Some sweet bike trails linked various cities along the Mediterranean. We had a tailwind and, thanks to Klaus from the campground, a plan. There were beachy, carnival towns (think Ocean City) and a crazy, futuristic design fail of a city.  Also some active fishing ports with thousands of restaurants, all good I imagine, like the bakeries.

Our route to the Alps did not stick to backroads and quiet trails. We had a few rough patches.  French drivers zipped past us at high speeds and only occasionally stopped at crosswalks.  John had a blowout (note that Jonathan) — he could put his index finger through the hole in his tire. He roughly-patched it with a rubber soul found in a dumpster and popped an inner tube in the formerly tubeless tire.  I took a spill on concrete jamming my shifting fingers and banging up a knee.  Our layovers hadn’t been long enough. Fatigue had settled in my bones.  Every mile was hard won.

I had stopped looking for wildlife.  In 6 weeks of outdoor living, we tallied some loud cicadas, tons of slugs and snails and some birds. But for furry creatures, we had only seen two squirrels, one small deer, and a very large —think Easter Bunny—rabbit.   So, it was delightful to spend a night in the Camargue reserve with flamingos.  100’s of them flapping the black undersides of their wings at each other and, alternately, resting one-legged, or stretching their ample figure-8 necks into the shallow water.

The French elections have been interesting. Many are worried and we can relate. We have yet to meet anyone in Europe that respects Trump. They bring it up. We grimace apologetically.

We were bound for Avignon but detoured over to Arles (pronounced “owls”) where Vincent Van Gogh was most prolific, and where we could get a new tire.  Honey-toned hay fields, cypress trees that tapered like a finely rolled joint, and blooming sunflowers gave us the feel.  The traffic was chaotic, and we gave up looking for famous places in famous paintings.  We needed showers but couldn’t find a campground.

We worked our way to the center of the walled old city where an arena stood that held chariot races in Roman times. Hoards of people were dining al fresco.  All the hotels had been booked two years out.  We succumbed to the idea of riding out of town until the bike stores opened the next day. At the last minute, it was Airbnb to the rescue.  Our sanctuary had been just 150 feet from where we had pouted about our prospects for the night.

We are in Provence! And not far from the coast so I thought we could celebrate having a room by ordering bouillabaisse, John’s favorite dish that happens to be French. We learned that we would have to be in Marseilles for that, a city we missed by 20 miles. We opted for paella.  It was better than the paella we had in Spain, in fact, the best we’d ever had.

In Avignon, the Papal Palace, 15,000 m 2 of power from 8 centuries prior, did not take away from the modern, lively character of the city.  It was a Mecca for vaudevillians, acrobatic performers, and buskers making a fun, festive atmosphere.  I couldn’t wait to leave.

We were back to riding along canals which helped calm matters.  Next stop, Mont Ventoux— the storied climb of Tour de France fame.  John has been billing this as the highlight of the trip. We are taking a full, much needed rest day ( the last one was Toulouse) at the base of the mountain in hopes of reaching the summit tomorrow. Stay tuned on how that goes…