Lost, tired and in love

I landed in Paris at 6 a.m. and it took me until almost 9 to find an Internet connection. Couldn’t find a free WiFi spot at the airport and their Internet kiosks were broken (see photo below), so I had to lug what felt like 80 pounds of leathers, rain gear and the few items of clothing I brought with me hither and yon before I finally trekked down the road to a hotel. Internet access there was 15 euros for 45 minutes, which was fairly expensive. Especially considering it cost only 3 euros later today at a hostel in Brugge for an hour.

The Charles de Gaulle International Airport was a decidedly bare-bones operation compared to airports in big cities in North America. Terminal 3 where I landed had little but washrooms, car rental kiosks and places to pick up baggage. Even the departure level at Terminal 3 had only a couple of fast-food places, all with cafe de creme, cappucino and shots of expresso (see photo below).

Didn't check out Terminal 1, but Terminal 2 was more of the same. Very spare.
The Paris train/subway system is HUGE, though, with lineups to buy tickets. Didn't know you were supposed to retrieve your ticket and use it to exit on the other end, but a fella named Francois put his through twice so I could exit at Charles de Gaulle Etoile and then gallantly walked me the two blocks to Business-bikes.com so I wouldn't get lost. What a guy! Don't let anyone tell you Parisians aren't helpful and friendly.

I didn't get lost getting out of Paris, but not because of any brilliant navigating. Christopher, the mechanic at business-bikes.com, gave me an escort to the highway. It was on the recommendation of the owner, who didn't want me threading my way through any more Paris downtown traffic than I had to, but it was still very kind of him.

I did manage to make a wrong turn onto the A27 instead of the A22 just south of Lille, however, and got hopelessly lost until a young man named Munir on a scooter who couldn't have been more than 16 years old helped me get back on the right highway.

So, here I am in Brugge, three hours late, but where I'm supposed to be, largely due to the kindness of strangers, and in one piece. But TIRED.

Mara (Miller – the gal who set me up with a hostel room in Amsterdam for tomorrow night and recommended I stop in Brugge on the way there) was right, though. Trying to get to Amsterdam in one day from Paris would have been too much. By the time I got to Brugge, which is about half that distance, I was exhausted.


And, heaven help me, I * LOVE* this bike. The Honda CBF600. It's too tall for me (especially on these slippery cobblestones they seem to have everywhere here) but it's zippy -- I love the way it zooms. I've never been a speedy biker before, I ride mostly for the sheer kinetic pleasure of slaloming on curving roads, but now I'm in love.

This could be very bad. I confess opened it up almost as far as it would go when I got a stretch of the A1 where there wasn't any traffic to either side of me that could make sudden moves -- this puppy can do 180 klicks an hour EASY but I decided not to find out exactly how fast she'd go when the wind started buffeting my helmet around like a ping pong ball.

Stories about crazed French motorists are slightly exaggerated. Although Paris traffic was so insane I wondered if I was going to get out of the city alive, that's probably true of any large city. But I got cut off (squeezed sideways in my lane) only once on the highways between Paris and Brugge, and I’m pretty sure I had already crossed the border into Belgium just north of Lille when that happened. They do drive *fast* though -- had anyone been in the lanes beside me when I opened her up, they would have comfortably kept pace without an eyebrow raised.

I wish I could say the same for my fellow bikers. Lane-splitting (riding down the centre of lines of car traffic) is not only legal here but even the motorists seem to expect you to do it and get annoyed with you when you take up space in what they consider car lanes.

I tried following the other bikers down the centre of a line of cars for a couple of kilometers, -- but really couldn’t hack it. These bikers are insane. They zoom in and out and around the cars like they’re tired of living. And not one gave me the "biker wave" I love so much in North America. They were going so fast they didn't have time.

I thought the speed limit on the highway was 110, but found out later that was just for the slow truck lane -- the real speed limit was 130 kph. Which would explain why everyone was doing 140 and I felt like a slowpoke doing 120 to keep from getting run over.

But the drive to Brugge was a gas! Didn't need to turn on the Gerbing gear until after sundown north of the Belgian border, though -- it was 8C today. Perfect biking weather. Not cold enough to chill you, and not warm enough that you feel uncomfortable wearing full hide leathers.