Niceties

After weeks of early starts and full days, the pace of life slowed down when we got to Nice. On our first day, after our remarkably restful train ride, we spent the morning lounging and taking much-needed showers at the hostel, and then moseyed down to the beach in the afternoon. It was blue blue blue of ocean, white white white of rocks (no sand), and covered covered covered with people. As always, I had brought journals and art supplies, intending to be inspired and productive, but the only thing the beach ever inspires is dozing. I did briefly dip myself ankle-deep into the chilly liquid blue, and we stayed at the beach for a good two hours. Our first Niçoise dinner was at a Chinese restaurant, much to our friendly concierge’s dismay. 

The following day I headed out early on my own, acquiring a kilo of carrots on the way, and did some exploring. At the start it was gray and foggy and chilly and seemed unideal for going to the beach, but after a while the neighboring coasts reappeared as the sun decided to grace us with its presence. I recognized several local beach-goers from the day before. After spending a few hours attempting to become cooked lobsters we went to the local market. That’s where I got my now ‘famous’ ring. I also got a traditional baguette, which I gleefully consumed on the way back to the hostel. We stopped in the mall, far larger than the one in Parma, and I added a smoothie to the contents of my stomach. I had been craving one for ages. That evening we walked back down to the beach to catch the sunset, and discovered the docks and a war memorial and other things we deemed worth exploring further in the daylight. This night we did have a traditional meal, though the exact identity of mine was a mystery.

Day three we finally remembered that there was more to do than go lay on the rocky beach. It was Tuesday and I had intended to go to a few of Nice’s many museums, but it turned out that, unlike the rest of the world, Nice’s museums are closed on Tuesdays instead of Mondays. So, we started our day at the market, which in the mornings is all flowers and produce, in contrast to the array of old trinkets we saw the preceding afternoon. We continued on down to the water, but didn’t stop at our usual spot. We walked to the site of the ancient castle, transformed into a climb to panoramic views, parks, cemeteries, ruins, and a manmade waterfall. At the top of the waterfall I took in the spread of red-tiled roofs and the shifting azure expanse of the ocean. Further along were the Jewish and Christian cemeteries. The former was simple, cramped, and haphazard, while the latter seemed extravagant, ostentatious, and expansive. By now we were hungry, and I picked a direction towards a church we didn’t find, but which lead us to a new part of town. I ended up picking a restaurant after going into some other church where they seemed to be tuning a stubbornly dissonant organ.

 Partly because of the previous day’s museum surprise we decided to spend an extra morning in Nice to be able to make it to the Chagall and Matisse museums. On the way I nabbed a chocolate croissant and a chocolate éclair. Yum. At the Chagall Museum, perhaps more than the work, I enjoyed being able to employ my many languages, successfully reading French descriptive texts and eavesdropping on Italian visitors with more information. The sight I most enjoyed was his stained glass windows which, being glass, let in the light necessary to give his heavy colors some air and a sense of life, something I found somewhat lacking in his paintings. Next we went to the Matisse Museum, and I was proud of myself for deciphering the bus maps and communicating with the bus driver, two things that took me a while to master in ‘my own’ Parma. After seeing many artifacts from his household and plans for a chapel he designed, I have added the Vence Chapel to the ‘one day…’ list for my life. On the way back to the hostel we stopped at the same bakery from the morning and I got myself a quiche and another baguette, this time ‘normal’ instead of ‘traditional.’ We picked up our bags at the hostel and bid farewell to the owner, who had been flexing his biceps at me ever since I snapped off the shower knob a few days prior.

We took a train to Monte Carlo, then to Ventimiglia, and from there one bound for Milano. When I saw Italian text again, and finally heard Italian again, it was priceless. I was headed home, to a language I speak and to a home with a family.

Perusing Paris

A little back-note about Rotterdam. In our hostel, everything from bathroom lights to hallway lights were motion-activated. As I walked through raised walkways that connected the upper levels, lights turning on with my every step, I felt like a purposeful member of some starship crew.

And so the epic journey to Nice. We did so much train-hopping it was more like permanent floating. When I ordered some food during a change in Lille, for the first time in weeks I was able to do it in a different language, using more than nouns and numbers and pointing. I could conjugate verbs again!

When we finally made it to Paris we had no problem acquiring the tickets to Nice that had been so elusive in the Netherlands, and we found ourselves with eight hours to adventure. We dropped off our bags in storage; I changed to ‘look more French,’ and we set out to hit as many major sights as possible. Since the city was so overrun with people we opted for the ‘look, there’s that, take a picture’ approach, rather than spending hours in line to go inside one or two sights. Our first pause was Notre-Dame, and Brendan began to understand the scale of things in store. We walked along the interminable exterior of the Louvre and continued through the Tuilleries gardens. It was a hot and dusty day, and soon my black shoes were the color of the sandy paths. We stopped for some overpriced but quenching soft-serve near the obelisk, and again I missed gelato (how much more do I miss it now!). We could see the Arc de Triomf in the distance, but it is so huge that it would be our donkey’s taunting carrot for quite a while. I stopped for a ham and cheese crepe from a street vendor. When in France… . Eons later, after stopping in a store or two on the Champs-Elysees and watching an impressive street performer, we made it to the Arc. There I saw ‘Miranda,’ the last name of a distant relative, engraved on one of its faces. There seemed to be some kind of military remembrance or celebration underway, and as old men marched towards us, we marched on toward the rest of Paris. Our next intended destination was the Eiffel Tower, but we inadvertently spent the next hour making a large circle around the Arc, before we looked at a map and figured it out. You’d think a landmark that huge shouldn’t be hard to find. Eventually we made it, and took pictures and composed postcards. We saw the dome of Invalides in the distance, and it came time to start heading back. We stopped into a mini-mart to get some snacks for the ride, and I got to use my French to ask where the nearest Metro entrance was. Success! We took the eight to République, to take the five to our station, Gare Austerlitz. Easy. Too easy. We hopped on the five and started moving just as I realized we were going the wrong way. Oops. The rest was uneventful, and we joined our unexpected Texan companions in our sleep cabin on the train.

I woke up around 730 and was itching to see the famous South of France countryside, but with the shade down and everyone fast asleep, I would have to look elsewhere. I went outside to the corridor and marveled. It felt like the first time the train window showed me something truly unique and unfamiliar. The brush was different, and at times I felt like I was in a painting. The light was soft and diffused, and in the distance there were rolling green mountains. Once our companions woke up I raised the blind in our cabin, and light flooded in. Picturesque red-tile roofed buildings zipped by, and palm trees waved a frondy hello. Suddenly the ocean appeared. It was almost like being back in Cinque Terre. Already I knew that Nice would be the place for me. Already I wished I had more time to spend exploring this region.

Just the bottoms

Amsterdam

Rotterdam

Paris

Nice

Torino

The first and last look

Train stations:
the land of hellogoodbye
the land of transit
the land of transitions

Prague

Plzeň

Berlin

Rotterdam

Paris

Nice

Milan

Milan really was the last last look.

Moving Picture Show

The view from the road, through the windows
Not quite here and not quite there yet

For you, Dad

Ever since I arrived in a certain foreign land a Texas-width away from my Texas home, a certain someone has been egging me on towards adventure. I took a train to Los Angeles, and dutifully reported back, thinking I had accomplished my mission. Instead I received a new assignment: take a train east; go farther. Well, I didn't take a train to get here, but I'm pretty far east. Too far? And since arriving, it is well known, I have been taking trains up, right, down, left, left, and everywhere in between. Today, I think, I have completed another, perhaps unspoken, mission. A mission I had for myself, too. I traveled alone.

Now, during the course of this last month, I have had my moments alone. But somehow, I don't think sitting in front of the Viennese opera house for two hours, drawing, and impatiently taking a meandering walk to the Niçoise beaches count as independent travel. Torino had been on my Italian to-do list for quite a while. It was one of those places everyone says you have to see, even if I never figured out why, exactly. Originally, it was an intended stopping point on the way back into Italy from France but, as you will read about on some future post, that plan changed. But I still wanted to see Torino. So today, I went. Despite the fact that I would be spending twice as much time in transit as in Torino, I went. Classic U2 (Yes, it is that old now. Egad, how old are we?) kept me company on the road.

In Torino the sun decided to perplex me, and I didn't want to march around map in hand, so I picked a direction and I went. All the sights should have been a straight shot from the station, but that would have required being on the correct street. Call me Miss Stubborn or call me Miss Independent, but I would not ask for directions all day, no matter how much easier it would have made things. Torino seemed like a ghost town, but that's what Sunday does to Italian cities. Everything was closed. I walked, with no real comprehension of where I was going, except that it was hopefully 'towards things.' I let my eyes lead my curiosity lead my feet, and wandered into statue-centered piazzas. The map I had gotten at the tourist info at the train station continued to prove its uselessness, not featuring any of the seeming landmarks I traversed.

Today became a day of churches: Annunziata, La Gran Madre, San Lorenzo (with a fantastic cieling), La Capella Verde (all green inside), and San Domenico. I was looking for the Duomo, and I marched myself every which way trying to find it. It turns out I did find it, several times, but never quite realized it, and never found the entrance, either. (I only know this now, thanks to Google.) Somebody needs some better signage, methinks. As is often the case, the main square was featuring some kind of special event, and today's seemed to be recognizing elementary school students. I guess there was a talent show or something, because all of a sudden a girl was presented on stage, and she started dancing to Low, by T-Pain and Flo Rida. Let me tell you, there is something odd about sitting in a luminescent yet somber church, staring up at its architectural masterpiece of a ceiling, and hearing about shawties with Apple Bottom jeans and boots with the fur. At least, from what I saw before I entered the church, it was fairly apparent that she had no understanding of the lyrics.

So, I spent three-plus-ish hours wandering Torino, pulling out my map as infrequently as possible, half trying to find certain things and half willing to go wherever the day took me. And it took me all over. Despite feeling lost for most of the day, I think I managed to see most of what I was 'supposed to,' and more that lay in wait. I admit that, at first, the thought of being alone in an unfamiliar city was daunting, and I started out with headphones securely in place. I was acutely aware of the total lack of women walking alone. But, as things progressed, I found my stride.

Lastly, this might be one for the record books. When the time came to take the train home, I arrived at the train station either 30 minutes early for a train I knew would take me home eventually or seconds before the departure of five trains leaving at the same time, one of which would probably take me home if I remembered correctly. I played Russian roulette with slightly better odds, less dire consequences, and logic on my side, and leaped onto the train to Bologna. At the very least, I knew I could catch a train to Parma from there. This girl made the right choice, and thanks to not waiting for the sure train to Milan and then having to transfer to one for Parma, got a direct ride home and made it early enough to catch the last bus.

When my host dad found out I had traveled alone he quipped, 'just like a grown up.' Just like a grown up, indeed. 

Put a ring on it

There was a time in my life when I wore at least three rings at all times. Maybe around the time when I started started painting and sculpting regularly and my rings started spending more time in my pockets than on my fingers, that time drew to a close. When I went to Parma, I took one ring with me: one from Guatemala. Again, I got used to wearing it everyday, to absentmindedly turning it when I wiated, be it for buses or in line for gelato. Then I began my travels, and I left almost all of my jewelry behind, including my ring. Suddenly my distracted fingers had nothing to twirl. Suddenly I was missing a little part of me, because even if no one else noticed my ring or knew that it and I are Guatemalan, I knew. People used to tie strings around their fingers to help them remember something, and this little band of silver reminded me that even if I was busy pretending to be Italian, or at least not American, I still had and always will have other roots. It was my reminder of all things and all people home.

When I went to Cinque Terre a while back, I bought myself another ring. It makes quite the statement, and it made somewhat of a statement in my accounting, but as Ellie pointed out, every time I wear it I will remember my incredible experience on Italy's famously beautiful rocky coast. I might not wear it every day, but I hope to wear it for the rest of my life. Yesterday, walking through the market in Old Town Nice, another ring caught my eye. It could be the opposite of the one I bought in Cinque Terre; it is small and understated,  but no less beautiful. It is an every day ring, but not an everyday ring. It is a ring that will remind me of European simplicity, and the simple but perfect time I have spent in Nice.

Is it a coincidence that I have bought rings at each of the coastal cities I have visited? Yes and no, I think. I just so happened to be in 'ring-buying situations' in both of these places. Still, while there is nothing from these past four months that I want to forget, if there is one thing I will yearn to recall it will be the complete and utter peace I have felt in these two places. When life pares down to an insignificant you somewhere between the join of two blues, the distant and sometimes indistinct horizon where sky and ocean meet, you see that less really is more.

Disney ride

First of all, let me tell you that I am typing this on a French keyboard, and apparently they are crazy, so while my reduced typing speed might not affect you, this may have more typos than usual. For example, if I wanted to type Parma without paying attention, as I did when I tried to access my blog, I would get Pqr,q.  Not quite the same. Also, for some strange reason, there is a µ key.
On to business.

I am now in Nice, France. We went to the beach yesterday, just a ten minute's walk from the hostel. The water is blue blue blue, the rocks are white white white, and they are covered covered covered in people. Not quite the idyllic abandoned paradise, but once you pop in your headphones and close your eyes, or just look up at the sky, it is all yours. Except maybe when you hear the wandering shouted refrain of 'beer, cold beer, orangina.' But this is not the part of the story I am here to tell you; I let myself get momentarily distracted by the splendor of the landscape.What I really want to tell you, if I don't run out of patience with this keyboard first, is the story of how I got here.
You already knew my intended itinerary, but that is not exactly how it all went down.

Friday we were supposed to have one more half day in Amsterdam, but thankfully we decided to go make our train reservations that morning, albeit days later than I had intended. After taking a number and a seat, we got called to the counter. Bad news. Nice via Saturday's overnight train? Impossible. Just getting to Paris? Practically impossible. Apparently it was a big holiday weekend and everyone would be traveling. Furthermore, the French train system is practically inaccessible from outside the country. The man behind the counter tried everything for forever, but ultimately our best hope was to start catching regional trains Saturday morning and spending the day slowly moving down the face of France, just to get to Paris and see what we could accomplish from there. Hmm. Time for some quick edits. We hopped onto the first train to Rotterdam, because this new plan would all but excise it from our travels, otherwise, and we wanted to do more than just sleep there. We were both more than ready to leave Amsterdam, anyway, though there were a few more things we could have seen.

We spent the day in Rotterdam -- fantastic -- aided by the fact that the sun began its slow descent at ten, and woke up at a fuzzy 545 the next morning. Now here was the issue. The train departure times we had were for the Centraal station, not Blaak, which was nearest to us. We assumed we could easily catch a train between the two and make it to Centraal. Wrong. Being Saturday, trains between the two only left every half hour, and the next one left one minute after we were supposed to be departing from the other station. I resigned myself to wait, but Brendan was not willing to take it sitting down. If we were going to wake up this early, we were going to catch that darn train. We were going to walk across town to Centraal. So began the epic journey. I hitched up my pack and set a blistering pace over the city's sidewalks. If I was going to be my own pack mule, I was not going to miss this darn train. Twenty minutes later, we made it with minutes to spare. Onward to Antwerp. Leg one, check.

An hour and ten minutes later we had six minutes to make a connection that 'no one ever makes.' Luckily, I'm not just anyone, and while my tales may be riddled with transportation misadventures, I have learned how to read train schedules and station signage without breaking my stride. Up the escalator, down the escalator, and onto the train to Lille, France. Our next connection, by now, seemed eternal at 15 minutes. We even had time to get our first meal of the day, at a sunshiny 10am. Onward to Amiens, France. 90 minutes later we had a whole half hour during which to twiddle our thumbs before boarding our final train to the good old city of light. 120pm and we made it. The long but easy part was over. Now to see whether we would be stuck in Paris without a place to sleep or hope of getting to Nice.

At the Paris Nord train station, we approached the ticket line with trepidation. Next thing we knew, Cindy had booked us on the train, sleeper cars, nooo problem. This feat, which had proven impossible for two separate agents at two separate train stations in two separate cities in the Netherlands, took her less than five minutes. Brendan wanted to propose to her. Now we just had to wait eight hours for our night train to leave. What to do, what to do? Spend those eight hours wandering Paris, of course. So Brendan got his wish to see Paris, I got to play tour guide, and we had our druthers and made it to Nice as planned. Or when planned, anyway.

One more thing. We got into our train car at 1030 that night, and met our companions, Claudia and Darrell, celebrating their ten year anniversary. Traveling from Corpus Christi, Texas. It really is a small world after all.