Vive Le Tour de France

It is no small feat to fling your leg over a bicycle seat any given day, to strap on a helmet and go for a little ride of, oh say 100 miles, making sure to throw in a few hills for a little challenge.  I can tell you it’s no small feat because I did it. Once. And that was enough. 

I’ll tell you what would have been an even greater challenge: To fling my leg over my bike seat a second day, and to slowly lower my weight into the saddle. Ouch.

So when Dan and I get an email from Viking that our first day in France may be a bit challenging due to barricaded roads for the last leg of the Tour de France, since those cyclists have been doing that greatest challenge, flinging their legs over the saddle for 21 days, we promptly decide we will let them finish up their little bike race without complaints from us. It’s the least we can do to support them.

Once collected from the airport, we ask our driver if we’ll be detoured to a hotel or if we got here in time to avoid street closures for the race. Our driver explains that we will not be delayed getting to our ship. Hooray! A few minutes into our journey, he gets a call and delivers the news, “I’m taking you to a hotel after all.” In view of our promise not to complain, we plan the sights we can visit while in that arrondissement.  Halfway to the hotel, another phone call, and voila! We are heading to the ship after all. “This is France!” we learn. Dan and I laugh.

When I wonder if our route to the ship will cross barricades for the tour, our driver explains in his delightful French accent, “No no, madam, your ship is docked right beside the road the riders will cycle down on the way to the finish.” Ooh la la! I might actually get to see a piece of the action.

Once we are delivered safely to The Fjyorgn, (our ship), I turn 360 degrees in amazement.  Off the stern is a perfect view of the Eiffel tower, and off the bow, I spy a one-quarter sized Statue of Liberty on an island separating the Seine in twain. “I wonder if that’s the one from the movie, National Treasure 2? The one they get in trouble with the police for flying the drone to read a clue?” Sure enough, it is!

After a quick hot ham and cheese croissant, we set off on a walking path along the Seine toward the Eiffel Tower.  There is so much fuel for my imagination as we pass docked houseboats, cruise boats, night club boats, and exclusive looking members-only boats on route to our destination; I try to imagine The Little Paris Bookshop nestled here before Nina George casts her fictional boat off in search of true love, or destiny, or a waterway Tour de France.

When we round out our journey with a climb up a set of steps, the towering iron lattice we set out to see looms gracefully overhead. “Oh my gosh, look at the line to get up there!” Dan points out queues along the street that seem to have no end. After closer examination, we wonder if in fact they are lined up along the road to wait for the cyclists to come by, so we squeeze in along the route as well. It doesn’t take long before our question is answered. The parade of the tour caravan reaches the base of this enduring icon, and lines along the street erupt in cheers as motorcycle cops precede advertising vehicles that stretch down the street as far as we can see.  

Each group of sponsors seems to outdo the last with the cleverness of the shapes mounted to their cars. My favorites are the toy-car-sized Lidl fruits, and the Haribo Gummies. Strapped to frames welded onto the bumpers, are waving and cheering personalities, egging on the fans, but what really gets me moving is the music. I throw my hands in the air and wave, dancing in time to a great groove while a D.J., blaring out a steady stream of French, encourages our excitement.

We meander back down the street traveling against the flow of the parade, but I pause and dance, wave and whoop with each new group of sponsor vehicles we meet. “This is France!” I grin at Dan, who is filming a tiny yellow car with a huge lion popping out of the top.  I notice just as many phones pointed toward the crowd from the parade participants, who seem as much spectators as part of the show. I imagine them sharing their footage on big screens back in living rooms at home and hear someone say:

“Who was that big old white lady, anyhow?”

“I don’t know, but she sure was glad to be there!”

Hours of parade later, the caravan is gone and the actual cyclists zoom by in a clump so fast, if I sneeze I might miss them! But my hollering of encouragement is outdone by the deep, loud and sonorous blasts of the ship’s horn in a “do re mi, do re mi, do re mi,” then a looooong loud blast. Sounds like our captain is happy to be here too. Ah! Vive le Tour de France!