Assorted Posts

Warning: Not yet in chronological order. Place names may have been omitted at this stage.

The First of the Five Cities

After climbing a mountain on our bicycles for a couple of hours, we were rewarded with a remarkable view. [...]

The city is situated on steeply downhill slope. As we entered town with our bikes, a couple offered, "If you ride down that slope on your bicycles, we'll bring out our video cameras!" Judging from their heavily accented English, they were tourists from the American South.

We opted instead to walk our Bike Fridays down while squeezing the brakes. This worked quite well.

Our hostel was on the second floor. The steps leading up to it were large and many, posing quite a challenge for carrying all of our belongings inside. It did not help that the staircase was narrow. Once inside, we decided to do laundry. Since we didn't have a dryer, we hung our clothing on anything we could find: chairs, cabinet doors, and so on. Bernhard draped his underwear and socks on the European-style dish rack. "It is bad how I don't care about the next guests," he laughed.

While our clothes dried, we ventured out into town, which had gone to sleep for the night. The town sat at the edge of the sea, so we went down to the pier. We crossed a bed of large boulders. At the top, there was a narrow path that rounded around a cliff. Some protection was afforded by a wooden rail. It was completely dark, so Bernhard illuminated the path we found with his iPhone.

We discovered a beach. Instead of sand, the beach was composed of rocks. We crossed to the other end where Erica and I found a rock to sit on. We howled at the stars, and at one point, Chris attempted to start a game whose object was for us to guess his facial expression in the dark.

Train Station in Bologna

In Bologna, we realized that the path we had planned on taking to Florence was covered in snow, so we decided to take the train. We reasoned that, even though bicycles were not normally allowed onboard, we would fold them, as Bike Fridays are designed to be. Not altogether sure that this stunt would pan out to our favor, we bought our tickets.

We arrived at the platform moments before our train departed. But also in a matter of moments, Chris deftly folded my Bike Friday, Erica's Bike Friday, as well as his own. Other passengers pushed onboard while we handled our belongings up the train car's steps; I stood at the edge of the car while Erica handed me folded bikes and trailers from the platform.

With one bike and one trailer to go and with the train poised to leave, a couple of train station officials ran over to us. In broken English, they said that our bikes were not allowed on the train. Erica tried to reason with them, but the language barrier was too significant; they insisted that we remove our bikes.

Desperately, I emerged in the train car's doorway with a folded Bike Friday in my arms. "It's very small," I said, shaking the Bike Friday. This they understood. "Just hold it close," they said as they left.

With the last trailer and Chris nowhere in sight, the train began to move. Bernhard, Erica, and I were frantic. What to do now?

But then Chris appeared. He had taken the last trailer, the heaviest one (mine), into the adjacent car.

Pitiful Cyclists

We found a youth hostel in the city of Ferrara. At that late evening hour, it was one of two remote lodging possibilities: If neither possibility came to bear, we would have had to sleep in the street.

I watched the bikes and trailers while the others went inside to negotiate the rooms. Through the glass doors, I could not appraise our situation; the movements and lips of the interlocuters inside were not easy to read.

After many uncertain minutes, Chris, Bernhard, and Erica came out. Chris, the communicator of our trip, explained that most likely we would be able to stay. Although the hostel was completely booked, the receptionist insisted that a cancellation was imminent: Merely as a formality, the hostel was waiting one more hour for some would-be guests. We were instructed to lock our bicycles in the back.

The back of the hostel looked very much like a neglected backyard. The dirt was muddy from the prior night of rain, so as much as possible, I tried to stay on the slice of pavement that spanned the side of the hostel building. This was not easy: I was lugging the heaviest trailer of the entire group (my own), the backyard was unlit, and miscellaneous objects were strewn along the slim walkway.

In the dark, we managed to chain our Bike Fridays together and lock them to the bars of a window. Then, with not much else to do until our sleeping arrangements were secure, we milled around for a bit. I salivated at the sight of for-sale candy and soda in the lobby and paced.

This would not be a story if the would-be guests had not materialized, which they did. Showing little regret, the receptionist informed us that we would have to find another place. We did not regard this news happily, but we dutifully proceeded to undo the work we did to secure our bicycles.

Chris and Bernhard were faster than Erica and me; they freed their Bike Fridays first. Left were Erica's and mine precariously balanced against each other. Erica seemed to struggle with untangling cables, so I asked her before stepping in, "Should I take this one?"

"Of course," she said. "It's your bike."

I grabbed the Bike Friday and carried it to a part of the wall where I could lean it. Expecting to stay the night, I had unmounted my handlebar bag. Upon trying to re-mount it, I discovered: The handlebar mount was missing!

Chris, Bernhard, and Erica helped me search the surrounding area. Chris brought out his flash light; Bernhard, Erica, and I just tried our best to see in the dark. It seemed an impossible task: If the mount was displaced while I was detaching the handlebar bag, there was a wide area it could have potentially have landed in.

Our search dragged on. And I was becoming embittered. I considered just throwing away the handlebar bag. Even if I found the mount, how could I trust it to hold my handlebar bag again?

"Wait a minute!" Erica exclaimed. "That bike is mine!" She marched toward the other red Bike Friday and pulled off her green handlebar bag. Underneath, my handlebar bag mount was visible.

At this point, we were even less keen on setting out to find the other hostel, which was also a remote possibility. As a joke, Erica said that we should set up camp right there in the backyard. We all had a good laugh. But Chris decided that it was genuinely a good idea. Despite strong objections from Bernhard, Chris asked the hostel owner for permission to do just this.

Something about asking to camp in someone's backyard causes people to take pity on you. The hostel owner did some shuffling and gave us all beds, albeit in separate dormitories. We tracked in backyard dirt from our muddy shoes.

First Camping Day

An elderly Italian man who was out on a walk told us (in fluent English) that the hostel we were so ardently searching for was at the top of an impossible hill. Furthermore, he stressed, even if we managed to scale the impossible hill, the hostel staff would not be available at that late evening hour. Luckily, he was able to suggest another place.

Night had fallen. In the darkness, we rode through a series of hilly, windy streets before arriving at the front gates of our destination, a hybrid hostel-campground. We coasted our bikes through them, slowing down to heed the ground which over the years had been tilled by tree branches.

To our surprise, the lobby was brightly lit and emanated music. Inside, people, young and old, were dancing, eating, and drinking wine.

After checking in, we helped ourselves to the food and wine, which were very good....

France's Best Room

If you are traveling through France and happen to be passing through St-Martin-de-Londres, be sure to stay at the Villa Capselle. You will be staying in the guest room of someone's house. The accommodations are unsurpassably complete: We had beds for all four people, a full kitchen, a full bathroom, a TV, and a couple of rocking chairs. The furnishings were immaculate; Erica remarked that they showed a woman's touch. Most importantly though, in addition to being the best place, it was the cheapest place we stayed at in France.

The owner is Alena, the friendliest person in all of France. Consider this story.

My trailer hitch, which connects my Bike Friday to my trailer, had noticeably been deteriorating since the early morning. By the time we reached St-Martin-de-Londres, my trailer was hanging on by a mere strand.

We needed a power drill to make repairs. No stores were open. And the following day was Monday, on which stores seem to close in Europe. It would be going out on a limb, but what would be the harm in calling Alena to see if she had one we could borrow?

I called her up. Since our phone communications were staticky, she came over to talk to us.

"I don't know," she said innocently. "I will look."

She disappeared and came back carrying a gray, plastic case.

"Could this be what you want?" she asked, opening the case to reveal a high-powered drill with a full assortment of drill bits.

"This is exactly what we want," Chris laughed.

Later that night, we hopped on our Bike Fridays because we wanted to try out a pizzeria Alena had recommended. I coasted through the street when I heard Erica yelp. I looked back to see Chris on the ground. Bernhard and I immediately used our bikes and bike lights to shield him from as well as to divert oncoming traffic.

The fall was not bad, Chris said, but it cracked his helmet. It was not immediately evident what had happened, but Chris realized that his right pedal was still connected to his shoe -- the right crank of his bike had completely cracked through!

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