From Africa To Russia

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.