Mattress Day!

Adrien and I went to Ikea today--Adrien is a hero. I don't know that many people who would sacrifice most of one of their days off to go to Ikea. I've only been to Ikea about three times (that being about three times too many), and I always get an instant headache as soon as I walk in. However, I was super excited to have a mattress, so headaches (and cheap, unsustainable furniture) be damned!

We got it into my room (after rather divine burgers at le paryse) and I got down to allen keys and the jigsaw puzzle.

I have no idea what Ikea was getting at with this. There's no need to translate things that don't make sense, so I suppose they saved money on hiring translators. And the gender-inspecific ghost people are supposed to be neutral everything, so no one gets offended while being completely puzzled. I do wish I could speak tool, though, like the in the first panel...

Alright, so, even though I think the neuter ghost was meaning I should do this assembly with someone, after ten minutes, I had the headboard together.

Which lead to the first modification. The vertical bits were cut too big for the design. The bed is meant to have an off-set top bar, but the bars were cut to fit a flush edge. I decided the vertical bars were more ornamental than structural, so I took them out.

Everything went pretty well, even if the extra support legs that run down the centre of the bed don't touch the floor, rendering them rather useless, until I got to the slats. They are fine EXCEPT the cloth ribbon holding them all together was set too short, so the slats don't sit evenly, and don't hook onto the stays, so they may move around a bit under the mattress, though I hope not. I tried to just pull the ribbon off, but it was surprisingly strong, possibly the strongest part of the whole bed...

Regardless, it's done! I think everyone already knows that Ikea does shitty designs, but for 50$, you get what you pay for. Now for my first good night's rest in about ten days. Thermarests are really meant for camping on soft-ish ground, not on hardwood!

I'm also blogging...

on my other blog (imagine!)

Montréal

I admit that I am compulsive. A little obsessive. Who isn't? And if we aren't, we try to be. I can't seem to post about Montréal until I've finished with France. Order! It's important. And then the arranger in me shouts: shouldn't we start a new blog? One separate from my cycling travels in France, since the theme and reflection with be entirely different? I'd like to invite my inner librarian to go through the BOXES of half-filled (right--more like one-tenth-filled) notebooks and journals I have started on that impulse. Books for notes on bicycles, books for notes on recipes, on lists for shopping, on books, clothing patterns, knitting patterns, gardening, et cetera to the power of ten. I'm becoming a librarian because I'n NEUROTIC, but that doesn't mean I have to indulge the neurosis.

Montréal...

My last day in Paris was stressful. I wish I had taken a picture of my rudiculousness. But, imagine: One suitcase, two bike bags, one bike, a backpack, and a bike box. But wait, each item has a story, so let's go there...

A few days before I left Paris, I headed to Montreuil, where there is a weekend marché aux puces. I had in mind an older suitcase to fit my smaller bike bags and clothing into, to make check-in at the airport easier. I went up on Saturday evening, just before it closed up, and wandered the stretch, and, as usual in Paris, chatting with the lonesomes. It's Paris, and it's a flea market, so everything was crawling. And you can buy pretty much anything here, from vintage clothing (nice stuff, but way too expensive. I recommend pawing through Free 'P' Star in the Marais--and thanks to Lucy for the recommendation), to sewing notions, old bikes, 'antiques' (if one stretches the definition...) I didn't find anything that night; instead I went to the giant Carrefour and bought 1.5L of Orangina--it had been a while since I'd indulged that addiction.

I went back early the next day and took my time. Military surplus? Nah. New, cheaply made, moderately inexpensive, rolling suitcases? Definitely not. At the end of the stretch, buried in the machine parts and the greasy antiques, I found what I was looking for. A green, faux leather suitcase. I found the guy selling it and asked the price. Ten euro. I handed him a ten euro note. 'You've got pretty eyes,' he said. 'Are you going on vacation?'

'No, I'm going back to Canada.'

'Oh! You're Canadian? Are you coming back to Paris?'

'Yeah, but I don't know when.'

'When you come back, come find me.' Then he handed me a two euro coin. 'Go have a coke on me.'

The bike box I got from Toy's Paradise, just up the street from my hostel on Jules Ferry Boulevard. It was 10 Euro, and, well, let's go back to my last morning in Paris.

So I put my new/old green suitcase on the rear rack, the bike bags on the side, the backpack on my shoulders, my purse over top of that, and the flattened bike box across my overloaded bike. It looked like a disaster. Then I started walking up to Gare du nord. It wasn't too bad, in fact it was easy, until I got to Gare du Nord. The Gare du Nord is a multi-leveled, multi-serviced train station. The metro, the SNCF and the RER all have terminals, all on different levels. I needed to descend, and, once I'd actually found the elevator--after dodging shakily all the arriving and departing streams of passengers--I discovered that boththe elevators were out of service. No info as to where to go to, just a desolée and maybe not even that. So then I found a guy collecting the bins who lead me around trying to find an alternative way down. He left me with directions to the service elevator, but when I asked the SNCF guys (perhaps I shouldn't have?), they told me there wasn't one. I didn't quite believe them, but one helped me down the stairs to the lower level, gave me a salute,and disappeared. Then I looked up and realised I had another level to go down to get to the RER. Long story short, it was getting late, and I was getting a headache.

Once I made it to Charles de Gaulle, I had to stand in line for the elevator there. The slowest, most over-used elevator in the world. This thing makes the staff elevator at the central branch of VPL seem like rocket ship. I must have been standing there for at least 25 minutes, and I'm sure the actual elevator trip was 15.

I found the general area in the airport I wanted to be in, then attempted to assemble my box. The box was in two pieces and gigantic. I didn't even have to take off both wheels to get the bike in, which was a bit of a blessing, because I was really struggling trying to get the pedals off. One came off easily enough, the other stayed on. Leaving the rear tire on meant my derailleur wasn't dangling and vulnerable. But at the British Airways counter, they decided the box was too big. So someone went off to find a ruler, then they had to measure the length and height, then call someone who had to check with someone else before I could get the go-ahead. Then it was extra to take the bike, but when I explained I had purchased my ticket a year ago and had brought the bike with me from Canada for free, they had to call someone else to decide what to do. Except the someone else was busy, so we had to wait for a call back. Meanwhile, I was certain my flight had already left the tarmac.

It hadn't. I met a couple in line at security who were panicking because their flight was leaving in 15 minutes. 'We thought we were leaving tomorrow!' I let them ahead of me, which didn't really make much of a difference, but anyway. I got stopped because of a can of tea in my backpack and had to unpack and then repack everything--man, the stress! When I got to my gate, the couple were on the same flight as me, and the flight had just started bording. Perfect timing.

One thing the debacle did do was firmly remove me from France. I was now in full airport mode, the calm of the last month and a half far behind me, the amour of Paris washed away by the sweat of stress. Forever in Heathrow, (security there parallels American security--full fascist mode) which is just a huge strip mall of WH Smiths and Harrods.

It was steamy and raining in Montréal when I landed. The dream was over, but it felt bizarre, dreamlike to be in Montréal. Not that Montréal was dreamy, but that I was in a fog. North America was under my feet, and Europe was just a postcard place and journalled memories...

My return to Paris...

Brest to Chartres

Nantes to Brest

Nantes! I went riding on the island Sunday morning to look at the renouned (at least in Nantes) modern architecture and go graffiti hunting. The island used to be industrial, but has since become both residential and recreational. The industrial history of the island has been preserved--there used to be a thriving ship building industry here, and there are several hangars and gigantic pieces of equipment that have been brightly painted and transformed to interact with pedestrians and cyclists. As well, Les machines de l'ile are there...

I could here this crazy low sound like something big running at a construction site, and, turning off the empty roads onto the concrete pad that lines the river, I suddenly had a mechanical elephant headed straight for me!

I think it's from growing up during an era of post-apocalyptic movies (Blade Runner, Terminator, Mad Max, Running Man...) that I am immediately overcome by dread when I see something big, animated, and unaware. There is something strange about robots, machines that resemble living things. It seems they should have some sense of self within them, locked into subservience to their driver, but at the same time, it seems like they are some massive, unaware thing that is out of control. It's both sad and a little frightening. Then I get over it--it's a human construction of pneumatics and levers.

The machines are beautiful. The elephant is the only one active, it was the first built, finished only a year ago, I think. They are building a multi-level carousel with a sea theme, and each creature is a wooden shell around a half-human powered, half-machine powered body. The style is 100% Jules Verne, fantastical and beautiful. There was the most elegant and fantastic carousel at the entrance; unfortunately, my camera chose then to break down...

Nantes was a great break from camping and cycling. I had woken up in St Hilarie-de-Riez to the sound of what turned out to be my tent pole snapping. There was a Decathlon there, so, after a little bit of polite arguing with the woman at the counter--she wanted me to buy a new pole that was expensive and didn't fit the tent when she should have just replaced it--I ended up with a new tent. When set it up for the first time, I immediately christened it 'The Cave'. It was completely black with the smalles windows possible--more like a Vancouver basement suite than a tent. And it was huge! Poorly designed--my Feringo took me less than two minutes to set up or take down, the fly was removable...the Quechua (France's only option--nearly--and comparable to Canadian Tire quality) was finicky to set up, even after I got used to it. I could put all my stuff inside, though...

While in Nantes, I spent most afternoons drinking beer in the sunshine and reading Suite Francais by Irène Nemirovsky--a very beautiful, sad novel. I discovered some great spots: Le chien stupide, L'absence next to the School of Architecture and in the craziest, smallest, bluest building in the world (it must be!), and Le lieu unique, a modern art gallery and community space with a chill little pub/café. The exibition at the time was a retrospective of Pierrick Sorin's work--bloody weird stuff that I, for the most part, really liked.

It was the next day that I discovered that my rear tire was wearing out...I had thought that I'd ridden through something red, until I noticed that the red ran a rather uniform ring around the entire tire...

It took two days and eight bike stores--since I'd left Nantes before I'd realised it's worn state--to find a 27'' tire. 27 is Dutch, not French, so they are more difficult to find.

And onward toward Brest! I went over a rather large bridge, past a typical fishing hut (bad picture, but you can see the thing that looks like a square trailor beside the old, broken bridge--they suspend huge nets from the front of the fishing hut. They are everywhere, and not always for the tourists).

Then on to Carnac, a rather...I don't know how to describe it. It's not stunning, but it's...surprising? It's basically field upon field of large rocks lined up in rows. And it goes on for kilometers!

France is full of crosses--every town has at least one hanging Jesus, suffering at the crossroads. But the style in Brittany is remarkably different. It's almost cartoonish, and the figures are much more child-like, especially Jesus.

On a hilltop heading onto the Presque Ile de Crozon, there was this great church, fringed by hydrangeas in full bloom, and decorated in the Brittany style. I don't know if it's typical of the area, or if it was just this one church, but the figures on the crosses had their left foot wrapped around the base of the cross. The church itself is really old, and devoted to Brigitte, whomever that is (!) It's at the crossroads of what has been a busy trade route for thousands of years.

Then Camaret, which is Cameled in Breton, and makes me think of Camelot, which is not surprising since the Celts/Gauls were present in Brittan and the French Atlantic coast. Camaret was a peaceful place to stop for a day, but really, really touristy. I rode around and saw plenty of WWII scars, since Brest, which is across the straight, was heavily protected by the Germans and heavily bombarded by the Allies. Brest was almost completely levelled durning the war.

I have no pictures of Brest. I camped a little way outside the city, and was really excited to visit it. In the late 40s, some big names and big money were redesigning the city for reconstruction. However, by 1950, the workers had had enough, and held a massive, unprecidented strike. I've read graphic novels about it--the authorities had police pulled in from the surrounding area, officers who had no connection to the people striking, and who would be less reluctant to react with force. A young man in his late teens or early twenties was shot and killed, shocking everyone, and, perhaps ultimately, ending the strike quickly on terms favouring the striking workers.

Modern Brest--Brest Metropole Océan, as it has been renamed recently--is not so interesting. At least not in a day. I really should have been more organised, but there was construction everywhere, and not central hub to the city. It wasn't even particularily pretty, and even looking for a café was a bit disappointing. I'm sure Brest has much more to offer, but it eluded me. I did, however, find a rad little crepe shop in the middle of nowhere on the side of the road. It was someone's back yard set up with little table and lanterns, very informal and cute as can be. I want a crepe stand like that!

Toulouse to the Atlantic coast

I left Bessieres on a rainy, rainy day. I cycled over 100 kms, most of them soggy. At one point I stopped and hid myself from the weather in a bus shelter, but after a certain point, it just didn't matter. Surprisingly, it wasn't a bad day. I passed through plenty of beautiful hill-top towns filled with the usual French beauty--old stone churches, fortified medieval towns, statues, roses, things that don't register for me any more because they are everywhere. People wonder how the French can be so blasée. Because they live here!

The second day I found Notre Dame de Cyclistes!!! Unfortunately, they were closed on Mondays, and I was on my way to Les Landes and couldn't wait around. Their website has lots of pictures of things I couldn't see. And what I could see, wasn't so exciting.

I arrived in Les Landes: a place historically shamed for its ugliness. It's a plain of marsh and wind that has since been planted with pine trees, which means it's flat and treed and full of logging trucks and small logging towns. It isn't ugly, it's France, but it is dull to cycle in. When you can see the next two hours of riding laying plane in front of you, it's almost demoralising. At least the trees are pretty and they hold back the wind!

I rode all the way to Sarbris, an unremarkable town (except that I could finally stop riding because they had camping), near to a remarkable 'musée en plein aire'. Before the railway was constructed through the area, there was a tiny Landais village that was abandoned once the train and logging arrived, changing the rythm of life there. Traditionally they had been shepherds. I was surprised that the main reason for having sheep is NOT for meat, nor even wool, but for manure. 100 sheep will fertilise enough field to grow enough grain to make enough bread (does this sound like 'there was a teeny-tiny woman in a teeny-tiny house...) to feed eight people for a year. But what was really cool was that they walked around on stilts and built Baba Yaga houses for their chickens.

To get to the museum, you have to take a train--a really old train, since the line is now defunct. The cars were mostly in wood, built in the early 20th century, and the trip in was lumpy--every time a secton of iron ended, there was a bump like a step down. And the bumps were pretty regular!

Unfortunately, I missed the pre-lunch train back, so I got stuck in the museum until 2pm. It was fine, but it was a push to get to the coast that afternoon. But I got there. Mimizan!