Recently in Traveling Diary Category
I went to Portugal for my last week in Europe because we'd already bought the tickets, and it's possible (though not plausible) that I may never return to this continent: The Old Country. I wanted to take advantage of the present, but I didn't expect it would be so hard. I guess I just need to understand that the true healing won't begin until I leave this place. Until I know I will never see him again and there is nothing I can do about it. Until I accept that giving unconditional love does not mean receiving it in return.
Mamma (Sebastian's mum, whom I will from here on call Tina) gave me some wise advice prior to leaving. She told me to "Look Around Me". See the scenery, keep my head up, so to speak. It wasn't hard to do, in a place this beautiful.
On my first night, as I took the subway into the city, I thought, Well then, Portuguese people are not very attractive. But holy are they nice. The entire time I sat on the plane and subway, I cursed myself for having decided to come. I just wanted to go home to Cananda, to begin to forget about the pain. But the second I stepped out of the subway system and into Oporto's old town (relieved) I realized it had been the right choice.
Oporto, or, Porto is, yes, home of Port wine. It is also where I began and ended my adventure, and continued my emotional rollercoaster. On my first day I had three goals: 1. Walk to the top of the main church turret and see the city from above, 2. Go to the art district and check out the local art scene, 3. Cross the river and explore the Port cellars, tasting free port along the way. None of these things got done. Day One looked more like: try-to-eat-and-fail-try-to-sleep-and-fail-try-to-drink-your-sorrows-away-and-fail-at-that-too. It doesn't help the church and art district were both closed, and I just couldn't bring myself to go learn about and try port, alone. Afternoons have been almost as tough as mornings.
Instead, very uncharacteristically, I spent most of the day inside, watching movies and writing. I met some nice people in my hostel and learned a few fun Portuguese sayings. The language sounds like Russian and Spanish put together, but you can almost always get the gist of something when you see it written, for instance:
another glass of wine please = um copo de vinho por favor.
Basically looks like Spanish, right? But add in a bunch of "sh", "csh" and "s" sounds, and you've got Portuguese from Portugal. It turns out there are Arabic influences, which probably explain why I hear Russian. I must look Portuguese (NOT a compliment!) because daily three or four people would stop me to ask me a question in Portuguese. Every time I would be like, "Me no speako Portuguese." No, actually I had learned how to say "I can't speak Portuguese" (Eu não falo Português) and aside from "Abrigada" (thanks), it was my most oft used phrase there.
I woke up very early the next morning and went for a walk, watching the city wake up as the sun rose. Some cafes were open, and as the traffic became more dense and louder, I slipped into one of them for a cappuccino. The cafes are set up just like in Italy; like a bar to us. Portuguese coffee, let me say, is some of the best I have had in my life. It is not bitter, not strong, not burnt. Instead, it is this smooth, almost sweet delicious goodness. I had not drunk a coffee since Finland (it makes me nervous) but I accepted nervousness for my 5 days in Portugal.
From Porto I took a train almost 300kms South to Lisbon. It was 16C and sunny when I arrived at 4pm. I walked around for a bit, both exploring and trying to find my hostel, and immediately noticed more of a "city" factor. There is a lot more visual immigration, people are in a rush, and the architecture and energy are just a bit less charming. But it is still quite a cool city. Portugal is officially number 2 on my list of European countries now. Number 1 is the Czech Republic.
What is it about Portugal, the Czech Republic, and Italy (I had to bump Finland out of there on principle. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but I had thought I would live there one day. Now I don't have to like it.) that makes these countries so appealing to me? There is something raw about them.
Something untouched or just plain hard.
Something about the people, who have accepted that life is suffering, and who have come to realize that good food and wine, heartfelt music, and love are all that matter in life.
I appreciate the trueness of the way the architecture is built into the land and the land hasn't been changed by the people.
I feel it has something also to do with the people just being who they are. Not trying to be or have something that isn't from them.
And the languages... Italian, of course, is gorgeous to listen to. But Czech and Portuguese are so soft and strange to me. Some of the sounds are ones I have never heard made before. I want to watch their mouths and find out how they are doing it all. Like making sense of a puzzle.
In Lisbon I walked around, exploring, of course. (zen party bus, remember?) but I spent most of my time either writing or running. I would write things to people about how I felt and no matter how many times I wrote about how sad I was, the feeling would not subside. No matter how often I told myself to "Just let go" I couldn't. I worked on some articles. I wrote a few poems. I wrote things to Sebastian he neither understands nor wants to. Things about love, acceptance, and new beginnings. When I got tired of listening to how pathetic I was being, I would run. Run out the anger. Run out the sorrow. Run until I could feel nothing but pain and tiredness.
My body matched my heart. My body is currently pure lactic acid.
A quote from my travel journal, January 29th, 4pm:
"I just bought a 20-something-girl a sandwich at this café I am sitting at, in the centre of Lisbon. She would not have begged me if she didn't need it. As I bought her sandwich she started begging for a water or juice, and I got annoyed. "What, a sandwich isn't enough?" I wanted to say. But now as I sit out on the patio, sipping my much-un-needed-hot-chocolate, I can see her scarfing down the sandwich out on a bench on the side of the road, as if it is the first thing she's eaten all week. Maybe it is the first thing she's eaten all week. In which case, she probably did need a juice. I feel like a jerk. God, and I thought I had problems."
After Lisbon, where I spent a full day in a tshirt, lying in the sun on the grass by the water, I returned to Oporto. It was Sunday and the train was quite busy but everything else was closed. I spent the 3 hour ride alternating between writing an article for a magazine on learning Mandarin, and feeling pathetic, depressed, and wondering what the heck I was going to do with my life. Writing about China makes me miss it. But do I want to go back there to live? What do I want to do with my life? Why can't I just get something right? The weather in Porto (13C and sunny with a slight breeze off the water) was my perfect weather for an afternoon run. I ran, and ran, and ran, until I couldn't feel any longer, had an espresso and a pastry, had a shower, and returned to the downtown core for some last-day pics.
Unfortunately, due to my mental and emotional state, as well as timing, I never did get to go on a Port tasting tour, nor see a Fado show. However, this is all the more reason to return. Anyone up for a cycle trip through Portugal and Spain next year?
Other last thoughts about Portugal:
I saw a Starbucks in Lisbon (yes, I did enter and I did have an Americano, who am I?!) and 2 McDonalds', however there were little to no other international brands/shops (except the usual Euro trash stuff like Armani and LV and Paul Whateverhisnameis).
Nothing is in English in Portugal but that was OK. Somehow you just understand, like when I was in Italy. The secret is in not trying too hard to understand every single word. And most of the people working in customer service speak English, Spanish, and Portuguese pretty well.
The cars drive ridiculously fast - reminding me, again, of Rome. Why do they drive so fast? I found out while in a taxi to the train station in Lisbon, that it might have to do with the crazy flamenco/Latin music the drivers listen to while driving.
I saw about thirty drug deals, most of which were just out in the open. Each time I would look around and be like, is no one else seeing this? And sure enough, no one else appeared to have noticed.
I saw the biggest Jesus in my life in Lisbon. I was like,
"Jesus!" It had to have been 50 meters tall.
Portuguese is the fifth most commonly spoken language in the world, and the most widely spoken language in the Southern hemisphere. Portuguese is also the fourth most learned language in the world. At the moment, 30 million students study this language.
Portugal has colonized every continent as we know of them
today (not including Australia as it is an island). The Portuguese Colonial
Empire was the first global empire in history. In addition, it was the longest-lived of the modern European colonial empires, spanning
almost six centuries, from the capture of Ceuta in 1415 to the
handover of Macau in 1999. The empire spread throughout territories that are now part of 49 different sovereign states.
Dreams:
Over the last year, probably every three or four nights, I have dreamed that I am late to catch a flight or a train. It is never in the same country or city, and it is never for the same reason or with the same people, but I am always late to board a mode of transport, and the repercussions of me missing it are catastrophic. Moreover, getting to the airport or station on time is out of my control. Annoying, right? I had yet another one of these dreams last week (this one was coupled with the Italian mafia - go figure) where I was trying to get to the airport and board a flight, but was late because I had to rely on someone else to get me there, and he was busy doing some gangster stuff in the basement of an old chateaux (yes, I am creative). As the clock ticked nearer to the departure of my flight, I began to panic, and I couldn't find my driver, whom I relied on to get me there. In these weekly dreams, I always wake up right before I find out whether or not I make the flight. The dreams have been happening, basically, ever since Sebastian came into my life. So after this dream this week, I finally did a bit of research online as to what it all could mean.
"Missing things or being late for some things usually means that you feel like you have missed an opportunity to do something in your life. When you dream of missing a flight you feel you've missed some opportunity in your waking life; you're too late; you can't make a connection, that you need to pull yourself together to make the connections you desire."
"To dream of missing flight means you are overwhelmed with work or other activities and you sense you lost control of time (missing flight is a sense not being able to be on time somewhere) no matter what you do. It all is too much, and too fast."
I don't know about you, but bells are ringing in my head, and they all scream, "China! China! China!" I definitely don't have the courage or energy to return to China right now, but I had felt yanked from the place and people I had come to love so dearly a wee bit prematurely.
When I left China, I wrote a blog in (June 2010) which ended with:
What did I come here
searching for?
Will I leave having found it?
Will I remember all that this place has taught me?
Will I be able to move on?
No, I don't feel I was done with China. I don't feel I had had my fill of it. But I was pursuing something that I felt was greater. A higher calling. Something that I thought was more important. I guess my subconscious disagreed. Something for me to ponder over the next little while.
Symbolism:
For the last 3 months or so, almost since arriving in
France, I have been seeing owls. Not real owls but owls on mugs, owls in
paintings, owls as symbols, owls on clothing, owls just generally all around
me. It had especially started to become over the top when I was in Finland over
Christmas. I've not seen one since Sebastian came home telling me he
longer loved me, January 14th 2011. What did these owls mean?!
Owl: symbol of Magic, Wisdom
"The owl as a prediction usually means that you are about to be taught something of huge significance. When the student is ready the teacher appears. It certainly ties in with wisdom and can also tie in with death/new beginnings depending on what the actual owl was."
"The owl has exceptional vision and sense of hearing. It symbolizes wisdom and ability to see and hear clearly despite the darkness. The owl is the symbol of magic, good omens, prophecy, astral travel, power to see the un-seen, all seeing knowledge, great wisdom, good luck, power of the moon and night, insight, giving and receiving messages, clairvoyance, religious beliefs, communication with the spirit world, and insight into others true motives"
"The owl is the symbol of the feminine, the moon and the night. The owl is the bird of magic and darkness, of prophecy and wisdom. You will hear not what is being said by others, but what is hidden. You can detect subtleties of voice that others cannot."
SO,
then... is it good or bad news I haven't seen one since that fateful day, when my
life turned upside down, and I've felt ever since that I can't go on? I'm
thinking bad news. So what does one do when they need an owl? Buy some. I
bought 4, while in Portugal. My only souvenirs.
Portugal
reminded me of something too, which may or may not have anything to do with my
dreams or symbols:
When
you think you have it all figured out, life has a way of reminding you that
getting it right is essentially impossible. Don't even bother. Just let it go.
It's all out of your control anyways.
And I don't mean this in a negative or cynical way. In fact,
since having started this blog five days ago, I've seen a dramatic change come
over me. I've accepted his choice, which has everything to do with him and his
stuff, and I've even been able to see this as a gift. Afterall, who wants to be
with someone who just bails over a bit of stress in their lives? If it wasn't
now, it would have been later. At least we didn't go buy a house or have children together. He won't
even see me one last time to say goodbye. Not even for a minute. Wow. As I said
to my friend in China the other day when he asked me the story:
It's not a good story,
nothing I'll bother writing about. I fell in love with someone. He fell in love
with me. We moved to France. He fell out of love with me. I've psychoanalyzed
the heck out of it. There's not much to say but that he comes from a very
broken home, something like 75% of people he is directly related to have been through a divorce (my family? 0%!). And I was his first love. He doesn't know how good he had it. Nothing much I can do at this point. I
can't teach someone how to love or how to be in a supportive relationship. I
fell in love with the wrong guy. Now I head back to Canada to get my life
sorted again. That's all there is to it.
October 12th
My mind is going crazy this morning. Anxiety about this, that, the other. Worrying about the past and stressing about what's to come - both seriously destructive behaviors. Useless, I know.
Maybe a full moon is coming. Maybe I'm lacking some vitamins. But more than every possible externality, these constant worries gnawing on me today are likely due to the impending changes this move to France will hold. I should be excited about it all. But I'm not.
Why? Well, firstly I have been conditioned in Anglophone Canada to hate the French. Aside from that, every experience I have ever personally had with the French has been....difficult. French people never stop complaining and think their everything is the best. "French men are better, you should dump your boyfriend for a French man; French wine is much better than this; Oh you wouldn't know about good food, for that, you must go to France," are only a handful of things that have actually been said to me. And it is not their way of bragging. When they are in their country they hate everything there too. It is their way of complaining. What if the people in Bordeaux are horrible? What if I can't fit in there?
Aside from being very unenthusiastic about moving to this place and culture I've never felt the slightest enthusiasm for, I am worried about the living arrangements. Not at all because of Bastian. But because of the experiences I have had in the past in this sort of arrangement, and how, in particular during the last time, I was certain I was just unable to live with another person. I had come to terms with simply being an undomesticateable type of animal. I learned in the past that living with a boyfriend brings out the worst in me. That I could never live with a mate again. And here I go.
Lastly, work. OOP...well, not much I can say here now but...I wanna be a writer! How do I do that? Do writers even make any money any more? Doesn't everyone want to become a famous writer? Is it not a dying art? Thanks to google translate, ebooks, and the freedom of information online?
Ok, so now, I am done complaining, (thanks for listening) and I want to say something positive. I'll try to trick my brain into thinking it is not worried. Right now I have stopped at a seaside café in a little town called ViaReggio. The sun is shining. It is 20 or so degrees. I'm up on the Western/Mediterranean tip of Italy now. Quite near Genova. There are still palm trees, vineyards, and proof the warm weather will be sticking around for a bit longer. The mountains around here are beautiful. I took some pretty good pics of the leaning tower this morning. And I love cappuccinos. I have to say, my favorite part of this little guilty pleasure (as it, along with eating pizza, pastries, and drinking beer will all end once I arrive to Bordeaux) is the foam. The frothier the better.
(1pm)
Powered through 75km at Mach 10. Motivated by hundreds of day riders out there on their speedy bikes, with their matching outfits. That's something -like speedos- that I might never get used to, no matter how long I live in Europe. I kept up with one group for 30km or so. Then I bonked. So now I've stopped to eat some raisin bread and cream cheese. I am so sick of bread and cheese. But it is the only way to get quick, cheap, instant energy into me. Aside from the animal product thing (been thinking a lot lately of going totally vegan), it is just too much. When I get to Bordeaux I am eating only fruits and vegetables for 2 weeks. Then adding in beans for a week. Then adding in grains. And that will be my diet. Fruits, veggies, beans, grains and nuts. Oh, and wine and beer of course, which, conveniently are products of fruit and grains.
Due to my Hurculean pace this morning, I got to the train station early. Now I am on a train to San Remo, or rather, the border of Italy and France. I would rather be cycling this portion. It is gorgeous. We're passing these little towns on cliffs over looking the ocean. Big mountains jet out from the sea and the train is in tunnels more often than out. I just want to get off and see this and feel it with my feet! But will have to save that for another time I guess. The focus now is getting to France. (This is how my bike travels by train.)
(5pm)
Wow, this has by far been the slowest (50km/hr) and most scenic train of my life. I must come back here. I will come back. It is out of a movie. Take everything you'd expect to see off the coast of Portugal or Spain, and everything you have sen on the California coast, and that is what I am watching go by me now. It it's 23C and sunny! I want to get off and ride!!!!!!!
I had not expected this train ride to be so long. It's given me time to think more and worry less. Or, rather, think myself out of worrying. I don't think Monaco and Nice are very far from where I get off this train. And if I am so certain I will come back to this area (planning a bike trip from Barcelona to Rome in April, wanna come?) why don't I just bust my butt to Bordeaux as fast as I possibly can? Why can't I just accept the fact that I have an amazing man who thinks the world of me, anxiously waiting for my arrival to start a live together?
(9pm)
The moral of today's story was, if you want to get somewhere badly enough, and you are in a hurry, ride your bike on the highway. If I said deja vu, would you know what was coming up next?
I got off the train and knew I had about 1.5 hrs of light left, but was uncertain about how much riding was ahead of me. I had not eaten since morning and was lightheaded from hunger, but I desperately wanted to get to France, and then a train station that would get me somewhere: Nice, Marseille, Toulouse, anywhere close to Bordeaux tonight.
I flew out of the gates and followed the signs to France. To my surprise, it was only 10km or so away, and I arrived into this majestically beautiful down as the sun touched the mountains. It was gorgeous and I wanted pictures. But did not dare stop for anything. I was rushing. Rushing with no real aim.
Then, I saw a sign to Nice. And it was only 30km away! I could get there by dark. Or at least get really close. And even if I don't make it by sundown, I'll for sure make it before the last train of the day leaves to Marseille. Wow! I'll get there! This is my first view ever of France. My new home.
Back to being a woman on a mission... I started following the blue signs, which in Italy means small road and therefore not highway. I went up, up, up a huge hill. 5kms later, I found myself on a merge, for none other than a major National highway. The déjà vu of Denmark was made only worse though with the sun going down, and no where, absolutely no where to turn off or around. I rode, and got honked at, and rode, and prayed I would not get hit.
Then the Denmark déjà vu continued. A van with flashing lights pulled up behind me. Some sort of highway service. The two men inside put me and my bike in the back, and after a few questions and apologies (mine) I found out the blue signs in France mean big highway and the green signs in France (which mean big highway in Italy) mean small road in France. The men, sweethearts that they were, drove me all the way to Nice, and then gave me directions to the train station (only 3km away!). MERCI! MERCI! MERCI!
I arrived to the train station around 830pm. And was confused to find none of the destinations on the main sign correlated with the destinations in the computer where you buy your ticket. SO I asked around. And I found out, there was a train strike in France. The train strike meant no trains were running until the following day. And the next train to Marseille left at 6am.
So I got some dinner (a vegetarian donair, what else? Now that I am no longer in Italy, where it was obviously pizza. The obvious choice is, again, Lebanese food) and am now sitting in the train station. Waiting for 6am.
October 13th
Day 2 in France and so far the country's socialism and their unions are already taking their toll on my life. Furthermore, this situation, as you can imagine, has only made the complainers complain even more. "Woke up" at 5, when the train station started buzzing. There were workers about, mostly to act as diversions it seemed. So I asked the one how to get to Bordeaux. And then how to buy a ticket for my bike. They looked at me and said I should first go to Toulon, then Marseille, then Toulouse, then Bordeuax. They looked at my bike and said it wasn't going anywhere. The workers who sell the bike tickets (apparently they are separate in France) are not considered essential. Therefore they are not working today.
So at 530 I rode to the long distance bus station. And I asked around for busses to Marseille, But there was a bus strike on too. And if the bus left to Marseille, it would be up to the bus driver whether or not I could put my bike underneath with the luggage.
I returned hungry and tired to the train station, praying for a miracle like the strike to end today. Instead, the universe gave me Jimmy. I drugged out giggilo who'd just got off work and was looking for another hit. He'd heard me say to someone I was from Canada. So maybe he thought I had drugs. Or maybe he just felt like doing a good deed. Either way, he was stuck on me. A blessing and a curse as you will see.
He snuck me and my bike
through a security coded and locked side door. And then onto the train bound for Paris, which would stop in
Toulon, where I needed to go first.That was only the beginning.
Before I continue the story of the morning, I need to talk about the men in the world who are attracted to me. Jimmy is a great example, and he falls into the category of men who see me, make eye contact, fall in love, and never want to leave my side. The drunks, bums, beggars, and old men would suffice to describe the general theme. This group of men find me and stick to me like glue. Maybe because I look them in the eye. Maybe I remind them of their mothers or some long lost ex. But so often, I am the centre of their universe for as long as I must be. The thing with these types of men is, they have a good heart. They are just confused. Maybe that's why they like me. Cause that's what I see.
I had the challenge of managing Jimmy for the next 6 hours. Managing is the best way to describe it.
He was actually quite a smooth talker and took the fall when
the ticket guys found my bike. A blessing. And he was even able to sneak by bike on a train
from Toulon to Marseille too. But that meant he came with me. And with him came all sorts of passes, attempts at kissing me, lots of unwanted and unsolicited touching, and a general feeling of discomfort. The curse. But it was all worth it as I sit here now writing.
Jimmy and I chilled on the trains. Ate free candy and drank
free coffee (how is it that a union strikes, then gives out free stuff to
apologize? If you're sorry for something, why do it in the first place?)
listened to music loudly and he asked everyone who passed us if they had any
drugs. They were all very confused I was with him. But I was not. He was my
ticket to Bordeaux. Both in heart and mind. At one point when he was getting to be too much, he noticed
I was fidgeting anxiously. He asked what was wrong and I told him I was nervous
about making it to Bordeaux. He said,"You want to make it to Bordeaux today,
baby?" Yes, I nodded "Well then, sweatheart, you will". And Although in that
moment I was desperate for any sort of comfort, I smiled at Jimmy the giggilo
and felt his warm wisdom in my heart.
If I wanted to get there badly enough, I would get there.
(2pm)
Now I sit, alone, and overwhelmed on a train in Marseille. Jimmy worked his magic and on this train I am actually allowed a bike. So am less of a criminal. I am wondering if I just lived a miracle, getting this far on the trains during a strike with a bike? Fingers crossed, this train will get me to Bordeaux.
Bastian doesn't know I am coming yet. He thinks I am in Nice today. Which, I was. I don't want to tell him yet because I don't know for sure if I will make it and I think it would be a fun surprise if I do.
The train ride should be 8 hours or so. So I will blether in my note book to pass the time. Not having my computer for the month has been difficult. I've been able to find Internet cafes around every 4 days or so (about the same time as I am in a hostel) but it is not so much the keeping in touch and up to date as it is the company of a computer. Of my computer. Just being able to write down ideas and work on stories during lonely nights or long train rides would have been a blessing.
To add to the exercise of this trip, I've only had two books to read. Both of which I engulfed within the first few days of ownership. I'm not a saver or a pleasure delayer. So I've not read much this month either.
What does a girl do who normally lives with either a book or a computer in her face when she has neither? That's actually been a question I've wondered lately. Since, to be honest, I've not really noticed or been too traumatized by it. Except those long nights that start in a tent at 7pm because it is dark, raining, or infested with mosquitoes outside. My point is, I've been surprised with how very quickly I've learned to not need distractions. In fact, I've had music only a 25% of the time too. Which is also quite rare as I spent the 3 years in China keeping myself sane out on the streets with an mp3 glued into my ears. Rather than all the distractions I have become so accustom to I actually thought I needed them to survive, instead, I've just been living min my thoughts. In the present as much as I can and not really thinking too much about anything, really. A nice respite for the old brain.
Instead, I spend time trying to find little joys around me. Like people watching and absorbing the local culture. Or, listening to my own breath and how it changes as I go along riding through the day. How my wheels sound on a quite, country road. Quietly observing, with present observations. A general feel of a place. The taste of real Italian pizza or wine. That is a challenge for me, and it always has been, so I find it quite exciting to be coming into it naturally at this time. I think it means I am following my path. At the place I need to be and doing what I need to be doing in this moment.
So far, even with La Greve (the strike), France hasn't been so bad. I've even been able to laugh at their constant sneers (as they age, French people all have a frown wrinkle) and amusement in their inamusement ( I got glared at for laughing with Jimmy how many times today!?).
With the strike on, the Marseille train station was a disaster zone. Jimmy and I walked around and at one point he asked a worker what time to train to Bordeaux left. Then, because he was not sure whether he would go back to Nice or to Paris, he asked when the train to Nice left, and then when the train to Paris left. The worker started bouncing in his chair and exasperated said, "what is this, some kind of test!?!" and I jumped in and was like, "why, yes, and you passed with a big A and a gold star". Oddly enough, rather than sneer, the worker smiled, maybe realizing how silly he had been at getting upset with our innocent questions.
I am worried I will start being like French people if I live here to long. Can you catch "easily-annoyed-always-unhappy"?
(5pm)
Well, well, this train seems to be in as much of a rush to get to Bordeaux as I am. We are only 2 hours away and have just left the second last stop!!!! I have not told Bastian I am coming tonight. What a fun surprise! One thing is for certain, that guy's life will never be boring with me around.
Over the last 4 hours I've mostly just watched the scenery and the people. French people dress well. Quite nicely, really. Their noses aren't nearly as big as I expected (though I am currently comparing them to Italians) and there isn't much diversity as far as skin, hair or eye colour as I expected.
One great thing about this train ride is I've been able to see the entire South of France today. I will say it is quite pretty. But, it doesn't hold a candle to Italy. There are zillions of vineyards (apparently not just reserved for Bordeaux) and so far I've been quite surprised at the show of wealth. I would guestimate having seen over one thousand yahts today, all of which must be worth millions.
I'm quite anxious still about this new life. Today my main concern is Bastian's new school friends. I'm sorry but I don't want to hang out with a bunch of college kids. That was cool when I was 17. I'll have to work on finding a cycling club or some sort of writers group. Find people who are like me. Not who just want to go out and drink so much beer they are sick the next day.
I know all these things I've been worrying about shouldn't matter. And it should be enough that I get to wake up beside Bastian each morning. But I know from personal experience that love does not conquer all. We can't expect one person to fulfill all our needs.
Anyways, I am on the final stretch there now. The road to my new home. It was a long one, with some serious challenges. But nothing worth doing is ever easy. I made it through the trials and for that I am proud of myself. And guess what I want to do with Bastian on our first weekend together? Ride our bikes to the ocean and camp for the night, of course!
(Midnight)
I kinda had a feeling the adventure wasn't going to be over for the day when I arrived into Rome. As usual, I was not let down by my intuition.
As I stepped off the train I noticed hundreds of backpackers and tourists roaming the streets with their luggage. I didn't think much of it until I found out that every single hotel, hostel, and hole in the wall was "completo" for the night. Full. No rooms. I rode around the city late into the night, walking into over 30 hotels, all of which were completo and none of whom would offer me a solution. Then I found a Radisson. The guy at the front desk called every Radisson in town and their affiliates. And still, no dice. As I started walking out, my heart pounding with fear as I faced my options of riding in the dark for 20 or so kms to get out of the city and to a place I could pitch my tent, or sleeping in a very unsafe city park or bench, the front desk guy said "wait, you are so lovely and beautiful and young. There must be a solution" (this machismo part of the cuture isn't bad all the time after all)
The guy then magically found a reservation that had not yet arrived for a 300$ room he was going to give to me for 150$ (since that was as low as he could go in the computer) and he was going to just cancel the reservation 3 hours earlier than he should, so I could go up to the room and sleep. It turns out he is moving to Brazil in 3 days, and I guess wanted to exercise whatever power someone in that job might have, prior to leaving. Well, good for me, anyways.
(noon)
even after 3 servings of the free breakfast and 2 cappuccinos, the room was definitely not worth 150$. Do you know I've not spent 150$ in the whole last 2 weeks for accommodation, all put together!?! Anyways, I checked out, and as I did, asked for directions to the Canadian embassy. When he gave them to me I thought it a bit strange because it was no where near where I thought it was supposed to be. But then he said, "Lady (putting me in my place in a machismo culture), I looked on the internet, and Madam (again, placing him above me, as a dumb woman who wouldn't possibly know) that is where it says it is."
I walked 3km underground with millions of other tourists to finally get to the subway that thousands of other tourists got onto, then got off at the stop where hundreds of other tourist got off at. The Vatican. Where a bizzillian locals then tried selling us dumb tourists anything from tours to tickets to tshirts.
I saw my first real nun. I wondered what those 900 people who work in the Vatican get paid. And what do they REALLY think?
At 11 am I found that the embassy I had been sent to, was, in fact, the wrong place. And the section for visa's had been moved across town. I ran. I jumped on a bus. I sat on it in a panic. I watched the map. I barely saw any of the sights of Rome, though I surely passed them all. I jumped off. I ran some more. I took a moment and thanked myself for being healthy. I arrived at the Visa section 5 minutes before it was to close. (AND they will be closed Monday for thanksgiving so had I not gotten here on time it would have been absolute, mass disaster!)
The morning, in short, has sucked.
This city could be cool but the current situation, my mind set, and a zillion tourists buzzing around me is making the experience quite sour. Part of me wants to do the tourist thing. Another part wants to get outta Dodge. Everything is booked full until next week anyways, so I am tenting regardless. I might as well make it into a fun jaunt towards Naples....
(1:30pm)
While still contemplating what to do, I walked through the
city a bit. At one point I passed the British Embassy, which had guards
standing out in front of it with huge AK47s. Not comforting. Then into a music store which had it's music blaring and some pretty cool shirts. I looked around at the shirts a bit, but felt embarrassed for asking the price of them in English, so I said nothing, and left the store. As I was leaving the shop keeper turned down the music and started yelling to me in Italian. I whipped around, thinking he was reading my mind and wanted to tell me there was a great sale on for the shirts. But I soon realized he was yelling AT me. "Blah Blah, Blah ah!"
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"When youa comea into a storea, you say, Bon journo, anda when youa leavea a storea, you say Arrivaderci, that is whata we do herea! And ifa I goa outa, that isa what Ia do!"
He screamed, red in the face.
I stared for a moment in shock, thinking to myself he's had 5 too many espresso's this morning, and all I could muster as a reply was, "Wow." and chuckled at him as I left.
But it was all a front. I was hurt. I was so hurt by how he yelled at me, that it was the final straw, and I headed straight for my bike, and straight out of town.
Just me, and my bike, both a bit hurt.
(8pm)
k, maybe at this point in the day if I were offered a Radisson room with a free breakfast the next day for 150, I'd take it. If, for no other reason than fear. The fear of being caught and the fear of having stuff stolen.
I am camping by the sea now. I think I am pretty well hidden but I keep hearing people's voices! I am so paranoid someone is going to come by like that man from the other day and tell me I can't camp here and I have to go. And it is dark. And it will start raining soon. I try not to stress to much about it, since there's not much I can do at this point, but my heart is pounding in my throat.
For an hour as the sun was setting I looked. I went to 3 campgrounds in the area. And they were all closed. I didn't even know campgrounds closed, let alone when it is still warm outside. It's not like they require any upkeep. Just gimme a place to put my tent, please!
Sped out of Rome at about 3pm. I felt so stressed, nervous, and anxious there. Partly because of the passport and visa stuff, but also I believe that some places have a certain frequency that just does not agree with you. Other places might feel like home the second you arrive. Rome is one of those places that does not vibe with me. I'm not catchin' what she's throwin'.
So I rode South West, down to the ocean. About 10km from the ocean I had a moment. It was like when you first step into a hot shower on a cold, dark winter morning. It was as if something had just washed me clean of the previous 20 hours. There was a sudden shift, and I was myself again.
October 9th
(10am)
I'm writing this from
a balcony overlooking the sea.
It's a bit windy so the waves are crashing. It's a bit cloudy so the sky is lit
up only in spots. I'm drinking a cappuccino from heaven. I am in Netto. I don't
know what it is about the clouds in Italy. But, they are different. They are
always so fluffy and lined in silver. I've only seen clouds like this two other
times: 1. painted onto the ceiling of the Venetian in Las Vegas, 2. Paintings by Michelangelo
I wish I knew the
words for water and toilet in Italian. I need both right now. I wish I had a little Italian phrase book.
After having cycled for the seventh day in a row now, I should mention both my neck and and crotch are doing just fine (a miracle?). My legs were never in question; though, on occasion when I go to sit down, my knees ache as if I was 90. But, all in all, there is still pain, and it is always in my hands. The bones that are pressed on my handlebars 8 or more hours a day are badly bruised. In fact, my palms are quite swollen from it. I move them around my handle bars all day, trying to give each part a break. I wear gloves. And there is a point where the pain turns to numbness. But mornings are tough, if for no other reason than that first push on the bars or breaks.
I made soup on my
stove for breakfast while I re-packed and unassembled everything this
morning. I always feel like a bit
of a hero when I make food on that thing. Not sure why. It is like the epitome
of roughing it. Speaking of which, I only spent a total of 3€ yesterday. Oh,
no, wait, I bought a subway/bus ticket to get to the embassy so it was a total of 7€. Today, so far, only
1.60€ (I got 2 cappuccinos, one as I first started writing this entry and then
another since then...you would have too, if heaven only cost 0.80 cents). I am
aiming to only spend 15€ total over the next 3 days. That way I won't have to
take any more money out on my visa until I return to Rome and spend another 100€
on my French Visa.
(12pm)
My Italian diet of
pizza, cappuccinos, beer and French fries is definitely the way to go. In fact,
I want to promote beer as one of the best nutritional supplements for endurance
athletes. This is a scientist speaking! On this Italian diet, I am never too
full; rarely too hungry; have lots of energy for the kms,, and get to
experience the local culture while I am at it.
Speaking of experiencing local culture, Roberto, or Robbie, as he likes to be called, just entered and exited my life in a whirlwind of Italian, laughs, twinkling eyes, and espresso. He rode up behind me about 30 kilometers ago and proceeded to chat with me until he had to turn around and head for home. But not before he bought me an espresso, showed me where to go on the map, and squeezed my cheek goodbye.
I've already said,
many times, how much I like Italians. They are so fun and forgiving. When
Robbie first came up behind me on his bike he started speaking Italian and I
was like, "Ciao, non Italiano, sorry." and he looked so disappointed so I
suggested French but he could not speak it, so he just tried Italian again. And
if he kept it simple, by asking me the usual questions I knew and could reply
to (where are you from; where are you going; how many kilometers to do you do a
day; what happens when you get a flat tire; where do you sleep????) and I was
able to answer with my single word or mixed languages answers; likely
mispronounced at that. Either way, it worked.
I feel as though I have a kinship with both
this language and these people.
I do have to say
though, there are some things I'm not too keen on. Currently, they are:
motorcyclists, the price of wine, and machismo.
The motorcyclists in and around Rome have a death wish. What's worse, they seem also not to care about any other lives either. Now, I am anti-motorcyclist to begin with. I've always thought that the only people in developed countries who drive motorbikes are either too lazy to ride a bicycle; too poor to buy a car; and have serious size issues they want to make up for, if you know what I mean. What makes the motorcyclists even worse in Italy, is they think the side lane, strictly for bikes and pedestrians, can also be used by them when it is more convenient to do so. So they come up behind you going 60km/hr, race by 2cms from your arm, and usually even have the audacity to yell something mean to you. The thing is, in those instances in a country where organ donation were assumed, such as you have to opt out rather than opt in, I'd be totally fine with this behavior and simply thank them for in the ensuing weeks, likely saving several other people's lives by killing themselves. However, it seems in countries with high religious 'values', logic tends to be low on the law makers list of skills. Therefore, I am guessing Italians don't want to part with their organs. And therefore, their behavior bothers me.
Secondly, wine is about 2€ per bottle. That was not a typo. And you can buy it anywhere, at any time. I don't want to complain about something so magnificent. But it does have it's downfalls. From punk teenagers to retired seniors, there is nothing stopping these people from drinking one, two or even more bottles of wine a day. This must have repercussions within society. And I think I have found it. They are lazy. In fact, Italians are some of the laziest people I've ever seen. If it weren't for the Indian, African and Chinese immigrants, I'd bet there wouldn't be an economy at all. For if ever I need or want something, in particular early in the morning, mid afternoon, or late at night (during which times Italians are all drinking, eating or sleeping or doing all three) I find the nearest Indian. Why? They always are able to speak English, they are always looking for opportunities to make money, and they tend to bargain, and help, if they know there is something in it for them. Italians, on the other hand, at one point at 5:55 told me they would not make me pizza as it does not open until 6, told me I could not put my tent up for 20€ as the tenting season is over, and there were many other instances where I was like, 'do these people not want to make any money?' And then I'd realize, I guess you don't need to make money when all you need is a few bottles of wine and espresso, both of which cost less than a few bucks.
Lastly, machismo. I
know I mentioned earlier how I feel uncomfortable with all the male attention.
Them telling me I am beautiful and giving me free things like pizza and bike
stuff. I feel uncomfortable because I don't ask for this. I am wearing my bike
gear and usually haven't showered for days, for gods' sakes. Let alone the fact
that I walk in wanting to pay for something. I feel like in an exchange where
they place me into a category of pretty and give me something for free, they
are doing two things, 1. immediately demeaning me as nothing more than a pretty
girl, and thus, putting them above me, and 2. immediately treating me as if I
need them by them giving me things for free, as if I were some prostitute or
something. Aside from obviously over-thinking the way men treat me here, it is
also the way they look at me or other women. The way they hold their girlfriends hand and at the
same time look another girl up and down slowly undressing her with their eyes.
They way they blatantly use women, and more importantly, the way women except
that as their fate. More on this later, I am sure....
(8pm)
All in all, a very
successful day. Tried, and loved, my first proper Italian spaghetti as well as
gelato. Never going back to the American stuff.
Other success's today
involved getting a free tire - a sympathy gratis, or maybe the machismo part of
the culture. Either way I had brought it in with three band-aids on it.
The band-aids were protecting the out tube from collecting stuff into the big
gashes from the glass on the streets of Rome.
I rode another 110kms
today. And I might have even gotten a sun tan. It was at least 30C this
afternoon.
Yes. I should have just gone straight to Italy.
10-10-10
(10am)
Is it just me or was
it just 08-08-08? Time flies.
Trains are by far my favorite way to travel. AS the sun rose this morning I packed up and set off. I stopped for a quick nutella filled donut and cappuccino (Italian breakfast of champions) and hit some serious hills, tunnels, and views of the sea, before arriving in Formia, where I would take the train to return to Rome. My legs were definitely feeling the miles this morning. Not burning sore but tired; heavy tired like every time I would turn the pedal with one legs, I'd think, 'can I do this again?'; like about the 35km mark of a marathon.
(11am)
Ok, I am pissed. I didn't validate (stick my ticket into a machine before getting on the train) my ticket because the validating machine was broken on my platform. And the last time I took a train here and didn't validate it (because I hadn't known I was supposed to) the lady on board just did it for me. Well, here's some 'machismo' for you. The a-hole ticket guy finally got to me at the back of the train, and hour through the ride. As soon as he looked at my ticket he started going on and on about a "big, big, really big problemo". And since I hadn't validated the ticket (though I told him the machine was broken and he told me the other machines weren't and it was just the one on my platform... ok, yeah, I'll carry bike bike down 20 stairs and up 20 stairs and go over to the other platform when my train is due to arrive in 3 minutes, see if the other machine works, and carry bike bike down 20 stairs and up 20 stairs again. Good idea.) I had to get off the train. I had to get off the train immediately, and validate my ticket and get on the next train. And he mentioned several times how he was doing me a huge favor because he should be charging me 50€ for traveling with an unvalidated ticket. I asked, sweetly, if there was anything he could do, knowing full well there was, and he started yelling about how he was helping me already. Ass.
SO I got off at the
next stop. Which just so happened to be in the middle of nowhere. To wait for
the next train which apparently comes in an hour. When I got off the train, three punk loser hick boys (like
17, come one, I am old enough to be your mother!) started hitting on me, making
kissing noises (!!!) and saying stuff I don't understand. I was fuming. Would
they have ever gotten a piece of my mind if only I could speak Italian!
I really don't like the
way men disrespect women here. And as if that wasn't enough, all the validating
machines at this stop are broken! SO now I need to wait an hour while these
homos across the tracks talk to and about me, get on the next train, and risk
another 50€ fine since my ticket still isn't valid.
(1230pm)
Update. The 1130 train did not come. Some sort of mechanicalismo problemo. SO I wait. For the next train to come. In 2 hours.
4pm
I arrive to Rome and go straight to the Coliseum. Just to get it over with.
(7pm)
I love Italians. Yes,
I've had a few run-ins with unhappy men and sexually frustrated women. But as I
sit here in a little restaurant that I found in a corner of Rome, chatting with
the owner and his Bangladeshi waiter, I fall in love with Italians again.
It wasn't an easy day. When I finally got onto the train, not a soul came to see my ticket. After all that. Then getting into Rome, finding the hostel, and all that all over again was not something I had wanted to repeat. But this time it was easier. And now I am having crazy conversations with the Bangladeshi about how Bush and Bin Laden are best friends. And how all the current hype about the likely terrorist attacks here in Europe is just a political cover up for something else going on. In these moments when I know that there is so much out there, bigger than me, I just thank Buddha I am just a regular person - who might understand much more than I should - but at least I am allowed to live a relatively normal life.
Getting back to the
day, I saw the coliseum and a bunch of ruins and mostly just a zillion
tourists. I had a large beer while I walked and really tried to get into it.
But I just couldn't. Rome just doesn't do it for me. I mean, yeah, 1000's of
years of history, Western civilization, old buildings, etc. But c'mon, China
invented paper, money, ceramics, metal work!!! Gimme something new, Rome, aside
from a horrible fear based religion and gladiators.
(10pm)
After some excellent
lubrication involving good company, my dinner (the Bangladeshi's concoction for
a special Canadian vegetarian) and a ½ bottle of wine, I tried yet again to be
one with Rome. And as I walked up towards the National Museum, then over
towards the Coliseum, this time lit for the night; with crowds thinning and
the air clean and crisp, I started feeling it. Rome and I started to jive. I
started thinking, yeah this place is pretty cool. The buildings are pretty
spectacular. The history is quite impressive. I walked closer and closer to the
Coliseum and then, I began to feel a bit odd. Every lamp post had a Chinese lantern on
it. The Coliseum was lit in red light. Further on I noticed the lanterns all
read (Zhong guo wen hua nian) The Year of Chinese Culture. And this was even
written on the side of the Coliseum! In that moment of realization, I lost
what little love I had for Rome. The universe gave me a message. China is the
best.
October 11th
(8am)
Hostels are a great
place to meet fun, adventurous, like-minded people from all over the world.
Every four days or so they have been an oasis for me. A place to shower, wash
clothes, charge my phone and camera, dry off, and feel secure that I won't be
attacked in the middle of the night. Or at least if I am, there are people
around to hear it.
But hostels also have their downfalls, some of which were made very clear during last night's snoring match; where, 6 out of 10 bunks in my room held some of the loudest sleepers I have yet to come across. Furthermore, they were, unconsciously or not, reverberating throughout the night, and creating possibly the world's first, six piece, nose orchestra.
I am in the breakfast
room now, watching U2's New Years Day video. That was unexpected. And drinking
coffee. I promised myself I would not drink coffee today. It makes me nervous
and anxious. Two things I do not need on the day where I fight for my right to get into France. The
trouble is, at these places, is it's free. And much like sugary pastries that
I'd never buy, when coffee is free, how can one say no?
(4pm)
I just got off the
phone with Bastian. And I am not complaining here because it is fun to solicit
information and advice from him. It helps us keep connected. But it is becoming
a daily occurrence for me to need him to look something up online for me while I
am on the road. Distances, weather, hostels, train schedules, the nearest bike
shop and how to get there, etc. All of which could be avoided if I just had a smart phone. It's the
only thing I've wished I had on a daily basis this entire trip. It would make
my life about a billion times easier.
Now I am sitting on a
train to Pisa. As in the leaning tower, yes. To my left is my camel back, in
which, contains my new passport AND my new 3 year French Visa. I am happy and
relieved but now feeling mixed feelings about continuing my journey. I won't go
into detail but it mainly involves some fear and anxiety about both moving to
France and moving in with Bastian.
With these mixed
feelings I am both fueled to get to Bordeaux ASAP, and digging my heels in at
the same time. So we'll take this one day at a time. Today? Leaning Tower of
Pisa!
(8pm)
Arrived. Found hostel. Checked in. Threw stuff on to bed. Got a map. Speed walked through Pisa. Arrived at the Leaning Tower as the sun set. Took pictures. Laughed at such a ridiculous thing (who honors a faulty, poorly built building?) Mosied back. Got Pizza on the way (gotta have Pizza in Pisa). Had some wine. Watched people. Locals, tourists, and bums, in 1:1:1 ratios. Back to my room. Started planning. Promised Bastian I'd be there by the weekend.
(The good news is, I woke up with the sun the next day and was able to get a proper pic of TLTOP for the blog:)
October 6th
(10am)
Woke up to one of the most incredible sunrises of my life. Washed my face in the Adriatic Sea (too cold for a full swim) then made my last soup with my last bit of water for breakfast. Changed into the last of my clean clothes, and pushed off for the day.
Just as I left Lido Di Classe, my pedal came off again. Some workers on the side of the road were kind enough to try to fix it. But it just kept falling off, so they directed me to the nearest bike shop in French; to which, I rode, sans pedal, for 3 kms. When I arrived at the bike shop in a small little town that I don't even think has a name, there was only one worker, a woman, who then needed to call the mechanic in from the bar. Yep, he was down having an espresso with the boys. She must have mentioned to him the issue and when he showed up a few minutes later, by bike, he had a pedal in his hand. But, unfortunately, it was not the right size.
I asked, in my, ever improving Italian, where the next shop
was (bicci reparazione), and he said a bunch of stuff and pointed to the next town on my map. About
7kms away. So, I started to get my bike and gear together again and then I saw
him jumping up and down and waving his hands, "Blah blah blah arrivva,
arrivva!". Ok, so, I put my bike back down, and as I sit outside the bike shop
now, hiding in the shade as it is already 31C, I wait. For something. Or
someone. To arrivvaa.
Eventually someone arrivaad. In fact, they had driven from the town 7km away, and brought with them several different pedals. One fit, they replaced it, and now I am off again.
October 7th
(noon)
After a proper nights sleep (in a dry bed with a pillow and no worries of random attacks) I woke up early and packed my freshly washed clothes (I wash them in the shower on the every 4 days or so that I have one, by the way) ate a massive free breakfast (which s quickly becoming one of my favorite things in life) and checked out.
I received an email yesterday saying my passport is now in Rome, ready for me to pick up. So now I am on a mission, and I hope to get there in time for pick up Friday. However, then the real battle starts, since so far it appears the people working in the French embassy in Rome are even more horrible than those working in the French embassy in Vancouver. What government sanctions hanging up on people or yelling at them on the phone being an idiot? France's government does.
Faggettabahtit! (that was my Italian accent) Forget about it. Cause today's ride was heaven. I must have gone over a change of altitude of over 900m. I got sweaty I am now sticky with salt. And part of the highlight was I wasn't the only cyclist out on that route today. It was dotted with men yelling, "Bravo!, "Bellissimo!", and "Complimenti!" as I powered up the hills with panniers. To be fair, they were passing me up, but they knew, they had lighter, better bikes, clips on their feet, and weren't carrying 20kg of extra stuff.
I've stopped now for food. No matter what I eat, there is no way I could make up in calories right now for that last stretch. Hydration, that's a whole other issue. But I have only about 30km left to do today. And it's all flat with a tail wind. So I'm golden. Just Cruisin'.
(5pm)
After riding my bike 100km+ before 2pm, I was pleasantly surprised to find an internet café across from the train station. Oh, but first, I must brag that I bought my and my bikes train tickets in Italian! "uno persona et uno bicci a Roma." I completely made it up and it totally worked! It's my new language: FrEnglIan.
And I just have to say once more how great Italians are. How beautiful this country is, and how I want to come back ASAP! I think it is all these great things, but I bet in large part it is because I am comparing it to the mean Germans and their dirty rainy country with nothing good to eat but things immigrants have brought, and honestly, nothing redeeming about that place. Not even after a week of sun to forget about it all.
Italians, on the flip side, are both hilarious and fun and funny. La Dolce Vita! They keep talking to me even though they know I don't understand. They are so warm and helpful. And they love their country and way of life. Me too!
So now I am headed on a train from Falconara MArittime to Roma, 'El Capitalo'. I feel strong and ready to explore the city, as well as prepare for the French embassy on Monday.
(7pm)
It is amazing at not only how much food but also water I need after 100km. I've eaten a huge meal at 5 and am already starving, plus I drank over a Litre of water since getting on the train and haven't peed yet!
