La Mistral

           There’s a phenomenon in Provence called La Mistral. La Mistral refers to the strong winds that occur in the south. They come in sets of odd numbers, either lasting for 1 day, 3 days, or 5 days. After experiencing the winds on day 1 of biking and the continuation on day 2, we realized we were in for a big treat over the next few days.

            In spite of the winds, we were actually in for a treat on day 2 of biking, as our ride would take us to a really cool market, where we could buy farm fresh goods and local crafts. Our guides liked this market because it was neither ridden with tourists nor kitschy gadgets. I was particularly excited because lunch was on our own today, so I would not feel the pressure of finishing a three-course meal then hopping on my bike for a topsy-turvy ride home. I know – life is hard.

Beautiful views!

            The ride already began on a questionable note, when our guides advised us to walk up one of the first hills, warning us that our bodies were not warmed up enough to take on that challenge. We willingly accepted the modification given how tired our bodies were from the previous day. We struggled a bit in finding the main road, and biked back and forth in a small town for quite some time. Finally, we went with our gut and located the signs we were intended to find, leading us to a busy road. Luckily, we turned off almost immediately into a serene wooded area. This lovely leg of the trip ended with a deadly uphill, which I somehow managed to stay on my bike for while a number of my fellow travelers walked their bikes up.

Stopping at the bottom of the mountain.

            One thing we learned quickly over the course of the day was for every downhill, there must be an uphill. So shortly after this climb, we found ourselves cascading down a highway with mountain to our right and river to our left. I learned my lesson when I stopped my bike to take a picture at the base of the mountain, then stared dauntingly at the uphill climb to come – no momentum to propel myself at least a small distance. And this was not even the beginning of the uphill challenges to come.

            The market we would attend was, of course, scenically located atop a modest hill. In order to reach the hilltop town, we would have to traverse the mountain, biking switchback after switchback, uphill for at least 4 km. It is amazing to have completed 7 km on bike in less than 20 minutes, then turn around and struggle to complete 4 km in under an hour. With age and athleticism to my advantage, I went pedal to the medal up the hill, not stopping until I reached the top. There were times when I could have stopped for a picture, but my determination was fierce. I put my head down and fought La Mistral. Lord knows, La Mistral wasn’t going to help me. When I saw the sign for Forcalquier and no road in the distance, I knew I had reached the summit. The rest of the ride to the market would be comparatively leisurely.

Hello Folcalquier. Here we come!

            Just kilometers later, we descended into the streets of Forcalquier, where tents, farmers, and hordes of people crowded the streets. I parked my bike and impatiently entered the square, hardly waiting for my parents. My first stop was an olive farmer, who had at least 12 different kinds of olives. I bought three types from her, sun-dried tomatoes, and she gave us free samples of garlic. The sun-dried tomatoes were certainly the best I’ve ever tasted – so fresh and flavorful.

            The night before, one of the guides had mentioned that she could picture me in one of the “white gauze dresses” sold at this market, and frankly, I could picture myself in one too. So, while patiently meandering through each vendor’s tent, I kept an eye out for the white gauze dresses. When I happened upon an adorable clothing tent, I managed to find a dress and sweater that struck my fancy, completing those purchases before the market closed.

Descending into a downhill - Hallelujah!

            As the market came to an end, we scoped out a nice terrace to enjoy our olives and some drinks. The café had actually stopped serving food, which put my mother on a hunt for some snacks to tie us over until dinner. I was perfectly content with the pizza she found, made with fresh tomatoes, basil, and homemade dough. The beef-stuffed crepes, on the other hand, weren’t exactly my style. I watched a French woman elegantly devour them next to us and realized that some foods simply aren’t cross-cultural. I was feeling a lot better than yesterday to finish the trek home, only 4 km as compared to yesterday’s 10 km post-lunch ride.

            Upon returning back to the hotel, I enjoyed a nice relaxation massage. When I met my 95-pound massage therapist, I was concerned that she couldn't do the job, but her sweet French accent and lavender body oils surely relaxed me. I spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool, yet again. The intensifying Mistral winds made the experience less enjoyable than the day before, but nonetheless pretty dang close to paradise.

            That evening we piled into a bus and trekked back to one of the villages we had biked through on the first day or riding. It was a humbling experience realizing how close we were to this village via bus and how comparatively arduous and slow the process had been via bike. A family from Boston actually owned the restaurant we went to. They had moved to Provence, following a similar trajectory to Peter Mayle, the author of A Year in Provence. I thoroughly enjoyed the restaurant’s decour; the pink-painted walls gave it a warm ambience.

            Dinner began with a short while designated to cocktails and conversation. Over wine and olives, we mingled with one another, discussing the day’s ride and the sites we saw in Forcalquier. Our first course was a scrumptious plate of grilled vegetables. The second course I found rather disappointing. The meat-eaters received lamb, which looked juicy and fantastic. But, because I had registered for this trip as a “pescatarian,” I received a pile of grains local to Provence. They tasted similar to spelt, but they had very little flavor. It tasted like vegan food. However, I have made a strict habit of overstuffing myself since arriving in France and proceeded to finish my dish. The chef redeemed himself by delivering a plate of cheeses next, each one fresher and creamier than the next. For dessert we had a choice of a molten chocolate cake, apricot/raspberry crumble, cheesecake, and a lemon tart. I chose the apricot/raspberry crumble, and it was perfectly balanced between sweet and sour. I didn’t leave a lick on the plate.

            Stuffed again, we made our way back to the hotel. I had little difficulty falling asleep after the day of exhausting biking. I opened the French doors to my balcony and drifted into sleep, listening to the sound of cicadas under the gently glowing moonlight.

Biking 1001

            Before coming on this vacation, I had read minimal literature on the biking portion of the trip. Because of the company’s luxurious reputation for organizing bike trips world wide, I expected a low level of athletic intensity, mostly leisure riding throughout the rolling lavender fields of Provence, France. After all, a van would be available for us to hop in at any point in case we needed rest. How tough could it be?

            When we arrived at the hotel where the guides would pick us up, we noted groups of people dressed in spandex and padded shorts, guessing whether or not they were on our trip. The two six-foot plus young men walking along the breakfast buffet line looked extremely fit, not to mention their sixty plus year old parents, whose bodies provided inspiration for my twenty-two year old self. We met our guides and gradually made the rounds of each family group in the hotel lobby. Enthusiastic to begin biking, we boarded the bus that would take us to our launch point. My family sat near the honeymooning couple, an adorable pair who had met in college. As an active duo, they really wanted to do something athletic on their getaway, a point I fully resonated with.

            The bus arrived at a small village where our bikes, helmets, and water bottles were waiting for us. For a last bathroom break before we hit the road, we crouched into a cave with a toilet that barely flushed. For some reason, I was under the impression that the bike route would loop back to this village and we would stay here for the night, and I was skeptical of this small-town experience. But, the guides handed us a list of directions to follow in order to arrive at our destination. Come again? I had foreseen both guides following us throughout each twist and turn in the road, essentially providing a tour of Provence. Instead, one guide would bike along the trail, looking for stragglers and finding lost bikers. The other guide would drive the van, which did not follow us but stopped at various points to provide snacks, beer, and refreshment breaks. This would get interesting with my weak sense of direction.

Getting ready for the big adventure!

Our first pit stop. There was a very small market selling
meats and cheeses. One of the cheeses literally had green
and blue mold on it. Bon appétit!

            Before leaving, the guides had told us that today would be a nice warm up for the four days of biking to follow. One guide even went as far to say that the biking schedule was zen like, and we would find the days going by quickly. Initially, the ride was smooth. My bike felt great, better than the one I use at home. I adjusted to reading directions while watching the narrow gravel roads of Provence. Then, we hit our first village, the picturesque Críus. I should have stopped and taken pictures of the quaint town, as it transported me to another century. However, I was not yet comfortable with the format of the biking and relying on myself for timing and directional instruction.

Taking a photo break. There is a very green river in the background. 

            Naturally, I missed a turn after the exiting the village. It seemed others faced similar complications when I discovered others from our group biking in the opposite direction as me and meeting me at intersections from other roads. Eventually we found our way and continued on to Pierrue, where we would have a locally-sourced Provencial meal.

            Over the last four days in France, I had been disgusted by the amount I was eating and the amount of exercise I was not doing. I wanted to take full advantage of the high quality French flavors, but I feared that two weeks of overstuffing myself was not worth it. The “warm up” ride we had just embarked on ensured me that my calories out would compensate for the calories in. Whereas I had expected this trip to be more cruising the country roads of Provence, I felt more like we were training to join the Tour de France, which would begin in just one week.

Enjoying lunch. The bag in front of us is filled with ice to
keep the white and rose wines chilled.

            That being said, our lunch consisted of a three-course meal. We started with a beautiful, fresh salad topped with cheese, avocado, and a light vinaigrette (and proscuitto for the meat eaters). For the second course, meat eaters had a lamb cooked to perfection while others had a fig and goat cheese ravioli. And for dessert, I cleaned my plate of apple pie. Paired with this meal, I sipped on a few glasses of white wine and a rose. Post-lunch, I was in no condition to get back on my bike, stuffed with food and wine, however, our guides reassured us that we did the hard riding in the morning. I quickly learned from this faulty assumption.

I couldn't help but giggle at this herd of goats camped out in the shade. They all wore little bells around their necks so every movement they made added a little jingle to the scene.

            Though the second leg of the trip was a bit shorter than the first, my body strove much harder to attain the same level of exertion. In the afternoon, temperatures rise, winds increase, and I swear there were more hills. By the time we reached the hotel, I was wiped. Instead of heading to the gym for weight training, I threw my swimsuit on and headed down to the pool. I almost fell asleep on my perfect bed in my perfect room, complete with a balcony, but somehow pried myself up and outside.

My gorgeous room.

I was speechless when I discovered my
private balcony.

The pool set the perfect scene for relaxation. The sun was beating down us, a feeling this Minnesotan has not felt since Senior Beach Week in San Diego. I closed my eyes and woke up to my mother tickling my feet. She joined me and we socialized with the others from our group who also were enjoying the pool.

I know it's really dorky, but I started laughing
from joy when I first turned on my shower.
It fell rain from a cloud. So cool!
my shower 

            At five o’clock, our guides had told us a charismatic 72-year-old man would lead us in a game of pétanque, the French term for bocce ball. Too cool for this, I sat on my balcony until about seven o’clock, blogging and primping for dinner. I came outside just in time to be lured into a couple games of Botche. As the good sport that I am, I passed on happy hour and got competitive. I was drafted to play on the losing team, who was losing 9-0, so our opponents only needed 5 more points to finish the game. My first round was less than perfect, and our opponents gained 2 more points. During my second round, however, I threw my first ball centimeters from the small red ball. All our team had to do was maintain our lead. During the last couple throws, one of my teammates accidentally knocked my ball further from the target, but he redeemed himself by throwing his last ball close to the target. We jumped up 11-7. The next round, I my first throw actually touched the target. But, our opponents knocked my ball out of the way, ending the game with a final score of 15-9. I may not have been the MVP on the bikes today, but I rose to the occasion for patonk.

Action shot!

Sea bass in a mango gastrique. Funky looking but super scrumptious.

            At around eight o’clock, we headed to the outdoor terrace of the hotel for our 6-course meal. Wow was this meal incredibly delicious. We started off with a small plate of chopped beets. The second course was probably the most interesting dish I’ve ever tasted. It was a fish transformed into a dish resembling a pizza, though had no pizza-like qualities. The menu called it a "sea bass in a mango gastrique." Third, we had another white fish, topped with an asparagus cream sauce that was so tasty, my taste buds water just thinking about it. Interestingly, we had just as many courses for dessert as we did “real food.” One of the desserts came in a martini glass, and had lemon sorbet and meringue somehow prepared to make this very light and refreshing dish. We completed our meal with a plate of macaroons, nougat, and micro-mini loaves of sweet breads. The macaroons tasted just like caramel delights (the Girl Scout cookies also known as Simoas).

            The night ended with our vivacious Brazilian group member, with whom I became fast friends, informing us that tonight the moon would be both full and the closest to the Earth than it would be all year. We watched it slowly rise over the trees, bringing the perfect day to a perfect close. Full of joy, everyone giggled their way back to their rooms and into a deep slumber necessary to prepare for the day to come.

Full moon behind us.

Tour de Aix-en-Provence

          Like the rest of the hung-over teens of Aix, we had a late start to the day. At around 10 am we feasted over breads, cheese, yogurt and fruit. Yet another beautiful day in Aix left us keen to spend the day outdoors. As the birthplace and home of the famous painter Cézanne, the city of Aix had designed a “Steps of Cézanne” walk that marked various locations throughout the city notable in the life of Cézanne and his artwork. We passed the building that once was a hospital where Cézanne was born, various apartments which Cézanne, his wife, and his son had lived, and the museum which used to be the gallery which Cézanne had once displayed his works. Because many of the buildings had been transformed and commoners used them for humble, personal purposes, I suspected the authenticity of this tour’s claims. Nonetheless, the “Steps of Cézanne” was a great way to explore the city and admire the antique architecture.

            When planning our walk along the “Steps of Cézanne,” I noticed that the ninth destination was extremely removed from the rest of the sites. This point was Cézanne’s grave, and I didn’t expect this to be a particularly worthwhile venture. However, my step dad was set to see the walking tour through to completion. So, we set out on the trek out of the city center. We passed a military academy where parents appeared to be picking up their children for the summer. Finally, we arrived at the graveyard, and I was overwhelmed by the abundance of tombs showering the plot of land. But not just the size and number of graves, but the distinct color and design dedicated to each individual memorial. Most had been decorated with ceramic flowers. Many had stone sculptures shaped like books, and inside each book a porcelain oval insert with a portrait painted on it would represent the individuals buried in that grave. A few tombs even had elaborate structures built with small shrines inside.

Tomb that looked like a log cabin/cathedral.

One of the more interesting tombs.

Intricate shrine inside a tomb.

Cézanne's tomb!

            We weaved up and down just a fraction of the aisles in the graveyard, en route to Cézanne’s grave. Comparatively, his grave appeared quite humble. Only the signage leading to his tomb set it apart from the rest. The amazing art and architecture I saw in the graveyard made the trek completely worthwhile. The vibrant colors and care toward these memorials emanated the love which living family and friends still feel toward these passed folk. As someone who greatly fears dying, this graveyard actually made me feel less pessimistic about dying.

            We continued the “Steps of Cézanne” up until we reached the location of Cézanne’s father’s hat-making shop. At that point, my step dad decided he was hungry, and like classic French people (minus the cigarettes), we stopped at a café for food and drinks. Because we weren’t hungry, my mom and I didn’t completely follow through with the French lunchtime café scene and only ordered drinks. Well, a glass of champagne and a bottle of rose later, I quickly realized why the French order food with their drinks at this hour. Goofy and giggly, we vetoed my step dad’s desire to resume the “Steps of Cézanne” post lunch, and we decided to hop on the 45-minute trolley tour of Aix.

On the way back from the graveyard, I spotted this old model
of a Mini. So adorable!

            The tour began by covering the main street in town, explaining each of the fountains. The fountain in the main intersection of town is the largest water project constructed in the town. The second fountain up the Cours Maribeau served as a trough for sheep in the town, before Aix urbanized of course. The final fountain had naturally sourced warm water. I felt the water and was not struck by the temperature, but that could be because of the exceedingly warm temperature outside.

What we thought may be Cézanne's bike.

            The tour proceeded to explain the architecture and streets. In memory of one of its leaders, the city of Aix named everything in one portion of the town after a the Roman General Caius Sextius Calvinus. As the trolley turned up Rue des Cordeliers, I teleported into the scene from Clueless, where Cher has the revelation that she is in love with her stepbrother, but yet she digresses in front of a shoe store asking herself, “Oo, I wonder if they have those in my size?” Then, our tour guide informed us that we had entered the main shopping street in Aix. I locked eyes with my mother, and we knew where we were going at the end of the tour.

            With my vastly improved map-reading skills, I navigated our way to the Rue des Cordeliers. We bounced from shop to shop, admiring the creative patterns and prints making up each garment. Though, the favorite store of the day had all of its clothes sourced from Saint Tropez. The light, gauzy materials used couldn’t have looked more comfortable based on the Mediterranean weather we had been experiencing. We made our way back to our hotel, stopping in a plethora of shops along the way. My parents even left me in a store, saying they would meet me back at the hotel; I could spend days flipping item by item through clothing racks, especially when admiring trendy French fashions.

No food, no gelato, no phones. 

            Sauntering into our hotel room, dazed by the chic apparel I had just witnessed, my parents informed me that we were meeting our family friends (who organized the bike trip we would embark on the following day) for dinner. I promptly showered and dressed up, inspired by the Aix fashions. I directed us to our friend’s hotel. Realizing that our hotel was much more centrally located, in the thick of terrace dining and nightlife, we walked back the direction we came to locate a restaurant for dinner.

            Since you can’t really go wrong with food in France, we sat at the coziest looking outdoor terrace. I ordered a “Tartine Nordique,” which was an open-faced sandwich topped with fresh goat cheese spread, smoked salmon, greens, tomatoes and fresh lemon. The meal was not quite as divine as the night before, however still tasty and above average. Instead of ordering dessert at the restaurant, we walked to find the gelato restaurant that had stopped my step dad and me in our tracks earlier in the day. I tried one scoop of lavender/honey and another of salted caramel, the salted caramel definitely winning for taste.

The streets of Aix

            Uncharacteristic of the rest of our stay in France, we went to bed very early that night. At 8 am the next morning, we would have to be packed, dressed and ready to depart for our biking adventure in Provence!

Post-College

The stunning fountain which greets visitors upon entering Aix-en-Provence.

We found Subway: Dr. Hite's favorite!

            That morning, I checked my email over breakfast and discovered I had been recommended for a job. The recruiter had already reached out to me and hoped to talk later that evening. As any normal unemployed college graduate, I grew ecstatic. The recruiter and I set a time for 7:00 pm, giving me enough time to research the firm at the hotel. So, we said so long to our quaint Le Mans experience and caught the 10:00 am train out of Le Mans and to Aix-en-Provence. Just before leaving for this trip, a family friend mentioned that her niece was interning in Aix, and I thought to myself, why would you want to work in Aix when you could work in Paris? I had never been to Aix, but I imagined it could not be nearly as fun as the iconic city of Paris. Soon, I would be incredibly mistaken.

            The train route required a transfer at Léon, an urban area which caught traffic coming from Paris. On the first leg of the route, we tried to use our meal vouchers, but of the dozen delicious looking meals on the train’s menu, only one had not sold out. The kitchen manager graciously gave us two pieces of bread with our water and San Pellegrino. With ease, we made it onto our second train, though the cars were much more full. My step dad and I immediately ventured back to the kitchen, hoping to grab a meal before they ran out. This time, the kitchen was closed, and an Irish traveler joked that the kitchen manager had gone out for a smoke and the train left her in Léon. We scoffed, waited for ten minutes, then left empty-handed and empty-stomached.

            When we arrived in Aix around 4:30 pm, taxi drivers hesitated to take passengers with long commutes, as the 5:00 pm hour came near. Eventually, a kind male cab driver conceded and took us to our hotel, another convent, in the heart of Aix-en-Provence. Though the interior decoration was a bit tacky, the location could not be matched. Just one block from our hotel was the central fountain welcoming tourists to Aix. Pedestrians bustled between shops, cafes, and museums which filled the narrow, cobblestone streets. Cars could hardly fit between the buildings, making a nice space for people to separate from traffic and enjoy meandering on foot.Like true French people, my family roamed the city and stopped for drinks and snacks to tie us over until dinner. I tried a rose gelato, which tasted magnificent, as I sensed the fragrance of the rose all through my taste buds.

Rose gelato, the famous chain restaurant
Le Pain Quotidien, and a pig mermaid
fountain?

            At 6:45 pm, I decided it was time to set up my interview equipment. After not hearing anything until 8:00 pm, I emailed the recruiter to ensure that a technical error with my international phone service had not occurred. While waiting for a response, my family took the suggestion of the company which would lead us on our bike trip in the coming days, and walked to a quaint one-man restaurant, only to find out that he only cooked for 20 people per night and we had to make reservations ahead of time. With that, I decided on the first restaurant I saw with a trip advisor logo, and we landed ourselves at Café Jeanne. I figured that almost any restaurant in France will outdo my norm.

            Café Jeanne had plenty of wonderful French food on their menu. We ordered an appetizer of scallops and a plate of baked brie. For my main dish, I ordered a gnocchi with five perfectly rolled cuts of veal. Paired with our meal, we chose a red wine called Saint Julien in honor of the cathedral we saw in Le Mans. In the midst of my veal pasta, my mom asked if the recruiter had called me yet. I panicked when I saw two missed calls and a voicemail. I promptly left the restaurant and called the recruiter back, only to leave another voicemail. Upon reentering the restaurant, I ordered dessert, a muesli and whipped cream parfait. Just then, my phone began buzzing. I politely dismissed myself and found myself in a 35 minute phone interview on the busy streets of Aix. As I tried to gather examples of my leadership ability, cross-cultural experience, and quantitative skills, I could not help but notice the multitudes of carefree young adults parading the streets with uncorked bottles of wine in hand. The recruiters could undoubtedly hear the whistling, cheering, and singing kids through the phone, but I did my best to hold my composure. Yet, I could not help but recognize the exhilarating club scene ensuing around me.

            After the interview ended, I returned to a beautiful parfait, my reward for sacrificing my vacation on behalf of the infamous job hunt. Even the recruiters encouraged me to enjoy my vacation at the end of our call. That night, Aix was celebrating France’s national music festival so my family decided to walk off our absurdly filling meal, listening to live bands in the mean time. During our snack break earlier in the day, I had noticed the mass number of young adults living in Aix, but tonight, they had all come out to play. The music festival we had experienced in Le Mans was just a fraction of the chaos about emerging in Aix. The excitable kids I observed during my interview were not just congregated because of the music festival, but they had just finished their national exam, marking their completion of high school. Without a strict drinking age, you can imagine how these kids opted to celebrate.

            As my family hopped from concert to concert, the crowds grew larger and larger and we grew further and further from our hotel. In desperation, I activated my cellular data to access Google Maps in order find our way back. I took us on a route that brought us toward more celebrations, smashing glass bottles, and bumping music. We came to a point where the only way to the street we needed to access was through a tiny passageway, basically a historic arch that had been carved out of a building. Envision yourself at a club or mosh pit, trying to wiggle your way to the front of the stage. That was essentially what we were experiencing. I was locked in between people and a wall and literally could not move. My mother wisely stationed herself behind a tall man, hoping his momentum could carry us through. After at least ten minutes of this congestion, we finally burst through the other side of the tunnel. With the drunk teenagers, we cheered for our freedom! We could breathe fresh air and move our limbs liberally. We also only had to walk two more blocks to our hotel.

            Our music detour added an extra hour to our evening plans, which got us to bed really late. However, the entire day’s events made me fall in love with Aix. The city is stunning, as it has the artful, cultured, historic feel of an old French town. There are restaurants and shops EVERYWHERE – enough said. And, the Friday night celebration came straight out of any college kid’s dreams. The European party scene finally made sense to me, and I understood what so many of my international student friends had experienced while living abroad. Though they likely did not experience nights like this regularly, I can imagine the college party scene was not as foreign to them as it was to me when I first enrolled.

            Like the high school students in Aix, I too was celebrating a new chapter of my life. Between my college graduation and “the real world” stood my vacation. This night helped remind me of the relaxing to be had and the celebrating to be done in honor of four years of hard work! More years of hard work are certainly to come, as my mid-vacation phone call reminded me. But, I am excited for the challenge and the celebrations to follow.

Off to the Races

            After 12 hours of sleep, I woke up to an exciting morning in a new city across the globe. In spite of the previous night’s meal still digesting, I scurried downstairs, eager to break bread, literally. Each table in the breakfast room had freshly baked baguettes and croissants for each member of the table. A table in the center of the room had mounds of cheese, fruit, yogurt, hard-boiled eggs, paté, and juices. With little effort, I successfully stuffed myself again, reassuring myself that I would not eat again until dinner.

            In honor of the race, we began our excursion by visiting the Le Mans Miniatures shop we had discovered the night before. The boutique sold model replicas of cars that had raced in the La Mans 24-hour race, and each box listed the car’s results in the race. We even found a couple of model MG’s, the type of car my step dad collects, though both models had had some sort of crash or mechanical failure preventing them from finishing.

            Meanwhile, my mother visited the tourism office to find out the best tourist destinations in the city. Our late start proved troublesome, as we learned that most museums and major tourist attractions close from 12 pm until 2 pm every day for a brief lunch break. I came up with the resourceful solution of doing a self-guided tour of the ancient wall surrounding Le Mans. I had seen a pamphlet the day before explaining the ruins and suggesting a walking path. After a month of deprivation from 80-degree heat, we Minnesotans were dying to spend time outdoors anyway.

The Madeleine Tower on the Le Mans Wall (built in the 3rd century)

The Tucé Tower (built in the 3rd century)

            We spent the early afternoon following the red-brick wall surrounding the city. Because of this wall, Le Mans was nicknamed one of France’s four “Red Cities.” The intricate designs along the wall and the wall’s towers come from Roman influence and strove to detract potential invaders with their decadence. We watched hundreds of children on school trips skip along the wall and eat lunch on the lawn. One young girl ran up to a group of her classmates and tried to take a picture of them. When they shrugged off her attempts and she retreated to her one true friend, my mom and I giggled, realizing that mean girls exist everywhere.

            We followed the wall all around town and ventured into the more modern area of town, where we found beautiful gardens, museums, and cathedrals. We noticed small stages sprining up all over town and learned that France was having a national music festival. In Le Mans alone, nearly 20 stages would assemble with multiple artists performing on each.

Yet another exquisite cathedral.

            Around 2:30 pm, we departed for the race track, hoping to catch the qualifying race at 4:00 pm. Traffic was surprisingly light, possibly because thousands of the spectators had already pitched tents on the race track’s camp grounds. We began exploring each tent, from Michelan to Toyota, until we heard motors revving. We scurried to the race track and saw a line of restored vintage cars queuing up to race. We had not expected to see this event, and for an antique British car collector, this was extremely lucky.

            We sat right behind the pits in the grand stands, that way my step dad could watch the mechanics at work. Not surprisingly, many of the vintage cars sought the pits shortly after the first couple of laps. I decided to help pass the time by flipping through the book of entrants. While I was initially interested in finding the youngest racer (who is a year younger than me), I found myself entertained paging through the multitude of handsome racecar drivers. I was also excited to see two women racecar drivers participating in the event, one which I saw walking onto the track for the qualifier later in the day. Under Porsche’s entrants, I was shocked to see Patrick Dempsey as one of the drivers. I thought I must be confused and that he was actually sponsoring the car, but no! This actor is multitalented! It was his second time racing at Le Mans in fact.

A view from the top of the wall surrounding Le Mans

My favorite vintage car, speeding through the Le Mans track, reliving its glory days. 

Standing next to the winner of the car with the most artistically
designed exterior. This car was covered in mosaic and
pictured in the official poster for Le Mans 2013.

            After an hour of sitting, my mom and I were ready for a snack and change of scenery. We were most thrilled to find a champagne bar, which the few other women attending the event had congregated. In contrast, the Guinness stand was overflowing with belligerent men. We parked ourselves in front of a live band, performing covers including The Killers. When a torrential downpour hit, we preparedly popped our umbrellas open and stayed put, sipping on our glasses of rosé. The people watching was incredible, as people came from all over the world, all age groups, and all interest levels. We enjoyed watching a “group hang” of at least a dozen high school boys, probably locals, simply taking advantage of the spectacular event’s proximity to their homes. Groupies representing all sorts of auto-related businesses lined the event. Even a “Miss Le Mans” walked around in a tiara, offering to take photographs with men.

The winning race car of 1998, displayed proudly at the
Michelan stand.

          When my mother and I returned to the track, the qualifying race had begun. My step dad had met a Norwegian man who lived thirty minutes from the town of Hjelmeland (where my ancestors originate on my mother’s side) and had received his advanced degree in periodontal studies at the University of Minnesota around the same time my step dad was getting his dental science degree. They both were car collectors. What a small world! Though I had begun our trip skeptical of the Le Mans race track, I was really thankful we came. None of my passions or hobbies would have brought me here; I would have preferred camping out at the boutiques and cafés of Paris. However, I had the incredible opportunity of seeing this extremely historic site in which thousands of people from all over the world congregate. Who knew I could meet so many interesting people and learn much about racecars just from one visit to Le Mans. 

Wine with dinner

            Eventually, it came time to leave the track for dinner and enjoy our hotel’s fantastic restaurant. In fact, our hotel only has five rooms and receives the vast majority of its revenue from its meal service. The waiter first brought out bread and a pate, which we quickly devoured. The pre-course, chef’s courtesy, consisted of a broccoli cream sauce that had been puréed. My second dish (appetizer) tasted very similarly, but included crab, and instead of broccoli, the puréed vegetable was asparagus. For the main dish, I ate a special fish from France, which had been cooked in delicious vegetable and cream sauce (there seems to be a pattern). Finally, dessert was so beautifully executed, I had to photograph it. What appeared to be a white chocolate truffle was filled with chopped strawberries. They called this dish a strawberry gazpacho with chocolate. The meal was absolutely delicious, one of the most decadent I had consumed in my life due to the extensive use of cream.

Dessert as delivered

Uncovering the truffle

I had not been that stuffed in a while, so I had to walk off at least a small portion of the calories. My mom and I ventured into the town’s music festival, which had been curate-ing the soundtrack to our dinner. I was surprised to find the crowd around us well past my age group and likely into their mid-thirties, as the artists produced a sound similar to that of Fallout Boy or Paramore. The band had great stage presence, inspiring a couple members of the 200-person audience to crowd surf. Their costumes were incredibly funky, long tuxedo jackets with clown-like pants and high socks. They played until the police told them it was time to shut down. Respectfully, they sang a finale at the end of which, my mom and I retreated to our penthouse. Even without air conditioning on our top-floor suite, our full stomachs promptly settled us into a deep and peaceful slumber.

Even manholes in France are beautifully decorated.

          

Arrival: June 19

           Immediately upon arrival into a foreign country, a humble girl from the über courteous Midwest cannot help but recognize the sudden disappearance of personal space. Accustomed to the awkward 4-way stop scenario, where drivers practically beg their peers to proceed into the intersection before they do so, I did not find the bag carts charging at me particularly welcoming. Though population density of Paris, France does come near that of Dhaka, Bangladesh, I found that a year separated from Bangladeshi culture helped me to appreciate the arms-length of personal space found in America.

High speed train

            That being said, I had previously enjoyed adapting to thick cities teeming with people. In Bangladesh, I gained a rush from aggressively storming by pedestrians without saying excuse me – it almost felt rebellious. I expect France’s country side will not have the same rush of the Charles De-Gaulle Airport, a hub of enthusiastic (or rather dumfounded) tourists and super-charged Parisians.

            Our first stop in France was Le Mans, home of the famous car racing track. The track hosts a very well known 24-hour endurance race in which teams of three drive their cars as quickly as possible to try and cover as much ground as possible without their cars breaking down. Tomorrow we would watch the qualifying race for the 24-hour endurance race which would take place on Saturday, June 22.

            After three hours of loitering in the airport train station, we finally boarded the SNFA rail from Paris to Le Mans. The scenery resembled that of the Minnesota countryside. Once we started approaching more populated areas, the quaint architecture differentiated itself from that found in Midwestern grasslands and farm towns. About two hours later, we knew our stop had approached, as Le Mans was the most populous city in miles. I looked forward to diving into the sea of pale yellow, orange, and crème colored homes.

A view from our hotel room window in Le Mans

            When we hopped in our cab, all we could think was how happy we were to not be driving. The winding cobblestone roads and foreign road signs gave us little ability to navigate the roads. Upon sighting a spectacular cathedral, our cab driver notified us we had arrived at our hotel, just across the street. Nestled in a square at the heart of the “old town,” out hotel screamed quintessential quaint French hotel. We rolled our suitcases across the hotel restaurant terrace and into the retired convent. Because of my step dad’s bum knee, which he discovered briefly before embarking on this trip, we stared dauntingly at the narrow spiral staircase, of which we would have to scale three flights. Communicating with the staff proved challenging, as none of us speak a substantial amount of French (only knowing merci beaucoup and oui).

I earned my keep on this trip by schlepping my generous parents bags up the stairs and into our VERY quaint room, in which we squeezed an extra cot for myself. Luckily the shower ceiling was just high enough for my barely 5’5” self to stand. Unfortunately for my 6’0” father, he did not fit quite as well. While I enthusiastically called our room “The Penthouse Suite,” my parents insisted we had been stuffed into the hotel’s attic. Per our nature, we made the best of our situation and spent 70 percent of our time touring Le Mans.

            Knowing we needed to fight our jet lag, we headed out on the Old Town to do some touring, and our first stop was the Cathédrale St-Julien du Mans. This immense structure began constructionearly in the last millennium, about 1045. Construction continued for about four centuries, as religious strife and age kept the church from standing tall. I found the detailed stained glass the most impressive. I particularly enjoyed the room with the brightly painted walls and ceilings.

My favorite part of Cathédrale St-Julien

The adorable "Penthouse Suite"

            Like any city my mother and I travel to, we have to mosey for a bit to gain our bearings of the city. While my step dad rested his jet lag, my mom and I daydreamed through the picturesque cobblestone streets, admiring the old architecture, smelling the opening kitchens, and peering through boutique windows. To try and keep ourselves awake, we stopped for some tea at a tea shop absorbed the fantastic artwork surrounding us, including vibrant paintings and classic ceramic tea sets. Our Asian-French waitress whose daughter looked like a porcelain doll somehow convinced us to split a “small cookie” with our beverages. I began to realize that refusing food in France would become impossible, and I would need to adopt an attitude like Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love, while she lives in Rome for four months.

The dark cave is the shower.

Because of the proximity to our hotel and casual vibe, we decided to dine at Le Verre Tige, which advertised itself as a wine bar in English. Deciding whether to drink sparkling or tap water, I asked our waiter if the tap water in Le Mans was good. He responded, “I don’t know. I don’t drink water.” And, why would a Frenchman who has access to the finest wines in the world? Over a bottle of rosé, I enjoyed my waiter’s creation (a very fancy very savory open faced grilled cheese sandwich with tomato sauce and greens) and an apple tarte tatin (the French’s version of apple pie, a nonnegotiable at any restaurant). Stuffed to the brim, we went on a short post-dinner walk to awake from our food-induced coma. Without any trouble, I cuddled into my cot, which I had tucked into the inlet surrounding the window, and drifted off into a slumber resembling Van Gough’s “Starry Night.”

I know it's cliché, but this picture so perfectly captures the eloquence of France.