A few days ago, I whined that I was desperate for some decent conversation. I have since been rewarded with encounters with two of the rarest of tourist subspecies: Americans and cyclists. A random sampling.
An older American couple with strong Atlanta accents. The husband has just been laid of by American Airlines, and although he is obviously not happy about this fact, swapping war stories of American economic malaise actually fills me with a warm nostalgia for home. We will all go down together, or something like that. At one point, the man says that the airline “left me hanging like a chad.” Like a chad! Can’t get much more American than that.
A couple from San Francisco who happen to live on a block I am so familiar with that I can name their laundromat, the French Quarter Launderette. They are very San Franciscan, in a way that I love. Both are appropriately pierced. He, a laid-off dot-commer and open-source programmer now writing a novel. She, a former online journalist and current employee of the WHO in Geneva. Talking to them, I am able to unself-consciously use the word “blog” — as a verb, no less. Before parting, we trade URLs.
A pack of Dutch cyclists with whom I share a meal, several beers, and the most banal conversation I have ever enjoyed. You have a sore crotch?! I have a sore crotch! You’re sick of locals’ shouting hello at you? So am I! We trade details such as the number of liters of water we drink each day, how often we oil our chains, breakfast regimens, etc. Anybody eavesdropping has long ago lapsed into a coma. The only unpleasantness of the evening comes from the deep covetousness I feel towards their bicycles. The Dutch are avid cycle tourists, and all their bikes are custom-made. At night, I dream of large blond men in leather aprons forging a bike from molten steel to my exacting specifications.
A portly older gentleman who approaches me furtively on the street. He is Spanish, but with his deep tan and wirebrush mustache he looks like he should be wearing a fez and selling turmeric in a souk somewhere. “I did not want to interrupt your meal, but I couldn’t help overhearing,” he says, “that you are a cyclist. I, too, am a cyclist.” This was not, I admit, what I was expecting to hear. I have actually met several “lapsed” cycle tourists, who for some reason feel the need to confess to me as a sort of penance — “I considered biking through Vietnam, but I didn’t have enough time, didn’t want to bike alone, etc., etc.” The Spaniard and I spend half an hour on the street corner comparing travel notes and then part ways.
