GRSR: Caen

I stop into a run-down Brasserie and take a seat at the bar.

"Bonjour," says the proprietor. It looks like a family joint, with his
wife waiting tables inside and his daughter running the jury-rigged tap
on the sidewalk outside, dressed in a tight black top. She's pretty
cute.

"Bonjour. La Carta, s'il vous plait?"

He looks at me. I try another tack:

"Do you have an English menu?" I ask.

He looks at me again.

"Je voudrais la mange, s'il vous plait," I say, hopefully.

"Oh, la mange!"

"Oui, la mange!" Things are looking up.

"Sandwich?" he says, hopefully.

Well, why not? "Oui!"

"Sandwich?"

"Sandwich!"

"Fromage?"

"Fromage, oui. Jambon?"

"Jambon?"

"Sandwich. Jambon, fromage."

"Jambon, fromage," he says. Then he asks me if I want something else. I
have no idea what he is talking about.

"Oui oui!" I say confidently, getting into the spirit of things. I
immediately regret it as the bartender shuffles happily off to the
kitchen. I could easily have just agreed to a ham and cheese and kidney
sandwich. Who knows?

Caen is on the northwest coast, and the breeze of the ocean makes it
refreshingly cool compared to the city. I am just off the train from
Paris, about a two hour ride through the pretty Normandy countryside.
Caen was pretty much leveled during the invasion, and is therefore a
shining example of drab postwar architecture.

The bartender returns with a ham and cheese sandwich on a half
baguette. With butter.

"Un pression, s'il vous plait," I say.

"Oui." He pours me a 1664.

"Merci."

The sandwich is fantastic, fresh bread and good stinky cheese. I am
working off a headache. Every time France wins a game in the World Cup,
they stay up all goddamn night in Paris, honking horns and shouting. I
got about three hours of sleep.

It's still early, but the barricades are up on the main road through
Caen, and the street bands and buskers and weirdos are already starting
to gather. I eat my excellent sandwich and drink my beer and watch the
crowd thicken outside the bar. I have it all planned out. The official
Tour web site has the arrival time of the peloton listed over the whole
route down to the minute. The stage finish today is in Caen, and I am
here to see it.

"La meme chose, s'il vous plait."

"Oui," says the bartender, and pours me another.

"Merci."

I finish my sandwich and four of the little 25's of the generic
European lager. You could stick a Heineken, a 1664, a Kronenbourg, and
a Peironi in front of me and I would be utterly incapable of telling
them apart, but the beer tastes good on a hot day. A couple of hours
before the peloton is scheduled to arrive, I pay my bill and wander
along the barricades into the center of Caen. I gradually work my way
most the way up to the finish line through the thickening crowd, but I
back off to the 1 km mark after I see the situation at the very end. My
side of the course is blocked off for the team trucks at about 100m,
and there is no way to get across to the other side, where the rabble
can gather all the way up to the line. Back at 1km, the barricades
still have big empty gaps. I relax in the shade under the line of trees
on the boulevard overlooking the Caen Hippodrome. It is a beautiful,
mild, breezy day. The peloton is due to arrive at around 15:45. I have
a return train booked to Paris two hours after that, so I can take my
time getting out.

At about 15:30, I move into the sun at the barricade. There still
aren't to many people, which seems a little funny to me. But over the
next twenty minutes, the crowd fills in behind me.

It's time.

About ten minutes after the listed time, a police car glides up the
race course, lights flashing. In the distance behind, vans emblazoned
with the Tour logo fly formation toward me. I get the camera ready.

Behind the vans is a huge, tacky parade of T-shirt trucks and crazy
cars shaped like hot dogs and cell-phones, you name it, with blaring
loudspeakers on the front reminding me to buy some particular brand of
milk or coffee or to bank with some bank or to subscribe to some TV
station. Not-especially-cute chicks wiggle on little platforms on the
back of the trucks and toss paper hats and weird little trinkets to the
crowd. It's like this sad corporate Mardi Gras, and it goes on and on
and on, getting louder and tackier by the minute. The tide ebbs
momentarily, and a couple of official-looking guys fly by on
motorcycles, and I hope against hope to see the peloton, but then the
parade of ads starts up again. After more than an hour, the Disney
trucks and the girls throwing France telecom coupons are still rolling
by. The peloton must still be miles away, because these dorks are
moving at about five miles per hour so they can sell $35 T-shirts to
the crowd on the course. It goes on and on.

Finally, I realize that I have to start back toward Gare Caen, or I
will be in danger of missing my train. The bullhorns have gotten so
loud that they are making me flinch, and I swear to God if one more
asshole starts chanting "Allez Les Bleus! Allez Lez Bleus!" I am going
to kick his teeth in.

I feel completely betrayed. ****ing lying French roadies. I came all
this way to watch commercials.

I work my way back along the course, and I finally stop at the point on
the course closest to the train. It is about 17:15. My train is at
17:45. Might as well wait as long as possible. Finally, the commercials
are gone and there is a lull in traffic on the course. Gradually, the
crowd grows totally silent. We are all standing in the hot sun, and
there is no noise save for the occasional squawk of a police radio. The
breeze has died. And in the stillness, to the east, we hear the gentle
whup-whup-whup of a helicopter as it climbs over the horizon toward the
town.

It is all over in seconds. There is no breakaway, and the peloton whirs
by at amazing speed and is gone again. I have no idea who is in the
lead. I have a few minutes to spare, so I stay and clap and cheer for
the guys who got dropped. And then it's over.

I have ten minutes to make my train back to Paris.

CC

What a classic Tour report. Better than 99% of the dreck I read on the
"professional" sites.

"Corvus Corvax" wrote in message
ups.com...
I stop into a run-down Brasserie and take a seat at the bar.

"Bonjour," says the proprietor. It looks like a family joint, with his
wife waiting tables inside and his daughter running the jury-rigged tap
on the sidewalk outside, dressed in a tight black top. She's pretty
cute.

"Bonjour. La Carta, s'il vous plait?"

He looks at me. I try another tack:

"Do you have an English menu?" I ask.

He looks at me again.

"Je voudrais la mange, s'il vous plait," I say, hopefully.

"Oh, la mange!"

"Oui, la mange!" Things are looking up.

"Sandwich?" he says, hopefully.

Well, why not? "Oui!"

"Sandwich?"

"Sandwich!"

"Fromage?"

"Fromage, oui. Jambon?"

"Jambon?"

"Sandwich. Jambon, fromage."

"Jambon, fromage," he says. Then he asks me if I want something else. I
have no idea what he is talking about.

"Oui oui!" I say confidently, getting into the spirit of things. I
immediately regret it as the bartender shuffles happily off to the
kitchen. I could easily have just agreed to a ham and cheese and kidney
sandwich. Who knows?

Caen is on the northwest coast, and the breeze of the ocean makes it
refreshingly cool compared to the city. I am just off the train from
Paris, about a two hour ride through the pretty Normandy countryside.
Caen was pretty much leveled during the invasion, and is therefore a
shining example of drab postwar architecture.

The bartender returns with a ham and cheese sandwich on a half
baguette. With butter.

"Un pression, s'il vous plait," I say.

"Oui." He pours me a 1664.

"Merci."

The sandwich is fantastic, fresh bread and good stinky cheese. I am
working off a headache. Every time France wins a game in the World Cup,
they stay up all goddamn night in Paris, honking horns and shouting. I
got about three hours of sleep.

It's still early, but the barricades are up on the main road through
Caen, and the street bands and buskers and weirdos are already starting
to gather. I eat my excellent sandwich and drink my beer and watch the
crowd thicken outside the bar. I have it all planned out. The official
Tour web site has the arrival time of the peloton listed over the whole
route down to the minute. The stage finish today is in Caen, and I am
here to see it.

"La meme chose, s'il vous plait."

"Oui," says the bartender, and pours me another.

"Merci."

I finish my sandwich and four of the little 25's of the generic
European lager. You could stick a Heineken, a 1664, a Kronenbourg, and
a Peironi in front of me and I would be utterly incapable of telling
them apart, but the beer tastes good on a hot day. A couple of hours
before the peloton is scheduled to arrive, I pay my bill and wander
along the barricades into the center of Caen. I gradually work my way
most the way up to the finish line through the thickening crowd, but I
back off to the 1 km mark after I see the situation at the very end. My
side of the course is blocked off for the team trucks at about 100m,
and there is no way to get across to the other side, where the rabble
can gather all the way up to the line. Back at 1km, the barricades
still have big empty gaps. I relax in the shade under the line of trees
on the boulevard overlooking the Caen Hippodrome. It is a beautiful,
mild, breezy day. The peloton is due to arrive at around 15:45. I have
a return train booked to Paris two hours after that, so I can take my
time getting out.

At about 15:30, I move into the sun at the barricade. There still
aren't to many people, which seems a little funny to me. But over the
next twenty minutes, the crowd fills in behind me.

It's time.

About ten minutes after the listed time, a police car glides up the
race course, lights flashing. In the distance behind, vans emblazoned
with the Tour logo fly formation toward me. I get the camera ready.

Behind the vans is a huge, tacky parade of T-shirt trucks and crazy
cars shaped like hot dogs and cell-phones, you name it, with blaring
loudspeakers on the front reminding me to buy some particular brand of
milk or coffee or to bank with some bank or to subscribe to some TV
station. Not-especially-cute chicks wiggle on little platforms on the
back of the trucks and toss paper hats and weird little trinkets to the
crowd. It's like this sad corporate Mardi Gras, and it goes on and on
and on, getting louder and tackier by the minute. The tide ebbs
momentarily, and a couple of official-looking guys fly by on
motorcycles, and I hope against hope to see the peloton, but then the
parade of ads starts up again. After more than an hour, the Disney
trucks and the girls throwing France telecom coupons are still rolling
by. The peloton must still be miles away, because these dorks are
moving at about five miles per hour so they can sell $35 T-shirts to
the crowd on the course. It goes on and on.

Finally, I realize that I have to start back toward Gare Caen, or I
will be in danger of missing my train. The bullhorns have gotten so
loud that they are making me flinch, and I swear to God if one more
asshole starts chanting "Allez Les Bleus! Allez Lez Bleus!" I am going
to kick his teeth in.

I feel completely betrayed. ****ing lying French roadies. I came all
this way to watch commercials.

I work my way back along the course, and I finally stop at the point on
the course closest to the train. It is about 17:15. My train is at
17:45. Might as well wait as long as possible. Finally, the commercials
are gone and there is a lull in traffic on the course. Gradually, the
crowd grows totally silent. We are all standing in the hot sun, and
there is no noise save for the occasional squawk of a police radio. The
breeze has died. And in the stillness, to the east, we hear the gentle
whup-whup-whup of a helicopter as it climbs over the horizon toward the
town.

It is all over in seconds. There is no breakaway, and the peloton whirs
by at amazing speed and is gone again. I have no idea who is in the
lead. I have a few minutes to spare, so I stay and clap and cheer for
the guys who got dropped. And then it's over.

I have ten minutes to make my train back to Paris.

CC

G.T. wrote:
What a classic Tour report. Better than 99% of the dreck I read on
the "professional" sites.

Top poster. eg

Great read, as always, CC.

"Corvus Corvax" wrote in message
ups.com...
I stop into a run-down Brasserie and take a seat at the bar.

{snippage -- French accent please}

On Thu, 06 Jul 2006 14:22:02 -0700, Corvus Corvax wrote:

I stop into a run-down Brasserie and take a seat at the bar.

And I'm so glad you did. Great "RR" as usual, Corvus.

gabrielle

It is all over in seconds. There is no breakaway, and the peloton whirs
by at amazing speed and is gone again. I have no idea who is in the
lead. I have a few minutes to spare, so I stay and clap and cheer for
the guys who got dropped. And then it's over.

Neat report.
I've got the Eurosport cover of the stage on VHS (I think)
What were you wearing?
Mike

dardruba wrote:

It is all over in seconds. There is no breakaway, and the peloton whirs
by at amazing speed and is gone again. I have no idea who is in the
lead. I have a few minutes to spare, so I stay and clap and cheer for
the guys who got dropped. And then it's over.

Neat report.
I've got the Eurosport cover of the stage on VHS (I think)
What were you wearing?
Mike

Sorry Guys. I've recorded a German JazzFest over it.
Its a repeat Montreux Festival showing Youssou N'Dour and the Chimes of Freedom, and I dont like it !!

dardruba wrote:

What were you wearing?

A leather miniskirt with a gold lame halter top and shiny black ****-me
pumps.

Too bad you erased the tape.

CC

Corvus Corvax wrote:
"Bonjour. La Carta, s'il vous plait?"

He looks at me. I try another tack:

"Do you have an English menu?" I ask.

He looks at me again.
CC

You could have tried

mes mamelons éclatent dans le plaisir

or

Mon aéroglisseur est plein des anguilles

Jimbo(san)

Corvus Corvax wrote:
I stop into a run-down Brasserie and take a seat at the bar.

le sneep

Awesome. Thanks!

This confirms my resistance to my wife saying we should go see some of
the tour some day. I'm happy to go there again, but I'd rather do it
when there weren't all those people there. I can see that better from
the couch anyway!

Matt