Lyon: The Frenchman’s Paris

I want to know the conversation the French have that prompts this kind of day.  And then, I want to have that conversation every day with the people I love.

“The weather is beautiful.  Let us forget anything we must do and go do the things we want.  Let us get food and wine and beer and sit together on the banks of the river.  And that is all.”

Five beautiful French children are playing with sticks.  The people to my left are drinking Hoegaarden.  The people to my right are smoking weed.  Ah, the French.  There is not an overstressed person for miles.  Or kilometers.

But, then again, maybe I am projecting.  I need ice cream like an addict needs cocaine.  And I’m ok with that.

I arrived in Lyon with a flourish of activity.  The train station was buzzing.  It was Penn Station during rush hour, minus the English and the smell of hot dogs.  Chaos!  And I panicked.  I kept telling myself to wait and watch Lyon become my friend just as all the other cities had.  But we were not off to a good start.

I got on the subway, after an awkward encounter by the ticket machines with a woman begging for money.  She was smart, waiting for a tourist like me to come by and not know how to operate the machines.  Then, she stepped in and started pressing buttons.  I tried to decline her assistance politely, confident that I could figure this out, but she insisted, took the coins from my hand, and handed me a ticket.  Then, she asked for money.  The whole encounter was awkward and frustrating.

I exited the subway at the location I thought was correct and started to head up the hill toward my hostel.  Though I got lost for a while, I had the help of a few very kind French people who noticed that I was struggling, and I finally got checked in and claimed my bed.  The hostel is sketchy at best.  It has the delightful smell of a basement and feet, but it’s not nearly as lonely as a hotel room.  In fact, I almost immediately made friends and had a wonderful night yesterday, eating dinner with Jane, a traveling Australian grandmother, and Hannah, an American teenager of a “gap year.”  We chatted a bit and all decided to have dinner together at Les Lyonnaise, complete with a grumpy French waiter.  I so enjoyed the company of these women, and I was once again amazed at how easy it is to bond with fellow-travelers on the road.  We are strangers one day and soulmates the next.

After dinner, we walked around the floodlit city at night.  It was so beautiful, and Rick Steves might be on to something when he says that Lyon is truly France’s City of Lights.  Utterly dazzling under a clear night sky, especially with a little French wine in the system.

Carcassonne.

I was right to remember France so fondly.  The stereotypes of the snobbish French who refuse to help Americans are so ridiculous, and I imagine that, nine times out of ten, the American comes at the situation with that characteristic American assumption of entitlement.  I do think the French are right to be proud of their language.  It is so beautiful, melodic, and full of a kind of quiet passion.  I have to learn it.  Soon.

Carcassonne is an astonishing place, amazing in its continued existence and regality.  It was even magical as I walked away from it this afternoon, over Pont Neuf being showered with more rain.  Yesterday, I decided to venture out into the cold and rainy town, first stopping at the Vinothéque across the street, Comptoir des Vins et Terroirs.  There, I had the best glass of wine I have ever tasted in all of my life and all of my travels—a strawberry-infused rosé native to the region.  The woman working there was very kind and patient with me, even when I broke the characteristic French solemnity that seems always to accompany food by ramming my daypack into a metal sign.

I watched the rain fall outside on the slick cobblestone streets, as I sipped my wine and ate two cheeses with a biscotti-shaped herb bread, an olive tapenade, and a jam.  It was so beautifully presented that my raging hunger was the only thing that kept me from just enjoying its presentation for long.  Still, this is something that I would probably not have thought to eat in the U.S.  There is something about traveling that brings out a kind of courage and adventure in me that I normally don’t feel.  Maybe it is necessary to survival or maybe it’s just a silly romantic wanderlust.  I tend to prefer to think of it as the former…

After a wonderful time at the Vinothéque, I decided that I just had to take a walk around this town, even if I ended up with pneumonia from the rain and cold.  The theme of my last trip to Europe seemed to be something along the lines of, “Eh, we’ll figure it out.”  So far, figuring things out doesn’t seem to be nearly as much a concern for me as does just living life to the full as opportunities present themselves.

I walked and walked and even climbed the slippery wall a bit.  I took tons of pictures, tried to spot everything in my guidebook, took in the church and the posh hotel, and decided to head back to the hostel, soaked to the bone but feeling good all the same.  When I finished resting, I met another hosteller, Maartje, from Holland.  It’s always nice to make a friend in a rainstorm.  And she made me feel less insane by sharing that she had done basically the same thing I had in the horrendous weather, walking from the train station and meandering through the rain-soaked streets.

After our conversation, I decided to get some dinner at the Auberge des Lices down the street.  My dinner was incredible—a salad of romaine lettuce, slivers of meat and parmesan cheese, quartered tomatoes, and walnuts; Cassolet, the regional specialty stew with white beans, thick broth, and meat; and a “chocolate cappuccino,” which was utterly amazing and served with a perfectly round scoop of almond ice cream and a cinnamon-and-sugar stick of toast.  All of it was amazing, and the restaurant itself was beautiful and quiet.  So far, the best meal I’ve had in Europe.

Afterwards, I started wandering the spooky night-lit streets of Carcassonne, around 11:00 p.m.  Alone, I wasn’t brave enough to make the entire circuit around the town, but I got some wonderful photos nonetheless.  I was walking the first main road when I heard a clicking sound behind me.  But when I spun around, no one was there.  So I started to walk again.  Again, the sound: “click, click, click.”  I turned around again, sure that I was as pale as the lights that were shining in the town walls.  No one.  But then, a voice from far away on the wall.  “Bon-jour!” said a non-French speaker, snapping photos.  “Bon soir,” I replied.  It was clearly time for bed.

When I woke up and showered, Maartje and I decided to go to the Chateau Comtal together.  First, we wandered around town and found a place for a quick breakfast.  She told me that she was hoping to study to become a doctor and maybe work with Doctors Without Borders or some other non-profit agency.  Maybe it’s just our idealism, but I feel, when I meet someone like Maartje, that there is something special to our generation.  I hope we continue down this road, idealistic or not.  This world is in desperate need of some leaders with some actual ideals.

The Chateau offered some incredible and unique views of La Cité and the surrounding area.  It was nice to have someone to talk to after several days of solitude.  And it helped tremendously that she spoke some French.  While we were handing our tickets to the ticket-taker at the Chateau, he said something that made her laugh.  I just smiled and asked her later what he said.  “He told me to be careful with my head on the low ceilings.  But he said that you didn’t have anything to worry about.”  Nice.  Short jokes in French.

Sounds better than in English, at least.

Getting all medieval…

I am sitting in my hostel in Carcassonne, and my bones are still shivering from the dousing that they received courtesy of the rainy weather on my 45-minute hike from the train station to La Cite.  But at least I am settled into my hostel, which is quiet and being gently serenaded by the rain pattering against my window.  It’s supposed to rain the whole time I am here, which is a major disappointment, considering that the greatness of this city is what it has to offer outdoors.  It is pretty spectacular, though, even in the rain.  The cobblestone streets surrounded by this incredible medieval walled structure… slippery, to be sure, but spectacular.

The hostel worker here is a cheery French man who wanted to talk to me at length about my opinions on Barack Obama, Turkey joining the EU, and France’s purity.  (Note: Racism is everywhere…)  At least he was kind and hospitable and did not laugh at me for too long when I came in looking like a wet dog.

My train adventure getting here was rather interesting.  I drifted to sleep listening to “Hem” on my iPod, and then I woke up in a panic because the train was stopped, new people were all around me, and I had no idea where we were.  I turned to the man sitting next to me and practically shouted, “Town?!  This town?!  Here!”  I was too panicked to remember any French at all, and so it all came out in idiot.  Still, he understood.  “Narbonne,” he said.  Crap… this is where I need to get off and change trains.  So, I grabbed my bags and headed out, my earbuds flying out of my ears in the process.  I walked up to an official with a hat.  “Um… Carcassonne?!”  “Oui, Carcassonne,” he replied and pointed to the train the front of us.  I looked behind me at the train I had just disembarked like a lunatic.  It was still there.  Peacefully waiting.  Several of my train-car-mates were looking at me, alarmed.  Not that I blame ’em.  So, I gave ’em another show.  Unintentionally.

As I walked to my car (7), a gust of wind came by and blew my ticket right out of my hand… and underneath the train.  On the tracks.  Without thinking, I jumped– pack and all– down onto the tracks to retrieve my ticket.  And as quick as I was down, I was back up on the platform.  No one said anything to me– maybe no one else on the platform saw me– but I was mortified when I turned and saw my former fellow passengers looking upon me with horror.  Way to be an ambassador to France.

In any case, I think I will venture out into the rain and the cold.  You only live once… I think.  And I can smell the French food to be had… Ooh la la.

Lessons Learned from Barcelona

–  Buildings should be beautiful.  No matter how uniform the raw materials, each one should have its own personality.  Windows are like the eyes of a construction.  You can tell a lot about a building by its windows.

–  Don’t trust a hostel or hotel by its website.  Trust a good guidebook or a good friend.  If it says it’s “ideal,” it probably isn’t.  And it’s important to stay in a cool part of town.  Next time in Barcelona, look for a place in Barceloneta or the Barri Gotic!

– Drink more wine.  Drink more, period.  Eat better food in smaller portions.

–  Don’t hold a steaming hot glass of coffee in your hands for very long.  You will burn the crap out of yourself and have traveling blisters to boot!

–  The Pyrenees are beautiful– and surprisingly so.  Lush and splotched with yellow flower bushes.

–  Take a siesta each and every day.  Otherwise, you will be busy hiking all around town, and everything else will be closed.  Don’t beat ’em: join ’em.

–  How to outsmart thieves: wear a jacket with inside pockets only, secure your pack to your person, and watch the suspicious people in touristy areas.  They give themselves away.  Communication is only 10% language.  Make eye contact with intrepid approachers.  Say hello.  Or “Boo!”

–  Lying topless on a beach isn’t really as big of a deal as it sounds.  Just boob-bumps drooping to the side a bit.  Meh.

–  Don’t meander around town looking for a restaurant while your stomach is growling.  Just be bold, dammit!  Go in!

–  When you hear an American, pretend not to understand them.  It’s much more fun to go incognito this way.  😉

–  Don’t go into non-(insert country of current location) restaurants when you’re in (insert aforementioned location).  Except, I hear, for Italian restaurants in Germany, which are supposed to be pretty good.  But, avoid Indian food in Barcelona, for sure.

–  Spanish guitar might be the prettiest kind of guitar.  Get lessons someday.  Or get your man some lessons (it is much nicer to be serenaded).

–  Dogs are generally better behaved in Spain than in the U.S.  They just trot alongside their masters, even without a leash or lead.  Thus: teach your dog Spanish.  I think that’s the key.  “Sientete, perro.  Muy bien.”

–  Develop your own style and be ye not ashamed.  Gaudi did it.  So did Picasso (eventually).  And Dali.  Also, you should probably get more into art.

–  If a map isn’t being helpful, get a new map.  I think this can probably apply to all sorts of situations.

Day One, Part One: Barcelona is for Eaters

Is it possible that I am still awake?  This feels very much like a dream.  There are some parts of this traveling alone thing that are tricky, especially when it comes to taking care of yourself.  For example, while I was smart to plan for the thirst on the plane (see below), which was not nearly as bad this time around, I forgot to eat before the flight or bring a snack on the plane.  Thus, I was ravenous until my delectable airplane food was served in its cardboard tray and plastic wrap.  Since I was sitting in the cheap seats, as per… always…, the food service was lacking in promptness, and I had to stay awake a few hours longer than I had planned.  This might have also been due to the fact that I selected “Marley and Me” as my in-flight movie, and, consequently, I wept over my instant mashed potatoes and startled my fellow passengers on row 29.  But, I eventually managed to calm down my over-active physiology to get a little bit of sleep.  It has not been nearly what my body is craving, though, and I’ve had a dull and persistent headache haunting me for most of the day.

But how can I complain?  I am in BARCELONA!  I’ve already astonished myself by how savvy I have become.  The plane landed, and I immediately began to orient myself– ‘Ok, there’s the sea… We’re heading west… Follow that sign…,’ Etc.  Still, this traveling thing was much easier with a travel-buddy last time I did it.  It was nice to know that I had someone watching my back.  This trip, that Someone is sometimes elusive…

After landing and orienting, I hopped on the airport shuttle to the center of town.  I waited in long lines at an ATM and the tourist info office.  I kept repeating to myself Rick Steves’ travel mantra: BE MILITANTLY OPTIMISTIC.  As a habitual pessimist, this is perhaps the biggest challenge of travel for me.  But I think it is also the most life-giving.  And isn’t that what this is all about anyway?

My first real optimism-challenge came when I emerged from the subway station, laden with my pack (which suddenly seemed like it gained weight on the plane!), being swarmed by vendors, tourists, and everything-in-between.  I knew I had to find my hostel first.  The TI office worker told me that my hostel was in easy walking distance from the office itself, but something had compelled me to dive underground and ride the subway.  As I was buying my ticket from a machine, a man in a red blazer suddenly appeared next to me and nearly shouted, “HELLO!”  I must have jumped a few feet because he quickly lowered his voice.  It turned out that he was a transit worker wanting to help, but I was startled and frustrated by the whole interaction.  Do I really look all that “American”?  Is the weight of corporate consumerism hovering over me or something?  I mean, I don’t even have a single pair of jeans on this whole trip!  How could he single me out as someone in need of help?  In the stress of it all, I bought a 10-ride 7,50-euro subway pass, and now I am stressed about needing to use all of those rides in my two days here.  Clearly, sleep… or at least sedation… is a high priority.

I began looking for my hostel, the “Ideal Youth Hostel” (full report on whether it lives up to THAT name, forthcoming), but I found myself pacing up and down Las Ramblas instead.  I had flashbacks to my first European excursion when my friend and I arrived in Rome and spent a good nine hours trying to hunt down our hostel for that night.  When we finally checked in, the hostel worker was so angry with us for not calling… I was pretty sure she was going to sneak into our rooms that night and fill our beds with plastic scorpions or freeze our bras.  Or something.  So, alone and dejected, fearing the worst but chanting my optimism mantra, I sat down next to a building and got out my map one more time.  And sure enough, the building I was in front of was the Barcelonian Opera House that was right around the corner from my hostel.  So.  Um.  Optimism: 1; Me: 0.

I checked into the hostel and was greeted by relatively friendly young guys.  As I was storing my pack in the locked room, the Egyptian hostel worker said, “You are German.”  (It really was more of a statement than a question…)  “No,” I responded.  “No, I’m not.”  Then, I smiled, hoping to end the conversation there.  “USA, then, huh?”  (This time, a question).  I nodded.  “That’s too bad,” he said.  “I don’t like USA.”  I smiled my best sympathetic-pastor smile.  His eyes perked up.  “But I like some USA people!”  I exhaled.  “But USA policies,” he shook his head.  “Bullshit.”  Mm.  Whatta way to start my travels.

I took a moment to plan my day and email home, and then I hit the town.  The weather has been unbelievably perfect– warm in the sun, cool in the shade, with an occasional Mediterranean breeze lifting my hair off my neck from time to time.  Are there ever days like this back home or do I just take them for granted?

After meandering around town a bit, I ended up at the Picasso Museum and decided to make it my day’s main event (after, of course, stopping in for some gelato at gelaaati! di marco on Llibreteria– truly, my main event always ends up being the ice cream I eat).  At the museum, I remembered yet another very important lesson from my first European adventure: Idiot translates.  Moments after getting my ticket to the museum, I hurried to take advantage of the free and clean restrooms.  But as I was leaving, I realized that I had lost my ticket.  I looked all around me– pockets, money belt, jacket, daypack… toilet… nowhere.  So, I started to leave, trying to remain calm while internally feeling my veins give up the blood-delivery thing.  In retrospect, the 9-euro admission was hardly worth the self-loathing and drama I put myself through, but I have to learn to laugh at myself as much as I try to make others laugh.  Sure enough, as these epiphany-esque thoughts were filling my mind, I saw something white and grey on the bathroom floor, being trampled by hordes of teenaged Italian girls.  My ticket.  The beautiful European teens looked at me with confusion and befuddlement as I dove for the little piece of paper at their feet.  I looked up into their faces, smiled, and said, with gusto, “Buon giorno, tutti.”  I floated out of the room to a chorus of giggles.  And I laughed, too.