From Africa To Russia

Take my shower in the morning, air-dry on the walk back. Take the boat into Venice again, walk around a bit, see the Arsenal (a military building of some sort, I believe naval – there are fellows in white caps and outfits milling about) and the public garden. It is hot and I am tired. I was going to head across to the other island to go to the beach but I don’t think I’ll make it. I stop for lunch, and with the cost I just about give up on the idea of saving money on this trip, at least in Venice. The beverages in particular, any ingestible liquid is three euros minimum (and usually a lot higher). I order a beer and a wine anyway. A group of three from New York sit down at the table next to me, a nice bunch, we chat for a while. It is nice just to talk with someone for a while who is not looking at you like you are a turd. One of the women is from the town next to mine where I live in New Jersey, small world. I ask the guy how his trip is going. “I’m sick of churches,” he says. Head on back to the boat, after having dallied too long at lunch and having to jog it in to make it in time. Take a nap, lounge around, no World Cup at three on the TV, sad for me. The Italian chapter, and thus the southern leg of the journey is drawing to a close, soon to head north. At night I go over and watch France tie Switzerland, and hang out with Luis, Manfred from Germany, Toby from Poland, an English guy and an Australian originally from Macedonia. Truly an international cast.

Wake up, catch the boat to Venice, ticket is twenty euros for three days, unlimited trips. Families take pictures on the ferry, every little child has his own digital camera. We disembark. Venice is wonderful, it is all canals and alleyways, it is like time travel back three hundred years. But what is best is that there are no cars, just people ambling around on foot. Saint this, Saint that, the Catholics certainly were prolific. Churches, monuments, basilicas, soupy green water, canal-side palaces, shops, cafes, and of course the obligatory hordes of tourists with their cameras and tour guides. I see St. Mark’s square (where the pigeons almost outnumber the tourists) and Rialto bridge, then wander over to the train station to pick up my ticket for the next leg of the journey (where a nervy Italian tries to muscle his way in on the line – I stand my ground and decline him). Venice is a maze of narrow alleyways and squares, and without the helpful signs pointing you in a general direction would be a nightmare to navigate. I am walking around at one point, I pass by a restaurant in front of which a little man in a mustache is standing. “Prego, no servizo,” he says to me without any prompting, spotting an obvious tourist. A well-dressed Italian couple is following me. “Bonjourno,” he says with open arms, trying to draw them in to eat. I guess you just have to laugh. The irony is that without tourists, a place like Venice would be a third world island – that’s all they have, an endless succession of jewelry stores, trinket hawkers, cafes, clothes stores etc. I see a sign for World Cup and since I am tired I go in. Australia is playing and the place is full of Aussies in their early twenties on a tour, getting drunk and whooping it up. I chat with a Mexican girl and a girl from Chicago, both also on the tour, as well as a wacky kid from Los Angeles named Matt, who has multiple earrings and crazy hair and sweat bands on his arms, who is going to be an actor some day and talks exactly like Quentin Tarantino. The girl from Chicago is going to be a television producer. “It’s who ya know,” she tells me. I’ll bet. The whole world has gone completely mad. Where are the house builders, the pipe layers. I outlast the tour children, who go off for a pre-planned gondola ride, and get silly drunk watching the US lose to Czechoslavakia. I don’t really give much of a shit about soccer, but I find myself strangely upset at the result. I want the Americans to beat these pompous Europeans at their own game. When I go to pay the bill, the treacherous little cunts try to charge me for an extra beer (which are a full 14 euros a piece, extra large size). I call them on it and they relent. After, I wander back to the boat, traverse in blinding dying sunlight, find my cabin and collapse.

Take the train to Venice via Bologna. A hot Italian broad in the seat next to me, tossing and turning and talking to herself, vaguely agitated. Another guy reading a book and talking to himself, teaching himself Chinese. A Chinese girl gets on and he is delighted, they babble at each other. Four American punks sit guffawing California-style, the tough conductor comes over to them: “Follow me. I want to talk to you.” Get off, take the bus to the campsite, settle in. A nice little place, I have a cabin instead of a tent this time, but they have no towels for rent. I will have to air-dry. I get some pizza and watch a couple of World Cup games. More style and frat boy people creep out from under rocks at night, and I duck out of there. But in the bathroom on the way back, who do I see but Luis, who arrived a day before I did. It is a small world, especially along the eurail trail. That night, the cabin is cool and dark and I am anticipating a good night’s sleep, but a trio of French (one guy, two girls) show up in the cabin next door and coo and moan at each other at loud volumes for hours. I also find out that since the damn cabin is actually on wheels, it feels like I am at sea every time the frogs move.

I wake up at 8, less than refreshed. Get up, take a walk around on Michaelangelo, find out that the road actually makes a full circle back, which saves me some backtracking. Back down and into the city, I walk around a bit more, then find a nice dark bar to watch some more World Cup (this time England) with a couple of Scotsmen and a pretty waitress (originally from Romania) who grabs my arm a few times. The bathroom was designed for dwarves, the door is literally about five feet high and I almost knock myself out on it. After the game, walk back to the campsite, sit down (to watch more futbol) and chat with a frenetic girl from Buffalo named Jamie, who is all nervous energy. Her hair is frizzy, and the mania just flows from it like electricity. We drink a bottle of wine and make nice. I also get in a conversation with a stoic German fellow who is interesting but has a rather plodding verbal style which begins to tire me out. I drink wine and beer, watch a Brazilian guy desperately try to score with two Mexican chicks (unsuccessfully). At night it rains, finally. It comes in through the window, I roll over in the middle of the night into a puddle of water on my pillow.

I walk down a hill on a cobblestone street in the morning and across a bridge into Florence. It is an old city, steeped in history. The buildings look ancient and stylish. There are the expected hordes of tourists hungry for photos, stampeding in formation to get their shots. I check out the piazzas, the statues, the Duomo, and am impressed. One cannot do the Duomo justice with any one photograph, it is just too big. I think about going into a museum (maybe the Uffizi), but they charge like twenty euros per and I think that’s a bit steep and besides, visual artwork isn’t really my thing, so I pass. I grab some lunch near the Duomo (small portions of pasta again, and the hole-in-the-ground toilet from Tangiers). I am picking the lunch spots that are the most empty, where the proprietors come out and ask you to come in. At least I can be reasonably sure of not getting treated like shit. I walk around the city, and after go up to a park, watch the pigeons and the fountain and drink my beer. Off to the side, two pigeons are courting. The one is sort of pecking at the other’s neck gently, while she coyly leans back. It is touching, and I watch it for a while, just smiling. I walk back to the campsite, sit down in the tent and discover that the blister on my heel has reached unmanageable proportions, so I pop it. Pus goes everywhere. I am tired but I am forcing myself to stay awake at least until the sun goes down. I go to the terrace where they are showing the World Cup on TV, and Luis and Debra turn up. We spend the night talking and watching the game, along with a fanatical throng of futball fans. Luis and Debra are practicing members of the Baha’i faith (spelling?), which is a relatively new religion (1844 I believe) that shares traits in common with Islam. I discover they are not a couple, but brother and sister. Luis is an aspiring film director, and Debra has recently stayed in Belfast for a spell. I retire for the evening, climb in and go to sleep. It gets damn cold again, but this time I have my fleece on. My tent mate has a cold and cannot breathe through his nose, so I am treated to Darth Vader’s Second Symphony all night long. Someone behind has also decided to shine a freaking spotlight in through our window.

Needless to say I get no sleep and arise, tired as usual at 8 am. Go down to reception, the door and window are closed, there is a sign on the window, “went out to eat, will return”. I wait 45 minutes, have now missed my train. Finally a pair of German guys come and knock on the door. It turns out the guy has been in there the whole time, sleeping on the floor with some chick. I guess that’s about what I should have expected for ten euros a night. Now on the train to Pisa. Every train I take is different, they come in all shapes and sizes and seating arrangements. I watch as Italy passes by. Kerouac has definitely gotten to me, I walk down the Pisa streets with a big shit-eating grin on my face. Just absorbing it, soaking it in. The leaning tower definitely leans. Drink some beers, hike it back in with the rucksack pulling on me. Grab the return train in the nick of time. Storm clouds are rolling in, it hasn’t rained in eleven days. Arrive in Florence, hop on the #12 bus along with Luis and Debra, who I meet there at the bus stop. The bus has a computer monitor hanging from the ceiling. It goes this way and that, across a bridge and voila the camping ground. It is a cool arrangement, ready-made tents and beds, showers bar and food at a very cheap rate. The place is full of frat boy types, so I take a walk for a while. There is an amazing view of the city from the Michaelangelo Piazza. I drink it in. The night’s sleep is a very cold one, it definitely cools off at night in this here Italy, even in mid June. I huddle in the blanket to no avail.

In the morning, jump on the train to Milan, chat with a couple of Scottish lads down on holiday. Big soccer (futbol) fans, as everyone in Europe seems to be. Later on the train I chat with two pleasant Dutch girls, who won’t give their names when I introduce myself. Like I am really going to be able to track down ‘Kristina’ from Holland based on her first name alone if I am a stalker or something. They are heading to Florence. I tell them about the campsite there, and they say they might go. Get off train in Milan, map works fine to hostel, ‘Il Postello’. Il Postello is more of a commune then a hostel, and as it turns out the ten euros I pay is more like a cover charge for a dance club then a fee to sleep in a hostel. There is no sign on the wall outside, just graffiti and a little buzzer. I guess and hit the buzzer, jackpot, they let me in. There is an alternative looking chick working reception. I had e-mailed to reserve in advance, but since I didn’t call them two days ago to confirm they have deleted my reservation. But luckily, they have a spare bed anyway. There is a yard in back with other alternative, grungy looking folks lounging around. I look at them, smile, wave hello, get no response. Presumably, they are rebelling against the system but to me it just looks like another club with different uniforms. I am not dressed well enough for the stylish types out there; I am overdressed for the ones in here. I go out and walk around Milan a bit, see the Duomo and a big stronghold, snap some pictures and drink some beers. Jean-Francois and Isabel had warned me that the Italians were as bad as the French, but so far to me they look lively and much more sensible. Of course, everything is relative. I even get a few smiles from time to time, a few hellos. They still think I am the pickpocket though, and they don’t have any good, dark American style bars to hole up in and drink, only patios and terraces to sit out on and play look-at-my-jewelry. I go to the Giardini Publica, public garden, have another great panini whilst kids play around me and the adults chat. I walk up to the north, in a fenced in area of the park a group of tough looking guys are giving their tough looking dogs obedience lessons, they are teaching them to jump for branches and the dogs are barking a lot. The men look vaguely neo-nazi and I expect they are up to no good with them. I have to take a leak as I head back to Il Communo, but the goddamned Europeans insist on charging everyone for the honor of a toilet visit, so I duck into a parking garage and piss in the corner. I hear footsteps as I am finishing and scamper off. I feel a bit guilty, but really they deserve it; the concept of a pay toilet is ludicrous. What are the homeless supposed to do? Piss all over themselves? Hold it? Back to the commune, the indigents are starting to party but I am too damn tired, and besides I don’t think they would be too welcoming of the non-revolutionary in their midst. I get a distinct you-don’t-belong vibe again as I pass through. I read Kerouac for a spell out on the balcony, another guy is out there for a while, emaciated with a barbed wire tattoo around his arm but not sorority girl-style, possibly a junky. The place is starting to resemble a squatter’s flat. I lay down in bed and five minutes later the dance music starts. It is deafening, and only gets louder along with the crowd noise. The junky comes in and lays down. In a half an hour, the alternative receptionist chick opens the door, turns the light on and starts showing a dark Arabian the room, speaking as loudly as possible and stomping around the place. The Arabian begins to get comfortable, leaving the door open and the light on. He has brought with him a giant suitcase, a stereo system, a refrigerator, a compact car, 14 camels, and 10,000 plastic bags, which he continuously rummages through making loud crackling noises. His cell phone goes off. He has a long leisurely conversation. After a while he leaves. The junky gets up and shuts the door, turns out the light, goes back to bed. Five minutes later the Arab returns, throws the door open, turns on the light and then continues massaging his plastic bags. His cell phone goes off again.

The next morning, we grab some food at another sidewalk cafe. The waiter will not even look at us, we are beneath him. Jean-Francois and Isabel tell me that the people in Nice refuse to speak French with them, even though they are fluent in it. You try to pinpoint patterns, to discover what it is the French are objecting to, but the more you look you see that it is just a general baseless arrogance, and that their beef is just simply with anyone that is not them. We all go to the beach, la plage, which is all rocks, impossible to get comfortable on. I go in the water, it is freezing but refreshing. Joe and I go for a beer, then come back. I lie down for a while and get really sunburned (which will be interesting when combined with a backpack). Joe and I take a walk up to a castle with a waterfall, which sits up on a bluff overlooking all of Nice, quite a vista. Later in the afternoon we go back to the hostel. Rest for a bit, then go back downstairs to go to the convenience store. I walk out of the hostel and see a guy wearing a big helmet lunging at another guy with a knife. The first guy has apparently knocked over the other guy’s motor bike. Riding helmet man is fencing with his little knife in an aggressive stance. The other guy points to his head with both hands, “you’re crazy”, and goes to walk away, but riding helmet man advances once again. They square off again to face one another. This happens again and again. The whole thing looks completely ridiculous, and a crowd of people is gathering to watch. The French can’t even stand each other. That night we go out for mussels in Vieux Nice, all you can eat, delicious and served in a bottomless bucket. The waiters here are polite, professional, laughing and joking with the tourists. Makes good business sense, I am surprised it is so rare here.

In the morning, back on the metro to see Vieux Port. Marseille is a port city, working class, a bit dirty and rough around the edges, but not really as bad as say, Detroit or Newark or something. Along the docks, people are selling newly-caught fish of all varieties in stalls. Once again the backpack appears to surprise them. I walk up La Canabiere, it is hot and uphill a bit and I am tired, and signs are scarce. But I manage to find the train station, wait on yet another long line to get my ticket, and make the train with only seconds to spare. I sit and drink a beer once on board. Southern France shure is purty. Green hills, stuccoed villas, a glimpse of the sea occasionally. Get to Nice fairly quickly, walk around a bit, it is one of the more touristy places I have been. Grab a cheeseburger at McDonalds. It is also a bit sleazy, a few sex shops and the like. The people seem surly in general. I stop for a panini at a sidewalk cafe which is damn good. The French know food. People ride their mopeds around town, down alleyways, sometimes taking turns almost blindly. Controlled chaos. Go back to the hostel and nap a bit. Two more French Canadians walk in later on, and we stay up late along with a South Korean named Joe, chatting and drinking. At least they sell beer until late here. Jean-Francois and Isabel work in a hotel in Quebec City, and have decided to crash in Nice for a while. They are pleasant in the usual Canadian way, and I am glad for the company. Joe is studying English and is remarkably good with it, rarely asking for a repeat. He is quiet, friendly and polite.

In the morning the alarm goes off early, I almost kill myself getting out of the top bunk and shut it off. Stumble blearily to the station, catch the train to Marseille. It transfers in Montpelier, a little place in France with a park outside the station, where I sit and jot this down. Later, I get off the train in Marseille, no touristy signs or any signs of any type really (as expected), so I set off in a random direction. A few blocks down, a guy sits on a moped reading a magazine. I ask him for directions in tourist French. He pauses for a moment, deciding if he will help me or not. He decides yes, and gives me general directions in broken English. Still no signs, and I have been walking for some time, but I stumble upon a metro stop and, having a metro map handy, I decide to use it. The metro costs 1.70 euros, I hand the old woman in the booth a 5 euro bill. “Ca n’est pas suffit,” or something similar, and she hands the bill back. I hand her a 2 euro coin. She accepts it. I suspect this is a ploy to play Fuck With The Tourist, as I highly doubt it is that difficult to make change from a 5 euro bill. I get to Rond du Point Prado, wind down some streets for a while. The backpack is drawing surprised glances – I don’t think Marseille gets many backpackers. I find the hostel, tucked away in behind an apartment block with no sign. The hostel is full – this was one of the few places I hadn’t reserved in advance, since there was no online booking available. Shit. I am tired. I half decide to head back to the train station and push on towards Nice, since it is only six o’ clock or so. Back to Rond du Point Prado, I ask an old man if he knows any hotels. He points me that way. I go that way for a while, find nothing, then as I get back to the metro I decide to just check down the block a bit, and luck into a pretty reasonable hotel. Hallelujah. I go upstairs and crash. Taking the pack off, I find that my entire shirt is soaked through with sweat, and there are deep red marks running along my back and shoulders where the straps have been. I take a shower, which in France is a handheld device which seems awfully inefficient, since one hand is always occupied while scrubbing, washing etc. I decide to wash my clothes in the bathtub, fill it up and throw them in. I rest for a bit, watch the French Open, then go down on the street for some grub. There is exactly one restaurant within 50,000 kilometers of my hotel, which I quickly find out, and it is expensive Italian. Oh well. I sit down on the terrace and wait. The French at the tables around me are all dressed up, and take turns sneering condescendingly at things passing by on the street. The waitress spots me as foreign, and ignores me for a good half hour. I wait. She goes to all the other tables, hands out silverware, takes drink orders, takes a phone call. Finally I am allowed to order. I eat a large calzone with a coke, quite good. The waitress and her teenaged helper are back to ignoring me as I wait for the bill now. Another half hour, an hour. She goes to every other table five times. I am determined to stay polite and in control. “Ma’am?” I say as she passes. She pretends to not hear me. Finally I have had enough, and wave a credit card at her as she comes by. She babbles something in French at me rudely, and keeps walking, refusing to take it. I leave some cash on the table and walk off, disgusted. The French appear to have earned their reputation.