Camisieta in Francia

Horseback riding on the Carmarge

The train to France was marvelous except for the hour delay in Toulouse. A frantic run thru the station to catch our connection, which of course, turned out to be on the platform right beside us

Roses were in glorious bloom everywhere

.We had interesting conversations with Martha and Gerald, a retired British couple. We had so much in common for this stage of life. “Let’s Travel” “Let’s  Move”.  Their plan had always been France for retirement, which Brexit stopped dead in its tracks. They held no illusions over the British political landscape. They were worried about a second Drump run, or God forbid, DeSantis. As they stated, “we'd be more worried about the states, but Brexit has fucked us over royally and that’s about all we can handle.” Smart, articulate, both having attended Cambridge and still living there today. Not France.

Vincent's recording of Saintes Marie de la Mer

7 hours later, a gentle sprinkle met us at Arles Train station. Nary a cab was to be found outside the train/bus station. As we lugged our suitcases down and up the staircases of the Arles station, I am reminded of Spain’s commitment to handicapped citizens and their elderly (me). We walk the 25-20 minutes to the hotel located in the old part of town. Stopping only once, to catch our breaths. I was amazed and surprised the section of old town where we arrived; it’s facades, its roads, it's sidewalks. Arles seems to be in a slump or are they renovating? The buildings of old town remain charming in their Romanesque way and weathered ways. Picturesque alley ways abound.

I have an abiding love for Arles and always shall. 

Welcome to Arles

Our first hotel,  Hotel de l’Amphiteatre , was a renovated villa, on a quaint and quiet alley way. The room comfortable with an exceptional breakfast the next day. Scottish men in kilts roamed the hallways, beer in hand. Lavish modern art and nudes adorned the walls. Thank you for upgrading our room.

How to hang your bikes

 

Our first evening meal was taken at a decidedly French restuarant, Le Criquet, recommended by the desk attendant at l’Amphiteatre. The menu was small, locally sourced, and There Will Be NO Substitutions attitude. Chef knows best. At the end of the meal, we agreed with Chef.  The leek and mushroom tart was sublime.

Weds was all about getting the bus to SMDLM on market day in Arles. There is a giant market in Arles on a bi-weekly schedule. The town becomes packed, which really f#$@s with the bus routes and schedules. After much, low frequency fussing back and forth between the monkey man and I, numerous texts to Camiseta and GPS, we confirmed we were at the right stop. The heavens opened up and a bus finally came by to ferry us to the Carmargue. Home of gypsies, pink flamingos and Al Parfet.

Camiseta met us at the bus stop. She looked glowing. It's obvious French living suits her.

 

Petite Tour de France

 

Who knew the Tour de France was in countries other than France? Perhaps the history of Basque France/Basque Spain back and forth thru the centuries makes the location kosher for this years 2023 ride.

Part of the reason we made our change of country was to lose the car. Maybe not permanently, but loose a large portion of needing one. Our age is such that, there is a lot of trepidation in traffic. Cars are expensive and let’s face it, driving everywhere is not good for the environment.

We find ourselves walking in Spain, 3-7 miles daily. There is a fantastic bus system and trains galore. Then there are the bikes. Bike lanes everywhere and tons of people using them. Not just bikes, there are the electric scooters and folks on mobility devices. For the first few weeks here, I was sure I was going to be killed by a courier bike. They FLY! I’m certain there are bike traffic laws I know nothing about and the couriers should.

Because of the Tour, I got my first chance to ride the streets of Donosti. In anticipation of the Tour, the route which the race will take thru town was closed for part of Sunday and a City -Wide invitation to ride was announced. I’m sure this was also a great way for the po-po and traffic control to figure out part of the logistics for the actual Tour Day, as the route is smack dab right thru the middle of Centro.

We rented bikes right down the street from Mateo and Inigo (yes, you killed my father-prepare to die) who run a bike shop. Both were delightful. Mateo spoke better English and invited us to join he and his friends for the Friday night ride thru town, which is also a weekly protest for a more bike friendly town. “We want to shake up the walkers and the drivers, but especially the mayor.” Anarchy and bikes? Sounds fun!

Bikes underneath us, helmets on and locks secured, we cruised off to meet the tour only to meet the rain first! As I am chronically early, a few minutes hovering beneath an overhang on a fancy apartment building keeping us dry, we were on our way and still on time

Big Assed Bike bags on the street (with wheels)

Arriving in Gros, I was astounded by the amount of people who showed up. And the kids; a zillion of them, all shapes, sizes and ages. Estimates in the paper the next day reported 700 people. Off we went! There was no Zoom. Now, whose idea was it to schedule my first bike ride in the city, in the midst of several hundred other people? Nonetheless we persevered.And jockeyed into position. And made the whole ride. 

The real Tour will go directly under our apartment and I am thrilled to be able to stand on my balcony, glass of wine in hand and wave the contestants on  in July.