I’m not a foodie. I seldom watch the Food Channel. The one cookbook I
own came with my microwave. I only go to Williams-Sonoma to get a gift
for someone else. So I’m surprised that some of the best memories of
my bicycle trip in France last summer are of food.
I was the only American in our group of 14, the rest were Irish or
British. Every day we biked 20 to 35 miles through the beautiful
Provençal countryside and every evening we had dinner at one of the
many restaurants in the village where we stayed. Even the smallest
towns had dozens to choose from. Sometimes we were the only ones in
the place.
Dinner was our evening’s entertainment. The group would meet in the
hotel lobby, then wander the narrow streets checking out menus in
restaurant windows until we reached a consensus. Usually, the only
dissenter was a snooty vegan, a London financial planner studying to be
a yoga instructor. She would frown as she studied a menu. “Can’t eat
that. Won’t eat that. Ugh, no way.” Then she would drag her poor
husband off for a salad somewhere. Once, I offered her some of my
sunscreen. “I don’t put chemicals on my body,” she told me. She came
back at the end of the day with a spectacular sunburn.
Lately, almost everything is out of my comfort zone. Even a drive across town has been moved to my bucket list. A trip to the east side of the 405 Freeway feels like I’m a contestant on Survivor.