In Other Worlds, And Ages

Yesterday, on the 50th anniversary the first moonwalk, I wrote about Dr. Rhett Allain's wonderful article on what it would take to ride a bicycle to the moon.

If I live long enough to see all of that technology develop, and eat my vegetables and drink my milk (I do one of those things now!), I just might make it to the Sea of Tranquility.  

Now that I think about it, I wonder whether I'd want to take such a trip.  After all, if I could go to Paris and bump into someone I hadn't seen in twenty years, who knows who (or what) I might encounter in another world:

Meeting Under The Unicorn

First off, I want to assure you that I have made up nothing in this blog.  Not even the third-place finish in a race.  Or the climbs in the Alps, Pyrenees, Sierra Nevada, Green Mountains, Adirondacks or Catskills.  Even the bad, crazy and silly things I've done are as I've recounted them.

Still, you might not believe the story I'm about to tell you.  I understand.   But I assure you that I couldn't make up anything like it.  

It took place in la Musee Nationale du Moyen-Age, a.k.a. the Cluny.  Even if you've never been there, you've seen this:

Most people think of it as "the unicorn tapestry".  Truth is, it's just one of six tapestries in the "La Dame a la Licorne" series.  The other five tapestries feature the lady, the unicorn and nearly all of the other elements of the one you've all seen.  But what this one--"Mon seul desir"--represents is the subject of debate.  Some have said that it is the mind, while others believe it is the heart or love.  I think the tapestry's creator intended it to be the power of the unicorn, whatever that might be.  

Now, what exactly is the power of the unicorn?  Some say it's something that happens when the woman touches his horn. (I won't disagree. But I want to keep this clean!) Well, perhaps it got me out of bed early so I could ride for an hour, with no destination or purpose, for about an hour before cycling to Cluny.

And the unicorn's magic (or whatever you want to call it) may have been the cause of what I experienced while in the museum.  

Many of the objects displayed there, at one time or another, adorned cathedrals.  A couple stood before one of the displays.  They were talking about how those objects were made and how cathedrals were built. 

I chimed in with a comment about how, in places like Chartres and Reims, literally everybody in the town contributed in some way or another to building the cathedral.  Of course, some were artists and craftspeople.  Others cut and set stones and glass, and did other things vital to building the structure.  And, of course, there were those who prepared food and did other things for the other workers. "Most of those people never lived to see the finished product," I pointed out.

That led us to talk about the things we were looking at--and, soon, things entirely unrelated.  Naturally, the conversation led to the inevitable traveler's question, "Where are you from?"

When I'm far from my home area, I say "New York"--which, of course, is true.  But unless someone's familiar with the city or its environs, I don't mention anything more specific.  It's not that I'm trying to impress anybody: Rather, it's just easier:  Almost everyone has heard of New York; only people who've lived in it have ever heard of Astoria,  Queens.

But that couple obviously knew the city.  So I told them I live in Astoria, Queens.  Each of them mentioned living in Brooklyn.  "No kidding!  I lived there for a long time."  That led me to confess that I'd grown up in Bensonhurst and Borough Park and later lived in Park Slope.  

Turns out, she lived there, and he in neighboring Windsor Terrace.  They mentioned The Park (Prospect), eating at the Silver Spoon and the Pintchick's store on the corner.  

"Bergen Street", I exclaimed.

Up to that point, I had the feeling that I somehow recognized them.  Especially her.  "Yes, I lived there during the '90's," she said.  "And we started dating then," he added.

The FBI has age-progression software that shows, for example, what a child who went missing years ago might look like today.  My mind's eye did the opposite of that:  I found myself imagining what they might have looked like five, ten, twenty years ago.  In her case, I didn't even have to look that far back:  She's hardly aged at all.

We asked each other's names.  She told me hers. "Really?"  

Her eyes, and his, fixed on me.  Then I asked whether her last name might be (N)."

"How did you know that?"

"We used to be neighbors.  In fact, I lived in the apartment next to yours."

For a few years, we exchanged pleasantries and sometimes got into conversations in the hallway of our building.  Our talks veered into all sorts of topics:  art, movies, politics, the not-for-profit agency for which she worked, my writing--and the class and workshop I was taking with Allen Ginsberg.  

But at that moment, she could not recall those things--or, more precisely, she could not connect me with them.  

"Well, I am Justine now," I confessed.  "But back then, you knew me as Nick."  

I could see flickerings of recognition.  Then I added  more dim, dark secrets:  I had a beard in those days--a red one, at that.  

"Wow.  Yes, now I remember.  The beard!"

Then she recalled, aloud, the poetry--Yes, I still write, I assured her--the studies, the teaching and even my cat.  "And you used to ride your bike everywhere," she recounted.

I nodded.  And, yes, I still ride, and I've been riding here in Paris.  She, her husband and their teenage daughter went for a ride the other day, she said.

Just when we were about to fall off each others' radar--which was much easier  in those days, just before everybody started to use cell phones, the internet and e-mail-- she had started dating him.  And I would meet, and move in with, the last partner I had in my life as Nick.

Now tell me:  What are the chances that two people who lived next to each other--in Brooklyn--would bump into each other twenty years later--in Paris, no less?

What I Could Have Done, And What I Did

After you read what you're about to read, you might decide that you won't ever read this blog again.  I understand.

Here goes:  I was in Paris on the last day of the Tour de France.  And I wasn't among the throngs that lined the Champs Elysees for the finish.

Why?, you ask. Well, for one thing I have a general aversion to being in crowds these days.  I have stood along the world's second-most famous thoroughfare (after Broadway in NYC) on two other occasions for the finish of the race.  I have also been on the side of the road, in other parts of France, where other stages of the Tour passed. I just don't get the same thrill about such things that I once did.

For another thing:  I hardly ever attend sporting events anymore.  It's not that I don't like sports:  I once wrote about them for a newspaper.  Rather, I am not crazy about the way many different sports, from baseball to basketball to bicycle racing, have devolved.  Too much is decided, I feel, by drugs and other kinds of technology, compared to events past.

Which brings me to my final point:  This Tour, like the past few, didn't have the storylines  of Tours past.  Even when everyone expected Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault or Miguel Indurain to win (as they usually did), they could generate more drama than any of the current riders.

Finally,  I just cannot bear to watch Chris Froome.  I don't have anything against him winning:  He's worked hard and, as far as anybody knows, hasn't used drugs.  But he is the most awkward-looking rider I've ever seen at the front of a major race.  As long as no one can prove he's cheated, I have no problem with his winning the Tour.  But that doesn't mean I have to watch him.

So, after filling myself up at the hotel's breakfast buffet, instead of going to the Tour, I got a (relatively) early start on a gorgeous morning and found myself pedaling streets that were all but deserted--even in places as popular with tourists (or heavily used by delivery drivers) as the Boulevard St. Michel, St. Germain des Pres and Trocadero.  I really felt--to borrow a cliche--that Paris belonged to me.

But, most important of all, I spent the afternoon and early evening with one of my friends, the man she married last year and a friend of theirs who was very friendly toward me.

As I mentioned in earlier posts, Michele and I had not seen each other in a number of years before I saw her last August, in this city.  She was just a few weeks away from marrying the man who is now her husband.  I saw her again in New York in May, with her husband Alec, near the end of their belated honeymoon trip.

An old Italian proverb says that a good meal can keep a person content for a week.  I tend to agree with that.  I'd say the same for a good bike ride or a few other things (some of which can't be mentioned on a PG-13 blog ;-) ).  And, as much as I love good food and writing, as well as cycling, i can't help but to think that nothing can keep me happy longer than a good time with an old friend.

I'll Be Fine: I Went For A Ride

I once held a racing license.  And I actually rode in a few races.  Ergo (and you thought it was only the name of Campagnolo's "brifter"!), I was a racer.  Right?

Well, maybe not so much.  I fancied myself as one.  I even managed to convince a few people (and a couple of actual racers) that I was one.  I rode racing bikes, wore racing jerseys, shorts and shoes and ate and drank what I thought racers put into their bodies.  

And I actually placed well in a couple of races.  A third place, even!  For a time, I thought that if I rode just a little longer and a little harder....

(These days, it's difficult for me to think about doing things longer and harder.  But that's another story:  perhaps one for my other blog!)

Realistically, I knew I wasn't going to challenge Bernard Hinault.  But I thought that if I moved up a category every year I could become...a champion (of what?)...a pro?

So what, exactly, caused me to realize that I wasn't going to realize such lofty goals?  No, I didn't crash and break my leg and wreck my Colnago during my next race.  Nor did I admit that, even at the relatively young age I was, I didn't have much (if any) of a "window":  There were riders my age who, even if they hadn't won a major race, had at least been riding for years in the European peloton.  The pack in Prospect Park, as invigorating as it could be, simply didn't compare. But even such an admission would not have been enough to make me realize that I wasn't a racer.

I think I finally understood, today, for the first time, why I never  was, or could be, truly a racer.  It has to do with an observation someone I was trying to woo years ago made about me.  According to this person, I don't care about things or experiences so much as the emotions and memories I have about, or associate with, them.

To this day, it remains one of the most perceptive things anyone has said about me.  Of course, back then, I didn't want to hear it, because she was one of the many attractive women I tried to make my "arm candy", I mean companion, in order to convince the world (in reality, myself) that I was indeed a macho heterosexual guy--if one with a sensitive soul.

Anyway, today I took a ride that really was bits and pieces of other rides I've done, spliced together.  I packed a bag of tortilla chips and some salsa I made into the Ruth Works Randonneur bag on Vera, my green Mercian mixte.  I intended to enjoy a roadside picnic somewhere along the way.  But that is not the only reason I chose Vera:  Yesterday, we had heavy rains; puddles and even mini-ponds lined the streets and roads, not to mention the paths.  Vera has fenders, with a flap on the front.

A gray glacier of clouds crept across the sky; after riding along the World's Fair Marina and Flushing Bay to Fort Totten, drops of rain stuttered across my skin as I ascended Bell Boulevard to Northern Boulevard, where I turned left and rode across a roadway that slices through a tidal marsh to Nassau County, where I followed no planned route.

So I found myself pedaling through shopping centers, suburban subdivision, country clubs and a couple of parks that had something resembling nature in them.  Finally, I found myself on a road that twisted through a wooded area--not exactly a virgin forest, but green nonetheless:  actually, quite soothing under the cloud cover that seemed to follow me, even if it didn't spill any more rain.

From Cyclopology

I knew, generally--though not specifically--where I was.  That is to say, I knew I was somewhere in the middle of Long Island, probably heading south or east, but to where I didn't know.  If I was lost, it wasn't such a big deal: I could get only so lost.  If I rode south for a few miles, I'd reach the ocean; if I pedaled east, it would take me a good bit longer to reach the Atlantic. (That's why it's called Long Island!)  And if I went west, I'd be in the general direction of home; going north would take me back to, well, the North Shore, where I could turn left and head in the direction of my apartment.

The real reason I was riding, though, wasn't to explore or get lost--or to challenge myself. (The wind would do that for me when I pedaled into it on my way home!)  Instead, I was riding with the echo, if you will, of a conversation I had last night with someone I hadn't talked to in a few years.  There was no "falling out" or other rupture in our friendship; life had just taken us in different directions for a while.  

We actually worked together for a time; neither of us is at that job anymore.  She decided to return to school and is almost done with the coursework for her PhD and, luckily, found work that allowed her to support herself.  But, along the way, she broke up with the fiance she had the last time we talked.

I, too, ended a relationship I was in at the time.  But mine didn't end as amicably as hers; it couldn't have.  She knew that and asked, several times, how I'm doing.  Better than I was in that relationship, I said.  

"Good.  Don't look back."

"I don't."

The funny thing is, the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I descended from the ridges in the center of the island to the South Shore weren't for him, or for what knowing him cost me (two jobs and an apartment)--or about what it took to get him out of my life.  I am happier in my current job than I was in the ones I lost.  

And, to answer another question my friend asked, I am finally working, again, on a book I started writing years ago--even before I knew her.  "Great!  You're going to be all right!", she intoned.

I hope she's right.  No, I take that back.  I know she's right.  I have no idea of how that book will turn out, but I know I have no choice but to write it.  When I started it, I was a different person, living a different life--literally.   But I know I was carrying much of what's in that book--at least in its current state--long before I started to write it.  

She understands:  She is a writer, too.

"Just keep writing it.  You'll be fine."


That is how I felt while riding today.  I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I'd be fine.  Whether or not by design or choice, where I'd been had gotten me to where I was.  All of it:  All of my rides, all of my work, all of those days and years I lived a life not quite my own and, finally, in a relationship with someone who, just as I was claiming my own self and life, almost kept me from living it.

The road that had gotten me to today's ride: My old friend reminded me of it, and why I continue--even if I don't know where the ride, the journey, continues or ends.

Has any racer ever thought of his or her ride that way?

With An Old Friend, Again. At Least We Didn't Have To Wait As Long This Time!

Yesterday I had a long work day.  The end of the semester is near, so some students are in, or nearing, Full Panic Mode.  Some are just naturally nervous, while others simply procrastinated or skipped classes (not realizing just how many classes they'd skipped!) and now want to "save" their semesters.

So, I got to ride only for a short time after work on a sunny day that's the warmest we've had so far this year.  But I'm not complaining:  I had dinner and drinks with someone special.

Michele, one of my French friends, was in town with Alec--her new husband. She married him in September, not long after my trip to Paris in August.  Although I saw her then, I didn't get to see him.  He is charming and funny, just like all of those Frenchmen you've always heard about. 

Like Michele, he is recently retired, a few years earlier than most Americans.  (Gotta love the French system, huh?)  They actually met, they explained, when they were 18 years old and in Spain.  After returning to France, they went to school, took jobs, married and had kids by other people, and did all of those other things one does for about half of one's life.  And they got divorced. After being out of touch for 35 years, Michele said, he called her one day out of the blue.  But they didn't start dating until a number of years later.  Now they are ready to spend their lives traveling and enjoying each other's company, they said.

And, needless to say, I enjoyed theirs.  We promised that we'd "reconnaitre bientot"--get together again, soon! 

Another Long Lunch And Late Ride--And A Confession

Today I enjoyed another long lunch with another French friend I hadn't seen in a long time.  And I took another late bike ride.

I had seen Michele more recently than I'd seen Jay, but we agreed that it had been trope longue. Interestingly, my conversation with her--like my conversation with Jay--was not a sentimental repetition of temps perdus.  Rather, we picked up where we'd left off eight years ago, when she came to New York.

That is probably a good thing because, since we last met, the friend who brought us together--Janine--died.  Michele is nine years older than I am, as Janine was, so it's hard not to think of aging and mortality and other related topics.  That may be the reason why we didn't dwell on the past. 

She asked me the question she didn't ask when I told her, via e-mail, that I was coming to Paris.  I said, only half-jokingly, "Donald Trump sera le president."  She chuckled in the way one does when one could just as well sigh:  She knows that neither his election nor the prospect that it would drive someone like me out of my own country is out of the question.

Perhaps I shouldn't worry so much about The Donald going to Washington.  After all, he might make the White House look something like this:

I took that photo of the Versailles palace from about a kilometer up the road.  You can see all of that gold glitter from that far away. 

 

 

Yes, I rode there after Michele and I parted.  In this part of France, there's about half an hour more of light at the end of a summer day than there is In New York or other places at or near the 40th parallel.  All Paris museums are closed on Monday, as is the inside of the home of Le Roi Soleil. But the gardens around the palace were not and, having ridden there during two of my bike tours, I knew the trip would be pleasant.

 

 

 

I also had another motivation for taking the ride.  To tell you about it, I have to make a confession:  I am really a big magpie in a human body.  Why else am I drawn to glittery, shiny things and looking at my reflection in them?

 

 

 

Anyway, the gardens are interesting.  They're so formal that even this bird is all  dressed up. 

 

 

 

Maybe he's going to a party in Paris.

 

 

 

 

Can you beat that for a navigational aid?

  

 

 

 

A Night Ride And A Long Lunch

Today I didn't ride.  I didn't go to any museums.  I have what are, perhaps, reasons or excuses--depending on your point of view--for both.

One is that after I wrote yesterday's post, I took a late night ride into the wee hours of morning

and through a rainstorm I should have seen coming. Clouds thickened and skies darkened even before night fell; I guess I was fooled when hours passed and it hadn't yet begin to rain. 

I had just pedaled up the hill of Montmarte and was starting my descent of the Rue Ronsard when the la deluge a commence.

I zigged and zagged down the Right Bank streets and across the Pont de la Concorde faster than Lindsey Vonn on the slalom at Val d'Isere.  Then I dodged cars picking up and dropping off very fashionable (even by Paris standards) at cafes and nightclubs in the Latin Quarter.  By the time I got back to my apartment, I was soaked and giddy.  Despite the very late hour, it took me about an hour to fall asleep. 

Getting back so late from a bike ride meant, of course, that I woke up late.  It was probably just as well:  If I'd awakened earlier, I probably would have tried to do some shopping, drop into a gallery--or take another bike ride--before a lunch date with a friend I hadn't seen in eleven years. 

Even though dejeuner translates as "lunch", those two words don't mean remotely the same thing.  The French are known for long lunches during the week.  But on a Saturday that happens to be a fete nationale (L'assumption), dejeuner can fill any and all of the hours between the morning coffee and sundown.  At least, that we somehow managed to do that:  After we finished our crepes, we walked from the Montparnasse to St. Germain des Pres and St. Michel, crossing the bridge to l'Ile de la Cite (where the Notre-Dame Cathedral and Sainte Chapelle are located) into Beauborg and le Marais--stopping a couple of times along the way for coffee.

The walk was, I felt, as much a part of "lunch" as the crepes and coffee.  I wouldn't mind another lunch like it with Jay, my old friend.  I just hope I won't have to wait another eleven years for it.