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Loire - Third Day

7/22/2014

I don’t start today’s ride in the best frame of mind. After loaning other riders my sunblock , I run back to the hotel to grab my phone. When I return the entire crew has left without me. That’s the thing about being the lone single person on a tour like this: no one has my back. On reflection, it makes sense that when all the couples on this trip made their reservations many months ago, they did not have me in mind...

Nonetheless, I take off alone feeling sorry for myself (this is a stretch, even I have to admit it) navigating as best I can. In hindsight, I have to smile. For today’s the day we ride to Chateau Chenonceau. Had I known it, I am about to visit the most lovely and welcoming chateau in the Loire Valley.

Here is today's plan:

Having learned from yesterday’s difficult ride, I’ve packed plenty of trail mix, applesauce (in tubes) a banana – and of course water. I make it to the grounds of Chenonceau (18 miles approx), navigating carefully, taking photos as I go.

And join the group as our guides are preparing a lovely picnic for us.

As it turns out, I could have taken another hour to get there - our guides have forgotten to bring plates and flatware! Behind the scenes they scramble to get it together for us while we luxuriate on the grass.

With the most heavenly white wines (we are not suffering). Ultimately we have both plates and stainless cutlery - nice to have on a picnic (no idea where they found them).

And now a word about our guides. There are three of them: Florence (French), Erica and Lucille - yes, Lucille! - American. All young, energetic, positive, multi-lingual and ultra-capable (where do they find these people??). Mornings, while we are at breakfast, they are out back checking the tires and general road worthiness of our bikes. They prepare picnics for our lunches. On the rides, Erica and Lucille join us on their bikes to make sure everyone is doing OK (they are dervishes) and do a basic head count. Florence sweeps by with the van a couple of times per ride.

Which doesn’t mean that if you get lost you will be immediately found (biggest fear for me). It doesn’t occur to me until nearly the last day to get their phone numbers and verify that my phone can reach them. I am told they will not always get the call right away, but they will get the message and if you leave good instructions, they’ll come and find you.

But now onto Chenonceau.

For this trip, we have a marvelous Lecturer; a woman in love with history and an expansive speaker. Chenonceau, she tells us, has always been in private hands - in womens' hands - and you can feel it; it is warm and elegant, but also very congenial. As we approach, we see little “baudets” (burros) all of whose photos are posted on a fence with their names. This personal touch tells you so much about Chenonceau.

Unlike Chambord, Chenonceau is easy to find with an open pathway that leads directly to its doors. And while the chateau is on the water, it is situated for beauty, not defense: there is no moat or portcullis.

There are also no winding staircases, a hallmark of many chateaux. Those were designed so that the residents could pick off any marauders one by one as they ascended. Instead, Chenonceau has straight wide staircases where all can ascend in a civilized manner (a revolutionary concept we are told).

Chenonceau straddles the Cher River, and during WWII, half of that river was in Occupied France, half in the Free Zone. If you could make it to the chateau in the Occupied Zone, the owner would usher you across to freedom.

Chenonceau is beautifully furnished and has some lovely tapestries

Which brings our Lecturer to the question of why the French had tapestries, and the Italians had frescoes. The answer is two-fold: tapestries were used for insulation – but they were also portable. While the Italians more or less stayed put (and had a warmer climate), the French kings were always running around inspecting their properties – and they took these tapestries with them so they wouldn't freeze their nuts off. OK, our Lecturer didn't put it exactly that way.

You reach Chenonceau passing a tower which our lecturer likens to one of Donald Trump’s displays of wealth and power; phallic and showy.

The coat of arms of the owners is on the front doors – but above that, always the symbols of the king and queen: the salamander, a legendary creature who could walk through fire, and the ermine whose white coat symbolized purity (you may not be able to make them out here)

I am comforted to hear so much history about the place; these chateaux bring hundreds of thousands of tourists to France all year long, so the history of their monarchy – complete with is abuses and wealth – is always in the French consciousness. To me, this signals that the French socialist way of life is not going away anytime soon.

Francois l built Chenonceau beginning in 1514 – slightly before Chambord actually – but from the beginning it had a very different intent. It began as just this building.

His son Henry ll inherited the place and promptly ensconced his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, there (this is she).

She immediately took to the place and Influenced by the Italian Renaissance (we believe), she had the idea to extend the chateau over the River Cher – much in the style of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and if you look at the design, you can see the similarity.

She temporarily took over Cheverny as a place from which to supervise the work (one of only two times Cheverny fell into hands other than the Hurault family), and built over the River. It is a phenomenal design. But it no doubt inspired envy - especially in the Queen who, as it turns out, was no lady.

And speaking of ladies, I'd like to take a moment for the ladies here. By the end of this day, I realize I will have ridden about 50 miles. That said, this much cycling has not been without disadvantages - especially to the lady parts; and it strikes me that the bidets in those hotel rooms will be put to good use by us ladies tonight to put out the fire (jeez). Sexual activity is out of the question and for the first time on this trip, I’m actually glad I’m single – not that the men are doing any better (I wouldn’t know).

I have bought special cycling “pedal pushers” for this trip – I’ve never worn them before – and now that I have them, I look at cyclists (especially the racers) with amusement; they are virtually all wearing a form of Depends, these manly guys. You can see it in the seams in the back. Perhaps it makes a difference for them. Personally, the back is not where the issue is for me.

That day along the route, Erica and I have a long conversation about “The Problem” with cycling for women (I’m relieved to know it’s not just me) and try to devise a solution. We brain storm about a sort of small hemorrhoid ring which could go in the front. Inflatable to fit. With coolant. In colors. I call it “The Lady Ring.”

Hey you don't have to wear it. Years ago in the West Village, there used to be an earring piercing place on 7th Avenue. It was just a little shack, but their motto was, "Your choice, with or without pain," and it struck me - it would be good to have an alternative, don't you think? Diane de Poitiers would have approved. The Queen would have approved. We all would approve!

But once again, back to Chenonceau.

As soon as Henri ll died (suddenly, in a jousting tournament and wearing Diane’s colors, not his wife's) the Queen, Catherine de Medici, summarily kicked Diane out of Chenonceau. Catherine too, was in love with the place, and while there she expanded the gallery over the water. You have to hand it to her. It is a glorious, celebratory space.

To this day, Chenonceau has gardens devoted to each of them:

After our inspiring history lesson, it’s back on the bikes where we continue to ride through the gorgeous French country side and past the Line of Demarcation.

This signifies the line between Occupied and Free France during WWII. There is much talk from our guides of farmers whose houses were on one side, but whose lands were on the other; about how they used that as an opportunity to smuggle contraband in and out, and about the French Resistance in general. From what I know, the Resistance consisted of a handful of citizens among the entire French population, but they are certainly well remembered.

We ride on to the Chateau D’Artigny where we will stay the next two nights. It is truly magnificent.

And this is my room. That's fabric on the walls, by the way.

Like many of the chateaux we stay at, Wi-Fi is intermittent at best. The walls of these places are so thick, that no amount of routers and boosters will make for a truly connected experience. I find this somewhat frustrating but I didn't come for the WiFi - and I am also impressed. They just don’t build ‘em like this anymore.

We dine out at a local and lovely restaurant situated on another Loire tributary.

Some of us pile into the van; those who don't fit, get into a taxi. I am one of those. I sit with the taxi driver who talks to me about Chenonceau. It’s not his favorite chateau, he opines, because he finds the gardens lacking.

As he is talking I can only wonder to myself if I ever heard a NY taxi driver with a preference about gardens of any kind (unless it was Kew)?

He also tells me that the reason there are so many chateaux in the Loire valley, is that that's where the limestone is (I have to go back to my room to look up the word, but afterwards I figure out what he was saying). Brittany, for example, has only granite – way too hard and heavy for buildings like this.

Dinner is a wonderful and nuanced affair (formal dinners, the one place my celiac status is regarded and I can relax). Over dinner the rest of the group is intrigued that I’m in such good shape - there are two different times when I could have wimped out and taken the van. They know I come from New York City and ask how I trained. I pull out my phone and show them the "wallet photo" of Lucille. Then I talk about the NYC’s bridges, Fiend’s Hill, Riverdale - and Lucille's big bones; and I realize how great she has been great for my training - my Back Roads bike weighs way less. They are impressed.

And I realize: I may not have a great riding partner here, but I have a great one at home.

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Loire - Second Day

7/21/2014

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I awake to the calls of wood pigeons outside my window. They have a completely different call from the annoying pigeons in New York – multi-faceted and kind of swingy.

Here is its call: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n84sZIN4lv8

This is new and a big improvement!

I dress and go down to the dining room with a queasy stomach. I’m not used to such a fatty diet and being celiac, often there’s nothing else for me to eat but fatty meats and cheese. I’m also underslept, having had chocolate the night before (can I really complain about this?).

At the morning route talk, we get directions, tickets for entry into the chateaux we will be visiting, and lots of do-it-yourself trail mix snacks, which I figure I won't need.

Here is our over all route map for the first three days. But of course we get the more explicit directions to use with our odometers (I can't seem to get mine calibrated correctly).

I tag along with the siblings from San Francisco who blast through the beautiful village of Blois at top speed. Thankfully we grab a few photos.

We quickly leave Blois behind,

And ride on to Chateau Chambord (23.3 miles)

With those spectacular sunflowers literally lighting the way. I never tire of them.

Chambord is an inexpressibly beautiful chateau, a masterpiece.

It’s set back in a forest behind walls, and does not lend itself to open discovery – unless you know where to look. Built as a retreat by Francois l, it’s possible he wanted to be visited only by invitation. It was the 15th Century after all, and he was surrounded by the territories of his Spanish Arch Nemesis, Charles V - whom he later hosted there, showing off his enormous wealth and power.

Francois 1 was a huge patron of the arts (also standardized the French language from its many dialects), and invited Leonardo da Vinci to work on Chambord (he brought the Mona Lisa with him). Architecturally, Chambord is a combination of French Medieval and Renaissance influences. That said, it’s entirely unique.

The most distinctive feature of Chambord is its double helix staircase - allegedly so that the mistress and Queen would not run into each other en route to the King’s chambers.

After all that, Francois l only ever visited Chambord four times – each time bringing and removing all furnishings and tapestries. Aside from its inconvenient location, Chambord was impossible to heat; no matter how many fire places were lit (the entry way has four massive ones), it wasn’t enough. But Summer was equally bad, with mosquito infestations which drove the residents quickly out.

Over its lifetime, several descendants of the King tried to renovate it, draining the swamps, building walls of containment and devoting their lives to it - but Chambord was a demanding mistress. In no case was it ever made more habitable - or convenient (though I did not notice mosquitoes) - and it was ultimately taken over by the State. But it is breath taking, and tourists rightfully flock to the place which funds its upkeep.

Somehow it is not surprising to me that Chambord affords a great view of itself. There is something inherently narcissistic about Chambord.

It is not furnished, and I am glad of that. The bones of the place are enough.

All chateaux in the Loire have chapels,

and gardens, or manicured grounds. Chambord’s is not surprisingly grand but flat, so as to pay homage to the building itself.

We are left to our own devices at Chambord, to have lunch at one of the many food concessions at the entry. They are all wonderful. They all serve wheat exclusively. In the end, I buy a bag of nougat. That and my bottle of water are the only things that get me through the 36 miles to the next chateau and back to the hotel.

It’s frightening to find myself in the French countryside with dwindling strength and mental faculties; I am glad I at least have sugar, but I rue that I did not bring my own gf bread, peanut butter and jelly from home. Next time, I resolve to stock up on that trail mix in the morning.

Incidentally, the Back Roads van sweeps by us periodically. We've been instructed to signal if we need help - yet it never occurs to me to do this, since it's not bicycle help! In thinking about it afterwards, I realize that trail mix and other first aid are probably all available in that van. This trip is all about setting your own pace, and it's put me in a very self-sufficient frame of mind. But if there's a lesson here, it's that there's such a thing as being too self-sufficient; it would have been smarter to ask for help.

That said, my biggest regret about this trip is that I am celiac and cannot enjoy one of France’s most outstanding aspects: its pastry and its breads. It is truly sinful to have to skip them. I am grateful though, that I can at least have the wines.

Our next destination is Chateau Cheverny, and this time I tag along with a couple who cycle at a speed that affords some dawdling. We ride on coach roads still within the walls of Chambord.

Crossing the bridge to Cheverny -

until we behold its open and balanced façade. It was clearly built later (1624-1630) and has been in the Hurault family ever since, with a couple of interruptions (more about that later). It is an inviting presence – times had changed, hospitality was in.

The gardens are beautiful and fanciful.

I take lots of photos of the interior, though they seem overly decorative after the stark beauty of Chambord. But it’s a different era.

I know it’s silly, but the most intriguing aspect of Cheverny is the feeding of the hounds! These are 100 hunting dogs – they hunt live game, not “released” game as we do in the US – and twice a day they line up for this feeding ritual (the sign says, "Please do not tease the hounds.")

Today, the older ones are let in first and then all the others are released. I couldn’t get a good vantage point, but this video will give you an idea:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEEFHegTSAI

There is an option at each of these stops, to take the shuttle back to the hotel, but I wouldn’t dream of missing a kilometer of these rides. They – and their destinations – are a virtual beauty overload. Just what this New Yorker has been craving.

Dinner is beautifully presented and prepared:

I am sated but not complacent; I will be smarter about my food prep tomorrow.

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Loire - First Day

7/20/2014

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Rested and rejuvenated, I have a quick breakfast in the hotel dining area and after one last travel adventure (don’t ask) meet my fellow travelers at the St. Pierre des Corps train station, bringing rain gear as advised.

We pile into the bus.

We ride to Vouvray, passing lovely vinyards on the way.

First stop a local vinyard in Vouvray, run by a 12th generation vintner, whose young grandson is mischievously running around.

First we have a sparkling white wine, then a dry, then a red desert wine.

How can I describe the wines from this place? Nectar is the term that comes to mind. They are so pure, better than water – they actually taste good for you. After tasting Vouvray wine, I am spoiled for anything else (not that I could afford Vouvray in the US). I would taste the additives right away now.

Our guides have prepared a lovely lunch for us

And then we take a tour of the wine cellars.

That ceiling is 500 years old. The most important aspect of a wine cellar (we learn) is the stability of the temperature (13º centigrade and 85% humidity). They have wine casks,

but don’t use them much (can’t remember why). Instead they prefer these tanks.

This vintner’s father had a successful business, but wanted to hand it down to his son. So she went off on her own and started a winery with her husband. Their daughter is also involved now and they are doing well.

Like all French vineyards, this one grows only one kind of grape – chinon – and makes all their wines from that. I learned that many of the California vineyards basically grow filler crops and mix their wines with wines (or grapes) they have imported. Disappointing to learn…

After that, it’s time to get fitted for our bikes. This is the model we'll be riding.

They are titanium, 10 speeds, very hardy. They feel light and well balanced, (though I still don’t like that bar). We have been asked our heights ahead of time, what kind of handle bars and pedals we prefer. Some people have brought their own pedals. We are issued helmets.

Independent activity is part of the Back Roads experience. Which also makes it kind of "snooze you lose" situation. I first discover this when I run off to use the loo, only to find I’ve missed some technical explanation of our bikes while waiting in line. Hoping it isn’t anything vital.

When I return, I am in time for a brief safety talk about managing traffic in general and roundabouts like this:

We are given odometers (I don’t bother setting mine, not realizing how important they are to the instructions), and instructions that look like this. The numbers on the left are the total kilometers, the ones on the right count the kilometers from one place to another.

These get folded in half and go in a water-proof see-through envelope that sits on our handle bars.

At first I tag along with a couple from Seattle. He is a mountain biker who came on this trip at his wife’s urging (he seems a little bored at the biking prospects). They are both total speed demons – they don’t mean to be, they are just used to mountains and today’s terrain is flat and easy for them. It takes some effort for me to keep up with them, but when it comes time to take out our instructions and turn them over, I am too slow for them. I give them freedom to carry on without me, and their silhouettes fade quickly into the distance, as I struggle to get the instructions back into the envelope. So there I am. All the anxieties of travel over, I’m right back where I started navigating on my own. Only now I’m by myself in the French countryside.

To be honest, this doesn’t bother me too much. For one thing, I did not travel to the Loire Valley to turn this trip into a spinning class. I intend to dawdle when I want to, take plenty of photos (who knows when I'll be back?) and if I get lost so be it. Meanwhile, this is the week the sunflowers have chosen to bloom. WOW.

As I contemplate these spectacular blossoms, I cannot but think that the European painters who painted them, merely painted what they saw (not that I could do it). The blossoms themselves suggested the art.

Yes, I was actually among them! Some of them are as big as my head.

After what seems like a very short ride (21 miles), I arrive at our Hotel: Domaine des Hauts de Loire.

I never required fancy digs, but that’s what’s included in this tour – and I’m not complaining. Another Chambre Superieur (and this time I carry my own luggage), but with beamed ceilings – fabulous!

We all meet at the hotel bar and introduce ourselves to the group one by one. This is a group exclusively of couples. I could feel left out I suppose, but the thing about these couples is that most of them have been together for 20-40 years; any bugs in their relationship have long since been worked out. You know how in any group there is always one person who’s difficult and demands attention? There’s nobody in this group like this (unless it's Yours Truly, a thought I try to keep out of my mind) – we can all relax.

Our dinner is prepared by a 2 Star Michelin Chef

That's a parsley mousse, which tastes a lot better than it sounds. Here's dessert:

And here's dessert for celiacs (there's one other among us):

We hit the hay early in preparation for our first full day of riding.
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A Bumpy Landing

7/19/2014

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Even before I met Lucille, I planned a biking trip through the Loire Valley. It’s something a friend of mine had told me about and it sounded so lovely, I held it in front of me as a beacon of hope - something to look forward to after such a brutal winter.

I haven’t traveled in ages, and I’ve never traveled by myself. To be honest, since I live alone, traveling alone has never held much interest for me – what’s the advantage of being alone, but just in a different part of the world? Where I don’t know a soul. Where my phone doesn’t work, where I don’t speak the language and can’t even communicate to a taxi driver (if I can find one), where I’ll never run into a friend on the street… But since the death of my mother, a great lover of life (and an intrepid traveler), it’s occurred to me that if I don’t do it now I will never do it. The perfect traveling companion may one day appear but meanwhile, time is passing. So what are my choices?

Lucky for me I have a great friend, Deborah Lesser*, who is also a travel agent (wow, what are the odds?)! I decide to put myself in her capable hands and she books: a group biking tour with Back Roads through the Loire Valley, a 5-day stop-over on London (I have friends there), and - something I have dreamed about for 10 years at least - 5 days at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (a total unknown).

Deborah has the good sense to suggest I arrive in France a day early to give myself a day to adjust. A fine idea, but it doesn't address my bigger concerns: what if I miss my connections? What if my luggage gets lost? What if I leave my passport somewhere? What if…I may be traveling in Europe, but I’m a New Yorker at heart. Anxiety is part of our DNA.

As it turns out, some of my anxieties have merit. Getting to Newark is a nightmare. The Airporter at the Port Authority is stuck in Friday traffic, and the line stands there helpless while the stoplights change but the traffic doesn't, the clock ticking away precious minutes from our the security check. At the last minute, another passenger and I decide to make a run for the train to the plane from Penn Station. Hauling our luggage against an oncoming tide of rush-hour crowds, we flail our way to 34th St. From the train, we can see the NJ highway at a total stand-still; we made the right choice. One mono-rail ride later, I make it to the terminal just in time.

The flight is bumpy, the landing perfect. My first task after arrival at DeGaulle Airport: find my way to the TGV bullet train to take me out to St. Pierre des Corps. “Don’t worry,” Deborah assures me, “Everybody speaks English.”

But knowing I can't go back now, this simple task fills me with such anxiety, I actually have vertigo upon arrival - even the jetway seems to be moving under my feet!

DeGaulle Airport is not a good place to have vertigo:

These are not escalators, but flat moving walkways. Takes a little getting used to but smart for luggage.

From there, I navigate a French ticketing machine for a ticket on the TGV Bullet Train and, disoriented and somewhat sleep-deprived (sleeping on a plane? Fugeddaboudit), follow signs to the monorail, which lands me in the TGV station. It is hot and humid, but the station is beautiful.

The ride is pretty.

I see my first wind turbines up close - they are huge!

I arrive at St. Pierre des Corps with a walking map to my hotel.

Alas, after walking around in searing heat for 45 minutes with all my luggage, I cannot find any of the streets on the map. Defeated and anxious (did I mention I’m anxious?), I slump back to the station, my worst fears realized: alone, exhausted, unable to communicate, lost.

When I get up my nerve to ask a passerby (in my best FrEnglish) where the taxis are, I am pointed to a taxi stand right under my nose. I give the driver my address and map, and he points out that my map is from the Tours station, not St. Pierre des Corps (you may have spotted this). This is not Deborah's fault. I'm the one who downloaded this map; but I see the mix-up - St. Pierre des Corps is where I’m to meet the Back Roads group tomorrow. No wonder I couldn’t find those streets! But Tours is not far away, and he drives me there.

I finally arrive at my hotel, Hotel L’Adresse (that’s the name of the owner) right in the middle of the older part of the city, very picturesque and sweet.

My room is a “Chambre Superieur.” That does not mean it’s a superior room. It means it’s on the top floor. Thankfully, the hotelier promises to carry my luggage up for me.

My room is not quite ready, and the hotelier has given me a map, so I go for a walk, navigating through the twisted and beautiful streets of Tours and see:

The Basilica

The Church

The Cathedral

I loved that when the original windows could not be repaired, they were replaced with these modern, playful ones.

And check out these gargoyles!

I settle into my room, turn on the AC and sleep a couple of hours, then take myself out for dinner. Here’s what I notice:

The weather is so changeable in Tours, that the waitresses actually carry squeegees to wipe off the outdoor tables.

And even in a city this size, the public transportation is good. Check out this tram – it’s brand new.

All my life I've heard about how the French socialist way of life is not sustainable. And yet this city is clean, has good public transport, there are no homeless (I hear you will see them in Paris), and everyone seems content. What do they know that we as a nation cannot seem to grasp?

On the City streets, I'm encouraged to see The International Sign for Bike Lane:

Yes, there are bikes in Tours, mostly big ole “Granny Bikes.” They look stabile and comfortable. People ride at a leisurely pace, as if they had all the time in the world. There are bike lanes, but it doesn’t matter because there’s not much traffic, and Tours is flat. What a great place to ride a bike!

I get back to my little attic room in which not a molecule is stirring (heat rises), and now cannot get the AC to work. The hotel says it is open until 10pm, but by 9:30 they have closed up shop. I panic. I know there is no way I can sleep in this hot and confined room and picture my first day with Back Roads too exhausted to ride and getting sick. I open the window. Nothing. Not knowing how to contact management, I frantically text Deborah in the US (I’ve configured my phone to be able to do this, and hope it will work). She picks right up.

And here’s where having a travel agent makes all the difference. She finds the hotelier, tells him the problem, and he shows up 10 minutes later with apologies. He can’t get the AC to work either, but scours every hotel in Tours for a fan. Twenty minutes later, he returns with more apologies and a greasy but gloriously effective kitchen fan. It’s making all the difference. I will sleep and be rested for my first leg of biking tomorrow. Hooray, Deborah saves the day!!

By now, I’ve been up nearly 36 hours but my anxiety is gone; I’ve survived the worst. And I realize: now I know how to navigate Charles DeGaulle Airport. Now I know how to work a French ticket kiosk. Now I know how find the Monorail and take the bullet train – and recognize the difference between Tours and St. Pierre des Corps train stations(!). Deborah was wrong: not everybody speaks English. But this is not Outer Space – it’s only France! I’m dealing with human beings, who are patient and sympathetic. Tomorrow I will start my journey.
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*Deborah S.K. Lesser
Largay Travel
1525 Hamilton Ave
Waterbury, CT 06706
201-816-9144-W
201-543-3139-C/Anytime
203-757-9481-Main Office
SKYPE: Deborah S.K. Lesser
dlesser@largaytravel.com
www.largaytravel.com

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July Fourth

7/4/2014

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Although July Fourth is about independence, for most people, in the US at least, it’s a time to get together – for picnics, barbecues, and to see fireworks.

In past years, I had a ring-side seat to the fireworks on the West Side of Manhattan via the balcony of a generous friend. Her Fourth of July parties became a storied tradition for years. But this year, DeBlasio decided the fireworks should be moved to the East Side.

As annoying as this is for us West Siders, in terms of the City budget – I got this from a cop - it actually makes sense: far fewer people to hire for traffic and security detail, because so many New Yorkers can actually watch the fireworks in place: from Queens, from Brooklyn – and of course from Manhattan. Why, after all, should we be hiring all this security for bridge and tunnel crowds, to entertain the residents of Weehawken? (Staten Island and The Bronx sadly never rated anyway).

For me, this July Fourth was definitely an opportunity to celebrate my new-found independence courtesy of Lucille, so I observed it with my second Moonlight Ride in Central Park. The timing was perfect. The crowds were largely on the East River, and except for an elderly couple who had let their two old doggies off leash (I regret now that we didn’t all just stop for them, even though we rode carefully through), and who shook their fists at us cyclists for using pedestrian paths, we had Central Park all to ourselves. The air was crisp, a little on the chilly side - perfect for cycling. There were only about 25 of us, as opposed to 90 the last time. The ride was quiet and magical, muddy in spots from recent rain.

The route was actually similar to the first I’d taken. We stopped at the same place to take photos.

Scenic, though I was kind of disappointed we didn't stop for photos of the Belvedere Castle at night. We rode by it - it’s gorgeous.

Does anyone remember The Liars Club? No, not the movie. The online humor group. I used to log on for awhile in the 90s (before Facebook became the distraction du jour) when I needed a laugh to break up the work day. They would put forth a slogan or a new statistic, and then vie for the wittiest remark about it (I tried to vie, but did badly). When the world’s population reached 6 billion, the remark I remember best was, “Original thought no longer possible.”

So here’s what the Belevedere looks like at night. I did't need to take this photo; someone else got there first.

Then we went to a place I’d never been – never even heard of: The Block House. A fort left over from the War of 1812! Yes!

Someone else thought of taking this photo too – and it came out better than mine.

http://ephemeralnewyork.wordpress.com/2009/07/06/the-oldest-building-in-central-park/

The Block House was built in 1814 to protect us from a possible British invasion - which worked pretty well until 1964 when John, Paul, George and Ringo appeared on Ed Sullivan, conquering the entire US female population in one 5-minute segment. But, like a Japanese island hold-out after WWII, The Block House is still there, keeping a gimlet eye out for signs of The Royal Navy - and it’s right off Fiend’s Hill. Next ride in Central Park, I’ll try to spot the turn-off. That night though, the reward came after seeing it; the group leader and I ascended Fiend’s Hill chatting all the way, as if it were simply a speed bump. Hallelujah!

Well, maybe not all the way up. I’m pretty sure the visit to The Block House circumvented at least half of the exertion of that hill; if I’m in that kind of shape, I should be riding in The Tour de France (set to start July 5).

But even if I’m not, every ride I learn something. For example, standard in group riding, we used the Point, Drop Sweep protocol and I learned that as the Drop, to stand across from the path you’re pointing to, not next to it. Otherwise you’re just another obstruction, in danger of getting run over.

As Americans, we love our independence, and there’s nothing better than exploring new terrain with Lucille, discovering parts of the City I never knew, in some cases, never even knew about. But there are some places, it’s just better to be in a group (Central Park at night for instance).

And let’s face it. As independent as we want to be, who really wants to celebrate The Fourth of July alone?

To see previous entries on this blog, please click on the title. Entries will be on the right.

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Governors Island!

7/1/2014

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Governors Island is an historic place, so first a bit of history. It was purchased from the Manahata Indian tribe in 1637 for “Two axe heads, a string of beads and a handful of nails.” Native Americans - to whom property meant nothing because they were itinerant - probably thought, like their tribesmen who sold Manhattan, that the Dutch were idiots to pay anything for it. Time makes fools of all of us though, and should the waters rise as they are predicted, they may have made the wiser bet.

The place was originally used to protect Manhattan from potential threats from Europe. It remained a military outpost until May of this year when it was officially opened to the public as a park.

There are parks and there are parks. I’m not big on the parks that have been planned to a fare-thee-well, flattening all the adventure out of the experience. Some are wilder than others (Fort Tryon), some are over planned (Hoboken). And then there is Governors Island which turns out to be planned, but with many lovely surprises.

The first surprise as a cyclist, was in trying to find the ferry pier on the Manhattan side. It was a little like gate 9¾ for the Hogwarts Express (if you’ve read any of the Harry Potter books). After taking the usual Riverside Park route down the Hudson, I lugged Lucille up four concrete steps into the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, through the heavy doors, only to be told the entrance for bikes was around the corner. But when I got there (down those steps again), there was no there there – just hurricane fencing. Up the steps again. Nope, entrance still around the corner - only this time, we had an escort – and low and behold, metal gates opened and a ferry was indeed awaiting us, with a whole crowd of people who were already there.

If you notice the stripes on the child’s face to the right, she was Belgian and she – along with her parents and 150 rabid US soccer fans - were on their way to Governors Island to watch their two respective teams compete for the World Cup via a live feed being broadcast there.

Boarding the ferry, bikes went first – and are clearly welcome:

As we set sail, the cheering really began, with “USA! USA!” and “I Believe That We Will Win!” That has to be one of the sadder cheers. If belief of the fans were enough, the Mets would have won the Series for the last 10 years.

The Belgians have been to this party before and were more circumspect. Also outnumbered. They bided their time.

The ride itself is literally about 5 minutes (cost $2 round trip)

Once we docked, the sportsters made a quick right in a clump, and into the tent for their hour and a half of ranting. Lucille and I went up a little hill turned around and saw this:

In fact, every single view of Manhattan – and the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges – is thrilling. It begs you to take photos.

The roads were new and well paved (always a pleasure, none of those stupid hexagonal stones) and wound around the perimeter. Lots of new trees being planted:

Then, out of nowhere, this came into view:

Nowadays, the QE2 is probably considered kind of quaint, compared to the behemoths that currently troll the Caribbean. But there’s something truly majestic about it. It doesn’t look cheap; it set a new standard for luxury in its day. And I never heard of a single case of salmonella poisoning aboard either. Awesome.

I kept going, then realized I had a choice: continue on this well-paved (but somewhat dull) road, or follow this:

I looked at this beckoning lane with scars from weather damage, and history and thought: this island isn’t very big. This path can’t go very far. I’m bound to end up in a parking lot. But which would I rather have? A long life of dullness, or a shorter life of beauty? I took this path and shortly came upon this:

In fact, there’s art all over Governors Island. Turning into a side street, I ran smack into this huge Louise Nevelson sculpture!

The lawns are filled with art for children to climb on, buoys that ring. And for the adults...

The international sign for Starbucks!

And you don't even have to bring your own bike.

There are also idyllic scenes where you almost expect Donna Reed to walk across the quad.

Bikes must be walked here, but brick paths aren't that comfortable a ride anyway.

But the most touching by far of everything I saw at Governors Island, was this:

Built in 1939 by the Army Motion Picture Service, which was responsible for theatres on bases nationwide, this was originally a movie theatre. But in 1941, there were live shows produced here by draftees with civilian theatrical experience – and that’s one of the things I love about the military. For all that I hate its other (necessary) functions, for all the waste, for all the stupidity, for all the death - there is an admission, unlike in the rest of our society, that art is important, that it serves a function (even if it’s for propaganda); that it should be funded. And in fact – according to a plaque I saw – Irving Berlin was so inspired by a show he saw here, that he wrote his show, “This Is The Army” (19 songs) which played on Broadway in 1942, one of the darkest years of the WWII.

I am not a superstitious person, but I do believe that spirits linger – especially in theatres. Because theatre is nothing but spirit – both of the audiences and the performers. And this little theatre had witnessed plenty. Standing in front of this box office (what do you suppose they charged for tickets? Anything?), I could hear the laughter and applause from the past. And I thought of all those who went away and came back – and those who didn’t, and what they left behind.

You can’t go to Governors Island and not see the forts. I’m not big on military installations (could you guess?), but the forts were quite something. There was this one, Fort Jay, built in 1794 – with a moat (now grass) and portcullis,

And Castle Williams built in 1811, which is sensationally (and probably strategically) located.

I cycled back to the pier (and the cheering throngs in the nearby tent) to find out when the ferry was returning, took one more circle around the island and was ready to go home, pier not so hard to find this time.

The soccer was not yet over, but there were a few American passengers who had defected (women of course). I overheard them, and saw them checking their cells for World Cup news.

There are a couple of food trucks on Governors Island – a Mr. Softee and a Belgian Waffel truck. They were both on the ferry with us returning to Manhattan, and as I stood next to the Belgian Waffel truck, it occurred to me that its driver might actually be rooting for the Belgian Side. His truck had a patriotic sports theme (though it seemed more to do with bikes and waffles than soccer):

Did he have skin in the Belgian game?

There was a bit of a stir in the American crowd. Just then I happened to look over into the cab of the waffle truck, in time to see the driver, his head bowed onto the steering wheel, sobbing uncontrollably. Then he sat up and slammed the wheel with his hand. That told me all I needed to know: he was an American driver. We had just lost 1-0.

From what I understand, these soccer teams are all international anyway. Whoever has the money, can bid for any soccer player they want. Kind of like the Yankees.

I love soccer, but jingoistic behavior by any country always gives me the creeps. Lucille was content to nestle with her tribe.

Bikes don’t have national allegiances.

To see previous entries on this blog, please click on the title. Entries will be on the right.

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