After such an unforgettable weekend, we spent Monday recovering (and bungey jumping on the banks of the Rhone River!) and on Tuesday, Kelsey and I drove up to Villard-de-Lans. In this gorgeous town in the mountains overtop of Grenoble, we dined at a fine French restaurant and saw the Tour de France.
On that particular day, the entire French charm in Villard-de-Lans was only in terms of its aesthetics, for people from all over the world drove/cycled/motorcycled/took a bus/flew to the town to witness the Tour de France. I quickly felt as if I were in Disney World, in the Epcot Center perhaps, as the town was swamped with fellow Americans. We almost never come across any English-speakers in this area of France, so Kelsey and I quickly lost our secret language.
Yesterday I saw Lance Armstrong with my own eyes. I knew it was him the moment I spotted him, and my eyes followed at lightning speed as I yelled "LLLLAAAAAAAAAYNNNNNNCCCCCCEEEEE!!!!!"
He was gone as quickly as he came and all around me, I overheard people in several languages recounting their own stories of their Lance Armstrong siting to those around them.
As a New Yorker I've found myself face to face with several famous people, from Richard Gere to Benjiman Bratt (whom I waited on). Seeing a list of famous actors, musicians and models was never much of a big deal for me. The thing about Lance is that he is a hero to many, a cancer survivor who continues to rock the Tour de France year after year, yellow jersey after yellow jersey. And yes, we were sure it was Sheryl Crow peeking out that window. And no, I didn’t see Robin Williams.
When it was all over, the masses began to pack into one tiny square to wait for free buses to take us back to our parking spots. The rumors are true: the French really don't know how to form lines. I felt reduced to a gerbil, tossed around as cutters scraped their way (or sprinted) to the entrance of the first, second, then third bus. Finally I grabbed Kelsey and refused to be pushed further backwards, I braved the crazed mobs and shoved my way onto the bus.
Two minutes into the ride, the bus stopped and turned around in the middle of a traffic jam and the driver kicked everyone off. I've never witnessed such chaos in my life. We ended up walking several kilometers to Kelsey's Renault Twingo with masses of other people, many of whom were unfit for walking. We were all dodging the Tour de France entourage driving to their next venue, grumbling as hundreds of Gendarmeries and hardcore cyclists left us in their dust. Soon enough, mountain after mountain, café after café, catcall after catcall, we stumbled to the car.
From there, we drove home listening to David Bowie and admiring the breathtaking views of the Alps and Grenoble. I stuck my upper-body out the window and discoursed with cyclists while taking several pictures, as I made a case of doing all day long, so I'll be sure to post yesterday's pictures as soon as possible.
As an amateur cyclist with her own Peugeot, who has spent every day of past summers waking up at dawn to road bike deep into the New Jersey Pine Barrens, It has been one of my dreams to be present at the Tour de France. Lance Armstrong was once my idol, and to have seen him with my very own eyes seconds before winning his yellow jersey is profoundly inspiring. And now, I will replace these goals I once had with yet another: to spend a summer cycling through the French countryside!
.jpg)
