Dodge the Ferrari

So before Orange and Avignon, Chelsea and I spent a few days on the Cote d’Azur, wandering the various seaside towns of the French Mediterranean. We spent some time in Monaco and Cannes, but stayed in Nice.



Now, we have spent nights in various sorts of accommodation on this trip. Mostly dorms found on www.hostelbookers.com or in the occasional one star hotel near the train station. We also had our fabulous evenings with the Englands. The dorms have all been quiet, although averaging 8 beds or so. Some hostels have had owners we sat and talked to, like in Wickow, and others have been more like hotels.

The hostel in Nice however was our first truly ‘hip’ hostel.

Coming into Nice we met a French girl on the train also looking for a hostel. She ended up following us to ours, and when we got there, no one at reception spoke French. It was disconcerting. After spending around a week in countries that do not speak English we’ve grown accustomed to apologizing and communicating with one or two words and smiles. And here, not only the receptionists, but the massive staff (bartenders, cooks, shuttle drivers, laundresses, etc…) all spoke English. Most, I would guess, were Australian.

We were told where the bar was and directed to the signs for that night’s dinner. The hostel had a bar as well as a kitchen, half of which was public, with the other half reserved for a few fellows cooking pizzas and making salads for the general crowd. For which, I will mention, we were grateful – a long day of traveling with food at the end is much preferable to a long day of traveling followed by a search for food.

As we sat waiting for our meal, bouncing our heels to the loud music and sipping our drinks, I realized something odd. My drink was still cold. It had ice in it. I’d gotten so used to drinks with no ice that it felt strange.



Looking around I felt stranger still.

All the girls at this hostel had done hair, and I think I counted five or six that were not wearing short skirts.

I think Chelsea and I might have stood out.

Her bright orange pants and my ragged baggy ones, our hair, which while cute is not coiffed, and our distinct lack of interest in good party spots or guys might have set us apart. Also our lack of social skills.

Give us nudibranchs and fantasy novels, games or politics, and conversation zooms. But what we did last night? Ummm . . . slept.

I don’t know how we both missed this skill. Talking to the woman in the chocolate shop about food and Los Angeles? Easy. To Trish in Wicklow about Facebook? Peaches. To Veronique about organic farming? Done. To our peers with loud music in the background and alcohol available?

Epic fail.

That said, it was an awesome hostel, and we did have a good time, just not the same way everyone else did.

Monaco was a different kind of disconnect. The streets were not actually as bad as I thought they would be. The people on the streets were mostly tourists like us, here for a day to glimpse the casino. The people driving were a different matter. Hence the title. All my stereotypes were fulfilled by a youngish gent driving a Ferrari with slicked back hair, a polo shirt and aviators that probably cost more than everything in my backpack.

The yachts were also impressive.

We choose to spend a chunk of our time at a Haagen Daz Cocktail Bar a few blocks from the Monte Carlo Casino. We paid ridiculous prices for excellent smoothies while catching snatches of the conversation next to us that seemed to consist of the words “Dubai” and “investment”.



All in all we learn more about ourselves, our limits and comfort zones and our ability to laugh at the ridiculousness of a situation, even as it happens.

Peace, my friends.

Mind the Gap

So after spending a week in Britain one does get to notice the differences. Cars driving on the other side takes some getting used to. The impulse to jerk your head warily in the wrong direction is astounding, like it’s all been a joke and this time the car will come from the other direction. Fortunately, in London at least, many of the main streets had useful notes saying “<--look left” or “look right -->” painted onto the asphalt. I wish I could say that after a day or two we no longer needed these, but they continued to be a relief and I miss them in Scotland.

During the intermission of “Warhorse” (a very cool show with massive horse puppets) the snack of choice was ice cream. Now certainly some American theater snacks are messy, but I would dare to say that other than sitting on your chocolate bar so that it melts none is as hazardous as melted ice cream. It was vaguely wonderful to see the older gentleman next to us delicately eating a tiny ice cream with a small spoon.

And lemonade is carbonated.

Now onto language – starting with “concession” which in American theaters makes me think of food and here refers to an elderly person. One can buy concession tickets rather than have a senior discount. “What’s on” is the phrase for events at a certain venue, and “take away” means “carry out” or “to go”.

Our host in the first hostel explained that Oxford St. was where we should go if we needed the “bits and bobs” and he was amused by Chelsea and my insistence on taking multivitamins (third syllable pronounced as in “it” rather than “ite”).

“To let” meaning “to lease” or “rent” gave Chelsea some pause and I have been grateful to my BritComs. They have been useful.

And of course there is the ever popular “mind the gap”, dutifully repeated by the many mechanical voices of the underground and train systems. I will also admit that hearing a very proper and refined woman’s voice inform us that the Piccadilly line terminates at Cockfosters nearly made me giggle at every stop.

As I find/remember more we might get a “Mind the Gap II” but that’s it for now.

Cheers, man.

Ponderings a Month Before - 2

Part 2 - Hanna

In this past year my life has been laden with projects. I had a thesis and a portfolio, a play to stage manage, a club to run and a workshop to organize. And when I needed a break from that I would look for things to do in Europe. I would put away the word documents and spend some time wandering the internet. I looked for hostels and chocolate museums, train tickets and castles, rail passes and city passes and ferries and flights. And nudibranchs. It was a calming exercise, looking forward past the stresses of senior year.

I built an itinerary, stealing bits and pieces from professional tour routes and making up the rest with what may turn out to be a hopeful naivety. Part of it is guessing, part rumors of places I want to see and a few stops are for family or visiting places for a second look. Luck will also be making a cameo or two.

And for all that work, for all the giddy panic of looking at the calendar, I still cannot entirely wrap my mind around the fact that Chelsea and I are going to wander around these countries. In the end, all my planning will be useful, but ultimately insufficient. Photos and confirmation emails don’t prepare you. I won’t believe it until we touch down, until we step out into Heathrow Airport. I might not believe it then.

Wow. Heathrow. *shivers*

Last night my parents and I ran some basic German and French, when I remembered: “I need to know how to say ‘platform’.”

It’s funny how things like that stick with you. Not knowing “platform” was the hardest part of traveling by train and not knowing the language. If you walk up to a ticket booth, hold up two fingers and say “Paris” then the meaning is hard to miss. But what gesture do you use for “platform”? I've tried a few. Unsuccessfully.

“Bahnsteig.” Right. Now I just have to remember. And learn it in a few more languages.

Most of my projects are done now, and trip research has taken on a more serious bent. It’s time to reserve trains and ferries. Time to make sure we have a place to stay during Fringe Fest and a way to get to Andorra and a bus from Garmisch to Neuschwanstien. Time to come to terms with panicking because of everything I won't know before we get there.

I have shopping lists and a packing list. Things we need to buy in London and what we should bring. I’m still struggling with how many books to let myself take. I’m gathering email addresses and physical addresses for postcards. The next month will go too fast. The following three will go so much faster.

We’re almost there. How crazy is that?