Hopscotching Around Central Europe—Part II

Prague—Take 1

We had been heading in the general direction of east through Europe. However we veered northward, as we're about to leave two of Europe's most important cities out.

Prague instantly felt different. Even on the train we could tell, namely from the party in the cabin next to ours. There was obviously beer (or vodka) involved, as deep throaty voices belted out one patriotic song after another. Actually I don't what they were singing, but they reminded me of Russian guys when they get drunk; they love singing about the Motherland. Whatever they were singing, it put a smile on everyone's face, mainly become one of the guys was completely off key.

We had entered a land completely foreign to us. The language was different (we didn't know a word of Czech), the currency was different (not being part of the Eurozone), the food was... well what was the food? What do Czechs eat?

Well here's our goulash story. When we pulled into Prague, and had to transfer from metro to tram, and got lots of angry looks in the process due to our bags bumping around hitting people... anyway, we were hungry. From the hostel we had to take another tram then metro to get to the centre. Chris was bent on seeing the Charles Bridge. But the rain started chucking down. We made is as far as the main square, which I have to say, on seeing the first time, took my breath away. There's nothing mediocre about Prague's main square. Every direction you look is some fantastic building. It's very Gothic, very Bohemian. There was a group gathered with their umbrellas by a giant belltower. It was near the hour so I figured the clock must do something special to bring out a crowd in the rain. Sure enough when the hour struck, tiny figures come revolving out of the clock and trumpets heralded. Everyone cheered. Okay, it was kind of exciting, but still the rain was chucking it down. We decided that we weren't going to continue to the Charles Bridge in the rain. There was no street food to be found, and we had found a cute little place aways back where we had seen goulash on the menu. That sounded so homey and comforting, especially in this weather. We headed back towards the goulash.

We should have taken the hint at the door. We were looking over the menu, trying to stay out of the rain. A man came out and shut the door. Whether he was trying to keep us or the rain out, it's hard to say. Anyway, the goulash looked good, and the price was good, so we went in.

Instantly we were ignored. In our time in Europe, it's hard to know exactly what the custom is in each place and how customer service is viewed. I was willing to give a little patience, as this wasn't exactly the U.S. standard of service. Europe isn't a tipping society, so staff aren't going the extra mile to make a customer happy. Sure, tips are given, but only in rounding up the bill. Ten percent is only given if the service is superb. Well, this service wasn't superb. It was fairly non-existent at first as we stood there dripping in the entrance. Finally a girl with red hair nodded at a table. After ignoring us for a few good minutes, she slapped some menus down (there is none of the “Hi I'm Emily, I'll be your waitress today” sort of thing. Actually that kind of service doesn't exist outside of the U.S.). We had decided fairly quickly what we wanted, but we waited an age for the waitress to come get our order. We tried making eye contact several times, and even though this was achieved, the waitress wouldn't come. It felt as if we were being snubbed. I had a feeling, just a feeling, and looking around, I noticed that the other patrons were dressed nicely. Nothing over the top, something like smart casual. Chris and I were casual casual, Chris wearing his Superman shirt (he loves that shirt) and my big clomping hiking boots. I didn't know if it was a snobbery thing, like if you dine in at a place you should dress up, or if it was evident we were not there to order their priciest bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Whatever it is, I didn't approve. Still I tried to find the humour in it.

Our order was finally taken. We ordered beers, and soon enough I felt an arm slam past my elbow as the waitress thumped down two jugs of beer. That had taken me aback, as she had been so abrupt, not even apologizing for jostling my arm. Still, I tried to chalk it up to Bohemian charm.

The food came, and it was good enough. You really can't complain for a restaurant meal for two for under $10. It was warming, the beer was good, we sat there and watched with curiosity as the waitress served the table next to ours. First of all, she put an empty tray down on our table as if we weren't even sitting there. Then she made a show of holding up a bottle of wine for them, and opening it. She discarded the foil and cork on the tray. She was taking her time serving them, and we just stared at her. She didn't seem bothered in the least. I watched Chris' face as he got more and more agitated. Finally one of the other waiters swooped by and removed the tray. I thought the whole thing was great. There comes a point where rudeness is so over the top it's hard to believe it's even happening. Chris was furious though, and when the bill came, he was pleased to see it was an exact figure, without change to be given. Seen as how there wouldn't be any rounding up, a tip wouldn't be needed. Though in the end Chris did insist on leaving something for our red-headed waitress. He fished through the deepest pockets of his wallet and found 3 pence there. That's British pence. Completely worthless in Britain, let alone the Czech Republic. Chris and I laughed all the way through the rain back to our hostel.

Mother Should I Build the Wall?

That was it for Prague. It was like a one-night stand, and not even a good one. We'd be back in two days. We had Berlin to see before giving this feisty minx another chance.

The train ride was fairly scenic. The tracks followed a river almost all the way up to the border of Germany. There was a Czech man and woman in our cabin, and I could tell without knowing their language that the woman hated him. She'd stare daggers in him every time he tried talking to her. Then she stomped on his foot. Chris and I looked like the Couple of the Year next to them.

I told Chris, without any uncertainty, that food was going to be needed as soon as we hit the main station in Berlin. This was not up for discussion. I was tired of always getting to the hostel first. Getting to the hostel in each city is hard enough. I needed fuel. Luckily we found a fish n chips place right as we got off the train. I never knew that Germans did fish n chips so brilliantly. They did it in a cone, in something that looked like a newspaper. It was a nice touch, considering that the Brits don't do it like that anymore (ink being toxic or something like that). We agreed that the meal was fab, then went to brave the Berlin transport system.

We got scolded at a lot in German that day, as I believe we were traveling during rush hour. Our bags were in the way as usual. I wanted to tell these people that it's not easy carrying around these things. Sorry for taking up your precious room. Don't make me bring up the war, people.

Our hostel was modernly fashionable in the only way a German hostel could be. There were pictures of a naked woman in various poses (she looked like she was suffering from menstral cramps) up and down our hallway. Right across the hallway from the pubic hair photo was our room. We had booked a private room, a real treat. What we ended up with was a whole dorm room to ourselves. The whole building had an institutional feel to it, as if it had been used for something else back in its communist days. Sure enough we found out that we were on the East side, not being that far from the wall. Just a block down from the hostel was a street with blue piping along it. Chris told me that once the wall came down they put up these pipes to outline where it had been. It's an interesting feature to the city.

We headed right into the heart of historic Berlin. The Bradenburg Gate. Other than the wall, I always thought it was the defining monument in Berlin. It's a happy place, where flags are waved and banners are held reading “Welcome to Berlin.” You can have your photo taken with German and American soldiers and have your passport stamped with an old East German stamp. Of course this is purely for the tourists, but it's fun to see nonetheless. The history of the gate is a lot less happy, as we were to see in pictures nearby. This whole area along this section of the wall was called the Death Zone. The gate was boarded up and unused for decades. The pictures are shocking, comparing the scene now and then. In the pictures it looked like nuclear fallout; the area was completely desolate. Nobody came near. Having one of their most defining monuments closed up and surrounded by such desolation, it must have broken the hearts of the people. The wall is so symbolic of absolute repression. How happy it is to observe it in touristy sections across the city, covered in bright graffiti.

We came across an open-air museum, free to the public. Old remnants of the wall ran along side it. It was called the Topography of Terror, and outlined with propaganda posters and historic pictures the rise of Fascism, and then the taking over of Communism. This was fascinating to me, as I had been trying to get my head around this whole thing. It remains too big for me to completely come to grips with. All I can say when it comes to this level of control over human beings is that people are willing to believe anything when they're desperate. Germany must have been in an incredibly depraved state in order for Fascism to take root. It doesn't make it right, but it provides a lesson. And hopefully that lesson has been learned.

On a lighter note, we came to Checkpoint Charlie. We didn't explore the museum (it was late in the day) but we did get to enjoy kebabs outside of it. We then did another hop on the subway and stopped by the huge television tower (mainly to use the bathroom). There was a trendy neighborhood nearby where you could see the young of Berlin relaxing. Mindful of our budget (we were way overbudget for this European stretch) we sighed and headed back to the hostel. We didn't do justice to Berlin, which only gives me hope that someday we'll be back.

Something really significant did happen in Berlin, and I'm not talking about no wall. I suggested to Chris that he dump the tent as it didn't look like we'd be camping anymore. The tent had been weighing him down from Day One and he’d been looking to get rid of it. Well, he left that tent in a wardrobe in the Plus Hostel in Berlin. Anyone needing a tent can go collect it (though I'm sure someone else has discovered it by now).

Prague—Take 2

Well we were back. This time the weather was perfect. We had been looking at weather forecasts for the remainder of our European trip and it was nothing but sunny skies all the way to Istanbul.

We checked into what happened to be a perfectly wonderful hotel. It's called Mosaic Hotel, and it was about the same price of a hostel. Chris was responsible for this one. Well done you, Chris. It felt like absolute luxury, chocolates on the pillow and everything.

I just asked Chris what we did in Prague this time around. His answer—we sat on the curb, got pissed and ate sausage. Oh, and we finally found Charles Bridge.

A Night of Horror in Bratislava

I was actually hoping it would be a bit scarier to tell you the truth. Back when I first watched the film Hostel, you couldn't have paid me enough money to stay in a hostel in Bratislava. In fact I don't think I would have gone anywhere near this capital city. But yeah, over time reason takes over. Plus Chris told me that the movie was actually filmed in the Czech Republic, which had me disappointed. The town had looked too medieval and quaint. I thought there might have even been gangs of wild youths around. Nope. Bratislava was modernly touristic and, surprise surprise, expensive. Part of the Eurozone, prices were greatly higher than the ones we had encountered in the Czech Republic. This was unfortunate, as we were anxious to try out the local speciality—smoked knees (whose knees, I have wonder). We ended up grabbing sandwiches from a grocery store and ate them in a square.

We walked the streets, and they were lovely enough, but I couldn't get a sense of the town. I saw Mozart's name in a few places (we couldn't rid ourselves of the guy) but other than that I don't know what Bratislava stands for. I guess we could have done one of the guided tours, but the prices turned us off. We ended up heading to a neighboring hostel to chow on spaghetti bolognese and get a free shot of something that tasted like window cleaner. That was our Bratislava experience. That and tetter-tottering in the park the next morning. We had to find a way to kill time before our train onward to Budapest. The weather was hot. We were starting to experience something close to perspiration. The farther east we went, the finer the weather. The worse the food, but ahh the weather.

So we did survive the night in Bratislava. We had gotten a private room named Budapest. It was a cute room with murals on the wall (of Budapest I could only guess). The lock was flimsy on the door. I thought maybe I should keep an eye open?? Maybe those window cleaner shots were not alcohol? Eh, we slept just fine. We lived to see another day.

Hopscotching Around Central Europe—Part I

I have to be perfectly honest. I grouped these cities together because these are the places that made the least amount of impression on me. It's not their fault. By this time we were halfway through our European stretch, and we had hit a sort of plateau on the excitement level. A lot of these places were starting to look the same. We'd visit the old town in each place we went, and lo and behold—a church, a square, maybe a bridge of some sort—you get the idea. We were cultured out. Also a lot of these places we had to hurry through because we had in it the back of our minds that we had to be in Istanbul by a certain date. We spent a great amount of time dilly dallying through France and Italy. Because of this Central Europe had to suffer. Germany and Czech Republic in particular I wish we would have devoted more time to. Anyway, this stretch of the journey was by no means regrettable. We did happen to have our fun, even though my cold was steadily morphing into a sinus infection, and the weather continued to harass us with rain. First up on our journey East—Austria.

The Sound of Music

The scenery was fabulous on our Munich to Salzburg stretch. I was happy to see that Austria was indeed “Sound of Music” country. The hills were alive with something. The whole part of our trip was based around this musical, thanks to Chris. I married this guy, not realizing at all he was such a huge fan of the film. He knew the words to just about every song, and shared knowlege with me that I otherwise wouldn't have known; such as the story that the youngest actress, who played Gretel. She was terrified of water, and when they did the canoe scene, they had to redo it again and again, because the poor girl was in tears at every take. See, I wouldn't have known this. Chris hummed tunes throughout our sojourn in Salzburg, though I had a hard time finding any elements of the movie there.

Salzburg may advertize “Sound of Music” tours and such, but the city seems more rooted in Mozart and other composers of that era. It is an oddly stiff city. Everyone seems just a bit uptight. Walking through the streets you can see that everything is on the formal side, and for backpackers like us, way too expensive. We were out of our depth here, wandering the streets like dirty hippies (well, we felt like dirty hippies). On the first day, we got out of the old town fairly quickly after checking out the prices, and just sat on the banks of the river. The day was sunny and we had a nice snooze. But when we woke up, we're like “Where do we go?” Chris acted the tour guide, and we headed to a park which he claimed some of the scenes from TSOM were filmed. The park did look slightly familiar, though the whole place smelled like manure. People were checking their shoes to see if they stepped in dog poo. It must have been the fertilizer for all the flowers.

We ended up in the old town again in the search for food. The only place we could see that would serve such scruffs as us was the sausage stand. We downed some beer and brats, standing at a portable bar. We watched children chase pigeons around, the pigeons flying into us many times. I would like to say that being a pigeon in this part of the world is not a bad thing. The bread Austrians use for sausages and the like is incredibly flaky. In fact it was a good thing we were eating on the street. Half the bread ended in flakes on our laps. So I didn't feel too bad for the pigeons that were flapping about. They could have flown off for good, but they knew that there were crumbs a plenty once we stood up.

That night we stayed in a dorm room that slept about ten people. After the cute comfortable room in Fussen, this one seemed quite sterile. Nobody talked to each other, coming and going without a word. If you said hi to someone, they would look at you like you were crazy. Everyone went to bed and got up at different times, and this was hard for me, as I like the light on and off at my will. One guy got up at 2:00 in the morning and we had to hear him shuffling about. Chris and I were fairly early risers, so we had to be as quiet as possible as the others slept around us. I knew that by giving up camping, we'd have to sleep as cheaply as possible in Europe. I couldn't complain. Still it wasn't nice. There was a lot to be tolerated. I was starting to feel my age.

The hostel had a redeeming quality in that it served up a fantastic breakfast. This meant a deviation from the standard bread and tomato slices. We actually could help ourselves to hard boiled eggs and canned peaches. This is exciting stuff in hostel world life.

The weather was gray and dismal. How do we spend a day in one of the most expensive cities we've been to, without any standout sights to see? Well I had done my homework, on behalf of my hubby, and found that some scenes from TSOM were filmed in a place called Hellbrunn, just right outside of town. We could catch the bus there.

Hellbrunn exceeded any expectation that I had (I didn't have any to be quite honest). It was a rural setting, the mountains lumbering in the background. The grounds were massive. I couldn't particularly see TSOM other than the pavilion that was used in the “16 going on 17” scene (it's the authentic one). Hellbrunn was delightful with its ponds and swans and jovial statues. We had bought tickets to something called the “Trick Fountains.” It was a guided tour of some gardens; gardens with an extra kick to them we were to find out.

I instantly fell in love with our tour. There were only five English speakers in our group, but the tour guide took the time to interpret to us. The gardens at Hellbrunn, we were to find out, were actually a sort of waterpark for the rich, back in the hot summer days of another era. The duke would invite guests to dinner in his garden, they'd all be sitting there eating their duck consume or whatever, and then have water squirt up through their seats into their arses. Oh you could imagine what a chuckle that would give as all the ladies yelped. The duke's chair wasn't rigged as the others were, so the duke stayed dry.

The gardens were heavily rigged, and you never know when a squirt of water was coming your way. The tour guide seemed most bent on squirting the kids of the group, and then me. I had water shooting at me every which way. It was a drizzly day as it was, so we were bound to get wet, but there's something so enjoyable about getting squirted with water. It was good fun. More than the fountains, the gardens were full of playful spectacles, such as the mechanical village. Operated by water, a little village came to life with tiny figures going round about on wheels. It was a cuckoo clock times a thousand. We also walked through grottos and watched statues come to life. It was playful and witty and thoroughly enjoyable. The Sound of Music it was not. It felt like we had discovered something better.

The mansion itself is filled with oddities. The duke was a collector, and each room was themed. It was alright. We passed through relatively quickly and continued on to the museum at the top of a hill. It was a folklore museum displaying different masks and susperstitions items of the peasant population in Austria. It seemed comical, especially in comparison to Salzburg, which took itself too seriously.

We followed some paths, not knowing where they would go. We came across a place called Theaterstein which was a theatre cut out of rock. We had approached it from the back, and before we knew it we were climbing the rocks. It appeared to be a theatre for dwarfs, or maybe the rock had been worn down with time. It was very hard to squeeze ourselves around. We continued down the path and came to a viewpoint, looking out across the Alps. There were benches and a few couples sat there. Nobody talked; we all just took the view in. No words are needed in times like that anyway. The scenery speaks for itself.

Hellbrunn had proved itself a good trip out of the city. We returned to Salzburg with a smile on our faces. And if that wasn’t enough, it was Sound of Music night at the hostel. That means that at 7:30, the movie was played in the lobby. At first it was just me and Chris and few others who were in the lobby for the wifi. But then a group of young girls moved in, Australians, who it appeared were on a school trip. Their chaperons joined them, and everyone watched it quietly. If I laughed at a scene, someone would turn to glare at me. Of course I was drinking wine, and Chris was drinking beer, so we were a bit more jovial than the others. But some of the chaperone moms were drinking wine as well, so as the movie moved on they began to sing along with the songs and whatnot. I've always said it—booze makes everything better. I've never watched TSOM half-drunk before. It was quite nice. It was also fun to point out the places we recognized, such as the fountain in the square, or the park scene, or the yellow walls at Hellbrunn. It was a nice evening, and a great last impression of Salzburg.

Blue Danube My Ass

Our next stop, only a three-hour train away, was Veinna. I feel bad about this, but I can't remember much about Vienna. My sinus infection was causing me concern, and I was trying to stay out of the rain as much as I could. I was blowing stuff out of my nose into kleenexes; stuff that I had never seen before. It was so fascninating that I would have to show Chris. It was like something you'd find inside the bun of a Burger King Whopper, that mixture of ketchup and mayonnaise (and yes, this has put me off Whoppers for life). Anyway, sinus infection aside, Chris and I were tired. We ventured out into Vienna anyway. It had a completely different feel from Salzburg. In fact, it had a completely different feel all together. We were starting to get the sense that we were in the East. Something on the edge of Soviet perhaps; it's hard to tell what we detected. But Vienna definately had a different feel to it.

We set off with a map but that didn't help much. We didn't know what there was to see. I told Chris I had to see the Danube, as there were so many waltzes from Viennese composers about this beautiful river. We passed through the old town, turning down flyers for concerts handed to us from men in wigs. This was Mozart central, but once again we found ourselves not giving a crap. Nothing wrong with Mozart. We just couldn't afford anything that had to do with him.

We came to a ribbon of water outside of the old town that I took to be the Danube. But it was brown and ugly. We walked down some steps and followed it for awhile, but the graffiti and garbage were taking away from any beauty it might have given. Where was my Blue Danube? I still don't know. But I was sure the tourists didn't come here to see it. Perhaps we were walking beside a tributary. Whatever it was, it was dismal. We turned back to the town.

We did happen to come across some pretty impressive buildings. Vienna had that old world elegance to it, like you could feel that it was a significant city at one time. The buildings were a bit on the dirty side, as if restoring them wasn't a top priority in this city. The size of them were impressive enough, and I spent about a minute trying to envision the glamour and culture that existed here at one time. But then Chris and I gave up and headed back to the hostel.

Where the buildings had failed to impress us, the street performers stepped in and grabbed our attention. The first was a dance troupe of witty, but rough, breakdancing teenagers. One of them had the ability to spin on his head at different speeds, and this was impressive enough to me. They entertained us for about a minute or so, then we walked down the street to find a group of people just standing around this guy with dredlocks, supposedly levitating in midair. Everyone was bewiledered by his little trick. I wasn't as taken with him as the others. I saw something like this before in York, where some guy seemed suspended in midair, with just a stick in hand to keep him grounded. Obviously it has to be something to do with the stick. People were waving their hands around below him, as if there was an invisible chair there. In contemplating this trick, I see that there's probably some kind of brace there to hold him up. Granted the stick would have to be grounded fairly good to hold the weight, which leads me to think of these street “performers” and when they set up. They'd have to do it when no one's around, right? I mean you can't have the trick given away from people standing around watching. So do they set up early in the morning or what, and just sit there all day? That's the real mystery to me.

If there was more to Vienna, I don't remember it. Forgive me Vienna, we probably didn't do you justice. Chris and I were grappling with our impression of Austria as it was. The Austrians seemed like a serious bunch, not really extending a friendly hand or even a smile. They spoke German, but it wasn't Germany. The Austrian culture, I just don't get it. I like to think of Hellbrunn though, and the playfullness of the gardens there. There is fun in Austria, you just have to go out and find it.

 

Germany—The Romantic and the not-so-Romantic

We had arrived in Munich around 7:00 in the morning. The train station there was huge and we were able to find decent food fairly quickly. This meant a cup of tea for me and a soft pretzel. The pretzel had been cut like a sandwich and had butter spread in the middle. It was fantastic.

We were at a loss of what to do. I knew little about Munich, apart from its beer halls (and it was too early for those). I had always envisioned Munich as this cute fairy-tale type place, nestled in the Alps; a place full of cuckoo clocks and Heidi-type figures.  Firstly, Munich isn't located in the Alps. Those mountains we had seen on the way here? Those were a world away. Secondly, Munich is in no way cute. It is a modern city. There are no Heidi-type figures walking the streets. No yodeling, no lederhosen. What were the sights again?

Since no maps were available, we just had to venture out. We only headed in the direction we did because a big church was looming off in the distance, as usually these big churches indicated the old section of a city. We lucked out. We ended up right were we needed to be.

Marianplatz had rung a bell with me. It's supposed to be the main square in Munich. But I couldn't see the appeal of it. There were some big buildings there, but they were covered in scaffolding (a common sight at many of Europe's main attractions). Nothing was happening in the square. It was still too early. Most places in Europe don't open to at least 9:00. Munich had the feel that it hadn't quite woken up yet.

We discovered a market nearby. The whole street smelled of BBQ pork. I realized that it was from all the sausage that was being cooked. We had found the sausage capital of the world! It did smell heavenly. But again, the vendors were just setting up. We got to look, but couldn't actually buy anything. I was hankering for a brat, but it would just have to wait.

 

A side note to those who may remember my whole stance on eating meat. Well, as good as Chris and I were in 2011, we had to be realiastic towards our travels. Choices are a lot less liimited when you're traveling, especially if you depend heavily on street food. Also we wanted to experience the local specialities—yes, sausage in Germany being among them. When we settle back down into normal life, where we do all the cooking, we'll probably go back to our pescatarian ways, but in the meantime—is that BBQ I smell? Okay, end of side note.

Being in Marianplatz, we were right where we needed to be to catch the tram to Dachau. Dachau is town, a suburb really, just to the north of Munich. Its name is unfortunately tied up with the name of the concentration camp that existed there.

We rode the tram, our moods sombre. There is nothing exciting about visiting a concentration camp. I wondered what effect it would have on me. The Holocaust is something that I studied more or less on my own, taking out all kinds of books from the library. It was a subject that I tried to get my head around for a long time. I'm still getting my head around it, even more so after visiting Dachau. What's astounding is the camp's proxity to the town. Those people would have had to have known. Fear is a mighty thing, but how could people just stand by and close their eyes to it? It's the whole machine that perplexes me—how something of this scale could be allowed to happen. This is what I'm trying to get my head around.

Sure enough, I broke down in Dachau. Just walking through the gatehouse, where within the bars it read “Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work Makes You Free), made me feel all kinds of emotions. Those people who had walked through the same gate—did they feel hope in reading these words, or did they already know it was a lie? Did they already know that they were doomed?

It's to be noted that Dachau was mostly a work camp. It was the first concentration camp, and it was a model for the other camps. There was a cremetorium that at Dachau, but it was never used. It was never an extermination camp the way Auschwitz and some of the others camps were. Still, there was a heavy loss of life, mostly from the deplorable conditions. The workers were overworked and underfed. The bunks, which at first glance look adequate and spacious, had four people crammed into a place designed for one. There was unimaginable filth. Cholera and other diseases took numerous lives. The stench of death must have reached the residents in the town. How could they have not known?

We walked around the museum trying to absorb every testimony and story. There were many groups that had been sent here, not just the Jews, but the Jews had been treated worse than anyone. They were already seen as dead, so it didn't matter how badly they were treated. The guards even seemed to have fun degrading them, humilating them, lowering them to something less than human. For anyone to have come out of this camp, or any of the other camps, and keep one's sanity is unbelievable to me. On a postive note, many of the stories, and even the film we watched, brought out the examples of humanity that were displayed in such extreme conditions. Amongst the barbed wire and rubble, there is a sign of hope that humanity can pull through. I'm glad I visited Dachau, but I'm still trying to get my head around it.

It was almost noon by the time we had finished exploring Dachau. It felt slightly wrong, but we were hungry and there was a nice cafeteria there at the visitor's center. Currywurst was advertized on the lunch board, so as wrong as it felt, Chris and I went for it. And it was delish.

The Madness of King Ludwig

In the afternoon we caught the train out to Fussen, an Alpine town right on the border of Austria. We were heading out to those snow-capped mountain peaks. Finally, Bavaria as I had imagined it.

This was a section of the trip that was a must for me. I had fallen in love with King Ludwig back when I was in my teens. I was going to pay homage to him, or to his madness, or his genius—whichever way you look at it. Neuschwanstein has been on the top of my list ever since I can remember. There was no way I was leaving Europe without seeing it.

It came sooner than later. I had imagined the castle nestled in some mountain crag, requiring an arduous hike to even catch a glance at it. However, after leaning my head out of the train window, I squinted my eyes and asked Chris, “Is that it?” I never knew, from the tiny town of Fussen, you can actually see the famous castle.

It gets better. Our hostel sat just down the road from the old part of the town. And yes, even from the road, you could see Neuschwanstein. From our hostel room you could see it. And at night, it was lit up. It seemed almost too good to be true (for a Ludwig fan like me).

This was the first hostel proper I had stayed in. In my life. It meant sharing a room with others, which has never really been my thing. We were staying in a room of eight. It wasn't as bad as I had thought. We fell into conversation with a boy named Sam. He was born in America but was living in Australia. He was traveling Europe by himself and was quite self-assured. We invited him to join for a visit into town to have some brats and beer. He said he'd come look for us after he finished reading “Wuthering Heights.”

Chris and I headed out into Fussen. This is the town of fairy tales, of cuckoo clocks and everything Heidi-esque. It's full of backpackers, but doesn't feel overly touristy. Or maybe it was just the off season. We really loved Fussen.

We situated ourselved in a bar by the river. The beer here was so cheap. Even though I'm not a beer-drinker, it was the cheapest thing on the menu. Chris drank something called King Ludwig Dunkel while I drank something light. We kept an eye out for Sam but he never came.

Our hostel room was so cute, almost done up like a kid's room. The hostel was run by a gregarious Bavarian guy who loved to laugh and lavish attention on his guests. The place had a homey feel to it, and everyone got along. Sam was in the room when we returned and he said he had looked for us, but apparently he hadn't gone far enough. He was going to see the castles the next day, as were we, but told us he wasn't a morning person. I had heard that it was going to rain heavily in the afternoon, so Chris and I planned to head off early. Thankfully we fell asleep quite easily despite others going to bed at different times.

The next morning I'm pleased to say I discovered Nutella. It's amazing that I've lived my whole life without ever trying it before. And now I have, and I'm a happy girl. That's all I have to say about that.

Chris and I started off early as planned. The day was misty and drizzly, but at least it wasn't heavily raining. With a map in tow, we took the path off into the mountains. It had been unclear how long the walk would be (somewhere between twenty minutes and an hour and a half); maybe we were slow walkers, but it took us a good hour or so to reach Hohenschwangau, the first of the two castles.

King Ludwig had spent some of his childhood at Hohenschwangau, the original Swan Castle. It's a gold-coloured castle, something straight out of a picture book. It was mainly a vacation castle, full of fanciful murals and swan decour. Young Ludwig had been inspired by his time there. No doubt he had looked out across the mountains to a location where he dreamt of building his own castle some day.

King Ludwig was an interesting character. He wasn't much of a politician. In fact he loathed politics. What he did love was building castles. He admired the works of Wagner, and no doubt was inspired by his operas. He had a taste for the theatrical. Ludwig used his own money to build his fairy-tale castles, though he ended up with much debt. He wasn't popular amongst the ruling class, but he was loved by his own people. He'd do crazy things like ride around in sleights in winter and visit the peasants. He brought lots of work to the region with his castle-building, and all around I don't think he was too bad of a guy. However he had enemies in high places and was soon removed as king, deemed unfit to rule. And that was how he got the title of Mad King Ludwig, although he had never been officially diagnosed as mentally unstable. Soon after his dismissal as King, Ludwig was found dead with his doctor in a lake outside of Munich. To this day they don't know if it was a murder or a suicide. It's just part of the mystery of Ludwig.

In seeing his master work, Neuschwanstein, I think I got to understand the guy a bit better. He was definitely a dreamer, no doubt about that. The location he picked for this castle is nothing strategic, although it was built on the ruins of a fortress. The castle's built on its own little mountain peak. Down below is a valley, with a thundering waterfall. I could only imagine how this would all look on a clear night under a full moon.

The castle's impressive from the outside, but only from a distance (in my opinion). It is great looking at it from different angles as you walk up. Much to my disappointment, the whole front of the castle was covered in scaffolding. Damn that scaffolding! It really did upset me. I came all this way, to see my castle like this? But I did get a good surprise. I really enjoyed the tour of the inside. It was completely over the top, but I loved it. King Ludwig never finished the castle. In fact only a fraction of the space is used. Only six weeks after his death the castle was made into a museum. Chris found the castle to lack substance, especially because Ludwig had only spent something like sixteen days there. But I loved it. I loved the theatrics of it. I think I understand what Ludwig was trying to achieve, and how a place like this would swell in the mind of a dreamer. As a fellow dreamer, I say well done, Ludwig. Well done.

The weather was about to turn nasty. We hurried onto a bridge behind the castle to catch the grand view, the money shot if you will. We had had the whole bridge to ourselves, but then suddenly a whole bus of Asians had unloaded somewhere, and we couldn't take a step on the bridge without a camera lens in our face. I really wanted to get off the bridge. How many Asians can a wooden bridge take?

We took the long way down through the woods. Then passing by Hohenschwangau once again, we took a trail leading in the direction of Swan Lake. It sounds romantic, but Swan Lake isn't much to look at. There aren't even any swans on it. But the mountain setting is magnificent. As we were rounding the lake we saw someone coming our way, and to our surprise it was Sam. He had finally gotten out of bed. He was heading towards the castles, but the weather was turning nasty. I'm glad Chris and I had gone as early as we did.

Chris and I returned to the hostel and took naps. Outside the window Neuschwanstein was shrouded in fog. Sam was to tell us later that it was hailing up there. He met us for a drink that night at the bar by the river. We sat and had some good conversation. When it was time to go, we decided on getting some kebab. We had seen some advertized along the way. When we showed up at the take-away, they were fresh out of kebab. We were so disappointed, having a real hankering for it, but they suggested we try the Turkish pizza. It went down really well after the beers. In fact, why is Turkish pizza not more well known? It was spicy, it was dripping with kebab filling goodness--Britain could be making a fortune with this kind of take-away fare. Filled, and happy to be in such a wonderful place, we headed back to the hostel and tried to be quiet as we stumbled to bed.

We had to leave the next day. We hadn't scheduled enough time for Bavaria. I must return some day to see this corner of the world. It's not just the mountain setting, but the villages and the history and the stories and exist in these kinds of places. Plus I am Bavarian. At least a part of me is, from somewhere down the line. Beer and sausage are in my blood.

Time to Say Goodbye

I was vey excited to be heading to Venice. It's unlike any place on earth. I don't care how many canals any other city may have (Amsterdam, tip your hat in recognition), nothing comes close to Venice.

I had been to Venice before, however that had been merely a daytrip from Tuscany. This time around, I had booked two glorious nights in this fantastic place (thanks to a reccomendation from a Rick Steves' book). I had always thought Venice to be incredibly expensive. I was pleasantly surprised, not just from the price of our room, but from everything else we encountered along the way.

Chris had never been before. I was secretly thrilled to witness his reaction to it. Crossing over the lagoon, we could feel we were entering a whole new world—a world where cars and other motor vehicles did not exist. We stepped out of the main train station and were immediately hit with the charm that is uniquely Venice. The Grand Canal was before us; the instant bustle of a place you can only imagine from the movies.

On our way to the hotel, we noticed the abundance of take-away food, and were pleased to discover that Venice was well within range of our backpacker budget. Pizza was readily assessible and cheap. They sold it in big slices, like the way they do in New York City.

Our hotel was down a back alley, not far from the main sites. Rick Steves' did well in his recommendation. We were upgraded to a room with its own bathroom. Sure it was located across the hallway from reception, and the guy out there could probably hear everything going on in our room (we were listening to music videos really loud at one point—cheesy 80s videos, the best kind), but it was more than sufficient.

It's incredibly easy to get lost in Venice. It actually doesn't matter if you do. Eventually there will be a sign that points in the direction of the Rialto or San Marco. Those are the biggest attractions of the island. The Rialto is the main bridge over the Grand Canal. There are shops on both sides, and three sets of stairs crossing over (take that Ponte Vecchio!) San Marco is the main square, boosting St. Mark's Cathedral, the Doge's Palace and the oldest digital clock in the world. The square is packed with tourists and pigeons. Just around the corner is the Bridge of Sighs (more impressive by name than it is in appearance). I told Chris after seeing these main sights we could go anywhere in Venice. Afterall, the real main attraction of Venice is Venice itself, its backstreets, mulitple bridges and of course, the canals.

You cannot lose with Venice. You will win everytime. Even though it's ultra-touristy, and smells of sewers, and barely has any real residents left on it. It's a living piece of history. It's not a themepark; doesn't even come close to feeling like one. The city is steadily sinking back into the lagoon. If sea levels rise, Venice will most certainly be gone. Venice Las Vegas doesn't come close to the experience, not even with the gondola rides. Visit Venice, that is all I can say.

Chris and I had walked ourselves into nap-mode. We made our way back to the hotel. On our way, walking past many hawkers and street performers, we rounded a building and were hit full force with the voice of an opera singer. I believed it to be someone playing a CD, but there in a tiny square was an actual man singing. It stopped us dead in our tracks. It had stopped other people as well, and we all just stood there staring unbelievably. This man was so good. It's not every day a voice can stop you like that, make you forget what you were doing.

He was singing “Ave Maria.” He wouldn't make eye contact. He almost looked bashful. as if he didn't want people looking at him. Occassionally he would acknowledge someone, if money was dropped into his box. He'd give them a deep bow, still not making eye contact. He was very humble, even with this amazing voice. What a wonderful man.

After our nap we headed back out into the streets. It was night now, and most of the tourists had left (most of them our daytrippers, arriving and leaving by boat). We had Venice largely to ourselves. Indeed Venice is very different at night. The backstreets are dark and you can hear water lapping everywhere. You feel like you're a character in some movie, slinking through the streets, walking towards or away from something exciting. This may sound dangerous, but there wasn't that feel to it at all. Venice felt very safe at night. Maybe the pickpocketers are out during the day, but we found no shady characters in those alleyways, just mostly venders closing up for the night or resteraunteers.

We sat in San Marco Square, amazed at how deserted it was. The tide was coming in and bubbling up through manholes throughout the square. There were few patrons sitting at the restaurants that lined the square, nonetheless, the bands continued to play. There was a band on one side playing classical movie pieces such as 'Star Wars' and 'ET'. On the other side was jazz. We got a free show, considering we didn't eat at these expensive restaurants. Rather we grabbed some pizza on one of the back alleys; more of those monster slices. It was a good night.

Killing Time

Our train the next day was to leave at 11:30 p.m. That meant we had a whole day to kill. I'd like to tell you we filled it doing amazing things, but mostly we just slept in the park. We hung out at McDonalds for a good portion of the day, taking advantage of the free wifi. We stayed in one place as long as we could, just to stretch the time out. I can say with assurance that I have seen Venice. I think we covered close to every inch of it.

We were fortunate with the weather. It was blue skies the whole day. It was the perfect kind of day to kill time in. Towards the end of the afternoon, as we were heading back towards the hotel to reclaim our bags, we spotted the opera man in the same square we had seen him the day before. It looked like he was setting up, so Chris and I lingered, hoping he would do another performance. We lingered a very long time, trying not to make it obvious we were there for him. Finally he started his music, and started pacing. He looked so nervous. He let a whole song go by without singing one note. We were wondering if he had stage fright. We looked away, letting him do his thing without us watching. Finally it appeared he had built up the courage, and out he came with “Sole Mio.” It was the same kind of goosebumps we had felt the day before. His voice just filled the entire square. Again people were stopping in their tracks as they walked past. I loved watching the reactions on people's faces when his voice hit them. With all the street performers in Venice, none came close to grabbing attention like this opera singer.

A few songs later, we moved closer to him, sitting on the base of a fountain. He had had his eyes downcast in that humble way of his, so it kind of threw us for him to look in our direction and announce “Andrea Bocelli.” To my utter delight, the notes to “Time to Say Goodbye” began to play on his iPod. This to me is the quintessential escape-to-Italy song. He sang it perfectly, building as the music built, bringing it home at the very end. It was almost as if he was singing it for us. Maybe it was presumptious to think that, but at the end he adressed us again, and said “For you, your favourite song” and began to sing “Ave Maria.” He had remembered us from the day before. That made us feel special, and we tipped him greatly. We even went up to shake his hand. He acknowledged that he had seen us yesterday. He was a wonderful man. I hope anyone who reads this blog and goes to Venice seeks out the opera man. He seems to sing late in the afternoon, in a tiny square just down the road from the only McDonalds in town. I hope he might have the same effect on you as he had on us.

The Overnight Train

We were actually looking forward to our accommodation for the night. In an attempt to save money, we booked seats on the overnight train from Venice to Munich. We didn't even bother to book sleepers (if it was a German train, the seats had to be first-class anyway. That was our thinking). After we had collected our bags from the hotel, we headed down the street towards the station. It had started raining, and the street was slick in the darkness. We had arrived super early at the station, having several hours to wait it out. In that time Chris made friends with a lame pigeon. The poor pigeon had a club foot, and was just hobbling about. We tried to gain its trust by holding out Altoids (we were to find out that pigeons don't care much for Altoids). Then the poor pigeon fell asleep near our feet, and we were very near wanting to fall asleep ourselves. I went outside for some fresh air and viewed Venice for the last time. The view of the Grand Canal, even in the dark, is amazing. Oh I do love Venice.

The train had pulled in an hour early. We climbed aboard to claim our seats. It was the dreaded cabin-type train (which means there are six seats put together in enclosed sections). This was the kind of train we had rode with that sleeping Italian family, and the intimicy with strangers is too great for my liking. Plus the train was rickity and smelled. Where was the German engineering I had been hearing about? As it turned out, we were lucky because no one joined us in our cabin. There were people around us, but we closed the curtains to our section, switched off the light, and tried to get some sleep.

We were first visited by a ticket man, who flipped the light on without apology. We handed our tickets over, and to be honest, we thought that would be it. We laid out, spreading ourselves across the seats, and planned on sleeping straight to Munich.

As if. At every stop, a ticket man would go through the carriages. Sure the stops weren't frequent, maybe every hour or two. But when the train would stop, it would stop for good. The air in the cabin would shut off and you could clearly hear the bangings of doors and whatnot as more people boarded the train. It was a huge commotion every time the train stopped. Some of the stops were about an hour long, and they would add carriages to the train which meant lots of noise from the outside; clanking and grinding and thumping. At first we didn't know what was going on, it was so loud. It sounded like they were disassembling the train. We met people out in the hallway who said this was normal, and was going to be happening throughout the night. To me this was unbelievable. I had thought the night train was for sleeping. Silly me.

Chris and I slept in increments, between stops and between ticket checks. We also had to deal with passport patrol, the officials having no qualms in waking us, flipping on the light and staring down at us scarily. This whole overnight train was a nightmare to me. It was hard to know what was going on, and with German being spoken on this rickity old train, it very much seemed that the SS were onboard and ready to find us and torture us in some way. In the wee hours of the night in an unfamiliar place, such thoughts come easily.

We had managed to sleep a few hours at a time. The ticket man had come, and so had yet another passport patrol. We thought we were good for awhile. But then all of a sudden the light comes blaring down at us and a crazy German woman was thrown in with us, thanks to the ticket man. This woman was ranting in German. She clearly had been drinking. It didn't take any knowledge of German to understand that she was raving mad. Thanks ticket man!

We then knew any chances of further sleep were gone. Chris and I sat up and tried to move as far away from the crazy lady as possible. She was still talking to herself. At one point she turned to Chris and tried to extend her rant to him. Chris apologized with his hands and said "English." He may as well have been telling her he had worms. She looked at him disgustingly and shook her head. I had to laugh out loud. This was all too funny.

After awhile I squeezed past the crazy lady (who had fallen into some kind of drunk slump) to visit the bathroom. There I discovered two things: it was getting light outside, and we were now in the Alps. The combination of the early morning light and the dramatic scenery cleared my head ever so slightly. When I got back to our cabin, I pulled the drapes open and tugged down the window. The air was fresh and the mountains were snow-capped and magnificient. We were in a whole new world now.  Soon we would be rolling over the German border (we were still in Austria) and into Bavaria. This section of the trip would be completely new to me. I was now excited for schnitzel and lederhosen. The overnight train had been shockingly bad, but we had made it, crazy lady and all.

 

Culture and Kleenex

Our original plan was to head up to the Lake District. There was a campsite right on the edge of Lake Como that I had been envisioning forever. The idea was to take the train to Lugano, right on the edge of Switzerland, and walk across the Italian border. I was in Switzerland back in 1995. Having never made it to the Italian canton, I really wanted to explore this region. The Google Images of Bellagio and the like had me all dreamy eyed for this section of our trip. However, a few horrified looks at the weather forecast and the dream began to subside. Snap decision—we'd head to Florence instead and get a room at a hostel.

We boarded the train in the early morning. We had purchased tickets and were issued assigned seats. It was unfortunate, because it meant waking up an entire Italian family that was asleep in our assigned cabin. There were kids sprawled all over the seats, and in our presence, they had to be shifted. The mother now had to hold her son on her lap. Chris and I felt very guilty, but the ticket man was on our side. Indeed the seats were assigned to us. The husband sat directly across from me, and I was sure he glared at me for the entire three-hour ride to Pisa. I was very happy to get off that train.

Unique Much?

Chris wanted to visit Pisa. I told him it's basically a bunch of tourists standing around trying to photograph themselves holding up the Leaning Tower (or pushing it down, or kicking it over, or any other variation that has them posing in odd ways). Sure enough, Pisa is just that. It was when I went back in 1996, and it still is. The only thing missing was the gypsies. I had warned Chris that the gypsies gather at the ticket area, crowding around the tourists and distracting them while picking their pockets. When I was there before, I saw a man from our tour group get pickpocketed right before our eyes. I told Chris to wear his money belt as this was a risky part of our trip. I must have sounded quite daft telling him all this. There were no gypsies. There was also no line for tickets. We could walk right in to 'The Avenue' as they call it. Some things do get better over time.

The Leaning Tower is just as I remember it. It's still leaning. Tourists are allowed in, which I don't remember from before. I was also suprised to learn, from reading the info boards, that the Tower dates back to the 12th century. I had always thought of it was a Renassaince piece. I was becoming more and more impressed with it, but as we walked on, we experienced what Pisa is really about.

The tourists here are insane. They're all tripping over one another to get just that right Pisa shot. Most of these tourists, I might point out, are Asian, and they take this photographing challange seriously. Some people, like me, are content just to stand on one of the pillars surrounding the green; a little swivel to the side, a hand raised ridiculously into the air, a smile plastered to their face, telling their partner to hurry up before they fall.

It's really a exercise in teamwork, mastering this infamous shot. The person taking the picture has to get just that right angle, all the while instructing the other person how to pose. The person on the pillar has to practice patience, as they smile stupidly, fully aware that they look like an idiot. The pillars are round and not exactly easy to stand on. Many a poser fall off, like my hubby, who banged his leg up pretty good in his attempt. This task is not for the faint of heart. In fact I wonder how many relationships have ended right on this green in Pisa.

Surrounded by tourists falling over themselves to get this shot, Chris and I decided to escape to the green where we laid down for awhile. The sky promised rain, but graciously held off for us. We we were entertained by a group of boys playing rugby on the green, a bit shocked in fact by how terrible they were. In the entire time we watched them, not one of those boys caught the ball. Not one. The ball came dangerously close our heads a couple of times, and I don't even think that was their plan. The game was suddenly interupted by a pudgy guard who came and took their ball away, thus sparing everyone around.

Chris and I decided it was time to head back to the station. We stopped for lunch along the way, and had the most fantastic pasta, sitting outside under an umbrella, watching the rain start to fall. Our luck with the weather had run out.

Rest in Florence

My cold had moved from a sore throat to a more serious stage—a fever with chills. I needed a bed. Fortunately our hostel in Florence was very nice. We had a private room with an en suite bathroom. This would be my place of rest.

We did venture out that night, soaking in a few sights. I've been to Florence before so I kind of knew the main things to see. The Duomo of course, and the Ponte Vecchio. We meandered the dark ancient streets and came across the Duomo, which is unlike any Duomo I've ever seen, in Italy or elsewhere. It reminds me of a giant elaborately decorated wedding cake. It looks delicious.

Studying the map, I pointed us in the supposed direction of the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge crossing the Arno River. I was so confident, after all I had been here before. We ended up at the Academia, which is the complete opposite direction. I was stunned. How had my sense of direction gone so wrong? I was starting to realize this on our trip. I no longer possessed this power of direction that I once had. Maybe it's the kind of thing that starts fading in your 30's.

We had to retrace our steps back to the Duomo to reassess things. In the end we found the bridge, but before that, we hit the Medici Palace, which frankly I had forgotten about. Wow, what a square, full of statues and amazing energy. The palace was open, thanks to it being Culture Week (all the museums were free that week). A drummer's circle was performing in the square and Chris and I joined the crowd and rocked out. Already we were enjoying the energy of Florence. There were a lot of young people there. Not just backpackers. A good number of them were there to study art. They were everywhere—sketching and painting and whatnot. There was a good vibe in Florence. It makes one feel cultural, even just standing there.

Chris and I decided to splurge on gelato. We had had it elsewhere in Italy, and it had always come relatively cheap. It was our own fault. We hadn't asked the price. We were charged 10 euro for two cones. That's nearly $13. I don't care where you're from—that's a lot of money for ice cream. Anyway, we tried to enjoy it as we walked along.

We came across a guitarist playing in a square. He was playing the theme song from Romeo and Juliet on an acoustic. It was just lovely, and dare I say, romantic. The sun was going down and the lights were coming on around the square. We could feel the culture all around us, as if the statues had come to life and walked among us. Chris and I stood there, just smiling, then returned to our hostel, glad we had experienced this bit of Florence.

For me, that was about it. The whole next day I spent in bed. Actually I attempted to spend the morning with Chris. Seen as how the museums were free, I thought we should visit Michelangelo's David, the reason why most people come to Florence. The rain was dreadful as we slumped our way through it. We stopped for breakfast, and I told Chris that was as far as I could go. I desperately needed a day off. Chris was on his own.

I would like to say that I slept most of the day, but in truth I spent most of it on my Kindle Fire. The hostel had free wifi, and this to me was a complete luxury. It was a day for catching up on things, not only with emails and such, but with discovering what was happening in the rest of the world. Everyone needs a day off to do completely nothing.

When Chris came back we decided to do laundry. This meant hanging around the bar for an hour drinking Bacardi Breezers and playing pool. Almost everyone in the hostel was American, and it was nice to hear my language spoken all around me. We ran into a guy in the laundry room from Dallas. He gave us lots of advice on Denver, the place we plan to settle in when we return to the States. So far I haven't heard anything bad about the Denver/Boulder area, so that's encouraging. At least we have something to look forward to when this trip is over. A whole new life in a whole new place.

Fleeced

The next morning I was feeling a tad better. I was going to give David a go. But the line was around the block and then some. Chris and I decided on breakfast. Chris said he had seen a cheap place just down the street. Perhaps there was a cheap place, but we elected to go to a take-away stall we thought similiar. Again, our mistake was not asking about prices. Well, there were prices advertised, and we may have trusted them, but when the bill came it was three times as expensive as we figured it would be. Eighteen euros for breakfast. That's nearly $22. And this was just two breakfast sandwiches, a coffee, and a bottle of water. Wow. That nearly knocked us on our arses. Turns out we had decided to sit outside under a tented area. The privilege of doing that meant a huge increase in price. We clearly got fleeced.

Chris and I decided it was time to move on. Florence is great in its own way, but can be very expensive, as vendors look to take advantage of the tourists. At the end Chris and I were a little wiser to their game. A little too late though. We had a train to Venice to catch.

 

The Riviera (Two Different Kinds)

First off—the French. Good weather at last. Oh wait. Never mind, it was crap.

We booked a hotel in Marseille, and thank the lord for that. The weather was miserable. I couldn't believe that I was still wearing my fleece. I thought that would just be for cold nights camping out. Now it was my wardrobe staple.

We were now in Provence. The scenery was gorgeous, the sea on one side, houses clinging to hills on the other, everything pastel-colored and lovely lovely lovely. Shame about the rain. Once we checked into our hotel, we went for a jaunt around the Marseille harbour, which I have to say, is world-class. I've never seen more boats in one place before. It was just a forest of masts, thickly compact and reaching up to the sky.

We walked some of the sidestreets until the rain and wind really got to us, then we slipped into a supermarket, and there we were again—overwhelmed with cheese, wine and brilliant food. That night we opted for some mackeral, various side salads, the obligatory cheese, and a fabulous bottle of Cotes-du-Rhone (all dirt cheap). We ate in our hotel room, perched over the city, sitting on our bed sharing swigs of delicious wine. We could have been dining in a Michelin star establishment—it couldn't have been better.

There was something about the decrepit state of our hotel that made us feel that we were indeed roughing it, even if we had an actual bed for the night. The door to our room wouldn't lock. We put our bags against the door, not as a deterent to burglars, but at least to warn us if the bags fell over in the night. Well, when we turned the lights off, there was a major wedge of light coming through the side of the door. I had trouble sleeping, keeping the proverbial one eye open. When I did doze off, Chris woke me up with a loud “Where's my bag?” We were both on feet, certain that a burglar had made his way in. It really freaked me out. In the end our bags were still there, and we got through the rest of the night, uneasily, but safe.

The next day we ventured out to do some laundry. Thanks to an adorable little old lady at the launderette, we eventually worked out how to operate the machines. And voila! we had clean underweat at last. A good thing too.

Blue skies were promised in Cannes, so we chased the sunshine. We were even brave enough to camp out. We seemed to be the only ones in the campground, but the owner was a cheerful chap who directed us to the nearest supermarche. And what a supermarche! It was like the Walmart of France, only with daintily drapped, scarf-wearing customers and a bowling-alley size section of wine. Once again we were in heaven, plucking another Cotes-du-Rhone from the shelf. It should be noted that wine in France is cheaper by the bottle than a liter of water, or of any soft drink. I think they might have the right idea.

We enjoyed our little dinner in an unused consession area at the campground, and sat out late sharing sips of wine, watching the stars come out and contemplating the universe.  That night it didn't rain. That night was a good night.

The next morning we headed to Monte Carlo—the French Riviera's finest. We sat across from a beautiful girl on the train. She actually engaged us in conversation. She was a South African working in France as an interpreter. She was a real sweetheart. She assured us that the French were snobby, about their language, about everything. She was telling us about some of the problems she’d had. So it wasn't just us. That was a relief to know. She disembarked in Nice, leaving us with a jolly wave. Thank god for nice people.

We arrived in Monte Carlo, and yes it's as fabulous as everyone says. It's glitz and glamour and REAL money. We walked among the yachts in the harbour and tried to get our heads around this level of living. These people had money to burn. The air smelled of it. It was impressive, but with my leggings, and Chris' McLovin t-shirt, we felt like like aliens in this strange and wonderful place. We had no money, this was clear from our garb. We were on backpacker's funds. Restaurants didn't want us. Nobody wanted us—neded us even. Another McDonalds meal it was.

Arriving back in Cannes, we decided to explore the Corniche, the promenade along the sea. Cannes had a wealthy feel of its own. The residents were dressed smartly, and many of them carried small, well-groomed dogs. I took fashion notes, for the day I settle back into the States. I do like the French look. Even a cigarette looks good between the lips when you're French.

In our wandering, we came across the huge building where the Cannes Film Festival is held every year. Chris and I had fun examining the handprints on the stars, comparing sizes and whatnot. Then we got tired and took the bus back to our campground.

We settled in for another night of camping. If we had known it was going to rain the way it was, we would have booked a night at a hotel. Unfortunately the rain caught us by surprise, and we spent the whole night listening to our tent being pelted. We didn't sleep a wink, mainly because the tent was absorbing the rain from the outside and everything was getting wet. I felt the dampness through my sleeping bag, and I knew we were in jeapordy. Sure enough, in the morning we assessed the damage. Everything was soaked. My bed roll had absorbed the damp like a wet sponge. This camping thing wasn't turning out to be much fun.

We boarded the train for a very long ride to Italy. Good-bye French Riviera. You wooed us with your style and your class, your well-run public transport and your world-class harbors. You personally turned me off by your haughtiness and the importance you put on image and money. I would like to return someday with cash to spend and maybe some tasteful heels and a scarf around my neck. Would you accept me then?

Second riveria—the Italian. At last the weather was gorgeous. Oh wait. It was crap, still.

The train stopped in Ventimiglia, a border town on the Italian side. The difference was immediate, even if the scenery stayed pretty much the same. Baguettes were now slices of pizza, dogs now roamed the streets, everything seemed just a little bit grubbier, salespeople smiled, public toilets were… horrible still. There was a whiff of freedom in the air, just a bit—that wonderful freedom to be loud and passionate and to gesture all you like. Image schmimage. There was pizza to be eaten.

We lay on the beach for awhile, watching the waves roll in. We were both still very tired from our sleepless, rain-soaked night. I felt a cold moving in. Chris had already experienced illness. Now was my turn.

We entered Genoa, about ten times from the feel of it. There were so many train stations we passed through, we got the impression that Genoa must be the most spread out city on earth. The stations kept coming. Finally we found the one we wanted, hauled our bags a mere block and stood in wonderment at our accomadation for the night. Wonderment, mainly, because we couldn't figure it out. It was a buidling, but it appeared to be a locked apartment building. We only got in because someone was leaving and we caught the door. The buidling was immense, with an old-fashioned lift that rose from the centre of the lobby. No one was about. The lift looked ancient and rickety, but it was one of those things you just have to take, just for the whole experience. I'm living to tell you that it didn't plummet to the ground. Rather it took us to our accomodation for the night, which indeed turned out to be someone's apartment. We had booked a room in their apartment. The lady was so eager to welcome us and settle us in. We were both charmed. After our night of rain, the room was the height of comfort and luxury for us. The bed was oh so comfy. The pillows clean-smelling and fluffed. The French-style doors led out to a courtyard. It was worth any money spent. We needed a bit of pampering.

We didn't know a thing about Genoa. I had booked two nights there just because it was a convienent stopping off point between the French Riviera and the rest of Italy. It turned out that Genoa was one of our highlights of Europe. Maybe because it came on the heels of our French experience. It felt good to be accepted into establishments without being sniffed at.

Chris and I found ourselves in the Old Town, winding our way through very narrow cobblestone streets. It was a maze of sorts. Life was being lived in these dark, crumbling buildings, and it was life out loud, at least compared to France's quiet dignity. We ate dinner in the street, at a junction of restaurants. Chris had spaghetti, and I had pesto lasagna. We both ate with relish, nodding and making approving eye-contact through the whole meal. At tables nearby, mothers fed their children, smoking and gesturing wildly to one another. Boys kicked a ball around in the street, playing as loudly as they possibly could. Over our heads laundry fluttered in the breeze, layer after layer of it, as high as the buildings stretched. Chris and I both agreed, at this very moment in time: We were in love with Italy.

We walked further that night, coming to the harbor area. There was a German market there, and sausages were being sold for nearly nothing. It was an odd mix, but it was tempting to grab a sausage, even after the meal we had eaten. We knew that we were going to eat very well in Italy on our backpacker's budget.

The next day we awoke to a gray drizzly day. This is not what we were hoping for for Cinque Terre. I had been before, back sixteen years ago after watching a Rick Steve's program on the area. I tried to convey the importance of Rick Steves to Chris, but Chris just ended up hating the guy. It turns out, for the rest of the day, the influence of Rick Steves was everywhere. Even I started hating the guy after awhile.

Cinque Terre is overrun with Americans. I think this is directly due to Rick Steves. Whether the guy likes it or not, he has exposed this gem (previously unknown) to the American population. Up and down the paths we ran into hikers with Rick Steves' books held in their hands. I kept my eye out for a Rick Steves statue. Surely the region's surge in tourism is due to him.

My cold was continually trying to get my attention. I tried to hold it at bay, ignoring it was my best strategy. We hiked the toughest bit of Cinque Terre, the path the snakes up and down and around the vineyards. I thought it was just me being out of shape, but everyone we came across was having a hard time as well. It really is a workout. But the view in the end is worth it. I don't think anyone could ever tire of the view of the seaside villages, picturesque in their array of colours, coming around a rocky bend. It takes the breath away.

The majority of the trail between villages was closed due to mudslides from the autumn before. We saw some of the destruction from these mudslides—houses literally split in half. Chris and I weren't up to any more of the trail anyway, so we took the train most of the way. The only section we absolutely had to do was the Via dell'Amore. Back in 1996, the trail was closed. Although my sister and I hiked the rest of the trail, we had missed out on one of the most important sections. I wasn't missing it this time, even though my energy was rapidly fading.

Thankfully the Via dell'Amore is the easiest section to walk. It's even wheelchair accessible. A lot of it passes through these overhang areas, where the walls are completely covered in graffitti. I say graffitti, but writing on the walls here is accepted, encouraged actually. Most of it is writing—"Kelly and Steve were here '07”—that kind of stuff. Keeping with the theme of “Amore,” the messages are vastly romantic in nature. Of course Chris and I had to make our mark. Lovers on the Via dell'Amore. Come on, there's something romantic to that, isn't there? I also left a message for my Mom, who will be visiting there this summer. I hope she can find it amongst the sea of other scribblings. Hi Mom!

My cold decided that it wasn't going to be ignored any longer. The rain that was steadily coming down wasn't helping much. We slumped it back to the train station in the last town.  My energy was shot at that point, and I just collapsed into a seat for the ride back. I knew I was in for a long ride with this one (the cold that is). Thanks to all the camping and the rain—well I was suffering the consequences for trying to sleep cheap in Europe. That'll show me. Still I was proud of what we had accomplished on our day out. This travel thing wasn't exactly the easiest thing on earth. We were hopping from one place to the next without much rest. I knew, as my body shivered terribly in the rain, that a major rest-time was needed. Which meant—yes, another alteration of plans.

 

Sud de France

It turns out that getting a hotel in Carcassonne was one of the best decisions we could have made. The rain was cold and biting. This is not what we had predicted for the south of France. Even the words “south of France” conjur up images of sunny harbours and bright blue skies. Not so for us. We sat in the McDonalds next to the train station with its free wifi and seriously had to rethink our plan to camp our way across Europe. Our next destination was a town called Foix in the Pyrenee region, a place I was previously looking forward to visiting. Ever since I had seen a program on the Cathar Way, with its chain of medieval castles perched on hilltops, I dreamed of hiking this section of France. But for a moment, sitting at a French McDonalds, Kindle in one hand, french fries in the other, the weather report reading RAIN for the whole of the Pyrenee region—my dream shifted east to the Riveria, where the sun was supposedly shining bright. Our trip had instantiously changed. We would be heading east.

Carcassonne itself was a lovely place, even in the rain. By Carcassonne I mean the medieval town, encased in walls and towers, just outside of the real town. If it weren't for all the tourists (who gave the town an unmistakable themepark feel) I could have envisioned the history of the place a whole lot better. Windy cobblestone lanes, high parapets and arching doorways—medieval to the max. I had to store these images in my brain so I could take them out and relish them at a time when 10,000 Asians weren't swiveling camera lenses around my face. You know how that goes.

Snubbed and/or Put in Our Place

Now heading east, we came to Montpellier. Desperately trying to stick to our camping plan, we elected a place outside of town. This caused some problems, as we couldn't figure out how to actually get there from the main train station. It was a lot of huffing and walking around in circles. Finally we gave up and just got a taxi.

The campground gave this illusion of luxury, even boosting private bathrooms on each site. But after dealing with the unpleasant woman at reception, my opinion falls on the side of it being complete shit. It had a pool, sure, but as soon as we envisioned slipping into its cool crisp waters, we discovered it cost ten euros to enter. Also the campsites were comprised of hard-packed sand. Really really hard to drive pegs into. And the washing-up centres were just embarassing, with their cobwebs and filthy sinks. I would have told this to the woman at reception, but she probably would have spat in my eye.

Okay, so the lady at reception. Up to this point in the trip we had tried to converse in French the best we could. We found that most people were happy to switch to English after an interchange or two in French. No problems. But the language nazi at Plein Air de Chiens (or something like like) would have none of that. We started off in French, and according to her, we were going to continue in French. Because as she put forward to me, with her biting tone, “We are in France. We speak French here." I'm so glad she made that clear. The bitch.

Chris and I had been having this little arguement. I seemed a lot quicker than him at train stations and whatnot to ask a member in customer service, “Parlez-vous Anglais?" I only did this when I needed an answer in English. Otherwise it's pointless. Yes the French love their language, yes it's a beautiful language, yes I can try to formulate a question or statement out of it, but if someone's giving me directions in this language, it's completely useless to me. That's why I asked the lady of the campsite if she spoke English, after a few interchanges in her own tongue. We needed to know how to get into town, as we were way out in the French boonies. This information was crucial, not to be given in French and hand gestures. But French and hand gestures it was. So we were still clueless as to how to get into town. Not even a map was given. What a lovely lady.

We found ourselves camped next to Canadians. They suggested we meet for dinner at the cafe on the premises. They seemed cool so we agreed. Their names were Calab and Candidy (or something like that). They had rented a car and were heading in the general direction we were. I elbowed Chris and suggested to him that if we played our cards right, we might be getting a lift to our next destination. We did have a nice meal with them, drinking and talking into the night, but the next morning they packed up camp with just a wave goodbye and a take care. So much for that idea.

We thought we had heard the word 'tram' spoken from the lips of Cruella at reception, so we ventured out in the hot sun to find this supposed thing. We knew if we walked far enough, we would eventually find something. And so we did.

First we took a train, and then a bus to the Roman town of Arles. There was some kind of festival going on. Paella and sangria on the menus suggested that it was Spanish-themed. There was a convivial feel to the whole thing, and initially we were excited to be there. But we were soon to learn that it was a party that we weren't necessarily invited to. We felt slightly out of place amongst the revelers.

After viewing the Parthenon-type arena and stopping a minute or two in a square, we decided it was high time to get something to drink. Everyone everywhere was drinking and celebrating. We finally picked a place, and were deliberately overlooked as everyone around us was served. We hadn't even been acknowledged, let alone asked for our order. The final straw was when the waiter leaned over Chris to ask a group (that had arrived after us) what they wanted to drink. Chris and I abruptly rose and removed ourselves. I have never experienced this type of snub before.

We wandered over to another restaurant, where we sat down and a man at the next table sniffed rudely in our direction and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke directly in our faces. We removed ourselves promptly. Another restaurant was tried, where there were few patrons and surely we couldn't be ignored. There was hope as a waitress flew towards us, but we're accosted with a French query—are we to eat, or to drink? To drink, I answered, wondering what her problem was and why she's using that tone with us. Then she informed us (these kinds of people are so helpful) that restaurants are for eating, bars are for drinking. So we removed ourselves once again.

We saw a bar further down the way, called the American bar. “They have to accept us here," I told Chris. But still the service wasn't superb. I felt that we had to grovel for a drink.

We sat and people watched for awhile as we drank from our plastic cups (wine in plastic cups is always classy). We realized how well dressed everyone was. Women were tripping along the cobblestone in their stiletto heels. Also everyone was French. We seemed the only English speakers in town, except for the American guy sitting nearby who was heavily drunk and shouting “Ole” at passing pedestrians. We had been clearly snubbed in Arles, for whatever reason. It may have had something to do with Chris' Superman t-shirt. We'll never know. All I know is that I'm not likely to ever visit this area again. It's so cliched to say that the French are snobbish. They aren't all. In fact I was quite shocked to see that some of them were. Some may find this whole snob-thing charming (like my husband for instance) but I find it ridiculous.

At Long Last

We're now solidly into our second month of travel. Currently am I sat in a cafe nestled right up to a coconut-strewn beach on the cheery shore of Ko Samui in Thailand. I realize I haven't written in awhile, and really it's my vacational duty to report all my doings. So at long last—here it is.

 A Bad Start and Then Some

It's hard to imagine back to the start of this little adventure, back when I was wearing fleece and hiking boots. I do remember that the beginning was fraught with much anxiety, thanks to the inefficient staff at Air France. Now I knew there would be hiccups in this trip, but I didn't expect a major one at the start. I had a good enough flight, sitting next to a charming Parisian named Elaine. We talked almost through the whole flight, and made the time fly. I knew this start was too good to be true. When I landed in Paris, Elaine disappeared into the EU line and I was made to stand in a very long, non-moving, non-resident line. I knew that Chris was waiting for me, and was probably getting very impatient. I finally made it through (one of the last ones) and almost ran to pick up my baggage. It was worrying that no one was around the baggage carousel. It was even worrying that there were only five or six bags going around, and none of them were mine. I tried to keep cool, all the while thinking of Chris on the other side waiting for me. I went to the baggage department and told them my bag hadn't shown up. They asked for my baggage claim ticket. And this is when they informed me that my bags had gone through to Manchester. This was my worst fear, as I had purchased a return ticket from Manchester, but was only using the flight to Paris on the way back. I had called Air France before the trip and explained the situation, and there didn't seem to be a problem as long as I informed them at O'hare to put my bag through to Paris instead of Manchester. The inefficient staff at O'hare had messed it up, though they assured me they had taken care of it. And now, after all that, my bag was on its way to Manchester without me.

That actually sounds worse than what it was. They were simply transferring my bag to the Manchester flight, which hadn't taken off yet. There was time for them to get my bag, though I'd have to wait for it. I was relieved they could get my bag, but panicked about Chris on the other side. Stupid as it sounds, I don't have Chris' number. He was always just “Chris” on my cell phone (you know how it goes). I've never actually memorized his number. I left my phone back in the States. I tried to send him an email, but I couldn't get wifi. I tried to call my mom to contact him, but my international phone card wouldn't work. It was now going on two hours since my flight had landed. I was nearly in tears, knowing that Chris must have been worried out of his mind. I finally asked if I could go through the barrier and talk to him. The girls in the baggage department said yes, as long as I called on the black phone to get back in, and show my baggage claim form (I took their word for it). I made my way through the doors, and Chris saw me almost immediately. There were many emotions and a few whimpers and such (from me). Indeed Chris had been very worried, so much so that he had called my Mom, who was now worried as well. All because of inefficient staff at O'hare. Now I had to get back in the barriers, which resulted in me shouting down a phone and trying to explain in French to a security guard that I needed to get my baggage. I was waving my passport around (it had my baggage claim form on it). Chris mistook all this waving around as me causing a ruckus, and all of a sudden he was behind me saying “That's my wife.” Despite all this I finally got through. And my bag came tumbling down the carousel. And I was allowed to go on my merry way and begin my blessed trip.

Paris in a Few Hours

There’s so much to see in Paris, even if you have a full day. But I've been here twice before, and have already seen the main sights. We decided to leave Paris as soon as possible, as it’s one of the most expensive cities in the world. We had booked a TGV train to Lyon. Now we had to make our way to Gare de Lyon. It was my first time really trying out my rucksack, you know, the one I have to carry on my back for a year. I've carried it around the house, but have never hit the pavement with it before. Well, in Paris, I hit the pavement. And I quickly realized that my home on my back was quite on the heavy side. But everything in there was essential (all except for the pink long johns, which I threw out shortly after). I would have to learn to live with rocky shoulders. We had a few hours to kill before the train to Lyon, so we took the Metro to Notre Dame, my old Paris stomping ground. Our first moments in Paris together were spent in finding a public bathroom for Chris. We barely even blinked in the direction of Notre Dame. Our eyes were peeled for a WC (I won't yet get into the lack of public bathrooms in Europe). Once a bathroom was found (the public one was closed, so Chris had to dash into a bar, which was worth it for him to get shouted at) we could stroll along the Seine and enjoy the sights. Spring was in full bloom, and we walked under the crabapple trees. Paris in the springtime—oh la la. Chris and I were fortunately feeling the love, having been apart for three weeks. We were beginning our adventure, and Chris was like a whole new person, now that he had escaped from the rat race. He seemed entirely lighter, even with a heavy pack on his back. We held hands and walked together as backpacker lovers.

Elaine, the Parisian on the plane, had suggested we visit Place de Vosges, near the Gare de Lyon. It was a square surrounded by charming brick buildings. We dropped our packs for a bit and enjoyed the scene. Then we continued on to catch our train. The TGV is a high-speed train, much like the Japanese bullet trains. Chris had secured a 1st class ticket. Or at least I thought he had. We had purchased 2nd class Interrail passes, good for a month. We had read that many of the trains we need a reservation for, despite our passes. The TGV is one of those trains. Chris found that the reservation for 1st and 2nd class were the same price, so he went for 1st class. Brilliant, right? Well it dawned on us that indeed we hadn't paid for a 1st class seat. We sat there sweating a bit as the train took off. First class was nice enough, though we stood out in our backpacker garb (everyone else was elegantly dressed and didn't smell of sweat like we did). I envisioned us being kicked off the train, or being made to pay the difference. But when the ticket man came, he glanced hard at our tickets (we thought for sure we were in trouble) and wished us a bon voyage. We had gotten away with it. I took a brief nap on the train, seen as how I had recieved only a few scattered moments of shut-eye on the flight over. I was in desperate need of sleep.

Sleepless in Lyon

Thanks to brilliant directions from our campsite, we made our way to Camp Indigo, right outside of Lyon. This involved taking the subway and a bus. But all was good, as the campsite was right near the bus stop so we didn't have to heave our bags far. The campsite was adequate enough. There were hardly any campers. Besides us, there was only one other tent pitched. We were happy to find seperate sites (in the UK everyone's thrown together in a field). There was a sense of privacy. We set up our tent (our lightweight one, that takes about five minutes to put up) and then walked to the Supermarche down the street to buy our dinner. French supermarkets—what beautiful things. I nearly wept. I stood in the cheese aisle for about ten minutes, uncertain what cheese to buy. Everything was incredibly cheap. A hunk of brie was two euros. Two euros! In the States it's 4x that. I wanted to grab it all. When again will I find such a fantastic collection of inexpensive cheese? Chris had to drag me away. Then we ended up in the wine aisle, and this is when I thought I'd really break down. I wanted to drop to my knees and thank every French person in the vicinity. A good bottle of wine was no more expensive than a jug of Coke. No wonder why the French are so proud as a people. Their food is seriously the best in the world.

Chris and I returned to our campiste, set our groceries out on a picnic table, and feasted on a dinner of cheese, french bread, saucissons, and wine. It was nothing short of perfect. The sun went down and we went for a short walk. The full moon was just coming up. Again—perfect. Feeling content, we headed to bed, settling into our sleeping bags. The tranquility of the day (despite its bad start) wore off as the reality of life in a tent hit us. There wasn't enough room for everything. Our tent was cramped with just us in it, but we had all our bags. We couldn't lay out straight. And the ground was hard. Plus there was this smell... All in all, not exactly comfy. It took me awhile to fall asleep. I must have slept for an hour before I woke again. And then I was wide awake. To my mind it was 3:00 in the afternoon. There was nothing I could do to convince it otherwise. I had to ride it out, but that meant I had to listen to Chris snore through the next five hours. I got up at one point to make the journey to the bathroom, and with this I got to look up and see not only that brilliant full moon, but a whole sky full of stars. It almost took my agony away. Almost.

The next day, while walking the streets of Lyon, I was almost feverish with tiredness. However, I tried to pull myself together, since Lyon is a very lovely city. In the interior of France, it's a friendly down-to-earth kind of place. The public transport is superb. It was incredibly easy to get around; pleasant even. On the banks of two rivers (the Rhone and the Soame) Lyon is more massive than it appears. We made our way up to the cathedral on the hill and looked out over the city. At this great vantage point, we sat for awhile and enjoyed the breeze. Then we made our way back to the campsite, where we spent a second evening feasting on bread and cheese.

And then came the night of torture. It began to rain. And Chris continued to snore. And I couldn't sleep, though my body was aching for it. No matter what I did, no matter how Zen I let my mind become, sleep was not happening. I did something I've never tried before—I counted sheep. I envisioned these fluffy little things jumping off a short cliff into a cute wool pile. I got to 300 before I gave up. To make matters worse I had the weirdest of songs stuck in my brain—a song from The Muppet Movie, which I had seen just the day before departure. It was the Miss Piggy ballad, where she's professing her love for a frog. If I wasn't so grumpy and unable to sleep, I would have found this humorous—a pig singing inside my head—but I didn't. Then Chris woke up (or I woke him up, I can't remember) and we had a little conversation. Bless him, he sacrificed his sleep to help me get some.

In the end my mind did succumb to sleep. But then the morning came. We had to wake at 5:15 in order to catch the first bus. Our train to Carcassonne (the only one that hadn't been fully booked with French vacationers) was due to leave at 7:20. We woke in the dark. I figured after such a hard night that I needed a shower. The shower must have felt good. By the time I came out, Chris had already taken apart the tent. And now the time was late. It was chaos, us trying to work in the dark. The rain had turned everything muddy. Everything we touched turned to mud. It was incredibly unpleasant. And our time was running out. We had to catch that bus. We stuffed everything into our bags and hauled them onto our backs. We made our way to the exit, only a few minutes until the bus came. We found a line of cars, and a barrier blocking our way. Some guy held up his fingers. Six minutes. We didn't have six minutes! Chris and I were frantic to catch that bus. Chris found a hole in the fence and tried to push me through. I couldn't make it with my bag, so Chris tried ripping my bag off my pack. He ended up chocking me, as my day bag was wrapped around my neck. I started screaming for him to stop. I'm sure we were making a spectacle of ourselves. Chris then succeeded on shoving me through, but he avoided the same fate by going around. By that time someone had come out and unlocked the gate. I had gotten through, and was starting to run to the bus stop. But I realized my glasses were missing. They had come off during the whole episode. I ran back and scoured the ground for them. I ran back to meet Chris, and by this time I was whimpering. I wasn't really crying, just whimpering with the horribleness of it. After the sleepless night, the rain, the mud, the early start and the rushing to make the bus (even getting strangled in the process) it was too much. It turned out that the early train to Carcassonne was delayed by over an hour. Such is life. We decided that we were getting a hotel room in Carcassonne no matter what. We had suffered enough.

And then our “bad" start to our trip was over. We had cut our teeth. We had learned some lessons. We had learned that's it's ok to to get a hotel room and to sit in a McDonalds, even in an ancient city. Everyone has their methods of survival.