Heading Towards the Sun

8/9/2019 Heading Towards the Sun

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Heading Towards the SunTrading a husband for freedom in the South of France

Carla King


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Heading Toward the Sun 2 Carla King

I spent the first two weeks of the trip suffering

in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

I wanted to go home but my pride wouldnt let

me, nor would it let me hunker down in a first-

class hotel on the Riviera looking like a bimbo

waiting out a divorce. So I got on the

motorcycle each day and rode to the places Id

planned to visit with my husband the casinos

of Monte Carlo, the Roman ruins of Arles, the

medieval village of Carcassone. In the evenings I set up my tent alone in a campground filled

with families and tourists from other parts of Europe, cooked a quick dinner over my camp

stove and washed it down with wine. As soon as it was dark I was asleep, ready to get up at

the crack of dawn for another day of riding.

Each night I studied my maps with obsession and talked to no one, rebuffing the

relaxed, multi-national, campground camaraderie. Each day I kept strictly to the routes I

had planned. That was easy; the problem was how to eat. An inexperienced traveler, I was

too embarrassed to dine alone in restaurants. At least breakfast I could handle; cafs served

good strong coffee with croissants and the cigarette-smoking customers were buried in their

newspapers. But for my other meals I stopped at small-town marketplaces no difficult task

in France to buy supplies for sandwiches and foods to cook on my camp stove that night.

For lunch Id find a picturesque spot to fix myself a sandwich that I still make today

whenever I want to think of France: Id split a freshly baked baguette with my Swiss Army

knife, spread it thickly with triple-crme Brie on one side and Nutella chocolate-hazelnut

spread on the other. Id slice a handful of fresh strawberries and press them into the Nutella.

Id also discovered Orangina, the sparkly orange soda I admired as much for its nubby round

bottle as its fresh bubbly taste. I remember those meals today as my most decadent ever.


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At the end of the second week I made my last call home. Since Id arrived in France,

our phone conversations had all been difficult; they felt forced and unnecessary. After all

what was there to say? My husband had given priority to his job, seeming to hold to the

opinion that his corporation couldnt possibly survive without the daily presence of a middle

manager in engineering. Our trip had been planned months in advance, but a major project

had slipped and he felt obligated to see it through. Admirable, but I thought he should feel

even more obligated to see through a vacation hed planned with his wife. Maybe I could

have been more understanding if this vacation hadnt been delayed for three years. The only

trip wed taken in our four-year marriage was our honeymoon in Jamaica. We fought about

it every day for a week and then, in a huff, I said I was going with or without him. I booked

my flight, handed him a note with the travel itinerary, and left it up to him whether to join

me or not. He drove me to the airport, but I boarded alone.

By week two of the journey I was still continuing on our planned route. This week I

would be skirting the Pyrenees, riding west toward the Atlantic Ocean. The smooth black

asphalt road wound through small villages and farms, past fields dotted with yellow flowers

where black and white dairy cows grazed. It seemed just my luck that dark clouds were

gathered in the direction I was headed, and I resigned myself to weather that matched my

mood. However, to the north the sun shone and the sky was blue. When a split appeared in

the road I surprised myself by veering off, heading into the sunny blue sky. My heart raced as

I took an ever-narrowing path up a mountain, which dead-ended at an outcropping of rocks

and a medieval village.

I thumped across a wooden bridge lowered over the moat and rode under the wide,

arched doorway to find that the ancient village had been invaded by a traveling carnival, with

festivities in full swing. Children lined up for carousel rides and gathered around a puppet

stage in the village square. I parked the bike and walked through town, anonymous amongst

the clowns and the music. After buying a cone of pink cotton candy, I strolled down some

rough-hewn stairs into a quiet part of town; the thoroughfare stopped abruptly at a wide


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public balcony with views of the surrounding countryside. I gazed out on the hills and fields

toward another mountain far away that looked like it might have a village like this one built

on top of it. I had no idea where I was, and suddenly I didnt care. Rain was falling to the

west, but here it was cloudless and sunny. When I got back to the bike I took my carefully

marked maps from the tank bag and tucked them deep into my pack, headed back down the

mountain, and turned up the road that led to a clear blue sky.

Read an expan ded version of this story inAmerican Borders: Breakdowns in Small Towns All Around the

USA.

Carla King is the author of the Miss Adventuring series of dispatches from her solo

motorcycle journeys around the world. You can buy her bookAmerican Borders:

Breakdowns in Small Towns All Around the USA on Scribd or her website, and from

your local independent bookstore. Subscribe to be notified when she uploads new

stories about her journeys in China, India, and Africa.

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Heading Towards the Sun