Nothing is quite like walking into a cathedral. One immediately looks up, to the dark vaulted ceiling, then ahead, along the row of pillars that disappear into a chapel for Mary or a saint. The weight of that great open space pushes a breath from you, and maybe you forget the camera in your hand and the couple muttering in English next to you. 
The first time I walked into a cathedral I was twelve. And it taught me more about religion in a moment then I had learned in all more short life before. It made more sense.We’ve seen a lot of churches on this trip, and a few spectacular cathedrals – Notre Dame and the York Minister, San Marco and the Sagrada Familia. But in Bavaria we got to see a new kind of church.Klaus, my mother’s cousin, says that they were built as a catholic reaction to the success of the Lutherans in Germany. 
They are perhaps more spectacular because the outsides are so modest – simple pink or white stucco with a copper cap on the bell tower. You do not walk in under a scene of the last judgment, no damned souls. 
Where the cathedrals make you gulp, these churches make you want to laugh for joy. They have over-gilded altars, angels and trumpets bursting from the walls, and pink and gold filigree circling clear windows that let the sunshine in. They make you full of wonder rather than the awe of a cathedral.
When you walk in, you still look up. Instead of the imposing stone and shadowed corners are huge rainbow bright murals: more angels and Mary, the infant Christ and various miracles and saints. Even in the small ones. The ceilings are high, and there is still that sense of space, but free rather than enclosed.
On top of that we caught them at harvest time, so in front of every church is a pile of food – cabbages and rice, a round loaf of bread and squash, tomatoes, apples, and zucchini. The expression of bounty is an ancient one: look we have enough food for winter, so we can offer some to God. 
On the wall of one of these were small amateur paintings, done by supplicants in thanks to Mary for her help. Klaus deciphered a few, reading the cramped old scripts. And he found one from a family dated 400 years ago. He chuckled because he had taught students from that family.When we were planning this trip I saved Bavaria as the last place we would stay with family before going south and east to Istanbul. We're very glad we did.
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.
