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| RIP. |
About a month ago, for example, I was reading our local paper, La Dépêche du Midi, when a headline caught my eye:
American woman has bicycle stolen while out celebrating all that is great about France
Poor thing!
… oh no wait, that’s me.
Sigh.
I won’t go into details about the whens and the whos, except to say that they are very, very mean people, and I called and booked reservations for them in hell.
After the first flood of tears dried a bit — my bike, my foremost means of transport! — I sought sympathy in
More than one person said to me, Look on the bright side, Père Noël is coming early this year! Ha ha ha.
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| Not funny. |
It’s true though, I am lucky. And in this season of gratitude, I’ve decided: let’s focus less on the loss and more on the gains. The journey into finding a new one, and its surprisingly bright sides.
Bright side #1: discovering Toulouse’s bike share program, VélÔToulouse. I knew of it, and friends visiting have used it; but its ease and convenience exceeded my expectations. It’s like when you learn a new word and you start to hear it everywhere… suddenly materialized all these bike stations I hadn’t seen before. And they’re like five-euros-a-week cheap, with handy little baskets, and (knock wood) the brakes work and they all have front and rear lights. Three gears, perfect for our flat city. My confidence grew as I cruised from station to station, tossing in the odd bus ride as needed, and by the third day I felt almost like a native.
My first thought, as I began my search for a replacement (as if!), was to visit the shop where we originally bought our bikes our very first week in Toulouse, and just get the same thing again. I loved mine, the French-made Arcade Escape — though I never knew when describing it if I should pronounce its name in English (that is to say, correctly), or in French, arcahd escahp. Do I choose between being right but unintelligible (former) and being understood but sounding totally absurd to my own ear? I opt for arcade like in French, escape like in English. Keep them on their toes.
Anyway, I adored it, I cared for it, I had the happiest derrière in Toulouse after recently purchasing a new seat. New basket, toe clips, reinforced tires....
OK, OK, I’d better stop, or I’ll burst in to tears again. No wonder they stole it!
Turned out, though, that the company stopped making the model last year. The owner and I agreed: big mistake on the company’s part. It was so ideal, good for commuting or for longer distances, lightweight and maneuverable. I tried another of their models but its clunky gears didn’t feel right.
I did discover however that my French had improved since that first year, when I used to stop in at the shop for minor repairs and air for my tires, stumbling around bicycle vocabulary.
(That is, until I fell in love with the woman who makes bike-repair house calls.)
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| My hero, MécaniCycle. |
We’ll chalk that up as a win and call it bright side #2: language has improved! Basic questions no longer a struggle! Purpose of visit clear! Pace of conversation more normal-ish! Fewer long awkward pauses!
So I left, and decided to take the good with the bad, and walked home.
A second shop right in town had a beautiful Trek, and that would have pleased LPG, who thinks it’s great because he has one and he's all about brands these days; but with no time to test ride... Hold, I thought, that thought.
Next I visited my new favorite repair shop, the one I go to if aforementioned traveling mechanic is unavailable: Arnaud Bike, situated close to where the crime took place. While they didn't have what I was looking for, I did (as I wrote that evening in my daily journal of small accomplishments — the one I keep to remind me in darker hours of overgeneralizing that I’m not doing nothing), talk for 20 minutes in French about bicycles! Is this Bright Side #4 already? I’ll take that small victory. I still had my city bike for backup. I wasn't giving up.
In an interlude flush with bright sides, this whole journey brought me in touch with people. A very sweet friend lent me his bike so that I could make the 40-minute journey to work outside Toulouse, and I savored the perfect sunrise. I finally connected with one of my coffee roasters, who seems friendly but a little distant and around whom I always feel foolish — the one who looks like Daniel Radcliffe if he (Daniel) lifted weights. I came into the shop, parking my clunky vélo outside. Because I was paying more attention to it than to our exchange, I felt obliged to say, Sorry, I’ve got this bike, mine was stolen. Oy, he said, sympathizing, except in French: Merde. Well, he said, my motorcycle was stolen. What?? How? Hauled off in a truck probably, he said, clearly still pissed and preoccupied. We related, a tiny bit! And then later, my friend at the co-op with whom I have frequently bonded over bikes empathized, and gave me that amazing smile of his with those dreamy light-brown eyes. That’s three bright sides right there!
My friend Delio from school told me that that charming shop by the train station, Maison du Vélo, known for rentals and repairs, recently had their annual bike sale; maybe they’d have a few left over. When I wandered in, a workshop was underway, ambitious students fixing chains and changing tires. A grey-haired fellow wiped his hands on his shop rag and approached me, asking if I needed help. I explained my situation; he commiserated briefly, natch. They had only a few for sale, so no dice. But he said, You know, I really like the Giant Escape. I got it for my partner recently and we're really happy with it. Nickel. He gave me the name of the shop, out on Toulouse’s left bank.
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| Maison du Vélo, courtesy of their FB page |
I liked their name, L’Échappée Belle, the great escape. So later that week, I hopped on a trusty vélo and found a station right next to the shop. The guys were friendly and the place was bustling, a dad with his kid, a delivery guy needing air for his tires. I explained my dilemma. He showed me this quiet blackish bluish number, un-flashy and just like my old one almost. Its price was low on account of a little scratch on its stem and because it was about to be replaced by newer models, poor thing. I asked if I could ride it.
When Ms. Kondo talks about sparking joy, I know she’s talking about the feeling I got when I sat on this babe, even with a seat too low and a few adjustments needed. Light, maneuverable.
It’s just what I’m looking for, I said when I returned, and before I knew it we were talking about what he’d do to get it ready for me to pick up the next day.
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| Welcome to the world! |
Ever since, I’ve been soaring round the city almost on air — that is, until I fell two weeks ago, but we’ll save that sad tale for another time. Got basket; toe clips are on order.
Ah, Mission accomplie. At last I was able to turn my thoughts back to other things, like grading, and Aunt Marge's caramels, and learning about the Post-Impressionists, and the best path from Cézanne to Duchamp. And whether Santa really exists.
Sometimes what I you want is exactly what you need. And, it might even help you — maybe appreciate things — in ways you can’t predict and which are totally obfuscated at the outset.
Sigh.
