France: Awkward Bike Moment #6,702

Today while walking through downtown Montpellier, British guy and I watched a woman roll past us on her bike. As she made her way effortlessly across the tram tracks, British guy turned to me with a smirk on his face.

"Look, she didn't fall over." 

Glaring at him, I tried to suppress a smile. 

He was referencing an experience I'd had last summer. I'd just purchased my new-to-me road bike, and I was still getting the hang of, well, riding it. 

I'd hopped on the train with my road bike in Geneva to meet British guy for a weekend of cycling in the mountains around Grenoble. He met me at the station and then we jumped on our bikes to ride back to his apartment. 

Wearing a light summer dress and flimsy sandals, getting on my bike was anything but an elegant affair. With one hand on my dress and my knees clamped together to try and keep the fabric from sliding up, I did my best to keep up with British guy who was whizzing through traffic like some sort of crazed video game character. Crash Bandicoot comes to mind.

Darting around cars and slipping neatly into the small pockets in the mid-day traffic, I was just barely managing to keep up with British guy. And then we started crossing the tram lines. With narrow grooves just wide enough to snag the tire of a road bike, they're a potential hazard for the novice cyclist. 

We cross our first set of tram tracks. No problem.

Second set of tram tracks. No problem. 

British guy turns to me at a traffic light. "You're doing well going over the tram tracks. Sometimes beginners have a difficult time and get their tires stuck in the tracks." 

This hadn't even occurred to me. 

Tram Tracks aka The culprit. 

Third set of tram tracks going through Victor Hugo square. I turn my bike to ride over the tracks and the next thing I know I'm heading straight for the pavement, headfirst and with no time to stick out my arm to brace myself. I can already hear the collective gasp of everyone around me. 

Hitting the ground with a resounding thwack I don't even have time to register what has happened before I'm bounding to my feet and trying to assure everyone in broken French that I'm perfectly alright...I think. Adrenaline is surging through my veins and as British guy wheels his bike around to see what all the commotion is about, all I feel is sheer humiliation. 

I pull my dress down, checking the girls to see that they're still restrained behind the flimsy fabric, and wipe dirt smudges off my face. My hands are covered in grease and all I succeed in doing is smearing grease across my face and dress. My attempts at being sexy are completely and utterly thwarted. I look a mess, am burning red from the shame, and I have a mild concussion to boot. 

Great. 

British guy helps me drag my bike to the sidewalk. He looks concerned and then amused when he realizes that I'm fine. He helps me to pop the chain back in place and suggests that we walk to a café.

I sit down and British guy follows with a glass of water for me and a coffee for him. I look at him sheepishly.

"I can't believe I fell off my bike in front of the whole town."

British guy grins. "I can." 

No really, I do love skiing

I know I gripe a lot about learning how to ski and how awkward, degrading, and embarrassing it is when you spend the better part of the day on your ass with about 80 little kids zigzagging around you as you lie in an awkward position halfway down the slope.

And to tell you the truth, if my skiing experiences consisted solely of resort experiences, I might actually be serious about my griping.

But I'm not. Because my love of backcountry skiing makes it worthwhile.

Yes, I sometimes cry and/or hyperventilate halfway up an icy slope because I'm so afraid I'm going to tumble to my death or--at the very least--an uncomfortable landing.

Yes, I fall often. (I did a front flip the other day. It was impressive.)

Yes, I snowplow down just about everything.

And yes, I had to put my ski crampons on the other day when there was literally no ice around for miles.

But it doesn't matter.

When I slap my skins on my skis in the morning as the sun begins to make its way above the peaks looming above our little chateau, I'm filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, knowing that the day will probably be full of all sorts of useful lessons.

 Like this one:

How to do a front flip on skis: 

1. Gain a little bit of speed.
2. Go over a small bump that you were not anticipating.

3. Lean forward suddenly as small bump knocks you off balance.
4. Dig the front of your skis straight into the snow
5. Lurch headfirst into the snow

6. Do a somersault
7. Lie in the snow and wonder why you do this to yourself.
8. Imagine what your more sensible friends are doing. Probably drinking hot chocolate, eating popcorn, and watching Iron Chef on the Food Network.

9. Notice birds singing in the forest nearby.
10. Stare up at the sky and the mountains surrounding you.
11. Take a deep breath and feel grateful you're out there.

Sorry for the poor photo quality.
Forgot my camera cable so can't download any photos till I get home.
 Had to use my iPhone....

The View From Alpe d'Huez

These photos are actually from last November just after the first snow. There's more snow now, and I'll post those pictures soon! I've been meaning to post this batch for weeks, but between bouncing around France, Italy, the UK, and California... I just haven't gotten around to it till now. I arrived back in France on Friday night, and the first place British guy and I headed to was Alpe d'Huez. We went for a short ski on Saturday, and as I stood looking out over these beautiful mountains all I could think about was sharing that moment with everyone I know.

So now you can see why I have a love/hate relationship with this place. When I'm trying to cycle up, it's my arch nemesis....but when I'm standing out and looking over the expanse of these mountains, I'm absolutely in love.

Learning to ski in the Alps: Part II

This is the Part II to this post. 

With one ski precariously placed in an ice-crusted track from an earlier skier and my leg shaking so badly that I couldn’t get my other ski on, I was as certain as I have ever been that I was moments away from falling to my death—or at least something similarly painful.

It was the second day of my first backcountry ski trip, and things had been going moderately well up to this point.

This was taken in the very beginning. I can tell because I'm still smiling.
Poor naive little soul

Well, that’s not entirely true.

British guy had already had to come back and rescue me at least once, but as I looked across at the slope we now needed to traverse and then down at the rocky drop-off below, my stomach churned and my legs were shaking so violently that it seemed physically impossible to take even one step forward. I didn’t see how British guy could get me out of this.

Seeing as how I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown,
I didn't take any photos of what we went down. This is the side we went up.

I looked over my shoulder at the mountain hut we had just left. I could just go back there, I thought. I can stay there until the snow melts in approximately 4 months and then I can hike safely down.

At the mountain hut

It sounded like a fantastic plan to me.

British guy didn’t think so, but then British guy thinks being on a drop-off and about to fall to your death is something akin to fun so I seriously question his judgment.

Turning around with a graceful kick-turn, he skied back down to me.

I was crying, shaking, and I only had one ski on.

He leaned down and pushed the front of my boot down, snapping it easily into the binding.

Now I had two skis on. But I was still shaking. And crying.

Any degree of dignity I had left was shrinking as rapidly as my courage.

I didn’t care.

I just wanted my mom.

Who, thankfully, had no idea that I was halfway down a slope in the middle of the French Alps. Otherwise a minimum of five search and rescue helicopters would have already been circling around.

Still standing next to me, British guy tried to offer some words of comfort. If British guy is any indication, the British aren’t very good at this sort of thing.

British guy: You’re not going to die if you fall. You might badly injure yourself, but you’ll live.

Me: How badly do you think I would hurt myself? Like on a scale of 1-10. 10 being death and 1 being a blister.

British guy: Look, I’ll ski right alongside you. If you fall, I’ll stop you.

Me: No, you won’t. I’ll fall and then knock you over and then we’ll both fall to our deaths.

British guy: We’re not going to fall to our deaths.

Me: We might. Anything is possible.

British guy: Yes, I suppose --in theory-- anything is possible.

Me: So you do admit that it’s possible?

He evaded this question by suggesting that we continue skiing down, as the snow conditions were only getting worse.

If you’ve ever watched a child wobbling alongside its parent, taking small uneven steps and occasionally toppling to the ground, then you know exactly what I looked like trying to ski alongside British guy.

I shuffled my skis, sliding one carefully in front of the other, and then repeating this motion. Utilizing this technique I found that I was moving, and not falling. This was good. Very good.

But then I started going faster.

Muscles I didn’t even know I had tensed as my skis teetered over bumps and contours in the snowpack, launching my body weight anywhere but over my skis.

British guy suggested that I bend my knees a little bit more and relax my body.

I told him to shut-up.

As the slope evened out and I began to breathe again, I felt guilty for telling British guy to shut-up. Promising God, the Universe, Buddha, Zeus, and anyone else with any kind of influence up there that I would apologize for my actions if I made it down alive, I slowly skidded across the slope in a series of awkward and uneven turns.

Approaching British guy with all the grace of a giraffe wearing roller-skates on ice, I noticed the camera in his hand.

He had been filming the last half of my descent while waiting for me at the bottom. 

As I crash-landed at his feet, he slipped the camera into his pocket and smiled.

I told him to shut-up. Again.

(For the record, I’m rude and irrational when in danger of falling to my death.  I also break promises to deities.)

Helping me to my feet, British guy scowled at the snow.

“It’s just getting heavier, and it’s a pretty gentle slope from here on out,” he commented. “The rest of the descent is going to be quite slow.”

My spirits lifted. Slow? I like slow. I tried to appear disappointed for British guy’s sake, but joy radiated from me.  

We spent the next hour pushing ourselves through sticky snow. My arms ached from the exertion, but I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. I had survived. There was no way I could fall now, and my skis stuck so well to the snow I might as well have had my skins on.

As we rounded a corner, I caught a glimpse of the road below us. With the car now in sight, the relief I felt was palpable. The terror of a few hours before was now simply a memory to fold neatly in the recesses of my box of “terrifying life experiences.” I’m running out of room in that box.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road home, I turned to British guy.

“That was really fun. We should do it again.”

British guy

My favorite café in Montpellier

This past week British guy and I went down to Montpellier to visit his good friend, the Doctor. He has a name, but we call him the Doctor because...well, because he is a doctor.

At any rate, British guy was taking a two-day course so I spent my time wandering around and obsessively checking Twitter. I spotted Café Latitude while running errands with the Doctor and decided to spend the following morning there so I could scope out the place and catch up on some writing.

Café Latitude

I'm a sucker for a good café. I always have been. I blame my Northern California upbringing. In Northern California we take our coffee and our cafés very seriously. Just ask a group of resident San Franciscans for their opinion on the best café in town (Philz. In the Mission.). You'll be sure to incite a lively debate. Maybe some fist-fighting.

So I appreciate a good café, and as soon as I walked past Café Latitude, I knew it was going to be good. I got that warm, fuzzy feeling. (What? You guys don't get that when you find a nice place to have a cup of coffee?)

Café Latitude is the café that writers dream of. Open, airy, rustic. It's quiet and calm, but not without its local characters swinging by for their morning coffee and a political debate. As soon as I walk through the door I fall in love with the place. I track down the barista, order my café crème, grab a seat by the window and sit for two hours. I write. I stare out the window. I write some more. A man sits down next to me. "Bonjour," he says with a smile as he flicks open his newspaper. A couple sitting on the patio outside are sipping rosé as the morning sunshine filters through the trees. I glance at the clock. 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. I love France.

Here are a few photos.

The address is: 1 rue Ste-Croix. It's around the corner from the Cathedral, and just down the street from Don Peppino's. (One of the Doctor's favorite pizza joints in Montpellier. I haven't been, but he swears by it.) Basically if you find yourself in Montpellier and you don't go to Café Latitude, you will regret it. Go. We need more people in the world drinking rosé at 11:00 am. I should probably insert a "drink responsibly" caption here somewhere...

And speaking of cafés, check out my write-up of Stars & Bucks in Ramallah, West Bank on The Purple Passport. I'm a finalist in the Purple Passport writing contest. Voting starts soon...I'm just sayin'

Alpe d'Huez: Why 21 turns is 21 too many

At the end of the ski season (my first ski season), I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought that I would have at least a few months reprieve from British guy seeing me break down in tears because I was a) unable to breathe at altitude; b) scared of falling to my death; c) frustrated because I spent more time on my backside than on my skis; d) could not do a kick turn to save my life; and e) all of the above.

Because I am sick and twisted and clearly have some adrenaline issues, I loved it, and I am undeniably excited for the return of the snow in a few short weeks....but I wanted to spend a weekend with British guy that did not involve me having a nervous breakdown because I was terrified that I would die and never get to go to In-N-Out Burger again.

So when British guy mentioned in an offhand manner that a cycling shop (go here for the shop. I highly recommend it. The mechanic there is fantastic) in Bourg d'Oisans was selling used road bikes and they had one in my size, I was excited. I'd pined after a road bike for years. I'd always loved riding my bike and thought cycling with a proper road bike would be easy to pick up. I felt like I was born to be a cyclist. I was going to be the next Lance Armstrong. Also, I was super excited about getting to wear spandex shorts. I love spandex shorts. Only it's really hard to look sexy in spandex shorts when you have a large piece of foam wedged into said spandex shorts. So that dream, at least, was shattered. I definitely did not look sexy. I looked like I had foam shoved in my pants. But I was still going to be an amazing cyclist. I knew it. I couldn't wait to get on the bike.

But then I got on the bike.

My sweet-ass bike, Marco. Alpe d'Huez, 2010

My feet were clipped in, I felt awkward and vulnerable and like I was going to fall over if anyone so much as walked past me. And this was Bourg d'Oisans...the base of Alpe d'Huez. The hub of one of the most notorious climbs of the Tour de France. People were whizzing past me in brightly colored spandex as I teetered along like a two-year old learning to walk. I was sure everyone was staring at me and feeling a whole lot of pity for British guy. It was like learning to ski all over again. Just once I would like to drag British guy to try a sport that I am an expert in and he has no idea how to do and is potentially terrified of so that I can be the one patiently waiting while he has a nervous breakdown. That fantasy is never going to be realized though because I don't think British guy is capable of a nervous breakdown.

Which means that I am going to always be the one collapsing in a neurotic fit of tears. Somebody has to do it.

Once I figured out how to clip in and not fall over, we went on a short cycling tour that had one tiny hill. British guy was cycling beside me giving me tips and telling me about the area we were cycling through. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel my legs. I wanted to hit him, but if I took one hand off of the handlebar, I was going to fall. Also I couldn't breathe. Or feel my legs. Did I mention that I couldn't breathe?

After our short tour, we went back to Bourg d'Oisans. The plan had been to cycle up Alpe d'Huez.

Alpe d'Huez, 2010

 My problem is that I get very enthusiastic about things that I know nothing about. So enthusiastic that I often (always) lose touch with reality and become incapable of identifying the line between what I can and cannot do. While sitting on the couch, discussing plans for the weekend, I was certain I could pedal up Alpe d'Huez. I mean, really. How hard could it be? Sitting at the base, however, looking straight up to where we needed to go, I didn't see how anyone could walk up Alpe d'Huez without a rope. So I took the bus up instead, reassuring myself that I just needed a few weeks to get used to being on a road bike and then I would show that mountain who is who! Turns out I was going to find out who is who much more quickly than I realized. I had taken for granted that there would be a bus back down the following morning.

British guy and I had stayed the night at the top of Alpe d'Huez and the next morning I cheerfully got up  and started packing my things. I asked British guy what time the bus left.

BG: What bus?

Me: The bus that we're taking down the mountain.

BG: There is no bus. It's Sunday.

Me: There's no bus? I....how will I get down?!

BG: With your bike. Or you could walk.

Me: But...I....I don't know how to cycle. I'M GOING TO DIE!

BG: You'll be fine.

Me: You always say that.

BG: And you always are.

And then he's gone. Down the mountain at 200 mph (slight exaggeration, but only slight). And I'm left at the top of the mountain looking down its winding road and thinking I have no idea how on Earth I'm going to get down this. And I'm touched by British guy's faith in my ability to get down, but I don't think he comprehends my absolute ineptitude. And then I wonder how long it will take him to figure that out.

I gave myself a pep talk. It didn't help. I reviewed my options.

Option 1: Stay up at the top of the mountain forever. Pros: Will not have to cycle down mountain Cons: Could freeze to death. British guy has my wallet in his backpack so I would also be destitute. Hm. Actually,  am already destitute. Never-mind. But freezing to death is a definite con.

Option 2: Cycle down the mountain. Pros: N/A Cons: Will likely die.

Option 3: Hitchhike. Pros: Will not have to cycle down mountain. Cons: Will need to explain why I need a ride down. In French.

For some reason, Option 2 sounded like the best idea. I texted my mom good-bye, clipped into my pedals, and started rolling down the mountain. But within seconds my fears were realized: gravity + downhill + 21 turns + 2 wheels = death.  Ok, I didn't die, but only because I had a death grip on the brakes and even though that death grip was causing me an excruciating amount of pain and my fingers kept slipping...I could not release my grip. I was certain that it was the only thing keeping me from plunging off the side of the mountain. I literally inched my way down the 21 turns of Alpe d'Huez.

Alpe d'Huez in all its glory

My fingers were white and tingling, my feet were falling asleep and my legs were cramped from holding the tense position one crouches into when facing certain, imminent death.

I wish you could see my facial expression...

I really wanted to stop, but stopping was also a spectacle. I hadn't quite mastered how to stop and gracefully unclip my feet from the pedals so I continued inching down the mountain thinking of all the things I was going to say to British guy if I ever made it to the bottom.

I eventually made it to the bottom, and I'm not sure how long it took me, but British guy says that it was about as long as most people take to get UP the mountain. If it was me saying that, I would tell you not to believe me because I always exaggerate. However, British guy doesn't exaggerate so it must be true. I don't know why he doesn't exaggerate. I guess when you have your British wit to rely on, you don't need to exaggerate to be funny.

A weekend, a village, a bug

Let me just preface this post by saying that I dislike am terrified of bugs. When one touches me I shriek and run about with my arms flailing. It's reflexive. I can't help it. I once jumped out of the shower and pulled the entire shower curtain and rod down because there was a moth in the shower. (It almost touched me.) My flatmate was scarred by the sight of me running through the house sans clothing not thrilled.

This weekend British guy and I went to visit a friend of his who lives in a small village in the Vercors. This friend's house is one of my favorite places to be. It's stunningly beautiful, and this friend is one of those people you instantly like. He's calm, friendly and just a generally good person. He lives in an old farmhouse that he is restoring himself and the whole place just radiates peace and comfort. The setting of the Vercors doesn't hurt either. I would post pictures, but I, um, forgot my camera.

British guy had spent the morning with New Zealand guy at Lac Paladru. They swam, cycled and ran because they are very hardcore. I sat in the car because even though I long to be very hardcore, it was below 60 degrees, which is the temperature at which Californians cease to function. After British guy was done being very hardcore we caught a train to Saint Marcellin and cycled up from the train station to Froment where we had a lovely lunch in the garden, and spent the afternoon lounging in the sun. Suffice it to say I was très contente, and when British guy asked me if I wanted to pick some raspberries for dessert, I happily agreed and set off for the garden.

A little black kitten followed me and for a few minutes it was all very quaint. I was picking raspberries in the French countryside, the kitten was attacking my shoelaces, the cows lowed in the distance, and the setting sun cast a beautiful glow over the valley. And then I saw THIS

I did not take this photo. I would never get close enough to this thing to take this photo.
 This person is braver than I am.

Ok, FINE! This is what I saw and it's practically the same thing:

Again, I did not take this photo. This is a raspberry beetle. Go here for the original.

It was on a raspberry I had picked. Meaning that I had touched it. Or come close enough to almost touching it. I threw it as far as I could and ran for safety. The kitten followed. She liked my shoelaces. While the kitten attacked my feet, I took a few deep breaths and tried to tell myself that I was being ridiculous. I used logic. This was a tiny, harmless bug. It ate raspberries, not people. As far as I know I am not a raspberry. Therefore, I was safe. The bug would not devour me. 

Logic didn't work. I still felt somewhere deep down inside that the bug could and would devour me, but I went back to the raspberry bushes anyway. I stood in front of some wonderfully, ripe raspberries and tried to will my hand to touch the raspberry. The kitten ate a leaf. And then I noticed that the raspberries were covered in bugs. They were everywhere. My knees went weak. But I had no option. I could not go back up to the house and tell two men that I could not pick raspberries because....because there were bugs on them. I just couldn't do it. So I grabbed a stick and began knocking the bugs off the raspberries. I inspected each raspberry to make sure that there was no bug on it, picked it as quickly as possibly and threw it into the bowl. Then I had the clever idea of holding one end of the branch and shaking it violently. I was so absorbed in my effort that I did not notice the tiny, black form of a kitten crouching in the grass and slinking toward me. Until she pounced on the branch I was shaking and gave me a heart attack. Then she laughed. Because behind every regal and dignified feline face is a cheshire grin. Mischievous little beasts. 

I took a few minutes to bring my heart rate down and then resumed knocking bugs off raspberries with a stick. I felt that I had nearly enough raspberries to offer for dessert. I decided that I would do one more lap around the raspberry bushes just to top off my harvest. But then I saw a grasshopper. A large grasshopper that I was pretty sure was planning to jump in my general direction. So I went inside. 

The rest of the evening was spent eating delicious food, drinking wine, teasing the cat, and enjoying the special sort of contentment that only good company can bring. 

Monday morning British guy and I cycled back to Grenoble. He tried to teach me how to draft. It went well for the approximately 30 seconds that I was able to keep up with him. Next time I'm going to aim for 40 seconds. 

View Larger Map

I heart Grenoble

I've heard it time and time again: Grenoble is not a pretty city. It's industrial and well...ugly. 


The first time I visited Grenoble was in winter. British guy and I had just finished a week-long skee* trip in Switzerland (*I'm leaving that typo to illustrate how French is ruining my ability to spell).  He skied. I tried. Hard. I probably cried a few times. If you ever go skiing with me, you will see me in one of three positions: 1. On the ground twisted in an awkward position. One of my skis will likely be somewhere up above me on the slope and I will be whimpering something about how I am from San Diego and I think snow is stupid; 2. Snow plow. This is when you position your skis in a V shape and inch slowly and unsteadily down the slope while at least a dozen 3 year-olds zoom past you; 3. In the bar with a beer. My skis safely in the ski rack. 

Bier! Switzerland, 2010

Snow plow. Somewhere in the French alps. 2010

I don't have any pictures of me on the ground in an awkward position. And it's not because British guy isn't amused by taking pictures of me twisted in awkward positions on the ground with my skis and gear strewn about the slope. It's because I usually have the camera. 

Anyway. After spending a few days in Zinal and Hasliberg and dropping my stuff off at my new place in Geneva, we continued onto Grenoble. 


I was excited to see it. I had wanted to visit the French alps for years, and British guy had spoken so warmly of Grenoble that I was convinced it was paradise. 


Except that when we got there it was cold and grey and I was in a lot of pain and eating ibuprofen like candy and I had to go to the emergency room and I didn't know any French and I didn't know how to ski (everyone in Grenoble knows how to speak French AND ski). And I was having to meet so many new people and I don't like strangers. I remember walking into a room full of people and everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at me and I had no idea what I was supposed to do so I just stood there awkwardly (always a solid default option). Turns out I should have gone around and kissed everyone in the room. Going around and kissing everyone in a room has got to be at the top of the "10 most awkward things for Americans abroad" list. My preferred method of entering a room full of people is as follows: [waves] hiiiiii everyone! I'm gonna go get a beer and then we can all stand around awkwardly staring at things in the room and sipping beer!" 


And I was so nervous around British guy. He's cute and British, and I like cute British guys. Except that they make me nervous. And when I'm nervous I transform into the most awkward human being ever. Also it was cold and I'm from California. And I missed my mom. But I'm an independent and competent young woman who handles everything maturely and doesn't wish her mom would send her the stuffed animal she has had since she was six (his name is Kavik. He's a wolf.) 


So Grenoble and I didn't get off to the greatest start. Because of all of the above factors (recap: in pain, no French, can't ski, socially awkward, cold), I thought Grenoble was nice, but I probably wouldn't have recommended the city itself to anyone at that point. 


However, over the next few months I spent many weekends in Grenoble and the surrounding area. I got to know it better, and by the time summer rolled around and I had decided to stay in Grenoble for one month to study French...I was practically in love.


British guy was sailing (check out this project) and I was on my own in Grenoble. Left to my own devices, I began taking long walks. I walked everywhere, I explored every street, took frequent coffee breaks at various cafés and spent many evenings having a picnic dinner in one of the numerous parks around town. I love walking along the river or wandering through town in the evenings. I would often hike up to the Bastille and sit for hours just staring out at the mountains, and I spent a lot of time alone. Which, incidentally, tends to happen a lot. Either because of my tendency to live inside my head or my cute habit of moving to a new country every 6 months. Or my social awkwardness. 


At any rate, I fell completely in love with Grenoble. I've been here almost two months now, and I really don't want to leave. It's such an amazing place. Grenoble is unpretentious and laid-back. The Grenoblois are almost always clad in climbing, cycling or skiing gear and are usually on their way to or back from the mountains. 

And the mountains, oh the mountains. Every direction you look. To the north, the Chartreuse. To the south and west the Vercors, and to the east the Belledonne range. You cannot look anywhere in Grenoble without seeing mountains. Craggy peaks towering in every direction, and it makes me feel safe and inspired. Every morning I ride my bike to class and feel like I could just reach out and touch them, and it makes me want to abandon everything and go spend the rest of my life exploring them. And you could. If you're not into mountains Grenoble probably wouldn't "make your skirt fly up" (in the words of Ree Drummond, thepioneerwoman), but I can't stop walking into things because my eyes are always looking up, trying to drink in as much of the French alps as humanly possible. 

On the way to class. Grenoble, 2010

Chartreuse

This weekend I've been taking it easy. I started the morning with a long, luxurious bath and then headed into town to wander the morning markets and scrounge up some food. Like a warm pain au chocolat and a cup of coffee. Last weekend was different. Last weekend I headed up to the Chartreuse with this British guy I sometimes hang out with. We'll call him...British guy. Said British guy is insane. I mean that in the most loving way possible. I love said British guy with all of my heart, but it cannot be denied that he has--in the words of Crush the turtle-- "some serious thrill issues." Ok, that's not true. I just wanted to use a Finding Nemo quote. I try to incorporate them as often as possible into my daily conversation. Please delete that last sentence. At any rate, I wouldn't call them thrill issues. Mostly the man is insanely fit and does not think twice about cycling from Grenoble to Chamechaude (see map) in an evening to meet some friends.


View Larger Map

Because I am either a) equally insane or b) in love with British guy (please see a)....I sometimes tag along on these sorts of adventures. This type of behavior explains the love/hate relationship I have with my body.

We set off from Grenoble at around 6:15 pm. We took a quick ride through town and then turned onto a small road that went up, up, and up into the mountains. Just when I couldn't take anymore up, there was some more up. This continued for about two hours. We reached the base of Chamechaude and had about 5 kilometers (about 3 miles) of descent in order to get to the campground to meet some friends for a weekend of camping and hiking. Both of us were low on energy and not equipped for the descent. 5 kilometers doesn't take long on a road bike, but if you don't have warm clothes...it's long enough. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably and I kept making strange sounds as I inhaled.  Gasping I suppose is what it would be called. As I passed a pasture, I received the strangest look I have ever received from a horse (and believe me, I've received plenty of strange looks from horses in my lifetime).

I finally rolled into the campground and practically fell off my bike and into British guy's arms. Not really. That's what would happen if this were a Danielle Steele novel. In reality, I was freezing, dirty, hungry and I sprinted as quickly as possible from my bike to the hot showers. (I would just like to point out to my Dad here that there are campgrounds with showers. These are not the type of campgrounds we frequented when I was growing up. In fact, we didn't frequent campgrounds. We would hike for two days, Dad would find a nice patch of rocks in the middle of nowhere, we would pitch the tent, and then huddle around a camp stove eating strange concoctions of backpacking food that usually resembled bland oatmeal with chunks of carrots and a few peas. I loved it.) However! This is France. And in France, camping includes hot showers, wine, cheese, and fresh croissants in the morning. Way to one-up us France. But we still lasted longer than you in the World Cup. (I'm going to get detained at customs for that).