Green Phoenix Rising

Written at 9:32 PM, 9-14-06

!CAUTION! RANTS TO FOLLOW.

Before I get into describing my exploits in Monaco and my travels to Switzerland, I have to ask, is it any wonder that most “foreigners” have the impression of Americans being loud and obnoxious when many go around shouting some variation of “Fuck!” every other word. This, combined with the fact that every other word (in between the fucks) is “like,” really hinders making us, that is—we Americans—in sounding remotely intelligent. I complain about this because even as I write this, the proverbial knuckle-dragging Americans in this hostel are “fucking sitting around and like, fucking totally like fucking drinking the fuck out of their beers.” Personally, swearing doesn’t particular bother me, nor does a profusion of “likes” in speech, however, when people are shouting the word, it does become pose a minor irritation. I suppose they could be shouting “pig’s snout” and the effect would be the same—me wincing and averting my eyes from my non-American fellow travelers.

Now then, with that done, let me regress a bit. On the night of my last post, Eduardo took me, an Australian girl, and two other American girls out to a local pub. The pub was your average ordinary bar, meaning that there was nothing special whatsoever about the place other than that alcohol was served there. The bar was called “Thor,” a cool name in and of itself, but the distinguishing factor about this bar was the band that was playing on the night we went there. (It was also ladies night, but that was only of slight benefit to me.) The band (I’m not sure of the name) was covering AC DC songs—and it was amazing. Some cover bands are so-so, but the lead singer of this band could really belt out the tunes. He even had the look—a little older, ridiculous long hair—and could he ever sing. Eduardo warned us that the band wasn’t that good, but when he was singing You Shook Me All Night, it might as well have actually been AC DC for all I knew.

The band was about the only thing that was good the night. Eduardo only stayed out for like an hour or two before becoming convinced that he was “too drunk” and apparently needed to go home. So basically he disappeared. This might have been cool (as it would have left me with three girls) if the girls had been cool. Oh, they were pretty, to be sure, but I’m afraid that engaging in a conversation of any length proved a bit of a challenge. I’m going to be a bit ruthless here, but I think this demands a little ruthlessness—when Eduardo mentioned that he was from Honduras, the Australia girl asked what state that was. When he said it was in Central America, not the U.S., she repeated, “so where is it in the U.S.?” …I’m afraid there’s really nothing more to say. Eduardo and I were both a bit speechless at this.

The American girls, they were nice enough. One was married and she was the more interesting and cordial of the pair. The other girl seemed just a bit lacking. So anyway, I returned home (strangely ran into the Aussie girl on the way back even though I hadn’t seen her in like 15 minutes) and had to guide her back to the hostel. The night thus ended and I hoped desperately that I wouldn’t be as hungover as I suspect I would be.

I actually slept in and it was glorious. The only thing on the agenda for that day was going to Monaco, which I could do at any point during the day. I got up at around ten and headed for the train station. Trains left from Nice to Monaco about every half hour, so I really didn’t worry about coordinating when I arrived. It’s a good thing too. They had these automated bloody ticket machines and I couldn’t, for the life of me, get them to work. First, I ordered a ticket but then found out I needed change and there was no change machine. So I bought a pen at a nearby store (I needed one anyway) and then returned. I went to a machine but instead of getting a ticket from Nice to Monaco, I got one going the other way. Disgruntled, I went and bought a pack of gum so I could get more change and then went to get a ticket from Nice to Monaco. This completed, I ended up only waiting a couple minutes for the train to Monaco because I’d dawdled so long at these infernal 2001 Space Odyssey-like computers. “Ticket to Monaco, please.” I’m sorry Greg, I can’t do that.

Anyway, there were frequent stops on the train to Monaco, slowing what should have been a twenty-minute train ride to like forty minutes. It wasn’t so bad though because the train side was beautiful. Beautiful beaches and blue water marked the French Riviera coastline. I watched it pass, idly wishing I had a summer home there. This feeling would only grow after arriving in Monaco, playground of the rich. So apparently, only 7500 people live in Monaco, though there must at any point be roughly 10,000 tourists staying in or traveling through the city. I was there for the afternoon, though in retrospect, I should have gone at night. Stepping out from the train station, one is immediately confronted with towering hotels perched precariously over the bay. Cliffs encircled the small city-state, which was perhaps why everything seemed to extend precariously upward or else outward over the water.

I had no map of Monaco, nor was there anything in particular I wanted to see. Mostly, I wanted to check out the city itself and maybe take a look inside Le Casino, the city’s primary source of revenue. Apparently anyone born as a citizen of Monaco gets a monthly allowance from the Casino and tax revenue. Also, apparently Elton John was refused citizenship when he applied. Stories seemed to circulate around Monaco’s chic style. I don’t know what was true, but I know what I saw, and that was wealth. Nowhere else in Europe have the streets been so clean. The train station was made of marble. Fountains and tropical plants were around every corner. And along the streets, restaurants and shops offered the best of European products. Gucci, Armani, and many other brands I’d never heard of, displayed their wears in shop windows. Of course, I was merely content to look.

Finding the Casino did not prove difficult. About every five minutes I’d come across I sign directing me there. Le Casino is the Casino of Europe’s rich and famous—or perhaps the world’s rich and famous. Now I didn’t see anyone famous, and it was hardly worth paying the 10 euros to get into, but it was still quite a sight. While not as glitzy as many Las Vegas Casinos, it had a grandeur and elegance that far outstripped then. I think I would have been less disappointed had I gone in the evening when more people were there, gambling away hundreds and thousands of euros with every flip of the card or roll of the dice. Myself—I tried my luck at the slots and, upon losing five euros—decided it was time for me to leave.

Le Casino was the inspiration for the Casion Royale in the Bond movie, and beneath the layer of glamour, it was a various serious place. They didn’t permit cameras or bags, and one felt a constant sense of vigilance—bordering on paranoia—from all the staff. For a moment though, standing in the place, one could easily imagine being wealthy—and then imagine the ensuing foolishness of gambling one’s wealth away in such a place. Indeed, all of Monaco, for all its glitz and glamour, seemed laden with a heavy layer of wastefulness. 100 euros for this, 1000 euros for that. It all seemed a bit excessive, but then, such is the life of many of the wealthy. Perhaps we would all feel ourselves drawn to such temptation could we buy anything we wanted on a whim.

I didn’t go to the Princes Palace or the Jardin Exotique (apparently good sights), for my feet were hurting. I’d borrowed shoes from Eduardo after reading that sandals wouldn’t be permitted in the casino. (In the afternoon, apparently they didn’t care because they were allowing people in with shorts and sandals on). Frankly I’d had enough of being a tourist (and a poor ($) tourist at that) and wanted nothing more to do with the city. I returned to Nice (thankfully the train back was much faster) to relax for my last evening in the city.

And relax I did. I’d intended on going out for a bit of writing, but instead abided to just go to the Laundromat (for free internet) and check my email. I did some reading in the hostel and then joined Eduardo and his kiwi friend, Chris, to watch X-3. The American girls came back from a day at the beach, but I was more interested in spending time with the people in my room in the hostel (and doing some more reading). Thus, it ended up being a quiet and early night for me.

There’s really very little to be said for the following day. I packed the night before so I could get up relatively late and then easily catch the train to Geneve, where I would connect to Bern and then to Interlaken (all in Switzerland). The morning (and the train connections) went more smoothly than every before. I guess I must be getting the hang of things. I also figured out an easy way to distinguish which trains I need to make reservations for. Through the arduous train rides (aside from a few small layovers, I was on trains from 10AM to 7PM) I finished one of the books I was reading and resumed doing some research from another book for my novel. I also did a lot of brainstorming while listening to music. Thank god for my ipod.

By the end of the day, my ipod and computer had both run out of batteries and I was exhausted from reading Bloodline of the Holy Grail. One can only read so much non-fiction. I suppose I was also exhausted by the Swiss. Now, I like what I’ve seen of Switzerland. The cities are clean and the lakes and mountains are beautiful. They really are stunning and the landscape reminds me vaguely of New Zealand. However, the Swiss follow rules to the letter. Everywhere its “Do Not…” or “Please…” and if you so much is edge your feet toward a seat, as if making to put your feet on the seat, a Swiss official will come along and promptly tell you not to. Indeed, I was told “Not to…” at least three times from entering Switzerland and arriving in the hostel. It’s rules rules rules. For all my friends reading who understand this, the Swiss are truly Lawful Neutral. It’s really quite irritating.

The rules at the hostel I’m staying at, Balmer’s Hostel, are no less forgiving. Aside from frequent warnings of fines, they charge you for everything. I couldn’t believe it. Okay, so I really like Interlaken. It’s a beautiful little city. Everyone has a garden. It’s quaint. Quiet at night and adventurous during the day. But getting back to what I couldn’t believe—they wanted to charge me two Franks (roughly two dollars) to exchange one of my books for another backpackers book. Let’s pause for a moment and consider this. [Insert Pause] Some backpacker left his book there—for free—and they want to charge me two freaking dollars to swap me book for it. I hate to stereotype, but really, this is what the Swiss do, isn’t it? Interest on everything. No transaction without fee. I cringe to think how much using the ATM cost. The book I wanted to exchange was hardly worth two dollars, nor was the one I wanted to get in trade. !!!!

Two franks for a book swap. Two franks for a towel. Two franks to use the safety deposit box. I almost expected the shower to run on coins. (It didn’t.) Oh, and get this, on hostelworld.com, they advertised “Free Internet.” Yeah, guess what. NO. They give you a free token for 6 minutes of internet time. Oh boy, 6 minutes, whatever shall I do!? I know, I’ll read half an email!

Needless to say, I’m a little displeased with my hostel. Interlaken, however, looks fantastic. It’s the adventure sport capital of Europe, but I haven’t decided what to do yet. Tomorrow I’m going to hike around, or maybe rent a bike. I may also chill in a café some. Despite some obvious reservations about the hostel (which is about 80% Americans—one is talking loudly at some Asian guy even as I write this) I am optimistic about my experience here. The place is truly beautiful, inspiring in every sense. Because my financial resources are limited, I may limit myself to one adventure sport¬—canyoning. This basically means putting on a lifejacket and repelling/shooting down canyons and waterfalls. It’s something fairly unique to Interlaken.

I had hoped Jacob would be able to join me here or at Oktoberfest, but apparently he got food poisoning (or something worse) in Cork, Ireland, and has been waylaid in his hostel for the past couple days. He’s heading to Germany, but won’t be joining me for Oktoberfest and will instead be visiting relatives. This means that unless I meet up with anyone, I’ll be going it alone for the next six weeks. Ah well!

To kind of wrap things up: This blog may have sounded a bit aggravated, perhaps enraged even, but it’s all very much tongue and cheek. These things—the annoying Americans, the Swiss rule-abidingness—are all amusing observations, more than real troubles. There are still a lot of good Americans—and good travelers—out there, and there are a lot of rules to break and not be caught for breaking. I think right now, maybe I’ll go swap a book when no one’s looking.

Tags: Europe, France, Interlaken, Monaco, Money, Switzerland, Travel

This entry was posted on Thursday, September 14th, 2006 at 9:32 am and is filed under Europe, France, Switzerland, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.