G4S

Part of my job in Edmonton is dealing with G4S, which is a money handling company similar to Brinks. A large armoured van shows up a few times a week to drop off money and take away deposits. The G4S employees are usually alone, but they have their vans as well as various threatening weapons attached to their hips.

I was sitting in a square in Luxembourg and I watched a man in a G4S uniform begin to walk across to a Tabac on the other side of the square with a bag in one hand. I am quite sure it was a coin order. At first I was excited as I thought about how little pieces of home always seem to sneak into life no matter where you are.

Then I noticed the oversized guard dog (I'm guessing it was a rottweiler) trotting along beside the G4S guy with it's mouth in a muzzle... but you know that if you take so much as one step too close to this guy, his aptly named guard dog would first rip off his muzzle and then rip off your face.

I guess walking around Edmonton with the protection of a dog isn't that feasible, but if I were working for G4S, I'd take the dog any day.

Rain? What is Rain?

I woke up this morning to overcast skies and rain. After I finished breakfast, the rain had turned into a full on downpour. This is the first rain I've seen the entire trip. I don't even think it's been overcast. I've seen blue skies everyday.

I utilized the free wifi to stream the last few episodes of Parks and Recreation I missed after I left Canada, laughed my ass off for an hour, and when I finished the rain had petered out and headed into town. Thanks weather gods, you've been great.

Why yes, I have been to Luxembourg

Luxembourg! The trilingual country which is a mix of French, German, and Luxembourgish. Naturally, nearly all of these gifted people that I met seem to also speak English. I feel so useless. Still, my evening walk here has quickly made me head over heels for this place. It has all the elements of a city, but it's quiet and intimate like a town. I never seemed to be more than 5 minutes from a large, green park and I have felt the safest on my own here more than anywhere else I've been (not that anywhere else had been dangerous).

Changing Languages; Missing Friends

I only spent one night in Paris since I've spent time in the city before and will be returning for a weekend with my classmates from Lille. I decided to utilize the “Benelux” portion of my rail pass and hopped on a train to Luxembourg. When I arrived, I was met with German signs for the first time in a year with a few recognizable signs around me reading Abfahrt! (departure) Verspatet! (late). I was immediately reminded of my last Europe trip, when we arrived in Vienna and I couldn't get over the German words and kept repeating them robotically to the amusement of my travel buddies.

All through the trip I've been missing these girls. Emily would always ensure everyone ate before we were starving, and often before we even realized we were hungry. Her plan-oriented mind left little room for forgetting to do something like find out where the hostel was located (oops, forgot to do that once) and ensuring we had proper seat reservations on the trains (that screwed me over more than once). Chloe would kick my butt into gear if I was being lazy, and also justified downtime when we both just wanted to spend an hour napping or going on our computers in the hostel.

I travelled with Sarah and Stephanie less often, but I still have times when I think about how they'd help me. Sarah was always up for anything, and I could shop vicariously through Stephanie without actually having to load my backpack up with any more weight. Both knew about really cool places to see, whether they be art galleries or monuments or just cool areas of town.

Travelling alone has its perks, but it's always nice to have a friend, especially to have someone to share a meal with at the end of the day. I really don't like eating alone at restaurants, and have generally avoided it for the most part by making my own food at the hostel or getting something to go. I'm quite excited to make new friends when school starts in a few days in Lille. In the meantime, I'm going to channel the energies of my absent travel buddies.

Not so Disappointed

Before I left Canada, I planned out where I would be going and booked hostels up until Carcassonne. That left 5 days of 'freedom' to go wherever I wanted. Really, I just couldn't decide where to go. I still couldn't make up my mind until Carcassonne, where I finally decided to go on to Toulouse, a town about an hour away from Carcassonne. I neglected to book a bed in the only hostel in town since there were 12 beds available and I didn't think it was necessary. That ended up screwing me over, and the night before I left Carcassonne I found out that every last bed had been booked. There was no room available in Toulouse. Frustrating. I ended up just going to Paris for convenience. Trains take a long time to get around the country, but once you're connecting in Paris, everything is close (Thanks 300km/h TGV trains).

This pretty much sums up my trip: disappointment means going to Paris. Life is good.

Castle!

In Nice, everything is translated from French into English and Italian for the convenience of the foreign tourists everywhere. It makes sense to have things in Italian considering how close Nice is to the Italian border, but I still thought that it was cool that in Carcassonne, which is in Southwest France, everything is translated from French into English and Spanish.

Anyways, I spent the day exploring the town. The ramparts are accessible in a lot of areas, and large areas of the castle are open complete with audio guide which was really nice. Carcassonne has a long and complicated history of occupation that I only followed for as long as the audio guide was speaking into my ear. I do remember that at one time, Carcassonne was a border town between France and Spain, and therefore was incredibly important for front line defense. When some treaty or other was signed, the border moved further south and Carcassonne became relatively unimportant. The castle was restored in the 19th century by a famous architect named Eugène Viollet-le-Duc. He made all these extrapolations and hypotheses about what the castle would have looked like during it's various occupations over the centuries. A reddish line in the wall here represents the time when the Romans inhabited the area and levelled the wall, a line of holes along the stone there were the place for the beams to be inserted as support for the wooden room to be constructed on the second floor. Nowadays, computer programs can create 3D models of the town by electronically scanning the area. This allows archeologists to create more solid hypotheses about what the town used to be like. Even against this technology, the work of the architect 200 years ago that he did all by himself without fancy technology is, for the most part, just as accurate. Bad Ass

Carcassonne

From the train station, Carcassonne seems to be just another European town. All the euro style buildings, narrow streets, and cafes lining the sidewalks are great, but for a tourist hungry for the spectacular, this town does not look promising.

Carcassonne was recommended to me by my friend Kate, so I added it to my itinerary and booked a hostel. I'm very glad I did. A short ten minute walk from the centre of town brings you to the amazing Old Town, which is a small, well fortified fortress complete with a castle that has been built and remodelled again and again throughout the past thousand years or so although the area has been occupied for a lot longer than that.

My first few minutes in the town were great and my eyes just feasted on the medieval wonders around me, but all I was really thinking about was the sweet relief of the cool wind against my skin that meant finally, finally for the first time in two weeks, I was not sweating. There is too much Canadian in me to fully enjoy the endless sun and warmth of the Mediterranean. Bring it on, wind! I'd love to finally use my sweater.

Oh the People You Meet

My hostel in Nice is full of these real life characters that I would love to write into a story. Their idiosyncrasies remind me of the regulars in the cafe Amélie works at, although that's probably just because they're French.

The man who works the evening shift at reception always seems to wear the same red shirt with his wide-legged black parachute pants that end just above his ankles. When he runs (never walks) to do something, his pant legs balloon out and his arms inevitably begin to wave above his head in a very dramatic way regardless of what the issue is. He appears to be perpetually disgruntled. I sat in the common room facing the reception area during the evenings, and I noticed his habit of grabbing a bottle of air freshener and spraying it in small, short bursts throughout the length of the reception/bar area. At first I couldn't place the PSSHT! PSSHT! PSSSSSHT! Sound that the aerosol can produced, but I quickly learned to look up every ten minutes to see this guy rising from his chair, grabbing his can, walking the ten steps to get to the end of the bar, and then returning to sit down to in front of his computer spraying the sweet, fabricated smell of floral bouquet the whole way. I have no idea what horrible stench he was continually smelling that needed to be covered up, but every 10 minutes on the dot he would be up and spraying.

When I arrived at the hostel on the first day, there was an older woman sitting outside on the small patio outside of the hostel. While many of the hostels I have stayed at have had very nice outdoor sitting areas, this patio was basically just a concrete slab with some hedges lining the property and one scraggly tree in the middle. Nevertheless, this woman was out sitting on a chair without appearing to be do anything. Just sitting. Over the next 4 days of my stay in Nice, the woman was always either following the measly amount of shade around the patio in her chair or floating (never walking) around the main floor of the hostel examining the bright white bandages that mysteriously covered the fingers on her left hand.

My favourite man had a mop of curly dark brown hair and sleepy eyes. At first he seemed to be just your average traveller, but as soon as he sat down at a table to read anything (a map, a book, even a crossword puzzle) he would lower his head as close to the page as possible, only leaving enough room between his eye and the table for a magnifying glass. How he could read anything like that I will never know. Especially the crossword.

Up Up Up to Eze

I hopped off the train between Monaco and Nice at Eze, which is a small hill town that was recommended to me by one of my co-workers. There were three Americans standing in front of the map and bus schedule on the main road also trying to figure out how to get to the town. None of us were entirely positive when the next bus was coming, and the map said the walk up took an hour. That was out of the question. One of them suggested a taxi, and I was ready and willing to ask if I could pitch in for a quarter of the cost, but instead they decided to go for lunch on the beach and wait for the next one. Well shit. I didn't want to wait around for an hour at a bus stop. The walk up to Eze started to seem like my only option.

As I tried to warm myself up to the idea, I decided a 60 minute walk wasn't THAT bad. But it was also 30 degrees at midday. Still, I had climbed more intimidating mountains in Canada, and Patti said the views from the top were amazing. I found the trail head which labelled the path as Sentier Nietzsche, since the famous philosopher wandered around these hills during his lifetime. I like Nietzsche, I should like his path. Right?

Up up and up I climbed. There didn't seem to be any level bits of the path at all. The view really was amazing though, and kept turning backwards to gaze longingly at the cool blue waters of the Mediterranean below me, wishing I could jump in.

Considering I had only been climbing for five minutes, I forced myself to stop since it seemed cruel to think I had 55 more minutes to walk away from the ocean. Up up up. The area is naturally rocky, but it seemed like some of the stone had at one time been sculpted into steps that had then been left to weather into rubble. Half way up I took stock of what I had. Shoes: 10 dollar slip on flats that were giving me blisters in 2 different places. Water: Well, I was glad I picked up the more economic 1.5L bottle in Monaco, but even that was close to being drained. Energy: No food on me, two small pieces of Baguette slathered in Nutella for breakfast. Probably not a good call, but I guess that's what eating 3 times my body weight during exams was for.

Ten more minutes up I passed this house being renovated in the middle of nowhere. I greeted the carpenter working on the deck and kept going. A few steps later, he called after me and asked if I wanted some water (well, he motioned 'drinking'). Regardless, Yes!!

With my water bottle topped up, my energy levels were sustained and I was looking forward to food in town. Unsurprisingly, I only met people walking down the hill (and I was spending a lot of time resting/taking pictures, so someone easily could have passed me. The man who filled my bottle said something I didn't understand in French but gestured upwards and said Brava! Yup, only a small selection of people like me don't have the brains to avoid 400 metre inclines during the hottest part of the day. I don't know how Neitzsche used this hill to think. All I did was sweat.

Complaining aside, the hike was a lot of fun and had really great views down to the coast below and the hills around me. I finally reached the end of the path and hopped out back into civilization and into the parking lot of Fragonard, a perfume company in France. Patti had told me about it too, so I wandered in to see what it was like and try to find a sink to get some cold water on my face. I was as red as a beet, my face seemed to have reached a perma-sweaty state, I most likely smelled horrible. Naturally, the first people I met were the perfectly put together women who use perfume and hygiene for a living. The potential of having an allergic reaction prevented me from trying out any of the perfumes, but I found a bathroom, cooled off, and headed up (further up) into town. I ran into the Americans who had a nice lunch then taken the bus up to Eze like rational people. I told the man I walked up, and he said “YOU DID WHAT? YOU CRAZY CANADIAN!”

“Well you know, I like climbing mountains in Canada and this is kind of like a mountain..”

“KIND OF? THIS IS A MOUNTAIN!”

It was all the praise I needed.

I grabbed some lunch at the grocery store, and headed up (further up) into the old part of town, which is a small walled city with incredibly narrow streets. While exploring the town, I determined that it seemed to be made entirely of a few gift shops, artist's studios, restaurants, and dozens of hotels. I kept going up (further up) to the gardens at the peak of the hill that had a breath taking view of the area all the way to St. Jean Cap Ferrat. I ate my lunch, checked out all the cool exotic plants, and gladly started heading down (finally going down) back to the bus stop—I wasn't about to try the path downhill. While the outer walls of the town were all made of stone laid centuries ago, some of the doors were open to see into the rooms that were perched the edge of the old town. They all had modern interiors and I could just see the blue waters of the ocean through the windows. Unbelievably picturesque. Thanks for inspiring the great afternoon, Patti!

Monaco!

Monaco is so close to Nice that I figured it would be the perfect time to cross a second principality off my list (Vatican and Monaco down, probably loads more to go). After a quick early morning train ride, I was taking the complex escalator/elevator system to get out of the train station and in to Monaco. Just outside the train station there was a panoramic view down the cliffs to the ocean. I could hear car engines revving somewhere, but ... no. No, there's no way I unknowingly came to Monaco during the Grand Prix. I could feel my excitement level climb just a little bit, and when I turned to walk down the street, I could see a Marlboro tent set up. (In what country would a cigarette company be allowed to advertise like that? Oh yeah. Monaco).

I figured between the Marlboro tent and revving engines, I just may be in Monaco for the Grand Prix. I began to look everywhere for a sign, and a bit further down the road, flags attached to light posts confirm it: Monaco Grand Prix running from May 26 – 29. I feel like I'm at the Vatican for Easter. The only thing I planned to do in Monaco was go to the aquarium.

I walked down to the east end of the country (Ha. Country.) I didn't have a map, but I figured it would be pretty impossible to get lost. As I crossed a pedestrian bridge over a closed roadway, Large flatbed trucks started coming out of a tunnel carrying the race cars on them with white vans following behind with the racing teams. The last flatbed had two men sitting on the back staring straight up at me, so I waved enthusiastically and they smiled and waved back.

I don't know anyone who cares less about car races than me, but there was an infectious energy in the city, and knowing that these racers would be driving around a track more complicated than a giant circle, I was getting pretty excited. While I was along the seashore near the Monte Carlo Hotel, I could hear a distorted voice begin talking through some distant speakers, and then the race began. The noise was incredible with all those engines doing their thing over in the middle of town.



As cool as everything was, I wasn't about to spend 69 euro to see 3 seconds of a car speed by before it went out of my sight. There were a few points around the city with glimpses of the track, but to really see everything you needed a ticket.

I wandered around the city a bit more, but with the race going on roads were closed everywhere and I wasn't keen on trying to go down to attempt to walk down a street when failure meant climbing back up the hill-everything is on a hill in Monaco. I didn't bother to try to get into the casino for this reason. My legs were already complaining bitterly about being forced to do this thing called exercise.

I walked in front of a hotel and the cars parked in front of it were probably worth more than my house. I like to play a game sometimes called "How much am I worth today?" by adding up how much I spent on all the clothing I'm wearing. After seeing the cars, I looked down at myself and started to add it up, but quickly stopped when I figured it wouldn't be possible to get a bottle of water for less than what my clothing was worth.

Rich and Famous: Not in Danielle's past, present, or future.

The excitement of engines revving from across the harbour was less appealing the closer I got to the racetrack. I seriously contemplated buying some of the overpriced ear plugs being sold on the street, but then decided I had had enough of Monaco for the day and happily headed back to the train station to go back to Nice.

Le Grand Tour de Nice

Today my poor abused feet spoke up and asked me to take them on Le Grand Tour of Nice—a horribly touristy hop on hop off double decker bus around the city. It was pretty nice (nice in Nice!) to sit back on the bus seats and have a pre-recorded voice tell me all about the city without exhausting myself unnecessarily. My first "hop off" stop was near the Roman archeology sites, the Matisse museum (Matisse lived in Nice for the last few decades of his life) as well as the Monastère Notre Dame de Cimiez. I didn't go into the Matisse museum because I saw his travelling exhibit when it was in Edmonton in February and I just don't understand enough of the Art History around his works to fully appreciate them. Instead, I had lunch in the olive grove that surrounds his museum and then checked out the cemetery behind the church, where Matisse and his wife have their own special little grove entirely dedicated to them. The top of the stone box their bodies are in is covered in pebbles and notes full of words of thanks and little drawings. It was pretty cool to see how powerfully Matisse has affected others.

I also hopped off at the National Marc Chagall museum, which had a great audio commentary for his paintings based on the Old Testament. I had never heard of him before, but he's a great artist.

Nice Market

Dozens of outdoor patios that filled the long street of Cours Saleya last night have disappeared and been replaced with the long tables of the morning market vendors in Nice. The market has pretty much everything you could need with fresh fruits and vegetables in one area, meat and fish in another, and tables full of spices from around the world displayed in bulk, waiting for you to fill up a bag. There is no plain salt or pepper, but mixes of everything together in different combinations that create lovely patterns for the eyes to look at. It's also making me want to cook.

The pathway of the flower section becomes more narrow as the overhead striped canopies join together so that no direct sunlight can wilt the flowers. The top covering keeps the wonderful smell of fresh petals contained in the area, and I have to remind myself I have no where to keep a bouquet of flowers.

I can't walk away with nothing though, so I pick up a small box of strawberries and start eating as I continue down the market. They are literally melting in my mouth. Why can't everything taste this good?

Seize the Day

I got to the beach yesterday at 11. The sun was already high in the sky, the temperature was hovering around 27 degrees, and I was already really warm. I slapped on a second coat of sunscreen, picked up my book, and slowly rotated from stomach to back to stomach on every chapter. I kind of felt like a chicken on a rotisserie. By 1 in the afternoon, I was afraid my pathetically fair skin would not be able to handle any more midday sun, so I packed up and headed for lunch at a shady cafe.

After that, I wandered back to the hostel and I stayed there for a few hours researching different ways to see Nice, uploading my pictures, and eventually I just had a good ol' afternoon nap. By 5 o'clock the guilt felt like it was going to swallow me whole. Nice will only be available to me for two more days, and I'm sleeping my time away in the hostel. The Old Town is only a five minute walk from the hostel, so I grabbed my camera but kept my cheap Old Navy flip flops on, because I was determined this walk was just going to be a short stroll through the city. Of course, my short stroll turned into a two hour hike through old town and up to Parc de la Colline du Château, which is the huge modern park on top of a hill overlooking Nice. In the past, it has been the site of a Roman settlement, Medieval churches, a defense post that was ordered to be destroyed by King Louis the.. actually I don't know. One of them. The Third? Fourteenth? There were a lot of Louis'. Eventually as Nice expanded out into the valley and had more room for everything, the hill was remodeled into a large green area with innumerable pathways and secret alcoves tucked away in every corner. It took me a good hour to get through to the other side. I arrived at the gates of the Catholic cemetery 5 minutes before it closed, but still got to wander around for a bit. It seems like every person buried in that cemetery has a family plot with a huge and very detailed grave marker. I wish I could have seen more but I left and headed back to the hostel through a really cool side street full of little boutiques. The buildings are so high and the roads are so narrow that the streets in the Old Town are quite dark. It may have been sketchy, but the shops are fairly expensive and well kept so it makes it quite nice to walk around.

As I made my way back to the hostel, I contemplated how I was finally content that I had "done something" with my day. If I had been at home in Edmonton, I would have played on my computer and had a nap without the slightest amount of guilt. Anything I need to do can be left for tomorrow and is usually left for tomorrow. I have probably felt this guilt at one point in my life, but I am so well trained to ignore everything I need to do at home that it just doesn't matter what time I eventually get around to doing something. I need to find a way to harness this guilt I feel every time my day isn't full enough from sight seeing on vacation and transform it into daily life. But I guess I can figure out how to do that tomorrow.

At the Beach

The beach is rocky. I thought it would be sand. It is still beautiful though. There are two ladies beside me sunbathing topless. It's not something you'd even bat an eye at here. My anonymity makes me tempted to join them, but I have this unfounded fear of sunburning my nipples. Top will be staying on. The Mediterranean water is cool on my legs. I didn't wear a swim suit so I don't want to go in all the way. Maybe tomorrow. Thanks for the beach towel, Air Canada. I knew I took the blanket off the plane for a reason.

Day of Rest

Today is a do nothing day. I am tired. My feet hurt. I have no interest in history, churches, or monuments. My plan today is to do nothing. Luckily, I am in Nice, which means I can spend a day on the beach doing a whole lot of nothing. But I can tell people that I'm at a beach in Nice and it sounds so much more impressive than the reality which is I could sleep all day. Which I will. On the beach. ;)

An Afternoon in Marseille

Other than Paris, Marseilles is the city that I have been warned about. A few people I know absolutely love it, and some agree with it's reputation as the sketchiest place in the country. I needed to see it for myself, so I hopped off the train on my way to Nice, stored my bag in the station, and went into the city. The train station is on a bit of a hill, so you can see across the rooftops all the way to Notre Dame de la Garde, which is the church on top of the highest hill in Marseilles. I was immediately impressed, and I hadn't even gone into the city yet.

I wandered down the main street out of the train station and immediately felt that this is so cool feeling I never experienced in Nimes. I walked towards the tourist office for a map, but first I walked through the fish market that happens every day in the Old Port. Fishermen were lined up along the docks with their catch of the day in front of them and their boats behind. But it wasn't just fish. They were selling octopi for 12 euro/kg and even sea horses. I've don't think I've ever seen a real sea horse before today. (And really? What is there to eat on a sea horse? They're so small!)

I was officially smitten with Marseilles, and so I grabbed a map and some directions to the best parts of the city from the tourist office and sat down with my various train schedules to figure out which train would take me on to Nice and my hostel. My excitement to get into Marseilles turned out to be my downfall: there were only two trains I could take with my pass. One left in an hour, the other at 9 in the evening, which was much too late. I sadly resigned myself to an hour in the city, and took a roundabout path back to the train station.

When I got there, my train was literally just leaving the station. I had memorized the wrong time. Merde.

It turned out to be a good thing though, because I found another train that left at 2:30, giving me an extra two hours in Marseilles. It was too late to visit the Notre Dame, but I did walk to the Palais Longchamp, which holds two museums in a beautiful building with a huge fountain that acted as a water tower in the 19th century, as well as public gardens.

I really want to stop in Marseilles again and see the city from the top of the the hill, as well as some of the other stuff I missed. And on the way back from Nice, I just might be able to!

The Two Danielle's

Cocky Danielle has been in France for an entire 5 days, and has been in Nimes for 2. She knows that she can sleep in, eat a leisurely breakfast, and then wander down the 500 metre stretch to the bus stop that will take her to the train station for her 9:44 departure. When Cocky Danielle gets to the bus stop and has to wait 20 minutes for the next bus, she decides to stroll down to the next stop. She knows this city.

Safe-traveller Danielle knows her cocky ego is in over her head, and so when the bus stops turn a corner somewhere and Cocky Danielle doesn't, Safe-traveller Danielle pulls out the map she kept close in her purse. This is a good thing, as the road Cocky Danielle put herself on leads away from the train station.

A 3 kilometre race on foot to the train station ensues complete with an 18kg backpack, and both Danielle's are relieved when they arrive 5 minutes early before the train has even reached the station.

Lesson may or may not be learned.

Je suis tres sweaty.

Would you like a lift?

As I was walking down to the bus stop, an older man on a bicycle came up behind me. I stood on the edge of the narrow sidewalk so he could pass, but he told me bikes aren't allowed to be on the sidewalk, so I'd have to go first.

“Alright,” I answered, and kept walking. He asked me where I was going, and I said, “Just to the bus stop.. and then to Nice.”

“Nice?” He said.

“Oui.”

“That is too far. I will not be able to take you on my bike.”

I'm not entirely sure if he was joking.

Hostel Life

Sometimes, you need to go to bed early and hope your hostel roommates are quiet when they come in. On other nights, you need to curl up with a book or maybe a computer that connects you to home. But the best evenings are when you sit around a table with a bunch of strangers from all around the world, drinking wine and talking about travelling, life, and everything in between. The evening is complete when the conversation inevitably turns to how to say “fuck” in every language known around the table.

Nimes

That guy really deflated my good mood. I felt invincible in Avignon as I ran around with my camera taking pictures of the beauty in everything around me. But this asshole changed all that. It's not what he said, it's how incredibly vulnerable it made me feel and I just can't shake the feeling. I'm afraid Nimes is just going be a little less magical for me. Well, it's that or maybe this city is just a little less impressive. The big sites here are the Colosseum, a forum, a watch tower, and a few temples from back when Nimes was a Roman colony. Everything is very well preserved, and you can actually get into everything and it's not swarming with people like some other touristy cities which is really nice. Still, for someone like me with less of an interest in Roman history, when I do want to experience it I'll go for the big sites in Rome. I kind of feel like if Nimes were a person, it would be jumping around, waving it's arms shouting "Look at me! I have Roman Ruins! Isn't that COOL?!" Although I'm still very happy that I am able to see this city.

The hostel is up on a hill again (why do I keep choosing these places?) just on the outskirts of town. It's a hassle to get to especially when I have my backpack, but it has a nice garden area and feels like a welcoming home. The hostel has goats for some reason, and this morning they were head butting each other while I was eating breakfast which provided endless entertainment. One of them also ate my paper/metal butter wrapper when the wind blew it off the table.

Anyways, another disappointment is that my time in Nimes falls on a Sunday. I have the time to do everything today, but no buses run out to Pont du Gard, a famous Roman aqueduct. I have an early train reservation that I already booked to Marseille tomorrow morning, and I hope to spend the afternoon there before taking the three hour train ride to Nice for my hostel. Oh well. I suppose missing Pont du Gard only gives me an excuse to come back.

Inside the Colosseum

The audio guide tells me to imagine I'm a citizen of Nimes in the 2nd century. I'm supposed to think about what it would have been like to wait at the gates of the Colosseum since dawn to see today's fights. Holy roman goddess batman, I'm actually in this colloseum and the wooden seat is so hot I think my butt may spontaneously combust. Everything is coloured very lightly, and I can feel the suns rays reflecting off the white stone walls and white amphitheatre floor which, according to the audio guide, is covered in sand to keep gladiators from slipping, mask the sounds of animals moving, and sop up the inevitable blood of combat. Apparently there were awnings covering the seats back in the day, but I don't know how much more water by body can sweat out and it's only 30 degrees in May. I can't imagine what the heat of the middle of summer is like here. My eye lids are sweating.

I just sneezed and the sound of it reverberated across the Colosseum and back to me. I kind of want to shout "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" but being by myself and what not has given me a little less confidence to be obnoxious. It would be so cool though.

Assholes will be Assholes

I was taking the bus in Nimes to my hostel on the other side of town, and was just getting sleepy when a man leaned over and started to talk to me. I looked at him blankly for a good twenty seconds before saying "Je ne parle pas francais".

"Oh. English?"

"Yes."

Then he started rambling on about how he was Dutch and didn't speak English. He asked a French girl how to say something en anglais, and she laughed but didn't know how. I watched the faces of the people on the bus around me go from entertained to disgusted and uncomfortable as the guy continued to talk to me even though all I said was "I don't speak French." He really wanted to get his point across though, and started talking to an older man about something or other. I recognized the old man saying "She's going to the youth hostel" to which I started nodding emphatically before realizing maybe I shouldn't be saying where I'm going. It didn't matter though, the asshole wasn't paying attention to me.

All in all, he talked at me for a good 5 minutes. Near the end before he got off the bus, he finally managed to say "Will. You (point) Sleep (hands together near head) Wif. Me?"

I didn't know what the hell he meant. If he was asking if I wanted to stay with him, the answer was no. If he was asking more along the English lines of 'sleep with me' it was definitely no.

Which is what I said. And then he had the confidence (or whatever) to say "Why not?"

"... Because I don't speak French!"

He got off the bus at that point, and one lady finally spoke up and told me he was just embarassing and made sure I was okay and knew where I was going.

I don't care if strange people talk to me, and I really don't care what they say, especially on a crowded bus where all it is is talk.

But the horrible reality of being alone in a country where I am struggling to recognize even the simplest of phrases made me feel incredibly vulnerable and not okay.

It was good that I had to walk an extra 500 metres to the hostel after I got off the bus so I could work off the negative energy that settled on me. Well, some of it. I still feel like shit.

Sunburnt in Avignon

My train stopped in Avignon, and so did I.

I excitedly left the train station, abandoning the transfer recommended by the ticket office, and followed the signs towards luggage storage. And was met with disappointment. Suitcase scanner broken; storage lockers closed.

I didn't want to miss out on Avignon, but I also didn't think I was capable of carrying around my large, heavy backpack for two hours, especially since it was 30 degrees. There was an Ibis hotel next to the train station (there always seems to be Ibis hotels next to train stations) and I remember storing bags in Brussels in an Ibis I stayed at. The storage room in Brussels was coin operated, and I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask the reception desk. When I got there, there was no one at the desk. I found the luggage room, but it was just shelving. I was willing to take the risk for Avignon though, so I dumped by bag and left just as a receptionist was returning to the desk. She said something in French to which I nodded and smiled, then I walked out. Freedom! Sneaky Freedom!

I walked through a gate into the walled city, and followed the arrows to the Tourist Office. I asked the man, “What can you show me in 2 hours?” And he pulled out a map, circled the Pope's Palace, the gardens, and Pont D'Avignon. “Merci Beaucoup!”

The main street in Avignon, Rue de la Republique, has the classic 5 story French buildings lining either side of the street, and huge trees growing down the middle that keep the street quite cool and shady. I grabbed some lunch from the grocery store, and before I knew it I was at the Palais de Papes, the Pope's (second) Palace. The building is so impressive, and like the rest of Avignon, it is made of light stone. With my limited time in the town, I opted out of entering the palace. It costs 10 euros, and when I was speaking with a hostel roommate later, she said it took her 2 hours to see everything and listen to the audioguide, so I'm glad I missed it (next time, perhaps).

The church attached to the Palace was free to enter, although there was a very large annoying sign saying women wearing shorts and tank tops were not allowed to enter. To the dudes that make these stupid rules, IT IS 30 DEGREES. I am not one of the local French people who seem to have no trouble wearing a long sleeved black shirt and black pants. Edmonton is lucky if it reaches 30 degrees all summer. You will notice this by the copious amount of sweat you can see forming on every part of my body. Anyways, no one was around to patrol this dress code, so I walked right in. Considering this is Rapturday (or so the Bible told that weird guy from the States), I'm pretty sure I'm screwed. Either that or God doesn't give two shits what I wear when I come to a building devoted to God.

The gardens behind the palace are built around a really cool rock, Rocher des Doms, which offers a really cool viewpoint of the Rhone. At this point, I realized I had left my sunscreen in my bag that was (hopefully) still in the Ibis luggage room. It was so hot that I couldn't tell what was burning and what was just pink from heat, but regardless, I figured it was worth it (in the end, I only had very pink shoulders).

After that, I walked along the wall of the city for a while before coming to Pont d'Avignon, which is a famous half-bridge in the city. It has two chapels on it, and acted as a crossing between Avignon and Villeneuve-lès-Avignon by the important religious figures in the area as well as others. Flooding led to parts of the bridge collapsing over a number of years. It wasn't repaired, and now only half of it is left. It's also famous for being the bridge in question in the song "Sur le pont d'Avignon". Yeah, I don't know it either.

As I headed back to the train station, I began to worry about retrieving my bag. It was unnecessary though, since the receptionist was helping people when I walked in. She acknowledged with a smile and nod, but kept talking to the people in front of her. I slid in to the luggage room, strapped on my pack, and headed to catch my train.

Ibis security: good for Danielle, bad for people who are thinking of stealing bags from luggage rooms.

Ding Dong Ding

Last night, I turned on a pre-existing alarm already set up on my iPod so I would be sure to wake up on time for my train to Nimes, and went to bed. As it turns out, the 3 unbearably creaky beds that make up my dorm made the alarm useless, and I was wide awake at 6:30 in the morning. I remained in my bed for a while, relishing the return to a more normal sleep schedule and waiting for another girl to finish getting ready before I got up. Church bells started ringing and I contemplated how nice it was to have church bells ringing on the hour in Lyon from the Basilica on the top of the hill, or maybe from St. Jean down below. Actually, seven in the morning seems a bit early for church bells to be ringing—especially on a Saturday.

... That would be because the church bells were actually coming from my iPod. That alarm sound was MUCH more effective in Canada.

A Beautiful Day in Lyon

Determined to make up for the killer jetlag of yesterday, I set off early from the hostel, walking towards Quai St. Antoine for the morning market. I didn't buy anything, although the vegetables were calling my name. From the market, I walked on towards Place des Terreaux, one of the important squares in the city that was pointed out to me by the lady I met yesterday on the hill. The square has a statue in it made by Frédéric Bartholdi, the same person who made the Statue of Liberty. Everything I had read and heard about the place seemed so impressive, and the actual statue was a bit.. ridiculous. I imagine this is how the statue came to be.

“I say this square looks empty! We should call upon our dear friend Bartholdi to fill it with something RIDICULOUS. Especially after his success with the Statue of Liberty. We also would like a national symbol in our square!”

“I quite agree my dear sir! But whatever should this national symbol be?”

“A woman riding four horses who are thrashing wildly in all directions!”

"Splendid!"

Anyways.

I was much more impressed by the Musem of Fine Art. It was full of statues from the past 2 millenia as well as Egyptian, Roman, Greek, and early Christian artifacts. I haven't seen that many before, and even though I'm sure other places have much more extensive collections, it was perfect for me. They even had a preserved mummy head and hand.

After that, I went on to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which only has one exhibit at a time. The current exhibit is called “Indian Highway IV”, and is made of photographs, instillations, videos, and sculptures made by Indian artists. My favourite was an instillation done by the Raqs Media Collective. They lined clocks along the walls of a room that each had a different city named beneath it. But instead of numbers, there were descriptions written on the clock face, and each city was 'set' to a different word. The possibilities were epiphany, anxiety, duty, guilt, indifference, awe, fatigue, nostalgia, ecstasy, fear, panic, and remorse. It was really evocative.

After the museums, I went to Parc de la Tete D'Or to eat lunch. The park is made of 114 hectares of land, and I sat underneath a shady tree to eat my lunch and read a book. I only read a few chapters though, since I was itching to explore more of the area.

Cities around the world are really starting to pick up a cheap bike rental service. Bike pod stations are set up all over a city, and users can use the bikes for one euro for an hour. If they return the bicycles to another pod within the hour, they can take another bike and continue to use the system all day. Basically, so long as you are willing to check in every hour, you can rent a bike for a euro a day. I grabbed a bike outside of Parc de la Tete D'Or, and went for a loop around the park to see if there was anything I wanted to come back and explore on foot. Short answer: EVERYTHING.

The park has a 16 hectare lake, a rose garden on one side, and huge botanical gardens with every kind of temperate zone imaginable on the other. In the middle of the park, deer were wandering around with their white spotted babies grazing beside them. I was shocked until I realized that like the gardens, the zoo in the middle of the park is free. I saw lions and monkeys and giraffes and elephants (oh my!) as I raced by on my bike.
Dark clouds rolled in and it started to thunder, but it didn't rain. The park lies just on the edge of the Rhone, so I connected to that and started riding down to where the Rhone and Saone connect in the southern park of Lyon. Much like the park, the wide river bank area was full of people. Fellow bikers, joggers, walkers, roller bladers, skateboarders, children playing, people eating at cafes, and my personal favourite: men practicing in a designated Parcours Park.

As I rode my bike back to the hostel, I officially added Lyon to the ever growing list of cities I would like to live in. At this rate, I will need to live for at least 200 years.

Stupid Legs

It's official. I'm three days into my mostly walking tour of France, and I have shin splints. I wore my good shoes yesterday too, but apparently that means nothing because everything below my knees is aching. It seems unfair when considering the fact that all of these French people around me are walking in high heeled, poorly supported fashionable footwear and my arch supporting runners are giving me pain. I suppose that's what I get for not being used to walking up and down hills and across cobblestones. Come on legs, you can do it! You're a quarter French as it is!‏

At the Top of Lyon

I excitedly left the hostel this morning to explore more of Lyon. All the roads in the old part of town are made of cobblestones and all the roofs are terra-cotta tile. Of course, this is classic Europe. But it's so nice to be back. The buildings are all a minimum of five stories high, which makes it very interesting to walk through the streets with no idea what's beside you on the next street. I took a funicular up to the top of the hill to see the Fourvière Basilica and ended up talking to a lovely local lady at a lookout point in front of the church. She was immensely proud of her city, and as we sat overlooking the entire city, she pointed out some must see sights around town. The line of trees running through the centre of town is the marker of the Rhône River. The black cylindrical dome is the Opera House. She pointed out the university area and told me about her own time there for school. After a while, she left to meet her friends in a nearby art gallery and I was struck by the fact that if I had been traveling with someone else, I probably never would have had that encounter.

Then again, if I had been traveling with someone else, my imaginary partner never would have allowed me to have a four hour nap in the middle of the afternoon. Jet lag sucks.

Gastronomic Capital of France

Despite my jet lag, my adrenaline from the excitement of the beginning of a new adventure had me wanting to go everywhere at once. I finally decided to see what the big deal was about the so called gastronomic capital of France, and out of about 50 restaurants that I walked by in the centre of town, I finally settled on Le Palais St. Jean. I can't exactly tell you why. The menu was translated in to English, but other restaurants had bilingual menus as well. The tables out on the street were quite full suggesting that other customers had confidence in the restaurant, but other places were full as well. In the end, Le Palais St. Jean simply had a good aura around it, and I sat down to a delicious three course traditional Lyonnaise meal. A lot of food in Lyon is made with fish and poached eggs. I like neither so I avoided those dishes. My time in Tuscany began a love affair between Caprese Salad and me, so I began my meal with “Tomates Mozzarella”. Boring? Maybe. Delicious? Without a doubt. For my second dish I embraced my inner Albertan and ordered “Pave de Beouf”. I figured since there was a street in Lyon called “Rue de Beouf”, the cow must be pretty important cuisine wise. It was really tasty, and came with a baked tomato, classy hash browns, and this little orange spongy bready cake thing. I forgot to ask what it was, but I think it was made with eggs. For dessert, I scoped out the table next to me first. The chocolate mousse and chocolate cake looked like nothing special, but the 'apple pie' was like no pie I had seen before. It was more like a tart, with a crusty bottom and thin apple slices layered on top. Nom nom nom. Successful first day in Lyon is a success. And I only got here at 4. Bonne nuit!

Bonjour, Lyon!

A two hour train ride goes by quite quickly when you sleep through the whole thing. Probably not the safest thing to do when you're by yourself, but after flying from Edmonton to Paris without sleeping, my body took over my mind and before the train was out of the Parisian suburbs, I was fast asleep with one arm ungracefully wrapped around my bag and the other under my chin to keep from drooling. The hustle and bustle of the main train station in Lyon and surrounding neighbourhood didn't do much to excite me. All I wanted was to get to my hostel. Bus? Tram? Metro? No. At this point, it was taxi or nothing. Let me tell you, it was the best 10 euro I've spent so far. The driver didn't really speak English and I was too tired to say anything at all, but our lack of communication didn't matter since he dropped me off right at the front door of the hostel.

Lyon, according to tourist guides everywhere, is an often forgotten gem of France, as well as the gastronomical capital of the country. My hostel is situated in the Fourviere area of the city, which is set on a large hill. The climb is worth it though, since the hostel has a large terrace overlooking the entire city. While many European cities have the 'old part' and the more modern outskirts, this is displayed in Lyon in a more obvious way thanks to the view from the hill. The buildings closest to my hostel have the classic tile roofs and cobblestones, but a few kilometers down the valley there were new glass buildings including one large, out of place sky scraper. Apparently, two more are currently being built. I find this such a shame.

The need to send a quick “I'm here!” email home had been nagging at me since I landed in Paris. After dropping off my heavy bag in my room, the first thing I did was head to the common area to use the wifi. Although the nap on the train didn't make up for the loss of a night's sleep, the view from the terrace from which I was Facebook-ing was overpowering. I needed to get in to town.

I let my eyes lead me through the streets, and within fifteen minutes I had walked through a church larger than any in Canada, listened to an accordion player busking on the street, came close to kicking a pigeon, inhaled enough second hand smoke to knock at least 10 minutes off my life, and tripped on the cobblestone road. Ah Europe, how I've missed you.

Back to Paris

When I was in Paris a year ago, I fell in love with it. There was a vibe in the city gripped me and didn't let go, but I didn't mind. Even though I could travel anywhere in the city with ease on the metro, I walked everywhere without even noticing the kilometres adding up beneath my feet.

My second time in the city has proved itself to be a little less magical. I landed in Paris this morning after a long but good flight. Since I had been in transit for over 12 hours, I wanted to take an hour or two to ground myself before taking the final train of the day to Lyon for my pre-booked accommodations.

At that point, I was getting close to going without sleep for 24 hours. My brain was processing everything slow. Any small snippets of French I did know were non existent, and my English wasn't doing too well either. I wanted a train reservation to Lyon from Charles de Gaulle that went through Paris so I could stop off and relax. The girl at the ticket desk said it was possible (it wasn't) but since I was indecisive about what time I wanted to go to Lyon, she suggested that I just book it at the Paris train station. I agreed, and took the metro to Gare de Lyon. It took forever, and then I had to waste more time in a long line up. At that point I was informed there were no more reservations available at all for that day, only full priced train tickets. I reluctantly booked one that left an hour later, and then attempted to make my way to the Seine to calm down. That also failed thanks to poor signage and my lack of brain processing power. I ended up walking through a long tunnel that reeked of urine and led in the opposite direction of the river banks. I was frustrated and hot and my bag was starting to get unbearably heavy. I was tempted to just go sit in the train station and wait for the train to take me away. But then I stumbled across Rue de Roland Barthes, which was named after a famous French semiotics theorist who I studied in school and is one of my favourite authors. That calmed me down a little bit, so I went back to a map to re-orient myself, and within 10 minutes I was sitting down along the Seine with other business men and women who came down to eat their lunches. I was sitting near a bridge, and the cover it provided on the river banks made it a host to a small tent city. Between Roland Barthes and the tents, I felt like I had stumbled across two gems that made the whole ordeal in Paris worthwhile.

When I returned to the train station, there were army men in full camo regalia and large semi-automatic rifles walking in threes and staring down everyone in the station. There were also pigeons dive bombing my head, which bothered me more.

Study Abroad Take Two

My time in Cortona was undoubtedly one of the best parts of my undergraduate degree. I loved learning Italian in Italy along with history that I actually found interesting since I could visit the places where everything happened with ease, not to mention how easy it was to travel around the country in general.

Now that I am at the end of my degree, the only thing I am sure about doing after I graduate is travel. My final summer as a student promised boring spring courses at the U of A that I would just have to get through in order to graduate. Well, that was going to be my summer until I discovered the European Summer Program in Lille, France. I will be taking beginners French and a course in French Arts (cinema, art history etc) and receive the credits I need to graduate in the beautiful location of France.

Of course, a month is not long enough when I have all of France to see. So, today I leave the fair city of Edmonton to do a short 2 week tour of a bit of France. I will land in Paris, go directly to Lyon, and then spend my time in Nimes, Nice, and Carcassonne (with a little free time as well) before I head north for my new home for the month of June.

Go go gadget adventure!