Chapter 21

Riding the Rivieras

 

About 15 miles north of Valencia, I saw my first palm tree.   At 12 miles, I caught the first scent of sea breeze.  Valencia, Spain’s third-largest city, looked deserted.  El Cid liberated this city from the Moors in 1094 and died here five years later.  I rode on and soon found myself staring at the Mediterranean.   It was magnificent!  The longest word in the Spanish language said it too: superextraordinarisimo! (extraordinary!)   It was a expansive silken sheet, dark turquoise, undulating under a perfect blue sky. 

There was that expansive oceanic look about the Mediterranean that suggested it had always been here.  But that was apparently not the case.   A mere six million years ago, the collision of drifting continents – the African Continental Plate drifting north, periodically grinding against Europe – closed off what is now Gibraltar, cutting off the flow from the Atlantic.  Rapid evaporation caused the formation of a salt lake, more like a series of salt-encrusted pools in a vast searing desert.  As the land once again shifted, 5 million years ago, the straight broke open and water rushed in at 10,000 cubic miles per year, in cascades 1,000 times the size of Niagara Falls.   (Now that would have been one hell of a tourist spectacle!) Even at that rate, it would have taken 100 years to refill the basin.  The Mediterranean now contained over one million cubic miles of water, making it the world’s largest inland sea.

Melawend and I were riding along a stone wall.  I saw men in short sleeve shirts, fishing.  Leaning against the wall, I caught my first sight of a girl in a bikini.  I felt conspicuously overdressed in my thick riding jacket and scarf.

Melawend and I left the built up area of Valencia by the Puente de San José over the Turia at Tabérnes Blanques.  At Sugunto we passed under the Montes del Cid.   I saw a huge castle perched atop a high hill overlooking the sea and I promised myself I'd come back and see it someday when I had money.  We rode on through a continuous succession of villages.

This was the region of Valencia, a former kingdom of southwestern Spain, comprising the present provinces of Valencia, Alicante, and Castellón.  As we passed through it, we saw Valencia’s famed orange groves.  This reminded me of those Minute Maid orange juice commercials that featured Bing Crosby telling you that Minute Maid was made with Valencia oranges (albeit from Florida) and saying, "Well, there's no doubt about it."  There truly was no doubt about it: I was falling in love with the Mediterranean.

But now Melawend and I had left the sea.  The coast road passed through endless acres of orange groves.  The repetitive scenery, though so new to me, soon became boring except for the sight of a couple who were passionately kissing each other in a tiny car that was parked on a lane in one of the groves.  I had arrived at the Mediterranean but where had the sea gone?  I was anxious to put my backside blessedly to sand.  I found the sea once again at a place that had a rather suggestive name – Peñiscola.  The sun was getting low I searched for a campground.

Peñiscola had been founded by the Phoenicians and was well known to ancient geographers.  It had served as a Carthaginian bridgehead in the Iberian Peninsula.  The wide arc of the beach was studded by the usual row of hotels but the most impressive feature about the place was the Papal Palace and its 16^th century fortifications, which rested along the length of a promontory at the west end of the beach.  Part of El Cid was filmed here. There were also houses with terraces huddled together on a bluff separated by steep headlands.

My timing was more fortunate than purposeful, but I was now glad of it.  Touristy places along the Mediterranean could be pleasingly vacant in the off season, and it had only just begun when Melawend and I arrived.  Peñiscola was a small touristy city.  Behind the city were the barren Sierra de Irta Mountains with a few houses clinging to them, and there were orange groves, new high-rises and, in town, small cafés and restaurants.  I found a side road that had many campgrounds and I chose one with a plaque, a campground called "El Cid".

A low, white-painted block wall surrounded it.  It had trees, a swimming pool, a restaurant, a bar and a store.   Only the pool was open – the others were closed for the season.  There were separate charges for the camper, the vehicle and the tent: total, about $5.00 per night.  I met the manager, a round-waisted fellow in shorts, who was standing with a gray-haired man whose head reminded me of a bear.  The manager spoke German, Spanish and French.  He lived in one of the caravans.  He showed me prices.  I showed him my articles and explained my journey.  His wife spoke German and French.   They and another other middle-aged couples occupied caravans.  There were two deserted tents set up on the open grounds.

Just then, two French girls came in.  They were students of agricultural commerce from a university in Tours.  They were about eighteen.  Katrine was a busty girl who was about five feet tall, had dark hair and was deeply tanned.  Her face reminded me of a fish, but in a cute way.  She was pleasant.  Patricia had a soft look and was taller with long brown hair and hazel eyes.  They spoke English and Spanish and translated my offer of a campsite for two nights in exchange for any publicity I might be able to give the campground.   The stocky manager was quite agreeable.   I set up camp and found that I had left my waterproof flashlight, which I had bought back home at a Canadian Tire store, at Hotel Sur in Tarancon.

I spend much of the next morning at the campground writing a long letter to Girve Fretz (remember Girve? our happy representative in Ottawa?).   I wanted to determine if I could apply for a government grant for my global project-in-progress.  I thought that by now, I had proven the seriousness of my commitment.  I also caught up with my journals.  It was sunny and hot until mid-afternoon when it became very comfortable. I went into Peñiscola and finally found my first Mediterranean beach.

I parked Melawend at a waterfront café and walked around to the beach.  I sat down and marveled at the Papal Palace.  Peñiscola was a seaside resort and I saw the usual cabanas, cots and paddleboats along the beach.  It was late September and the beach had perhaps a quarter of the people you might have seen in the peak season.  Terrorism in Europe was also undoubtedly a factor.

I was distracted by the sight of a middle-aged woman about twenty feet away who stood up with a pink towel and wiped sand from her bottom.  She was topless.  She had blond hair and was deeply tanned except for swoops of lighter flesh around her erect nipples.

I swear I tried to avoid it but the lonely voyeur in me came out and I grabbed my camera.  I hunted for naked breasts.  But I also wanted to put my images in context with the place and would look for women with a backdrop of either the palace to the right or the curve of hotels to the left.  There were a few more topless girls most of whom were laying sunnyside down.

There was one exception.  She was off by herself, lying on her side on a towel with her back to me, reading a magazine.  She was tall and blond with her hair held back by several clips and a pink ribbon.  Her skin was smooth and flawless.  I walked nonchalantly toward the palace and glanced back.  She had large firm breasts to make the animal in a man (or the man in a nudie bar) slaver and howl, "Hooters!"  I guessed that she was German as I remembered what Uwe had said in Lahr.   She wore a one-piece striped bathing suit that was rolled down so that it covered only her pubic hair and the part of her rounded bottom.  A man that lay on a towel nearby seemed to be staring at her.  I took a few candid photos and then stood by the café, summoning the nerve to go over and talk with her.

I reminded myself that I was a serious photographer.  I was not only titillated by a girl's body but loved the exquisiteness of the female form and the play of light and shadow over its shape and texture.   I had admired the sensitive, evocative nude images produced by photographer David Hamilton.  This girl had it all and I was desperate to try some nude photography.

I clomped over to her.  I did not see her look up at me but at that moment, she rolled over onto her stomach and continued to read.  I knelt beside her.

"Hello," I said.  "Do you speak English?"

She shook her head without looking up from her magazine.

"What are you reading?" I said.

She did not respond.

"Beautiful day," I said.

She did not respond.

"This is a pretty setting."

She did not respond.

I was beginning to panic.  I cut to the chase.

"I'm sorry to bother you miss," I said.  "I'm a photographer." I fingered my camera nervously.   "I couldn't help noticing that you are such a beautiful girl.  I was wondering, may I photograph you?"

She shook her head no.

I said something corny like, "Okay.  Have a nice day."

My heart was racing with embarrassment.  I wondered if the people at a nearby beachside café were staring at me.  I stayed on the beach long enough to grab a shot of the high massive walls of the palace fortifications that stepped down to the edge of the sea.  Palm trees swayed above the top of the walls.  As I was about to shoot a composition that included the palace and the sea immediately between it and me, a girl walked shoreward from the surf and into my viewfinder.  She was tucking one of her big breasts back into the bra of her bikini.

As I headed back to Melawend I met a pretty Spanish girl in sneakers, cut-off jeans and a black T-shirt with "Copacabana" written across the chest.  She posed with me beside Melawend in front a coat of arms of Peñiscola, recessed into a wall of the café.

I was hungry so I went into a store to get bread with the intention of pigging out on peanut butter sandwiches.  It was not good to go food shopping on an empty stomach.  Instead, I splurged on pastry and an ice-cream cone.  Partly as self-imposed penitence, I went back to "El Cid" and did laundry, a win-win choice, I thought.

It was time to move on.  In the morning, I packed up, bought a loaf of French bread in Peñiscola and left the city.  Melawend and I headed up the coast toward France and Italy.  We rode through town after pretty little town: Benicarlo (pop 10,000), the chief town of small farming region (vines, olives), and Vinaroz (pop 10,000), with an artificial harbor in the Plana de Benicarló.  Now we were riding at the foot of the Sierra de Montsiá (2,500 feet) through to San Carlos de la Rápita.   We rolled past Amposta on the right bank of the Ebro, the chief town in the large Ebro delta (200 sq. miles), which was developed during past century as rice growing area.

We were now leaving the Levant and entering Catalonia, about 110 miles from Barcelona.    Tortosa honored brave women: in the reign of Ramón Berenguer IV, the women of Tortosa repelled a Moslem attack.  As a reward, the sovereign bestowed upon them the insignia of the Order of the Battleaxe and the privilege of preceding men at official ceremonies

(Order of the Battleaxe – sounds like a club for domineering wives.  Just kidding!)

At Amploa, we were at the foot of the Fangal Pass.  But again, where was the sea?  Finally, near Hospitalet de Tarrangona the road returned to it.  Melawend and I rolled smoothly along the Costa Dorada, which was being developed as a tourist area.

And more towns: Cambrils, about 12 miles from Tarronga, was a fishing village and a bathing resort that had ancient ramparts and a massive battlement tower.  Salou had a great beach and an old watchtower on a promontory.  Tarragona was on a hill overlooking the sea and had several large beaches.

On we went through La Rivera, Torredembarra and San Vincente de Calders.  About 30 km past Tarragona, we came upon peaceful Vendrell, the birthplace of Pablo Casals (1876-1973), the Grammy-winning Spanish cellist, conductor, composer, pianist, and humanitarian.  In an effort to promote world peace, he composed the oratorio El pesebre (The Manger, 1960), and conducted it around the world.).  The main road split here; Melawend and I stuck to the coast.

Onward we rode under sunny skies beside the blue Mediterranean through the resorts of Calafell and Segur.  We skirted north of Stiges, a resort town that was noted for its white houses, flowers and palm-fringed beach and which reputedly one of the best climates in Europe.  Around it were the mountains of the Garraf and the Ordal massifs, protecting it from cold north winds.  The road kept to the coast through to Barcelona.

We arrived in sprawling Barcelona in mid-afternoon.  I asked a few times where I could find the via Augusta but no one understood me.  I found it on my own and just caught sight of the Canadian Coat of Arms the doorway of a building.  I did not see the customary flag.  A fat guy who did not speak English explained with a note that the consulate was open only from 10:00 to 1:00.  I could not conduct business here.  This was terrible.   I had to get my letters out.  It meant that I would have to rush to our next office, in Marseilles.  I sped out of Barcelona.  But there was one particular place in between that I would not forego – because of my quest for Her (we’ll get there in a moment).

Just as Manhattan could be intimidating to a newcomer, so could it be to non-Spanish-speaking rider on a heavy-laden scooter arriving in Spain’s main commercial and industrial centre and one of the Mediterranean's busiest ports.  Traffic was intense.

A decisive battle of the Spanish Civil War was fought at Barcelona in 1939 when the Nationalists defeated the Loyalist occupiers.  An eyewitness wrote of the horror surrounding a school that had been bombed by Franco’s forces:

"We managed to extricate only ten complete bodies.  All the others had been blown to pieces.  It was atrocious.   I saw one of the attendants recover a small blond head.  Others picked up what might have been the feet of little angels.  Not a single child who had been in the school was still alive."

(But you could not judge a place by its past.  Every place, it seemed, had its tragic histories and there was no accurate predicting of its future.  For example, take once-beautiful Sarajevo, in the now former Yugoslavia.  It had hosted the Winter Olympic Games in 1984.  Who then could have imagined the city shattered just a decade later by Boznia’s civil war?  Or believed the world’s ineptitude in dealing with it?  Barcelona would be the world’s happy host of the 25^th Olympic Games in the summer of 1992.  But these things were in the future.)

I was simply intimidated by Barcelona’s traffic and frustrated by my lack of planning for my visit here.   I wanted to speed out of Barcelona and get to France.  I told myself that I would come back to Barcelona someday if only to spend a day admiring Antoni Gaudi's masterpiece and the posthumous continuation of his life's work – the towering Sagrada Familia Temple.  Gaudi had spent the last 35 years of his life working on it, until he was struck down by a trolley car at the age of 74.  (He was unidentified for some time and died in pauper's accommodations at the Hospital de Sant Pau i de la Santa Creu, near his beloved temple.  He is buried in the crypt.) As Melawend and I rolled on the straightest path through the city, I could see the extremely ornate spires of the Apostles rising up over 500 feet into the sky.  In this 124th year after its beginning (it was begun in 1882 – he took over in 1891), Gaudi’s masterpiece remained unfinished.

Onward we rode, finally reaching the desired place – Lloret de Mar and the beginning of the Costa Brava – the “wild coast” – sharply indented, rocky, with many steep promontories.  Much of it could not be reached by car, only by boat.  It stretched for 125 miles from Lloret de Mar to the estuary of the Riu Tordera near Blanes to the French Border.

Peñiscola had given me the first taste of the uninhibited Mediterranean and a reminder of Uwe's postcards of Lloret de Mar, this Catalonian resort on the Costa Brava.  Lloret de Mar was a congested tourist city of 15,000 that had a seasonal population of about 100,000.   It looked like an exciting place with lots of nightlife, but for me, this time, it was too busy and looked too expensive so Melawend and I rode on.  I found a fantastic campground that switch-backed its way up a steep forested mountain to terraced campsites that overlooked the sea.  This was Camping Canyelles.  It had its own disco, bar, huge store, pools, cottages, and villas and was pleasingly landscaped.

I talked with a beautiful blonde-haired blue-eyed assistant manager who looked like Anne Murray.  She was wearing a wedding ring.  Her English was fair.   She was friendly and explained that I could ask the manager about a publicity/campsite exchange when he returned.  She left and I kept company with two girls: dark-featured Teresa, who had come in with her infant son and Carmen, another girl who worked here.  We talked about American television.

"Have you heard of the TV series The Colby's?" I asked.

"Oh yes," Teresa said.  "Mr. Heston is a very good actor."

About an hour later, the manager drove in.  Carmen called his office and he came to the reception room.  His name was Antonio Rodrighez and he looked like a Spanish version of Gavin Macleod who played the captain on the TV series, The Love Boat.  He marveled at Melawend, liked the concept of my journey, and wanted to know how much helping me would cost them. 

I would stay two nights.

"If you come back this way on your journey around the world, you are welcome to stay here again," he said.

Camping Canyelles was to close in two weeks, and it was crowded with what I determined were mostly German tourists.  I found a high campsite near the pool with a fine view of the sea.  I set up camp and began to drift off, listening to sea breezes whispering through the pines.  How I wished I had Her to share this with.  But I was beginning to wonder if my personal longings would compromise the overall purpose of my journey.

I was low on money and I placed a lot of hope in my grant-seeking letter to Girve.  I had completed 23 exchanges so far and felt the mission was beginning to prove itself. 

(Nothing would come of this application.)

As Fort Erie was also a waterfront quasi-resort town with a big seasonal population difference, I decided to try for an exchange with Lloret de Mar.  This was also the largest hotel and residential centre of the Costa Brava.  I packed up and headed into town try to meet the Aculda (mayor).  I found the 19^th century Casa de la Vila (Town Hall) and learned that he would be in during the afternoon.  I walked along the normally bustling, promenade Passeig del Mar, which was thickly lined with palm trees.   I walked down to the beach. It was overcast and windy but there were still many of people here.  I parked Melawend, bought an apple pastry and shopped for nudie postcards.  I walked along the coarse sand of the beach to the rocky headland and along the much traveled path to a rock where upon which stood the bronze Dom Mariana, a full-figured girl who seemed to be forever looking out to sea for her lover.

On the way back, I saw a couple walking in the heaving surf as it swept up from an azure basin over a steep slope of wet sand.  The couple smiled and jumped as the waves buffeted their legs.   They saw me aim my camera at them and I shot them in retreat.

Back on the main beach, I saw several topless girls lying on the sand.  I saw girls stripping off their tops with the same nonchalance as you take off your socks to walk on the sand.   Most of them were fair-haired, from northern Europe and Scandinavia.  Two girls were particularly attractive.  One rose and slipped on a terry top.  The other was lying on her stomach and was virtually nude, with only a two stings emerging from the crevasse the most voluptuous derrière I thought I had ever seen.  The lonely guy in me was horny wanted to preserve this image, but before I could raise my camera, she sat up and put on a robe.  I was the only person on the beach carrying a camera, a rather obvious black one made bulky with the attached motordrive.  A few people stared at me.

I sat for a time on the low concrete wall behind the beach and looked at the topless girls.  Uwe had been right about Lloret de Mar.  I considered just how horny a guy could become sitting here.  And how lonely.  Seeing so many naked girls relaxing in these beautiful, if touristy places only reaffirmed feelings I got in strip bars.  After a while, all you saw were a lot of anonymous tits and asses.  The experience teased your fantasy but blunted the edge of true desire.  Or maybe it served to reinforce it – seeing part of what you were missing. 

I returned to the Mayor's office and joined other people who were waiting for him, bearing gifts.  He had several appointments.  I waited for over an hour.  There were tall two glass display cases filled with previous mayoral offerings from dignitaries of other cities – cups, mugs, plaques, statues and etched pewter plates.  Three people people were waiting to see the mayor, bearing a plaque of Essen, Germany.  I felt rather silly with my letters, postcards and town pin.

"Do you get many North American visitors?" I asked the Manager for Tourism.

"No.  It is because of the cost of getting here."

Maybe North Americans had not truly discovered Lloret de Mar, I thought.

He took my signature book into the mayor's office.  Though I never saw Aculda Josep Sala i Montero, my book came back stamped and signed by him.  I saw of photo of the boyish-looking mayor and his signature in a tourist booklet – the signature in The Odyssey Book was the same. 

The weather had worsened when I left the mayor's office.  Winds swept the sea into whitecaps and there were only a few people left on the beach.  There were no more bare-breasted girls.

I sat for a time on the beach.  It was late afternoon and people were leaving, though the weather had improved.  Just fifteen feet away, there was a pretty girl with shaggy blonde hair, wearing a white top and shorts.   She was lying on her elbow alone of the sand near the water’s edge, looking obliquely back toward the town.  It made for a nice image.  Click.  I had just about summoned the nerve to go over and talk with her when she spun completely around and smiled.  But the smile was not for me.  She rose abruptly and left.  She had noticed her boyfriend who was waving to her from the promenade.

Being in Lloret de Mar was also one of the lonelier times yet on the journey.

At a beachside shop I bought my nudie postcards.  These cost about ten cents each.  British-made Kodachrome cost about $13 a roll.  I stopped at a grocery store and bought bread, jam, chocolate spread and fruit.  I returned to Camping Canyelles.  Teresa smiled and said there would be no problem in my staying for another night.

I set up camp on the same high terraced site as the wind came up.  It was brisk but mild.  It put me in mind of riding on Melawend and I thought of how her name has an appropriate sound, like "mellow wind".  I thought of how beautiful the Mediterranean was.  No nudie postcards, no brochure, nothing prepared me for the experience of actually being here.  It was a bit like just seeing images of a beautiful naked girl and actually touching her.  The tingling feel of the sea air, the deep saturated colors of the sea, the human architectural touch that clung to the edge of it like a necklace of pretty shells.  I felt so lucky to be here.

Most of the campsites were taken but were presently vacant.   This made you wary of anyone who remained in camp.  Three "Italian stallions" came over to my site as I was taking some self portraits in camp with the Canadian flag I had been given in Lahr hung from a light pole as a backdrop.  They spoke in broken English but their eyes looked greedily at Melawend and my gear.  A black nylon cover concealed Melawend but they were determined to see her.  I felt like I was lifting my wife's skirts for some leering assholes, but how could you feel that way about a machine?  They smirked and commented to each other in Italian.  Their attitude seemed to suggest – Ah, mucho lire!  And where do you keep your money?  It was someone in Germany who had said to watch out for Italians: "They will rob you blind."  The guys went on their way.

I had wanted to check out the nightlife in Lloret de Mar.   Regardless of the perceived motives of these visitors to my camp, I knew theft was not limited by nationality – I always feared for Melawend and my belongings.  I stayed in camp.  I had not felt this way when I left Melawend unattended for over two hours across from city hall.  But in this virtually deserted campground, I felt handicapped.  I resolved to find ways during the journey to secure Melawend and the gear so I could get out more.

During the night the wind blew harder.  It began to rain.  The rain softened the gravel and Melawend toppled against the side of the tent.  To stabilize Melawend, I put the feet of her center stand inside my running shoes.

It was still raining in the morning and the Mediterranean was gray under the bleak sky.  The high wind blew up huge waves on the beach at Lloret de Mar.  Large stones had been hurled up on the beach.  As my feet crunched in the gravelly sand, I did some beach combing; collecting shells that had been washed ashore.  I was soaked but I loved the mildness and the caress of the swift air.  There was only one other soul on the beach – a girl who was holding a pink umbrella tight to her head, watching the breakers smash against the rock headland where the Dom Mariana kept her timeless vigil.  It was time for me to go.

I rode east along the rugged coast, weaving up and down high switchbacks.  The sky broke heavily as I rode beyond Canyelles.  Red soil rivered across the road and I swerved around rocks that had tumbled down from the slopes.  When I could, I took in the magnificent vistas of the Mediterranean.

The rain subsided when I reached a high viewpoint that looked high over the pretty little resort town of Tossa.  I parked and took photos of the sea and the breakers smashing against the rocky headlands that cradled Tossa and its 12^th century fortifications.  A car pulled up and after a moment a beautiful blonde-haired girl got out.

"That is a very large load you have on your scooter," she said with a German accent.  "Are you going far?"

"Around the world."

"That is amazing!" she said.

She waved at someone in the car and a man got out.  But as he headed toward us, rain poured down and they hustled back into their car.

I continued along coast road, whose rugged beauty was awesome even in the rain.  At San Feliu de Guixois, I left the sea and promised myself I would drive that coast again.  We passed through Gerona, the "town of a thousand sieges".  As we rolled on through the rain along the main highway toward the French border, I felt I was back in Ontario, again on some featureless green swath of highway.  Near Figueras, I sheltered under a busy overpass and ate bread and jam.

I passed through two checkpoints as I left Spain for France.   On the Spanish side, I was simply waved through.  Going into France, I went through two booths and at the last I was asked for my passport.  "Vous allez?"   I changed the rest of my Spanish and British money.  I was in French part of Catalonia.  The region was split between Spain and France by the Peace of the Pyrenees, 1659 when the main ridge of the Pyrenees was declared the boundary between France and Spain. At Narbonne, the sky cleared.  My destination was Sète or thereabouts on the coast.  I took the N112 at Béziers and headed for Cap d'Agde.

Between the Cape and Sète, the map showed a strip of land no wider than the red line that marked the road.  To the north was a body of water called the Elg de Thau and to the south was the open Mediterranean.  I was not prepared for what I encountered.  The road was just a few feet above sea level.  There were no trees on either side of the road.  Wind roared in off the sea at about 50 miles per hour.  It whipped up salt spray and sand so thick it looked like a golden version of a winter "white out" across a road in North America.  Melawend and I started across.  I was forced to lean her heavily toward the Mediterranean.  At times, I could not see ten feet in front of Melawend.  All the 15 miles or so of this terrestrial tightrope, I was afraid the wind would pick Melawend and me up and hurl us into the Elg.  I felt I was fighting the force of a massive sandblaster.  The biting sticky spray plastered Melawend, my clothes and my visor.   But Melawend held the road and we reached the shelter of Sète.

We rode through Sète.  The city was pretty and touristy but it seemed cluttered and busy and it reeked of fishing and industry.

Camp was found at last at Camping D'oc, a walled compound just off the main road outside Frontenac.  I met the manager; a 50ish man with red-gray hair combed back and a moustache.

"Un nuit?" he said, in exchange for some publicity.  "Oui."

I set up under trees by the washrooms and did laundry.  I saw a girl's towel, bikini and panties drying on a line nearby and felt hopeful.

I was lucky to pack up a dry tent the next morning.  The overcast sky held until I reached Montpellier, and then it broke.  Just northeast of the city, I jogged west toward Arles and rode across lands as flat and open as the Canadian prairies.  There was no evidence of crops in the stony soil.  There were some sheep by barns of stone.

I reached bustling Marseilles.  As in most cities, it was an ask-point-and-go process – I would ask directions of someone who did not speak English, they would simply point and I would go.  By noon, I found the consulate on the Avenue du Prado.  As in Barcelona, all I noticed was a Canadian Coat of Arms in an entryway at the consulate, there was no flag.  Fabienne Cordera made some photocopies for me.  Madeleine Castelluccio, Public Affairs Adjointe de Programe talked about her time with the CBC in Montreal and Ottawa.  She got married in Canada and then moved here.  She did not like Marseilles but she loved France.  I was allowed to make a collect call to Dad but his answering machine would not accept the call. (Inventors: an answering machine that will selectively accept collect calls is still needed).  I wanted to use a typewriter so I could send to Girve a more formal application for a grant, but I was not allowed into the secured areas of the consulate.

I told Madeline about the German and Canadian Friendship Association in Lahr and asked about its counterpart in Cannes (Denise had told me about them).   She pursed her lips.

"They are a rich and snobbish group, mostly rich retired French," she said.  "There is a division between us because we could not send a delegate to a large function the association was holding.  It was a very busy time for us.  They were quite put out.  But the only reason they called us is because they could not get someone to come from Paris."

I learned the name of the wealthy founder.  I had the name of the president and decided I would still like to meet them.

I thanked Madeline and Fabienne and left to mail some letters: to penfriends in Malaysia and Japan, to two families I had visited along the way, and I sent a package to Melanie and Wendy.  I left Marseilles in late afternoon.  The sky had cleared and I rode in golden light along the D559 through beautiful coastal mountains.  Melawend and I passed through a canyon of white rock that reminded me of Dover.   We rode on to Toulon.  I would love to have stayed in this pretty city but the sun was setting and I needed to find a place to camp.   Just east of the city, we came to Hyères.

I found Le Vallon du Soleil Tennis Club, a sprawling complex that had a large area for camping.  The manager was in the office/house.  He did not speak English but through a young guy who translated, he welcomed my journey and said I could camp anywhere.

"He says perhaps he will see you later at the clubhouse," the young guy said.

I found several trailers set up on stony ground and decided to camp near them to have the security of company for the night.  I set up and walked down to the dimly lit clubhouse.  It was perhaps too early to be there.  The manager was behind the bar.  A man and a busty woman sat on stools at the bar.  Otherwise, the place was empty.  I said hello to the manager who simply smiled and nodded.  I was glad of this because I had felt obliged to meet him and talk about the journey, to justfy my being here.  And I was simply tired out and hungry.  I drifted back to camp.

There was a family living in a mobile home across the stony lane from my tent.  The home was on a foundation.  There was a child’s swing set beside it and a dog was leashed to a wooden deck.  The father came by my tent.  He had gray hair combed back and a moustache.  His teenage daughter was with him and she spoke some English.

"My father says if you have any problems, you come toute suite."

Later, the father came to my campsite.

"C'est tres froid!" he said.  He gestured shivering, then eating, "Mange...tomato."

He left and returned about three minutes later with a plate full of macaroni with tomato sauce, a big piece of chicken and some bread.  He gave it to me, smiled and returned to his mobile home.

It was sunny the next morning and I drove along another superb stretch of mountainous coastal road.  Melawend and I rode stately into the elegant resort town of St. Tropez, the place the ancient Greeks had called Athenopolis but now carried the name of the saint who was beheaded by the Romans.  I had seen TV commercials advertising the "St. Tropez tan" and it was here to be seen on the bodies moving amid the huge flotilla of expensive yachts and cigarette boats.  An international race was to be held and the harbour was full of spotless sailing yachts with young tanned crews.  These were the bronzed "beautiful people", the "jet set", and the "idle rich" I had heard about. 

Melawend and I rode along narrow streets just off the harbour.   We passed tiny restaurants fronted by sidewalks that were only one-person wide.  I parked and then photographed Melawend among other scooters, motorcycles and curbside flowerpots just to say that I had been in a more intimate part of St. Tropez.  A silver Porsche whizzed by.

I parked Melawend by the harbour with other motorcycles along a black-painted chain-and-post barrier.  This side of the harbour was a forest of masts.  I dug out my cameras and photographed the flotilla of sailing yachts.  They were magnificent creations.  The wood craftsmanship on some of them was superb.  I could only imagine how much these boats were worth.  Many of the crews sported uniforms of designer shirts and shorts.   And there were several girls sitting alone by the gangways, just looking at the boats and the men.

When I returned to Melawend, a beefy, bearded young American in khaki shirt and pants met me.  His name was Kenny Baker and he was from Cincinnati, Ohio.  He had brought his shiny red BMW from the US.  His wife had flown back home a week ago.  He was going to ride back to Paris and fly back home.

"It's great to speak with someone who understands English," he said.

He said that a Canadian airline had flown him and his bike to Europe, on a return ticket, for only $1,000.  He said he owned a dealership that serviced Mercedes, Volvos and other luxury imports.   He also had an elegant 38-foot Riva, a polished mahogany "dream boat" made by the Moroccan company in the late 1930's.

We walked around, looking at the yachts.  He pointed out a sleek cigarette boat that was powered by twin 12-cylinder Lamborghini engines.  The harbour was studded with wealth.

"I'm going to stay in St. Tropez for a few days," he said.   "Are you going to be around?"

"No, I'm heading on to Cannes today."

"That's too bad.  It's difficult not having someone to speak English with."

Melawend and I followed the narrow, twisting and sometimes bumpy coast road.  You were often back from the sea but there were many vistas to behold – the road winding along the shoulders of the hills of red rock and greenery, the coastline studded with exquisite villas with soothing views, and the craggy headlands and always the dramatic deep color of the sea.  These were the Esterel Mountains, the red porphyry rocks of the Estrel Massif, rising up from the sea between St. Raphael to the west and Cannes to the east.  The road here was called the Corniche de l’Estrel.  It ran through the resort of Loulouris, past the impressive Cap du Crammont and the village of Agay.

On one sharp curve, just beyond a place where a speeding train hugged the high road, we came upon a white two-seat Bugati that was parked on the narrow shoulder.  A large trunk was strapped to a rack just behind the seats.  I took photographs of it but saw no one around.  I imagined a couple, attired in loose silky clothes, had scrambled down the slope to a sheltered nook over the azure inlet for a picnic of some bubbly and some caviar…  I envisioned that Robin Leach and his Lifestyles and the Rich and Famous crew had scrambled down there with them to record their private getaway so as to inspire our own “champagne wishes and caviar dreams”.  

Ah, the good life!

I continued along the coast road, riding through layback villages and past beaches where topless girls walked along as carefree as the Mediterranean sun.  If a lonely guy did not keep one eye on the twisting road, I thought, he could get mangled in an accident here.

At last, I reached Cannes, home of the world’s most famous film festival, and playground for the rich and famous.  I was a vagabond on a heavy-laden scooter and at once I began to feel terribly out of place.

I rode along the Allées de la Liberté, a pretty tree-lined street along the north side of the Vieux Port (Old Port).  On the far side of the Vieux Port, I saw the cream-colored Palais des Festivals where the stars landed on earth.  Inside there were 3 large auditoriums, 11 conference rooms, 2 exhibition halls, a casino, a nightclub and a restaurant.  The toast of movie makers boasted the most modern technical apparatus including sound studios, simultaneous interpretation arrangements, audio-visual equipment and large projectors.

(I would see none of these, but the Palais would play a key role in my stay in Cannes.)

At the western end of the Allees I found the Hôtel de Ville (built between 1874-76) and the office of the Cannes Chamber of Commerce, but it would be closed until 12:30.  From here, I called the founder of the France-Canada Society but he spoke no English.  A dark-haired girl named Anna was standing nearby she obliged me by acting as translator.  He said I should speak to the president of the club, Mr. Mouling, the one I was told about in Marseilles.   Mr. Mouling was agreeable to a meeting, and suggested he could meet me for a drink at the club at the new harbour on Saturday.

I would love to have stayed for weeks in Cannes.  Vagabond though I was, the elegant relaxed ambiance struck me immediately.  I toured the old harbour and rode past the Palais des Festivals.  Melawend and I rolled stately along the elegant Boulevard de la Croisette.  It was soothingly lined with palm trees and gardens.  We rode past shops with names that included Cartier and Gucci.   A more daring crusader might have sought a sponsored stay at the gleaming white hotels, like the Carlton.  One could have imagined a ruffled Indiana Jones striding confidently under the clock above the columned entrance, go up to the manager with the casualness of familiarity and say, "Hello Jacques, I need a room."  The manager would snap his fingers, bellboys would escort Indy to an elegant sea-view suite where he would shower, shave and emerge in a tux, just in time for a night on the town.  I was not Indiana Jones, nor was I a famous actor like Harrison Ford.  Though I saw a few backpackers walking on La Croisette, I felt conspicuously out of place with the many people that were walking around in designer clothes by these wedding-cake hotels and the expensive cars that were parked along the boulevard.

I left Cannes and secured a free camp in near Mougins, which was once home to Pablo Picasso.  He loved it here.  But we may not have had Picasso had it not been for one of his uncles.  A midwife who thought baby Pablo was stillborn had abandoned him on a table.  The uncle noticed the baby struggling for air and saved his life.

Picasso had also been a "struggling artist" – so poor early in his career that he burned some of his drawings to keep warm.  Maybe that was one reason he became so prolific.  As the artist who became the most famous artist during his lifetime, moreso than any other artist in history, Picasso produced 13,500 paintings, 100,000 prints, 34,000 book illustrations and 300 sculptures and ceramics.  A 1980 exhibition filled New York's MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) and he was the first living artist to have a showing at the Louvre.  When most artists lived in poverty, Picasso enjoyed a wealthy lifestyle.  It was said that if he wanted to buy a house, all he had to do was draw a picture of it – the print would be more valuable than the house.  Picasso died in 1973 in his villa, Notre-Dame-de-Vie, near Mougins.

At Mougins, I found myself at an elegant villa estate campground, Les Lentisque.  It had shady lanes and a swimming pool.  I felt extremely fortunate when I obtained a sponsored stay here.  But what could I do in a place like Cannes?

The next morning, I rode into Cannes and confirmed my meeting with Mr. Moulins at three o'clock.  We would have a drink at the Porto Conto Club.  I had time to look around.  I parked Melawend and walked along the fabulous palm-line Boulevard de la Croisette. 

I took photos of the yachts moored in the old harbour.  I took photos of the Palais des Festivals and the old hotels.  Cannes was itself a movie set, but whole and real.  I took photos of retired people who were sitting on benches, watching youth strut by.  I walked out by Porto Canto, the new harbour, and took shots of the yachts, wondering what it would be like to own one and to cruise the coastline of the Mediterranean. 

Along the edge of Parc de la Roseraie, I took photos of two virtually nude shapely girls who were sunning themselves incongruously on large rugged rocks that lined the shore.  The backdrop was the deep blue of the Mediterranean and the elegant curve of beach and hotels along la Croisette.  One of the girls lay bottoms up, while the other lay sunny-side up.   What a frustrating yet hopeful sight this was for the poor and lonely guy to behold.  I sat there for a time and then went back to the main part of the boulevard.

The main hotels had beachside restaurants, cabanas and lounge chairs on the beach.  There were legions of umbrellas anchored in the sand: pink ones, yellow ones, ones with white and blue panels, each legion representing a different hotel.  And everywhere there were topless women of all ages: fat ones, skinny ones and big bouncing babes who looked like they just stepped out of a Playboy photo session.

I wanted a break in my diet and what better place than in such a gastronomic haven as Cannes.  I had been eating either bread with peanut butter or bread with jam (to stretch them out).   I splurged and bought a slice of pizza for $1.50.

I found a spot on the sands of the Plage de la Croisette, a public beach between the Palais and the diagonal boundary of the Parc de la Roseraie, and sat on the sand behind a statuesque girl with satiny brown hair.  She was lying topless on a towel.  Her ears were wired to a walkman.  She leaned up on one elbow to see a huge white yacht as it pulled up near the beach and drop anchor.  In front of the girl was an old gentleman in a cap who was sunbathing on a towel and reading a magazine.   My camera lens brought the three images together as one composition. 

Click.

Seated on a towel about 20 feet to my right was a trim, pale, dark-haired young guy.  He was wearing a gray bathing suit and a stern expression – Jan Michael Vincent with black hair and exceptionally hairy armpits.  He watched as new girls came to the beach and removed their street clothes, and he looked particularly at the statuesque girl who lay in front of me.  He had the look of a troubled young executive or a truly "serious" actor.   Whatever, his look made him seem not predatory but stoical to the beauty that surrounded him.  Why was he here?  But this was only a superficial impression.  Perhaps he had just had an argument with his girlfriend.  Maybe someone close to him had died tragically and the cruelty of life had left its mark.   Maybe he was a mean son-of-a-bitch.  Who was to say?  After half an hour, he got up and walked away.

I saw all these people baking themselves in the sun and perhaps taking on the heavy price for tanning that was skin cancer.   But this could also have been an entrepreneurial single’s gold mine if he or she came here with bottles of expensive sunscreen and offered to apply it for a fee.

I met with Mr. Moulin in the parking lot of the Porto Conto.   I had come expecting a similar welcome and maybe even such hospitality as I had received from the friendship club in Lahr.  What a hell of a letdown this was!   We stood by Melawend and I asked him questions about his association.   His answers were brief.  Their get-togethers were for parties, dinners, dances or monthly meetings.  I had to ask questions just to keep conversation moving.

I had been told that this group was mainly a bunch of rich snobbish French retirees and that there were perhaps only six Canadian members out of 130 members.  Their objective, it appeared, was to get freebies.  In the beginning, the Canadian Embassy helped fund their activities, including free trips for all to Canada.   But when the funding stopped, membership dropped to 16.  To me, this said something about the club's true motivations.  It was said the club was started by someone who wanted to see Expo '67 in Montreal in the worst way but did not have the money to go.  He determined that if he had had Canadian friends he would have been able to go.  So he started this club.  That was what I had heard.  I wanted to learn for myself.

But it was obvious I had little to offer the club.  Our brief conversation began and ended in the parking lot.   Mr. Moulins walked away and into the club.   The invitation for a drink was not honored.

This left me feeling a little insecure about being in Cannes, in the same way I had let Denise’s comments make me feel in Paris.  It also made me a bit prejudiced against the wealthy citizenry of Cannes.  This was unfair, of course, but it left me a little shy to pursue my diplomatic mission.  Cannes attracted the world's elite, the people who had earned or at least lived a life that most people around the world only dreamed about.  Its famous film festival represented one of the two top venues of recognition for creative achievement in movies that touched the whole world.  Megabuck movie deals were also made here.  I felt that I was Sonny NoBucks.

People came here to get noticed.  I wanted to hide. 

Cannes was the film world’s busiest marketplace.  You had true cinematic artists, B-movie hawkers and topless starlets all seeking recognition.  It was the naked stage of the cinematic play.  But it was also serious business and the Festival that hosted this play, in July, had staged its 39^th production.

I should have been here the next year, 1987, for its 40^th anniversary.  It had been a grabber.

Elizabeth Taylor, her restored hourglass figure sheathed in red, arrived fashionably but irritatingly late for the red-carpet ceremony marking the festival’s 40^th anniversary.  The crowd booed her when she alighted from her limousine.

French director Maurice Pialat caused a scandal at the otherwise gentile 40^th anniversary.  He was among the most professionally revered and personally reviled of France's movie auterus.  Amid the derisive whistles and catcalls when accepting the award of Palme d'Or from presenter Catherine Deneuve, who pleaded futilely for the mob to give the director a chance to defend his honour, Pialat was delighted.  'If you don't like me," he proclaimed, "I can tell you, I don't like you either."

On the day that Princes Diana and Prince Charles arrived for the festival, it was announced that American screen legend Rita Hayworth had died. This was poignant reminder that the only immortality was on the screen – these icons, created by the roles they played and the media that promoted them, were flesh and blood, like the rest of us.

I would also not be here for the festival in 1987 that bore elements of peace promotion.   One was the Japanese director announced; "I would like to work for peace."  William Wenders, who picked up the director's prize for his daunting, sentimental fantasy The Wings of Desire, gave another.  He said, "If we can improve the images of the world, perhaps we can improve the world."

Well, I had missed 1986's festivities and things seemed relatively quiet in Cannes.  There were no obvious celebrities here.  I decided to stay one more day because the 13^th Annual Congress of Energy was to be held at the Palais des Festivals the next day and both President Mitterand and Prime Minister Jacques Chirac would be flying in by helicopter.  10,000 policemen were on hand to see to security.

And I wanted a day just to be anonymous in Cannes, with no meetings.  I just wanted to be a tourist and soak up a little of its outdoor atmosphere.  I also wanted to approach one of the topless girls here to see if one would model for me.  I was given another night at restful Les Lentignes.

I had a lot of mixed thoughts and feelings in Cannes:

·         feeling that I was so white on a beach when a bronzed topless girl looked at me such that I felt out of place and that I needed a tan to acclimatize myself for hotter countries;

·         feeling like I ought to send extra clothes back to Canada, and that I needed light colored clothes;

·         on taking pictures – feeling that I needed to conserve film yet needing to get the scene because I’m here now, and things often enter a scene moments after a shot and makes it better and of course requires another shot;

·         thinking that in Africa and India I should join up with a group, like the Red Cross, in exchange for security and transport;

·         thinking of Iphegenia in Athens (yes, another penfriend);

·         needing a place to prepare Melawend and myself for Africa;

·         remembering Scotland, and northern Europe and how I dreamed of being here, and now here, the pervasive feeling that I had to keep moving;

·         thinking of sponsors, what they had given and what they would get out of this;

·         feeling my loneliness and listening to my pre-recorded music to keep me going.

I had a lot on my mind.  I thought of the beach and of seeing a lot of people alone, of seeing a lot of well-tanned people so nonchalant about their nudity.  I saw one couple get up to go for a walk, he in very brief trunks, she in a string bikini bottom and nothing else.  There were all those different shapes and sizes, hard bodies and flabby bodies – one woman old and fat and all rolls; another woman was completely nude, perhaps in her forties, her man was blocking her from behind; and one particularly beautiful blonde who wore her hair up, perhaps to show off her high firm breasts as she strutted along the beach.  The atmosphere was rich, uninhibited and layback.  I spent a lot of time just looking, thinking, taking photos and making notes.

I began not to care if I was rejected here.  I saw lots of scooters parked everywhere, any place you could fit them, pulled right up beside a phone booth and such.  I saw people riding scooters, old and young (including some very beautiful girls).

And being in Cannes, I realized how much I missed movies – I had not gone to a cinema since I left Canada.

(And I would go without for almost a year – until I reached Singapore.)

I looked at yachts: many were from England: London and Southampton.  I saw one from Kuwait, and many from Riviera: Nice and Cannes.  I saw a huge blue and white one off by itself beside a breakwater – the Carinthia VI.

I returned to Porto Conto the next morning. There was a skinny mustachioed old man sitting on the rocks by the port, fishing.  He suddenly stood up and swore.  A snorkel diver with a speargun had just surfaced where his line was in the water.

I made my way toward the old harbour to photograph the yachts there.  Standing on la Croisette across from the Carlton, I saw an old sailing ship coming out of the haze over the sea.   It was a pirate galleon!  On its prow was a huge full-body figurehead of, I guessed, a nearly naked, bearded and crowned Poseidon, so huge as to be a grotesque caricature.  But the ship was magnificent, a ghost of the past, coming out of a fog – the look was pure Hollywood.  It headed for anchorage near the lighthouse on the old harbour.

As I walked behind yachts along the Old Harbour, I saw a middle-aged woman wearing a loose white top that had a delicate blue pattern.  Fleshy cheeks extruded from her bikini bottom. 

"Bon jour,” I said in passing.

She smiled and we exchanged introductions and pleasantries.   I was struck by her immediate friendliness.   Her name was Genevieve Rey and she was a dressmaker from Nice.  She had short graying hair, a deep tan and a vivacious smile.   She put me in mind of the actress Anne Baxter.  

"You luke like a schoolboy," she said.

Her comment warmed my heart.  

We walked over to the pirate ship to take photos of it.  The ship had been used in Roman Polanski's movie, Pirates, which starred Walter Matthau.  It was a futuristic swashbuckling romp.  (It would become a commercial flop, though it garnered an Academy Award Nomination for Best Costume Design).  Polanski was still a fugitive from U.S. justice since 1977 when he admitted having sex with a 13-year-old girl but had jumped bail and fled to France.  In 1968, he had also been linked the heinous murder of his pregnant wife Sharon Tate, along with other members of the Charles Manson cult.

His pirate ship was now berthed at the harbour and you could tour it for 25 francs.  I settled for exterior photos, some of which featu