360 Degrees Longitude (8 page)

“Dan Brown has clearly never been to the restroom at the Louvre, or anywhere else in France for that matter; Robert Langdon could not have escaped like he did.” September explained that Robert Langdon, the main character in
The Da Vinci Code
, evades the French police in the Louvre by finding the tracking device planted in his pocket and embedding it into a bar of soap from the ladies' restroom and throwing it out the window. “That could never happen, because there is no soap in any restroom in France. The book is a fraud.”

“Does this mean we can go now?”

“Non!”

• • •

We wanted to retrieve our shipment of books, part of the kids' school curriculum, before we left Paris. We had mailed them to friends from home, the Bennions, who had been living in Paris. We had hoped to visit the Bennions in Paris but unfortunately events transpired that brought them back to the States before we even arrived. Our package of books would be forwarded to friends of the Bennions who would hold them for us. We had been checking with them daily, but unfortunately, we made the mistake of entrusting the package of books with the U.S. Postal Service and six weeks was not long enough to get it across the big water. I had mixed emotions about this, because after the whole family had read a book, we would often leave it behind. I was now quite a bit lighter than when we had set out, and if we got a new shipment of books they would land in my right front pannier.

On the other hand, the times when the kids were reading were those rare moments when it was quiet enough to think. I grudgingly had to admit that we needed books. We could no longer wait for our package from home. We found an English bookstore near the Louvre and bought another month's supply of reading material.

 

Jordan's Journal, July 3

Today we went to the Louvre. It was really crowded and we saw the Mona Lisa. It took a long time. Then the best thing happened! We found a bookstore that sells books in English! Dad got grumpy because all of the books we wanted were too heavy. The bookstore was really fun. I got Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in English
.

• • •

With the help of the TGV, France's version of the bullet train, we crossed the Alps and were cycling onward toward Evian, of bottled water fame. Evian is on the shores of Lake Geneva, known in the French-speaking world as Lac Leman.

The road that follows the shores of Lac Leman is narrow, with no shoulder. Large trucks carrying bottled water to stores around the world roared past us. Not only were large trucks roaring past, but American Steel. We were enjoying a lunch of, you guessed it, ham sandwiches on the side of the road, when a bunch of big guys on Harleys, carrying, of all things, fresh baguettes and a picnic lunch, thundered into the same roadside rest area.

Harleys? In France? The Harley riders were large burly men decked out in black leather and—egad!—cowboy boots! If I hadn't known any better I would have thought I was in Texas … except that when I spoke to the Harley riders, they had the cutest Inspector Clouseau accents.

I was having trouble holding onto my stereotypes of Frenchmen, Harley riders, and Texans. The Harley crowd wanted to know about us and we wanted to know about them, which after all, is the
raison d'être
of travel.

September used her high school French and the French cowboys their best high school English, and after exchanging stories we bid our new friends and their cowboy boots
adieu
and continued eastward. Within a few kilometers, we were in Switzerland.

June 8–July 20
Switzerland

T
hree years prior to the World-the-Round Trip, we had brought our tandems on a cycling trip across Switzerland and Austria. One purpose of that trip, other than to simply ride our bikes in the Alps, was to learn how we coped with longer duration trips than we had previously done. That trip took on a mythical quality for the entire family.

One of the things we enjoyed was taking a gondola to the top of Männlichen, of World Cup fame, and hike down to the small town of Grindelwald. The hike was several hours long, and we stopped for a picnic lunch partway down the mountain, looking over the entire valley. Per Katrina's pleading, we took the seeds from an apple and planted them.

Nearly every day for the past three years when I would walk Katrina and Jordan to school the conversation was nearly identical:

“Do you think the seeds will grow, Dad?”

“Absolutely!”

“You remember where we planted them, right?”

“Yes. We wrote it down, and took a picture.”

“And when we go on the World-the-Round Trip we'll go back to visit, right?”

“Without fail.”

“How big do you think the apple tree will be?”

“I suspect about a foot high.”

The apple tree had become the stuff of legends in our kids' minds. Visiting it was a top priority for the World-the-Round Trip.

As we cycled across the Swiss border everything changed; the road widened, we were presented with our own cycle path signposted all the way to our next destination, and most important, the Evian trucks were not allowed on the cycle path.

You gotta love the Swiss. It's as though their national pastime is being smug about how beautiful their country is and then being out in it. The country is very well set up for doing just the sort of thing we were doing. There are nine national cycle ways, as well as numerous regional cycle ways and endless numbers of hiking trails, all of which are clearly signposted with travel times and distances. I credit all the outdoor activity with keeping the Swiss slim, even in the face of the ice cream stands and specialty chocolate boutiques that seem to adorn every street corner.

I found that when you tell someone that your favorite place to cycle is Switzerland, you instantly get a little respect. But here is a little secret—four of those national cycle ways are along rivers, lakes, and valley floors. You cycle
between
the Alps, not over them. And if you come to a mountain pass, you can throw your bike on the train; they are ubiquitous.

Slowly, we were chipping away at our route to Istanbul. The Rhone River route was to be our companion for several days, then we would connect to another route that would take us to Lake Constance where Switzerland, Germany, and Austria come together. From Lake Constance we would follow the Romantic Road into Germany and the Danube River. The Danube would take us all the way to the Black Sea. The shores of the Black Sea would take us right to Istanbul.

Our first night in Switzerland was spent in Bouveret, camping where the Rhone River flowed into Lake Geneva. Looking up river we could see the narrow Rhone River valley with cliffs towering above the clouds. But it was the sailboats with their gleaming white sails set against the blue sky and blue lake that spoke to my wanderlust. Where were these boats' captains, and why weren't they taking us out on the lake? Even though we didn't go sailing, I couldn't imagine a more beautiful place.
The following day we put Bouveret behind us and entered the narrow valley that was cut by the Rhone.

In the near term we were heading for Zermatt, about three days' ride from Bouveret. High in the Alps near the Italian border, Zermatt wasn't exactly along the Rhone River cycling route, but it wasn't too far afield. We would simply follow the Rhone River cycle path to the city of Visp, then take a cog-wheel train up to Zermatt for a few days' diversion. Then we would continue on to our apple tree and beyond.

 

Jordan's Journal, July 8

Today we rode our bikes for a long time. We didn't mean to ride our bikes for so long, but we were looking for a campsite. We had a map and a guidebook that told us where some campsites were, but when we got there, they weren't there anymore. We were so sad. Then we found a campsite with miniature golf. I hit Mom in the face with a golf club accidentally. Dad says her blackeye looks “smashing.”

Our guidebooks, maps, and well-meaning but misinformed people sent us off to no fewer than six campgrounds that had recently closed. As sunset approached, I said in desperation, “I vote we go into Martigny-Ville and look for a campground. If we can't find one, let's grab a hotel.” September wouldn't have been hard to convince but the kids were another matter. To them, sleeping indoors was a cop-out, and they were infused with a fervent penny-pinching zeal. In an effort to sabotage a whine-fest about sleeping indoors I mumbled in their direction, “I am at the end of my rope.” After six weeks of togetherness, this was a code they now knew only too well.

A grandfatherly gentleman with two young children was cycling along the same path we were. They pulled up beside us just as I was planting the hotel seed in the kids' minds. He spoke very little English, which complemented September's very little French so that we could communicate very little.

He nonetheless patiently communicated that Martigny-Ville did indeed have a campground, and it was on the far side of town. That was the most we could understand. As we prepared to go our way, to our surprise he followed us. As dusk approached he dropped off his grandchildren near what we presumed was their home and led us about seven miles through town and to the campground. Eternally grateful, we said good-bye to our new friend as he made his way back home in the dark.

This was another example of a complete stranger helping us in a pinch, but it was significant for another reason. It had been a long and tiring day. The promise of a place to stay had been dashed time after time, often after we'd gone veering down side roads, only to find a dead end with no place to camp. Through it all the kids complained not once. It was a breakthrough. I recorded in my journal later that night:

 

John's Journal, July 8

We knew there would be hard days when we started. Maybe we underestimated just how hard. But we have been able to clear each and every hurdle thrown at us. Katrina and Jordan have started to see the adventure in every little thing. Jordan has changed the most in the last six weeks. For example, when we were in England, if I asked him to help pedal up a hill, I couldn't tell that he was helping at all. He is now a very good stoker. He is starting to thrive in this environment
.

The Rhone River was our constant companion over the next few days, sometimes on our left, and sometimes on our right. We were riding upstream but it was impossible to discern a change in elevation. We had the wind to our backs; I noted that the trees were bent over with resolve against the prevailing wind. The valley we were going through was at times broad and other times so narrow that I thought someone with a good arm could throw a baseball from one side to the other.

Perhaps it was because the conditions were so favorable, or perhaps because we were finally starting to click together as a team, but for the first time, Istanbul wasn't looking so far away.

• • •

“Why don't we cycle to Zermatt?” Katrina asked.

We had arrived in Visp and were preparing to hop on a train. “Big hill,” I replied. “We'll ride down, though. It's supposed to be one of the best downhills there is.” I had been waiting a long time to ride the road from Zermatt to Visp. It is one of the bicycling world's “must-do” routes and Zermatt itself is world renowned for scenery and outdoor activities. Yet, if we had known what was waiting for us there we would have skipped the side trip and just kept on going.

Precisely at 24 minutes past the hour the train to Zermatt comes to the end of the line. Its cog-wheel design enables it to get up the steep incline from Visp. Once at the final station the two groups who frequent Zermatt pour out of the train—the privileged and the tight-pursed thrill seekers.