Headwinds

Girona, Spain – Le Bolou, France – Leucate, France

It’s not often that we have any social engagements these days – but we’re planning to meet Diana’s cousin, Sabrina, and her husband, and my friend, Scott, in St. Remy in a few days. The “bad” news is that if we kept to our ordinary riding schedule we would probably have passed St. Remy by the time Sabrina and Scott arrive. The good news is that with this scheduling we are pretty much forced to slow down a bit – meaning that this week will be a bit more relaxed than normal. 

Our relaxed schedule was supposed to have started yesterday – with a pretty light 47 mile ride to Le Bolou in France. We were excited for the shorter ride; we figured it would be a good idea anyway because we would have a border crossing – and border crossings can take a while . . . 

Sadly, yesterday did not turn out the way we planned. 

Once again, the wind was the problem. Right in our faces. Really steady, but with gusts up to like 30 miles per hour. Not very pretty. And, while we didn’t climb to high elevations or anything – we spent the first 45 or so miles of our ride steadily ascending. Let me just tell you that headwinds and climbing are not a good combination. Add the fully loaded bike component and you have all the fixings for a pretty rough day. 

Really, to be fair, the first 25 miles or so weren’t bad. There was some breeze, but it was nothing too onerous.

But as we pulled in to Figueres – the birthplace of Salvador Dali – where we had lunch, the wind was picking up. Just as our resident meteorogist, Dr. Liu, had predicted it would. 

The rest of the day was rough! We probably averaged about 7 miles per hour. 

Plenty of time to check out all the interesting border stuff . . .

Borders are great places to examine all the, shall we say, inconsistencies, in a society. Especially easy-to-cross, open borders – like the one between France and Spain. 

The first sign of all this was the young woman I saw standing on the corner of the road in the middle of the day wearing next to nothing. 

“Why is that woman wearing a bikini?” I asked Diana. I mean, it wasn’t cold, but there was no beach around, and it wasn’t hot. And with the wind, I’m not sure how comfortable it would be to be standing around with basically no clothes on . . . 

Didn’t think much of it at the time. A minute later we passed a pretty rough-looking hotel – rough enough that we noticed. Still didn’t click . . .

Then we saw a second attractive young woman wearing a bikini. 

“Oh, okay, now I get it.” Bikinis in the middle of nowhere, sleazy hotels, border nearby . . . 

Let me guess – prostitution is legal in Spain, but not in France . . .

And that is essentially correct. It is legal in Spain. It is actually legal in France as well – has been since Napoleon made it so more than 200 years ago – but in 2016 the French made it illegal to pay for sex. Confused? So was I. Let me explain a little bit more. It is legal to be a prostitute. But it’s not legal to be a “John.” 

Upshot – prostitution has been driven into back alleys – and, I guess, other countries – because the Johns don’t want to get caught. 

Thus, the bikinis on the road in Spain – just outside of France. 

Casinos and tobacco shops as well. Guessing that Spain has more lenient gambling laws and doesn’t tax cigarettes as much as Spain. But I’m not going to research that stuff – not interesting enough . . .

Okay, back to our struggles . . . Because, really, it’s all about us…

It’s actually pretty on this stretch of road. We’re gradually heading up – going over what is probably one of the lowest passes in the Pyrenees. 

But with the wind sucking our strength, and our souls, away, nothing is pretty. It’s like the opposite of rose-colored glasses. There should be a phrase for it – grey-colored glasses? I guess that doesn’t have the same panache . . . But that’s the effect. After the wind has been howling in your face for hours, nothing is quite as nice . . .

And, by the time we reach the top of the hill and the border, we are shot. The wind has defeated us. 

I think we were both kind of hoping for a protracted border crossing – with lots of lines and stuff that would give us an opportunity to eat and drink and, maybe, revive ourselves. 

No such luck. 

The whole European Union thing has taken all the “fun” out of border crossings. No probing questions . . . Like: “Why are you coming to France?” Or: “Where are you staying?” No lines. No stops. And no stamping of passports. 

You just bike right on through . . . Like you’re crossing from Minnesota into Wisconsin. 

Where’s the hoopla? 

Or at least a big sign proclaiming that you have arrived.

I guess that’s the point of the EU. All the countries are now kind of like states in the US. And I guess Spain is a little like Nevada vis-a-vis the other states in that regard – prostitution and gambling and stuff . . .

But at least the border’s at the top of the hill. From here it should be all downhill to Le Bolou and the campground we are heading to. 

Nope. Wishful thinking. Actually turns out that the steepest hill of the day comes right after the border. And it just goes on and on . . . and on . . . And up, and up, and up . . .

And now we are REALLY ready for the day to be done. 

But we finally make it to the top and glide down the backside of the Pyrenees on our way to the campground. The wind is still against us, but the descent is steep enough that we can just coast down. Which is nice, because it is really pretty. Wooded hills. Snow-capped peaks in the distance. 

The day is looking up . . .

And then we arrive at the campground. 

Did I say the day was looking up?

Hmm.

The campground is full. But even if there was space available, there’s a seven-night minimum – at 185 euros per night. 

Wait. What?

The thing is that these aren’t campgrounds at all. Not in the American sense of the word. No. These are vacation retreats. You pay to stay in their mobile homes. Apparently “mobile home” doesn’t have the same negative connotation that it does in the States. These “campgrounds” might have a few spots left for RVs on occasion – but basically they are fancy vacation mobile home parks. 

We figured out later that “park” is probably the wrong word. They are more like resorts. Restaurants. Discos. Water parks. Tennis. Fitness centers. Spa treatments. Probably mini-golf. 

But definitely no tents. 

I guess they kind of wreck the mojo . . .

Later, I read on Reddit that what you want to do is look for campgrounds that are three stars or less. Four or five stars means they are really mobile home resorts. 

Who knew?

We ask the proprietor of the “campground” if there is anywhere else to camp. She mentions the casino. 

But we also passed another campground about a kilometer back. We didn’t go there the first time because Diana said they had bad reviews. No options now, though. Bad reviews or not – we need to be done with this day – and soon . . .

So we head back there. 

There’s a sign as we come into the driveway: Ferme. Even I know that one . . . Like, not open at all.

Okay, so now we are truly defeated, and we’re heading to town to see if we can find a hotel. 

On the way we go by the aforementioned casino. Figure we might as well check it out . . .

Well, there are people “camping” there – in their RVs. 

But there are no toilets or showers. You just “camp” in a big field. Kind of like a Walmart parking lot. We’ve done that before – in my parents’ little Road Trek. Works okay . . .  if you’re in your own RV and the Walmart bathroom is right there . . .

Okay, cross that one off the list as well . . .

So now it’s on to town. 

I think it’s fair to say that we are both at the end of our proverbial ropes . . .

I had seen some billboards for a McDonald’s in this town so I tell Diana that maybe we should go straight there and get a chocolate milkshake – then we can sit down and think about our options. (Yes, I know. We’re in France and it’s sacrilege to go to McDonald’s when there is so much incredible food, but we are in emergency we-need-calories mode. Or at least I’m in emergency I-need-calories mode. Never know if Diana really needs food at all . . .) So that’s our new plan – and we start looking for the golden arches. 

But, of course, this is not the day for anything to be easy . . . Turns out McDonald’s is not in town – its on the other side of town – about a mile down the road. 

That’s not happening . . .

So we finally sit down and talk about what to do next. We’re both starving by now. Gas tanks completely on empty. 

But it’s about 5 p.m. and all the (real) restaurants are closed – not to open again until 7:30 or so. 

The only possibility that we can see . . . The kebab place across the street. (Later we figure out that there were probably other places we could have gone – but we were too tired to figure that out at the time . . .)

We head there. 

As we go in the door, the guy who’s smoking out front sets his cigarette aside for later use and comes in to greet us. He looks like he just walked off the set of a horror movie. Greasie hair. Very few teeth. Doesn’t look like he’s showered in a while. 

Diana tries to negotiate some vegetables into her kebab. I don’t care – I just order the first thing on the (not-very-extensive) menu.

As we order, we observe the kitchen. Crap everywhere. Half-drank coffees. Dirty plates. Dirty pots and pans. Doesn’t even look like you could find room to cook anything else . . .

Of course, none of this really registers until later. We’re in kind of a fugue state now . . . 

We go to sit down and wait for our meals. But as we sit down we see a big poster with all kinds of things that look much better than your standard kebab sandwich – which is what we ordered. Couscous. Grilled vegetables. Tagine. That type of thing. 

Diana runs back in to change her order.

”What am I supposed to do with this stuff?” Greasie Guy retorts. And he points to two hamburger-like things that he’s already thrown on the grill. He refuses to let Diana change her order. 

I tell her to just order new stuff, but she’s having none of it . . . She’s too mad at the guy to let him win . . .

My kebab wasn’t too bad. I mean, nothing to write home about, but edible and all . . . Sadly, though, I think this might have been Diana’s worst meal on the trip. 

Hopefully we don’t get food poisoning from the mess-from-2007 kitchen . . .

After dinner we find our way to a nearby hotel, where we collapse into bed before the sun is even down . . .

The end of a tough day . . .

But I don’t want to leave you there. It sounds like we have suffered utter defeat . . .

The reality is that yes, indeed, the day was a bit of a casualty, but a minor blip, really.

Today was better right from the start. 

I headed out into the square to make what is becoming a standard breakfast for us: coffee and tea and oatmeal with nuts, cream, and sugar. It’s sunny out, and there’s no wind. Downright pleasant.

But before I even have the water hot we are approached by two older women. Pascale and Chantelle. They tell me they live in the adjacent building – a residence for older folks. Pascale knows English well because her former husband was from Brooklyn. They are very impressed with our trip and with the “porridge” that I’m making. 

We’ve only been in France about twelve hours. We’ve already met two more French people than we met Spaniards in our whole sixteen day stay. 

Oh, and then we head to the boulangerie – the town bakery – and there are excellent pan du chocolate (which have become a significant staple of my diet since we arrived in Europe), and by far the best bread that we have had since we were in . . . well, probably since we were in Minnesota . . . Whole grains. Nuts. Berries and stuff. Chewy freshness. So good you almost don’t need butter . . .

Later, we go to the supermarket and the young guy at the checkout tells us how much he likes speaking English and that he loves the United States. He is so excited to meet us. 

And then the day finishes with a good three-star campground that is happy to have tenters – and even has a grill to cook on. 

Add a great homemade meal to a trip to the beach and some beautiful country riding and it was a pretty darn good day. The wind, and the kebab, and the mobile home campgrounds all seem a long way off in the rear view mirror at this point . . .

I’ve never really forgiven France for my first trip here back in college – when they wouldn’t help us at the train station and then they kicked me off the grass in the park. But I’m beginning to think France is going to make a run at coming back into my good graces. 

Tomorrow – we continue along the Mediterranean coast, slowly working our way toward St. Remy. 

Excited for more pastries and good bread – and nice people!