Genova – Andora – Nice: 201 km

What a difference a day makes. Yesterday I ploughed my way through the rain towards Genoa, only to not be accepted in the hostels and. Today the sun shines, the roads are perfect and I feel incredibly strong. I follow the Mitterrandian coast line, the sound and smell of the crushing waves always near, and the rays of sun hit me both from above as from the reflection in the water. Even though I love Italy in basically everything, I push towards France because I’ve been told that getting a vaccination there should be a piece of cake.

But I won’t make it to France today. After the debacle in Genoa, and the now clear skies, camping is on my mind. Not entirely sure where, I ride towards wherever I find an acceptable flat piece of ground, around 100 km from where I started. I do so in Andora. Not the country in the Pyrenees, it’s a small village with a high concentration of retirees playing jeux de boules in the parks next to the beach. I set up camp in one of them. They smile at me when they pass, a grin of encouragement and memories around their lips. After dinner, around sunset, I have an encounter with two young boys, late teens or early twenties, walking their dogs. I get offered both weed and their phone numbers, might I need anything whilst I’m here. The former I gracefully decline, the latter I happily accept.

More below ↓

In a salty mist that covers the grassy dunes, my tent moist, the cold hesitating sunrise wakes me up before my alarm does. Today I start in Italy, pass through Monaco and end up in France. Europe is tiny. I follow a road that is carved out of the mountains next to the shore. I’m nothing but happy. There’s nothing to think about, nothing to worry about but what I’ll eat, where I’ll eat it and where to sleep. My body works, my bike works, my mind works and I need nothing more. Granted, a booster vaccination would be nice.

Once in France, a mere 5 minutes across the border, I enter the first pharmacy I pass.

“Can I possibly get a booster vaccination?”, I ask warily. It can’t be this easy, can it?

“Of course! Roll up your sleeve and have a seat right here!”, the lady tells me as she points to a seat behind a curtain in the corner of the shop. Shocked but happy I do so and before I know it, I’m ready for society again. But in France the rules are not as strict. My new and enhanced immune system and QR code seem irrelevant here. I’m still happy with my extra protection tough.

Cycling into Nice, the infrastructure is top notch, I cross specially made cycling tunnels, and the bikes passing me on high speed are ones I can only dream of one time owning. Not for now, their lightweight aerodynamic carbon would crack under the load I’m carrying. I haven’t had a rest day since Florence (459 km) and my general wellbeing is ready to ease of the peddles for 24 hours. Nice is nice but not spectacular. I do what I always do on a rest day; try to sleep in but fail miserably, walk around the city, look for an authentic place to eat, drink a beer, write this blog and make a general plan for the next few days. There’s nothing more to think about, nothing more to do. Perfect.