From a Fairyland to a Nightmare

So, normally, I am a very calm person who works on having an accurate perspective on the things the Lord presents me with; however, Christ has taken me to a new level and has used a minor harrowing experience to teach me or remind me of an important lesson. It is easy to be tranquil and thankful when the sky is shining blue, but when the winds start to blow and the sky turns black and you’re on a bike with no way to get home, the tears may start flowing and you may become a little irrational, forgetting all the peace you just felt. During the latter times is when a person must rely on the strength that solely comes from the Lord. During latter times is when I must cling to the strength I know I have, and during the latter times is when one must remember the blue sky and admit that the black sky is only here for a relative moment and will soon transform, just like everything does. Nothing in the world is permanent in this life.

Now to explain…I planned a lovely bike ride and bus trip around the Cote d’Or, one of the richest areas in Burgundy and one of the most lovely, of which, I was planning to visit the absolute most beautiful area, the Cote de Beaune, where all the wine growing vineyards are located. Pinot noir and chardonnay grapes are grown in this area in abunce, eventually producing millions of bottles of wine each year. It was a great plan; I started in Lechâtelet, where I live, and rode nearly 50 km (35 miles) to Chalon-sur-Saône, where photography was invented (no, Eastman Kodak did not invent photography, but he invented one of the first commercial cameras, which I saw at the photo museum). I took a bus from there to Santenay, went to the Three Crosses on a Hill, then followed the Route of the Grand Wines, ending with a tour of a magnificent vineyard and wine cellar dating back to the 12th century.

To elaborate, I found directions on the internet of how to get to Chalon-sur-Saône only to discover that there were plenty of placards for indicating where to go to reach the city. On Google Maps, I indicated that I did not want to take autoroutes, so I thought that I would be taking more rural roads; well, as it turned out, I did not take an autoroute, but a route used primarily by semis. I wish there had been a button to say only small roads, no semis and no fast cars. Alas, there was not, so I was riding alongside huge semis, which were about one yard from me. I didn’t mind so much as I had my iPod plugged in and was listening to French news on recently downloaded podcasts. All right, it was a little unnerving to feel every bit of my body shake and have my bike wobble every time the semis passed me, but whatever, there wasn’t anything I could do at that moment. With me, I had a sheet of paper with all the directions I would need for the day according to the magnificent route I had planned. As it turns out, somehow I lost that piece of paper within 30 minutes of my voyage. Great work, Kelsey. Marvelous! So much for being prepared. At least the road was well marked on my way to Chalon, which was the trickiest part of the ride.

Once I reached Chalon, I discovered a very interesting and lovely city, minus the fact that it was full of construction. I suppose that this is the time of the year for city beautifying and construction work. A city must take advantage of the good weather conditions, but for travelers, it is not all that pleasant to be surrounded by the noise and mess of beautification efforts. I must provide a little context for the day. It was one of the most beautiful days I have experienced thus far, of course, it was a little warm, nearly 100 degrees in the afternoon under the sun, but the sky was clear, and there was a slight breeze to cool me down. Under these surreal conditions, I viewed the Saône River, which runs alongside Chalon and imbues a radiance that only comes from scintillating bodies of water (even dirty rivers…from far away, all water looks lovely under the sun). The main reason why I went to Chalon was to see the museum of photography, learn the history and see the first models of cameras that were used and the first pictures that were taken. It was well worth the trip and very interesting. I saw images that were taken in the early part of the 19th century around the 1830’s or so. Throughout the day, as I was taking pictures of the unbelievable and moving beauty of the vineyards, I thought about how thankful I was for the invention of photography. It is amazing how far we have come since the first image was produced by a rudimentary system of focusing the reflective rays of the sun into a wooden box and onto a special type of metal used for lithographs.

From Chalon, I took a bus to Santenay, which is the gateway to a world I have never before experienced. All around me were sprouting vines, vibrantly green and verdant, situated in rows like a marching band formulating a chorus of celebration. “Look at us, revel in this beauty, listen to the sounds of bubbling wine, immerse yourself in God’s wonder, appreciate our grace!!!” I could barely comprehend how a region such as this exists and surely could not comprehend my fortune of being able to explore its bounty. With an empty bottle of water, I ascended 520 meters (about 1700 feet) to a hill where three crosses stand like guards over the Burgundian region. Now, I would like to say that I was able to bike the whole distance, but alas, I biked part of the way and I walked with my bike the other part. For several seconds I questioned my sanity like I often do on my adventures, but then, I told myself all hard work is worth the pain, and all adventures commence with a little discomfort. It wouldn’t be an adventure if all things went according to plan and were completely calm and tranquil. So, I tell myself. Sure enough, the panorama was incredible. I saw all of Burgundy and its luxurious offerings.

What took me nearly 30 minutes to reach, took me five minutes to leave! I went nearly 35 miles per hour (50 km/H) down the hill. I must admit, it was quite the rush and maybe also made the trip worthwhile. I road back to Santenay and was on my way to the route of grand quality grapevines. Through three small towns, I stopped in Meursault to visit the Château of Meursault, which commands quite a reputation for the quality of its wine and the beauty of its vineyards. After paying for a wine tasting, I went into the caves with my wine glass in hand. The caves in Burgundy are truly fabulous; this was my second visit to a wine cave or cellar. However, the cave of Meursault was very unique because part of its caves were built in the 12th and 13th centuries and other parts were as modern as one might see in California, containing 1,000’s of bottles of wine (like more than 100,000).

There is something so fun and comical about wine tastings when you really examine what the participators are doing. They are listening to people talk delicately and with colorful nuances about a type of small fruit that produces a beverage for consumption. I mean, when you hear these people talk it is almost as if they are talking about precious gems and their historical significance and irreplaceable quality. The spectators listen intently, ravenous for more information and understanding about the somewhat piquant flavor of the liquid in their mouths. I fell right into the grasp of these trained professionals who mesmerize their clients with an intricately woven fairytale of an industry that satisfies the same desire we once had as small children before bed: the desire for something to transport you from the here and now to the grandiose possibilities of elsewhere and dreamland.

I think I was a little too immersed in dreamland because I did not really pay attention to the time. In fact, by the time I was done at the Château, I had already missed my bus. Furthermore, I received bad directions, so I went 6 miles out of my way and then finally made it to Beaune where I was supposed to get a bus. Well, for some reason, I had convinced myself that there was another bus going to Seurre (not true), so I frantically tried to find this phantom bus. By this time, the winds were blowing and the sky was black. It had completely transformed itself into the conditions for bringing in a great storm. After realizing there was nothing for me, and I had no other options, I started to ride my bike back to Seurre on another road that is not the greatest for bikers. All calm left me, and I wanted to cry. I was experiencing that choking feeling one feels when trying not to cry but everything within her is screaming “Cry!”

The wind was blowing me around and I was being splattered by a dappling of raindrops, and there I was, pedaling as fast as I could on a road that was better than the semi-truck road but still busy in its own right. I stopped because I was absolutely parched, and then I did something I have never done before. I mounted my bike and stuck my thumb out. Wouldn’t you believe it, but a van stopped for me right away. I road up to the window and asked if the man was going to Seurre, to which he replied, no, but he would take me there. My goodness, what a blessing from the Lord! He surely rescued me from that situation although my family was not too pleased with my decision. The man was very kind, maybe about 50 or 60 years old and worked in the vineyards. We did not talk much, but he let me use his cell phone to call the café and tell my family that I was en route. Oh, man, the adventures never really stop, and I am quite okay with that.