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By JOE NOCERA T HE plan was a simple one. In the middle of a weeklong trip to France last July, a trip prompted by an invi- tation to a friend’s wedding celebration, we would swing down to Provence for a sweet, romantic, three-day bicycle trip. I had been to Provence several times in my life, and I had intoxicating, if somewhat faded, memories of the region: the Roman ruins near Orange, the magnificent Palais des Papes inside the walls of Avignon, the olive groves and lavender and fields of sun- flowers that clotted the Provençal country- side. She, however, had never been there. I would be her guide. I liked that idea. I’d wanted to avoid the typical luxe bike tour, the sort of trip where a dozen or more strangers are led by a professional guide by day and then all pile into a five-star hotel for an over-the-top communal dinner by night. I was yearning for something smaller and more intimate — and, given the times we live in, less expensive. On the Internet, I had found Cyclomundo, a five- year-old company run by an amiable 44- year-old named Bruno Toutain, who had turned his passion for cycling into a business that offered something called REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION Travel SUNDAY, JUNE 14, 2009 CHRISTOPHE MARGOT FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES Cyclists climbing a hill near the Moulin de Daudet, about seven miles from Arles on the way to St.-Rémy-de-Provence in the south of France. A self-guided bicycling tour includes opportunities to make wrong turns, to head up grueling climbs and to discover scenes that can only be experienced on two wheels. Seeing From the Slow Lane Provence

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Page 1: Cyclomundo Ny Times

By JOE NOCERA

THE plan was a simple one. In themiddle of a weeklong trip to Francelast July, a trip prompted by an invi-

tation to a friend’s wedding celebration, wewould swing down to Provence for a sweet,romantic, three-day bicycle trip. I hadbeen to Provence several times in my life,and I had intoxicating, if somewhat faded,

memories of the region: the Roman ruinsnear Orange, the magnificent Palais desPapes inside the walls of Avignon, the olivegroves and lavender and fields of sun-flowers that clotted the Provençal country-side. She, however, had never been there. Iwould be her guide. I liked that idea.

I’d wanted to avoid the typical luxe biketour, the sort of trip where a dozen or morestrangers are led by a professional guide

by day and then all pile into a five-starhotel for an over-the-top communal dinnerby night. I was yearning for somethingsmaller and more intimate — and, giventhe times we live in, less expensive. On theInternet, I had found Cyclomundo, a five-year-old company run by an amiable 44-year-old named Bruno Toutain, who hadturned his passion for cycling into abusiness that offered something called

REPRINTED WITH

PERMISSION

Travel SUNDAY, JUNE 14, 2009

CHRISTOPHE MARGOT FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES

Cyclists climbing a hill near the Moulin de Daudet, about seven miles from Arleson the way to St.-Rémy-de-Provence in the south of France.

A self-guided bicycling tour includes opportunities to make wrong turns, to head up grueling climbsand to discover scenes that can only be experienced on two wheels.

Seeing

From the Slow LaneProvence

Page 2: Cyclomundo Ny Times

“self-guided” cycling tours.“I used to work as a guide on guided bike

tours, and it wasn’t really satisfying,” Mr.Toutain told me when I called to get hisstory. “It was one notch above a bus tourcompany. The people are not part of thelandscape. They weren’t enough of anactor in their own trip. There was toomuch guidance.”

His approach was a little more do-it-yourself. Instead of pedaling behind aguide, we would be given laminated mapsthat laid out each day’s route, along withhighly detailed route instructions. (Typicaldirection: “At the crossing, there is abakery. Follow the street right next to it+- 0,2 km.”) The bicycles we rented hadstands attached to the handles, allowingthe maps to be mounted like sheet musicon a music stand. We could take as long aswe wanted getting to our daily destination— nobody cared. For a fixed — and quitereasonable — price, Cyclomundo alsobooked either three- or four-star hotels for

each night of our trip, with dinner included.And, of course, Cyclomundo would pick upour luggage at each stop and deposit it atthe next hotel well before we arrived. Allwe had to do was get there . . . whenever.

Though Cyclomundo offers bicycletrips in Spain, Italy and Switzerland, itstrips through France are its bread andbutter. Most of the trips last five or sixdays, on routes with varying degrees ofdifficulty: “We can give you somethingclose to the Tour de France, if you wish,”Mr. Toutain boasted. Truth to tell, shecould probably have handled that, but oneloop around Central Park is usuallyenough for me, so I asked for something alittle less taxing.

Mr. Toutain assured me that he had theperfect three-day trip for the likes of me:Avignon to St.-Rémy-de-Provence thefirst day (15 miles); St.-Rémy to Arles onDay 2 (29 miles); and Arles back toAvignon on the last day (35 miles). Formost of the trip, we would be on small

back roads, not pressured by traffic ortime, able to take in the sights and smellsat our own pace. “We do a lot of honeymoontrips,” Mr. Toutain said. That soundedabout right.

Our friends’ wedding luncheon was inthe Jura, a region in the eastern part ofFrance, and we got a late start to Avignon.It was dark when we arrived. And here Iconfess, dear reader, my plan began to goawry. In my eagerness to show her oldAvignon, the historic town inside ancientfortress walls, I had booked, via Orbitz, aninexpensive two-star hotel in that part oftown. A bad mistake.

The cobbled, claustrophobic streets, soglorious when you’re on foot, werehideous in a car at night. Narrow, one-way, twisting and turning around ancientbuildings and modern shops, there was noway I could make sense of them. Thefortress walls blocked my GPS. Becausethe annual Avignon summer arts festivalwas in full force, we couldn’t find a place

CHRISTOPHE MARGOT FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES

The Palais des Papes in Avignon, the one-time seat of Christianity and home to popes for much of the 14th century.

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to park — or even to slow down to look atstreet signs or ask for help. “Do youknow where you’re going?” she askedwith a sigh. “I know it’s right around heresomewhere,” I said.

In its confirmation e-mail message, thehotel had informed us that they lockedthe doors at 11 p.m. We had been drivingthe same handful of streets for more thanan hour and it was nearly 10:45. Then shespotted the parking space. “Park there,”she commanded. She leapt out of the carand swung into action. Affecting asweetness she most certainly did not feel,she explained our dilemma to a barkeepwho was standing across the street. Hesmiled, called the hotel, got the directions,and pointed us on our way. We left the carright where it was, and got there withminutes to spare.

I wish I could say that that was theworst of it, but it wasn’t. The hotel I hadbooked turned out to be something out ofthe Addams Family, dank and dirty, andour room — in the attic! — was a horrorshow. A ratty air-conditioning unit barelyworked, and when we threw open thewindows for some desperately neededair, we discovered that the windowsopened up to the inside of the hotel. Shewent downstairs to demand an upgrade,but it was too late — there was nobody atthe desk. After a fitful night of tossing andturning, we checked out at 6 a.m., practi-cally gasping for air.

So much for showing her Avignon. Wespent the next four hours waiting for thebike shop to open so we could rent ourbikes and get out of town. I parked her inthe lobby of a hotel — a modern one,thank goodness, outside the fortress walls— where she sipped coffee and freshenedup in the bathroom. I, meanwhile, gothauled off to the police station for makingan illegal U-turn. (Note to travelers: Nomatter how frustrated you are, don’t say“Oh, c’mon,” when the gendarmes pullyou over.) “Where have you been?” sheasked when I returned. Now even Icouldn’t wait to get out of town.

The young man at the bike shop had ourhybrid mountain bikes ready for us whenwe arrived a few minutes after 10. Hehanded us a little repair kit in case we had aflat, helmets and three days’ worth of mapsand directions, which, I later discovered,had been drawn up by his boss, the bikeshop’s owner. (Later, when I asked theowner to give me copies of the routes forthis article, he resisted: “They are mybusiness advantage,” he kept saying.) Wehanded him our luggage. In our flip-flops

PHOTOGRAPHS BY CHRISTOPHE MARGOT FORTHE NEW YORK TIMES

TOP An outdoor restaurant inEygalières. MIDDLE Produce for saleat a roadside stand near St.-Rémy-de-Provence. ABOVE The Romanamphitheater in Arles.

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and shorts, we were on our way.Fifteen miles on a bicycle — the distance

to St.-Rémy — is not a long trip, even forme. The point of the first day’s ride, itwould seem, is to get yourself acclimated.It was confusing in the beginning. On themain road out of town, there were plentyof signs to St.-Rémy, and it took me awhile to realize that I had to ignore them.The point was to follow the map and thedirections, which kept us off the mainroads as much as possible.

AT first, though, that had its own set ofdifficulties. The maps and directionswere on different sheets of paper,

but you could put only one of them on thestand. She was perfectly content to let mejuggle both, but I found myself constantlystopping to look at one and then the other.When we stopped to sip water, I would tryto memorize the next three or four steps.Eventually, though, I got comfortable withthe directions on my stand, and began topay more attention to the scenery than theroute itself.

Touring by bike is different from touringby car — you see more, for sure, but in adeeply sensory way, you experience more.There was nothing on this route that wasespecially earth-shattering — and yetfrom the vantage point of our bikes, it allwas. The perfectly rolled hay. The acresof sunflowers. The stone walls. The sweetfarmhouses. We passed our first farm,and remarked to each other how happyProvençal cows looked up close, well-fedand well-tended. We stopped to inspectour first olive grove. We pedaled past alavender field, and soaked in the sweetaroma. We biked through Graveson andMaillane, two small Provençal towns, tak-ing pictures of churches and cemeteries,where we read the inscriptions and wonder-ed about lives lived. She had brought somecheese, and as we passed a farm withpear trees, she jumped off her bike, andgrabbed two pears. That was lunch. Withinan hour on the bike, the travails of Avignonwere forgotten. We were happy again.

Still, even taking our sweet time, wewere almost in St.-Rémy by noon. She hadsomehow learned that every Wednesday,there was a big open-air market in St.-Rémy, and she wanted to see it. But then Isaw a sign: “Les Baux,” it read, “9 km.”And here, dear reader, I did it again.

Les Baux de Provence is another one ofthe great French tourist spots of mydistant memory. High in the mountains,atop a beautiful medieval town, andoverlooking a steep cliff, sit the ruins of aonce-great fortress — as well as otherancient, excavated ruins that go back asfar as the first century. It is, to me, amagical place, and I remember takingmy children there when they were youngand watching their glee and awe as theyclimbed around the ruins.

I looked at my watch. “Les Baux isgreat!” I said to her excitedly. “Let’s go

there. We’ll still be in St.-Rémy by 2p.m.” She shot me a dubious glance, butoff we went.

Did I mention that Les Baux was highin the mountains? There was a reasonMr. Toutain had not included it in theroute he gave us. This was not a smell-the-lavender kind of ride; within a fewminutes we were climbing straight up,and it was brutal. I finally had to get offmy bike and start walking it up the hills.She gave me a disdainful glance as shepedaled on.

By the time we spotted Les Baux, themagnitude of my error was manifest toboth of us. Having ridden to the top of themountain, we could see the magnificentcontours of the old fortress — on the nextmountain over. To actually get therewould require going down the other sideof the mountain we had just climbed andup another one.

“So,” she said, “What do you want todo?” I took out my camera. “Let’s take afew pictures and go back,” I said. Shegave me a look that said, “I’m gladyou’ve come to your senses.” We speddown the mountain, and got to St.-Rémyaround 1 p.m.— only to discover that theopen-air market was shutting down. Oy.Then on to the hotel. My assumption wasthat after we checked in and had lunch,we would head back out again to tour thecity. Not a chance. Seeing our bags in theroom, she rummaged through hers, andpulled out a bathing suit. “I’m notmoving,” she said.

On the other hand, why would we move?As it turns out, Mr. Toutain was muchbetter at choosing hotels in Provence thanI was. Le Mas des Carassins, where westayed that night, was an old farmhouse,slightly off the beaten track, that had beenconverted into a stylish, modern hotel. Thetwo owners, Michel Dimeux and PierreTicot, were refugees from the corporateworld who had bought the place in 2000 andspent three years renovating it. They put inthe swimming pool, created a series ofgorgeous gardens, and hired a first-ratechef. It felt secluded, even though it wasn’t.We spent the rest of the afternoon sittingunder an olive tree, reading, sipping alovely local rosé. She had ordered massageservice ahead of time, and we both gotoutdoor massages. At night, after a lovelydinner of local veal, we could hear a wolfhowling in the distance.

It was warm the next morning, butthere was a crisp wind. After saying ourgoodbyes to Mr. Dimeux, we set off forArles. Just out of town, with her riding alittle ahead of me, a sudden gust of windblew my directions off the stand. “Wait,”I yelled. But she didn’t hear me. I ran backto recover the directions; once I retrievedthem, I realized she was nowhere to beseen. “She must have just gone ahead,” Ithought. So I continued along the road.

And yes, dear reader, it happenedagain. In fact, she had seen a sign forArles and set off, while my directions hadtaken me in the opposite direction. When Ifinally realized she wasn’t there, we weremiles apart. We had made the consciousdecision not to take our cellphones on thistrip, but that also meant that now we hadno way of getting in touch with each other.I rode down various roads looking for her.I waited at the point where I thought shemust have turned off, thinking she wouldeventually return. I doubled back to St.-Rémy. She wasn’t there. I finally decidedto follow my directions to Arles and hopedshe got there.

And sure enough, she did. When Iarrived at our hotel in Arles, a pleasantenough place called Le Calendal, right inthe center of town, she had been there formore than an hour. She was waitinganxiously for me. “I’ve been so worried,”she said. I’ve had worse reunions.

As it turns out, she had had her ownadventure that day. She had waited for meat the place where she turned off the road— which was a different spot from the onewhere I had waited for her. For much ofthe time, we were probably no more than200 yards apart. Eventually, a man hadstopped to help, and had let her use hiscellphone to call Cyclomundo. He had then

Touring by bike, youcan see how happywell-fed Provençalcows look up close.

Avignon

MaillaneGraveson

Orange

Arles Aix-en-Provence

Marseille

St.-Rémy-de-Provence

FRANCE

Mediterranean Sea

LANGUEDOC PROVENCE

Miles 20

BRITAIN

FRANCE

Paris

Area ofdetail

SPAIN

THE NEW YORK TIMES

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For more information about reprints contact PARS International Corp. at 212-221-9595 x425.

driven her in his truck to the main road,which she took to get to the hotel.

“Let’s walk around,” I said after shetold me her story. I had never been toArles before, so instead of trying to be theguide, I discovered the great Romanamphitheater of Arles with her at myside. We sat in the stands, contemplatinggladiators and bullfights (the latter stilltake place there). We poked our headsinto art galleries and shops. We talked

and laughed about the day we’d both had. And we stumbled upon a restaurant

that night called Le Cilantro, where we hada meal as memorable as any I can remem-ber: caramelized frogs’ legs, stuffed saddleof lamb, lobster in a stunning emulsion.The young chef, Jérôme Laurent, who hadstarted the restaurant in 2004, washolding court with some customers, butduring dessert (white and yellow peach ina citrus-flavored soup) he came over to

talk to us. As we raved about the meal, hetold us he had worked for Alain Ducasse,and had spent time in the United States,his last stop being the Meridien Hotel inBoston. But Arles was home. “I grew uphere,” he said. “My parents live across thestreet.” Lucky Arles. Lucky us.

And then it was our last day of biking inProvence, and nothing went wrong, noteven for a second. It was the longest day ofbiking, but we only wanted it to be longer.We stopped every few miles, to takepictures or soak in the scenery. She saw anolive farm selling olive oil, and we pulled into buy some. The proprietor came outsidewith us, and took our pictures together.

A half hour later, we weren’t on anyroad at all — our directions had put us on apath so narrow that no car could ever getdown it. On one side ran a canal, flowingwith cold water. On the other side was aseries of farms where horses grazed. Wewere stunned at the beauty we foundourselves in. “Can you believe this?” I keptasking. All she could do in response wasgiggle and take more photos. We wereseeing something no tourist could seewithout a bicycle — that, and a map drawnby a man who viewed this path as hisintellectual property. I knew right thenthat this would be my memory of this trip.Or rather, it would be our memory.

We finally arrived in Avignon late inthe afternoon. There was still plenty ofdaylight left, and I suppose we could havewandered back into central Avignon,perhaps even visited the Palais desPapes. But I’d learned my lesson. I nolonger wanted to show her my Provence;I now understood that the point of this tripwas to discover our Provence. It wasbetter that way. The bikes had given us anew way to experience a very old place.

In St.-Rémy, Michel Dimeux had told usabout a town called Gordes, where he andhis partner had put in a second hotel. I hadnever been there before, and knew nothingabout it. It was, he said (correctly, it turnsout), a spectacular village built into the sideof a mountain, which had been transformedinto an artists’ colony and tourist mecca.

We got in our car and headed off toGordes, without so much as a glancebackward.

GETTING THERETo get to Avignon by plane from New

York can mean connections and airfaresof $1,400 or more for travel this summer,based on a recent Web search. A betteroption is to fly to either Paris or Mar-seille and then take a train to Avignon.From Paris, direct TGV trains fromGare de Lyon take about two and a halfhours, and one-way fares start ataround $78 for a restricted second-classticket and at around $252 for a refund-able first-class ticket. Trains depart fre-quently from Marseille, with some jour-neys taking as little as 30 minutes andone-way fares starting at $25. For traininformation and reservations, go towww.raileurope.com or call (800) 622-8600.

BIKING AROUND PROVENCE.Cyclomundo (33-4-5087-2109 or 212-

504-8368; www.cyclomundo.com,) of-fers guided or self-guided bike tours inFrance, Spain, Italy and Switzerland.Self-guided tours usually include daily

WHERE TO STAYLes Mas des Carassins (1, chemin

Gaulois, St.-Rémy; 33-4-9092-1548; www.masdescarassins.com). Prices (if youare not on the Cyclomundo package) fora standard room start at 126 euros,breakfast included and 212 euros for asuite with breakfast.

Hôtel Le Calendal (5, rue Porte deLaure, Arles; 33-4-9096-1189; www.arles.com). Prices for double rooms rangefrom 109 euros to 159 euros, dependingon size of room and outside view.

WHERE TO EATThe Cyclomundo package includes

meals at several excellent area restau-rants, but if you feel like striking out onyour own, one good option is Le Cilantro(31, rue Porte de Laure, Arles; 33-4-9018-2505; www.restaurantcilantro.com), run by Jérôme Laurent, a youngchef who once worked for AlainDucasse. Dinner for two, includingwine, is approximately 170 euros.

lodging with breakfast, some or alllunches and dinners (as stated in thetour description), luggage transfers,maps and itinerary. According to thecompany’s Web site, accommodationoptions range from “four-star hotels ondeluxe tours to ‘bivouac’ on somemountain-bike tours, and everything inbetween.” There are almost a dozenself-guided options offered in Provence,ranging from the three-day, two-night“Short Escape: from Avignon to Arles”journey, with prices starting at 275euros (about $400 at $1.45 to the euro) aperson, to an eight-day, seven-nighttour of “Gastronomic Provence,” withprices starting at 775 euros a person.

At Provence Bike (7, avenue Saint-Ruf, Avignon; 33-4-9027-9261; www.provence-bike.com) you can rent bikesfor 15 euros a day for basic bikes and 30euros for higher-end bikes, and the own-er will provide you with detailed routemaps.

O V E R T H E H A N D L E B A R S

CHRISTOPHE MARGOT FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES

A lake near St.-Rémy.

JOE NOCERA writes the TalkingBusiness column for The Times.