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.

Nether say Nether

This morning Matt and Brendan and I woke early. Ellie is going to Hungary, Matt to Nirenberg and then Munich, and Brendan and I to Amsterdam. We barely made our train, but we did it. As usual, the morning was gray, and the blades of windmills spun in and out of oblivion. Much later the sun came out, and I found myself in the Texasiest landscape yet. Fields upon fields, no mountains, and lots of phone wires. A strange propensity of reclining cows, a flock of sheep, horses, ponies, and baby ponies. I spot storks flying over the fields, a bird feeding its young'n, a gas station named 'Brand Oil,' and house roofs dressed in shiny blue solar panels. It's been five hours and we're still in Germany.

The thing that struck me upon arriving in Amsterdam was how un-foreign it all seemed. Signage was in English; people spoke English, and Dutch looks like English. I felt more like I was in New England than in Europe. The day we arrived was uneventful, and consisted of finding food, doing some wandering on foot, and making plans for the rest of our journeys. The following day we went to the Van Gogh Museum, where I discovered just how prolific Van Gogh had been. I enjoyed being able to see the progression of his style and several notable (aka textbook famous) pieces. Afterward we caught a walking tour and tried to do some more wandering. The following morning we intended to go to the Anne Frank House, but due to train complications we ended up leaving early and going to Rotterdam.

Though we arrived in Rotterdam at noon and had to leave early the next morning, with the help of a 10pm sunset we were able to see enough of the city to fall in love. First of all, our hostel was inside the famous Cube Houses, which were literally across the street from the train station. Convenient much? Thanks to Brendan's sleuthing, instead of just walking past a landmark, we got to reside in it for a night. We dropped off our bags and picked up a map and embarked on adventure. From the very beginning I was overwhelmed by the awesome architecture. The city was so damaged in WWII that it had to be almost entirely rebuilt, so it is very modern; very different from most of the Europe we had seen so far. In addition to the buildings, the city just had a great artistic vibe. Every corner had sculptures or street art. It felt like a living museum.

Unfortunately, the Netherlands Architecture Institute was closed for renovations (inescapable, I told you), but we got to see the Museumhouse Sonneveld, a completely restored mansion that was built in the Nieuwe Bowen style in  1933. It was funny how something that was once so obviously progressive and ahead of its time could now be considered almost Ikea-style. Still, it was a beautiful and innovative house with a particularly breathtaking stairwell. We meandered Rotterdam, approximating the path of the self-guided walking tour on our map, and found a steel skatepark, a sculpture garden, the 'ethnic neighborhood,' a shopping district, and downtown. Dinner just added to the brightness of my memories of Rotterdam. Given vague restaurant recommendations by the glittery concierge at the hostel, we chose to heed his sagest but vaguest words: go where the locals go. We ended up at a Surinamese/Javanese/Indian restaurant, where even the 'English' menu couldn't quite help us, but where it was almost standing room only and trafficked by even more people getting food to-go. This tiny room overflowed into the street with hungry patrons, and those of us waiting circled like vultures looking for enough open seats for our respective parties. I still don't know exactly what I ate, but it was delicious and made me wish I could find food like this in the States. Chicken soup laced with white rice, soy sprouts, and other delicious things, which mingled around a hard-boiled egg. The bowl was not much bigger than my two cupped hands, but suddenly my having ordered an additional entree seemed overzealous. I was full. To-go, please.

It was still broad daylight at 8pm, and we dropped off our food and did even more wandering, this time towards a red bridge that had caught my fancy. To be honest, everything caught my fancy. Berlin might have been the most anticipated destination, but Rotterdam, which I did not even intend to visit, was high up there on the favorites list.

 The next morning began our famous trans-France trek, as described in the earlier post, Disney Ride.

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

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.

Stage two

The itinerary is official. For all you stalkers out there, here's where I will be for the next week or so:

19 Arrived in Amsterdam
20 Day in Amsterdam
21 Day in Amsterdam, go to Rotterdam
22 Rotterdam, overnight train to Nice, France
23-25 Nice
26 Back to Italy




How to be a world-famous artist:
1. Develop a revolutionary style. If you're not quite that creative, jump on someone else's bandwagon really quickly, and start a school together.
2. Make a huge body of work, so that every major museum can have at least one of your pieces in their permanent collection, and so that there is still enough left over for your homecountry to be able to open a museum dedicated to you.
3. Create a handful of ironic paintings so that even college students will want to buy posters of your art.
4. Paint 'pretty things,' so other people will want to buy calendars or cheap prints of your work. Or for college students who want posters that will make them seem 'cultured.'
* Bonus points for being troubled, eccentric, or a failure.

In Austria I went to four art museums. In every other country so far, I have been to one each. I wouldn't say I burned out, but I am torn. I know that there are amazing masterpieces awaiting me within so many walls, but there is amazing life and culture waiting outside of them. After a while, it feels like going for the sake of going. Or, like been there, done that. If every museum boasts a Monet and a Picasso and a Warhol, do I really have to go to each museum? I never thought I'd say it, but it almost feels like if you've seen one, you've seen them all. At the same time, after going to the Van Gogh Museum today, I am of a different mind. We get so used to seeing the same handful of a famous artist's paintings, it is easy to forget that he ever did anything else or anything different. I had no idea how much Van Gogh produced, or how much his style changed over the short years of his life.

Tomorrow, Rotterdam and architecture.