Risks of Insanity
Written at 6:20 PM, 9-11-06
I managed to rouse myself at exactly 8:40 the morning following the beach excursion, which happened to be a mere five minutes before the hostel’s breakfast ended. I’d been warned by the hostel’s inhabitants that the breakfast was a sad affair, but it took actually attending breakfast to realize the truth of this.
Breakfast consisted of a piece of cold French bread and…oh wait—that was all. Granted, they had juice and some form of chocolate milk (I didn’t try it), but as far as food of substance, it was bread and better. This might have bothered me except that this particular form of breakfast is exactly what I’d been eating for the entire duration of my trip. (Sometimes I was spoiled and even got a bowl of cereal!).
Undeterred, I ate my piece of bread and then hunted around the hostel until I found a power socket with which to charge my computer. I spent the early morning writing the last blog, though I was briefly joined by one of the Scottish girls, Alison, who was getting ready to head to the beach. I thought that sounded like a pretty good idea, but I confessed that I needed to finish writing a report of my activities in order to keep my avid readers happy. Assuring her that I’d probably see her down there, I set to finishing my writing.
By noon, I was down on the beach where we’d gathered the night before. It was a clear, sunny day, and already the heat was dominating. Fortunately a pleasant breeze kept things cool. I searched through the crowds until locating Alison and Michelle, who had joined her by this time, and then I settled down on the beach. Something I’d been informed of—but had only recently come to my full attention—was that the beaches along the French Riviera consist not of sand but of tiny rocks. As one goes in a easterly direction from Barcelona, approaching Nice, these rocks grow larger and larger. In Barcelona, it still felt quite good to walk around barefoot on the beach. This was a more questionable endeavor in Marseilles. And as for Nice, I suppose I’ll soon find out, as I’m about a ten-minute walk from the beach.
Figuring it couldn’t hurt, I’d brought my Frisbee down to the beach and was able to easily entice Peter, the American, into throwing it around with me. This was only the second time I’d gotten to use the Frisbee since arriving in Europe, but in that moment, it was well worth it. I definitely missed throwing around the disc.
After that, I returned to my beach towel (which doubles as my bath towel 🙂 ) and laid out in the sun, enjoying the book I’d recently started. I spent quite a bit of time talking to the Scottish girls, who were unfortunately leaving later that evening. (They’d aspired to go to a more remote beach via train, but that ambition had been dashed because of a late start). The company and weather were both great, making for a wonderfully relaxing afternoon on the beach. Best of all, I managed to keep from getting too burned, despite my “Oregon tan.”
I’d fancied the idea of doing a boat or kayaking trip that day, or else walking around and seeing the sights in Marseilles, but once I was actually there, such aspirations melted under away the heavy sun. I just wanted to relax and let the stress from traveling drift off. And that was exactly what happened. I spent the afternoon talking, reading, and writing, and by the evening, I felt much better. I purchased a bottle of wine for 2 euros (as a side note, the price of wine in the French Riviera is astounding) and then ordered a pasta dish from the hostel’s restaurant. The dinner was good, although Michelle informed me that Pasta Carbonara was made with egg whites, which, from what I’ve heard, is a damn fast way to find yourself with food poisoning. Then again, as I’m writing this now and not heaving and writhing in bed, I guess I got off all right.
Anyway, the Scottish girls joined me on the hostel’s patio where we continued talking of all kinds of things. Their train was leaving very late, at about midnight, and they didn’t have to catch the bus until about ten, so they’d decided to just hang around until then. They left, moving on to Barcelona, and I resigned to turn in early for the night so I could catch a morning train. Only on my way to my room, I ran into the Irish girls, Debra and Emer. It didn’t take much to persuade me to stay up. Emer (who insisted that she preferred the Gaelic spelling of her name, which I believe was like Eämear or something) and I went back down to the patio area and were soon joined by Debra. We stayed up until about midnight talking, mostly about traveling and literature. Debra was an English major and had traveled broadly, while her sister was just entering university and instead wanted to travel broadly. They were only on a brief holiday before university started and were returning to Ireland on Tuesday. Both were regretting returning home, though each had their respective obligations to attend to.
By midnight I was exhausted and had to excuse myself to bed so I could get some sleep. I decided that I would sleep in the following morning since I didn’t have to check out until 10:00. Unfortunately, my body had other ideas. I slept soundly and first awoke at 7:00. I briefly contemplated getting up and catching an earlier train to Nice, but I had resolved to sleep in, so I tried to go back to sleep. The following two hours were a constant stream of wakefulness and disturbances, such that I don’t think I ever slept more than about fifteen minutes. What was worse, when things finally quieted down by about 9:00, I still couldn’t sleep. In fact, I felt quite awake. Embittered, I got up and packed my stuff to check out of the hostel and head to the train station.
Now if you’ve been following my blog with reasonable consistency, you know that traveling the trains and arriving in new cities is the most blighted part of my travels. Indeed, I’ve had few instances of travel that were without incident. That said, the trip to Nice went as smoothly as could be. The only hitch was that the first train at 11:02 to Nice was fully booked, but another was leaving at 11:58 so I reserved a spot on that train instead. Otherwise, the train was on time and took me to Nice, where I visited the tourist office, got a map, and easily found the hostel I wanted. Or rather, found a hostel. The building I went to actually had two hostels in it, but the hostel I wanted (I discovered later) had its reception closed between 1 and 5 and you had to use a call box to buzz them. Instead, I was addressed by an old lady who explained in a synthesis of English and French that she had rooms available for 16 euros. This seemed like a good price and the rooms looked reasonable (best of all, they had free internet) and en suite kitchens and bathrooms, so I agreed.
My only possible complaint with the hostel is that it is kind of dirty. Two elderly ladies, probably in their seventies, run the hostel and a restaurant below. Despite the little bit of filth, they are quite nice and it has a homely feel because it’s not a hostel simply out to make money. (This is a problem with a lot of the so-called party hostels, such as The Generator, Kabul Hostel, The Flying Pig, etc.) After settling in, first on my agenda was to figure out what there was to do in Nice. I spoke to one of the live-in workers, a twenty-some guy named Eduardo, who told me the best places to go. He explained that Nice was mostly a place to party; I certainly wasn’t going to complain. He suggested a few places to go and I noted them for my travels tomorrow. Next on my priorities was food.
Europe’s grocery stores are, in general, expensive. It varies considerably between places though, and surprisingly, the French Riviera I’ve found to be relatively affordable (except meat, which is costly everywhere.) Throughout Europe are these grocery stores called Spar, which depending on size and location, are usually a pretty good place to buy groceries. Conveniently, one of these stores was right across the street from the hostel. (I should mentioned that this hostel is on the fourth floor of an apartment building and overlooks a narrow street with a relatively nice view of the surrounding buildings). Since coming to Europe, I’ve “eaten out” or more precisely, “bought sandwiches at food stands” more than any other time in my life. Carrying around food, especially when you’re on your own and don’t have anyone to share it with, is cumbersome. Figuring I would be in Nice for at least two nights, maybe three, I decided to indulge in some groceries to make a few real meals. After this, I returned to my hostel and made a better sandwich than I’d bought at any of the sandwich stands and then settled in to relax and read my book for a while.
When I arrive in a city after traveling for part of the day, I never feel like doing the “tourist things.” I generally just want to relax and do a bit of reading or writing in the local area, either at the hostel or in a nearby coffee shop. (I’m at a coffee shop right now). On the one hand, this could seem like I’m wasting time in Europe. But in reality, it’s all part of the “trip.” Even though I zip around from place to place, spending sometimes only a day and a half in one place, I still like to not be a tourist once and a while. Reading and writing in a casual environment, which is what I’d do if I were at home, makes me feel like this. I can step out of the chaos that is traveling and instead, just be me. It doesn’t matter that everyone else in the coffee shop is speaking French, or that the white stone buildings that surround me are taller than any but the highest buildings in my home town—when I am at a table, in front of my book or computer or journal, I can feel at home even in the most remote or foreign places. I still enjoy where I am—the uniqueness of it all—but when you travel at any length, it’s necessary to get your bearings once and a while and keep in touch with who you are. I think I’d go insane if I didn’t, and if that happened, the next you’d hear of me would be a headline reading “American tourist arrested after running naked through the Vatican, babbling incoherently.” And that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.
Tags: Europe, France, Hostels, Marseilles, Nice, Travel
gregbilsland
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