Tour de France- 1967

“The City of Homes” is the motto on the official crest of my home town and it was a fine example of a post-war bedroom community. A quiet middle-class suburb of Los Angeles snugged up against the mountains, it was a pleasant but pretty boring place growing up. The only shopping then was an antiquated “downtown” stretching only a few blocks, left over from its hey-day as a segment of the famous Route 66, and a few small grocery store shopping centers. We had a nice park with a public pool, a bowling alley, and one movie house, but that was about it. Quiet, smoggy, and boring.

Then early in 1967, a little before my fifteenth birthday, my mother received an invitation letter from my Aunt Ellen and Uncle Jim in Michigan inviting me to join their family in a summer-long bicycle adventure in France! What an opportunity! My cousin Chuck who lived in Long Beach was also invited, making a total of eight of us.

I was a shy, extremely skinny, asthmatic kid then, smart but seriously lacking in self-esteem and confidence. The notion of traveling by bike with a group of people I barely knew for a couple of months in a distant non-English speaking country was daunting, but how could I say no. Coincidentally, I had been studying French in ninth grade and so had some interest both in the country and using the language. So after getting the necessary shots, my International Youth Hostel membership, and packing an Army surplus canvas bag with a week’s change of clothes and some bungee cords to strap it on the bike, I left for the big adventure, flying with Chuck to Michigan, driving with the family to NYC, and flying TWA out of the then new ultramodern Eero Saarinen terminal to Paris!

We stayed for a week in a little hotel near the Tuileries Gardens as we acclimated to our new world, taking in the sights of Paris before heading out to the countryside.

One day when we were on the top of the Arch of Triumph, awed at the view, my cousin Alon and her friend Brenda came running up to Chuck and me, bursting with excitement about something.

Chuck, perhaps intimidated that I spoke some French, had boasted to the girls on the plane that he spoke German and that he could step up if the need arose. (Knowing full well that we would only be in France and Italy, and that it probably wouldn’t come up. I personally knew that he had struggled with only a semester of it and that I probably knew as much as he did, but… egos, you know.)

“Chuck! Chuck!” they bubbled, “We found someone you can speak German to!” and, grabbing his arm, dragged him over to a bewildered man standing nearby taking pictures of the Champs Elysees.

Realizing his bluff had been called but not wanting to admit it yet, Chuck straightened up, and throwing his shoulders back, approached the man confidently.

“Guten tag.” Chuck began.

“Ja ja, guten tag.” replied the man with curious anticipation, wondering what this was all about. Why were these American girls all excited to see him and who was this brash other guy?

That being the extent of his German mastery, Chuck struggled to remember anything from his class dialogs that might be appropriate for the moment. The girls looked back and forth, first at Chuck and then the stranger, with breathless anticipation, excited to have engineered this historic cultural exchange moment.

Pausing, in panic to say something, he mustered, “Mein platenspeiler ist kaput!”, delivered as a serious pronouncement to this absolute stranger.

The stunned man’s mouth fell open in confusion.

“Bitte?”

The girls were irked when I burst out laughing, not realizing that what he had said was “My record player is broken.”

The perplexed stranger’s response was understandable, and fortunately he also spoke English, figured out what had happened, and an international incident was averted.

We never let Chuck forget it, though.

At the end of our week’s stay in Paris, we went to a local bicycle shop and purchased eight new bikes. My little cousin Loren was only six and had to learn how to ride a bike in a Parisian park that day. The sturdy little guy picked it up right away and pedaled the whole thousand miles with us. Bon courage!

Preferring not to lead our troupe through the busy streets of Paris, Uncle Jim’s wise plan was to take the train to Chartres and bike from there. The next day we checked out of the hotel and made our way to Gare Montparnasse to begin the journey.

Needless to say, such a lengthy trip is punctuated by interesting stories and I had brought a tiny notebook with the intention of keeping a journal, but my entries were sadly vague and truncated, partly out of teenage laziness and partly from actual fatigue at the end of long days of biking in the hot summer sun. The following particularly memorable stories are introduced by the journal entries for those days.

THE DAY I WAS ALMOST ABDUCTED FROM A PARIS TRAIN STATION

“June 19-
Dear Diary,
Today we finally left Paris. All day it took us to find the right station, train time, etc. We arrived in Chartres and soon found the hostel there. Fortunately the warden was English so we had no trouble in translation. Our first youth hostel!”

We were running late by the time we arrived at the Gare Montparnasse that day. While Uncle Jim and Aunt Ellen stood in line for our tickets, as the group’s primary French speaker, I went looking to find out where to bring our bikes to put them on the train. I found a bank of windows with signs over them, and a long line of people at the one open window. As I stood there, trying to read the signs with my as yet untested ninth grade french, a disheveled old man whose unshaven face showed missing teeth came up to me and said something I didn’t understand, so I asked him if he knew where to bring the bikes in the best French I could muster. He said something else that I didn’t understand so I repeated my question. Exasperated, he grabbed my elbow and started to lead me away. “Good.”, I thought, he is just going to show me. At that moment, a woman who had observed the incident stepped out of line and physically separated us, cursing at him in French. He gave her a shove and grabbed my arm a little more forcefully and started to drag me off again. She separated us again and gave him a shove this time, shouting French obscenities at him, and then turned to me with a desperate look and said in a heavily accented English, “RUN! Run for your life!” and then turned to chew him out some more. I jumped back, shocked and confused and ready to retreat when cousin Chuck arrived to tell me that they had found where to go. The woman continued to gesture at me and shout at him as she returned to the line, the entire crowd stunned and silent as the old man tossed it off and grumbled away. “What did you start?!” Chuck exclaimed as we hurried to find our group. “I don’t know!”

Setting out from Chartres, we traversed the French countryside, taking many side trips to take in various historic sites made richer and more relevant by former history professor Uncle Jim’s al fresco lectures. For some of the little villages we went through, we were the first Americans to have come through since the end of WWII, only 22 years prior. Needless to say, a young family of eight adorable Americans on bikes traveling through their towns made an impression. One such place threw a small party for us in the local youth center. There was music and dancing and one awkward moment when the youth of the town proudly offered to sing their national anthem for us, the Marseillaise. They all stood and belted out a triumphant, full-voiced rendition replete with harmony! At the end they insisted that we reciprocate and sing our national anthem. Struggling to find a common key, our little band timidly attempted to comply, offering up an embarrassed stumbling version of the Star Spangled Banner, “and the rockets red glare” causing some agonized screeching and wincing. (Why can’t we have a national anthem that we can sing?)

The response was polite.

The days were mostly uneventful as they were mostly spent traveling from one place to the next, interrupted by occasional mechanical problems with the overtasked bikes. One day Chuck was experiencing some derailleur problems and had his bike leaned against someone’s fence trying to figure it out. The considerate homeowner saw his plight and came out to assist.

“Do you need any tools?” The man asked.

“I don’t parlay fransay” Chuck responded distracted with the bike.

“Yes. But do you need any tools?” he repeated in perfect English.

“I don’t parlay fransay.” Chuck repeated, not even looking up.

“Chuck! He’s speaking English!”

By the time the bike was fixed, it was getting late and we were miles from the next little town. The man turned out to be a sales rep for Citroen and he and his family graciously fed us and then drove us in custom models to the nearest hotel a number of kilometers away, which was really only a few rooms over a bistro. They stored our bikes at their place and then came back for us the next morning. A wonderful exchange of international, no… human hospitality and good will!

 

As the weeks passed we settled into a comfortable routine. My French made me the group liaison and I often found myself making inquiries and lodging arrangements for the group. One time, though, things went awry.

 

THE FRENCH PADDYWAGON RIDE

“July 6-
Today was a lovely day for Butch and me. Somehow we all got separated and everyone made it to the auberge except us. After 7 hours of waiting, we reported to the police station (AFTER DARK). Jim had already notified them so they loaded our bikes and us into a paddy wagon and took us to the auberge. Dined in the dark.”

It was raining off and on the morning we left Ruffec causing us to lose time, ducking under bridges and into cafes until the brief summer deluges passed. Cousin Monroe and I were at the head of the pack and less inclined to stop as the others were, as it was warm enough and not raining that much, so we thought we were miles ahead of everyone when we got to Angouleme. There was a standing agreement that we would all meet at the town sign when we got separated, but we thought we were so far ahead that we would be the heroes and hurry in to town, find the hostel, and have it all set up to receive them when they arrived, and then return to the sign to wait for them. We somehow missed seeing the sign altogether, but inquired about the hostel. Someone sent us down to the park by the river near the town’s edge and we went there, expecting a structure but found nothing but camping and tents. So we went back to town and the next person I asked probably misunderstood hostel for hotel and sent us struggling up to the top of the the medieval hilltop town. Finding nothing, we decided to go back to the sign to wait for everyone.

Meanwhile, everyone had come to town, gone directly to the hostel, which WAS that campground. (only recently opened, with room tents, so apparently the townspeople we asked were unaware of it.) Then, of course, they began to worry.

We passed the hostel back out to find the town sign and waited forever, and then we got a sandwich or something with my last ten franc piece at a cafe on the road by the sign and sat where we could watch for them and tried not to worry. No money and cousin Alon had our plane tickets and passports.

When it got dark we went back to town, passing the hostel again and struggling up the now vacant streets, climbing that hill again to the police station.

WHICH WAS CLOSED!

The old building was U-shaped, rather like the Louvre is shaped, with an enclosed courtyard, but the building extended past the fence and there was an open window about six feet off the ground with a light on and we could hear voices. I climbed up on a ledge and pulled myself up to the window to look in. There was a man in gendarme uniform sitting at a simple table in the middle of the room, supping soup or some such, as the serving woman left the room. I timidly spoke, “Bonjour Monsieur?” Startled at my voice, he fumbled his spoon and jumped up.

“Ma famille est perdu.”, I ventured.

“Attend! Attend!” he shouted as he rushed out of the room.

I climbed down to tell Monroe, feeling a little afraid that somehow we were in some kind of trouble, when the floodlights to the courtyard flashed on and gendarmes flooded out of the doors. It was like a prison break scene or something and we were instantly scared. I tried to explain our predicament but they didn’t seem to care and were busily chattering amongst themselves.

Suddenly a paddy wagon rolled up and they loaded us and our bikes into the back. Nobody bothered to explain to me what was happening, but their expressions were reassuring and the mood was one of excitement, like they were proud and relieved. Then we went careening down the hill through the quiet, dark and empty streets, sirens blaring, people throwing their windows open and leaning out to see what the commotion was. We swung in to the campground and had our reunion.

Then Uncle Jim disappeared to his tent to check his rage and Aunt Ellen got us food and we ate in the dark in silence. I still don’t feel like I did anything wrong, but was sorry for the trauma for everyone. It was awhile before Jim trusted us to be on our own again.

As Bastille Day approached, it became more challenging to find lodging. Once we slept in the dorm of a Catholic girls school, closed for the holidays, and another time on the floor of a community rec room.

We were in Laguepie in Southern France for Bastille Day and the town was busy with vacationers. The town is situated in the Dordogne River Valley which is host to some amazing Cro-Magnon caves featuring extensive artifacts and cave paintings which we got to enter and see. It was exciting to explore through these ancient caves, seeing up close these wonders is an indelible memory that I cherish. Many of those caves are now closed for their own protection.

Human breath alone had changed the humidity and the art was being adversely affected.

 

A couple of weeks later we arrived at our last hostel of the trip, a short distance from Albi where we were to sell the bikes and then take the train for the remainder of the trip along the Mediterranean coast to Rome and Florence, before returning home.

THE ROWDY GERMANS

“July 23-
Today we left Laguepie after 3 hours sleep and made it to Albi by 10:30. Fooled around ’til noon and had lunch at the auberge, Charley is sick. We all took a nap until 7:30. Then we went down and had dinner. The auberge is crammed with touring Germans.”

This entry was two days before we sold the bikes. We were winding down and tired from the long journey, but also toughened by the experience and were more familiar with France and its culture by then. Our six weeks of experience with hostels left it clear that the the Germans’ behavior was rowdy, rude and inappropriate. They were having food fights in the dining room, unapologetically including us, as I recall. My memory is vague about the place but it seems that it was in an old country manor, with probably three floors. We were on the second floor and their group was up on the third floor where the common bathrooms were.

“July 24-
Everyone was late this morning so we missed breakfast. This afternoon Monroe and I swam at the piscine municipale. This eve we all went to the Illumination at the cathedral.”

When we got back, the Germans were up in their dorm, carrying on so we all went to bed. The next morning was a big day for us as we were selling the bikes. Having spent the better part of two months on them, they seemed like old friends, and I suddenly felt strangely vulnerable without wheels.

Their boisterous behavior continued late into the night as they had an extremely loud drinking party, right over our heads! After things calmed down and they were passed out, while everyone else was sleeping, I got up to go use the bathroom. There was a broad stairway which led to the third floor landing. The first door was the Germans’ dorm and the next one past it was the bathroom.

Mercifully, the light was on in the bathroom and served as a beacon as I sleepily trudged up the stairs, when I caught a glint of reflection at my eye level at the top of the stairs. They had stacked their empty wine bottles, maybe eight or so, across the landing so we’d stumble through them in the dark and send them crashing down the stairs. Realizing their plan, I carefully stepped over them and completed my mission. Then went down and woke Monroe and told him what had happened. We both went back up and quietly stacked all the bottles against their closed door, maybe waist high, and went back down to bed.

“July 25-
Got up early and had breakfast. Then we took our bikes, cleaned ’em up, and took them to the Peugeot dealer and sold them. Sniff. Boo hoo. Nothing going this afternoon. Jim and Ellen went to get train tickets and the girls went to the cathedral. Monroe, Loren, and I lay around.”

The next morning, we went down to have breakfast before hitting the road on our bikes for the last time. As we were finishing up we heard a huge “CRASH” from upstairs. “What was THAT!?” someone exclaimed. Monroe and I refused to make eye contact and stifled our amusement, knowing full well what it was. Shortly a couple of them came down the stairs with dustpans full of glass, glaring over at us accusingly. There WAS one other couple staying there, but they KNEW it was us. Of course nobody else in our group knew so their innocent expressions were real. We left before they had finished cleaning up so vengeance was averted.

THE “LUCKY” ASTHMA ATTACK

“July 26-
5:00. Everyone to the train station. Got to Toulouse. Blew the whole day and met back at the station. Huge city. Very nice. At 11:04 we left in a coachette for Rome. Our bags were sent on to Vintimille, a border city of France. From there on to Rome. Our coachette seems very small with the beds down. Fell asleep to the sound of the wheels.”

“July 27-
Rotten night. Roll, rumble, squeal, crunch. Got up at 5:00 in Marseilles. Saw the Mediterranean before anyone else. Got sick. Medicine in my bag. In Vintimille I put up a fuss, got my baggage and medicine. Fortunately too because the baggage would have stayed there! At 10:00 we pulled in to Rome. Happy Day. Checked in to Hotel Marconi.”

My asthma was so bad during the whole trip and I relied on my old fashioned inhaler with the rubber squeeze bulb a lot. I think this was the trip where some of us got on the wrong train car in Toulouse and it stopped in the night to re-couple with another train that was heading south to Spain. We had to change cars in a hurry. At any rate, the bags were somehow tagged to stop at the border of France and Italy, unbeknownst (don’t get to use that word much) to us.

The train ride was miserable for me all night, not being able to breathe, and I discovered that my medicine was in my bag in the baggage car. When we stopped at the border, I decided I HAD to walk back to find the baggage car with my bag. But we found the bags sitting on a cart on the landing, already unloaded to stay. Jim got in an argument with some guy about it while I struggled to breathe. Jim was arguing that I needed my medicine from my bag and the guy was insisting that the bags were to stay there and showed him the wrongly marked tags. At one point Jim gestured grandly to me and shouted, “HE’S DYING!” at which point, I collapsed onto the cart, wheezing to emphasize his point. (But he wasn’t far wrong.)

“Bags stay here.”

“Like hell they do.” He retorted and started grabbing them up. “C’mon Dave!” he shouted and I grabbed the remaining bags, gasping for breath as we hurried to the soon-departing train. Nobody followed us and we were underway soon. I gratefully dug out my asthma medicine, opened my lungs, and vowed never to pack it away again.

The trip wound down from there with a brief visit to Rome and Florence, taking the train through Switzerland back to Paris and then home.

The impact that this trip had on me is immeasurable. I went from being a shy, insecure nerd to a more confident, self-actuated person with a global perspective. I returned to start high school with the confidence to throw myself into theater, eventually earning a degree in theater which ultimately opened employment doors, which enabled my return to France twenty years later!

Thanks Uncle Jim and Aunt Ellen!