One trip up and back was enough to tell us that we should move on rather than trying to hit the lottery by finding a parking place. So I pointed the dusty little Micra back to the Autoroute and cruised on towards Marseille. (Speaking of cruising, there is no such thing as cruise control on cars in Europe. There’s just too much traffic. Remember when driving on the Autostrade/Autoroutes: Slow cars and trucks stay in the right lane. Cars going about the speed limit (130 km/h) drive in the middle. Passing and psychos in BMWs and Mercedes are reserved for the left lane. Motorcycles drive wherever they want. People drive a bit more slowly and respectfully in France. It helps that France now has over 1,000 hidden radars with high-speed cameras in place along their road system. And man, those gas taxes sure do pay off (70% of the priceof Euro gas is taxes)—you can eat off the Autoroutes in France. Side roads are hit and miss as you would expect.

Another couple of hours in the saddle brought us to the turn off for Aubagne. This town is famous as the birthplace of the famed French novelist and playwrite Marcel Pagnol. He wrote Jean de Florette among other works. We had left the number of our hotel back at home so we parked in the center of town. Displaying my trademark cool confidence (that has gone missing in Italy), I strode into the first bar I saw and asked the bartender if she had a phone book handy. She said it was over by the bigscreen TV. We walked over and promptly found the number and address of the hotel, called and asked directions. This is when cell phones really come in handy. Good luck finding a pay phone that works in France; they are quickly disappearing.

Stefania navigated as I steered our venerable piece of Japanese steel through a few of the ubiquitous traffic circles and on to a departmental highway that headed towards Pont de l’Etoile. This little spot in the road is halfway in between Aubagne and Gémenos. Our little two-star hotel with pool was named, you guessed it, Hôtel de l’Etoile. Nothing special. AC, a room with a view of the Garlaban (one of the famous hills in the area), bathroom and TV. I might add that three-star hotels would better meet with the expectations of most Americans who are traveling abroad for the first time. But you’re going to pay for it. At least 100 euros a night depending on your location. I like to travel franchise free when possible and like the charming family-run atmosphere of the two-star inns, which can indeed be hit and miss. If you speak the language, the owners tell you all of the good stuff to do and see.

After checking in, we unloaded and then I told Stef that I wanted to call my friend Alain-Philippe’s parents’ house. He is a professor at the University of Rhode Island and was in town for the weekend before heading back home to the U.S. with his two young daughters in tow. Of course, the numbers I had to call didn’t work. Now I was worried. My only thought was to drive to Gémenos and look for their house. I had visited their house 11 years ago and figured this would be the only way to get a hold of them. I knew that there phone was unlisted so we set out to do it the hard way.

We headed out in the car. It was bright and sunny and late afternoon. The road starts to pitch up outside of our hotel as we head in the direction of the Ste. Beaume mountain. We took a spin around the village center then I started trying to orient where I remember there house being in relation to the surrounding hills. I drove slowly past a street called Rue de la République and thought that that sounded familiar. I cruised slowly down the street like I was casing some houses for a break in. I asked Stefania to get out and read the mailbox of one house. Nope. On the next one we hit the jackpot. I jumped out of the car and rang the bell. Alain, Alain-Philippe’s father answered. I cried out that it was me and he promptley opened the electric gate. Both he and his wife, Josianne, came bounding out to greet us. I apologized for ringing without calling first and explained our predicament. I then introduced Stefania whom they had never met before.

Alain waved off our apologies with characteristic Marseillais hospitality and invited us out by the pool for a drink. He said that Alain-Philippe and the girls, Eva, 4 and Chloë, 8, would be back shortly. We all had a couple of cold ones and reminisced about old times and what we had been up to since I had last seen them in Kansas City a couple of years ago. Stefania speaks some French too and worked hard to keep up. I thought my French would be really rusty but being in familiar surroundings and with familiar faces had me right back in the thick of things. A couple of Italian words popped out every now and again but by the end of the night I was back up to speed. That’s the big difference between my French and Italian: I have studied French language, litterature and history for 25 years. I have never really formally studied Italian. When I sometimes get frustrated with my Italian I just try and remember how many years it took me to master French and the incredible base that I had built up. I liken it to playing piano at a high level. If you work for years and years playing scales and learning music theory and mastering a broad repertoire you will never really lose it. Even if you put it aside for a while, when you start back again, those old reflexes come back remarkably fast.

In no time, Alain-Philippe was back with the girls. Chloë looks like her dad while Eva takes after her mom. Josianne had dinner on the table as if she had been expecting us all along. There was tapanade (an olive paste), baguette, spicey grilled sausage, quiche and french fries. We ate until we almost burst. It was getting late after dinner so we said goodnight and promised to be back the next morning at 10 to have a guided tour of Marseille from Alain-Philippe.

25 years later

CRESPELLANO 02 AUGUST—It was 25 years ago today, at 10:25 a.m. on Aug. 2, 1980, that 40 pounds of high explosives left in a bathroom at the Bologna train station exploded. 85 people were killed and more than 200 wounded. The story of the "stragge" (masacre) in Bologna is a long and complicated one that involves politicians, judges, intelligence services, anarchists and gangsters to name just a few of the characters. It is a story that has so marked Bologna that on each anniversary of the attack when politicians from Rome come to make the requisite speeches, they are heckled by an irate crowd. Today was no different. Vicepresidente del Consiglio Giulio Tremonti, sent on behalf of premier Berlusconi, had to endure the indignant whistles and hoots from the crowd gathered in the Piazza delle Medaglie d'Oro. For you see, no one has ever been brought to justice for this crime.

The events that culminated in the bombing of the Bologna train station really go back more than 60 years, to the dawn of World War II and Italy's tenative, first steps as a republic.

Prior to the beginning of World War II, Benito Mussolini's fascists were in firm control of the Penninsula. Il Duce had practically done away with the Mafia, jailing many of its top leaders. Witnessing Hitler's agressive moves in the rest of Continental Europe, a rather shaky alliance was struck between the two leaders.

The United States entered the war on Dec. 7, 1941. War was declared on Italy and Germany shortly thereafter. In New York, one of the top bosses of the infamous "Murder Inc.," Charles 'Lucky' Luciano, had been languishing in jail since 1936 on prostitution and racketeering charges. However, with the burning in 1942 of the Normandie, an oceanliner that was being converted into a troop ship, the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) felt compelled to call on the man who still had a large influence in controlling the New York docks to help prevent further acts of sabotage. (The fire was later determined to have been caused by an accident.)

In 1943, as the Allies were preparing for the invasion of Sicily, Naval Intelligence again sought the help of Luciano. On condition of his release, 'Lucky' Luciano agreed to help Allied intelligence services desperate for information, to help convince the Sicilian Mafia to aid with the invasion of the island. This set the stage for continued U.S. involvement in Italian affairs after the war and started a chain reaction of forces that would culminate in the tragedy of the train station attack in 1980.

It was now 1947. The Nazis had been defeated. What remained of their criminal network was on the run or had melted back into society. The West had turned its attention to the growing threat of the global spread of communism. Italy would mark one of the key battlegrounds of the rivalry between the two new superpowers, the United States and Soviet Russia. The Truman administration was concerned about the elections in Italy scheduled for April 18, 1948. The Italian Communist Party (PCI) and the Socialist Party (PSI) had merged to form one party. These two parties had dominated interim constitutional elections and increased their total share of the electorate by approximately 10 percent since 1946. This further shift to the left had policy makers in Washington increasingly worried.

Former allies were now adversaries. The Itlaian communists had been the staunchest rivals of the Nazis and the fascists and had helped greatly in the liberation of Italy. Mussolini had persecuted them relentlessly. Now, like the Mob, they were on the wrong side again. The American government threw its weight behind defeating the rising fortunes of the left in the 1948 elections. Most notably by rejecting Italian premier Alcide de Gasperi's plea for economic aid for his starving country (He promptly returned to Italy and disolved his cabinet, kicking out any leftists and the U.S. promptly opened the spiggots, cancelling Italy's $1 billion debt and restoring crucial aid), the creation of the Office of Policy Coordination to overtly and covertly conduct military and political operations and the State Department's announcment that, "If the Communists win...there would be no further question of assistance from the United States." All of these actions, mostly overt and well-publicized, helped assure that the left was defeated in the elections.

The elections of 1948, in my opinion, were really the beginning of what would later be called the "strategy of tension" between opposing political forces in Italy. Leftists were seen as being anarachists and communists, taking their orders from Moscow, while the right wing-establishment was seen by many as being riddled with, among other things, fascists, monarchists and collaborators of the Nazis. Whatever the case, this is a tendency that is still strong in Italy today. Dozens of governments have been formed and fallen since the beginning of the First Republic due to various quarells between factions, corruption scandals and assassinations. Endemic mistrust is part of the fabric of civil life in Italy.

The "strategy of tension" itself refers specifically to the period from the Piazza Fontana bombing in Milan in 1969, in which 16 people were killed, to the Italicus train bombing in 1974, in which 12 people died. During that time that were at least 4 coup d'état attempts. The "strategy of tension" refers to the ongoing crusade of right wing-extremist groups to create tension and fear in order to destabilize the elected government. Remember that at this time, Italy was surrounded by dictatorships in Spain and Turkey. Although the Christian Democrats won the elections of 1948, which brought in the era of the "rinascimento" or renaissance in Italian industry and living standards, the left and its strong labor movement was never really defeated, neither was reform brought to many of Italy's institutions. The "strategy of tension" was part of an overall period known as "the years of lead" (Gli anni di piombo) which began with the Piazza Fontana bombing, included the assassinations of prime minister Aldo Moro in 1978 and senator Paolo Ruffilli in 1986.

In the specific case of the Bologna train station bombing of 1980, the Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (NAR), a right-wing terrorist group, officially claimed responsibility. There have been two trials, one in Bologna and one in Milan as well as many blue-ribbon commissions on this and other incidents. The first trial produced convictions for a cover-up led by four Neo-Fascists and ex-military officers. The second trial produced life sentences for three Neo-Fascists which were later overturned on appeal. No one knows why the bombing was carried out in the first place— the years of the "strategy of tension" of the early Seventies when Italy's government was in a state of emergency were long over.

And that is why people whistle at politicians 25 years after the fact. It is symbolic of the fact that in Italy justice comes slowly or never at all. Politics is serious business here. An observer of Italian politics once said that just as politicians get serious about getting things done, the bombs always start to go off. Let's hope he's wrong and that those days are over.

Thanks to historian William Blum for some of the historical information contained in this post.

For an interesting interview with a CIA agent who participated in the campaign to influence the 1948 elections go to:
http://edition.cnn.com/SPECIALS/cold.war/episodes/03/interviews/wyatt/