It was the summer of '99 and I was in dire need of a vacation. I had visited the South of France, particularly the region around Montpellier and Beziers, quite often as a kid and teenager. It was to be my first trip on my shiny new black Yamaha Fazer and my first real trip on a motorcycle tout court, after my dismal failure to experience the '99 eclipse somewhere in Bretagne. This was an undertaking that ended almost as soon as it had begun, due to my not so shiny second hand Kawasaki giving up on me after a mere 250 kms. (Dear Mr Hitman, if you are reading this, do you do Motorcycle Salesmen? Or are they too repulsive even for you? Let me know … we might work something out!)
I decided to go alone, because there was no one available to take along with me, and because I thought the time had come for such a thing.
This is my journal...
Ten p.m.. I think. Once again I travel without a watch.
Had to clean my helmet's visor at least six times today. Roadkill.
I have no idea what the ideal habitat is for insects that want to live a long and prosperous life. It's definitely not the highway. You'd think they would've figured that out by now, after 50 years of humans travelling over highways at bugcrushing speeds. But then maybe they don't have universities. And have to start working in their early teens to go make Nikes or something.
Started looking for a hotel when it got dark.
Found something just in between the highway and the railroad.
I'm eagerly awaiting the first planes to start taking off.
But it is different, yeah. Not Belgian at all anymore.
Dijon reminds me of WWII movies. But that's cause it's France, I guess.
This hotel is very orange. I mean even the damn sheets are orange. The decoration is strictly late 70's. But not retro in any way. It's just been the same since the 70's. The owner must have said to himself "Oh, why change anything? This'll be hip again in no time …"
And he was right, too.
Time to sleep - petit dej at 7: 30
Saturday, August 21st, Twin Peaks Hotel, Dijon, 600 km
Nine a.m.
Had breakfast. The guy who was in the room next to mine looked at me in a strange way. Maybe I snored real loud. Maybe he's just another sociopath. Time to hit the road anyway.
Sunday August 22nd, Lamalou Les Bains, some bar, 1300 km.
Noonish.
Got completely lost after I arrived in Montpellier yesterday evening. Got to Montpellier around six. Had a mere 90 kms to go. Took me 6.5 hours. Yep. Wish my mom would have had the sense to send me off to be a boy scout when I was the right age for that. Maybe that way I'd have learned how to read maps.
Started looking for a place to sleep when it got dark. Didn't find anything right away.
And then, all of a sudden, it was pitch dark. And I was all by myself on a trafficless mountain road. And when the French say mountain road, they sure as hell mean mountain road. They mean: a ridiculously narrow road which loop the loops all over the place, with 90-360° turns and pure, uncut depth all around you. Close your eyes for a second and you'll never open them again. Curve, bend and turn. Go up and go back down again. At 100 kph or more if you happen to be French.
I think I know how they do it, though. I think they pretend the emptiness is not there. That there's nothing to fall into. Like tightrope walkers have to.
I'm more afraid of heights than that guy in Vertigo.
For me it was no fun.
And all the mosquitoes had gathered to come and die as close to me as possible, too.
Anyway there I was, lost and tired. In the dark. No lights, know what I mean?
Saw a sign. "Camp Site- 6 kms"
Went that way. Oh. Just another winding road. Another 50 bendy curvy turny things to navigate. Camp sites tend to be in the middle of nowhere.
And I got there. I finally made it. Reached the main gate to the campsite!
(Did I mention it was closed? )
Cause it was. More darkness was all that was there.
Five fully booked hotels later I arrived in Lunas.
A sign. "Biker's Camp Site Rendez-Vous-3 kms"
Right. Another winding road. And no lights in the darkness.
This was my last chance. I was preparing myself to sleep in the woods that night. And be brutally woken up by gendarmes the next day.
2 kms … still no lights...
2.8 kms … something looks like...
3 kms oh it IS a light!
Rendez-vous. Someone flew an Amsterdam Coffee Shop over to the south of France and made it a place for bikers to stay.
The place resembled an oasis. To me it did, anyway.
They were playing Jimi, some tracks off of the 'Are you Experienced' album.
Belgians at the bar. A fireplace. LIGHT.
A guy with a beard and a Harley starts talking to me.
I don't know. I like motorcycles, sure I do. But the things are there to ride on, not to be talked about in pointless conversations that go on for hours and hours.
Five stories about hard to find engine parts and emergency repairs on deserted highways later I was still there. By now, the guy had more or less figured out that I wasn't really a technical genius. And maybe that I didn't really care to hear his bike stories. So he started talking about work and got even more drunk than he already was.
(Earlier, Saturday August 21st, Lost In Montpellier)
I'm staring at a map on the side of the road. A car pulls over. Two girls.
"Hello!"
"Err … Hello"
"Err Je vous … comment …. Parce que … err … do yoo speak eengleesh?"
"Sure"
"Oh … could you tell us where ees eeconomeec facultee?"
"That way, I think. I'm not really sure. I'm Belgian, you see.", and very lost myself, I thought.
"Where are you girls from?"
"Ooooh Belgium loveleee contree. We were there ten years ago .. oh, no, I mean for ten days just now lovelee contree we're from Chileh"
"Wonderful. Could I take you girls out for a drink before we all continue getting lost, then?"
I wish I'd said. Instead I smiled & said goodbye. Goodbye Suburban Angel, I thought. Goodbye.
Sunday August 22rd, Lunas, Rendez Vous Camp Site.
11 p.m.
The local wildlife didn't like me much. A dog had chased me down a little village, making me ignore local speedlimits, next a wasp had kamikazed into my helmet and now it was Barry The Dog giving me a hard time.
Barry gave everyone a hard time. He wasn't having a good day. He wasn't planning on letting any of us have one either.
I think he was getting a touch senile. He'd see me five times a day and totally ignore me and then he'd see me the sixth time & suddenly start barking like I was a total stranger.
Most of the other campers considered me somewhat of a stranger too. They drove Guzzi's and Harley's and BMW's . They had huge tents. They wondered what was wrong with me.
So, fire was going to be my revenge. I'd light one hell of a fire in the fireplace.
Too bad Barry was having one of his more lucid moments, then, and had made up his mind about not liking me much after all.
I had started the fire. Cripplewood & cardboard boxes. Burned ok. Now I needed Big Wood.
But Barry wouldn't let me anywhere near the place where they kept it. He'd let me start but now he wouldn't let me finish. How embarassing.
I saw my fire slowly die down.
And somehow, that fire became my ego.
My male ego.
And it needed more wood. Cause this way it was going to be dead in five minutes.
I thought of ways to make Barry my friend, or better yet scare him to death, but I wasn't too confident the tricks I'd seen in pet shows with dubious presenters would work.
Finally, Barry backed off. Forgot about me. I made the hugest fire.
And no one noticed.
Monday August 23rd, Camp Site Marina, Vendres, 1450 kms.
1 p.m.
Fat Germans. Otto & his lovely fiancée. They look like they're from former Eastern Germany. Who knows, Otto might even have been some kind Olympic athlete once. The kind that throws heavy objects as far away as possible.
The fiancée smiled, briefly. Until she saw my tent.
My tent is a freaky thing. I was on a budget. Sacrifices had to be made. A sane person wouldn't even consider sleeping in it. It's cheap, ridiculously cheap and small.
So small it's become a conversation starter, as a matter of fact. People don't talk to me about my motorcycle. They wanna know about my tent. They're not interested in the black speed demon. They want to know what I do in the tent.
"Do you sleep in there ? "
"Oh is it your tent ? Thought it was just something to keep your luggage dry."
Otto loved his car.
And somehow I think seeing my bike inspired him to let the world know he did.
Otto loved his car.
The part he loved best was handling the doors. Opening and closing them gave him an immense feeling of satisfaction.
I was sitting outside my tent, reading ( that couldn't be done inside the tent, of course - not enough space to sit upright) and Otto opened the doors.
He took his keys and closed the doors again.
Locked them.
Half a minute later he decided they had to be open again.
This was Otto's ritual. He had to perform it at least five times a day to be a happy German.
Preferably somewhere around 6 am.
Monday August 23rd, Camp Site Marina, Vendres, 1450 kms.
9 p.m.
I hoped Otto didn't have a sex life.
No, really.
Some things aren't meant to be.
Believe me.
He didn't. Not that night anyway.
He snored like an entire Luftwaffe squadron taking off, though.
Trying to fall asleep, I wondered if part of me might be German too.
Wednesday August 24th, Bormes, Hotel La Garrigue, 2000 km
Drove south yesterday. Decided my camping days were over and done with - no more bikers, no more snoring Germans, no more! Ended up in a roadside hotel, owned by a Welsh couple. The owner started talking German to me when he saw my name. I quickly convinced him not to.
Nice place. If it had been in Sicily it would've been fantastic. Here it was merely nice. The owners being Welsh I decided not to have dinner or lunch here. Breakfast was ok though.
It was clear I'd spend more money here than I could afford, but what had I been working for all year long if it resulted in travelling like this? With an intense relief I took the tent out of my bags and hid it under the bed.
I'll admit it. Travelling alone is not always the right thing to do.
Not when you're travelling to quite possibly the most romantic place in the world it isn't.
Bormes Les Mimosas is just that. A small town, on a seaside hill. Beautiful by day, breathtaking by night. If I'd met any remotely acceptable and/or interested local girl after I'd visited the local church, I would've married her right there right then.
Went & had pasta all by myself in a pasta place. The owners - a couple in their mid-fifties - were mildly fascinated by this.
Enough to refer to me as "le monsieur tout seul, là " (that guy all by himself) for the entire three quarters of an hour that I spent there.
"Une table pour le monsieur tout seul …"
"Une bouteille de Badoit pour le monsieur tout seul "
The owner finally noticed he'd been calling me "le monsieur tout seul " all the time and so he came to my table and said "Well if we had any single ladies in here I'd put them at your table, monsieur, but I'm afraid that for the moment we're all out of single ladies. "
I wondered if that was supposed to make me feel better.
A full moon outside and the dogs at the hotel went out of their minds.
Thursday August 25th, Bormes, stopped counting.
9 a.m.
An Italian kid fell in love with me over breakfast this morning. Cutest little kiddie thought I was his daddy. He was walking hand in hand with his mom and dragged her all the way to my table. She looked at me, sort of embarrassed and said "no, Paolo, daddy's over there at that table ".
He had huge eyes that looked incapable of smiling.
He'll be a pop star one day, that son of mine. I can tell.
Harleys. The way I drive, very laid back, I should probably get one. But it's all just a bit much. You don't just get a Harley. You get an entire way of life. You grow a beard. Shave your head, possibly. You end up wearing slogans like "Fickt Schäfe " on your helmet. And I'm not sure I want to be associated with the noble art of fornicating with sheep, so there.
Plus you get to hang around with bleached girls who fart louder than you do. Or ever imagined possible.
Even worse, you have to be into AC/DC.
Think I prefer driving slowly on a sports bike then.
7 p.m.
"Il a mon âge, là, la chambre à côté de la piscine " (He's my age, there, that room right next to the swimming pool)
A girlish voice, outside.
Mr and Mrs Welsh are trying to find me a girlfriend. Seems like that's becoming everyone's favourite pastime here lately - they're the second ones to try in as many days. But it's a noble gesture, considering it could mean they'd lose one room's rent.
"Single or double room? "
"Single "
"Oh, single? I thought you had young lady with you there "
Me too. Maybe she fell off or something.
(after this I got extremely bored and lonely and homesick. So I went home, where everybody knows and loves me. I thought. But that's another story. )
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