Street Performers Under the Eiffel Tower

Took this video just before heading upstairs for a dinner with a serious view.

Finishing the Tour De France

If you want to watch the Tour, stay at home. The last two weeks taught me that people do not come to the TDF to watch a bike race. In fact, the millions of people who descend on France every summer actually come to partake of the world’s largest and longest party (cumulative). Turns out the race is really just an excuse to drink wine and blast music from your camper van in exotic mountainous locations.

I “watched” four stages of the TDF, but saw a total of less than one minute of actual racing. Each day I spent hours and hours waiting in thick crowds to watch the peloton rip by in three seconds. It was worth it, not because of the race, but because of the experience and the energy. I found more interesting people, spectacles, and cultures in this crowd than anywhere else I have ever been. The attached video of a Dutch roadside party offers only the smallest taste of what lined Mont Ventoux for literally 22 kilometers. The crowd in Paris was even crazier with over 1 million people lining the Champs Elysees!

I’ll remember the trip for other reasons... like raw beef. One huge perk of guiding bike trips is that you get to live the lifestyle of a vacationing 55 year old executive for a couple weeks. Foias gras, pate, beef tare tare, octopus, and lots of stinky fromage – I didn't pass the opportunity to try bizarre new (and delicious) foods! The food has been awesome. We even ate in the Eiffel Tower on our last night.

After the bike trip ended, I rendezvoused with Emma Drucker, a friend from Middlebury who worked as a nanny in Paris this summer. We visited our favorite impressionists at Le Musee D’Orsay, walked down the left bank and found a nice café tucked into a side street, then headed for the Basilique du Sacre Coeur. The basilica boasts one of the most impressive views in all of Paris, which we enjoyed for hours by carrying peaches and nectarines up the hill after a great diner in the bustling streets below. We ended our night talking life over mint tea and apricot hookah at a street-side café in the Fifth district. Another Middlebury girl living in Paris, Justine, recognized us and sat down to join the storytelling and laughter.

Eventually the café owner asked us to be quiet because it was so late and his neighbor was sick. We realized that it was actually 1:00AM, and I had missed the last train to the airport. The fast-thinking, French-speaking girls helped me understand the bus schedule and literally run to the last possible metro train headed for the bus station. I had to sprint and slide under a closing set of gates to exit the station, then hop on the last possible bus out of the city, which delivered me to my hotel at 2:25AM. I boarded my plane bound for Amsterdam at 7:40AM, then loaded into my Houston-bound connection at 10:10. It was a crazy, improvised blur of traveling, but I’m glad I didn’t cut my adventure short just to catch the early train.

I’m back in Houston now, spending a night with my grandparents before I drive my car to Dallas to pick up my family's new puppy. After Dallas, I drive for two days back to Colorado. Looking forward to the next big adventure – learning to finance and install solar panels in Vail!

I Was Winning, Until the Gendarme Caught Me...

A quick video of me running next to an Astana rider during the time trials in Annecy on July 23. I was repping Colorado with my flag-cape and cruising along next to this rider until a gendarme officer (French national police) literally grabbed me off the street. You will notice me disappear in the last few frames... totally worth it.

The Big Problem

I find myself in an excellent culture, which troubles me. The contrast with my own country concerns me. I repeatedly arrive at the thought that French people seem to lead more satisfying lives, on average, than Americans. I cannot help but ask why; through that inquiry I think I found an insight into a subtle cultural peril facing America and the world. Permit me this rant.

There are no billboards in France’s Savoie region. What’s more, there are no Wallmarts, Starbuckses, Holliday Inns, or Pizza Huts. Everything you find here is unique. Every shop is original. Every hotel, rated two stars or four, is independent. Every restaurant offers a specialty that is actually special.

Why? Because artisans define French culture. Further, pride in one’s unique artistry constitutes a central (and often misunderstood as arrogant) tenet of French culture. If you make baguettes in Savoie, then you are a bread artisan, and damnit you are proud to make the best bread you can. The same goes for the cheese maker, the pipe carver, the farmer, the butcher, the wine maker, etc.

What can America learn from this? What can I learn? I’ll generalize, but I think accurately. In America we also aspire to be the best at what we do, but by best we typically mean biggest. Be the biggest name in Hollywood. Move to the Big City. Make the biggest profits. Everything is bigger in Texas. Drive the biggest car. Build the biggest muscles. Executive penthouse on the highest floor of the biggest building. Biggest house on the block. Biggest client base. Venti coffee. Jumbo size. Think Big.

So what is wrong with big? Nothing, except for everything you have to sacrifice to get big. Americans are gypsies – skipping from location to location, job to job, career to career in search for big success. We gladly abandon our hometowns and local heritages (or what’s left of them after Wallmart obliterates every unique shop in town) in that pursuit of big fame and big fortune. I posit that increasing American individualism results from decreasing local culture.

Why stay in Detroit if Detroit is the same as Dallas or Kansas City or Cleveland or Scranton? Our metropolises suffer from escalating cultural confluence – big box stores, malls, and convenience centers are wiping away our character. The pursuit of big success drives us to big business, which all too often crushes little mom and pop, destroying any local flair that might keep a person satisfied with their local culture, thereby encouraging the person to abandon local heritage in pursuit of big success. If I am right, then bigness begets sameness.

Savoie reminds us that the pattern is not universal. There are people out there satisfied with their hometowns. Those people are content – happy even – to chose a humble trade and excel at it. French success is feeling good, not big. Part of feeling good in France is investing yourself in a strong local culture, place, food, and people.

My advice? Support your local farmer’s markets. Cherish the co-op. Celebrate cottage industry. Buy local. Think like Vermont. Resist big box stores.

It’s true that the local bakery doesn’t generate tax base like Super Target, nor will the local movie rental store boost GDP. Local will cost more also. However, I’ll gladly pay extra to preserve uniqueness, traditions, and diversity in America. They pay 60% tax or more over here – consider the co-op a self-imposed ethos tax. Let’s reincorporate artistry, not for the sake of the artist, but for the sake of our culture.

Of course I am overlooking something in this rant. America is a superpower exactly because from the outset we permitted and promoted the drive to big, individual success. It's called the American Dream. I still love that dream. I have my own American Dream to build renewable energy power plants - a decidedly big goal. However, let's not "make it big" at the expense of making it well.

Find your own artistry. Find a passion, not just something that will make you a big success. I struggle so much with this. I’m torn between “making it big” in the conventional sense and following a more personal calling. Perhaps France can give me the strength to say "big blows."

Arrived in France - Le Tour 2009

Bonjour mon ami,

Yes, despite innumerable setbacks, I arrived here in France 48 hours ago. After being swindled by Dutch pirates at the airport ($400 to check by bike one-way on Royal Dutch Airlines) I flew to Amsterdam, then to Paris. On my second flight I traded iPods with a French college girl and listened to new music the whole way.

In Paris I boarded a train bound for Grenoble; however, severe jetlag induced a coma and I missed my stop. Regrettable. I approached the conductor, looking as pathetic, sleepless, and incompetent as possible. She researched the logistics of a re-routing to Grenoble, which would involve two additional train rides and a bus. I asked “will I need to buy another ticket?” which she considered briefly, then took to writing a long letter on the back of an envelope. She told me to present the letter wherever I encountered hassles and that my first ticket would cover the rest of my trip. I had to show the letter to a conductor in Nines and again to the bus driver in Valence; in both cases the man read the letter, looked at me with pity, and ushered me inside the coach. I haven’t translated the letter, but I imagine it reads:

“The American standing before you suffers from severe incompetence or mental retardation – which is unclear. He purchased a ticket to Grenoble, but refused to exit my train at the appropriate time. Doubting that he can pay for return fare, I authorize you to deliver him to his destination without further charge. Sincerely, HP346 J.

Anyway, I got to Grenoble, met my dad and good family friend Kurt Hoppe, and we drove to a rural alpine town where the hotels have no shower curtains, the cheese is local and abundant, and the mountains are intimidating enormous. We rode the famous Col Du Madelena today, which is steeper than any road I’ve ever seen in the states. The 11 mile ride took an hour and a half (dad took two and a quarter). Atop the pass we found something quite conventional in France – excellent food in unsuspecting and remote locations. Pizza, beer, coffee, orangina, chocolate baguettes, then off we went, sailing back down the hair-pinning descent. The rain began just as we arrived at our van, which we drove to a warm hotel and meal of salmon, cheeses, and kir (a white wine mixed with fruity crème).

Tomorrow, weather permitting, we tackle the infamous Telegraphique and Galibier – a pair of passes renowned for shattering professional cycling pelotons and inducing tears from lesser men (such as myself). My next message should have pictures from Le Tour De France 2009. Watch for me on TV too – I’ll be the one wearing a Colorado flag as a cape and running alongside Lance up Mont Ventoux! Wish us luck and good luck to you too.

Santé,

Cully

Feted Footwear Feasting Fowl

On June 21 Sam, Rich, Ben, and I departed Milford Sound having just completed the greatest hike in the world. Rain streaked down the windshield of our ’87 Galant as I urged the grey bucket up successively steepening switchbacks. We slowly chugged towards a towering rock face; the steeply inclined Homer Tunnel hid from us until the last possible moment. In the rear view mirror, I watched in terror as a previously picturesque green valley transformed into some kind of ghoulish nightmare - black rain clouds descended on the scene and waterfalls erupted from both valley walls. My three stinking and dripping compatriots broke my panic by reminding me, “Relax Cavness, we just hiked the Milford Track.”

            You see, when it rains in Milford Sound, it pours, and when it pours, the valley walls burst open with dozens of waterfalls. It’s biblical, really. Rainfall is averaged to over 11 meters and 300 days per year. The area receives so much rain that oceanic waters periodically convert to fresh water - so much rain that the Milford Track’s brochure forewarns walking through “up to a meter of water.” Fortunately, our four-day jaunt was graced by three days of clear skies; the torrential downpour didn’t hit until the end of our fourth and final day.

            Despite the rain, National Geographic labels the 33.5-mile Milford Track as “the finest walk in the world,” and I wholeheartedly agree. Describing the Track is difficult, but imagine the Disney World of hiking. Instead of the Tower Of Doom or the House of Mirrors, I found myself tugging on papa Sam’s sleeve and begging, “Oh! Oh! Can we go swimming in Lake Mintaro before we see Hirere Falls!? Can I please stay up late to see the glow worms!?”

            For me, Southerland Falls, New Zealand’s tallest waterfall, delivered the Track’s emblematic mental snapshot. There I scaled slimy rocks to stand beneath the 540-meter fall and look down-valley. Avalanches of vegetation pour into the gorge from every direction and Kea Parrots offer their shrill, piercing calls. It is a place where the Velosa Raptors of Michael Chriton’s imagination would be happy.

            We spent our three nights on the Track in huts outfitted by the Department of Conservation (DOC) with gas burners, wood burning stove, eating area, and bunk beds. The track begins and ends with a ferry ride – no other means of access are available. The group of 40 that disembarked the ferry with us was the same group that we dined with each night and hiked with each day. Memorable characters include a fearsomely disciplined German man and his troop of equally ordered German kids (presumably his children). I don’t speak German, but I imagined the conversations going something like:

Father: “You will march or die here.”

Hanz: “Yes father, I know, but when may I have my ration of nuts and berries?”

Father: “You will scavenge your own, or die here.”

Hanz: “Alright father, but why have you poured water into my sleeping bag?”

Father: “To teach you resourcefulness, otherwise you will die here.”

Yeah, that’s probably exactly what they were saying.

            The only real disappointment came on the second morning, when I awoke to find one of my boots missing. After some searching, I discovered it tattered and lacking its insole. Apparently Kea Parrots are renowned for shredding critically important pieces of equipment and pooping on things that you love.

            Thankfully, Keas represent the greatest danger to humans on the Track. Indeed, the Milford Track would be impossible in almost any comparable rain-forest. Elsewhere, predatory dangers make the track’s universal access unconscionable. In the Amazon, Boa Constrictor will gladly squeeze the life from careless hikers. In South East Asia, Bangalore Tigers might shred the wandering tramper. Access to those jungles is restricted to only the most expert and knowledgeable. New Zealand's uniqueness is its absence of dangerous predators, snakes, spiders, and bugs. Nature (or fortune) has exchanged the Asp and Grizzly Bear for the Kiwi and Blue Duck. Dominica is the only other country I’ve hiked predator-free in a rain forest, and those trails are not nearly as manicured, well signed, or hutted.

            Currently, I am relaxing back in Dunedin and housing Daniel, a friend I met on the Milford Track. Daniel is also German, although less stoic than the former group. He is riding his bicycle around the South Island of New Zealand before heading to medical school in Deuchland. Having taken a similar trip in America, I was more than happy to lend him my couch and show him around D-town.

            Milford Track was only the beginning of an epic Spring Break; the remainder must wait for a later post. 

Midnight Blackberry Mayhem

Since my last post, I’ve been hitting the books hard. The work here comes in big, tsunami-like waves. The kinds of waves that make you fear for your health and social standing. Thankfully, last night was the end of work; I spent this morning catching a different kind of wave at St. Clair Beach.

The local surf break is just a 10-minute drive from my house. Today was an “epic sesh’ at the break; the swells were pumpin’ cleanliness,” and I managed to stand up on my first wave despite “dropping the falls and getting cycled” a few times. As you can see, I've befriended the local surfer population and assimilated seamlessly. I invested in a used board and wet suit weeks ago - worth every penny.

Other highlights include, well, highlights. "Highlights," are headlights you strap to your helmet for thrilling midnight mountain bike rides in Bethunes Gully and Forrester Park. I’ve been biking with the Otago Cycling Club for two weeks now. The Kiwi’s have a fondness for steep climbs and brake-free downhills on curvaceous trails that skirt bottomless abysses of rain forrest. Interestingly, chain gangs from local prisons build many of New Zealand's walking and biking trails.

Derek, a portly, cynical, and hilarious local, demonstrated the Kiwi love of freefall on Wednesday. I had dismounted and turned off my headlight to enjoy a deep and silent darkness below the aptly named “Slippery Slope Of Death.” I watched Derek’s headlight emerge atop the Slope as a gleaming point. The light descended rapidly, followed by the sounds of brakes locking and tires sliding, then the headlight flipped multiple times through the darkness until it came to a sudden stop meters below. “Mates, I’ve got blackberries stabbing my manberries!!”

I also rode a motor scooter, placed 10th in a duathlon, and went on a fishing boat to investigate mud. Those stories, however, I have deemed unworthy of your bandwidth. I did post some pictures though...

I’m off to enjoy a hearty bowl of soup cooked with love and care and instant ingredients by Annabelle, my Kiwi flatmate. She has blazing red hair and relentless spunk.