La Tour de France

The Husband and I rode our bikes 36 kilometers yesterday, tackling some high, long hills. We just started our bike riding pursuits a little more than a week ago so we were quite proud of our feat.

We rode through gorgeous scenery, filled with sunflowers, to a hilltop village that has an abundant and vibrant Sunday market. By the time we arrived, the bakery was almost stripped clean of goods, so we were forced to try a “baguette of the summer” . . . the baker had added dried tomatoes.

We purchased two apples and devoured them immediately with the bread. The baguette was savory and I would highly recommend it. The Husband bought a ripe melon for us to eat during a break on the ride back home.

We sat in the café and were waited on by a very grumpy waitress. I think she was the owner’s wife, and if that was the case, she should have been thrilled that there were so many foreigners showering her with Euros. I asked her if I could have a carafe of water, to fill up my water bottle and she flatly replied, “Non.” I asked her “Why not?” She just huffed, turned on her heels and walked quickly away.

She returned with our order and told me that if I wanted water, I could get it from the bar.

When the Husband and I finished our drinks, I walked up to the bar. The waitress had a pitcher of water sitting there, and I asked her if I could take that water. She emphatically replied, “NON.”

I looked at a patron who was sipping a beer and he sympathetically smiled at me. After a long silence, the waitress told me that I could ask the bartender for water.

Well, I didn’t think I’d get anywhere with the bartender because he looked surlier than the waitress; and, since he had been within earshot of my curt conversation with the waitress, he knew what was going on and he hadn’t offered me any water. So I thought my chances of getting water out of him were slim to none.

The bartender was busy filling up glasses, so I waited for an appropriate moment to bother him. When he had placed an order of drinks on a waiter’s tray, and the waiter was leaving, I bravely ventured forth. “Some water, please.”

“In two minutes,” he answered. Well, in two minutes I could go to the restroom and fill up my bottle, but I had too much time and energy invested in trying to persuade these two good Samaritans to give me some water. So I waited.

When the bartender saw I wasn’t going away he took my bottle and filled it.

The experience was very bizarre . . . even in Paris the waiters aren’t that rude, and they’re famous for being rude.

We spent the evening watching the World Cup final at Roger’s. He has satellite television. We don’t have any.

Roger had plenty of chips waiting for us. I told him he should open a restaurant for American tourists since he’s the only man in the area who truly understands the gluttonous eating habits of Americans. He had thoughtfully purchased two fruit tarts from the baker’s wife, Madame Trés Sexy. The Husband picked up two pizzas in the village.

Roger is a bachelor. Roger only owns five very old plates. One was repaired with a wire. I washed them after our pizza course so we could eat the dessert off of them.

The match went on forever because it ended in a tie. Then it went into extra periods. That also ended in a tie. Then they finished the game with the goal kicking match-off.

We all felt sorry for the French member who didn’t make his goal. I hope he woke up this morning realizing that “it was only a game,” -- it would be horrible to be haunted by a missed goal all your life.