People People

(Day 6 – Béziers > Carcassonne – 5 July 2025 – 106 km, 350 m)

I stayed the night in the spare room (at) chez Eric, a musician from a cyclists’ hosting site (yes, vetted/rated) who took me in after my hotel cancelled (one of two last-minute cancellations at the time of posting). Eric is an avowed leftist in a land of conservatives, a man who doesn’t bother getting internet, plasters and replasters his bathroom and sitting room with Charlie Hebdo front pages, leaves the butts of his cigarettes piling up in the barbecue pit-cum-ashtray in his tiny courtyard, can’t be troubled to buy a shower curtain to keep water from splashing out of his mustard yellow 1970s tub, loves beer, and talks fast with a thick Southern French accent. It took me a bit to get the gist of his elocution at his wild pace, but I did. And the conversation flowed (or, at least, my comprehension of his thoughts and his patience with my flimsy French flowed).

I reflect on some of last night’s banter as I tackle endless kilometers of gravel, single track and heat, and on people, on the endless quirks that describe us, make us unique and make us all the same. Talking to Eric (as well as to his ex-girlfriend/neighbor for a short bit) constitutes my longest and deepest conversation in French thus far on this journey, one in which I finally get past the superficiality of kilometers traveled (to travel), bike specifics, seule ?!, jusqu’à où ?!, ¿por Santiago de Compostela? — sí, por supuesto (more on solo traveling and on Santiago in later posts), and share a bit about my life, what this journey represents and the complex simplicity I am feeling, and he shares a bit about his life, what living alone represents and the complex simplicity he is feeling.

I reach no grand conclusions from these reflections. The little vignettes merely flutter in and out of my thoughts as I weave back and forth along the Canal du Midi, moving slowly upwards in step with the river locks, pausing to soak my feet by an old mill, until I reach my destination dusty and exhausted, relieved to find decent shower pressure and a view of the castle from the bedroom. My host has left me a beautiful note about his town and his travels as well as a little red rock from the region. I read the note twice and smile, walk to the city, return to welcome, short, superficial conversations in French, and enjoy a small dinner and a glass of wine unhurried. My mind is close to blank, the constant, loud and colorful blasts of information and novelty blurring to a near silence. Blessed silence. Goodnight, people people.