Back in France

 

When Macron announced on June 9 that vaccinated Americans could come to France I gave a mighty cheer and began to check on air fares, hoping to make it over before June 26 when The Tour de France was set to start.  I was somewhere in Georgia at the time, but knew I could make it back to Chicago in time to get to France for when it mattered. But my thrill at this unexpected opening was deflated when I learned a vaccination wasn’t enough.  One also had to have a Covid test 48 hours before arrival in France.  

That complicated matters considerably, not knowing how precise that time frame was and what tests would be acceptable and how easy it would be to get quick test results. There wasn’t anything definitive on line, so the day after I returned from Washington D. C. ten days after Macron’s announcement and less than a week before The Tour start, I biked out to O’Hare to talk to passengers in line at Air France to see what they had done.  

I was delayed getting to the International Terminal and Air France's seven pm flight that I would be taking to Paris, as the route I take into the airport through the freight terminals had been blocked.  I had to circle around and defy the “no bikes” sign on 90 into the airport.  I only had to bike on the interstate for half a mile, so managed without being apprehended.  

The delay left just one last passenger checking in.  She said she had gotten her test at Walgreens.  But then a ticket agent told me one didn’t need a Covid test, just proof of vaccination.  That was too good to be true as the on-line information hadn’t been updated. I didn’t believe it until I called the French Consulate in Chicago first thing Monday morning and was told that on June 17, Macron had backed off on the need for a Covid test.  I immediately went on line and booked a flight for Wednesday.

I had a harrowing moment Tuesday night as I was boxing my bike and couldn’t get the seat post out.  It had been over a year since I had needed to lower it to fit into a box when returning from Brazil.  I’d have time to take it to a bike shop the next morning, but there was the danger it would remain stuck.  I took matters into my own hands, removing the wheels and the seat, and then lowered the upside down bike into a vise, clamping it on the head of the seat post.  And that worked, allowing me a peaceful night of sleep.

Checking in at a bustling O’Hare the next day the ticket agent gave my passport and vaccination card a quick look and that was that. Though everyone in the airport was wearing a mask everyone boarding the Air France flight was issued a fully-approved surgical mask to wear, even though they were removed during the two meals we were served.  During the flight all passengers had to fill out a form giving their seat number and contact information in case there was a Covid outbreak on the flight, but the flight attendants weren’t so diligent in collecting them as they overlooked me.

The Charles de Gaulle airport was much quieter than O’Hare.  There were only two customs officials stamping passports, and no line.  And they weren’t verifying vaccination, leaving it in the hands of the airlines.  There were so few flights to unload, that my bike box for the first time ever was waiting for me and my duffle was on the carousel going around.  

Though the airport was quiet, the road into Paris was as thronged with traffic as ever.  It was very familiar. as I had ridden it many times, both in and out of the city.  Once I reached the city proper, cyclists began turning up and most on their own bikes, in contrast to how it was when the rental bikes were first introduced to the city, and they predominated.  I saw a few rentals, but they were greatly outnumbered.

 It was a hectic 23-miles to the Montparnesse train station that serves the western half of the country.  I knew all the trains were booked to Brest, over 300 miles away, where The Tour would be starting in less than two days, but I hoped to find another to Quimper or Rennes or LeMans or Fougères or some other city out that way.  Those too were all booked, but the agent helping me found one to Granville, about 150 miles from Brest leaving in three hours.  I was happy at that point to get anything and not have to endure a couple more hours of the bedlam of Parisien traffic to get out of the city to find a place to camp.  I took advantage of my wait to seek out an Orange telecommunications office to reup my French SIM card.

My 7:30 train wouldn’t arrive in Granville until an hour before midnight.  My GPS revealed several campgrounds in this coastal city sparing me of having to search out something of my own devising in the dark.  I had to nervously await my train, as my ticket did not have a bike authorization on it, even though the computer the agent and I used to purchase my ticket gave me a bike option.  Ordinarily tickets confirm that one is bringing a bike.  The agent was surprised, but confirmed with someone else that I’d be okay.  

When I got on to the car of the train I was assigned to there was no designated places for bikes, so I had to leave it by the door.  I was greatly relieved when the train started up fifteen minutes later and no conductor came by demanding to know whose bike it was.  But at each stop I had to be ready to rush to my bike and move it if the door it was up against was the one that opened at that station.  It was about half and half.

I got a little more sleep in on top of the three or four hours I got on the flight.  When it was still light at ten p.m. I thought there might still be some left when we arrived at Granville at eleven.  I noticed the last stop twenty minutes before Granville was in a city that was the same distance from Avranches, fifteen miles south of it that I’d have to pass through before heading west to Brittany.  If I got off there I’d have a better chance of some light.  It worked out perfectly.  I had just enough light to find a field to camp in within two miles of the train station.

I wouldn’t make it to Brest in time for the start, but I was less than one hundred miles from the Stage Two route.  I’d be there by Saturday and  could start riding it while the peloton was fighting it out on Stage One.  All was well with the world.  Even the day-long drizzle the following day, typical of the region, couldn’t deter my unexpected good fortune to be back in France.

I felt fully anointed when my eye happened to notice a small street in Avranches named  for Jacques Anquetil, the French racer who was the first to win The Tour five times.  I had to glance upwards to spot it on the side of a house.  Rarely am I gazing in such a direction, so I must have felt his vibe.