Gourmet French Coast

Introduction

I felt like I was heading in the right direction, but with these ancient roads optimized for facilitating farmer’s chores of carrying oranges and apples and baguettes to market with their sleds and wagons pulled by their horses, the likelihood that I missed a turn was pretty high. I knew I just needed to follow the running water of the river until I hit the town called La Condamine and then to take the only right in that town’s single round-a-bout to start the climb up to the Col de Braus. This mountain pass will serve as the first of four climbs in this year’s 20th stage of the Tour de France. I thought it would be cool to go give the route a spin to preview it on the peloton’s behalf a month and a half early. 

I pulled my bright orange-red, rented BMC over to a bus stop to look at my map. And little surprise, I had gone straight two roundabouts ago when I should have gone right to cross over the river, then right, then right again, then an immediate left, but not the left that takes you to the on ramp where bikes are “Interdit!” I won’t make that mistake again today. That Frenchman in the ambulance seemed rather cross with my accidental route choice this time yesterday. 

I was really hoping the more densely populated areas would begin to thin the closer I pedaled to the heart of the Maritime Alps. Even sans bike lane, though, I really didn’t feel too at risk of getting caught up in a bunch of traffic as bikes here are treated as well as they could be anywhere in the world. 

A few kilometers later and I got my wish. My 28mm tires rolled over a touch of cobble through a town called Drap that was hard to believe was just a kilometer or two away from the hustle and bustle surrounding that last A8 onramp. Traffic dwindled and at this time of day, at this time of week, there was hardly anyone out here commuting. 

One last check of my map before heading up the climb revealed that the road up the Col de Braus actually had a strip of red with one of those circle symbols with the white dash across it. 

Not promising. 

A little bummed I wouldn’t get to do that climb today, I quickly found an alternative that would take me up and over the ridge that overlooks Monaco. Not a bad concession. And I would find out very soon, was a route that had a bigger surprise that I could have wished for waiting for me a few minutes hence. 

Chapter 1

Orange June sun sliced through first class, its ray parallel the headrests. Cloud tips just below me shared its tease of illumination as Sunday slowly surfaced. The cumulus blanket provided the only view from my window as the silhouettes of Hood and Rainer were shrouded comfortably under the white canopy. The texture of the clouds appeared to me as I might imagine the surface of a comforter would appear from the vantage point of an exploring insect, worming its way through the tiny troughs and peaks of synthetic wool. Here I was with an apparent zoomed out view of the planet experiencing the opposite sensation. 

I killed the rest of my flight times brushing up once again on my French and watching whatever inflight movies were available. I was confident that my second trip to the Riviera would prove much more fruitful than my first half a decade ago, both in my ability to connect with the locals and in my overall experience of the place, free of the soul-burden stowaway which accompanied me before. 

And step one of enjoying this freedom was, naturally, to get myself on a bike as soon as I could. Once my phone adjusted to the local networks, I looked at my post-plane ride recovery score courtesy of my Whoop strap. It was at a 5% out of 100. I didn’t know it could go that low. 

Making my way to a little studio apartment which would serve as my home away from home for the next, well, what felt like the best part of a month, I checked the hours for the bike rental place where I’d made my reservation. 

As it happened, they were taking a French siesta (is “siesta” a universal term?) and would be closed from about noon to 14h00. I decided to take a cue and get horizontal for a good two hour power nap to partly make up for the jet lag. But I couldn’t sleep more than an hour for my excitement. With the remaining time, I took a short walk to the shore to put my feet in the frothy waves of the Côte d’Azur for the first time in too long a while. 

Bike in hand, kit on back, I pedaled my way out of town and it didn’t take long to start soaking in the visual buffet this part of the world has to offer. On some of the roads that lead up the hills and away from the villes-sur-mer—the parts of the towns that are right on the coast—one gets the idea that the roads were designed at the outset to facilitate bicycles, with most of the climbs I did replete with signs letting you know elevation and gradient specifications next to symbols of bike riders. 

And even along the very first climb of my first day, the names PINOT and JULIAN were written in big, unmissable letters across the rue, names all too familiar to the Tour de France faithful. Thibaut Pinot and Julian Alaphilippe were two of the strongest French competitors in the 2020 edition of the tour which came right up this very route. 

After about two and a half hours on the bike, I decided to call it a day, grabbed shower and snack, and was ready for my first dinner. 

I know Nice, and by extension, the whole of the Riviera, are not exactly representative of how most French people live, insofar as they don’t live near major tourist hubs, but I still rather enjoyed the exercise of seeing the town through the lens of someone actually living there, pretending, if only for a few days, this was my home. 

That evening, I was faced with a the difficult decision of choosing a place to eat. There were probably four to five dozen restaurants within walking distance whose culinary constitution would shame almost anything back home. 

Walking through Old Nice, with its uneven cobbled streets, I wormed my way through the little peaks and troughs of uneven, perfectly imperfect sidewalks, enjoying the details of pre-laser-edged city technology. The daily market on Monday’s sells mostly antique wares, but the rest of the week is full of street foods, artwork and local produce of citrus and cherries and chive. 

I found a place that had “rotisserie” in the name and sat myself down in their outdoor seating area. In fact, I don’t think they had an indoor option available. I ordered, the food and drink appeared in a jif, and I took in my surroundings. 

I was sitting in a 16th century alleyway with a German beer in hand, a British family of four on vacation to my left, and a Malaysian man traveling for work for a Seaplane company on my right. I had a waiter with his own backstory probably originating somewhere in India. 

America is said to be the melting pot of the world, welcoming all and creating this kind of new style of eclectic society where an enterprising population could unite around a common struggle regardless of cultural background. But from my zoomed out point of view, coming from a relatively homogeneous high desert home, now enjoying slow cooked lamb with ratatouille in a alleyway built by contemporaries of the founders of Plymouth Rock, this part of the world was the real melting pot. 

At least for this traveler. At least for this week. 

Chapter 2

I’d probably already stopped half a dozen times on this ride to check my phone for map updates as well as to take some pictures for the Gram. But I had to do it at least one more time when I saw that my road was taking me over a picturesque view of curved piece of train track which ran into a tunnel bore in the mountain’s shoulder.

Clipping back in and continuing my ride, I spotted two other riders coming back down the hill. Their jerseys looked brand new and flashy. I instinctively reached my hand out to wave and the front rider waved back. It was then comprehension of who I was seeing washed over me. “INEOS” written across the chest, a black and orangish fade pattern, a Pinarello cycle. Though I only caught about a three second glimpse, I recognized the Welsh rider right away. 

I had just past by the 2018 Tour de France winner, Geraint Thomas, out with a training partner, riding down from the French town of Peille on this humble mountain road just north of Monaco. Of all the times and places. 

There were only a few folks in my immediate circle who would even know that name or the significance of such a chance encounter, but as soon as my ride was over, I made sure they knew. I don’t think any of the locals cared since he wasn’t French, but no matter. 

By the time I got my double scoop of white chocolate pecan gelato that evening, I was still shaking my head at my luck. 

Chapter 3

For not the first time on this trip, I desperately needed a pee, but didn’t have a whole lotta socially acceptable options at my immediate disposal. I got off the train at the stop in Menton, France, a stone’s throw from the Italian boarder, and started making my way shoreward in search of a bathroom, not sure if I was headed in the right direction. 

I feel like no matter how many times I travel to Europe, this obstacle still remains a challenge: find a toilet that you don’t have to buy a meal at a restaurant to use. That tummy turgor pressure sent me looking in the local église for relief. 

I found instead a very enthusiastic French parishioner welcoming me in. For some reason, I decided not to tell him of my original intent for crossing his threshold. 

It was just two of us there, and after he established that I spoke enough of his language to introduce myself and give the reason for my visit to his country, he proceeded to give me a full tour. It turned into a twenty minute visit as we conversed in his tongue. 

I told him that I was a protestant and tried to explain that I loved the art the churches in Europe provide, that my churches back home have forgotten the significance of that dimension in communing with the divine. And upon hearing that, he was very excited to show me some of the sacrements of his church. He explained that one of his…uh, lamp stands?… would lite of its own accord and burn a deep orange whenever the presence of Jésus (yay-sue) was there.

He showed me the centerpiece of the church and the alter below, which I think he was calling a “tabernacle.” Below Jesus’ crucified feed was a little door, maybe 14 x 12 inches with a keyhole. On the door was an image crafted out of colored tiles. It depicted Christ at the center, with his left hand on the sphere and his right hand making a rode shape, and surrounded by the four hybrid creatures from the book of Ezekiel—the four men with the four different kinds of head: bird, angel, man, lion. 

And under each creature, a different name. The name of a saint from what I could gather. There was Peter, there was Michael (I think), and there was…“MARCUS,” inscribed under the lion’s head. My new friend thought that was significant for me and with enthusiasm that required no translation, pointed it out. 

He then proceeded to show me all the stations of the cross and to tell me the story. There were several verses written in French on the walls, which, interestingly, didn’t need much interpretation at all; I could tell almost right away the reference even if I didn’t know 100% of the individual words. 

Before I left, he gave me a pennant of the the Virgin Mary and bade me farewell, but not before reminding me that my life was best lived in service to others. “Merci pour tous!” I said. “Merci Jésus!” he said for not the first time, waving and waving as I departed. 

Chapter 4

It took me forty-eight hours for it to occur to me that if I wanted to hang out with some local people ahead of the race this weekend, I could change my dating app’s location to the present locale. Pourquoi pas?

With no expectation at all of actually getting to meet someone face to face as a result, I was pleasantly surprised that within a few hours, I had a dinner planned with a Ukrainian girl who’d spent most her life in the South of France, but who took a stent in The Netherlands and whose step-dad was from the UK. 

We decided to meet at the fountain in the main town square, what will be the site of the 2024 Tour de France closing ceremony. Even while I was there waiting, I noticed several others using the same location as a meet up. 

She arrived as planned—for a moment, I wasn’t totally sure if she was serious about meeting—after having just finished with her Latin dance class, her dress to boot. 

An hour before, I asked myself whether the typical French greeting would be expected on this occasion. A quick search on my phone revealed that depending on where you were in the country, the number of air kisses on each side of the cheeks could either be two, three, or four. It said that in the south, the typical number was three.

Having done my homework, I was ready to say hello properly, and in case I messed up, she was gracious enough to recognize that this was my first time. 

Our conversation was mostly around our mutual love for travel. I find that when conversing with such enterprising international folk, talking about travel is sort of like talking about the weather with everyone else, but with actual passion and interest in the subject, on top of it being one we can all relate to. 

I’m sure we talked as well about our family, pets, and fun differences between our cultures. I don’t remember most of it, just that I was enjoying myself thoroughly. 

We headed down to a beach front restaurant with only a single plank’s width of wood separating the table legs from the ocean-smoothed pebbles below. I got a steak dish that was on the rare side of medium and she got a plate of two huge sautéed octopus tentacles with a sauce consisting of some unidentifiable spice blend. Kind of mustard-like. It wasn’t bad. 

To drink, I got a local lager of some sort, whatever it was they had on tap (à la pression), and for her, fresh pressed orange juice, complete with a frothy layer on top. 

Chapter 5

Alcohol is said to be a social lubricant. They say that part of the reason for this is that the substance itself loosens the governors of our social inhibitors when otherwise, they might keep us more recalcitrant. I think another reason is that as this substance alters everyone’s experience of a place or event in a very similar fashion, you can have something in common right away with anyone there, despite what kind of cultural background you come from. 

I think the latter is really all it takes to skid the tracks of human connection. And since Hyrox is a world-wide event that invites competitors to unite around a common struggle, the baseline connection is far deeper from the get go than a shot of Bacardi. 

Far more mind altering for my money in any case. 

During the walk of nations which opened the three days of racing, every athlete got his or her shirt with their name and nation’s flag adorned on the chest. One of the fittest crowds of colors, of oranges, blues, whites, and reds, wave after wave, crashed into the Palais de Expeditions, our colosseum for the weekend. 

Greeted inside by a pure manifestation of hype, the MC gave a few words, the mayor of Nice gave some encouraging French statements, and the Hyrox inspirational athlete of the year rang the gong. Because for some reason, this would not have been complete without a giant gong. The melting pot of athletes cheered, covered in goose skin, frothing at the maw for the challenge ahead.

The next afternoon, at 15h40 on the dot, it was my turn to see what my legs had left over after what was not exactly a textbook pre-race taper week. I allowed myself to enjoy lots of time on that bike for the first three days, and not a few open water swims in that Mediterranean water. This trip was more than the race itself, but for the next hour and eleven minutes, it was me against me. 

My wave of about two dozen others in my age group stood in eager anticipation in the Red Bull start zone, watching the countdown and listening to the hype music. 3. 2. 1. 

Go time. 

How would things play out, racing against the best in the sport? The athletes here represented the top 2% in the world. Was I going to hang or just barely hang on?

It only took until station three, sled pulls, to realize that this was going to be a tough day. Sure, training at altitude and competing at sea level helped, but that Palais did not have the best ventilation that afternoon. My shorts were soaked from the melange of sweat and humidity. 

Racing at the pro level meant that stations like the sled pull might take a fair amount of time longer than what I normally race with. The heavier weight requires one to recalibrate one’s idea of what fast looks like. But all around me, I was racing against stallions. I had to put my head down and run like a horse doing its job, just dumb, painful running.

I wasn’t confident I was maintaining even splits with the run laps. I felt like I was passing other racers at roughly the same rate as I was being passed by others. 

By the time I got to Farmer’s Carry, station six of eight, I could tell: everyone was hurting. I tried a different technique this time by swinging the 55lb kettlebells forward and back, and on the forward swing, using the momentum to allow me to sort of gallop forward a bit faster. And it worked. I passed three other racers and got one of the best splits on that station. 

But once I got to the 100 wall balls to seal the deal, I was hanging on for dear life, managing only three to five reps at a time. I’d been here before. I’d trained for this. But something about that day made it hurt so bad, a hurt everyone agreed was especially burdensome in that Nice arena. 

Which, in turn, made the flow of conversation the next night at the after party as uninhibited as possible. We, and every other athlete, now had the best kind of thing in common, despite our cultural backgrounds: we were the fighters and the battle had been won. 

Chapter 6

Between the end of the race and my flight Monday morning, I had a full Sunday to play with. I played a version of the kid’s game where you spin a globe and randomly place a finger somewhere to stop it, and make believe that that is where you are going to live one day. 

My finger landed on a duo of islands south of Cannes, France, 15 miles south westward of Nice. With a round trip of water taxi tickets purchased online the night before, I followed my map to where I believed the launch point was. 

I didn’t bother reading many details, just enough to know the departure times and the general location of the docks. In fact, it was not until about an hour before the taxi set off did I even know which of the two islands I’d be sailing to or what to even do there. 

But that’s half the fun of spin-the-globe. 

It turned out, we were heading to an island which was home to an active monastery which could trace its heritage back as far as the fourth century. 

Monks had been tending to the vines, distilling their liquors, and serving their God since well before the fall of Rome, and were still keeping their tradition.

A half hour of boat riding later, I set foot on the Isle de Honorât and without spending too much time orienting myself, followed the first path my eyes settled on. It led me beside lively waters which lapped upon the island just enough to generate a soundtrack worthy of any ambient landscape score and to drown out any modern noises from cruise ship horns to helicopter blades, but not so aggressive as to threaten the integrity of the shores. 

Not for at least another sixteen centuries, anyway.  

The path I chose was the perimeter trail of the island, which itself, could not have been more than two square miles. Likely less. It didn’t take long to reach the opposite side where an ancient fortification still took seriously the task of peeling its eyes on the southerly horizon in search of an archipelago of predatory longships. 

It wasn’t hard to understand the appeal of staking one’s life on the commitment to keeping this place sacred, to keeping oneself sacred through the practice, set apart from the comparatively frenetic lives of the mainlanders. The shores here, the just-so nature of the northerly sea breeze, the constancy of the bird song, could only invite peace in one’s soul. Peace had been practiced here so long, it was in the tree’s roots.

Apart from the clusters of colorfully clad tourists bouncing around in their excitement, and apart from the cafe catering to said tourists, the whole of the island looked as though it had changed but little from its long ago creation. The old carving of crucified Christ, whose face is depicted looking down with closed eyes, thorns on his head, but with a soft smile across his mouth, is still preserved and daily venerated by guests and tenants alike. 

I completed my loop and found another trail that ran right down the middle of the isle, following it imagining like I was pulling the final tug on a knot to round out the unexpected journey. 

I strode past rows and rows of bright green grape vines, probably not many months from fruiting clusters of greens and purples, before reaching the main campus of the monastery, its steeple overlooking the manicured blooms. 

Chants of a men’s choir twenty strong could be heard coming from the open chapel doors and I followed. Above the door, the same pattern as I saw in the église in Menton, Christ at the center surrounded by the bird, the angel, the man, and the lion. 

The inscription below: haec est domus domini hic deum adora. This is the Master’s house. Come worship him here. 

 

I felt like I was heading in the right direction.