Tour de France Stage

This is about a small country village of some 700 inhabitants, tucked peacefully away in Brittany somewhere along that breadth-taking beautiful stretch of coastline known as la Côte d'Émeraude or the Emerald Coast. In truth, few things have ever really changed in this part of the world, oh to be sure, many years ago they filmed a swashbuckling-type movie at a nearby castle and indeed a few stars where seen being whisked through town but with that exception, there's been the  occasional car accident, usually involving a tourist, low level truancy and the usual summer tourist falling off a cliff. Other than that,  very little has upset the natural  ebb and flow of daily life in the village until one day when the mayor anounced that they had been chosen as a ville de stage for the Tour de France. It proved to be a life changing moment for everyone.

There are likely few things which can stir the passion in Frenchmen, young and old, as much as the world famous Tour de France. Years ago, legendary names such as Anquetil and Poulidor literally divided France, right down to the smallest village, even families were emotionally split into two rival camps. Today the passions remains as strong, if not stronger, of course with different heroes the likes of iron man Lance Armstrong, recent Tour winner Alberto Contador or the Frenchman, Christophe Riblon. For every Frenchman who has a favorite cycliste, the Tour de France is an event of passion, high drama and emotion, discussed at great lengths over in cafes or argued in smoky Bar-Tabac over beers and endless cigarettes. Although the climax of this exhausting, marathon event culminates on the Avenues des Champs-Élysées, the emotional battles are fought tooth-and-nail by brave men, one stage after the next, throughout the French countryside. 

Having written an occasional human interest story for my local paper, the editor inquired if I was interested in pedalling over to the Côtes-d'Armor in the western part of France and do some  sleuthing for a background piece on the upcoming Tour de France. I knew this was an important event near and dear to the hearts and minds of every self respecting Frenchman; yet here in the U.S. my impression was that the level of interest was pretty near where soccer (European football) was some twenty odd years ago; in other words, if football, basketball or hockey was on the big screen why in the world would you want to watch a bike race. The editor interrupted my deep thoughts, "you speak French, right?" he barked, I assured him I did "well then find out what all this excitements' about, get behind the story, look for the human interest angle and all the BS that goes with it, just don't tell me how to build a GD bike or strategies to win some bicycle race. I'm in the business of selling newspapers, every damn day so don' t forget that." He added "one more thing ace, no four star hotels or fancy restaurants on my dime. Just come back with a story."
 
My assignment took me far from the continental United States and six hours overland from Paris to  a village that hugged Brittany's emerald coast. From my own research, I learned that the village would be hosting a much anticipated and dramatic finish of a "stage" of the Tour de France. The Tour is broken up into twenty one "stages" located throughout France and each one attracts a large number of followers, tourists and general sports enthusiasts. Further I learned that the village chosen had a thriving population of approximately 700 year around inhabitants, give or take, and there was the expected uptick during the summer months with the influx of tourists, usually Germans, English or Dutch, arriving on bikes, in campers, cars or just simply hiking. The village had one cemetery with a recent expansion, one working farm (down from three ten years ago), three registered tractors, one movie/celebration hall, an elementary school with an undetermined enrollment, a two story municipal building, and no police station. I wondered about the possible security issues, this being a stage town, how would this be handle?  The village was served by a local bus which stooped twice daily in front of a cafe-bar-tabac. The village also had a recently elected mayor who, according to the mayor's press office, had an apparently aggressive agenda to promote economic development. I could easily imagine that having a Tour de France stage end in the mayor's back yard was tantamount to a golden opportunity of a lifetime and one which apparently this mayor, as any other mayor would, fully intended to squeeze out as much benefit for the town as possible.  From maps and research, it was evident that central to the village was the church circle so designated because quite simply, the church was there and facing it on one side was a boulangerie (closed on Wednesdays), a charcuterie (closed on Wednesdays) and a cafe-bar-tabac (yes, closed on Wednesdays). In other words, on Wednesdays, residents of this fine village were simply out of luck or they drove, bused or walked to the next village. Outside of the village limits, according to the Guide Michelin, were three bed and breakfasts, a 15th century fort, and a lighthouse.  My goal, my story, was to get a feel for this quaint village before the mad rush of humans descended from around the world and consumed it in the name of the Tour de France.

I was definitely off the beaten path, far from any route nationale or for that matter any route départementale. I was driving my rented blue Peugeot 307 along the narrow winding roads like some formula race car driver. My French GPS advised me in no uncertain terms that I was exactly five kilometers from my final destination so I turned off her increasingly annoying voice and enjoyed the last few kilometers in peace. Every so often, at the top of a hill or a bend in the road, I would catch a glimpse of the ocean, a deep emerald blue, I rolled down my window gulping in fresh sea air which hit me like a ton of bricks; I could almost taste the salt air and smelt the pungent aroma of a low tide. Approaching the village limits I slowed to a complete stop as a young woman held up a home made stop sign as she let a dozen or so mud speckled black, brown and white cows all heavy with milk emerge from the field and onto to main road. Following the procession was the proud farmer himself  wearing mud covered rubber boots, a faded blue work shirt, suspenders, twill pants and a beret pushed down to one side; he waived politely, giving me a shy grin as if thanking me for my patience. Waiting for the bovine procession to pass and clear the road into the farm, I couldn't help but notice a beautiful stone house, circa late 1800's I suspected, with what seemed to be a large fig tree in the courtyard almost covering the white painted shutters on the front of the house which were tightly closed for the season. The property had a cosy and inviting look to it and was obviously very well cared for.  I drove passed the house slow trying, unsuccessfully, to get a better look past the immaculately trimmed hedges that surrounded the property. Driving towards the heartbeat of the village, the church circle, I passed a municipal truck parked close to the side of the road and observed two men busily attempting to stretch a banner high above the street that said "Welcome Tour de France 2011." 

It was becoming increasingly clear to me that with the Tour de France six months away, the anticipation was slowly but ever so surely building a head of steam and beginning to permeate the daily ritual of the inhabitants in this "stage" town. Whether over a bol de café and a croissant while reading the sports section in Ouest France or standing in line for a baguette at the Boulangerie-pattiserie discussing the weather, the Tour was becoming the only talk of the town. Madame at the Boulangerie said the upcoming event was nothing short of a crisis for her and she had no idea how to handle the anticipated volume in baguettes, demis, couronnes, croissants and patisseries, she has been having nightmares ever since the announcement but her doctor has prescribed her a "calmant" which she said had helped. At the Boucherie-Charcuterie, Monsieur Daliot appeared to be ahead of the game and already posted a sign reminding customers to kindly place their special orders well in advance of the event itself.  Monsieur Dalio, in his stained white butchers bib confided in me as he was busy ficeler-ing un rôti, that his customers seemed to have gone, in his words, un peut fou with planning special celebrations for the weeks leading up and after the event. He added that he will be hiring a junior butcher from Rennes. One of his customers had informed him that her entire extended family including those from Quimper and Lorient were arriving a month ahead of time with their camping trailers and tents. He shrugged his shoulders and returned to slicing a country ham. End of conversation.

I continued my investigations by going next door, to the cafe bar Chez Pamplouse which advertised free wifi in large letters on the front door. A song by Pierre Perret was coming from the jukebox, and the jumbo screen had a bike race on, from somewhere in North Africa. No other customers seemed to be around Sitting at the bar I ordered a petit café and cognac and bought a Calva for Marcel, the owner, who stopped cleaning the counter long enough for me to ask him a few questions. "Behein oui, we are all excited to be sure, I mean this event could make my entire saison d'un seul coup, so I am very optimistic, I have even invested in a super large flat screen TV." There was a picture behind the bar of a much younger Marcel in a green and yellow bike jersey holding an armful of flowers and flanked on either side by two blonde beauties. "So you were a cycliste and a champion as well?"I  inquired, Marcel grinned a little embarrassed "that was so many years ago before I hurt myself, you know one bad spill et voila, on est terminé."   

The Cap'Coiffure was open for business and because my locks were getting a bit long, I looked unruly and could easily have been stopped by a motard or a flic and asked to present my papers. It was also a good way to pick up some information. Madame Stephanie Antoine, who is originally from St. Brieuc,  is the proud patronne of the establishment which she keeps immaculate, not a hair on the floor anywhere. This particular morning, her husband Henri had stepped out to buy a copy of Ouest France and stop for a cafe at Chez Pamplouse . I obligingly let her work her magic with her scissors. As she snipped her way through my locks, I learned all about the weather and the dampness and the frost and the long term weather outlook for next week; I also learned that a lady from around the corner had a crise cardiac but the ambulance from Erquy had arrived too late; she confided in me that there was some hanky-panky going on in town involving one of the local shopkeepers but she wasn't saying anymore than that. Madame paused as if to catch her breadth, I seized the moment and told her there seemed to be a sense of excitement in town with the upcoming Stage du Tour de France. She stopped and put her scissors downs and said "mais Monsieur, let me tell you something. I have been cutting and styling hair for over twenty years now, first in Paris where I received my certificat and completed my stages, and of course at a salon de beauté in Rennes before marrying my husband and coming here; I have never seem so much  euphorie  in my life." I finished her statement with a question "is this a good thing for everyone, for you, for the town, I mean?" She resumed her clipping, "bon, je vais vous dire quelque chose, mon mari Henri and I have already invested in four brand new ergonomic styling chairs, the very latest from Germany which are expected to arrive at the Lamballe station sometime next month and, de plus, we are adding a large plasma screen television." In a triumphant note she added "voila Monsieur c'est finis" and spun me around to show off her handy work. The hair cut looked like, well, she seemed so pleased with herself that I paid her, said thank you and left wishing that I had brought along a hat or even a beret.   

I wanted to stop at the Mairie for a quote or two from the town's newly elected mayor but realized I needed to make an appointment and set one for the following morning before heading back to Paris. On my way in to town, I noticed the Salons de Crepes, Cafe-Bar and decided I would have my dinner there. The menu was pretty straight forward, one could choose from seafood, a variety of pizzas, galettes and crepes for desert. After a glass of vin de maison, I started off with the assiette de saumon fume which came with lemon and toast points. Being the little food piggy that I am, I had to have a favorite of mine, the moules marinieres, the mussels were cooked in shallots, white wine and parsley and were tasty and succulent. I was not so full that I could not tackle a galette jambon fromage which prooved to be an excellent move on my part as their galettes are all home made.  For desert, you will understand I'm sure, I could not resist having a crêpe which is a type of very thin pancake, usually made from wheat flour. The one I chose was filled with melted caramel that's made with the famous salted Breton butter. I concluded there were few things in the world better than that desert.

The next morning, sporting a tie for the occasion, I set off for my last interview with Madame le Maire who I found seated behind an oversized, sturdy desk working  on her laptop busily putting the finishing touches to her speech before the regional agricultural cooperative board on the economic benefits derived from being a ville d'etape. Behind the mayor were pictures of her husband, children and a few cameo shots of the family, I thought I recognized Manhattan skyline in one of photos. The desk was flanked on either side by the flag of the Republique Francaise and one of Brittany. On one wall hung a portrait of the President of the Republique and two smaller photos of the mayor shaking hands with some undetermined government officials and on the other wall was a large arial view of the village along with a detailed map next to it. The mayor was very cordial, obviously well educated and would, every so often, slip into English. This was indeed a new breed of mayor. "The arrival of the Tour de France", the mayor noted leaning forward for emphasis "in our own backyard is nothing short of miraculous and comes at a time in our village's history when we need it the most. I can tell you, in no uncertain terms Monsieur, that my office will do whatever it takes to extract the utmost economic benefit from this blessing; yes, I call it a blessing for that's what it is." I probed, "Madame mayor, for example, how are you planning to prepare for this blessed event?" The mayor sat back in her chair "well, for one thing we will be adding a police presence which we plan on having sur place at least a month ahead of the event." I nodded my head thinking smart move mayor, and scribbled furiously "anything else" I asked? "Yes we are adding a paramedic team thanks to a mutual aid compact with the town of Erquy and of course we are adding 500 hundred portable bathrooms which will be placed along the race course to preserve the delicate coastal ecosystem but there are many other things that the town is doing as well as the cumulative efforts of each and every petit commerçant, this is an opportunity of a lifetime Monsieur!" I didn't know if I was expected to stand, salute or sing the Marseillaise after such a passionate display so we ended up shaking hands and exchanging emails instead.

I had my story all I needed now was to write it for an impatient editor.