Road trippin' (part III)

ANDORRA

Andorra is essentially one highway through a slight valley, way up in the mountains, with a few towns clustered around it. Technically there is one other road, with a couple more towns, but you get the idea. My map showed that the first town when approaching from Spain is the capital, Andorra la Vella. Kim had researched a hotel for me online. I rode into the center of town and pulled up at a coffee shop where I could warm up, and phone Kim for directions to the hotel.

Kim was out on the town in London, and so couldn't look up directions for me. I asked the coffee shop employees (turns out they mostly speak Spanish in Andorra -- I had a moment of indecision about which language to use until I got a 'hola'). They hadn't heard of my hotel. Is it in Andorra la Vella, they asked? "Si?" I replied, "Verdad, no lo se". Shrugs all around. They were pretty sure it wasn't here, they said. I jokingly texted Kim, knowing that there were a few different towns, "Honey, are you *sure* it's in Andorra la Vella?" Kim was pretty sure it was. No matter, I thought, there was a reasonable-looking hotel across the street. It was an older, slightly threadbare example of a hotel. Definitely 70's chic, but obviously meticulously maintained. The aged hotelier spoke no English, but I'm proud to say we were able to communicate nonetheless.

In the morning (OK, the early afternoon) I had a breakfast of croissant and cafe con leche at the same coffee shop. The University of Andorra was next door, so I was able to steal some WiFi internet access from them. (See photo. That's Hayley across the street). Later I walked around the town. I mean literally, in about an hour and a half, I figured I'd walked almost the entire town. I was texting Kim, saying "man, there *really* isn't much to this place". I hadn't been expecting much, honestly, given that Andorra is so small. But this was the capital city? I found a shop with an Andorra flag magnet, but it was really quite large. Bigger than all of our other ones (and for the smallest country!). So, I figured I'd keep looking.

After I reckoned I'd seen enough, I retrieved my gear from the hotel and was preparing to ride back to France. Next to the coffee shop, I saw a tourist map of the town on a large board. I went over for a quick look. It said several things: Spain, this way. France, thattaway. Also: Andorra la Vella, thattaway. And also, Sant Julià de Lòria: you are here. The dawning realization that I'd been in the wrong town all along made for a good laugh -- and meanwhile I'd been poking fun at Kim! The coffee shop employees the previous night had been politely trying to ask me whether, really, I meant to be in Andorra la Vella, but I missed that. In my defense: First, my Spanish sucks. Second, Andorra la Vella really does look like the first town on my map. The name of Sant Julià is actually printed outside of the country border. It's just such a tiny country after all.

A couple of kilometres up the road was Andorra la Vella. Bigger, and with more going on than Sant Julià, definitely, but also not very different. I rode around the centre of the city quite a lot, having a gander to see if I'd missed out on anything. In the end I guessed that Sant Julià had given me the general idea. This place had many more shops. I did find another big Andorra flag magnet, identical to the first one, but this time I bought it. One other thing about the capital, though: loads of motorcycle shops. I'd never seen so many in one place. By 'loads', I mean somewhere between 20-30, all on the main road entering town. Heaven! I didn't really need many supplies, but somehow I wished that I had. I settled for a can of chain lube and gave Hayley a good spraying. Then I filled her up with Petrol and off we rode once again.

Of the road between Andorra and France, Lonely Planet's Andorra page says:

you'll go over or under the impressive Port d'Envalira, the highest pass in the Pyrenees (2410m/7900ft). Nowadays, you can plunge through the short vehicle tunnel. Better, however, to haul your way over the pass and savour the views.

Despite the cold, I couldn't resist that description of the pass. The road climbs through the ski resort towns of northern Andorra, up to a series of tight uphill turns where the scenery gets progressively better, the further you go. I'd see a great view, and pull over for a photo (one doesn't want to miss these things). Then I'd ride a little higher and realize that, hey, this view is even better, and pull over again. At the summit, 2408 metres, I parked Hayley next to some snowmobiles (yes, really) for what I thought would be a final round of photos. Part way down the other side of the pass, I was stopped again by another collection of stunning mountains and gorgeous scenery.

FRANCE, PART DEUX

At the bottom of the pass I crossed into France, and as I did so the road transformed into a gentle series of curving descents. The sun was setting and I was all alone again, in those pretty mountains, headed down into a scenic valley. It was another of the most memorable moments from the trip.

The feeling of reverie soon gave way to one of grim perseverance. After a pleasant stretch of antique-looking French towns, with every building made of mountain stone (including the requisite ruined castle and/or rustic church) darkness fell and the fun really began. On my map, the road looked relatively straight. The problem with that was probably, I realized, that they can't draw wiggles that small. What I actually encountered was a dark, single-lane, cliffside road with an endless series of tight, 180-degree curves. At each of these, inevitably, I was greeted by someone coming up the other way, high beams blazing. Momentarily blinded, I'd brake and creep into the turn until I could raise my own headlight to see my way. This went on for well over an hour. Luckily perhaps, I hadn't really been keeping track of how far I'd come of how far I had to go, which I think somewhat mitigates a long, unpleasant ride; you keep figuring you must be almost through it. Honestly, it was very tiring and not a lot of fun.

At long last the Pyrenees gave way, and the final stretch down into Perpignan gradually evolved into proper, full-speed motorway. Perpignan itself seemed really nice. Mostly French, but with a slight Catalonian influence. It was loaded with bars, restaurants, and palm trees. There was a palace that looked pretty interesting too. I stopped at a pizzeria (surprise!) and had a nice Neapolitan pizza (again!). Perpignan definitely seemed worth a longer stop, however I was a man with a dream: I hoped I'd be able to make it all the way to Nice by bedtime.

Leaving town, I thought I'd taken the correct route to the (toll) motorway, however it seemed I'd taken the alternate (free) route instead. So, rather than cruising along the motorway at full speed, I was stuck driving along a deserted single carriageway in the dark at reduced speed. I could see the motorway, mind you, for many a mile. I just couldn't get on to it. Eventually I was able to join the motorway at a junction, but let me just take this opportunity to talk about toll roads in Europe.

In western Canada where I grew up, there was only one toll road: it's an alternate route through the mountains to Vancouver, called the Coquihalla. One had the option of taking the trans-Canada highway, which wasn't half bad, but the Coquihalla was faster and better. On the other hand, in the northeastern US, I spent $50 in a single day, driving one highway. Individual bridges have tolls. On the New Jersey turnpike for example, the toll booths seem to occur every couple of miles. In Boston, a small connector highway was built to connect the I-90 (which goes all the way to San Francisco) and the center of the city. When it was built, the politicians of the day promised that as soon as it was paid for, the tolls would disappear. Well, many, many years after it was paid for, while I was living in Boston, they not only didn't remove the toll, they doubled it. They needed the money for another project, they explained. If you accept the idea of tolls -- and politicians being who they are -- they will eventually find excuses to put tolls on nearly anything. The following is a dramatization. No actual taxes were raised in the production of this segment:

Politician: "Do you want us to build a new bridge?"
Us: "Yes we do! We definitely need a new bridge!"
Politician: "Sorry, there's no money for that. We don't want to raise your taxes, after all. But wait, would you be willing to pay a toll for it?"
Us: [grumble]... "We guess so. Please don't raise our taxes."

This is the situation today in western Europe. It seems to be customary in Europe to pull over every few kilometres and give someone money. Though petrol is cheaper in Europe than in the UK, driving isn't, because the tolls add up to more than the petrol. France has toll booths everywhere, and Spain isn't close behind. When I got to Italy (see below) I was impressed by how few tollbooths there were -- but it turns out they've automated things pretty well, so that no matter where you're going, you collect a ticket when you get on the motorway, and pay when you get off. The thing that staggered me in Italy was the actual cost. It's a bit of a shock to drive for a few hours and then have to hand over 30 euros. I'm telling you, motorway tolls are a plague.

The motorway from Perpignan, up around the south coast of France to Nice and the Riviera, was clear sailing, though it was cold. I pushed on for a good long while, but as 1AM rolled around I decided I had to give up on reaching Nice that night. The long ride down from the Pyrenees had eaten up too much of the evening. Instead I turned off for Marseille. I didn't really know anything about Marseille, but it sounded nice, and it was in Provence, and on the Mediterranean coast. The reality for me wasn't so romantic as all that. Uncorrupted by foreknowledge or any of that nonsense, I rode the motorway as far into town as possible. Then I followed signs for what turned out to be a big train station, and looked around for a reasonable-looking hotel. There was graffiti everywhere. There were a lot of scruffy types about. It was not a nice neighborhood. The hotel I found seemed fine, but to be honest I was nervous about leaving my 'flash' bike outside. The hotel clerk was very kind, and allowed me to lock up the bike right in front of the hotel doorway. He even directed me, so that he could see the bike from his usual seat. That was good enough.

In the morning (OK, the early afternoon) I set off from the hotel, figuring I'd at least give Marseille a bit of a look. I rode around the neighbourhood, saw a lovely cathedral, and the staircase leading up to the railway station which was very grand, with sculptures and everything. Furthermore, in the back streets I found a quiet square with a school and a little cafe. At the cafe, the cheerful lady proprietor spoke with me, corrected my pronunciation with schoolteacher-like precision and care, and brought me a much larger portion of breakfast than I'd been expecting. School kids of all ages (even some, ahem, slightly older ones in pretty uniforms) left classes, or hung about in the square, smoking and waiting for theirs to begin. A busboy at the cafe wanted very much to talk about me and my trip, and my impressions of Marseille. That was my biggest challenge, language-wise, of the trip. I really struggled to translate substantial thoughts into coherent French. On the other hand, he seemed happy enough with my answers, and as I left I brought the bike around for him to see and gave him a wave. He was pretty busy though. I don't think he noticed. And so I bid adieu to Marseille. I'm led to believe that it has some very nice bits. Unfortunately my intuition and map didn't take me to those bits, but I'm prepared to believe I missed something.

That afternoon, I made straight for Nice. As a university student I'd spent a day there, under less-than-ideal circumstances; that's a long, reasonably entertaining story in itself, but suffice it to say that I spent a day, sitting around with not enough money to do anything, waiting for a train to Calais. It had definitely seemed like a flashy, pretty, expensive place. I'd not been able to see the beaches or do anything interesting. I always regretted that, and hoped I'd have a chance to go back someday and explore the charms of Nice.

Along the way, I got distracted by signs for St. Tropez. I'd heard about it in the past. For example when I was younger, my Mum's women's mags had ads for a self-tanning cream to give you that year-round St. Tropez tan. The main reason I remember is because the lady in the ad was pretty and had nice legs. I decided to pay a visit, just in case the pretty lady with nice legs was still there.

St. Tropez was slightly more out-of-the-way than I'd planned. The little side-trip (which admittedly included some time for a spray-wash for Hayley) ate up the better part of the afternoon. Still, the town seemed very relaxed and pleasant, if touristy. One thing that bothered me a little though (and if you follow the Nice link above, the "view of the port" photo illustrates this, to comic effect; see also my own photo, left) was that the harbour was so full of ostentatious yachts that you couldn't see the damn water. It really, really was that bad. In truth it kind of put me off. I didn't take the time to visit the beaches or anything like that. All things considered, it was a nice place. I wandered around the port, searched unsuccessfully for a souvenir for Kim, had a beer, and cleared off.

Despite my stated plans for Nice, the afternoon had worn on, and I actually had a bigger (though technically speaking, smaller) prize in mind: Monaco. Though they are virtually contiguous, I skipped Nice and headed straight for Monte Carlo. On the same 1995 trip that I'd waited for a train in Nice, my train had passed through Monte Carlo. My pretty American trainmate had also been headed for Nice, but decided at the last moment to disembark in Monte Carlo. She'd heard that it was so expensive, a coffee cost $10. She wanted to buy a coffee for $10, just to say she had. I was sorry to see her go, but couldn't blame her. She had a rail pass, and probably had $10 to spare. I had neither, and had to stay on the train.

Around the Riviera and particularly Nice, the tollbooths were crazy. Sometimes, they were every kilometre or so. Just 1 euro here, 1 euro there, but for me, it wasn't the cost that mattered. For a biker, the problem is pulling up, taking off your gloves, fishing money out of pockets (which can't easily be done before pulling up or taking off gloves) putting change in pockets, and re-fitting gloves properly. It's a more time-consuming operation than it is for car drivers, even when they don't have the electronic passes.

MONACO

On the road down into Monte Carlo, I spied a fancy-looking restaurant perched above the city, called La Chaumière. As much as I'd enjoyed the pizza and the tapas of Spain, for a few days I'd been craving a solid, sit-down dinner. This place had amazing views of the city of Monte Carlo, the lights, and the palace area. I pulled over and headed for the restaurant. Inside, there were no menus; just a couple of chalk boards with a few items that they would bring around to the tables. When I walked in the door, in my motorcycle gear, I got a slightly quizzical look. There were just 4 men seated at one table. I thought perhaps they weren't fully open yet, as it was early. I asked "it is possible to eat?" (in French) and received a surprised "of course!". I probably didn't look the part of a La Chaumière customer. They probably thought I was a courier, or lost, or needing to use the toilets. They were very good to me. Presented with the chalk board, I chose a very delicious-sounding salad with prawns and (etc., etc.). The choice was duly noted, followed by "...oui?". I gathered I should choose a main course. I chose the turbot (in etc., with etc., etc.) momentarily forgetting that, of all the seafood I love, turbot is not one. Ah well, it was OK, and I treated myself to a couple of glasses of beer (chased by a coffee, mind), since I had only to ride down into the town.

Upon emerging from the restaurant, well satisfied, I approached the bike and immediately got that sinking feeling. You see, my wonderful heated handgrips -- without which I wouldn't have been able to do this trip, at this time of year -- are powered directly from the motorcycle battery. They don't turn off when the bike turns off: you need to remember to flip the switch. Forgetting to do so had been a constant worry throughout the trip, but in this case, in my hunger and my excitement at arriving in Monaco, I'd forgotten to switch them off. Though it was only for an hour, it doesn't take long. My battery was dead. I needed to bump-start the bike. Luckily, I was on a hill. Perhaps unluckily, there was a policeman standing on the road outside the restaurant. I thought: either I'll communicate effectively what I need to do, and he'll be helpful, or else he'll misunderstand and/or be a jerk (i.e. "you can't do that here"). I began pushing the motorcycle (5oo pounds, thank you very much) up the hill to the top of the car park, near the entrance to the road. I jumped on, shoved off, popped her into gear, dropped the clutch, and she roared to life. In the end, I'm not sure the policeman even noticed. Monte Carlo was ahead, just a few turns down the hill.

I drove around the city for a while, with the dual purpose of exploring and also recharging my battery. At some point I exited the other side of the city, re-entered, and saw a sign for Monte Carlo. I just had to U-turn and capture this photo of Hayley with the sign. Later I found a modest, smallish hotel with a restaurant attached. I was told that they had only 1 remaining room. At 80 euros, on a Friday night, I was prepared to believe them and also well pleased to accept. In fact, in the end, Monaco wasn't nearly as expensive as its reputation would suggest. By London standards, in fact, it was pretty cheap. That night I wandered around the city and visited a lively club called Stars 'n' Bars. It was a sports bar filled with signed memorabilia of car racers and football stars like David Beckham. It was also filled with fairly young people, and loud club music, and no free tables were to be had for old, sedate farts like me. I contented myself with sitting outside on the harbourfront with a beer, enjoying the city lights, and the comings-and-goings of the young clubbers. Next door was the "Moto Club of Monte Carlo" (which seemed to be closed, however) and lots of motorcycles were parked around. I was very contented.

The next morning (OK, early afternoon, actually) I ventured out on foot from the hotel. I was determined to find 2 things: A good souvenir for Kim, and a Monaco flag magnet. I explored the waterfront pretty thoroughly. I don't know anything about the Monaco Grand Prix, but its influence is everywhere, and I suspect that part of the route goes along that waterfront. Occasionally, people in flash cars like Ferraris would come rumbling along, and take corners too quickly, with smoke and squealing tyres. I have to admit, once again I was tempted to take the Hayabusa out for a spin on the track. In the end I kept my focus, found a passable flag magnet, and settled on a nice Monaco jumper for Kim and some shot glasses (we never seem to have enough good ones lying around when we have a get-together). Later I bought a bottle of 'Windex'-y stuff and some napkins from a grocery and gave Hayley a bit of a polish. The spray wash the previous day in St. Tropez had left a lot of water spots. I'm pathetic with this bike, but at least I know it. She always appreciates the attention though.

I rode the bike up to the palace area, and spent a couple of hours wandering around. There's a cathedral and a little village of shops and restaurants. The palace itself seemed closed to the public. I suppose that's because royal people still live there. The views of the city were excellent. Before leaving I entered the cathedral and observed that many rulers of Monaco were buried there. As I made my way chronologically around the deceased rulers' graves, I found one that had flowers all over it, with the words "gracia patricia" and "principis rainerii". Next to her was one with "rainiervs" and "princeps". I presumed that these were Princess Grace (a.k.a. Grace Kelly) and Prince Rainier. As I stood there respectfully, a helpful American tourist, unasked, assured me in English that this was Princess Grace. At first, I thought he was asking me, so I said "yes, I think so". "It is," he asserted, "I've been here before." Alright then. Good for you, sir. I thanked him and made my way to the exit, mildly annoyed that he thought I couldn't figure it out. Then I reminded myself that he was only trying to be helpful. I've never seen a Grace Kelly movie, but I'm sure they were good. And she definitely was pretty, in her day. But I didn't go in looking for Grace Kelly's grave.

When traveling, I confess that I sometimes look down on American tourists for their apparent naïveté and exuberance. In retrospect, I always feel guilty about that. Unlike their jaded European counterparts, American tourists are earnestly, vocally excited about what they're seeing. You know what? So am I! Some Americans (just like people from other countries) don't travel, and are closed-minded and ignorant. But Americans who travel generally care about what they're doing. They usually appreciate the value of the new places they're experiencing, and are glad to be there. It's somewhat difficult and expensive to travel to Europe from America. Despite everything else, they deserve a handshake. The rest of us shouldn't forget that. Be kind to American tourists. You can be sure that they'll be kind to you.

After the palace, I headed back down to the waterfront, and the Stars 'n' Bars club. The "Moto Club of Monaco" still appeared to be closed, though there were again lots of motorbikes around. I parked the Hayabusa next to a Kawasaki 'Ninja' ZZR 1400, the latest pretender to the Hayabusa's speed crown. They're pretty nice bikes though. Inside, the Stars 'n' Bars was considerably quieter than it had been the night before. They offered a menu that included various American-style bar 'n' grill favourites, such as Nachos with cheese (and jalapenos, sour cream, etc.). Score. This menu item is one of my faves, but I usually wish there was a bit more cheese. In this case I wished there was a bit less. Perhaps it was the French influence -- this example had waaayyy too much cheese. As I was preparing to leave I was consulting my map, and asked my waiter whether there was an obvious route north from Monaco to Turin, Italy. You see, my France map showed a motorway that headed off the side of the final page, near Monaco, into Italy. It also showed a motorway that went from somewhere off that same page, up to Turin. I just needed to know whether those two roads connected somewhere, and figured I'd rather not buy an Italy map just to find out the answer. My waiter wasn't much help, but he sent over the pretty hostess to sort me out. I was grateful for that; not only was she pretty, but she was also helpful. I said I was headed for Geneve. She thought I really meant nearby Genoa, Italy. No, Geneve, Switzerland, I said. "Oh, I used to drive up to Geneve. Yes, just go via Menton, follow signs for Genoa, and then turn off for Torino".

Road trippin'
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Road trippin' (part III)
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