Swiss train 65 minutes late--triggers avalanche of simple adjustments

Waking across Angers' new Tramway
bridge, Papa's got a brand new [used,
-man] bag.

It's been a longer pause in blogging than usual. In the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know that I've been wearing a man-bag. Maybe it's slowing me down. I picked it up at a second-hand  store in Bellingham five or six years ago. It's an original Brentley (you know, Bellingham's own maker of bags & backpacks that became BrentHaven, contracted its production to Chinese factories, and now only sells computer bags over the internet.) Maybe my bag was originally sold as a fishing creel or a unisex blowdryer caddy. Either way, the dimensions don't fully comply with standard dimensions for euro-metric man accessories. And its too small for a blowdryer and my plug converter.

High-speed rail agent tells Kristin
how to take the low-speed bus
to our complementary six-hour
vacation rental at Montparnasse.

It's true. Our return train out of Geneva Friday evening left 30 minutes late and dealt with consequential delays along the rest of the route. And this of course means that all your long-held notions of Swiss trains and punctuality are dashed. To be fair, it was a French train. But I can't be neutral and I must be clear: it maybe sorta coulda been a Swiss problem that caused the French train to be late. Either way, we missed our Paris connection to Angers--the last run of the night. When the conductor checked our tickets and saw our final destination, she informed us (Kristin) that we'd all be getting a complementary hotel room in Paris. Check that -- two rooms. The bad news: Jack and the rest of us would miss his Saturday soccer tournament in St. Malo--a trip that depended on leaving Angers the next morning at 7:30 AM in our a rental car. We'd also planned on leaving from St. Malo after the tournament and heading to one of the Channel Islands (Guernsey, or was it Jersey?) for the night and some of Sunday. Oh well. We managed to let go of our anticipation of another healthy dose of mussels and fries and a half day milling about in an English speaking country. And for Ivy and Ella, the abbreviated night's stay at Novotel Montparnasse turned out to be one of the excursion's highlights (even at the tender young age of 13, they're enamored with modern bathroom fixtures). SNCF (the French rail agency) even included the hotel's breakfast buffet in our voucher. When the TGV is late, they own it. Kristin tried to convince the SNCF agent that we'd be fine with spending all of Saturday in Paris and taking the same late-evening train home but, for some reason, they were required to put us in the next available seats.

I thought it would be a veggie

pie. When you don't speak

the native tongue, you may
end up eating it.

But back up, back up... Geneva was a great time! We spent three nights with Bonnie, Niall and their two daughters,  Rowan (5) and Fiona (2.5) at their place in Veyrier, just east of town nestled up against the French border. Rowan and Fiona got us all caught up on princesses, the yes-no game, Youtube princess videos, cache-cache, unicorn mosaics, and princess rolling luggage. You think you know all that stuff because your own kids were five not too long ago but this isn't true. And a lot of this new information came in handy for the final day of our visit when we stayed in during the morning rain and watched the royal wedding. Oh to be on the same side of the Atlantic as William and what's-her-name on their special day. I shan't forget it. As soon as the splendid, undeniably perfect dress stepped out of the car, Jack and I headed out for a quick lunch in the village: $27 personal pizzas. That Geneva is a pricey place. But we were feeling royal and it was a splendid and undeniably perfect pizza (since we didn't know where to look for a properly prepared kidney pie).

Whilst in the Alps, Bonnie & Niall drove us all out to the French town of Chamonix where we boarded a rack-and-pinion train for the accent to Mer de Glace - a large but rapidly shrinking glacier on the French side of Mont Blanc. Mont Blanc itself was shrouded in clouds blanc. But what the sky may have hidden was made up for by the efforts of Compagnie du Mont Blanc who, every year, drills a new ice tunnel into the base of the Mer de Glace and outfits it with multi-colored lights, a non-slip felt floor, and quirky exhibits of department-store mannequins posing as 19th century mountain folk.

Ella deep in the Mer de
Glace ice tunnels, 2011

Steve Austin, a man barely

alive, pursues Sasquatch
through the oft-forgotten
ice tunnels of Southern
California in 1976.

Frozen in time:
19th century mountain
cook works the
ice oven?

The week's main domestic development, as well as the gratuitous diversion into transportation, is bikes. During Jack's day-long soccer tournament Sunday before last, we were talkin' 'bout bikes with his teammate Alex's parents, Guy and Alison. Remembering that they had three older bikes in their garage loft, they had us over after the games and set us up. A couple of days later, Kristin and I (in another process involving multiple visits, new documents, but amazingly didn't require photographs) managed to acquire two bikes from the City of Angers' VeloCité free bike-loan program.

Here parked at the 3-day old bike
racks below our apartment, Pappa
(& Mamma)got a brand-new
ride(s).

They've been supplying bikes to residents (limited to six months total per person) since 2004 and now have over 20,000 bikes in circulation. The current fleet (the latest batch is painted in an array of modified rainbow primary colors to match the new Tramway brand) are simple yet complete 'round-town cruisers: step-through three-speeds (internal hub) with full metal fenders, chain guard, front cargo basket, generator powered rear and front lights,  heavy-duty U-lock, kick-stand, and a bell.

On the way back from Ecouflant, we
discovered that this trail goes all the
way to Angers. Better.

With five bikes "in the house" our geographic and experiential range has been greatly increased. On Tuesday afternoon, while Ella and Ivy were at gymnastics, Kristin, Jack, and I found a route up the east side of the Maine river to Ecouflant, the town I often row to. The bike routes labeled on the official Loire a Velo map looked indirect so, armed with my trusty GPS and its recently upgraded Euro street-layer, I navigated a beautifully efficient route to our "trail head." With the glint and crunch of broken glass and charred remains of burned furniture under our tires, we skirted a large industrial zone and dipped down through a sort of trailer park without wheels conspicuously accented with pieces of old carpet that softened its foreboding paint-to-rust ratio. If it spoke anything, it said, "better not to stop for a picture." But, c'est pas grave, as they say here. We were soon joined up with a shoreline trail pedaling past alternating views of heron; lawn-chair fishermen; a half-dressed couple enjoying a picnic of orange soda, whisky, and Lays; and other bucolic fauna and frolic.

Inner tubing on the Maine river.

Our other two family bike rides have also followed the river--one south along the west shore (almost to the intersection with the Loire but we had to fix a flat tire and hurry back ahead of a northbound thunder storm) and another west to íle Saint-Aubin (which included a trip on a very small ferry where the operator pulls the barge across the tributary by tugging on a fixed cable with his hands). Íle Saint-Aubin provides a good segue to the next topic--really good bread.

Oven inside

Oven outside

Really good bread is not a new theme for this blog. And, it's near the top of the list of things we'll be sad to leave behind. Out in the middle of the island, on the small area of high-ground that isn't covered with water in winter, the City of Angers has recently finished restoring a very old farm house. As if it had its own gravity, I found myself standing in front of a wonderfully restored outdoor bread oven. When I started taking pictures, one of the volunteers came up to me and launched into a fast paced French-planation. I had to interrupt with the bad news that I didn't speak French (which I usually deliver in such unintentionally bad French that people are doubly convinced that I "speak" the truth). Oven-buff laughed and, continuing with French, said something about Anglais--apparently reciprocating with bad news of his own. But, obviously proud of this monument to bread, which I had to believe he'd been personally involved with, he made sure I took pictures of the re-bricked interior and a couple of other important features. Another warning to neighbors -- I want one in my yard. Or maybe we need one on every block in the 'hood?

This newly heightened love of bread took an a slightly literal turn a few weeks ago at the counter of La Cocagne, our "downstairs boulangerie." They sell their traditional style baguette under the name, Amourette. Danger right off the bat. After one of the three or so women who work the counter greeted me, I asked in my typical but never uniform way for two Amourette. I often mess up pronunciation of "deux" (do, du, duh...) and maybe prefaced it with a "Je voudrais" or a "s'il vous plaît..." not quite sure. But whatever I said turned bread girl red. Never abandoning the notion that I was trying to buy bread rather than asking for something more extracurricular and involved, she repeated the question the way I perhaps should have asked it and then quickly recounted a condensed version of the exchange to her coworker now standing next to her (perhaps the second of the two lovers I'd requested). Oh a good laugh they they both had. I'd like to say it wasn't at my expense but when it was over, I gave them money.

Pictures:
More pictures of many things rambled about above.