Tour info flyer volunteers were passing out at the Annecy train station

Anyone planning a sojourn to a stage of the Tour de France should bring the following three things: a bottle of water, a sense of humor, and an escape plan.

We hopped on a train in Chamonix to head to Annecy on Thursday, where the final time trial of the Tour was held this year. After watching the Tour on the tube for 10 years, we though it was the perfect introduction: We could skip the long walk from a faraway parking area, and unlike other stages, this was an all-day event–the riders wouldn’t breeze by all at once, before stunned fans have time to cry “ALLEZ!” much less snap a photo.

Since the big guns didn’t go off until later in the day (the racers start the time trial in reverse order of their overall standing–thus the yellow jersey starts last), we headed to the team buses first. When you’ve never been to the Tour, it’s exciting just to see the team buses, bikes, the mechanics and their piles of tools and bike parts. Even a domestique rolling by is cause for an ooh or ahh, partly because the stars command crowds that make them difficult to spot. Thus our circuit of the team area went something like this: “There’s the Saxo Bank bus!” (We caught a glimpse, through a horde of people, of Fabian Cancellara warming up.) “Look, it’s Dave Zabriske’s bike!” (Dave himself followed. He lazily swung a leg over his stars-and-stripes ride and acknowledged the crowd gathered at the fence before plugging into his iPod.)

We cruised by the Astana bus, but since it was so early in the day, we figured there was no way we’d see Lance or Contador. Their races were still hours away. Besides, we couldn’t see into their warm-up area through the crowd already gathered there.

I was leaving the edge of this crowd when someone started parting it for a car to come through. I looked up and saw a Astana car, and in the passenger seat was undoubtedly the Lance Armstrong.

Just as I silently gasped, someone else cried “Armstrong!”

One of the photos I snapped overhead--wish I were taller.

Chaos ensued. The crowd was crushing. Personal space and free will evaporated into the hot, humid air. I had no choice but to move with the wave toward Armstrong’s car, which was trying to deposit the legend right at the gate that kept the crowds out of warm-up area in front of the buses. All I could do was giggle and clutch my camera in my hand.

Two or three layers of people divided me and Lance as he got out of the car, and still crushed by people on all sides, I couldn’t see anything but the backs of the fans in front of me. I laughed outright–it was completely absurd, mob-like behavior, and I was trapped in the middle of it. So I raised my camera overhead and held the button down, aiming for where I hoped Lance might be.

The crowd shifted, and I could tell Lance had made it to the team bus. I suddenly found myself pressed against the passenger side of the empty car. But the top of the car wasn’t empty.

Lance's time-trial bike

The roof rack held his time-trial bike.

Seeing Lance Armstrong’s bike up close is the next best thing to seeing Lance Armstrong. The same is true for photos–I didn’t get one of Lance until later, when he rode out for his time trial. But I took plenty of photos of the bike up close.

From there, I spotted my companions for the day: my husband, and Michael, our mountain guide from Chamonix (who also leads bike trips and is a huge cycling fan).

“Were you there when Lance got out of the car?!?”

“No,” I said with a chuckle, “I didn’t see him get out at all.”

We spent the next few hours wading our way to the start, the finish, and watching riders and fans all the way. Just after the Lance excitement, we’d figured out that one of the best places to see riders come and go was the sole gate to the team bus area–finishing riders would roll into here sucking wind, and fresh ones headed out to the start from here. We decided the starting line would be too crowded to see the final riders, so we’d park here until the yellow jersey passed by, then bolt for the train while everyone else bolted for the starting line.

Alberto Contador heading to the start of the time trial

Our escape plan worked. George Hincapie rolled in after finishing his time trial just before Bradley Wiggins rolled out. Lance and the Schleck brothers followed, and finally Alberto Contador. Unlike the packed starting line, here we had front-row seats. And an easy walk to the train station.

However, the day didn’t end until we’d watched the television coverage back at our apartment in Chamonix. There’s a trade off when you go to the Tour in person: You get to breathe in the excitement of the often costume-clad crowd and see the riders tear by, but it’s easy to miss what’s so easily captured on TV, like the time splits and the standings. So like any other day of the Tour de France, we found ourselves catching up on our couch–crowd free, with closer, but much less exhilarating, views of the pros.

This summer, I’m conducting a work/play experiment in the Alps. I’ve moved my home office from Colorado to Chamonix, a lovely but sometimes insanely touristy town at the foot of Mont Blanc. This post is the sixth in a series about temporarily living and working in a premiere trekking and climbing destination–and another country.

When your German friends invite you to take a walk on the beach, ask how many tens of kilometers they plan to march before you answer.

We took a break from our workation* in Chamonix to visit our dear friends Uwe and Frauke in Hamburg last weekend.

Lambs (and sheep!) on Hamburger Hallig

Uwe decided that after spending so much time in the Alps, we were due for a trip to the beach, and I agreed. He planned a weekend at the North Sea that included a stroll on the beach, a hike across tidal flats to an island, and dining on a local specialty that’s only available at this time of the year.

Friday evening we left Hamburg’s luxe riverside homes behind for the area near Sylt, which Uwe said was one of the most beautiful (and popular) islands in Germany. But before we headed to the island, we had a mandatory stop at Hamburger Hallig–but not for hamburgers. For lamb.

Uwe had been talking about the “nice, juicy little lambs” since I asked if we could visit. They’re special, he said, because they feast on grasses watered by the high tide and therefore take on the sea’s salty flavor.

As we approached the restaurant–and unassuming farmhouse perched hopefully atop the highest part of a hallig, a German word for the miniscule islands just off the coast–Frauke and Uwe had a quick debate in German and told us we were going to pay to drive right up to the farmhouse, even though they usually walk or rent bikes. Was Uwe too anxious for his juicy lamb to hike or bike? The wind was howling off the sea, so I was happy not to pedal a bike into it and said so. “Oh, the wind is not a problem,” Frauke said. “But if it rains, we don’t want to have to walk all the way back here in it.”

This should have been my first clue about the hearty constitution of my German friends and the activities and weather they think are “not a problem.”

Jeremy in the wind on the North Sea

So as not to miss the juiciest part of the lamb, the leg, we rushed in just as the buffet began, quickly ordered beers and apfelschorles, and snuck around the hostess who told us to wait, a large group would get to go before us. The lamb was juicy, and it was available in every cut and cooked in every conceivable way. I woffed down most of two plates before calling it quits–Uwe ate three and cleaned his plate each time.

Uwe and Frauke swore us to secrecy about their juicy little lambs and made me promise not to publish the name of the restaurant. It is little known, out of the way, and only hosts the lamb buffet on Friday nights for a few weeks in June and July. If you absolutely must know, drop me a line.

The next day, we headed to Sylt for a “nice walk along the beach.” The wind was still howling, but the sun was out.

Uwe and Frauke shooting pictures of the Red Cliffs on Sylt

Still, when we arrived at Sylt’s main city, Westerland, to take a bus to the northern elbow of the strip of island, Jeremy and I ducked into a shop with a big The North Face logo to buy more clothes. I regretted leaving my fleece pullover and gloves in Chamonix; Jeremy regretted not bringing a hat. We both wondered at the drones of German tourists in capri pants shrugging off the cold gale at their favorite beach resort.

Properly equipped with warmer clothes and a lunch of fish sandwhiches (local specialities include tiny shrimp and a type of pickled herring–both delicious!), we headed onto the beach where Jeremy and I shoved our gloveless hands into our pockets against the wind and Uwe and Frauke promptly removed their shoes.

“It’s not cold–it’s quite warm in the sand, Jenn!”

“It’s good for your feet to walk in the sand!”

“Yes, the sand massages your feet!”

Now, let’s just pause here. I’m not as tough as most of my friends, but that speaks to the company I keep more than my own wimpiness. I’m not afraid of cold–I ski and ice climb all winter, and before those sports were available to me, I always rode my bikes through the winter. But I survive my cold-weather activities because I dress appropriately and don’t do crazy things like take my shoes and socks off.

So what did I do? I took my shoes and socks off. And that’s when the march began.

We marched at least 14 kilometers (8.7 miles) down the beach, in the sand, back to Westerland.

The homes in Kampen have roofs made of reed, which is traditional in northern Germany.

That doesn’t include the side trip to see some of Germany’s most expensive homes, in Kampen; we ended up on the mainland side of Sylt before heading back to the sea side, thus crossing the island’s width twice. We ate our yummy fish sandwiches, stopped for coffee and creamy cakes once. Walking so far on the rough sea was an incredible experience, but by 8 or 9 p.m., dragging my exfoliated feet and licking salt off my lips, I declared that I would walk no further unless someone put dinner in my belly.

Even after dinner (more of the tasty tiny shrimp with a huge organic salad) we had an hour-long walk/run to make the midnight train out of Westerland. When we arrived back at our flat after 1 a.m., I wasn’t sure how I’d manage to get up at 7:30 to make it to our walking tour to the hallig of Oland. But if I wanted to walk to an island–and I did–I had no choice.

*This summer, I’m conducting a work/play experiment in the Alps. I’ve moved my home office from Colorado to Chamonix, a lovely but sometimes insanely touristy town at the foot of Mont Blanc. This post is the fourth in a series about temporarily living and working in a premiere trekking and climbing destination–and another country.

Five things you should bring from home, four of which I’ve spent way too much money on since we’ve arrived in France but are essential for a workation*:

Sunscreen: You can’t skate out of a pharmacy or even a grocery store with sunscreen for under 10 euro, about $13.85 at the current exchange rate. Even tiny travel-size bottles are pricey, and in the haute montagne, you need it. (Actually, I picked up my toastiest sunburn at the crag at Les Gaillands, in the valley! It’s a south-facing cliff.)

Envelopes: For a vacation, you don’t need envelopes, but for a workation, you probably will need to send something back home via snailmail. It would have been easy to bring along a handful of envelopes from home. Instead, I bought a pack of 50 here for what I could have bought 500 for at Office Depot.

Saline Solution: We ran out of saline solution today, and I discovered why the big bottles of the stuff are behind the counter at the pharmacy here: You could get a nice bottle of wine for less. It’s possible that I was gouged for buying on one of the main streets in touristy Chamonix, but fact is, it’s so pricey I’d get laser surgery to save money if I lived here.

Trail Mix: I like to eat trail mix when I hike and climb; it’s part of my real-food trail energy regime. If you shop at Whole Foods, it’s easy to become a trail-mix junkie and sample many varieties in the bulk section for a fair sum. In France, though, you’ll either pay a lot for a tiny bit of pitiful mix, or you’ll pay a lot to put the raw materials together yourself. A big bag of my favorite mix would be more useful at this point than an extra shirt or socks.

Energy Bars: These don’t exist here. If you can’t hike or climb without your favorite Clif Bar or Lara Bar or whatever, you’d be wise to bring a box or three, depending on your voracity.

And now one thing you don’t need to bring to France: your health insurance card. Well, if you end up in the hospital you might need it…anyway, if you go to a doctor here, like I did last week, you’ll have to pay cash up front and submit to insurance later. In my case, a visit to the doctor put me out 60 euro, which is less than it costs me to see a doctor back home since I have the crappy insurance that the self-employed are forced to buy in the U.S. Last year, my little brother went to a doctor in Zermatt, which was 35 Swiss francs (pretty close to the same amount in dollars). Perhaps here, the health-care industry is making bank on saline solution and sunscreen rather than sick people.

*This summer, I’m conducting a work/play experiment in the Alps. I’ve moved my home office from Colorado to Chamonix, a lovely but sometimes insanely touristy town at the foot of Mont Blanc. This post is the third in a series about temporarily living and working in a premiere trekking and climbing destination–and another country.