Episode Thirteen: The French Riviera Stinky Cheese, Dr. Scholls and Unfriendly ATM’s We are not really lost, just thinking that we most likely will not make our train to Nice on time. We take the train into Basil, but arrive five minutes after the overnight train to Nice has left. The punctuality of the European
Episode Thirteen: The French Riviera
Stinky Cheese, Dr. Scholls and Unfriendly ATM’s
We are not really lost, just thinking that we most likely will not make our
train to Nice on time. We take the train into Basil, but arrive five minutes
after the overnight train to Nice has left. The punctuality of the European
rails is great unless you are running a little bit late.
Chris is excited to be in Switzerland, which he says looks like a wonderful
country if you are rich, but he is mad because it looks like we may not make
it in time for the Grand Prix. He pulls out the Eurail guide and tries to
figure out a way to the French Riviera. For some reason the trains seem to
circle around the coast, but seldom just go straight there. He is becoming
frustrated and it is getting late. I finally take a walk to the information
window and show the woman where we are trying to go. She punches some
numbers into a computer, prints out a piece of paper and tells me we will
make it on time if we catch a train leaving in ten minutes.
This is the first time I have actually done something helpful pertaining to
our travel. It is strange and weird and I do not really care for it. The
printout says we have to change trains at Bern, Geneva and Marseilles, but
we should be rolling into Nice early in the morning. I do not tell Chris
that the only reason I asked is because I do not want to hear him complain
about missing the race, and I am under the assumption that being Swiss and
neutral, the people will be friendlier here.
The ride to Bern is uneventful and we find ourselves with time to spare. The
station in Bern is by far the coolest looking one I have been in. The trains
pull right up to the station, so that when you come out, you are facing the
front end or ass end of a train. It makes me feel very elite, to walk out
and have my train waiting for me at the doorstep. It is kind of like having
my own limousine, except it is really big and I have to share it with a
hundred other people.
I decide I need a bathroom and follow the signs. I wander into the little
room and find myself staring at a hole in the floor. It is an old
French-style commode with two grooves on either side to put your feet in. At
this point you would just squat. Every aspect of this device frightens me
and I convince myself that I can hold it.
Going to the bathroom on the trains is interesting. Like an airplane, it
makes a sucking noise and then all is clear. They make a very strong point
about not using the bathrooms once the train begins to enter a station. I
find a bathroom at the end of the train with a window facing the tracks.
Wadding a ball of toilet paper, I throw it in the toilet and flush. Behind
the speeding train, I see a ball of wet toilet paper shoot between the
tracks. I can understand why they do not want you to do this too near the
stations, but I wonder about the people in the country who see trains go by
everyday, shooting out their wastes. Maybe the people in Scotland were not
waving at me after all, maybe they were telling me not to poop on their
land.
The trip to Marseilles turns into a discussion as Chris realizes one of his
friends is getting married in less than nine hours. Something about this is
bugging him, and it is not that he is in love with her, but that he knows
her well enough to question her actions. I tell him that the reason he is so
concerned is because he has spent so much time with her, no one could
possibly know her the way he does, and this in turn makes him the best
candidate for the job of husband. Of course he doesn’t want to get married
and most likely not to her, but it still sucks to see someone else take on a
job that you know you can do better. My perspective seems to comfort him and
besides, he adds, love is never based on smart moves or rational thinking
anyway.
We pull into Marseilles at five in the morning and hop on the train to Nice.
We should be there in time to get a room, go to Monte Carlo and watch the
race. The train is nearly empty and we each take a section of seats to
spread out on. As the train pulls out of the station, an old guy sits next
to Chris. He says hello to Chris and then begins to tell him his opinion on
European travel. Chris gives me a look of distress, but I show little
concern as I scrunch into my seat and fall asleep.
The train is slowing down as it arrives in Nice and I wake up to the sound
of talking. The train is packed. People are standing in the aisle, while I
have managed to spread myself over three seats. I apologize to those around
me and move my things onto my lap. I wonder if I have been entertaining
these people with either a sleep-induced conversation or melodic snoring.
I look across the aisle and see the old guy is still talking to Chris. Chris
is fighting to keep his head up and his eyes are bloodshot. He glares at me
and I look away. The old guy is talking quite loud and those around him are
smirking and joking about him in French. I catch the last half of his
conversation, which has to do with the French not bothering to learn English
and the fact that America has had to pull there butt out of everything since
Napoleon’s reign.
Chris says that the old man shared everything about his life since 1941. He
talked about fighting in WWII, Korea and being a pilot for General
MacArthur. He said that MacArthur thought the Korean conflict would only
last three months, but they all think he was pretty much going senile by
then. He told Chris he then worked for NATO, which he called a big joke, but
it allowed him to play in every major golf course in the world. He also has
a skin problem, and has been in the baths at Lourdes for treatments. Chris
says he was not that bad, but he really could have used some sleep. I think
he was a perfect example of what Europeans call the ugly American.
We ride the train to Menton, where we have heard there is a very interesting
hostel and it is not as expensive as staying in Nice, Cannes or any of the
other resort towns. We get off the train with two girls carrying backpacks,
and since the only reason one would come to Menton is the hostel, we hook up
with them. They have a calling card but have lost the number for the hostel.
We have the hostel’s number but no calling card. It is exciting when things
just seem to work themselves out.
The man at the hostel tells us that it is on a hill and suggests that we
take the bus rather than walk. The bus costs ten francs and walking is free,
so against his advice, we decide to hoof it. The girls are from South
Africa. One of them is short, cute and extremely quiet. At first I think she
is having deep thoughts and keeping to herself, but after talking with her,
I am convinced she is having no thoughts and keeping to herself. The other
girl is outgoing and fun and talks our ears off.
We follow the man’s directions, turning right after we pass the bridge, up
the hill past the fruit trees, left at the hostel sign and down the alley.
Then we come to the steps, millions of steps, no joke. They go straight up
the hill and we cannot even see the top of them. Chris says he realized the
man said it is two kilometers, but he never mentioned it was all straight
up. We stop twice to catch our breath and once to remove a layer of
clothing. It takes us almost thirty minutes to reach the top, and the only
reason we do it this quickly is because we are with two girls. If it had
been just Chris and I, I think we would have set up camp somewhere halfway.
Chris thinks we lost weight on this climb, I think I am close to
hallucinating.
We pay for a room, abandon our bags and head back down to the train station.
The race is starting in a couple of hours and we do not want to miss a
minute of it. The train from Menton to Monte Carlo is unbelievably packed,
but we manage to squeeze on. I am just glad that the trip is only going to
take ten minutes, Chris is happy that everyone has apparently bathed. The
ticket checkers do not even bother checking anyone as we stampede off of the
train.
We buy sandwiches and Cokes from a woman who is Cote de Azur’s version of
Dolly Parton. She has big, blonde hair and a bosom that makes us blush.
Chris is amazed at the fact that someone can live like that, but I am not
listening to him, the Marlboro Girls have just arrived and I need all my
strength to gawk and stare. One of them approaches me in her short shorts
and tube top, handing me a Marlboro bumper sticker. I make noises that are
supposed to be my version of thank you, and then she sashays out of my life.
We walk around town trying to figure out how we are going to watch the race.
Every place we attempt is blocked off. They really do not want anyone to
watch this event for free. The cheapest seats are on a hill, they cost forty
dollars and you have to find a spot, climb to it and try not to tumble to
your death. We decide that we need to buy a ticket or the race will soon
start without us. Our cash is precious and miniscule and we do not even have
enough to pay for a seat on the hill. This is mainly due to the fact that we
have not found a hostel that is willing to let us charge a room on our
credit cards. Did I mention how inconvenient this has been?
We find a bank, and though it is closed, there is an ATM out front. We talk
it over and decide that since this is such a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and
we have not had a chance to really use our credit cards, we will take out a
lot of money and buy good seats. The ATM rejects my card. I wish I know why,
but since it only lists the instructions in French, I am left to just accept
this rejection.
Chris tries his next and after pushing the buttons it seems to want him to
push, a steel door slowly closes over the front of the machine. Chris panics
and pounds on the door, but it will not open, and now we are minus one
credit card. The ATM has an emergency number pasted to the outside, but we
cannot find a phone that will take anything other than a calling card. Chris
is beyond a bad mood. I tell him the three things one should not lose in a
foreign country is their passport, their Eurail Pass and their credit cards.
This does not seem to lift his spirits.
We find a phone at the train station, in a bar full of drunk racing fans.
Chris calls the number and someone answers, but the connection is bad and he
cannot hear what the guy is saying. He hangs up the phone and proceeds to
have a panic attack. I become afraid for myself and those near us. I tell
him to give me the number and I will try. The guy answers and I speak loudly
to him. I am hoping to convey that I am in a noisy place and he too needs to
raise his volume, but of course, he only continues to mumble. I tell him
what happened and he says that we have to go to the bank in the morning to
reclaim the card. Chris is not proud of the way he freaked out and buys me a
beer to thank me for my efforts. Of course, we are no closer to seeing the
race than before.
We sit outside the bar with our beers and talk about our options. For some
reason, they do not accept credit cards to purchase tickets to the race,
which strikes us as very odd. I can try my credit card at another ATM,
hoping the metal door incident does not repeat itself, but I would rather
not. I can sell my passport or my body, though one I need to continue
traveling and the other would hardly bring in enough to pay for our beers.
Chris appears to have given up. He does not seem interested in seeing the
race anymore. I think he is a little sad that we did not get in, but proud
that we made it here on time.
The cars start their engines and the noise is deafening, ricocheting off of
the concrete buildings with a sound loud enough to make our pints vibrate.
Chris says the noise sounds like a wail of banshees in full splendor. I
think it sounds like I am trapped under the hood of a Porsche with engine
troubles. The race begins and we leave. Chris says this is irony. I think it
is sad.
We wander to the train station but it is empty. The next train is not due to
arrive for an hour. We go to the smaller harbor in search of a bathroom. We
find a shopping complex, but for some reason, the bathrooms remain hidden
from us. Chris sees a video game that lets him sit down and race a car. He
races for a while and then comments that this is the closest he will be
getting to the race. On the way back to the station, I tell him I am going
to buy him an ice cream cone. The thought of ice cream cheers him up, but
when he sees the man put a sad, little, marble size ball of ice cream in my
cone and then charge me eight francs, he just gets pissed. He decides that
not only does he not want any ice cream, he wants to get the hell out of
Monte Carlo.
The train finally arrives and we head back to Menton. There is hardly anyone
else on board as the rest of the population is watching the race. I wonder
if we could have tried harder to get in or found other means to pay for it,
but I decide that perhaps it is not meant to be. When we get off the train
we decide we are not taking the bus and we are not taking the stairs,
instead we are going to walk the road that leads to the hostel. This takes
forever, but I think it does us good, we need to walk off what has become
our adventure to the Monte Carlo Grand Prix.
[IMAGE: image-003.jpg | alt: Riviera]
After taking a shower, I go out to the balcony. Evening is descending and
the view of the Riviera is mesmerizing. From this height I can see the
lights below as they curve along the coastline. Far ahead is a mountain that
eventually works its way into the sea. Behind that, when the mist thins for
a few seconds, I can see the lights of Monaco.
On the balcony is a couple in the far corner talking to an Australian girl.
I watch the light fade and their talking is no louder than a neighbor’s
radio, a low murmur in the background. A really tall girl comes out and sits
next to me. She has pigtails, thick glasses and sandals underneath her
summer dress. She unwraps a piece of the most awful smelling cheese I have
ever encountered and begins to spread it on some bread. The smell is strong
enough to make the Australian girl stop talking, turn to see what the smell
is and then continue with her conversation. I only hope she did not assume
it was somehow emitting from my person.
A French guy, Paul, comes out next and he and I strike up a conversation. He
is a postal worker on vacation, and though he can afford hotels, he likes
hostels because they give him a chance to meet people. The Australian girl,
her name is Tone, joins in and we talk about hostels and traveling. The
postman and the tall girl eventually leave and I am left alone with the
Australian.
She fascinates me within the first five minutes. She has been traveling for
three years and does not know when she will stop. Her visa ran out, and if
she goes back to Australia, she has to wait a while before she can leave
again. She has spent a year in the States, her jobs ranging from lounge
singer to aerobics instructor, and has also been to India, Africa and
Morocco. She has been in France the past five months and does not know where
she is going next. She pulls out these thin black books, they look like
journals for accounting, and she starts to write down the day’s events. She
says that after she gets one filled, she mails it to her mom for
safekeeping. I can only imagine what kind of tales three years of travels
would procure.
She misses her mom, but she knows that once she goes back home she will not
be leaving for a while. This is a life she does not want to give up just
yet. Thinking about all that she has seen and the number of people she has
met is overwhelming. She is the most free spirit I have ever met and I
cannot decide if I envy her or pity her. Of course, she could give a shit if
I pity her, and I think I am leaning towards envy just the same.
Chris uses his psychic ability and is able to tell that I am hungry. We head
over to the restaurant that shares the hill with the hostel. It is a
dinner-only type of place and specializes in Italian food. The weather is
perfect so we sit outside on one of the picnic tables. The setting sun and
the strings of light above us bring about an air of calm. The waitress
arrives and we decide to order the spaghetti.
I have not had any coffee today and am dying for a cappuccino. No sooner
have the words left my lips and the waitress throws a fit. She is appalled
that I would want coffee with my meal.
“Coffee is for after the meal,” she says. “I want to know what you want to
drink with your meal.”
God forbid I get served what I actually want to drink. I order a wine and
this makes her happy. Later comes the cappuccino, and though it is good, I
think I season it with too much animosity.
We eat fast and return to the hostel. The wine has made me tired and the
cappuccino does nothing to counter that. Chris and I are the only ones in
our room and we have a nice view of the clothesline outside. We are nodding
off to sleep and I am willing to bet money I will talk in my sleep about
endless stairwells, Dolly Parton and withheld cappuccinos.
The old man that runs the hostel wakens us in his own sweet way.
He bangs open our door and yells “BREAKFAST!”
Normally this would just piss me off and I would roll over and fall back to
sleep, but hearing him walk down the hall, banging and yelling at each door,
is like an alarm that won’t shut off. I stumble to the bathroom and take a
shower. Today we go to rescue Chris’s credit card.
Breakfast is covered in the price of the hostel, mainly due to the fact that
going up and down the stairs, to eat a morning meal, is out of the question.
The set up is like a cafeteria with a bowl of cereal for each of us. I sit
next to Tone, who is decked out in an outfit of purple. Her headband, shirt,
spandex shorts and her socks are bright purple. She looks like a grape and I
tell her so. She enjoys my honesty and the way I flinch when she flicks milk
at me with her spoon.
Next to her is an English lady that begins to tell us that she hopes to one
day make it as a singer. Tone is acting interested and I am acting deaf. I
glance away from my cereal for a moment and Tone has a smile plastered on
her face, but she does manage to roll her eyes at me. I only hope the
English lady does not offer to sing us a tune this early in the morning, not
if she does not want a bowl of Raisin Bran dumped on her head.
The old man informs us that breakfast is over by yelling, “BREAKFAST OVER!”
His vocabulary is limited but to the point. I wonder if he is like this all
the time. Chris ate his breakfast early and missed out on the free
entertainment. The old guy reminds me of my grouchy grandfather and I am
really starting to like him. I wonder if he needs an assistant to help him
run the hostel, pour the cereal and shout the facts concerning breakfast.
We pack our bags and check out of the hostel. Halfway down the stairs we run
into Tone. She ran down to the train station after breakfast and is already
on her way back up. She is carrying two big backpacks, is sweaty and still
clad in purple. I ask her what these bags are for and she says they are
hers. She is traveling with three bags, and likes to leave two of them
locked in the train station lockers until she gets settled. The fact that
she has carried them up the stairs amazes me, but she reminds me she was an
aerobics instructor and shows me her legs. They are beautiful and strong and
I give her a grunt of approval.
We tell her we are off and she looks sad, I offer her a piece of candy and
this makes her feel better. She asks me if we think we will see each other
again, I sarcastically remark that she does not have much of a choice, and
follow this with a wink. She punches me in the chest with her arm, smiles
and continues on her way up. I assume that means only good things. I bet
Chris twenty-five bucks we will run into her again before our trip is over.
He says we will not and is happy that he will soon be twenty-five dollars
richer. Something tells me he is right.
At the train station, we run into the two South African girls and the tall
girl who was eating the smelly cheese. We are all on our way to Monaco, so
we go as a group. First, we drop by the bank and retrieve the credit card.
We tell the man what happened and he goes to the back room, carrying back a
box full of cards. We shuffle through them until we find the one with Chris
on it, thank him and vacate the premises. I wonder how many cards need to be
lost in this manner before they decide there is a better way of doing
things.
We meet up with the girls and follow the road to the upper part of town. It
is somewhat separate from the boat docks and casinos, on a hill, but
relatively close. We go to the home of Monaco’s royal family, the Grimaldis,
and I wander the grounds. I have a funny feeling that Princess Stephanie
will go for a jog, notice me, invite me inside and possibly ask me to marry
her. Surprisingly, this does not happen, so we walk to the main courtyard
and watch the changing of the guards instead.
Everyone heads over to the tourist booths and I take the opportunity to sit
on the wall that overlooks the boat docks. It is a wonderful subject and I
take out my journal to sketch. Two minutes later the tall girl is sitting
next to me. Her name is Alfie and she is from Cologne. She tells me that she
draws too and shows me her journal. Her pictures are amazing character
studies of peoples faces. She also has a sketch of swans that is so
beautiful, I doubt the real birds ever looked that breathtaking.
She is traveling around Europe before school starts. She has planned on
three months, but she is close to two and ready to call it quits. She says
she has met a lot of people, but that it gets to be a little weird sometimes
and a bit lonely by herself. Part of me wonders if I should invite her to
join us, but it does not feel like it would make her comfortable and I am
not sure if I want another person on our trip. I tell her I would never have
the guts to travel by myself for that long. She says she hopes I never have
to.
After touring Monaco, we jump back on the train. We get off in Nice, but
only to lock our backpacks in a locker. The girls are going to stay so we
say our good-byes. We continue on to Cannes, and the famous film festival.
It is time for us to hobnob with the film industry’s elite.
Yesterday my feet were starting to hurt. Today they are killing me. I
thought that perhaps they would toughen up after having to walk on the
near-crippling waffle boots in Prague, apparently not. Since then, I have
been wearing two pairs of socks, and this seems to have solved the problem
until today. I downshift into complaining mode and follow Chris into town.
Suddenly, like a beacon in the fog, I see a pharmacy ahead. I hobble in to
find relief. I know the woman must speak a little English, but she is
deciding to play stupid, causing me to hand gesture that my feet are killing
me. A dog could understand the charade I give to this woman. She manages to
act like I have confused her even more.
Finally, I just grab my foot and say “Ouch!”
She raises an eyebrow, points to the corner and says “Dr. Scholls?”
In the corner, an entire rack is devoted to Dr. Scholls foot care needs. I
grab a pair of insoles, excited that at least this American item has made it
across the water. The price of a pack of insoles comes out to thirteen
American dollars. These are the same insoles that sell for a dollar fifty at
home, but once again I am in a situation that finds me helpless.
I hand over the money, and in very good English, she says, “Thank you very
much.”
The French that live on the Riviera are still French, do not let anyone tell
you otherwise.
After padding down my boots I leap ahead to join Chris. There is a shop
near the main hall that is selling famous movie star hand imprints. They are
on big mud bricks and have been signed by the stars. I immediately see one
that I want, it is Gerard Depardieu’s and my hands are the same size as his.
They are beyond expensive and I poke around to see if they have imprinted a
smaller part of his body for a lower price. I would be just as proud to own
a concave reproduction of his nose, his earlobe or a mole from his back. I
have no luck and we continue on our way.
The people are starting to gather at the entrance of where they do the
screenings for the festival. Walking by this spot will be the Cohen
Brothers, Isabella Rossellini, Gary Oldman and a ton of others. We consider
standing here too, but we have only three hours and the screenings do not
start for another five. Common sense prevails and we walk on.
Up ahead is a mime that is doing his best to annoy people. He is getting
right behind them to imitate their walk. He is funny for the first five
seconds, but when the people turn around and discover him, he takes it upon
himself to continue annoying them. One man actually stops, turns around and
pushes him away. The crowd jeers at this display of mime abuse, but I cheer,
but this is only because I hate mimes. As we pass the white-faced fool, I see
him fall in step behind me. He is imitating me and it is just too damn
funny. I am able to ignore him only because I am daydreaming about all the
heavy things I hope will fall on him later.
As we near the beach we see a crowd of people in a commotion. We look to
where they are gawking and see a man and woman running to a boat. The man
has the young Elvis look and the woman looks like an expensive call girl.
With his short hair and sideburns, we wonder if it is one of those guys from
that Beverly Hills television show. He finally turns around and it is some
European actor we have never seen before. The crowd gets excited and waves
to him. Chris and I look at each other and shrug.
A second later we see a woman running down the street towards us. She has
blond hair and is wearing a gray, pin-stripe suit. The paparazzi are close
behind. She passes us and we stare in disbelief. Kim Basinger has just come
within feet of our bodies. She is ten times more stunning in person and I am
wondering if I should ever wash again.
Along the boardwalk are posters advertising all the movies in the festival.
The air is festive and the sidewalks are crowded. We stop to watch a street
performer. He is miming his act, but not in the annoying, white-faced way,
more in a silent actor way. He is amazing as he plays a piano, hikes a
mountain and does a very emotional piece about a father and his newborn. For
his finale, he hangs himself, which actually looks quite real. The crowd
applauds and Chris says that though the effect was cool, hanging himself was
not.
We go to a café and order pizza. It is more like a small cheese crisp and I
am disappointed, Chris reminds me that the huge, gooey, cholesterol-ridden
pizza I am used to eating is an American invention. I suppose this means
finding a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza is out of the question. I
pretend that this small pizza is an appetizer and order a Cordon Bleu, one
bite and life is good.
On the beach, I want to get a picture of me in the water, but it is cold and
rainy today and I have nothing to dry off with. I want to prove I was here,
so I take off my shoes, lay down and stick my feet in the sand for a
picture. The Riviera looks amazing with the sun setting behind the clouds,
an ocean liner in the distance and my two big hairy feet sticking out of the
sand.
After not seeing anyone else of fame, it is time to catch our train to
Italy. On the way out of Cannes, I need a bathroom. There is a big metal
thing in the middle of the intersection and it has a bathroom symbol on it.
I go to it and put in my coin, but the door will not open. I kick it a few
times and try to get my money back, but it is not cooperating. After I
decide to give up, the door swings open, but now I am too afraid. The
thought of getting locked in and having to spend a night in a toilet, in the
middle of a French intersection, is too much for me to bear.
We stop at Nice, and I find myself eagle-spread over our bags. Chris has
headed off in search of a restroom. The French Riviera has been an
interesting place. We met a lot of people, were present for two major events
and I now know that one does not order coffee with one’s meal. I only hope I
remember that I still have to go to the bathroom when Chris returns. Oh