A Storybook Day

The clouds hung low over the apartment as we slowly opened our eyes sluggishly, waking up with hungover feelings from a food coma induced by the meal from the previous night. Of course, one would have to take into account that we had arrived the previous night to eat at 19:30 and had not left the restaurant till after 22:30. I lay under the duvet reminiscing over the flavors that had overwhelmed my taste buds. The gazpacho with small flavorful bits of rhubarb. The glistening orange-colored tomato sorbet that lay on top of it was crowned with a small wreath of petite basil leaves. Around it, a sprinkling of savory graham cracker crumbs that lay on the gazpacho. Following the gazpacho, the grilled prawn is glued in place by an olive garlic puree accompanied by bits of mango, avocado, and pineapple. A thin rye wafer that covered the fruit mixture and more of the fruit on top of it. Each small cubed piece has been precisely cut and placed.  On and on the plates went.

As I drifted back to reality, I looked at Deb, who had buried herself between two mountains of pillows. She slowly looked at me through half-opened eyes, trying to stay in that perfect valley of sleep. I rolled out of bed and completed the morning ritual in the bathroom before creeping past the mountains and valley to the kitchen, where I started the water kettle and prepared the French press with the magic that would bring Deb back to life. Before long, the press was brimming, and the room was filled with the dark, rich smells of ground Arabic coffee. Deb slowly walked out, stiff like one who had lay dormant. She sat on the couch as the light filtered in through the curtain that covered the front door. I walked over and handed her a cup of life, and she smiled. The stress of the previous week showed in her face and eyes. We talked about what the day looked like and what we wanted to do. I perused the forecast for the day on my phone. All-knowing Google stated that it would be cloudy but warm. Of course, it had been wrong every day leading up to this one, my shoes being the casualties of the erroneous Google weather forecast. We finished our coffee and threw on some light clothes, packed the GoLite bag with water bottles and sunglasses, and left the apartment, heading for the local bike shop where we planned to rent bicycles. We were surprised as there were more people on the sidewalks than we had expected for an early Sunday morning. As we walked, they all were heading to the same place. Our noses realized it before our eyes did. It was the smell of freshly baked bread and pastries coming from the mouth of a bakery where a line of persons dribbled out onto the sidewalk. We walked past and looked at each other and sighed. Uhh, the very thing that we had seen countless times in cinema and our imaginations while reading books, the two of us were actually experiencing it now.  We made our way to the bike shop called La Vélo Vie. The owner, Julian, and I had agreed to meet at 8:30 for us to pick up our bikes. After knocking on the door and no answer, Deb and I decided to walk up the street and come back later. After taking a few steps, Deb stopped me, having looked back and seeing Julian emerge from the building. We turned around, and he greeted us. Julian was a small, wiry young man with dark eyes and blond hair that was pulled back in a bun. He looked like a person who had put a lot of miles behind him while perched on the top of a bike. In a mix of English and French, he asked if we had a plan for where we were going to bike. I explained that I had downloaded a biking app called Komoot and had mapped out where we were going to ride. ‘Yes, yes, very good,’ he said excitedly with a thick French accent. ‘ Have you explored what the… ummm, yes, the terrain is like on that route’. ‘Somewhat’, I responded. ‘Yes, just know that there is…err, um, what is, err, the words…’ After throwing out some different phrases and words, he quickly responded, ‘Ah, yes, yes. Elevation. Have you looked at the elevation gain?’ No, I stated, but that I would look into it more. Of course, this was my way of trying to finish that bit of conversation, as I had no intention of investigating it and had always been a glutton for punishment. He had us sit on the bikes to make sure they were the correct height. As I sat down on my bike seat, he turned around to get the paperwork, and my seat promptly sank to the point that I thought I might have my prostate checked. I mentioned it to him, of course not the prostate examination aspect, and he profusely apologized and worked on fixing it. He eventually gave up and brought a new bike out for me. After showing how to use the bikes, we bade each other ‘au revoir’ and off Deb and I went, beginning our bike adventures in France. Of course, after finally looking at the map on the phone correctly, while I biked on an unfamiliar street and realized we were headed in the wrong direction, we turned around, rode back past him, bidding him farewell again, and off we went on the adventure. One has to wonder what went through his mind as we rode past a second time and if he would see us again or if he might get a phone call from two lost Americans in the middle of the French countryside begging for help. At this point, drops of rain began to fall.

We made our way through the narrow streets of Dijon, which is no easy task, especially when the app has you go through a city garden where bikes are prohibited and then down a number of stairs. Before long, we were on a bike path beside a snaking canal. As we rode, we passed by traditional narrowboats that were docked on the sides of the canal. Riding by them, I observed that some of them were most definitely people's homes. I was struck by the colors of the flowers that people used to decorate their boats. 

Before long, we turned off the path next to the canal and were on a country road. We biked through the outskirts of Velars-sur-Ouche. Shortly after passing through, Deb said from behind,’ It might be good if we look for a place that might sell baguettes. We might not bike past any more places that are open.’ I agreed, and we decided that we would stop in the next village. Luckily, the next village, La Verrerie, was only a short bike ride away. We stopped at a corner market, and I went in to search for the baguette. The store was a small two-room building shaped in an L. As I walked in, I called out ‘Bon Jour’ as no one was at the counter. After no one answered and a quick survey of the room, I decided to walk through the rest of the store. At this point, as I went into the connecting room, a flustered young woman came briskly by. We said hello, and I continued my mission of finding the elusive baguette.  Having walked through the rest of the store, I retreated to the counter and explained my unsuccessful attempt at finding the baguette. She politely responded to me in French. I responded, ‘I am sorry, I do not understand.’ Then she pointed to the front of the counter, and there, I saw the elusive baguette. In fact, there were six or seven of them. I apologized profusely for being such a typical male and after paying, went back outside to where Deb was waiting, might I mention that I did not disclose to Deb what had just happened. It was then that I realized that we really did not have a place to store the long piece of bread, and thus, after staring at it, flustered, my better half suggested that I stuff it into the side pocket of my backpack. And there sticking out like an ancient bully club that had not received the notice of evolution was our piece of bread. 

We rode on and eventually came to a V in the road. The direction to the right, which we were to go, passed under a tall railroad bridge built of brick. It was two levels with giant arches that made up its structure. Passing through it, we were greeted with pastures on either side. In them were Morgan horses. We passed by and then began biking up a hill. This must have been the ‘elevation’ that Julian had mentioned. On and on we biked, and still, we were going up. Occasionally the serious bikers would come flying up past us, and an occasional one would go flying down past with a long and fading ‘Bon Jjjjjooooouuurrrrr’. This is where I should reference the earlier conversation and the tendency I have had for not thoroughly researching plans and the trouble I inevitably get into. At one point, the thought passed through my mind, ‘Maybe we had gone far enough. I mean, I am sure that Deb needs to go back home and rest.' The thought was promptly interrupted by Deb’s voice asking why I had slowed down and that if I went any slower, I would be rolling backward into her. 

Slowly, we made our way up, and after making a left turn, we finished climbing up the hill. We started through a flat straight-away where there were two fields, one on either side of us. The field to our right was made up of wheat, while the field to the left had immature sunflowers planted. There was an overgrown ditch that stretched alongside the road. It was full of little blue flowers along with many orangish-red poppies. The sun actually broke through the clouds. It must have received the memo that we had ‘conquered’ the hill. I look at the wheat. The sun magnified each kernel of wheat as if someone were looking at it under a microscope.

We stood there next to our bikes for an extended time, soaking in the countryside. As I gazed past the field to our left, I looked at the line of trees that made a ‘fence’ for the field. Beyond that were green rolling hills and the sky.  After a period of time, we took hold of the handlebars of the bikes, swung our legs over, and off down the road we rode. The road weaved through the countryside, an occasional vehicle speeding past. Before long, we were riding through the quaint little town of Lantenay. The small streets were kept in place by overgrown brick fences attached to tan-colored brick structures, which had brown tile and slate shingles. Before long, having followed the weaving streets, we were back in the countryside.  After some time, we came to the larger town of Fleurey-sur-Ouche.  As we passed through it, we kept pointing to different sites that caught our eye. Probably the biggest site that stood out was the number of people who were sitting by the water, painting. Of course, it seemed very European. 

At this point, there may have been some confusion as to which direction we should travel. Deb saw what looked like the train trestle that we had passed under and so we started biking towards it. As we biked, we came to a lush area next to the road. In the midst of the area was a pond that was connected to old buildings. The slate roofs of the buildings were covered in a thick moss. We stopped and attempted in futility to capture the scene in pictures. The question had to be asked, is one ever truly ever able to completely capture a moment in time with a picture? After some time, we biked on and eventually came to the bridge. As it turned out, it was not the bridge that we had crossed under earlier in the day. Fortunately, or at least at the time I had thought it was fortunate, we were able to pull over. Deb decided to finally eat some of the baguette and I needed to empty my bladder. I decided that I would walk up the hill to the other side of the trestle to make sure that the plant life was properly watered. As I turned the corner and after taking too many steps, I stopped and realized that not only had I not been the only person to have the same idea, but that these persons had done more than water the plants. At that moment, I had flashbacks to doing outreach and having a nickname that was eerily similar to this very moment. Slowly, I backed out of the situation and coarsely dragged my feet into the ground as I walked back to Deb. She, on the other hand, observed the whole thing from afar. Watching me walk back around the corner, gagging, dragging my feet, stopping, looking at the bottoms of my shoes, and continuing the dragging of the feet. This continued until I finally was back on the bikes with her. She then stated that, having watched the scene unfold with me, she was going to wait to check the plant life. 

We eventually came to the river Ouche where we turned and began riding back through on the bike trail. It was fascinating, as we rode, every so often, we would come to a levy in the river. There, the channel would narrow and then open up again. There was always a home built next to it. My assumption was that it was for the caretakers who oversaw each levy. 

The last levy that we came to had the same type of home. The difference was that this one had an outdoor covered patio that included a kitchen and bar, along with a stage. We decided to stop and grab a pint to ease the thirst from our ride. As we sat there, a woman was on stage doing mic checks for her full-sized harp. I was absolutely intrigued by this and had to find out more about what this was all about. It turned out the name of the place was called Au Maquis. They described themselves as ‘ a space for artistic diffusion and residency… a place of hospitality, open to all where you can drink and eat on the weekends, rest, and recharge your batteries…’ This was brilliant, I told Deb. Of course I had to find out who these bands were that were going to be playing that afternoon. The Stranglers, an undefined form of minimalist rock amplifying the dialogue between voices, a pedal harp, and a djéli n’goni. The other band was called GW Sok & Dry Tongue, which identified as European underground punk. I commented to Deb how amazing this was especially based on the location of the collective. Soon, our drinks were gone, and after debating whether to stay for the music, we agreed that we should finish biking back to La Vélo Vie so that we could drop off the bikes. It was a bittersweet moment as the day really had been very storybook and we were nearing the end of the chapter. The reality was quickly settling in that in a few hours, Deb would start back into another intense week of meetings that included the U.S. team that had traveled over to France for them. Slowly we retraced our bike path, passing the longboat homes tastefully decorated with flowers and plants. Back up the narrow streets of Dijon and finally reach the door entrance of La Vélo Vie. Julian came out and greeted us. ‘ How was your trip?’ he asked. ‘Very good,’ we both responded, smiling profusely and thanking him for allowing us the opportunity to see and experience such a special moment in time. It was a moment that neither of us had dreamed of ever experiencing, and I am thankful for taking advantage of it, knowing that the opportunity might not arise again for the two of us in that place. 

“There's nothing like the peace of the countryside, the quiet and the lack of distraction. It helps you to focus your mind.”  -Jenny Nimmo