Tarascon Area

I arrived in Paris at 10:30am on May 27, 1998, and rushed immediately to the ATM to pick up wads and wads of French Francs, all in different sizes, denominations and colors. It was fun and exciting to see a country represent itself in so many different and creative ways, all just in its paper money! And all I got $25 worth. The currency's physical size is too big to fit into a standard American wallet, so I stuffed the multi-colored lettuce into my pocket and headed towards the ticket counter for the TGV. If you don't know, the TGV are those super fast trains that go about 180 miles per hour, zipping past nuclear power plants fast enough that the radiation doesn't even see you. For some reason, I wasn't tired at all, and the jet lag didn't get to me even during the four hour ride to Avignon. It didn't hurt that my finger nails were melded into the leather on the back of the seat in front of me and my hair pushed back as though I had stuck my finger in an electrical socket. But, I was glad to see France, even though most of the countryside was a blur.

Avignon

Provence is a wine region in the south of France, just north of the Mediterranean coast that is the French Riviera. (See Nice and Cannes.) Settled thousands of years ago by the Romans, a multitude of cultures habitated the region until the 600s, when feudal lands were finally unified under King Franēoise. At that point, most people who lived there were thus considered "French", and the region flourished until the first Air France strike, which has pretty much shut down most of the country since. At least, this was the case for those who wanted to go to the World Cup soccer match, which was held throughout the entire country during my visit. Thankfully, trains and rental cars are abundant, so France is likely to survive another several years, thankfully.

Hanging Laundry

When I arrived in Avignon, the heart of the Provence region, I checked into my hotel, changed clothes and headed into town for the first thing I'd had to eat since leaving my house in California 16 hours earlier. I met several people in cafes and anywhere else I bought food and drink, and they seemed warm and friendly, but I wasn't sure what we were talking about all the time. I was finally putting my years of French classes to work: "Ah, mais oui!", I'd say enthusiastically, and "Quelle dommage!", I'd exclaim when it appeared from facial expressions that something bad had been disclosed. For good measure, I'd spout out a spontaneous "C'est la guerre..." now and then.

American, looking French

I really felt like I was hanging with the crowd until it turned out that the people I was having so much fun with were British, Germans and Americans, all of whom were just as bad at French as I was. However, we all spoke impeccable English, so we downshifted into the language of the bourgois. Actual French people, it seemed, were just uninterested in conversation, unless unless they were selling me something or commenting about my enormous camera hanging from my neck: "Oh la la!", I'd hear from passers-by as they gazed at me. I felt their eyes giving me that familiarly uncomfortable feeling I had in grade school when I'd walk around with my fly open.

Rainbow Over Provence

The next day, I picked up my rental car and headed into the hills of Provence. With no itinerary whatsoever and a map that I couldn't read, I didn't dare do anything dangerous, like drive in the passing lane without having pre-loaded my plutonium-powered nuclear engine equipped in my one-wheel drive equivalent of a Geo Metro. (Gas is over $4/gallon and these things get about 40 miles to the gallon.) So, I did what most of the other tourists were doing: stopped on the side of the road and checked the map to see which country I may have accidentally crossed into. You see, the map's squiggly lines that usually represent roads also refer to ancient Roman chariot routes not used since the 400's. You have to hand it to the French -- they sure preserve their heritage.

The Bullfights

Once I was sure I was still in France, I stumbled my way into Nīmes, an old town with the largest, fully functional roman-built coliseum. I strolled the streets, looking for things to take pictures of, when I finally read the signs that were posted everywhere: there was a bullfight today at 5:30! Being 4:30 at the time, I figured there's no time like the present to watch live animals be slaughtered. For an interesting and graphic photo essay, and a new travel journal, go to the Bullfights Page.

Overlook

After leaving Nīmes, the next two days were spent in the hills, exploring little perched villages on hilltops, along with monasteries and Roman ruins everywhere. Little flea markets seem to happen every day in every town, no matter how small. While it was fun, I was anxious to get ready to meet the gang for the cycling tour.

Les Beaux

The tour group assembled at the train station back in Avignon, and it was clear everyone was going to get along just fine: the women outnumbered the men by about three to one. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. When the ratio is skewed like this, what usually happens is the guys will be cycling hard and drinking in the towns and villages, and the women will be bonding. We all got along, but the agenda for the trip was mostly dominated by one of the primary alpha females frokm the women's contingent: a woman from San Francisco that was really into astrology. By the second day, she was reading people's charts, describing their personality types, analyzing their palms, professing their futures, and giving

Colorful Windows

recommendations about what to do with themselves. It wasn't long before they were all having cappuccino moments, swapping sentimental thoughts, and witnessing the astrologist's true confessions: "Why can't I meet a NICE guy? That's all I want! Just a nice, sweet guy!" It was painful. The men had another beer. (quietly)

Kayaking by Pont du Gard

Social differences aside, the riding was fun, the scenery was beautiful, and the tour leaders were top notch. The camping was good too, and after a couple days, I didn't even bother to set up my tent: I just slept outside, and that was fine. It was so hot, even at night, staying inside the tent was worse. Other than that, the week went pretty much as expected, and the photos speak for themselves.