And So It Begins Again

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There's never much to say at the start of these endeavours, which is probably a good thing. Having previously scoped out the Air France bus that runs between the Ottawa train station (yes) and Montreal's Trudeau Airport, there was little drama in finding and boarding it, and despite the requisite construction mess at the Dorval traffic circle, I arrived with plenty of time to speed through check-in (no lineup!!??), plod through security, hike the interminable distance past the innumerable shopping opportunities that obviously had never heard of a scent-free environment, and settle in for the long wait until boarding. I had thought my Vermont friends, who provided the impetus for my being on this trip in the first place, were taking this flight but did not see them.

Eventually Mark (from Vermont. To avoid confusion I am referred to as Mark Of Ottawa - or mofo for short) did show up but without his wife Sandy, who unfortunately had crashed in a race last weekend and broken her clavicle. After a few pleasantries and introductions to a couple of other Vermonters we boarded and proceeded to the inevitable delay before finally pushing back. But I was on a 787 with a sophisticated entertainment console (and a very spiffy window darkening control instead of a blind), and was able to amuse and educate myself before settling in to watch the 2017 Isle of Wight Festival while sipping champagne and enjoying the anticipated agreeable food service I have come to expect from Air France (even if my last flight with them was in 1998). The second leg of my journey (Paris to Bologna) was far less glamorous; the seatbacks on the Airbus 318 didn't recline, there wasn't even a headphone jack let alone any sort of entertainment system, and the 'food service' consisted of a cold and leaden 'croissant' accompanied by either coffee or water. Plus the child behind me wailed. But the flight was over quickly and I easily made my way to the train station, where I had over an hour to wait for my train. I bided time by using the local coffee shop's wifi, still amazed at how prevalent smoking is in Europe, which in so many other ways seems more advanced than North America - except when it comes to toilets in the train station, where one has to pay to pee.

This journey (the train, not the peeing), too, went off without a hitch; no one even bothered to ask to see my ticket. Out the east (seaward) windows the terrain was flat, while to the west one could see the hills in the distance. The land on both sides, however, looked pretty parched. Furthermore, Riccione turned out to be just a southerly extension of Rimini with no undeveloped land separating the two.

Upon descending the train, I once again fell prey to Google's warped sense of directing non-vehicles (when am I going to learn to just trust my instincts, which have so far always been proven right?), and after a couple of false starts elected to seek clarification at the tourist office. My timing was impeccable: I arrived just in time to get behind a woman who always seemed to have "one more thing" she needed to address. About twenty minutes later I was finally able to determine that the left turn Google had indicated was merely continuing on the street I had originally chosen, and which had just changed names, and after a brief walk I finally arrived at the hotel and checked in. As previously arranged I am not staying in the main hotel but in the "mini apartments" 2 short blocks from the former.

Not long afterward, my roommate arrived and I discovered that (with no real intent to dredge up a Star Wars meme) he wasn't the Bob I had been expecting but another Bob I had also met on the Bon Ton Roulet ("Boston Bob")! I have no idea what the other Bob must have thought when I talked to him at this year's tour, because I am sure I must have said some interesting things (out of context).

With that issue sorted out I went to check out the bike I will be renting for the week, and was discouraged to see that the form with various measurements that I had assiduously tried to fill out was discarded, and the only adjustment made was to seat height - determined by my sitting in the saddle and trying to touch my toes to the ground??!! I caught up with some people I knew and we went for a brief ride to try and dial in the bikes ourselves. Despite it not fitting that well it turned out my bike (a Willier GTR and not the Scott CR1 Pro I had expected) was somewhat heavy but fast; more distressingly, it also became further apparent that Riccione was not the town I had expected either: I had anticipated a 'bike town' akin to Bourg d'Oisans in France; instead I was in a beach town overrun by tourists weaving about and riding (similarly) on clunkers.

That night we attended a meeting to go over how the week would unfold, and the whole thing seems rather regimented to me. I guess we'll see how things go.

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Photos

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Hanging Out at Bologna Centrale

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Boston Bob on the Balcony