Two Wheels, No Plans: Misadventures along the Mediterranean

By Patrick Aaron O'Neill

Hop on for an unforgettable journey in 'Two Wheels, No Plans,' a tag-along bike expedition across the captivating landscapes of Italy and southern France.

Leave behind the clichés of travel. This isn't about mending a broken heart or seeking enlightenment. It's an exuberant celebration of travel for travel's sake - finding adventure, misha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Against The Current Books
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088266625

Patrick Aaron O'Neill

Patrick O'Neill was born in Topsham, Maine, in 1987. As a journalist, he worked his way across the United States before settling in Italy in the winter of 2017. He has since been touring Europe and writing about his adventures. When he's not writing, you can find him driving through the Alps in his 2001 Fiat Panda. He'll be looking for the best pubs and fishing spots, in that order.

Book preview

Two Wheels, No Plans

Two Wheels, No Plans

Against The Current Books

Turin, Italy

Copyright © Patrick O'Neill 2023

Every effort was made to obtain necessary copyright permissions for this book. If there have been any oversights, we will be pleased to make acknowledgments in any future edition.

Cover illustration by Driss Chaoui

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2023

ISBN/SKU  978-1-0882-6659-5

EISBN  978-1-0882-6662-5

Two Wheels, No Plans

Misadventures along the Mediterranean

Patrick O'Neill

publisher logo

Against The Current Books

To Mom and Dad. The best travel partners I know.

Contents

1 Leaving Home Without Pants

2 Sciuscia e Sciurbi, Te Nun Peu

3 Sprinklers in the Night

4 A Lost White Cat

5 Down Through Smoke to Wonderland

6 Pirates, Sex, and Stolen Mattresses

7 The Mighty Peaks of Gréoux-les-Bains

8 A Dangerous Game of Human Darts

9 A Horn Through the Head

Photos from the trip

About the author

Our Train Is Leaving

We’re going on an adventure.

We’ll meet people overflowing with enthusiasm for life – Swedish outlaws, French pirates, and bullfighters from Provence. We’ll break a few laws, sail past pyramids, narrowly escape a (possibly fatal) brawl, and bathe in the sea at sunrise. We probably won’t learn anything to win us points on Jeopardy (at least that’s not my intention), but we will eavesdrop on conversations in cozy French cafes. We’ll sleep under the stars and overhear strangers making love in the lavender hills of Provence. As an added bonus, you can avoid the discomfort of bug bites and sleeping on tree roots.

So let’s go! Forget about what you don’t have. What you don’t know. What you forgot to pack. Everything you need is between your ears. And our train is leaving…

1

Leaving Home Without Pants

Things didn’t start well.

As I was dragging my bike down the train steps, a new pair of sunglasses fell into that little gap which conductors are always warning us about. I bent down, perched along the yellow cement ledge, considering the pathetic distance separating me from a €20 investment. I hardened my gaze. Come on. You’re a man, dammit!

I swung a leg down into the gap. Just then, the train let off a nasty hiss. I recoiled – splitting my shin against the metal carriage as I scrambled away. Weighing the options, I realized I was more likely to have a leg shaved off by a regional train with faulty air brakes, and would have to go around making that story sound interesting for the next 40 years.

And so, shielding my eyes from the morning sun, I saddled up and glided down a gentle hill to the Italian seaside. I passed swarms of seedy-looking youngsters. One of these, an acne victim with a bright yellow jacket and a dangling cigarette, was staring at a brick fortress perched on a beautifully manicured lawn. Curiosity got the better of me.

Excuse me, I said to him in Italian.

Well? he replied.

What’s that building there?

The Priamar. An old castle. Total shithole.

Ah. Right. Well, I’m looking to do a bit of sightseeing. Would you suggest anything?

For reasons quite beyond me, I’m always asking these types of questions to the most improbable characters. Children. Tourists. The blind.

You came here as a tourist? he said, staring at me through one smoke-tortured eye. Where are you from?

I’m American, but I’m living in Torino.

You’re American! he said, coughing so forcefully that the cigarette shot from his lips and he scrambled to retrieve it. "Why the hell would you come here for vacation?"

I told him the truth. I was 34 and had just quit my job as director of an English School. The weather was perfect, and two nights earlier I’d concocted an idea to bike west along the Mediterranean coast – through Italy, France, perhaps even Spain. The trip would roughly follow the Via Aurelia, the famous Roman road and the superhighway of its time, once complete with chariot rest stops and service stations. I would travel at the same pace as those old charioteers. Take in the same landscapes. Perhaps relieve myself on the same rocks.

I showed him the complete itinerary, consisting of a chicken-scratch note taped to my handlebars: Day 1: Savona. Day 2: Nice, France? Fish. Ask locals for advice.

Hm, he said, looking deep in thought. Well, bye.

I soon learned that the Shithole (formally known as ‘Fortezza del Priamar’) has been a castle, military camp, and prison over the 500 years since its construction. Today it’s a museum, and one filled with intense spirit. In the cool damp of the passageways, pigeons disappear into shadows of brick arches. Crumbling staircases span out into nothing overhead. And it’s free – which is the main thing.

On the roof, a rusty canon has been shoved into a rough-hewn hole in the wall and aimed (curiously) back towards town and the sailboats in the harbor. The hole is so misshapen that it seems excavators may have tired of removing bricks, shot a cannonball straight through the wall, shrugged their shoulders, and headed for a local watering hole. Then again, it doesn’t take much digging to understand why the city has turned its back on the waterfront. Step to the edge of the sentinel walls along the beach, and you will see dozens of brightly colored shipping containers with stupid little acronyms like SMET and BUTT (Where are you working now Bill? Glad you asked. I’m Chair at BUTT Enterprises.) Empty dump trucks lie meters from the beach. Now, I understand economies must grow and cheap foreign furniture needs to be imported to save people beer money, but did Savona somehow forget how important it once was?

Savona predates Christ by about 200 years and was a key port for Hannibal’s forces in their battle with the Romans. Elephants and other exotic animals that were used to strike fear into the hearts of ancient Romans were unloaded right here. Now, the port is cluttered with empty shipping containers, tumbling trash bags, and an anonymous industrial plant, which the city ignores like a drunken uncle.

But enough of that litter bin. Come with me down the fort’s main passageway, which opens straight onto the sea.

I took a table at a beach bar clinging to the rocks at the end of it. Children too young to read studied the ice cream menu. Some boys playing soccer in the shade of the castle walls stole sidelong glances at teenage girls spreading sunscreen on each other’s backs. It was an adorably simple place. Not overcrowded, not made-up in any kind of way – just livable. As if to demonstrate this point, a doughy man in a Speedo struck up a conversation with me as I walked to the water for a dip.

American, yes? he asked in a husky Italian voice.

I nodded. I don’t know how they can spot us, but they always can.

I always wanted to go to Las Vegas, he said. "American Dream. Route 66. How is it living there?"

I’m always a bit unsure how to answer this question. I lived in the US for 29 years, but don’t feel I really know the place myself.

Lots of motivated people, I said. Lots of things happening. What about life here in Savona?

He opened his arms and smiled.

Not too hot, not expensive, he said, then gestured to his lower half. I leave my house without pants. I come back home without pants. What more do you want out of life? Eh?

It was an oddly convincing argument. And, as he was the first Ligurian I’d spoken with, I was buoyed by his optimism. Elsewhere in Italy, people from this northern coastal area are known as tirchio. They describe them as having T-rex arms (and therefore can’t reach for the bill). To many, they are considered cheap, both emotionally and financially. Instead, this man welcomed, even initiated, a pleasant conversation. It is more than can be said for many other European cities.

The only disconcerting thing was how close the guy was to humping my leg. This was no fault of his own, mind you. It’s a cultural thing. Italians are famously close talkers. They see nothing strange about laying a forearm over a friend’s shoulder while filling them in on the latest gossip. Grown men can lock arms and walk down the street, thinking nothing strange has occurred (which, of course, it hasn’t).

The southern Italian region of Campania takes this to new heights. I once asked a man for directions in Naples, and he walked with me for 10 minutes to my destination, showing me photos of his newborn son en route. We hugged goodbye. By contrast, my father once asked me if I was gay because I’d bought a pair of Ed Hardy designer jeans… (To be fair, I had spent $150 to have a man’s name brightly displayed on my ass).

No Pants Guy wasn’t from Campania, but he had all the trappings of a terrone – the Italian equivalent of a southern hillbilly. He also gave me some of the most useful directions I’ve ever heard.

For nice things, go straight that way, he said, throwing a hand to the nearest seafront boulevard. If you don’t like it, ask someone else.

It just so happened the avenue he had suggested was a blissfully shaded thoroughfare through downtown Savona. People strode confidently under swaying palms, stomachs poking out from overgrown T-shirts. Its wide, leafy squares were filled with the kinds of unpretentious people who know a thing or two about living well. I’ve never seen so many smokers and baby strollers in one place.

I found myself smiling inanely at couples on park benches. I passed the tasteful new Piazza San Pertini, done up in a spiffy white neoclassical style with checkerboard street tiles. The Palazzo del Comune was much of the same – clean buildings free from graffiti, and lots of kids beaming soccer balls in their best attempt to behead elderly women carting afternoon groceries. Best of all, the air was noticeably cleaner here than back home in Torino.

Sorry to interrupt the flow (I know this part isn’t of much interest to you), but at this point I had to drop in at my host’s house for a moment. Just to leave my things. You see, in order to pinch a penny, I’d found an online community of bike travelers called Warm Showers – essentially a you stay at my place, I’ll stay at yours when I’m in town arrangement. I’d contacted my first user, Squiggy, and asked to spend the night while I was in Savona. Almost as quickly as I’d sent the message, Squiggy told me the place was mine (Keys under the potted plant. Not sure if I’ll be home tomorrow. But enjoy!).

And so it was that I let myself into the apartment of a total stranger, dropped my bike and took in the apartment at a glance. It looked like the movie set for a buddy comedy.

There was a bowl of half-eaten yogurt on the carpeted living room floor. Stained white panties hung from a wooden laundry rack in the middle of the room. An iPad sat on a yoga mat at the far end, beside a sunroom chock full of snowboards and climbing equipment. A passport, half-eaten apple, and not small amount of cash lay on a tiny wooden desk by the window. A stiff breeze could’ve carried the trembling bills away. I opened the passport. A blonde with puffy cheeks and eager brown eyes was staring back. Her face was kind and simple.

I dropped my gear next to the yogurt bowl, and threw some swim trunks and a camera into a red backpack I found by the door. I was sure Squiggy wouldn’t mind me using it. It was that kind of place.

2

Sciuscia e Sciurbi, Te Nun Peu

Back downtown and suddenly thirsty, I ducked into a café-bookshop and exchanged a quick word with the middle-aged couple behind the old wooden bar.

Any water? I said.

Nope, the man said with a smile, as if this were great news for a parched traveler.

Iced coffee? I asked hopefully.

No ice, the woman said with similar mirth.

There were some books piled up in the back, but it was so dark I could hardly read the titles. I asked if there was anything on local tourism. The woman skipped into action. It was clear she was a lover of books; she rifled through them with a knowing hand.

Cazzo! (Fuck!) Qualcuno l’ha rubato sicuramente! (Someone stole them for sure!) Cazzo cazzo! (Fuckity fuck!)

Clearly this place had nothing I needed. Still, their eyes were vivid and enthusiastic – like a grandparent who hasn’t had company in far too long. I felt kind of bad just leaving like that.

An espresso then, please, I said.

The man rushed to it. In the absence of the stolen book, his wife advised me on all the exhilarating things to do in town – that is, she told me about the old church and the Priamar. Some of her speech was in local dialect, Savonese. For instance, instead of Volere (To want), she said Vure. In place of Avere (To have), she said A’veine. I asked if there were any regional phrases the Savonese were known for. She looked like a little girl when she smiled.

Sciuscia e sciurbi, te nun peu, she said. It means: You can’t inhale and exhale at the same time.

Her husband handed me a coffee. I drank it while telling them about my plan to bike the Via Aurelia. To meet the bullfighters of the famous Arles Arena, and who knows what else (I was making things up as I went).

I wish I could come with you! the man said.

And? Who said you couldn’t? the woman said.

Our conversation couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, but it was so pleasant I began taking little mental pictures of the place. The warmth of the wood. The empty glass case with a single packet of cards inside. It was one of those times you feel you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, in the company of curious and unhurried people.

Afraid to mar the memory, I settled the bill and left. Still mumbling my new Savonese maxim, I glanced down an angular side street and saw a magnificent white marble sculpture of Apollo standing at the peak