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.