Because France.
First trip in 2000; since then, I’ve been back 21 times for the Tour de France, missing just three years. I think it’s three, might be just two. Once when things just didn’t work out (that was way-back-when, before I decided things simply HAD to work out), and again when they shut down spectators due to Covid. And I think there was a third, but maybe not?
There’s always something memorable in “my” France. “My” France isn’t Paris, or Nice, or Bordeaux (although I’ve spent time in all three).
“My” France is in the rural countryside and mountains in the Pyrenees and Alps.
“My” France is in inexpensive but pretty nice accommodations near train stations, because I hate renting cars and use local trains to expand my reach.
“My” France includes $1.5 (euro) double espresso from the little Relay shops at train stations.
“My” France is full of baguettes for lunch and various amazing pastries for breakfast, and Confit du Cunard when doing a fancy meal, vs Pizza and Kabobs and massive meat salads other times.
“My” France has me pushing my limits on incredibly-long climbs, trying to keep my son in sight.
“My” France involves an incredible amount of logistical planning, trying to see as many stages of the Tour de France as possible.
And, “My” France involves lugging a ton of camera gear, something I am trying to get away from, but my son insists otherwise.
Oh, right, “My” France has also included visits to the infirmary in Lourdes to diagnose two broken ribs.
I’m 69 this year. I wonder how many more trips I have left?