Despite how addicting it was to watch le Tour over the weekend, I was grateful yesterday was a rest day. It was one less thing to miss, and simultaneously, one less thing to sigh and roll my eyes about.
Don't get me wrong, I love watching the Tour. It was what came afterwards that has me shaking my head in remembered misery.
In fact, Sunday started out in a picture perfect way. A quick bike ride up to the East Village, beverages acquired at Think Coffee, then a jaunt into Soho to pick up pastries at Balthazar. Then, strolling back east on mostly-still-sleepy Sunday morning streets, walking within mere feet of Terry Richardson. Because a weekend in New York always requires some sort of celebrity sighting.
And then, of course, the Tour. With orange brioche, galette aux pommes, and an almond croissant that I'm still thinking about. Grabbing the last flaky half of the galette, I was half lying on the couch, feet supported by the trusty ottoman, plate resting on my chest, pastry shards flying as I shrieked and cheered on Pierrick Fedrigo and Franco Pellizotti over the soothing cadence of Phil Liggett. All, fortunately, with company that [hopefully] wasn't noticing what a complete slob I can be.
Still humming on the tdf high, I reluctantly boarded a bus back to Boston at 1pm, leaving behind a city that's quickly becoming a favorite. And two hours later, I was on the side of the highway.
In Connecticut. The middle of Connecticut. With a broken down bus and not enough seats to take us all home on the next two buses passing through. A random taxi pulled through and offered to take some of us to South Station for $250. It was tempting but none of us took him up on the offer. About two hours later, I threw my bike under yet another bus, and lulled into a sense of reassurance, passed out for a few hours in a jam-packed bus.
7 hours after I left NYC, we finally lurched into South Station. Grateful for the calories consumed earlier that day, I made it home by 8.30pm, then it was back to work until too late, and up too early for another Monday at the office.
I'm already planning another trip down to the city in a few weeks. And while Sundays in New York can start off decadently sweet with almond croissants and cycling, fearful of jinxing myself, I'm more than a little hesitant to indulge in both again.
But, you know, I can be persuaded otherwise...