San Luis Obispo '15 - Music and a New Adventure

Random thoughts from Central Coast California:

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Vineyard, Paso Robles

One of the first things we noted when we arrived  in San Luis Obispo this year was the green hillsides.  Last year everything was brown.  They've had some rain that greened up the landscape, but not nearly enough to put much of a dent in the drought.

Our Sunday morning routine is to walk Rowdie to the local Starbucks to buy the New York Times.  Then we continue on to the Black Horse Café to sit in the sunshine and have our coffee.  I was chatting with the barista one Sunday as he fixed our coffee drinks and I mentioned where I had bought the newspaper.  He said with a certain amount of awe, "You went to Starbucks for the newspaper and then came here for coffee?"  I think I made his day.

The Black Horse has passable croissants, although their spelling leaves something to be desired.  I was worried about angry holy people when I saw the sign, "Crossaints."

Like people making small talk everywhere, people you encounter here invariably say something to the effect of, "It's a nice day today, isn't it!"  I smile and agree and think, How can you tell?  They all are.

A Nice Day in Los Osos Valley

80 degrees!

Not only are the days all nice here, but they're longer too.  At first I thought it was my imagination, my delight at having left Minnesota winter behind.  My iPhone informed me that San Luis Obispo has a latitudinal advantage over the Twin Cities.  The winter days have in fact about forty-five minutes more daylight.

SLO is a city of about 40,000 people.  I don't know if the city has a "Dark Nights" policy to control light blight, but the sky at night is brilliant with clear, sparkling stars.

We took a good hike up Cerro San Luis.  In the line of nine morros, called the Nine Sisters, that stretch from San Luis Obispo to the Pacific Ocean, Cerro San Luis is the closest to us.  It was a good workout on a lovely day.  (They all are.)  At one point I saw a hawk gliding over the valley below.  As I watched, the hawk tucked its wings close to its body and dove vertically with astonishing speed out of my sight.  Seconds later, it flew off in the distance, its prey gripped in its claws.

View of some of the Nine Sisters

This year we discovered that the Animal Science Department of California Polytechnic Institute (known around here as Cal Poly) has its own livestock and meat packing facilities.  We've also discovered that they produce quality, local beef, pork and chicken.

Our Local Source for Good Beef

Our other discovery this year is the music scene in and around San Luis Obispo.  We already knew about Cal Poly's music department and have heard a piano recital on campus and their annual Bach in the Mission concert.  But we've also ventured out to local spots for more variety.  We've heard a locally well-known jazz trio.  At an unlikely event, we danced to a popular local group, Louie and the Lovers at a Martin Luther King Day event at the local Grange Hall.  It was impossible to stay in your seat when they began to play.  At that event, I struck up a conversation with a man who told me about Wednesday night blues in Pismo Beach.  Carol and I set out the next Wednesday to find the Shell Café in Pismo.  The Shell Café isn't a place you go for the best food or wine, but the place is packed on Wednesday nights to hear local blues musicians jam.  The beer is cold, the blues are hot and the joint is jumpin' on Wednesday nights.

Even our local brewpub, Bang the Drum, gets in the act. On Monday nights they feature "Songwriters at Play," a chance for local musicians to show off their skills.  This week we walked over, sat on the patio under the stars and heard some good folk and blues musicians.

With all the above, we haven't forgotten to taste wine.  Last week we took a drive up to Paso Robles, which not only produces some excellent wines but looks so much like Tuscany that you expect to hear locals speaking Italian.

Villa San Juliette.  Tuscany?  Paso Robles?

Olive Oil, Step 1

Of course, there's also the hiking.  Carol's knee gave her some trouble for a while, so our hikes have been limited.  But she's easing back onto the trails.  In addition to the Cerro San Luis hike, we took a docent-led hike through sand dunes at Grover Beach.

Sand Dunes Panorama

Sand Dunes Up Close

And one final discovery for Marc and Carol - a new (for us) water sport.  At Port San Luis, where last year we kayaked amidst frolicking seals and otters, we tried our hand at stand-up paddleboarding (SUP).   I found it to be not as easy as it looks.  Carol was a natural.  A good afternoon.

SUP, Dude?

A natural! 

Success at learning how to tow a disabled boarder.

This was practice getting back on the board.  I did not fall off.

Enter the contest:  Supply the caption.

Ernie Banks died on January 23.  He was one of baseball's greats and a good man to the core.  The first black man to ever put on a Cubs uniform, he came to the major leagues only a couple years after Jackie Robinson underwent the withering torment of desegregating major league baseball.  What trials must Mr. Cub also have gone through.  Yet he wore a smile every day and radiated joy.  He acknowledged that he was not an activist, but his personality was a beacon of optimism in difficult days for blacks.

As a boy I got to see Ernie Banks play, along with so many other mid-twentieth century greats.  Lanky.  Wiry.  Skinny.  Whatever word you choose, he was an unlikely power hitter who hit over five hundred home runs in his Hall of Fame career.  Much like another skinny hero of the day, Henry Aaron, Banks's swing looked effortless.  His quick wrists flicked the bat with astounding speed, power and effectiveness.

Next week we'll be packing up and heading south to Santa Barbara.  More from Central Coast then.
Happy trails!

San Luis Obispo '15 - Settling in, Citrus & Tango!

We're wrapping up our first week in San Luis Obispo, but first a final word or two about the road trip.  In the southern California desert, we passed an exit for Zzyzx Road and the unincorporated town of Zzyzx, which has its own entry on Wikipedia.

Also, I always said that when Carol retired we'd never see the sunrise in Minnesota in January again.  On our third try, we achieved that goal, hitting the road in the dark on Jan. 1.  (Previously a day of rest after New Year's Eve parties brought us a Minnesota sunrise.)

We brought our own ancient road bikes along this time, foregoing the adventure of buying and selling on Craig's List.  I spent a pleasant afternoon in the sun cleaning winter gunk accumulated over 2,000 miles from the bikes.

Our new SLO home is pretty tiny, but we are learning to dance around the place without stepping on each other's feet.   Rowdie is a little slower learning the dance steps.  The yard boasts of an orange tree with delicious, sweet fruit and lime trees whose fruit complements a gin and tonic nicely.  Next to our yard is a community garden to which we have access - herbs and all the lettuce we'll need.

Speaking of dancing, we walked to the Grange Hall last night for a tango lesson.  The Grange Hall also hosts a Tuesday farmer's market, where some delicious local salsas and tortilla chips are available.

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Our Front Yard

Our Neighborhood

On the morning dog walk, ten minutes from our home

More benefits of walking the dog in SLO

And still more!  My treasure at the end of the rainbow!

In our first week, we have hiked, cycled, gotten our library cards, joined the local YMCA, visited vineyards, had a beach picnic, taken in two stunning exhibits at the local art museum, heard a talk by one of the artists currently exhibited, dined out twice (it's Restaurant Month!) and attended a piano concert at Cal Poly.  Wow!  That's everything; I guess we might as well come home.

"Reflections," Photo Exhibit at San Luis Obispo Museum of Art

"An Ocean Garden:  the secret life of seaweed"

We heard Josie Iselin, the artist who created "An Ocean Garden," speak today.  My photo doesn't do her work justice.  Check out this exhibit and her other work at www.josieiselin.com.  She scans actual specimens of seaweed and then prints them.

Denizen of the SLO Art Museum

We're also eating Mediterranean.  Salads, cheese, wine, avocados (practically given away at local stores and farmers' markets), delicious olives.  The other day I took guacamole and chips to the yard for lunch.  When I sat down, I noticed that among the chips had mysteriously appeared two Oreos.  No end to the healthfulness!

The "Y" had an open house yesterday, featuring several twenty-minute demo classes, a great opportunity to try out options and come face to face with reality.  "Boot Camp" sounded fun but turned out to be a rude reminder that I am no longer thirty years old, or forty, or...    "Zumba" - work out to Latin music - how cool would that be?  After making it ten minutes through Boot Camp, I decided to watch Zumba from the sidelines.  What was I thinking?  (Note:  Carol does Zumba.  I have new respect for her physical abilities!)  I tried "Into Action," which uses music "from Sinatra to Swing to the Supremes"  and is "appropriate for seniors and beginners."  I think I found my match.

Here's the rest of the week in pictures.

No Trail?  No Problem!

Winter, Avila Beach

Downtown SLO Detail

Stenner Creek Hike

Stenner Creek Hike

Who knows where the trails will lead us?

Western Road Trip '15

Good-bye, Winter!
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Day #1  Minneapolis to North Platte, Nebraska.  Directions haven't changed.  Drive south on I-35.  Turn right on I-80.  Stop in North Platte.  No snow to speak of in Iowa and Nebraska.  I like winter brown.  Uneventful day, the best kind on a long road trip.   All three of us make it in and out of North Platte in good health - a first!

Nebraska Unadorned

Day #2  North Platte to Grand Junction, Colorado.  A five hundred mile piece of cake after our big 650-mile first day.  Another departure in the pre-dawn darkness.  The black sky softens behind us as we reach the Colorado border.  Crop land becomes grazing land for cattle, who appear as black dots on the white hills, bold flecks of contrast in the faint light of early dawn.  Western sky in front of us a canvas of pastels.  Over my shoulder, fierce oranges and reds.  Sunrise at seven-twenty.  We are definitely in the West now.

Crossing the Rockies past Denver we encounter a traffic jam!  Cars as far as we can see.  We cover twenty miles in two hours.  At least the scenery is stunning.

Grand Junction an upscale city with wine bars and French restaurants, but we're too tired to do the town.  Settle for La Quinta's outdoor spa under the light of a full moon.  We fill the tank at $1.94/gal.

Grand Junction, CO, facing east at sunset

Day #3  Grand Junction to Summerlin, Nevada.  My favorite segment of this journey every year.  Leaving sophisticated Grand Junction behind in the dark, we streak into the empty, solemn, wild grandeur of Utah.  A two hundred eighty-mile meditation. 

Highway Department sign warns, "Eagles on Highway."  None today.  Towns - Lone Tree, Silt, Sulpher, Gypsum.  No Services.  Carol remarks that we are leaving the clouds behind us.  Indeed a cover of brilliant, unbroken blue everywhere.

Highway Department signs seemingly every five miles - "View Site."  All of Utah is a View Site.  Carol works on the NY Times crossword.  I drive, nursing a Starbuck's dark roast and feasting on the one-hundred-eighty degree view.  We cross the Green River.

Sunrise in the Utah Wilderness, the last of the day's clouds

At the 170 mile mark, Carol takes over driving.  Open spaces give way to steep, forested mountains that crowd the highway.  Driving, I could take in the big picture.  Freed of responsibility, I can zoom in on astounding details.  A riot of animal tracks on a hillside.  Crows feeding on a large carcass.  A battered shed, defeated by time and the elements.  In the forest, a small, white wooden cross, festooned with a Christmas wreath - lonely splash of color.  Fifteen miles to Salina.  Now tire tracks through the snow in the forest, from nowhere to nowhere.  Steep, snow-covered canyon walls.  Then, improbably, several miles of brown landscape.  A hawk on a bare tree branch.

Salina breaks the spell.  Days Inn, Motel 6, Shell, Conoco, BP, McDonalds, Subway.  At 11:30 we turn south on I-15, 220 miles to Las Vegas.  It seems as if the tawdriness of Sin City reaches all the way up here.  The biggest automobile/RV graveyard I have ever seen.  Billboards.  Dilapidated buildings.  Sad-looking retirement communities.  Signs of a hardscrabble life.  The beautiful Utah wilderness is still out there, a half mile beyond ragged human enterprise.

Then, Cedar City, Utah, home of an annual Shakespeare Festival.  Signs for Cedar Breaks National Monument and Bryce Canyon National Park.  I've been to those places, and they have left their mark on me.  Thirty miles north of St. George, the thermometer reads 35 degrees, and the hills are brown.  We have left winter behind until next year.

St. George, Utah, where we spent a night two years ago.  The Latter Day Saints' white temple gleams in the bright sun.  Palm trees.  Magnificent, erect cedars ring a small country cemetery.  And...
Baseball!  Not one, but two games in progress on green ball fields.

We touch Arizona for thirty minutes, descending into a canyon, domineering vertical rock cliffs squeezing the interstate tight.  We round a bend and, in an instant, are spit out into the vast desert.  Forty degrees.  Forty-five.  Fifty.  We switch drivers for the last time.  Coatless, I walk Rowdie, who is intent on investigating new and strange scents.

Summerlin, close to Red Rock Canyon, too close to Las Vegas.  Hard for Rowdie to find an unpaved patch on which to do what needs to be done.  We arrive early enough to drive the thirteen-mile loop through the red rocks and to take one hike.

A tad too late to catch the "red" at Red Rock Canyon...

...but in time for the moonrise!

 Day #4  Summerlin to San Luis Obispo.  We can see the finish line.  Just want to get there.  We stop for lunch in springtime in a park in Wasco, California.  A real treat - lunch sitting still, absent the thrum of tires on asphalt.  Five guys taking batting practice on the ball field.  A batter, a pitcher, three outfielders.  Number three positions himself beyond the outfield fence; these guys can hit!  Kids rolling themselves dizzy down hills of green grass.  No need for a sled to have fun.  A roller park nearby, the click of skateboard wheels on concrete hillocks.

San Luis Obispo!  Our first stop is the neighborhood coop for a bottle of local organic red wine.  Later, a break from unpacking, we sit in our sunny yard and sip.  The road is behind us.  What adventures await?

La Belle Provence '14

My tres chic travel companion

Sunday, Oct. 19, 2014  Aix-en-Provence    Sunday morning.  Church bells sounding throughout the city.  We’ve had breakfast and strolled through the sleepy streets.  Not much happening.  In less than an hour we will meet other tour members and head off to St. Remy.

Delta/KLM allows one free checked bag, one carry-on, one personal item; but if you bring your legs, you have a problem.  I have never seen such a minuscule gap between the front of my seat and the headrest of the seat in front of me.  Eight hours of discomfort.

Aix-en-Provence was the reward.  Arrived late afternoon and walked around to learn the city streets.  Ate carryout (but French carryout - they call it takeaway, a porter) in a square ringed with cafés filled with noisy college students.  Back to our room, where jet lag caught up to us.

Our first full day, we took the bus to Arles.  Charming city.  A Roman theater (for the arts) and amphitheater (gladiator spectacles) and a thirteenth century cloister.  Also a great (free) photography exhibit.  Foundation Van Gogh was a highlight. The gallery features modern artists whose work has been influenced by Vincent Van Gogh.

We took time to sit at a café and watch the goings on before getting back to the bus station.

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The Roman Amphitheater in Arles

Fate spoke, loud and clear to us on our first day.  At the amphitheater, we saw a young mother misstep and take a bad tumble on the uneven steps of the amphitheater.  Later, when we returned to the hotel, we encountered Dick and Lori, VBT cyclists who we met on the shuttle from the Marseilles airport.  Dick lay on a deck chair, nursing cuts and abrasions on his leg and sporting an impressive black eye.  He had also missed a steep step as he admired artwork at a gallery.  Fate to Marc and Carol:  MIND THE GAP!

Strains of Edith Piaf songs reached us in the amphitheater from below as we climbed for views of the city.

Chic chien awaiting her turn?

The facade of the Foundation Vincent Van Gogh

A painting by Yan Pei Wing peeks at us in a gallery in the Foundation Vincent Van Gogh.

  

Artwork by Bertrand Lavier, Foundation Vincent Van Gogh

Looking out at the entry plaza of Foundation Vincent Van Gogh

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"To Life and Love" (and crepes, too) - view from a café table in Arles

Windows, Arles

Dinner back in Aix at the tiny La Cerise sur le Gateau (The Cherry on the Cake).  The owner is the staff - chef, maitre d’, waiter, sommelier (and perhaps dishwasher).  La Cerise is a restaurant biologique, organic wine and food (except for the squid).

On Friday, we caught a city bus into the countryside, where we planned to hike up Mount St. Victoire.  The passengers included us, five Vietnamese college students who were taking the same hike, and a local French woman who sat in the first row chatting with the driver and cheerfully helping the rest of us figure out how to use the payment technology to submit our one euro fare.

Had a nice chat for the first twenty minutes of hiking with the lone boy in the student group, who wanted, I think, to practice his English.  Later, he left us behind as he forged on to the peak.  The girls were far behind us, more intent on chatting about this and that than on moving forward.

A lovely day and a beautiful hike.  Frequently we were surrounded by the scent of mountain thyme.  We encountered teenagers texting on the trail, eighty-eight students of a coed military school setting a brisk pace and an ancient-looking man who ran past us at a good pace himself.  We didn't make it to the peak, stymied by lack of time and a pretty steep climb at the end.

Another fabulous meal that evening, but perhaps I can stop saying that.  Fabulous meals were the rule on this trip.  We were in France, after all.

Mt. St. Victoire, from the starting point of our hike.

On the trail to the peak of Mt. Saint Victoire

View from Mt. Saint Victoire (as close as we we were going to get to the summit)

 We met our group on Sunday, eighteen of us, the largest cycling group we've ever had.  Off to St. Remy-en-Provence, a charming town, home of the sanitarium (still in use) that housed troubled Vincent Van Gogh.  Our accommodations were at the Hotel de L'Image, a four star joint with beautiful grounds.  We met Stephane and Thibault, our guides.  Stephane and Thibault set us up with our bikes, and we took a short shakedown ride, then swam at the pool.  (The weather the first five days of our stay in France was unseasonably, delightfully warm.)

The Grounds of L'Hotel de L'Image, St. Remy-en-Provence

As soon as we had checked in, with a couple of hours to spare before the bike try-outs, Carol (remember the Queen of Finding Things?) led me to the ruins of the ancient Roman town of Glanum, a mere twenty-minute walk from the hotel.  Part of the reason for this particular trip was Carol's wish to see the ancient architecture in the region that she had studied about in an online course.  Why VBT did not include this in our tour is a mystery to us, and one of the few negative comments VBT will get when they receive our feedback.

The Queen poses at Glanum.

 

The Queen's Consort strikes a pose.

On Monday we got down to cycling.  We cycled to the town of Eygalieres, where Carol and I found a quiet park with a view of Les Alpilles to have a lunch of French bread, cheese and sausages.  We lingered for a long time, while most of the others continued on on the longer cycling route.

Eygalieres Detail

Les Alpilles, seen from Eygalieres

On our leisurely ride back to the hotel and the pool, I chatted with Thibault, a young musician who supplements his income as a VBT guide.  He complimented me on my speaking French, and I responded that I have a lot of difficulty hearing and understanding the language.  He then simply began a lesson for me, speaking slowly in his native tongue, asking me questions and patiently listening to my responses.  A highlight of the day.  It set the table for a comfortable companionship between the two of us the rest of the week.

An autumn morning in Provence

Provençal Traffic Jam.  Vous etes Americains, he called to us.  Oui!  That was all he needed to know.

Back in St. Remy, Carol went off to shop, and I went off to do one of my favorite things to do when in France.  I found an outdoor café in the main square, ordered a biere pression (draft beer) and settled in with my book, half attending to the reading and half taking in the sights and sounds around me.

People-watching from a café table

When I paid my bill, the waiter and I had a brief conversation.

Him:  Vous parlez bien le francais, monsieur.  (You speak French well.)

Me:  Merci.  Je parle un petit peu.  Quelquefois je comprends;  quelquefois, non.  (Thank you.  I speak a tiny bit.  Sometimes I understand; sometimes, not.)

Him:  Meilleur que mon anglais.  (Better than my English!)

We laughed, the French waiter and I.  He went about his job, and I went on my way.

Dinner that night was at the home of a local pastry chef, Odille.  She fixed us a meal that was vegetarian and delicious.  The dessert?  Exquisite!  On the walk back to the hotel, Stephane and I had a good conversation about our families, and another bond was formed.

Tuesday began with a walking tour through St. Remy "in the footsteps of Vincent Van Gogh."  Our guide was well-versed in the life of Van Gogh, who was a poetic man.  When talking about "Starry Night," he said that he looked into the sky and saw "seven stars bowing down to me."

 

Mathilde, our guide, stands at the fog-shrouded spot where Van Gogh painted this bright picture.

St. Paul de Mausole, where Van Gogh was treated for depression

Tribute to Vincent Van Gogh near the grounds of the sanitarium

Cloister adjacent to the sanitarium, St. Remy-en-Provence

 In the afternoon, we cycled to Les Baux, a short trip with the biggest climb of the week.  The climb was very doable (and the return trip downhill was thrilling and a bit terrifying).  Les Baux is a hill town, complete with medieval fortress and a commanding view of the surrounding countryside.  The tour of the fortress was quite interesting, but the town itself was a little too "Jersey Shore" for me, the streets lined with shops overflowing with tourist goods - swords, helmets and shields for the kids  to whack their siblings with or perhaps break a lamp and all sorts of reproductions of "stuff" for the rest of us.  Les Baux couldn't compare with my memories of visits to Rocamadour and Domme in Dordogne.

Window, Les Beaux

One evening before dinner, Thibault gave a little language/culture lesson.  We listened to Jacques Brel sing "Ne me quitte pas."  He gave us a primer on ordering in a restaurant and other useful terms, and then he amused us with his explanation of French manners.  The French always greet a person first before commencing business, a detail we Americans aren't always so good at.  So he gave us this illustration.  Enter a bar and ask for "un café," and you'll be served coffee and charged 7 euros.  Say, "un café, s'il vous plais," and you'll be charged 4.50.  Remember to do it the right way, "Bonjour, monsieur.  Un café, s'il vous plais," and the price will be 1.50.

WEDNESDAY, THE ABSOLUTE BEST DAY OF THE TOUR!

On Wednesday, the Mistral arrived.  The Mistral is a legendary punishing wind that can pound the Provence countryside for days and even weeks.

We started the day at the weekly farmers' market in St. Remy, where we acquired a baguette, cheese and sausages for a picnic later at the Abbey of St. Michel de Frigolet.  The winds of the Mistral rushed through the streets, wreaking havoc with the vendors' stalls and giving us a foretaste of what lay ahead for us.

Farmers' Market in St. Remy

Farmers' Market in St. Remy

It was hard work, getting to the abbey.  The direction of the winds of the Mistral, like all winds it seems, can be predicted by the direction in which one is cycling.  The Mistral was in our face most of the day.  We lunched alone, away from the winds, in a field outside the abbey walls.  It was a scene Van Gogh or Monet might have painted.

Our lunch spot near the Abbey of St. Michel de Frigolet, an impressionist's dream.

After lunch, we set out for our destination - the Pont du Gard.  This is when the going got really hard.  Some impressions of the Mistral:

*  There were moments, I do not exaggerate, when we were forced to pedal to make progress downhill.

*  Stephane and Thibault had instructed us to walk our bikes across the bridge over the Rhone River, which was a real wind tunnel.  In so doing, I bent over to minimize my vulnerability to the wind and gripped my bike with two hands, fearful that the wind would rip it away from me.

*  When the wind blew from the side (rare occurrence, fortunately), it was dangerous.  It blew me off the pavement twice.

*  Dante said, "Hell is not fire.  Hell is wind."  (Well, Carol claims Dante said that.  I haven't checked her references.)

Wait, you are saying.  How can this be the absolute best day of the tour?  Here's the thing.  I had heard of the Mistral and wanted to experience it.  I loved the challenge!  At a wine tasting eight miles from our destination, all but four of us opted out of cycling the rest of the way.  Carol and I, Mike and Karen soldiered on to the end.  I was proud to complete the journey - thirty miles that felt like fifty.

The Pont du Gard?  Stunning, robbing me of words, like my first encounter with the Eiffel Tower, Yosemite Valley and Crater Lake.  The engineering mastery of the ancient Romans is on display here.  As you look at the photo, remember that the Romans used no mortar in building this structure!

Pont du Gard

Pont du Gard detail

 

On Thursday we cycled to Lirac for a country picnic presented at a local wine cooperative.  On its first day, the Mistral gave me a welcome challenge and a good story to tell.  Today, its second day, it became a bad joke.  The picnic was a fun event, with delicious food.  The wines were good; several of us purchased bottles of Lirac white for the van to take back to the hotel.

Stephane explained to us how the winds of the Mistral help the wines of the region by blowing the soil dry and thus depriving mushrooms, the enemies of grapes, the opportunity to grow.  He also spoke of vast areas of pebbles deposited long ago by the Rhone that aid the growing of grapes by capturing the heat of the sun during the day and then releasing that heat in the cool of the night.

Stephane praises, with good reason, the food preparation of our host, Denis.

Picnic Fare at Lirac

Lirac Picnic Site

Stephane had told us we would later be cycling through Tavel, home of notable rosé wines.  Tavel was just minutes away.  Its wine cooperative doesn't open until two, and the picnic was done by one.  Several people hopped on their bikes and zoomed off.  Carol and I lingered, not wanting to miss the opportunity for another wine tasting.  Thus, we were the only ones (along with Stephane, whose job was to stay with the last riders) to sample the fine rosé wines.  But first, Carol explored the town on foot while Stephane and I had an espresso and another good conversation at a sunny café in Tavel.

That afternoon, back at the hotel (Hotel La Magnaneraie in Villenueve, a suburb of Avignon), Carol and I hosted a wine tasting in our room before dinner.  Almost everyone showed up, bringing more wine, olives, cheese and other snacks.

Party in Room 28

All too soon, we arrived at our last day of cycling, an easy ride into Avignon, where we had a morning guided tour followed by free time in town.  After the tour, Carol and I had lunch at an outdoor café on the town square, La Place de l'Horloge.  She shopped.  I took photos.  I ran into Mike and Jack, who were looking for a gelato shop Stephane and Thibault had told us about.  The three of us went off to find the highly recommended shop, where we indulged ourselves.  Then on the van and back to the hotel for our farewell dinner. 

Locals and bikes may enter here.  The rest of you, go away.

Le Pont d'Avignon

Paul, one of our group and an accomplished oil painter, sketches the Pont d'Avignon

Our Avignon tour guide, Isabelle

Wall Poster for the Avignon Theater Festival

Shop Window, Avignon

Shop Window, Avignon.  I wanted this shirt, but fifty euros was a bit steep.

Carousel, Place de l'Horloge, Avignon

Detail, Carousel, Place de l'Horloge

Thoughtful in La Place de l'Horloge

P.S.  The next day we zoomed on the TGV (high speed train) to the Gare de Lyon in Paris, where we were met and taken to the Hotel Rochester, just steps from the Champs Elysees.  We strolled to the Arc de Triomphe; decided against $20 glasses of wine with other tour members at the trendy Hotel Raphael; took the metro to a delicious final dinner at  Le Coté Bergamote in the St. Germain des Pres area of Paris.  Back to the hotel, we had drinks in the lounge with some other tour members and then off to bed before our early morning departure for home.

Au revoir, Provence.  Au revoir, Paris.