Le Tour de France and Northern Italy

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After leaving Pamplona, I was completely spent. I really wanted a bed and a good nights sleep. I desperately wanted to eat something containing vegetables and drink something that wasn’t sangria. And for the first time all trip I really just wanted to go back home for a few home cooked meals and to just chill out in Bowral for a couple of weeks. I think the desire to want to be in Bowral instead of southern europe is the exact definition of clinical depression/insanity. I was pretty homesick and sort of over this whole travel thing. It also didn’t help that my overnight bus ride seemed to be doomed. Have you ever gotten on a plane or a bus and it’s felt like the opening scene of Final Destination? On my bus there was a group of students on a school trip, a sad looking pregnant lady, a couple of bratty Italian children, and enough young adults to make up the main characters in the movie once a few of us survived. There was just no way we could possibly make it to our destination without at least a few gruesome deaths, and a couple of us falling in love.

Luckily I had some sleeping pills, Futurama on my computer, and some chocolate, and so that cheered me up enough to stop stressing for a second and I drifted off into semi satisfying sleep (you never sleep ‘well’ on a bus, only adequately). By the time I’d gotten to Lyon I felt a little better, and after doing some laundry life looked a bit rosier (there’s something inherently depressing about your cleanest option of clothes being a thrice worn pair of underpants, a sangria stained shirt, and a pair of boardies you’ve been wearing as pj’s the last week). My next stop was the tour de France, and I could finally stop feeling sorry for myself and begin getting excited about an event that I’ve wanted to attend since I was a kid.

Two other things that made life better was that I had wheels again, even if it was a dodgy Seat as opposed to the VW Golf I’d been promised, and I was being joined by my Finnish friend Elina, who I’d met on the Geriatric Orgy Cruise from Hanko to Stockholm. Elina was working in Switzerland and as a keen camper and hiker thought ducking down to the French alps sounded a good way to spend a weekend.

The two stages I’d decided to see were stage 10 and 11. Both were mountain stages, and we were going to watch from the Col du Grand Colombier on stage 10, and the Les Seybelles ski resort in Le Toussuire which was the finishing mountain for stage 11. I was in the town for stage ten the day before the race came to town, and had the chance to drive the Col du Grand Colombier, which according to Phil Ligget was the toughest climb of the tour that year (which means it was; Phil Ligget’s word is gospel!). The hill was enourmous. It took me 40 minutes just to drive it. It was a lot of fun driving the hill as the road was already packed with camper vans covered in flags and banners, and there were people everywhere painting messages on the road for friends back home.

Also got to see the biggest French flag I've ever seen. This was about as big as the average Walmart USA flag.

The next day after Elina arrived on the train, we hiked up the mountain to a spot where the road got extremely steep and snaked back and forth about 8 times in a row. The view here was amazing as we could see the cyclists come up from the town below and for most of the climb before our spot.

Not a bad seat to watch sport from

The race itself is only a short and small part of the days festivities. First of all everyone’s in party mode, with people drinking, picknicking or barbecuing from early in the morning. Then comes the cavalcade of sponsor vehicles. These are hilarious, as they’re all mounted with ridiculous designs ranging from a giant yellow jersey wearing cyclist, to a basket of baked goods. They throw shirts, free samples, key rings, frisbies and many other matter of pointless marketing crap from the cars, but thanks to everyones drunken excited state, the skuffle to claim the prized keyrings thrown from the vehicles is quite lively. Watching 60 year old men dive for a pink skoda key ring is just one of the many spectacles you’ll witness while waiting for the riders to come.

She smiles now, but Elina had to fight off three grandmas for that shirt and hat.

It’s pretty fun in the minutes immediately before the first cyclist comes past. The swarm of helicopters that approaches is a Nam veterans’ flashback nightmare. I think we counted about 12 swooping over our immediate area. One ended up perching about 50 metres away from us to video the S bends. The first day was great as Cadel was still with the lead riders as he came by. And the crowd all went absolutely batty and a few courageous individuals even had a bit of a run next to the cyclists. I was scoping it out this day and seeing how it all played out, in preperation for my attempt to feature on world wide television.

After the sprinters pack and the couple of strugglers who can’t even keep up with Mark Cavendish go by, everyone packs up their camp, downs their remaining beers and begins the chaotic stream of cars, buses, campervans, bikes and pedestrians back down the hill. With the exception of one car which almost clipped a 12 year old girl in front of him before I banged on his hood, everyone was extremely jovial and polite and the mood of everyone was great.

That evening Elina and I drove the amazingly scenic route to La Toussuire. There were dramatic cliffs, crazy geological formations, beautiful streams, and sweeping vistas every turn. It was up there with my drive across Norway for postcardiness (officially now a word). We tried to scam a shower at a camp site at the base of the mountain but got stopped by a very pissed french lady who didn’t really buy our whole ‘Oh, we were trying to find someone to ask if we could pay to use the shower’ line. Abandoning any hope of a proper shower (and extending my streak of days without a proper shower to about 8) we headed to the top of the mountain. The view of the sun setting as we snaked our way up the mountain was simply breathtaking. Everywhere you looked there was another stupendous mountain about three times taller than Australia’s highest point. After a backpackers’ shower (more effective than a mexican shower, but not quite as good as a bushmans shower), some delicious french cheese, bread and wine, and setting up our tent on about a thirty degree angle, we crashed out completely knackered.

The next day we did some hiking, saw some cows, took some photos of ourselves jumping in front of some more amazing views, then got back to camp so I could begin filling myself with some courage (ie Rose wine) for when the bikes came later. Elina was also nice enough to write ‘Bonjour Les Stinsons’ on my front and god knows what on my back (shouldn’t have made so much fun of Finland). Watching the road train of sponsor vehicles while a little drunk and topless with something written on your chest is much more fun, as you get everything thrown at you, and thanks to being drunk it all becomes treasure that needs to be collected at all costs. Once the cyclists finally came I grabbed my gopro camera, did a couple of token stretches, and then as soon as the police motorcycles passed took off at full speed up hill clapping and grinning like an idiot, and possibly uttering the word ‘Wooh’. It was everything I imagined it would be and more.

Sadly these cows easily made it to the summit before Cadel.

Consumer whores

Feeling swift.

The rest of the time we spent bumming around the village the race had finished in, watching the team crews work on their bikes, and watching the US coverage team shoot their interview in the freezing cold in their outdoor studio.

The day after we drove back to Lyon, with a major highlight being driving down the hill with the team cars and race motorcycles in the morning as they tore through the turns (possible new career: tour de france support car driver. Hell last year the drivers ran over the cyclists a couple of times, how hard could the selection process be?). We then spent the day wandering around Lyon before our respective departures. Lyon is a really beautiful city. The middle is very typical historic French city, with old buildings everywhere, very clean beautiful and grand sandstone houses, and a beautiful river flowing through the middle. I also found the house I want to live in one day when I’m living in Lyon.

Now to learn French...

After that, I had to say goodbye to Elina. It really made the tour fun having someone to hang out and hike around the mountains with. She also reminded me of the how much I loved travelling again and got me in a great mood heading onto my next destination.

The next stops for me were Milan and Venice. I only had a few days before I headed to Croatia and so I had two pretty rushed stops. However I think it worked out quite well. Milan is a nice enough city, with a beautiful Duomo (cathedral) and some good bars and restaurants, and a cool centre near the canals, but to be honest it’s nothing special. For one, it’s extremel fashion obsessed, and with that comes a massive amount of shallowness and soullessness. The people aren’t that friendly and there’s no real energy. I love NYC because you feel like if anything were to happen in the world, it would happen right where you are. In Milan you feel like if Paris Hilton were to do something, she'd probably do it near you, and you probably wouldn't be able to escape. It also has the most terrible and unimaginative street art; just tags everywhere, with no wit, imagination or creativity. I donìt know why it annoyed me so much, but I think it was because it was the most obvious sympton of a town with no actual substance. Even their grafitti was only obsessed with labels. The other thing that bothered me a bit about the Milanese was they’re such cliche Italian skeeze bags. A Milan couple going on a date make eye contact with each other only once: when they first greet each other at the beginning of the night. After that, they both spend the rest of the night checking out everyone else. If you followed the guys’ gaze it was inevitably directed at another girl, and the amount of times I received saucy eye contact from a girl holding a guys hand was very disconcerting. It even happened with a girl who was making out with someone.

The one thing I absolutely loved about Milan was my couchsurfing hosts. It’s impossible to get a couch in Italy if you’re a single guy because all the guys are using it to meet women, and all the women won't host guys because they think they’ll just be looking to score. Luckily my host was a lovely girl from Bulgaria, and her Persian housemate. Gina and Mommad were very cool, and I spent most of my time hanging out with them and laughing my ass off. Mommad totally reignited my desire to go to the middle east, and Gina was the most energetic tour guide/host and showed me how to dine for free (it involved running away before they bring your drinks but after you’ve eaten at the buffet), how to ride the tram for free (no one checks tickets), and all the sights and sounds worth seeing.

Got to love the guy who parks a Lambo out front of the Ferrari store.

Geri outside her former employer.

Polizia trying to move on a busker, and pretty much the whole of Milan turning out to abuse them and trying to incite a riot.

From here I continued my ‘Single Guys’ Tour of Romantic European Cities’ by going to Venice. I’ve got to say, Venice is absolutely beautiful. Some of the old buildings with high ceilings which are right on the canals would be amazing places to live. And it’s a pretty fun city to wander around, but I think the one and a half days I spent there were perfect for seeing and experiencing everything it has to offer. It was just a city full of doe eyes couples, wandering around hand in hand, eating gelattos and basically waiting out the guys refractory period before heading back to their hotels. It wasn't exactly the best place for a lone backpacker to visit. Pretty much the only people who weren't there for a romantic getaway were frustrated single girls who hoped that maybe some of the romantic magic of the city would allow them to find their prince charming. Like I said, not a great place for a lone backpacker....

On that note, I think I’ll leave you. Next stop Croatia. Here's some photos of canals: