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.