The Giant Oat

Alright, I lied, the last post was NOT the final post.

I spent my last full day in France hanging out in Nice, which is in fact a very lovely city. I wish I had a bit more time to explore. I had to be satisfied with a visit to the Orthodox Cathedral, the ocean and beach, and the area called Vieux Nice. My final dip into the ocean was lovely, and I sunned myself one last time. The weather was, as usual, perfect, and being a Saturday, there were loads and loads of people on the beach. Nice is very clean, and was pretty much silent until noon. From this, I surmise that the nightlife must be fantastic. I sampled only one restaurant, which was the only one serving at 2 PM. Lots of the little local places close for afternoon siesta, so be warned. Following my tradition of eating the local specialty, I had a nicoise salad which was tasty but not remarkable. I had to run throguh the streets with it churning in my stomach as I ran to catch my train.

I caught the train to Lyon and during the trip I noticed that the beaches at Cannes are all sandy. Next time I’m in the area, I’ll head to Cannes for a dip. The landscape along the coast is very impressive and if I had a boat, I would totally love to explore the little inlets. This place must be totally packed when the water is warm.

On the way to Lyon, my seat was facing backwards, and so I had this bizarre feeling of being pulled back in time. Or just being pulled back to where I came from. It wasn’t entirely awful feeling….actually I was really looking to going home.

I arrived in Lyon at night and it was raining. I did my usual huge circular route around a city with my pack looking for a hotel only to end up ten feet away from my starting point. Lyon’s Part-Dieu train station is a bit out of the main area of town, and while there are lots of hotels around, most of them were booked. I would recommend booking ahead for Lyon. Also, arriving on a Sunday anywhere is the most bizarre feeling, as most shops and even restaurants are closed. So everthing was closed, it was raining, and hotels were booked solid. A perfect end to my journey. I considered sitting out the eight hours at the airport, but finally found a little place with room. It was called Premiere Classe. Their name is slightly hyperbolic.

For fifty two euro, I got a bed and the most unusal pod-like toiled/shower combination. Despite the dark hallways (premiere class people obviously have night vision glasses), I felt relatively safe and happy to have a shower before the long day of travel ahead.

Sunday was the day of return, and the whole day I felt really really good about my journey, and about returning. I had worried that I would not want the vacation to end, or that I would dread the return to work, but really, I was happy to move on to whatever comes next.

My flights were easy, uneventful, and full of sappy movies that made me cry. My hawaiian shirt-clad man greeted me at the airport, we popped in to family to say hi, and I had one solid night’s rest. I’m at work today, and am about to pass out.

My next post will give a quick summary of how I did with the thirty goals of mine.

Oh my goodness, here we are in the final days of travel. Thanks to all who have been reading along the way, and I hope you have enjoyed my trip!

I spent another day here in St. Paul de Vence, unable, it seems, to get to Nice or the sea. This estate i am on has been lovely and fulfilled all my needs for coziness and comfort after the great escape. Today I ate ice cream, cheese, steak, melon and other lovely things, was loved by the dogs, watched Jerry Maguire, and reflected on this journey I have been on.

I must say that tonight i looked in the mirror and saw a woman that I am so bloody proud of. I have cried, gotten lost, felt lonely, felt angry, felt joy, felt right, felt wrong, stuffed myself with good food, followed my instincts, found friends when I wasn’t looking, seen beauty, seen ugliness, escaped from badness, laughed, and finally, have witnessed how life, incredibly and despite my personal dramatics, continues to unfold in beautiful ways and all i have to do is put myself out there and let it happen.

I have strong suspicions that when I return, my cubicle will feel like it is hiding me from this, and we will have to part ways. I have a few ideas up my sleeve…

I am so grateful to everyone who supported me by emailing or listening or housing or feeding or suggesting along the way. I leave for Lyon tomorrow, after a tour of Nice, then flying early Sunday arriving home with enough time to visit those love.

I conclude that I am not a hippie, I am confident and strong and full of sparks, I love mud, volcanoes in France are boring, Greek boys are hilarious, Greek food is not the best, Italian coffee is the best, French cheese takes the prize, London boys are the most fun, Paris is not for the single girl, nor is Venice, friends are everywhere, and this is indeed one beautiful world we live in. Life is too short to waste and the world too beautiful not to enjoy. Can’t wait to fill you in on the details with photographic evidence!

Au revoir, Cheers, Ciao, Merci, Grazie, Eucharisto to Europa!

After a night in Valence, I caught the train to Nice via Marseilles, effectively making almost a complete loop from where I was a week ago. The trip to Marseilles was interesting in that the landscape is flat and there are huge hedges everywhere. Along the coast from Marseilles to Nice was a vibrant technicolor version of the Italian Riviera: far more ooh la la and bigger waves, bluer water, and fancier hotels.

I have not seen much of Nice itself, as following the adrenaline rush of escaping the farm, I was exhausted. I found my way to St Paul de Vence, where I am staying with a cousin’s friend. The village is fortified up high on a hill from which both mountains and sea are visible. This is the perfect place to chill out and contemplate and prepare for my return to reality. I hope for one last dip in the ocean at least and a scuba dive at most.

The Art Farm is a place in France which calls itself a community of artists, musicians, and eco-builders. I went there thinking that i would learn a bit of organic farming, and would participate in a workshop in cob building. I was wrong. There is one guy with a dream and a huge sex drive. Today I cut my losses – a dear thousand dollars, nearly – to get the heck out of there. The Art Farm takes WOOF-ers – people who work on organic farms in exchange for lodging and instruction. There is no organic farm here, but i did find two woofers who, like me, were not impressed with the weirdness going on. By weirdness i mean the owner (who says it is not his place but everyone’s place) sleeping with at least two of the four girls who were there with me. Everything was a sexual innuendo; his way of scoping out his chances. He was also talking astrology, numerology, and other quack stuff and Wayne Dyer was on the stero telling me that I am God and to imagine the sands of time wiping away my name written in the sand. I could deal with that, except it was incessant, intermixed with very loud repetitive music. I had no time to think my own thoughts. To boot, the mood of the place was largely dependent on the owner’s emotional state. He would go from dressing up and dancing around like a child to brooding to flirting and taking off for secret quickies with one of the girls. He wanted us to discover what the mountain wants us to build: but when i had any opinions different from his it became clear that the mountain has his voice and he is not happy when anyone challenges or questions him or the mountain. The three other girls seemed all into it; yelling at flowers, contemplating suicide, dancing in circles and singing songs, playing imaginary card games and having imaginary ice cream fights; I had to get out of the mess.So the two Irish boys and I packed our bags and left this afternoon.  I slipped out the back door and ran up the mountain, through the thistles, with the theme of the great escape running through my head.We hitched a ride to the nearest town and promptly ordered two rounds of pints to celebrate our return to sanity. Now I will make my way to Nice until Sunday when i return home. I feel I have survived something strange and am glad to be out with a few lessons learned. I am not giving up on permaculture or cob building: i am giving up on the idiotic idea that you somehow have to be outside the system of normality to be creative and connected to life and creation and beauty. My eyes have opened. Do not go to the Art Farm.NB Very seriously, this place is unhygienic, unsafe for single travellers, isolated, and not at all as advertised. I’m up for creative adventures of the alternative sort, but this was beyond that. I can smell a quack and a fraud, and this place reeked of it.

So I am sneaking a few mintues on the internet here just to let you all know that as usual, my optimism and naivite have shown themselves: all of you knew I was headed for a commune, but I was positive this was an organic farm and place to sculpt and learn more about some stuff I am interested in. It’s a commune. Of one. And those silly enough to give him money to come cook for him.

I sign off now, hoping that day one of the modified workshop without workshop facilitators will change my opinions of the place.

I wonder why being close to the earth and artistic must so often be coupled with a way of being that includes free love, drugs, and a “if it feels right it is” attitude.

On the bright side, the fog has cleared and it is in fact a beautiful landscape just outside the door. At least that part of the course description is true.

For those of you living vicariously through me, I thought I would let you know that you are currently in a room of a makeshift barn, with a bed and stacks of pillows and crocheted blankets. In the other room, the creepy proprietor of this locale is massaging a girl’s hands. A few others are here with you, and some have paint on their faces.You arrived in this foggy place, through the wet and cold of a rainstorm, only to find that the cob building workshop you had paid for may not actually be on. But nobody seems to really care. You will be sleeping on a mattress on the floor of the loft of this barn, but don’t worry…your mattress is far from any of the buckets and pots collecting the rain. The others here with you are pretty cool people, but you need to be suspicious of anyone who’s lasted very long here.YOu didn’t know you have dust and mold allergies, but you’re started to suspect that you do.You are preparing yourself for one interesting week. You can’t wait for the fog to go away and hope that at the very least there’s beautiful views to keep you company. You are also totally prepared to be leaving prematurely, though you don’t know where you’d go now that you’ve spent your cash.Also, your head is starting to feel funny. Maybe it’s the blaring music. Maybe the smells. And you wonder what was in that tea you just drank.Gather your wits about you, this is going to be one crazy unexpected week.

After leaving paradise on Friday morning (very reluctantly, needless to say), I headed to Geneva to visit my cousin and her husband.

I had a very brief and very lovely visit with her, involving visiting a local market, walking by Voltaire’s chateau, and going out for a crazy good dinner. We had a picnic lunch by lake Geneva, and as I spied the mountains across the lake, I had a crazy urge for chocolate. Obviously the Swiss chocolate marketing campaigns have been very successful.

Wednesday April 22 (grab a cup of coffee: this is a long post)

I wish I hadn’t used so many superlatives already. Venice was outstanding, Assisi was heaven, Meteora was gorgeous, but now I am in a place beyond beautiful, beyond magical, beyond fabulous. I am in Cinque Terre, and more specifically I am on a pebble beach between the village of Corniglia and Vernazza (editorial note: .I am quoting from my journal here…use your imaginations!).

Perhaps I ought to back up a bit. Cinque Terre is a National Park in the Italian Riviera, consisting of five little villages connected only by footpaths that go either along the coast or high high up through the hills. Locals here grow grapes, olives and other fruit on the steep slopes on terraces, as they do in Asia. There are very few roads (mostly just down a main street), boats are everywhere (parked on main street) and the houses seem to be built on top of each other, the land is so steep.

I was on the regular path between my village and the next to the north which followed the coast when I spied a sign saying °beach very beautiful°. I followed a tiny path, with ropes helping me descend, stopping regularly to question my sanity.

It was the scariest descent I have ever made. Not only was it very steep, on crumbly ground, with sometimes only one boot’s width of path on which to place my weight, but I was alone, and should I have fallen down into the dense brush or rocks below, I suspect I would have been there a long time before being detected. I don’t think this is an oft-used path.

I noticed how often, when I came across a perilous little spot, holding on to even the thinnest of vines made it possible for me to take the next step. It made me consider how in life, I sometimes need that vine to grasp, even if in reality it would never really hold my weight should I slip. It allows my brain to step over its own restrictions.

I tested out the water and thought it is not too cold for a swim, at least not for my Canadian blood. The water was the surest sea blue, but I feared an undertow, so I did not swim. I did go in up to my thighs, and lay in the sun (on a sheet snatched from the hostel) to dry.

As I set off for the next village I sincerely hoped there was another way back up. But just as I left the secluded beach, I found another one, except that it wasn’t secluded. That morning, I had read about how Germans are notorious for speeding through the paths with their alpine walking sticks, going too quickly to enjoy the scenery. I saw that this fellow on this second beach had walking sticks and was going to tease him about it —  until I heard his German accent.

His name is Marcus and he is a sculptor on his way to pick up some marble just outside Rome. We agreed to both take a dip in the water and keep an eye out for signs of undertow. I was in and out rather quickly, and he braved it a little longer. We lay in the sun, quietly enjoying the cloudless blue sky and fabulously warm and loving sun. I felt how big the world is, and I felt love.

Marcus tipped me off on the easy way back up, though easy is only a relative term. I still had to crouch way down below bent over reeds and my legs got quite the thrashing. This was no real path either. I had run out of water down at the beach and by the time I found myself back on the path to Vernazza, I was totally parched. Thankfully there was a little fellow selling water not too far down the path and I avoided passing out from heat and dehydration. But had I died, what a way to go in these beautiful hills in the sea.

Every ounce of my being was charged with the crazy descent and the braving of the waters, and I was on a high for the rest of the day. I thought this good high needed a good meal to celebrate, and I sat myself down at the finest restaurant I could find in rather touristy Vernazza. It was in a tower overlooking the sea, and I ate octopus, shrimp, mussels, crawfish, calamari and olives doused in lovely olive oil…for starters. Then I had the catch of the day (endangered seabass, unfortunately) baked with potatoes, tomatoes, olives and pepper. Maybe it was the sun, the wine, or the exhaustion, but the sparkle the sun made on the sea seemed like a crazy light show just for me. I think I really was high.

I sat with my meal, chatting to a couple at the next table, until well past both our tables were cleared and the owner told us he was leaving for his siesta, but we were welcome to stay. I sunned myself on some more rocks at the pier of Vernazza and really felt how good I feel. I fed myself a superb meal, I sunned myself, swam in the water, hiked a difficult trail and overall had a superb day…all by myself! I guess some experiences really cannot be shared. I needed this one all to myself, and I will always treasure it.

But the day of perfection was not yet done…

After showering and getting into cozy clothes, I headed out for an evening walk to watch the coastal sunset and to find some local anchovies to taste. I found myself in a tiny family run restaurant called La Cantina Dello Zio Bramante where part two of my fabulous day unfolded.

My waiter took a break from his own meal with a friend to come sit with me and to take my order, but not before getting my name and my country of origin. Smooth. He also pointed out is grandfather’s portrait, and his father and his mother, both behind the bar.

Before long, the waiter’s father and the restaurant owner looked at me on my own, writing in my journal and said Why are you sitting alone? Come sit here!! So I sat with his son, my waiter, and the musician for the evening. I spoke mostly in French, which seems to come easily to these locals. I ate some amazing pesto on bread, and delicious anchovies in a lemon and olive oil sauce. The owner snatched up one of my anchovied breads as he walked by, and I ribbed him for it, so he offered me the bruchetta and cheese leftover from another table. He fed me bits and pieces of this and that, and filled my glass a few times with different local wines, including a desert wine. I felt right at home and adopted by this family!

The owner sat with me and asked how the future looks from here (his exact words) and without thinking I said BEAUTIFUL! And I meant it. How can it not be?

When the guitarist was ready, my waiter draped his orange apron around the bar light to create ambiance and took a seat beside the guitarist with his own guitar. The two started strumming, and an old guy in a gross sweater started belting out the most heart-breaking beautiful Italian songs!

Before I knew it, the owner was swinging me around in a dance to the music of his son and the guitarist from the next village over. A harmonica player also appeared. I felt like a principessa.

This place had maybe seven tables in total, and at the back, a family of Irish people had gathered to celebrate someone’s fiftieth birthday. In true Irish style, they took over the jam session and we had a ceilidh with irish music and singing, and an eighty year old lady dancing up a storm. This greatly amused and shocked my two new friends who I had lured in to the restaurant (the least I could do after the free food), who happened to be Irish lads looking for an Italian restaurant. It was all very amusing.

By the close of the night, I had been invited to dinner and dancing the following night by the ambitious waiter, I had danced, and I had fulfilled a huge (shy) dream of mine to sing in a bar with a band. I knew it was a perfect night when they started playing Take me Home Country Road (West Virginia?) song, which is my absolute FAVOURITE for harmonizing and singing in general. Especially the °teardrop in my eye° line. I stayed up for Hey Jude and a few other Beatles tunes, helped out by my Irish tenor friend named Allan.

I would have stayed until the dawn, dancing, eating and singing with this crew of Irish grandmas, local musicians and fancy footed Italian barmen, but my hostel locks its doors at midnight and I had to run really quickly up a huge hill just to get back in time. I barely made it.

I slid in to my bed full up of almost all of the most beautiful things I could have asked for in a day. What a total and complete blessing it was, and I will treasure it always.

***

Today I am paying through the nose to get my blog up to speed. I have arrived in a beautiful place called Manarola, in the national park of Cinque Terre. I will need to fill in more tomorrow, as my time is up! But I am here and safe and ready for a day of beautiful hiking on the coast.

Monday April 20

Today was a day of transit from Athens to Rome, filled with deep personal tumult and teary phone calls to the Arctic where the most amazing person I know is currently residing. She got me through the storm, and I was on my way.

At the airport in Athens, where it was sunny and hot, I was tempted to dump my rome ticket and grab a flight to an island. But I didnàt. When I arrived in Rainy and Cold Rome, I wished I had indeed gone to a beach. I had to remind myself that travelling is like eating at a restaurant…you canàt expect to have everything on the menu all at once.