Borders

Sign at an abandoned border checkpoint

It may be true that the national borders separating EU countries are a thing of the past—nowadays not more than a road sign welcoming you to the next country. But when you're travelling slowly, savouring each and every kilometre, you become aware of the fact that they're still very real, tangible almost.

A few weeks ago I crossed the Spanish-French border. One moment I was buying a can of Coke at a Spanish petrol station, withing spitting distance of France, having a nice chat with the cashier. A mere ten minutes later I found myself in what seemed to be a different world, my command of Spanish suddenly rendered useless, forced to find new ways of relating to my surroundings.

Naturally, the same thing happened when I entered Italy the other day. But now the experience, if you can call it that, took on an extra dimension. For days I had been cycling a narrow coastal strip that might well be the most affluent region I will visit on this trip: the Côte d'Azur. In Nice I cycled an endless boulevard lined with picture-perfect fin-de-siècle luxury hotels. In Cannes I witnessed the madness that is the annual film festival—people thronging the streets, a horde of cameras trailing a cluster of scrawny actresses. In Monaco I shared the road with Ferraris and Lamborghinis sporting tiny four-character license plates, working themselves into a rage in the winding streets of the principality. And then, as you emerge from a long and dark tunnel, it's all over. Just like that. You're in Ventimiglia, the first town this side of the border. The word grim doesn't even begin to describe it. And it seems as though Ventimiglia knows it's an ugly duckling, for the town tries its utmost to get you to the other side as quickly as possible. But after that the glitter and glamour never return.

Theme park France: a drive-in boulangerie

At first I felt excited. At last a new country, after having spent such a long time in France and Spain. But then anxiety started creeping in. Now, Italy isn't exactly what you would call a third-world country—leaving aside politics, for the moment—but the prospect of having to live without indispensable foodstuffs such as chaussons (a pastry with a filling of applesauce) and pâte à tartiner aux noisettes (chocolate paste in convenient plastic bottles) left me somewhat shaky. And how to continue life without villes et villages fleuris? In France, many towns and villages are rated according to the amount of effort they've put into brightening up the place with flowers and plants and what not. A sign on the main road will tell you how fleuri a ville or village is. Four flowers means top of the bill: roundabouts ablaze with all kinds of colours, dense shrubbery instead of parking lots, you name it. One flower means that the mayor can't tell a dandelion from a daffodil.

Now, this is all rather trivial, of course. But it's the trivial things that remind me of the fact that with each border crossing I'm getting farther away from the theme park that is Western Europe. That's not something to get worried about. In fact, I'm yearning for a change of scenery. But it will take a few mental border crossings before I feel wholly at ease with having entered the real world.

Brats

Muggings: 0, I put under Stats when I set up this blog. A rather sorry attempt at being funny, you probably think. And you're right, of course, but reflecting on what happened to me the other day, I think it might also be a way to ward off evil, to alleviate my biggest fear: being held up on a quiet country road, forced to hand over bike, bags and boyhood dreams of exploring the unknown.

The fact of the matter is that I've been robbed. Twice. The first time, a couple of months ago, someone stole my treasured fleece jacket. Due to sheer carelessness, I must add, but that only made the loss harder to swallow. It's the good old Calvinist reflex—blaming yourself rather than the one inflicting harm on you.

The second time, less than a week ago, things got a bit more confrontational if not downright ugly. Cycling across the camping municipal of Port-La Nouvelle, having just magically turned a bagful of mustiness into a bagful of fresh clothes at the local laverie, I spotted three boys standing around my tent. As soon as they saw me they legged it. Shouting 'hey! hey!' didn't convince them to turn back and come and say hello, so I went after them, ploughing through rows of hedges and empty camping lots.

When they got to a high fence they paused and glared at me. All three of them were panting. It struck me how young they were—the oldest fourteen, perhaps, the youngest a mere ten or eleven. I tried to make clear that I didn't intend to do them any harm, at least not for the moment. 'Il est gentil,' I heard one of them whisper. That seemed to pave the way for some kind of communication. 'What were you doing at my tent?' I ventured in my finest French, always patchy at best but now patchy to the point of falling apart, what with all the Spanish occupying the limited space in my head reserved for Romance languages. 'We were only looking, sir. Only looking.' 'Then why the hell did you just run away?' I snapped. One of them started shivering, as though he was having some kind of fit. But then I realised he was crying, or pretending to cry, unable to produce any tears.

I decided to let them go. Even though they were looking pretty shifty, I just couldn't believe these little brats were capable of petty crime. Not at this age. Moments later, back at the tent, I found out I was wrong. Awfully wrong. An unfastened guyline. Some paperwork out on the grass. And when I entered the tent it struck me like lightning: one of the bags on its side and one crucial item missing. A pack of Snickers bars. My emergency snack. The perfect antidote for limbs going a bit weak.

I jumped on my bike and went after them a second time. Again they made a runner and again I managed to stop them. 'Snickers?' they said, putting on an innocent face. After pushing them a bit, they admitted having taken a roll of cookies, some chocolate paste and two kiwis. And yes, the Snickers bars, too. They led me to a nearby skatepark and showed me the sad remains.

My suspicions darkened. What else could they have taken? Something valuable? One of the boys offered me to search his backpack. Nothing but dirty sports clothes and some crumpled-up homework. But the backpack itself looked pretty nice—a black-and-blue Puma affair—so I strapped it securely to my back, glad to have taken some kind of hostage. 'Right,' I said, and marched them back to the tent, determined to make sure nothing else was missing.

But how to ascertain every single item is still there when almost all of your stuff is unpacked? It's like trying to tell which, if any, piece of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle is missing. Moreover, I found I couldn't focus. What if I had arrived ten minutes later? With their appetite taken care of, greed might have been next on their list.

By now, the boys were begging me to let them go with their backpack. The oldest started hugging me, his body covered in a cold sweat. The backpack boy fell to his knees, trying to kiss my feet. 'We were only hungry, sir. Our parents are from Morocco, we don't get a lot to eat.'

I dearly wanted them to get out of my sight but not without a name or address, neither of which they were likely to provide. So I offered to do the only sensible thing: go with them and hand the bag to their parents. This simple suggestion had a profound impact. They turned pale, hesitated for a moment and then ran away, leaving me alone with the fancy backpack. I never saw them again.

An hour or so later, going through the boy's belongings, I came across a written homework assignment, something having to do with changing the point of view of a short text. Apart from the boy's name, I found his teacher's corrections, plus the final verdict:

Trop rapide. Tu oublies certains points. Les temps du récit ne sont pas respectés. 9/20 des efforts de construction.

I started feeling sorry for the lad. Getting lousy marks at school because you're too damn hungry to focus... Had I been too harsh on them? I'm ashamed to admit I even accepted two one-euro coins the backpack boy offered me as some kind of damages. Maybe I had taken it too far. They had looked so intimidated.

The next day I hung the backpack from a tree and took off early. A terrible sadness came over me, which didn't disappear until well after lunchtime.

Gaudí in 6 Shots

‘Gaudí has built one house from the forms of the sea, representing storm-tossed waves. Another house is made from the still water of a lake. This is no question of deceptive metaphors or fairy stories—these houses actually exist, real buildings, real sculpture showing twilight reflections of clouds in water […]’ That’s the impression Casa Milà and Casa Batlló made on Salvador Dalí. On the spot, in my opinion, so this time I’ll refrain from any drivelling and just share a few pictures that illustrate his point.

Happy Camper

Home sweet home...

Haggling over the price with the grumpy reception lady. Praying for a few square metres of juicy grass only to find a gravelly wasteland. Preventing the footprint from blowing into a treetop while unpacking the rest of the tent. The usual fiddling with the tentpoles. Stripping the soaked cycling gear from your shivering body to discover that the showers only give cold water. Drying yourself with the same towel you used for the dishes the night before. Intending to prepare a mouth-watering meal with the one stove you have, and somehow always ending up with a big plate of lentils or beans. Turning in at nine because it's too cold and dark to sit outside. Having just strapped yourself into your sleeping bag and realise that you forgot to go to the loo. Arriving at the loos and finding out it's a bring-your-own affair. Waking up with a sore back because your air mattress has difficulty staying inflated. Having to dry your tent every single morning, both on the outside (rain or dew) and on the inside (condensation), while the only thing you want is to hop on your bike and ride off.

The view from my tent in L'Hospitalet de l'Infant (Catalonia)

But also... Sitting down after a long day in the saddle, stretching the old pistons and basking in the last light of day. Being welcomed by fellow campers—always with a friendly smile and a hammer for the pegs, often with a cold beer, and sometimes even with a chair and a table and an invitation to come over and watch that night's footie or get some milk or coffee in the morning. Falling asleep to the sound of the wind in the trees, a one-note cricket concert, the soft drum of a nocturnal shower or the deep roar of the sea. Crawling out of your tent early in the morning, still half asleep but feeling your senses awaken to a rejuvenated world, everything fresh and sparkling and full of possibility, sensing that nothing is more real than this—the cold air in your nostrils, the pale light of a new day.