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.