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| STINKY CHEESE, DR. SCHOLLS AND UNFRIENDLY ATM'S |
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Part 11 - French Riviera
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 accuracy 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 then 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.
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.
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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 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 damn, is that our train?
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