France, Again

I've been to France three times now and every time I leave feeling like I might never go back.

The first time was a long weekend couch surfing in Paris with two of my college friends. We stayed with a local guy. I don’t really remember anything we did, but I do remember he had a green parakeet named Pepino (Spanish for cucumber) and we ate a bag of frozen stir fry for dinner. At the end of the weekend, I had one more day without my friends, so I wandered around the city for a few hours before spending the night at a hostel. Food felt really expensive and although it was tasty on the high end of the spectrum, the average to cheap stuff wasn’t all that different from anywhere else. The croissants were better than the Sams Club value packs I grew up with I guess. There was a lot of old art. People walking around. It seemed like I could find a city closer to home with the same vibe. No need to go back.

The second time was many years later. I went to a wedding party in the countryside. The party was fun, and being older with more disposable income I was able to rent a car instead of relying on taxis or public transit exclusively. I love taking trains and buses in the city, but when I don’t speak the language or have lots of time to kill, independent transportation is a must. Cars don’t sit well with me though. Rentals are expensive and even more so when you don't already have car insurance. Despite the persistent anxiety around driving through narrow streets it was a much better trip, but I mostly attributed it to having the budget and the experience to know how to travel in a way that works for me. There was nothing particular to France.

This third trip was also for a wedding. At first I was kinda waffling on whether to go because a European vacation isn’t exactly cheap and the aforementioned blasé feeling about France as a whole. Then I remembered that Hertz rents motorcycles in Europe and figured that I’ve never had a bad day on a motorcycle and I’ve had a lot of good ones. There’s a lot of twisty roads in the Alps too. After the wedding, I had ten days with no firm plans. If nothing else, long days in the saddle are a really great way to force yourself to notice stuff about where you are.

For example, I noticed French civil engineers have a deep rooted love of roundabouts. My working theory is that the first person each of them fell in love with raved about the benefits of smooth traffic flow. I mean, I get it. I still look around when I’m parking my motorcycle because one time in college someone taped a note to it that said I was beautiful. The little things stick with you. But I don’t think this lover had ever needed to rely on audio based turn by turn navigation, or else they would not have been so adamant. The two do not mix well.

Normally when I’m following google maps, the audio directions are more than adequate. “Turn left in 250 feet.” is clear enough. “Continue for 300 miles” makes sense. “Your destination is on the right” gets me right where I want to go. However, “at the roundabout, take the third exit” lacks the specificity I need to ride without resorting to staring at my phone while also trying to get through a busy intersection safely. Does the residential driveway directly connected to the roundabout count as an exit? What about the stub of a road that branches off about 30 feet and is clearly intended to be a real road one day, but for now just terminates in an empty field? I don't know. I never figured out a pattern.

What do I know, though? I was a foreigner who doesn’t speak the language and is too used to cars that will actively work to keep me from passing them even if my presence won’t impede at all. If nothing else, it got me off the medium roads and out into the really rural parts of France’s southern coast. The villages with one lane roads in and out where it’s a surprise to see any traffic at all. Gently rolling hills dotted with small farms and farmhouses. Vineyards and wineries with rows of Evergreen trees lining their entrance. A herd of sheep grazing on the highest road in Europe. Where no one speaks English with a hint of disdain because they don’t speak English at all.

Riding is only part of the story though and the evenings were harder than I expected. Like one day I ended my day at a golf resort around 4pm. Rain was coming in and it was far from anything close to a town so I holed up in the lobby restaurant with a book to get some food. There were still many, many hours to go before bedtime so I ordered a bottle of wine with my early dinner in the hopes of drinking it slowly over the course of the evening. An hour and a half later I was staring at a half full bottle on a too full stomach and probably a little more intoxicated than I wanted to be. The kind of drunk where my thoughts are darting all over the place, but not so drunk that they’re fully incoherent.

“I wish I wasn’t alone,” I thought. Then I went back to my room to fall asleep watching youtube videos and listening to the rain.

In the morning it was still raining and I decided to take a rest day instead of going for a ride. Moments like that are why I like traveling by myself. It lets you get away without having a plan. Especially on a motorcycle, it’s very useful not to have a detailed itinerary. Sometimes you need to slow down for weather or to check out the side of the road attraction that whizzed by. Later, you need to forge ahead and make up for the lost time. The more people involved, the more resistance there is to deviation. It’s not sinister or anything, it’s just harder to find hotel rooms and food and all the normal things. Alone, I can slot in anywhere. Riding solo makes a lot of sense.

Bubbling just below the surface is a difficult reality. After a long day riding, I might have enough energy for dinner and a drink or two, but I'm not gonna go meet people, especially if I don't speak their language. At the end of most days, I'm laying in a crappy hotel room all by myself. It's lonely.

On the tail end of my trip, I spent a few days in Monaco and the loneliness was really getting to me. Looking around for distractions, I thought it would be fun to go gamble at the Casino Monte Carlo. Some of my favorite late night memories are playing blackjack and roulette at 2 a.m. in a mostly empty casino just off the Vegas strip. Time melts inward and if I get a little lucky in the games I start to feel like I'm gonna live forever. I'm not saying it's healthy, I'm saying it's fun.

Monte Carlo charged €20 just to enter. From the get go, it had me feeling bad. It kinda sucks to pay for the privilege of risking more. Then the table minimums were too high and the drinks were too expensive. I lost the hundred euros I’d budgeted within an hour and left the casino feeling even more hollow. I thought I liked gambling, but those nights in Vegas were like a mirage that faded as quickly as soon as I could reach out for it. On the walk back to my hotel room, it occurred to me that maybe I didn’t really like gambling. I liked a clean, well lit space to spend time with people I love. The excitement of the game was just icing.

I can deal with loneliness, but I don’t need to go all the way to France for it. The only reason I might go back is to spend time with someone I love.

A week after getting home, I was on a plane again. This time headed to Toronto for a long weekend with my sister at a music festival in a casino. I’ve been to Toronto before and it’s a lot like a lot of other big cities. Not all that different from Paris. After the first night’s show, we went to the casino floor to gamble. We didn't know what games we wanted to play or the layout of the casino or really anything about what we were going to do and it was a blast. We went exploring. Together.

Good Days/Bad Days

Let Me Pay Your Rent