Go Lance, Dance On France!
Jan 21 '04
The Bottom Line Humorous essay. Could Lance cure our momentary hunger for the homeland while living abroad? Read on to see why there was almost an International Incident...
My husband, daughter and I spent part of 2001 living in the south of France, in the beautiful city of Toulouse. We had an amazing time, saw breathtaking sights, and learned to live in a fabulous culture. But occasionally, I must admit, we got homesick and longed for a slice of the familiar. Once we tried to satisfy that bug by going to Les Golden Arches, and braving Mad Cow to get some Americana . To no avail, however, since it was still an experience française. We had to order our burgers with a faux French accent to be understood: Sheez-boor-gehr, see voo play.
As July approached, we heard that the Tour de France would pass nearby. The only thing we knew about this sport came from our own experience of purchasing mountain bikes and letting them sit in our garage. Could a Texan on a two wheeler satisfy our temporary hunger for the homeland? We decided to give Lance a chance.
My expatriate uncle drove us into the country, along part of the route the cyclists would soon follow. Race enthusiasts lined the narrow country road, with signs touting the name of their favorite contestant. Hmm….not once did I see anyone cheering for poor Lance.
We pondered how to let Lance know that people from the US had traveled to this remote corner of the world, ready to brave hostile hordes and shout encouragement… in English of course!
After brainstorming rhymes reminiscent of Dr.Seuss, we decided on “Go Lance, Dance on France!” Swelling with pride, we nailed an old sheet to two sticks, and making it official, sprayed on our clever jingle with some black La Krylon. Surely the cameramen in the helicopters overhead would notice it, zoom in, and voila! The world’s spotlights would shine on us! Our fans Stateside (aka: our family) would turn on ESPN and scream “There they are!”
In the petit village of Caraman, we secured a spot on the sidelines where my husband and uncle unrolled the sign for the world to see. Well, at least for the whole village to see. As our proud statement unfurled, the crowd’s shock made me understand, that for these villagers, we had unveiled a monstrosity. Our grand plan for a world-wide début as Lance supporters now threatened to initiate an international incident. A definite faux pas at any rate. Without delay, my French aunt and I defected to the other side of the street - unfortunately no wider than a Peugeot – pretending not to know the Yankee invaders.
An old timer challenged our guys with a French expletive, but they only raised the banner higher. Would Lance appreciate the courage of his supporters? Surely, on seeing our slogan, he would wink at us, and propelled by the energy of we who’d come so far to cheer him, he would surge ahead of the pack, and on to victory!
Having taken up positions, we waited for the racers. The publicity caravan preceded the event. What a parade! Smiling hostesses rode loud, honking sponsor vehicles crafted like wheels of cheese, watches and little red sausages. This advertising convoy chucked promotional items to the waiting crowd. Yes, they actually threw watches, cheese and sausages at us! Logo-laden knapsacks, hats, and notepads rained down from the motorcade. Surprised by the deluge, we didn’t get much loot, since our first reflex was to dodge! (Had Americans become targets, we wondered?) Finally, my husband did catch a bright pink CD holder, but not on purpose, and not with his hands, which were busy holding high our homespun banner. Remember I said we had ‘breathtaking’ experiences? That certainly took his breath away. And he didn’t even manage to keep the offending projectile as compensation. Nope, while distracted by the agonizing assault on his manhood, he couldn’t prevent a Frenchman from snagging the coveted prize.
After an hour evading stinky cheese missiles, and combating irate villagers, we finally spotted the cyclists coming up the road! We strained to glimpse that famous yellow jersey, anticipating Lance’s reaction on seeing his friends from the States.
Coming closer! The tight-packed group peddled on. A rainbow of colors blurred before us. Where was the yellow? There! There! Speeding past us, going, going, gone! I had caught a glimpse of yellow. We knew it was him, but…he didn’t notice our sign. He couldn’t see how much we wanted him to dance on France. All those hours, all the hooplah…and he didn’t even notice us, what a letdown!
But then we saw it. Standing in the road dismayed in the wake of the frenzy, with only our tattered dreams and war-torn sign, we saw it winding slowly up the road. It gave us a friendly honk, and its passengers gave the thumbs-up. They’d seen our sign, understood what we needed. Yes! It was the United States Postal Service Team car!
Later, back in our little flat in Toulouse, we had a feeling of wellbeing, simply because something almost insignificant – just a familiar logo on the side of a car –was here with us on the other side of the globe. And we could now return to our New Life in the Old World that we loved so much. Our life of crusty breads, superb wine, and all-things-French. Including the Beeg Macs.
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TRAVELJAM
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Location: Pacific Northwest
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About Me:
Love to travel and write about it!!!
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