Some of the more interesting experiences I've had were results of plans that changed unexpectedly. Something like that seems to be happening again.
I had expected to teach a short course for July and part of August. However, that course has been cancelled. C'est la vie. Also, the plans of a friend I was going to visit in Paris changed. I could have gone there anyway and spent my time walking or cycling the streets and lingering in the museums (especially the Rodin, Picasso and d'Orsay) and galleries. But, as I've lived in the City of Light and returned several times, I would have preferred to have done those things with my friend.
So, deciding I wanted some adventure in the time I had off this summer, I booked a trip to Prague.
Now I am trying to make a decision. You might have already guessed what it is. Should I:
- bring one of my bikes with me,
- rent a bike
- buy a bike there (I even thought about buying a cheap one and selling it or giving it away when I leave), or
- buy a cheap bike, bring it with me and leave it there?
I returned from my last European bike tour--in the Alps--a few weeks before 9/11. That was also the last time I brought a bike on a flight. Things were relatively simple then, at least on international flights. Passengers were allowed two checked pieces of luggage, with a maximum weight of 44 kilograms (70 pounds.) A bicycle in a box or carrier was counted as one of those pieces of luggage. Air France and KLM, in particular, were accommodating to cyclists (Are you surprised?) but I never had trouble on other carriers I used, including Air India, Tower Air (remember them?) or Laker Skytrain (R.I.P.)
Lately, though, I've heard some horror stories from people who brought their bikes on flights. They don't include what airlines charge for doing so. It seems that policies regarding such things are made in situ by whoever happens to be on duty.
As I'm spending ten days in Prague, and don't plan to spend all day every day on a bike loaded with panniers and such, I'm not quite as fussy about what I'll ride. I want it to more or less fit, of course, and to be at least reasonably satisfying (to me, anyway) to ride.
This is one time having a Brompton might have been handy. I thought about buying one a while back. But Hal, who set up my Mercians said that while he is satisfied with the quality of the bikes (Bicycle Habitat, in which he works, sells them.), he doesn't like the fact that they have proprietary parts that are necessitated by some of the nonstandard dimensions of the bike. Also, while some Brompton riders have told me they like their rides, what they and others have told me indicates that the bikes still have some of the qualities I disliked (some of which have to do with the ride) in folding bikes I've owned and ridden.
I guess I could stretch (and hopefully not blow) my budget and buy a Brompton. Or I could buy some less expensive folding bike. Or I could do one of the things I listed earlier in this post. Or I could stop beginning sentences with "or." Seriously, if you have any suggestions, please let me know.
P.S. I had intended to post this last night. But I had trouble with my Internet connection. I guess that's the price one pays for being cheap: My Internet connection is free.
What kind of person goes to a factory after work? (No, I'm not talking about The Factory!)
Better yet: What kind of person rides her bike to a factory in a skirt and heels?
All right, you know the answer to the second question. And if you know that, you know the answer to the first question, too.
Today, after work, I got on Marianela and didn't give a thought to anything else besides riding home. However, as they say in the old country, a funny thing happened along the way. I made a couple of "wrong" turns but still ended up within a few blocks of my place. But I wouldn't get there for another couple of hours.
The next thing I knew, I was climbing the stairs to the concrete ribbon that parallels the Randalls Island-bound traffic lanes on the RFK/Triborough Bridge. From there, I pedalled the asphalt and concrete maze to the Bronx-bound spur of the bridge, where I rode along the metallic-hued water and through a couple of parks that were more crowded than they normally are on a weekday, even at this time of year.
Somehow or another, I ended up at the Concrete Plant Park. I didn't object, even though I had no say in it. You see, Marianela wanted to go there. I don't take her on such long rides very often, but I know that her primary motive wasn't to stretch her downtube and spokes. Instead, I think she listened to Arielle, Helene and Tosca talk about the rides they took there, with me. Marianela knows that they're all really pretty in their Mercian paint color number 57 with white lug striping. But she was convinced, I think, that she would look even better than they did by the old concrete plant:
She may just be right. (Did I actually say that?) At any rate, it is one place where, I believe, she looks good.
If your navigational skills are anything like mine, even rides in familiar territory become adventures. Of course, I don't share that "dirty little secret" about myself when people tell me I have a sense of adventure.
The malfunction of my mental GPS came when I was trying to bring Lakythia to the promenade by the World's Fair Marina. I sometimes ride it on my way home from work. But we were approaching it from the opposite direction from my commutes. So, after a couple of wrong turns, we were riding in front of the Delta and American Airlines terminals at LaGuardia Airport.
We finally got to that promenade, though. And, at the end of it, we pedalled over a bridge that spans one of those bodies of water where a body or two might've been dumped among old car parts and wastes from the small factories along that body of water.
At least the bridge ends in Flushing, where there might be more good Asian food than in any other place in North America or, at any rate, the East Coast.
We shared a Korean hot pot containing, as you can see, lots of vegetables and some seafood. I found myself thinking about having fondues and raclettes at the ends of days spent cycling in the Alps. I saw two women, who appeared to be a mother and daughter, dipping pieces of vegetables and meat into the roiling stock.
The restaurant was not shy about using spices. That was fine with both Lakythia and me. Actually, at first I found myself complaining that the food was too hot--temperature-wise, not in terms of spices. But she pointed out something it doesn't take a college instructor to figure out (ha, ha): If you let the food cool a bit, eating it becomes easier. And the food is actually tastier.
My only complaint is that the sauce spattered on my tank top that matches the colors of my Mercians:
Well, that's what it looked like before it got spattered. Hopefully, the spots will come out in the wash. If they don't, I guess I'll have to go to Old Navy and hope they have another of these tops.
I'm not sure whether Lakythia didn't get spattered or was simply smarter in choosing the T-shirt she wore:
