er, warm showers

France

Kudos to WarmShowers! After our previous unsuccessful attempts to track down willing hosts using the cyclist-oriented couchsurfing service, we decide to bite the bullet and ring up one of the hosts in Nice whose phone number is listed. From "Hi, we're cyclists" to "Sure, we'll be there in a bit!" the conversation lasts less than a minute; no questions are asked - such is the nature of the cycling community, where everyone wears their travels on their sleeve and must depend upon trust to get anywhere...

...we wake up by our abandoned building refuge to find that we are separated from a parked truck by little more than a spotty hedgerow. Our breakfast is simple but gourmand nonetheless: baguettes with soft goat cheese and crème de marrons d'Ardèche. This is where the lion's share of our money goes - to food and drink; but what else? We've cut everything else possible out of our budget. We camp wherever we please (within bounds of legality, or at least of discoverability); we avoid shelling out for tourist attractions (excepting the truly singular, such as the Dalí museum in Figueres); we prepare 90% of our meals ourselves (counting, of course, the lunchtime sandwiches and salads); the only true luxuries in there are the occasional stops at pastry shops or cafés or bars...

...but that is immaterial right now; we've got a valley to get out of first! We ride off in the direction of Fréjus for the first 30 km or so; after ascending most of the way into the mountain valley, this part is relatively easy coasting. We make a stop along the way for our morning tea, taking time for the rituals: mark maps, wash dishes, use toilets. Fréjus is a non-event, a conglomerate of cheap hotels that we pass through quickly before veering off - missing the downtown area altogether - to take the northern route into Cannes, up through a natural park whose mostly uninhabited forests ripple down the valleys out to the sea. The signs here are stern: no smoking, a terrible privation for cigarette-bound France...

We ride up, up yet more, up through about 10 km or so of steady climbing and increasing yet still moderate heat; at least that particular obstacle which dogged us all the way around the Iberian peninsula for nearly two sweat-drenched months has at last subsided. Finally we reach the mountain pass (col in French) and the riding becomes easier, taking us along flat stretches that wind around the mountains halfway up their forested slopes to the eventual downhills. Before long we are in Cannes, that centre of cinematographical fame - but there is no film festival at this time, so instead we arrive in a mostly standard strip of luxury apartments and luxury condos and luxury townhouses - enough luxury to make the head spin; here in the French Riviera, there is no room for two bedraggled tired-out filthy stinky cyclists such as ourselves...

...from the various posters and banners strung up at every convenience, we discern that Cannes is also a festival town; there are festivals for Russian art, for pottery, for food and wine and everything that the impeccably cultured could want to celebrate. None of it, of course, is happening right now - so we blow by Cannes, stopping just up the way to check our email by a McDonalds. This too is part of the ritual; we are far too gone down the gourmand path to actually eat at McDonalds, but we are not above using their wifi connection...immoral, perhaps, but it is all a matter of degree...

...and there are no responses from WarmShowers. What to do? This is the French Riviera; one does not simply camp here, lest the sight of dirt-streaked tents mar the luxury shopping experience for the impossibly wealthy residents and tourists - and it is equally unthinkable in Monaco! In desperation, we make last-ditch attempts to find a place to stay for the night. Fortunately, some of the hosts around Nice on WarmShowers list their phone numbers - maybe that is worth a try? We top up our credit in a local tabac and start dialling...

Success - and on the first try! We reach one of the hosts on her mobile, and she says she would be glad to receive us for the night; overjoyed, we bike the last leg into Nice, stop at a supermarket to pick up food and wine to greet her with, get directions from the locals (who are insistently helpful, giving us very precise bearings up the nearby roads...) and start up to her apartment. Before long we are sharing stories of our travels once more, this time on a third-floor balcony overlooking the sea at sunset. We have purchased approximately three metric whackloads of ingredients for eggplant parmigiana - the prospect of having an oven to cook in is simply too good to pass up, so we take full advantage and bake up enough to go around.

Our host is an avid rock climber - a sport well suited to the alpine surroundings! - and has travelled extensively throughout Europe and the Middle East; she has even spent four days in Istanbul, sadly not enough to gain more than a cursory familiarity with the ancient crossroads of might both military and economic. Her bathroom features a map of hiking routes through the Alps; her bookshelf is full of travel guides and classic literature...

...and we share our photos into the night over the eggplant parmigiana and wine, stopping only once exhaustion sets in and beckons us to bed. This marks the first shower in a week, the first laundry stop in a few days; life is good!