The Host Village:

Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux, a quaint village in Provence that, for one day, decided it was going to be the epicenter of chaos, joy, and the sweet aroma of sausages. All this excitement for Stage 17 of the Tour de France! Let me take you through my whirlwind adventure of trying to find parking, navigating the “Tour de France circus,” and soaking in the electric atmosphere.

The Herculean Task of Finding Parking:

First things first, if you’ve never tried parking in a medieval village bursting at the seams with thousands of Tour de France spectators, don’t. Seriously, just don’t. As we approached the village, the roads became a tangled mess of cars, bicycles, and people who apparently forgot how to drive the moment they entered Provence. Every street was crammed with vehicles in various states of distress—parked halfway on sidewalks, wedged into impossibly small spaces, and, in one memorable case, abandoned altogether with a note that read, "Good luck, in Flemish."

After what felt like a short eternity, we found a spot approximately 300 meters from the village center (thank you, Google Maps). Close enough, right? After all that stressing and swearing at terrible drivers it all came to a peaceful conclusion. The mantra I had concocted earlier in the day turned out to be unneeded: “Who needs close parking when you have legs with both knees in braces and a dream?” I’ll save it for the next stage of the tour.

The Tour de France Circus: A Spectacle of Advertising:

Walking into the village was like stepping into a parallel universe where everything is louder, more colorful, and desperately trying to sell you something. The Tour de France caravan—an endless parade of floats—was in full swing. This is no ordinary parade, folks. This is a marketing blitzkrieg on wheels.

Picture this: a giant bottle of Orangina zipping by, followed by a float shaped like a washing machine, blaring out music while cheerfully tossing out samples of detergent. Next came a sausage float (yes, you read that correctly) and then a convoy of vehicles promoting tires, each more bizarrely decorated than the last. It was like watching a fever dream sponsored by a French supermarket.

Children scrambled for the free goodies thrown from the floats, while adults acted like they were too cool to care—though they’d slyly bend down to pick up a flying keychain or two. It was a surreal carnival atmosphere, with everyone caught up in the pre-race excitement.

A Village Bursting at the Seams:

Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux is a charming village, but on this day, it was like someone tried to fit an elephant into a Mini Cooper. The narrow streets, normally serene and picturesque, were now packed shoulder-to-shoulder with spectators. The village square, a postcard-perfect spot with a lovely fountain and charming cafés, had transformed into a sea of humanity.

The locals, bless their souls, had turned out in droves to volunteer. They were everywhere—handing out maps, offering directions, and generally trying to make sure no one got trampled to death. Their hospitality was heartwarming, and their patience, given the circumstances, was saint-like.

The Waiting Game:

Positioned near the start line, we found our spot among the throngs of fans. Now, let me tell you, waiting for the Tour de France to start is an exercise in patience. For over an hour, we stood there, baking under the Provence sun, trying to keep ourselves entertained. There are only so many times you can discuss the merits of lycra before you start losing your mind.

The "official" cars began to roll through. This is where it got interesting. The term "official" seemed to be a catch-all for anyone with a semblance of importance or a penchant for free rides. Brand new, candy apple red Skoda sedans whizzed by, each one filled with people who looked suspiciously like they were on an all-expenses-paid holiday. Wealthy sponsors, attractive ladies, and what I can only assume were the luckiest interns in the world, all lounging in the back seats, waving like royalty.

The Moment of Truth:

Finally, after what felt like days of waiting, the peloton arrived. And just like that, it was over. In a blur of color, muscle, and speed, the cyclists zoomed past our vantage point in about ten seconds. Yes, ten seconds. You spend five hours waiting, and it’s all over in the blink of an eye. But let me tell you, those ten seconds are pure magic.

There’s something indescribable about watching these athletes, their legs pumping like pistons, their focus razor-sharp. The crowd erupted into cheers, little boys and girls pressed to the barricades, eyes wide with wonder, dreaming that one day, they too might ride in the Tour de France. It was a beautiful moment, the kind that makes you forget about the parking nightmares, the heat, and the ridiculous floats.

Worth Every Minute:

Despite the insanity, the chaos, and the absurdity of the whole event, it was worth every single minute. There’s a kind of shared joy in these experiences, a camaraderie among strangers who come together to celebrate something bigger than themselves.

Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux may have felt like it was about to burst at the seams, but it held together, offering up its charm and warmth to thousands of visitors. As we made our way back to our car (a journey that felt twice as long on the way back), I couldn’t help but feel grateful. Grateful for the experience, the people, and the sheer spectacle of it all.

So, if you ever get the chance to witness the Tour de France in a little village like Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux, do it. Embrace the madness, soak in the atmosphere, and don’t forget to bring your sense of humor. You’re going to need it.

Thank you for dropping by the blog to take a look. All of the photos were taken with the Leica SL3 and a 24-90mm Zoom lens. If you have a moment after viewing the plethora of images below, please leave a comment in the box at the bottom. I enjoy hearing from one and all. This blog is purely a hobby.

Warmest regards from Provence!

Live Well.

M.