So that’s how I got my own room this time around. It was great, when I woke up at 1:00 am this morning, to be able to flip on the light and read for a bit instead of laying there in the dark all self-coucious about my tossing and turning. My Toshiba laptop died a couple days ago, so I brought an armful of books to occupy my time. I pulled out my easy read, a book my father gave me called French Revolutions.
I don’t normally like reading about cycling, but this one actually isn’t bad…maybe because it’s more about bike touring than bike racing. The author is a newbie who decides he’s going to ride that year’s Tour de France route in the six weeks leading up to the start of the Tour. He hasn’t mentioned anything about shaving or not shaving his legs in the book, but I can certainly tell – he’s definitely got leg hair curling over the top of his cycling socks. I can see it clear as day. It’s kinda gross, but the book is funny enough that I can almost forget about it.
While reading, I set a new record for my resting heart rate: 41 bpm. Cool. Finally, around 4am, I finally fell back asleep.
So we’re staying in a hotel somewhere in France, possibly in a region called Brittany. Hold on, let me go do some fact checking…
O.K. I have little to no idea what I was just told, but I got her to write it out for me. I’m in the small town, St. Nicolas du Pelem, staying at L’Auberge du Kreisker. Here is our dining room setup:
And here is the team outside of the hotel:
We were a little skeptical about the place on arrival. Andrew said it reminded him of the movie, Poltergiest, and I have to agree; it could definitely be haunted. But isn’t every old building in rural France haunted?
The people here are very friendly. Ashley and I went for a walk this afternoon and ran into a British man who, seeing our USA jackets, struck up a conversation. After asking why we were here, he told us some really interesting stories about the town during WWII. Apparently, the father and son of the family who owned our hotel back then were captured by the Germans, dragged off to concentration camps, and worked to death. He does yard work for the family’s two daughters, now in their late eighties, who were left behind to care for the hotel and “live in that house.” He pointed to it. The street was named after the father and son as a sort of memorial.
And here are some pictures from the walk:
Telephone booths? They still have those?
Alright, I’ve been hogging Ashley’s laptop long enough…