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About
the author John Briggs is a senior journalist
with the Hobart Mercury, mixing news reporting, features, sport and column
writing. He has won sports writing
awards for basketball, athletics and football, winning national awards in
athletics and basketball. He worked
at the Auckland Commonwealth Games in 1990. He has covered cycling for two decades
and had a lifelong passion for the Tour de France, French literature and travel. He is a B grade golfer and one of the world’s slowest, but dedicated bike riders, commuting daily to The Mercury from his home in suburban Montrose. READ A SAMPLE: WHEN
IT SIZZLES
The
fat man in the cloth cap sits in a booth listening to a 40-year-old recorded
radio tape of the Tour de France. There are tears in his eyes and the romantic
in me dares to dream he may have been one of the participants all those years
ago. He leafs through one of three volumes on the 100 years of race history. He
looks up at me, takes his handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blows his
nose. I leave him with his memories. It’s
the first day of July at a special exhibition in the Hotel de Ville in Paris.
There’s a spectacular display of still pictures, recorded interviews, old
radio recordings and so many more images. Outside the weather is unseasonably
cool but the anticipation about the centenary Tour de France is hotting up. The
riders are beginning to arrive in Paris. There are 22 teams of nine men, plus
scores of managers, mechanics, masseurs, PR men and sponsors. A media pack of
about 700 will follow the Tour recording every moment of the world’s biggest
annual sporting event. I'm
in a state of euphoria which not even three decades of journalistic cynicism can
blunt. The day started with a visit to the home of my literary hero, Victor
Hugo, at the Place Des Vosges. It was a long awaited spiritual pilgrimage. All
week I've been humming, or singing, the Cole Porter song I Love Paris,
especially the lines which go … "I love Paris in the summer … when it
sizzles". There
are many great pilgrimages to be had in Paris … I've also been to the Picasso
Museum this week and, on previous visits, joined the throngs at Montmarte, Notre
Dame Cathedral and the inevitable Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel Tower. To
become a Francophile was, for me, against all odds and expectation. Travel is a
wonderful, invigorating, tiring, adventure. For some it's a once in a lifetime
thing, the big trip to Europe, the USA or maybe Asia. They put it away in their
memory bank of experience and refer to it occasionally. For me it can never be
like that. I have an addictive nature. I have been known to gamble, eat or drink
too much. Travel has replaced those vices. I can’t hear the sound of a train
whistle without wanting to be on the train. When I visit an airport to collect a
friend or interview a visiting celebrity I’m itching to fly away. Fly
anywhere. Songwriter Willie Nelson said “moving’s the nearest thing to being
free”. Before I go there is delightful anticipation. I study the guidebooks,
read the travel books, talk endlessly of past journeys and dream of those to
come. When I first visited Vietnam I had dreamed of it for years. It did not
disappoint. But with France I expected nothing special. It
was like falling hopelessly in love at the wrong time, with the wrong woman but
I knew I had to go back, as soon as possible. Finding a good reason to revisit
and write about France became an obsession. First I thought maybe a pilgrim's
journey to the places where Picasso lived. Then it was Victor Hugo, poet Charles
Baudelaire or so many other prospects. Then
the idea suddenly revealed itself in the long-held ambition to write about and
watch the Tour de France. What
better way to explore the country I have come to love, mixing the personal
passions of literature, philosophy, art, wine, food and cycling. There
is also a connection, of sorts, between French 19th century
literature and the modern cycling festival we know as the Tour de France. In the
early 1800s it was the term for an educational tour taken by young apprentices
or students. The poetic teenage genius Arthur Rimbaud set off on several such
journeys he referred to as his “Tour de France”, although he was hardly your
typical young French apprentice. More the precocious schoolboy, already shocking
the public with talent-laded, if lurid, verse. If
it was good enough for Rimbaud and the modern version is good enough for
millions of spectators and professional cyclists from around the world, it’s
time for me to combine those passions. FALLING
IN LOVE
WITH FRANCE
On
my first night in Paris there was no sumptuous dinner by the banks of the Seine,
washed down with chardonnay and followed by a stroll through Montmarte then late
night coffee in the streets once peopled by Picasso, Hugo or Hemingway. The
highlight was to sit in a launderette, three blocks from the Moulin Rouge,
watching my friend Jim's underpants circling the machine. It
wasn't meant to be like that … but travel, or life on the road, doesn't always
fulfill the fantasies. We arrived in the city of light from Zurich on a very
fast TGV train. A month earlier we had shared a week in a Tuscan villa with Jim,
his wife Ruth and another couple. Jim and Ruth were heading to the United States
early the next day and a date at the laundry was a major priority. They had
already seen the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe and the Palace of Versailles.
That night we saw underpants, bras and socks.
It sounds an unglamorous and disappointing memory but there are delights
around every corner for the dedicated traveller. The first exploratory walk
earlier in the day proved to be as
exciting as any on our travels. Stumbling out of the hotel near the Opera and
making that afternoon promenade was pure magic. I've seen many of the world’s
most famous monuments, glorious temples and cathedrals, walked in the footsteps
of Caesar and Dante, visited Olympic stadia, Greek islands or the verdant rice
paddies of South East Asia. But to suddenly look up and see Place Pigalle on a
street sign was strangely more significant than any sightseeing icon. This was,
finally, Paris. The city of writers, painters, romantics, dreamers and the young
at heart. And
it is the place, up the Champs-Élysées, where the yellow-clad winner of the
Tour de France glides in triumph each July. All
life seems to be about conceptions and misconceptions. Dreams, false dreams and
broken dreams, clichés, fact, fiction and the ultimate and inevitable
paradoxes. It's those conceptions, generalisations and paradoxes which are so
fascinating in France and, in particular, Paris. The
French are arrogant, obsessed with their own language and culture and don't
suffer fools gladly. They hate the English and are dismissive of
Americans. The French have no backbone in military matters. French
waiters are rude, their drivers dangerous and many French are plain stupid and
racist. French
women are the most beautiful on the planet, their children charming. If they
didn't invent democracy they certainly perfected it. A black person has more
chance of being middle-class than
in any other western nation. The French are clean, caring and polite. They are
politically aware, love movies, sport, the ballet and foreigners who are willing
to at least say, "bonjour". Paris is the world’s most beautiful
city, the most loved and most cultured. The Mayor of Paris is openly gay and a
socialist. Try getting elected in Washington with those two tags. So
much for generalisations. You could make the same observations
in most countries. Falling
in love with France is about as difficult as tumbling into a swimming pool on a
40 degree day in Bangkok, or collecting a winning lottery prize. Most people are
ready for it, wanting it, almost begging for it. For me, it came against the
odds. Love at first sight, unexpected and exciting beyond belief. I had taken on
board the usual Anglo brainwashing about the French and had been prepared to not
love a nation which did nuclear testing in the Pacific and had, like other
European powers, so cruelly colonised much of the world, including Indo-China. I
was prepared to love the place and be indifferent to the people or some aspects
of Paris, the south or the countryside. Then it happened, like a gentle hammer
blow of the senses, or Cupid’s dart. Luck
and fate often fashion love. During a wet and wild, but enjoyable few days on
the Italian Ligurian coast, my wife Robyn and I had changed plans because of
flooding further north and around Venice, our intended next stop. We found
ourselves instead on a train heading towards the French border and the Riviera
with no firm plans. Near the border we chatted with an Indian-born Frenchwoman
who lived in Monte Carlo but shopped in Italy. She was returning from one such
excursion and we got to talking about "the price of things". "We
are thinking of stopping off in Monaco and seeing the casino in Monte Carlo, all
that stuff, but we probably can't afford to stay there, " I explained. "Oh,
no, no, no," said our new friend, "there are villages nearby with
good-priced hotels, just a few kilometres from Monte Carlo. One such place is
Cap d’Ail, just two kilometres and a cheap bus fare from Monte Carlo. It's
lovely there." We
were three stops from Cap d’Ail. I looked at Robyn. She shrugged. I must have
looked like a puppy wanting to play with a stick. "Ok,
let's do it," she said, and by the time the words were out of her mouth I
was pulling the suitcases down from the overhead rack. Minutes later, we were
standing, all alone, on the train station with only the sound of Mediterranean
waves lapping in our ears. It was like one of those suspense movies where the
guy alights in a ghostly, desert town. Had we been misinformed? Where were the
people? We
bravely crossed the railway tracks and discovered a sign which indicated Centre
Ville (town centre) pointing acoss the road and uphill. Still no people. As
we climbed the zig-zagging hill, pulling suitcases on wheels and feeling a bit
foolish, no people appeared and there was no evidence of a village. There were
some huge mansions behind locked gates and it was clearly a most salubrious
neighbourhood for the rich and famous. After climbing a kilometre or more we
looked back at the majestic Mediterranean and laughed. If the worst came to the
worst we could always return to the station and get the next train. But like
Edmund Hillary in the pursuit of Everest we pushed onwards, upwards. Eventually,
we saw evidence of human life as an old man emerged from a driveway, wearing a
navy blue beret and out of control moustache, looking like the steryotypical
Frenchman of a 1950s movie. So, such people do exist in the France of the third
millenium. "Ou
est la centre ville?" I asked. He
pointed skywards with a mixture of puzzlement and disdain. It appeared no other
travellers in the south of France would be so foolish as to get out at Cap
d’Ail. The switched-on and chic probably alight at Monte Carlo and grab a taxi
or limousine. Finally, he smiled sympathetically and gestured we should follow
him towards the village. Then, like the scene in the ancient movie, Brigadoon,
where the village is revealed by clearing mists, we were suddenly, happily and
wearily in Cap d’Ail. The
lady from the train was right. There are many small villages near Monaco and Cap
d’Ail was everything she promised. There was a boulangerie (baker), two
hotels, three restaurants and some other shops. It was adorable. We
stumbled into the Hotel Normandy to be greeted by a Nordic beauty who declared,
"yes, we have several rooms, would you like to see?" After
settling on a room with a view of the sea, we began a week-long stay in a small
hotel you dream about. The owners had entrusted the running of the place to two
lovely, 20-something Swedish women, while they took a post-summer break. Each
morning we lingered over breakfast on the terrace, gazed out to sea, swam in the
Mediterranean, visited Monte Carlo, Nice and Cannes on the bus and began to
understand why so many millions before us have made such a fuss of the south of
France. One
afternoon, while sipping coffee outside what had become our favourite
restaurant, a cycling race came rushing past. This was hardly Le Tour de France.
More likely a club race, with many riders in the veteran category. They had
climbed the hill to our village and were speeding on towards Nice, some
stragglers had lost contact with the peleton but were chasing hard to get back
in the race. I started to sing that old pop song Cheek to Cheek, the line
which goes, "heaven … I'm in heaven". And heaven it was, all this
and a bike race thrown in. My
second French love affair came, again, by accident a few weeks later, when we
decided to make an impulsive decision to jump off the train in Avignon, the
historic walled city which once housed the 14th century popes during the period
they had fallen out with Rome By
chance, we had arrived on a day when it was clear something special was
happening. There were street signs telling of a festival of some sort and wine
seemed to be playing a part. After making the usual walk through town we
enquired at a delightful looking hotel of the three star type, overlooking the
town square, which was covered in outdoor restaurant and a very short walk to Palais
des Papes (Palace of the
Popes). The hotel receptionist, a handsome, dark-haired guy in his thirties,
looked us up and down, raised an eyebrow, delivered the clichéd Gallic shrug
after I had tried out my hopeless French request, "avez vous en chamber
pour deux personnes?" He looked slightly more impressed that I would
attempt his language but replied, in English, he had nothing to offer us. “Such
a pity … the hotel looks so nice,
so central, you know. Do you think there may be something similar, nearby?" "Where
are you from?" he enquired, with more interest. "Australia". "Oh,
Australia, I thought you were American. Of course I have a room. It's on the
first floor, overlooks the square. I'm so glad you are not American." During
the next few days, Paul became our friend and helper. This was a few weeks after
the Sydney Olympics. Paul was besotted with the opening ceremony, Cathy Freeman,
Australia, Sydney and the whole thing. He wanted tips for his upcoming travel in
Australia. He loved us, loved Aussies … just couldn't get fond of the Yanks. Back
on the streets of Avignon later that day we discovered the special event
consisted of an annual wine festival, street parade and launch of the latest
Rhone Valley red. To honour the grape, the many winemakers of the district
marched through the city in costumes of their local guilds, dating back
centuries. Later, there was a massive wine-tasting and launch in the vast
courtyard around the Palace of the Popes. For a few francs we could have a
souvenir glass and as many samples as we could handle. It was a wonderful
experience and, not for the first time, I noted the lack of public drunkenness
in France and Italy, where such behaviour is considered uncool. The
glorious red wine heightened the appetite and at one of those outdoor
restaurants I discovered a sensational fish soup with an accompanying pate to
die for. We returned twice more during five days in Avignon and in subsequent
visits to French restaurants in many towns, have been disappointed in the holy
grail search for such soup. I have become boring on the subject of the soup. Cap
d’Ail and Avignon readied me for the romance with Paris. So
much of life brings disappointment when the reality does not live up to the
anticipation. Paris doesn't seem able to disappoint. And to celebrate 100 years
of the Tour De France, it was decided to start and finish the 2003 race in Paris
and visit many of the towns and cities of the inaugural event. Le
Tour is 100, Lance Armstrong is seeking five straight wins, Australian Robbie
McEwen defends his sprinter's green jersey and I’m ready.
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