Wednesday, September 30, 2009

In which I nearly blow the whole damn thing...

The ticket to Nice said that the train was to arrive at 852AM. So when, after sleeping like a corpse, I awoke at 935 I thought I had screwed the dog. Not the dog in the four man berth I was in, no no, not that one; the one that peed in our compartment.

Having just awakened to apparently awful news, I leapt up and asked my 1 night room mates if we had passed Nice. Pronounced neece.

"Nice?" The pushy rich guy asked.

"Yes. Nice... did... we... already...pass...Nice." I motioned with my thumb in the opposite direction of where we were headed. For the train had stopped again and I was trying to ascertain if it was the right move to get off.

"Nice." The man nodded. "Nice."


"Nice" Agreed the dog lady, who had also coughed so badly in the night I had an H1N1 dream.

This was, obviously, most unhelpful. I quickly gathered my things and left the train at Toloun. Which I was pretty sure was Tolouse. Knowing fuckall about French geography, I wasn't sure the proximity to Nice. I decided I could grab some breakfast, and figure it all out. I left the station and headed to a cafe across the street, to regroup, to study my timetables. I bought a beer, and a water, I went to the bathroom to rinse my face and to blessedly relieve myself. Outside, to my surprise that there were palm trees, in the square in front of the station (Gare = French for Station) is a fountain surrounded by well manicured grass, the statues appear to be drunken sailors holding eachother up. Once again, the sky was blue for all eternity in all directions, and it is hotter here in the south. So I changed into a light button down shirt, I went back to my table, chugged the beer, and looked in my laptop bag slot where I keep eurail stuff.

Not there.

My heart rate spiked, but I remained calm. I searched every compartment in my two bags. 6 in all. I checked them twice. And then three times. Pouring sweat I realized that I had left my pass, my tickets, and my insurance policy in a single beaten white envelope. I had left it in Couche 12 berth 81. That is the lower left hand bunk of the 12th cab. I was pretty sure I was fucked. So I did what anyone would have to do thousands of miles from anyone who loves them, in a place where you are only 80% sure you know where you are, having just lost a 2000 dollar slip of paper. I laughed hysterically. I laughed all the way back into the station where I started the long process of piecing together two languages enough for people to understand what it was I was saying my problem is.

I made that last sentence awkward. It being words in orders starting to have to adjust to am I.

Not that these people were not helpful. They were trying. We all understood the grave consequences. For even with my insurance on my pass. It just assures I will be reimbursed for the unused time on the pass. I'd have to order a fresh one. It'd take a week. The most helpful man decided that the next stop for the train, it had only been twenty minutes or so, was Carcassonne. He said that the train would arrive there in half an hour. So I went across the street again, breakfast this time, one of those tiny cups of coffee, a croissant, fresh air to massage my lungs to maybe soothe my nervous heart. I was still greatly amused, and feeling as though it would work out. I wasn't really scared or overly nervous after the initial injection of adrenaline. The following are the notes I took in my book over breakfast:



9/29


I'm pretty sure I am in Tolouse. The sign said Toloun, and the books say its called Villa de Rose for the pink townhouses. I am sitting on the patio of Brasserie Climatise. It is in front of a big pink townhouse...selah.

I was supposed to be in Nice but missed my stop. When I hastily got out of the train in Toloun I left behind my rail pass and tickets. I am sitting here waiting word they found them at the next station. I was stressed for 10 seconds, now, having chugged a morning beer, coffee, croissant, I am currently fine.

At the table across from me is a burly mulatto (I have just realized as I copy this, someone told me not long ago Mulatto is offensive, which I did not know. I am leaving it for purity's sake.) woman, she is having coffee, juice, bread, jam, lots of butter, croissants, water, and Marlboro reds for breakfast. She is spastically gesturing and bursting into loud laughter. This is where I am.

I am also laughing.


A woman of about 85 just walked by, her skin is spotted, it was discoloured from dying pigment. She walks with a hunched back, cane, and smile. She has a traveller's backpack, and a camera slung across her neck. A real hero. I told her she looked beautiful. She laughed and didn't say anything. Made her way.


The writing took my mind off things. I went back to the welcome station in Toloun, to find my helpful man was no longer there. I had to explain my position again, and the woman said 10 more minutes. I wandered into the lounge and made eyes at some pretty dark featured girl. It has been ten days since I shaved, which means today is the day my stubble is perfect and manly, and awesome. It also means I will need to shave in two days max, lest I look homeless.
Which, now that I read this, might be the way to go anyhow.

After ten minutes I returned, to find, once again, a new person at the station. I once again explained what happened..this time to Nadia; whom I shall always remember. She is the one that figured out that the train never went to Carcassonne at all. It terimated in Nice. I didn't miss my stop. I got off before we got there. This was all completely unnecesary.


Nice.

"Nice. Yes. Nice." people from my cabin said. I got off before my stop. The trip took four hours longer than my ticket said it would.

As I was talking to Nadia she told me the train had arrived, give her ten more minutes. So I went and talked with Vinissa (no idea...prolly Vanessa with her accent). She was headed to Paris. When I returned to Nadia, she was on the phone and gave me a thumbs up. I laughed again, and blew her a kiss. The envelope would be waiting for me in Nice. The ticket there was 25E because I did not have my pass... oh well.

The ride was two hours and the cabin was initially empty in 2nd class. I took pictures but they do not justify the beauty of watching southern France zoom by you. There are these sun drenched red mountains, surrounded by evergreen forests. There are vineyards everyplace and they touch against junk yards. The buildings are all shades of yellow as if you are in Italy or Santa Fe. All them have balconies, and from all of those balconies hang clothes like flags that announce who lives here, a woman's loose cotton shirt, a man's worn work pants stained with dirt and sweat. I went through St. Raphael, Albrites, and Cannes. When we came to Cannes, I stopped staring out of my window long enough to look across the aisle and realized that the ocean had snuck up behind me.

I have never ever seen the ocean and been surprised. It was wonderful.

Nice is near Cannes. I was eager to get my pass and I jumped out of my seat to be out in front of the big group of Asian folks who got on at Cannes. I quickly made my way, was sent from the welcome station to the lost and found. Had to wait fifteen minutes at the lost and found and just as I was about to speak with the man, I was paged on the intercom. To go to the welcome station where I had been sent from towards the lost and found. I didn't care. My relief was great and my heart was full of validation and joy for the faith I had all day that it would work out. The woman at the station was shocked that I had heard her and listened, she seemed most pleased. After examining my passport she returned my precious envelope.

As I walked away from the station. I realized my awesome black and white pinstriped sportcoat was not with me...

I left it on the train...

Fuck me running.



- - -



I woke at 6am France time on the train to Bordeaux. I was alone in the cabin, which is rare and awesome. I stole all the pillows and free bottles of water from each bunk. Despite the small accomodations, and the ever present lurching of the train, I sleep exceedingly well on them.
I opened the window, I was the only sign of life on the train, and stuck my head out of the window like a dog and breathed in the whipped cool air.

Been humming to myself a great deal. I think it is because as the language barrier becomes more solid, I grow a little more isolated. Aside from the girl at the train station, chances for conversations have been a little thin on the ground. People are still kind and friendly, but for me especially it is difficult to get by without words, words are my friends. I do not want for anything that I attempt to get, but the social dynamics are different. It is hard to get people's stories, and share my own. I need to learn French. I like the way they speak, the language is very musical and graceful. Plus, its personally annoying when you can't make clear to people just how damned clever and awesome you are.

Rolled into Bordeaux on time. The neighborhood around St. Jean station is an especially seedy red light district. One side of the street full of peep shows, porn theaters, showgirl revues, none of them look like they have a lot of talent there. The other side of the street is filled with ATMs. When you are in France you find that that ATMs are sometimes hard to come by, certainly not as handy as in the US, but apparently the key is to find porno shops (another hint, don't get a headache on Sunday, nothing with pan reliever is open). I walked with my turtle shell (ie: all my shit) for about 4 miles, zigzagging through industrail BDX, as they call it. The buildings are old, and not without charm, but there is a certain Oliver Twist, meets bad block New Orleans, meets modern litter and filth sort of ambience. It certainly didn't strike me as a place that was as know for something so uppity as wine making. However, the further from the station I got, the lighter the buildings, the smells went from sulphur and urine to baked goods. I passed a gyspsy flea market, and made sure to put my wallet in my front pocket. And then I was in the divide between seedy Gare district, and the historic district which has been renewed and revitalized very recently. That's where I found my hotel, 39E, clean, private bathroom, best place I have been so far. Hotel de Lyon on Rue de Ramperts.


Old Bordeaux is stunning. It is open, and fresh, the buildings are so old and yet in such good repair. The entire 7 block historic district is pedestrian only. Near the Monument aux Girondins, which is this incredible fountain, they were tearing down an apparent carnival that I just missed... drat.
A monorail creeps along the streets, connecting everywhere, in fact the monorail is how I finally found old BDX without a map, figuring the monorail isn't headed to where they sell crack. The streets have roads for cars, bike tracks, and sidewalks, and in between is grass over which the monorail floats. It's all very orderly and interesting. The avenues are very wide.

Actually I could have just taken the monorail from Gare St. Jean for 1.30E, but I think its important to make the walk. I saw two moldering Cathedrals, and the gypsies. My Hotel is 100 feet from St. Andre's which they are currently restoring, half of the building is black from the grime of 800 years. After I had checked in I sat in front of it for an hour, nursing a diet coke, watching kids ride bikes back and forth doing wheelies. There are 100s of Vineyards nearby, and tours are easy to arrange, 90E for a full day, 3 vineyards, lunch and dinner. Not bad. I should have given myself more time, but as Oktoberfest is one of the only deadlines I have here, I will move on before I can do such a thing. I know a lot of people who would like this trip though, Burgundy, and Champagne are also nearby and I might just return later in the month. Either way, it would not be very expensive to go and see all 3 regions, and be happily, rosily, wined up the whole time.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

What shall we do with all this useless beauty?

The first thing I saw when I stepped out of the train station at Versailles was a man putting on socks, leaning on a Weber grill, next to a full bike rack, in front of a Tex-Mex restaurant. The next thing I saw was a huge throng of sweaty people, hands on heads, clearly from some sort of running race. There were whole teams. It was apparently a large to do and it was now over at noon when I had arrived. Outside was blue forever, eighty degrees, no dreams of rain like back home. I think I was reflecting on the truly excellent weather when I saw the man who apparently had torn his nipples off while running in his lycra shirt. The shirt was yellow with two dark red circles like gunshot wounds on his chest. His friends were all talking and laughing, he was not. I tell you this, the Tex Mex restaurant, the nipples erased, because maybe you will pick up on what I did not.

This was all obviously not going to go according to plan. I am usually someone who is sensitive the signals and metaphors around me, I can spot bad omens, and for a smart and reasonable man I am quite superstitious.

Versailles had the most tourists in one place I have ever seen, and that is an insane amount of people. Likely part of this was due to the race, but the entire little town was fairly bursting with pilgrims. BeforeI had arrived I had thought this should be very economical and easy, the train took 45 minutes (only because I missed a connection flirting with some Italian chippy) and was like 4 euro total there and back. The little town itself is very attractive, with wide clean streets, and very verdant. I saw near the road in two locations minature carousels that were going round and round with children holding onto the necks of their plastic steeds. The line to get tickets inside was nearly forty five minutes as well, the girl selling the tickets had a nice face, I wanted to like her immediately. I asked for one ticket, she nodded smiled and told me it was 27 euros.

Wait...what?

"Serious?" I asked, she looked confused by my question. I have had a few occasions of price gouging, a man at a market wanted to charge me 5euro for 3 apples, my response: "5!? (holds up the bag) What else do they do?"

She was indeed serious, obviously, they wanted about 40 USD to walk around Versailles, and she looked badly nervous when I asked her if Gabriel Byrne would be there dressed as D'artanagn in his foppish Musketeer outfit, catching rotten apples with his rapier. She did not understand the question, and as this would be the only way I would be willing to spend that much to walk around someplace and take pictures I smiled at her and left. Another weird American.

I walked to the gate, hot from huge amounts of people and the strengthening noonday sun. Hot from a 45 minute wait to get ripped off. These lousy pimps! I decided, while looking at a statue of Louis XIV, looking dashing on a warhorse, that Versailles was essentially a once beautiful woman now aging who never figured out that having lots gold and marble doesn't mean you're classy, and it doesn't mean you don't have to learn more and better meaningful tricks aside from prettiness. The Louvre is 6 euro to see a record of the artistic and thoughtful achievements of our race. Versailles is 27 euro to see the gold gates and the pen where they used to perfume Marie Antoinette's sheep, until the peasants had enough and came and beat her door down and cut off her carefully made up head. After all these years, Versailles apparently is still a great symbol of learning nothing, a last gasp from an extinct and irrelevant Monarchy. Versailles, Louis, Marie, and Napoleon can all get fucked. It is a fitting end you have become an overpriced tourist trap, may you be trod upon by yokels until acid rain claims you.

Ho ho. Maybe that's coming on a little strong bubba! But it is my passionate belief that we all deserve access to the lasting beautiful things that we make. It's simply crass to pimp out something that should be culturally relevant with a ridiculous markup that'd make AIG assholes pump their grimy, fat, fists in 2004. Aren't there enough things for sale?

Ironically, the exorbinant pricetag turns it into something cheap.

So. Having a greater understanding of the French Revolution I moved on. The connecting station on RER line C to Versailles is Champs de Mars/Eiffel Tower. As you can see from the pictures the weather was amazing today. If you ever find yourself in Paris, you are obviously required by cosmic law to go to the tower. I have been to the top of it twice and so I did not this time. Rather right before the grand entrance to the tower, where there is the snaking line, and the snack stand, and the gravel, and the dust, there is a small park on the southeast side of the tower. There is a small pond, and benches, and grass that people sit and lay on. Initially I was sitting on the bench, reading my Eurail timetable and trying to figure out what I want to do after Munich. There was a group of kids in their early 20's sitting on blankets in a circle talking and seemingly unaware of their surroundings, five, six, couples of various ages sitting and looking upward, or laying and cuddling eachother under the small trees in the courtyard, kids were chasing pigeons who would flutter indignantly and then quickly return. I watched two beautiful french girls jog by in their sports bras and then suddenly realized I was the guy from Aqualung and quickly scrambled onto the grass.

The march back from Versailles had been hot, I was wearing long sleeves and do not want to roll them up as laundry will not be an option very often. I do not want stretched sleeves, therefore. My shoulder hurt from my bag, and when I lay on the cold grass in the shade under the tower I immediately felt a deep sense of comforted calm. Most of my trip thus far as been a scramble, finding where to go, negotiating with hotel clerks, or shady produce dealers in St. Denis. I think that this trip being treated more like an adventure than a vacation, calm and relaxation will be in shorter supply than you would otherwise suppose. However, laying in the park, with the kids playing with the birds, listening to the pond and ducks on a glorious Sunday afternoon put me immediately to sleep. This picture is what I was looking at directly above me when I fell asleep.

As I write this, I am on my stomach in a hostel in a not nice neighborhood where seemingly everything smells like piss, I was offered drugs today by four seperate people between the metro and the door. The walls are purple and my room mate is snoring like a freight train making dirty drunken love to a chainsaw. Tomorrow I am going to Louvre, before I catch my night train to Nice.

Things are very fantastic, thanks.






Saturday, September 26, 2009

Our lady and me

I am sitting in my boxers and a tank top, over a busy Parisian street. My window is open and I can hear laughing voices, gunning engines, horns, and the occasional siren. It is a clear night, cool, and you can barely see the stars unless you look closely. I walked the streets for nearly two hours before I realized that it wasn't cloudy. It wasn't as if I wasn't looking upward as I strolled, most places here look more like they were scuplted as opposed to built, a uniform whitewashed stone, intricate designs, that go for blocks. Most places of development that you see you can picture the world without interference from us, people, you can picture the trees, or grass, but not here. It could be an American sensibility that I have, being that here is so much older than my usual surroudings, but I make my way and have this feeling that Paris has always been here. Some Parisians I know, I think, feel the same way.

I arrived this morning, I did not sleep on the plane but rather got drunk and watched 3 movies, I started appropriately enough with a stiff neck and a slight hangover. I came here with no plan at all. I very nearly went and found a line going to Spain, but rather got on the RER train from De Gaulle airport, and rode the hideously ugly route into town. The large inner core of Paris is undeniably stunning, but the tagged sprawl of their suburbs are tacky and ill kept. There is much garbage along the track, which is barely hidden from view by rusted metal dividers, and worn concrete. Every inch of available space is written on in spray paint. Even the vegetation is affected, the grass is brown and uneven, very long here, non existent here, its like the unfortunate end of a story that starts: "Rodney had been drinking heavily against Doctor's orders after his concussion, and so he decided to cut his own hair..."

I chose to get off at Gare Du Nord, which is one of major train stations in the city. Leaving the platform and coming outside there were seven hotel signs immediately visable. I visited all of them, with no luck, until four blocks from the station I found this place. For 65 euro (far too much, but far cheaper than anything else I had encountered) I got this:

Notice my things already sprawled about.


I unpacked, found that I had not brought my Ipod's usb charger, and promptly began my 3 month adventure with a 4 hour nap.

When I woke I set about planning this coming week before I head to Oktoberfest in Munich (Munchen on my Eurail timetable) to celebrate my birthday. Tomorrow I will go to Versailles, as I have never been, and I will probably spend the night before returning to Paris the next day, go to the Louvre and wait for my train to Nice. I am going to Nice, Bordeaux, and Tolouse, on consecutive days before my train for Munich leaves from Paris. Four nights next week I will sleep on trains, which is good for saving money, and not so good for staying in touch. Expect me to drop off the map for a few days.

Having done that, it was already nearly 9PM France time. I was packed into a clausterphobic and sweaty heap of people on a metro train headed southwest. What happened to the oxygen in the car was basically the same thing that happens to sex workers, too much use. The air was so recycled, and moist, and warm from everyone else's lungs that you'd feel a little icky standing in it. Needless to elaborate that is was a relief to be off, and back into the light filled, music saturated, evening. I got off at St. Michel and saw a fascinating throng of people/tourists that represented an impressive cross section of everyone and everywhere. I counted 15 languages spoken along the confined banks of the Seine river. It was some of the best people watching you'll ever see. There were Parisian natives dressed to the nines, annoyed at the obstacles, with mobile phones glued to their ears, English students organizing a pub crawl, a German couple holding hands on one of the tourist river boats that cruise by every few minutes. I saw a Brazillian Soccer team with sleeveless tees and nylon pants, groups of Asian people talking and laughing, and sitting in front of Notre Dame a clutch of gypsies who all had dogs, who were all running about and nipping at eachother. The air was heavy with unfamiliar words, food smells, and music from several points. A group of street musicians had set up amplifiers and microphones right next to the river, right next to the Cathedral, and as I sat in front of the impressive gothic edifce I could hear them playing La Bamba, of all things, and then Twist and Shout, and then La Bamba again without stopping. Lots of people had gathered around them.

Yah. La Bamba. That's what I said.

I think that Notre Dame is my favorite place here. It was built over 500 years, like a gift from the human race to itself. I am not a reglious person, but I know and care for lots of Catholics and I can only imagine with much respect the feelings such a place would give. It is a place of such grandeur that it functions as so many things, a literary reference, a religious experience, a tourist trap, the shadow of the Cathedral could make you feel like you were in a movie or suddenly very much aware that you are smack dab in the middle of yAdd Videoour own life and make you wonder what it all means. How many people have sat where you are sitting, what did they accomplish? How did they die? What was their story? Places like Notre Dame give me a sense of the meaning of things, and yet how casual those meaningful things are in the cosmic sense. It's a mirror you look in, that both dwarfs and magnifies every single thing. My crappy pictures won't convey this, especially since my flash ironically adds a hellish looking red tint to everything, but here you are anyways:


Think it was almost an hour and a half I sat there watching people. Long enough to see them hustle everyone out and close the doors. I stood by the river awhile and listened to all the music, bought batteries for my camera, and I smiled at the people sitting at the streetside cafes drinking coffee, and beer, and burying their faces and social anxieties into their cell phones.
The train wasn't as oppressive returning, I got a 3 euro panini from some snack stand and returned to my humble room, where I am sitting in my boxers and a tank top, by an open window over a busy Parisian street.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

A gift from the air.

4 in the morning, in the car, AM radio: A truck driver calls in and angrily says the government is given no authority to do the things it does by the Constitution. Say Obamacare makes him think of Stalin's Russia. He has such simplistic vistriol that it is impossible to not at least listen to such an angry man speaking so passionately even if you agree with nothing he says and find him ignorant and dangerous. After his rant, he asks the host if the host has ever seen "Superhero Movie". Its a "Scary Movie" like spoof of the comic book movie genre... my angry caller laughs uproariously at the memory of said film and speaks with equal passion that it is the funniest movie of all time. He is blissfully unaware of his sudden crisis of credibility.

Awesome.

Anyway, I think this is tremendous litmus test for anyone sharing an opinion. If your favorite show is "According to Jim", then we have no reason to listen to anything you have to say. Favorite book is by Mary Higgins Clark? Sorry, back of the line and try not to knock anything over. So, next time before you get into a heated debate on anything having to do with politics, religion, or anything else people get very angry very quickly about, maybe find out if they thought "Whole Nine Yards" was funny, and worth watching aside from the inexplicable 20 minute long Amanda Peet nude scene. If they say "Yes! Mathew Perry is soooo funny." Smile, and back away for three steps, and then run. For it does not pay to discuss the merits of having a Department of Education with such a person.

In two days I leave for Paris and this journey. I still do not have a Russian Visa... there are apparently complications. I am leaving anyway, as I am tired of waiting and the world has seemed to try to stop me from going. If I do not get the Visas I require I will have to find another way. I promise to make it as legal as possible.