The good news is that I’m alive.
The potentially bad news is that I’m trying to update my travelpod again and it’s going to be a lot of reading (and writing).
These whacky Italian net cafes don’t ever seem to want to let me copy my photos off my camera, so they’ll be coming later.
The end.
P.S. I love you all.
Our hostel in Parugia was cheap, massive, had an amazing view of the town from its balcony, was immaculately clean and had a funny old man running it (that took 40 minutes to check the four of us in as he checked our passports and stuffed around doing something that I’m sure he thought was important but only seemed to make everything slower). It was also strict, with a cleaning lock-out from 9:30am until 4pm, the kitchen open from 7:30pm until 10pm, the balcony and upstairs area closed at 12am and a lockout at 1am. We called it the Hitler Hostel.
Parugia’s another university town. It’s beautiful and has a vibe similar to Bordeaux. We went exploring up and down the main street on the Saturday night when we arrived, nearly drowning in the sea of young people who seemed to only be walking up and down the road, eating gelato or sitting on the massive set of steps in front of some building that I never determined the purpose of.
We decided to treat ourselves to some pizza and beer on our own set of stairs before we practically crashed in our beds from travel exhaustion. It was probably a good thing that the curfew was 1am as it meant we made the effort to get to sleep earlier than we had been for the last few nights due to partying in Riomaggiore.
Kate’s Lonely Planet had a few suggestions for activies to try in Parugia for the next day. We ignored them and spent time sleeping in the shade by a church while a wedding went underway, then Al and I shared a big fat pizza then had a quiet beer from a vantage point overlooking another part of town. We thought the drunken South American we’d all met on the bus during the day who continued to try speaking to us even though we told him we couldn’t understand him would be the only oddball we’d run into. To our delight, Al and I got to witness an older man who’d come to the same overlook for a peaceful read in the shade. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t begin without a cigarette. He cheerily walked up to every single invidiual that passed by and did his best to beg for a freebie but time and time again he was refused a nicotine hit. Eventually, after spying two young girls who’d just sat down and lit up, he snuck up towards them using trees as cover until he casually walked past them and asked for a cigarette like it was sheer coincidence that they’d ever met. A little scared, the girls gave in to his request and lit him up. He sat down and contently read, never again bothering to move the whole time we were there.
That evening we all ended up drinking beers on the balcony in front of the amazing view. More people from the hostel ended up joining us and by accident we’d started a mini party. We chatted away the hours with more Americans, Swedes and Brits until midnight when we were kicked off the floor. I’d polished off the perfect amount of 660mL, 0.90 and 1 Euro beers so I walked up and back on the main street to clear my head and made it into bed before the curfew.
Our train out of Nice was one of the few dozen that were affected by the Italian train strike. We had to wait a little bit longer for our first train, wait three hours just inside the Italian border in Ventimiglia and then wait again in Genova but we finally made it to La Spezia around 8pm.
Still lacking accommodation, we managed to randomly bump into a guy that Kate had met during her last stay at Riomaggiore, the town we were intending to stay in. He called ahead for us and organised the infamous Mamma Rosa to meet us at the train station. She led us to one of the hostels in town and took us up to what we called “the cave”. Most of the other rooms in the hostel were quite nice and clean, even newly renovated. Ours was like a remnant of the old world but it at least had that flea-ridden, rustic charm that people like to read about but not actually experience.
It turns out the hostel was actually great fun and was packed with other young folk. We met Aussies, Canadians and Americans from all different areas and made the most of the cheap wine whenever we could. We even scored some email addresses to keep in touch with a few lucky people.
The Cinque Terre is made up of five towns running along the coast and Riomaggiore is one of them. It’s quite popular to hike from one end to the other, so we did. Well, we kind of did. Jibby, Kelly (a girl we met who tagged along with us) and I stopped at the fourth town and didn’t feel like progressing on foot after we felt the effects of pizza and gelato at lunch. The three of us took the train and looked around the fifth town before returning but Kate and Alex soldiered on for another 2 and a half hours on foot. The weather was swelteringly hot and the walk was damn hard work. This, of course, means that it felt rewarding, sweaty, dusty and gross reaching each town.
After four nights we decided we’d visit Parugia, a town inbetween La Spezia and Rome. Trying to be sneaky as it was only one stop, we hopped onto the train without a ticket and within 2 minutes had a ticket inspector enter our carriage. We tried putting up a bit of resistance and playing the confused tourist card, but he fined us 50 euros (even though he wanted 100 originally) then pocketed the cash.
Confident our terrific train karma would continue, we reach Florence and had our connecting train cancelled after we sprinted to our platform from the other end of the station. It took another hour before we were on our way to yet another train swap and finally we arrived in Parugia.
We had difficulty at first in finding a hostel. Good old Chez Patrick’s was full to the brim so we had to walk down the road to what turned out to be a better hostel.
Nice was as or more expensive than Paris so we again relied on the friendly prices of Monoprix and a lot of baguettes to get by. We hiked around, exploring an old ruined fort above a cliff looking out to sea and sucked up some of the view before relaxing under a tree in a nearby park for a few hours.
Down by the coast there’s nothing but rock beaches and a million vendors selling overpriced junk, like hats and knock-off sunglasses. Our only adventure was a trip to the delicately titled Chez Wayne’s pub for a happy hour pint and the first half of the England vs Sweden football match. Expense and the sardine effect deterred us from remaining, so I again navigated our party to a bottle shop and we returned to the beach and killed a few hours talking about nothing.
While I was on the beach I found a rock. I liked this rock in particular and adopted it as a pet. I washed off the white, powdery crap that seemed to be on every rock in the region and carried him back to our hostel, where I planted him in the garden so that he could long be seen and remembered by other travellers as my favourite rock.
I made it out of Paris with Al and Kate but not before seeing an African albino in a Monoprix shopping centre. He looked a bit like Harpo but with a bigger nose. Weird but cool.
The three of us took a speedy train to Bordeaux which only took 3 hours. We downed a few bottles of low-alcohol cider and munched on lollies, arriving on a sugar high. The rush was required in order for me to carry my 3 tonne bag from the station to Al’s share house without passing out from exhaustion, as I’d already lugged it around Paris trying to find their hotel and then to the train station.
Bordeaux’s a student town and it has a much more relaxed atmosphere than Paris, probably due to the abundance of young adults and the lack of tourists who seem to fill all the Parisien restaurants. We spent the evening relaxing on the banks of the Garonne and listened to Clemént (I think it’s spelt), one of Al’s housemates, playing guitar and singing songs in English, French and even Japanese.
Our little trio took time out for lunch the following day as none of us had had a proper sit-down meal since being in the country. I managed to fluke myself a nice turkey curry (odd, I know) even though it was overpriced like everything else around there. Al suggested we get some chips to share so I bravely went off to order some from the most popular kebab shop in town. Eight people pushed in front of me and the staff working there didn’t really care, then ignored my order of large chips and gave me a kebab with chips in it (which is common in these parts). Too frustrated and impatient and lacking in French linguistical ability to argue, I returned to our table with my head down and tail between my legs before cutting the chip-kebab in half and sharing it with Al.
That night Jibby arrived on a delayed train and brought some violent rain with her. We walked back in the soaking rain, arriving back at the house looking like four drowned rats. I looked more like a drowned rat in extreme agony, as I had previously drank about 600mL of Yop, a yoghurt drink, in about 2 minutes and it didn’t want to sit peacefully in my stomach. It took about an hour in the bathroom and two rolls of toilet paper before I’d recovered enough to be able to return to the lounge room.
The next day I was feeling rejuvenated enough to participate in the organising of our train tickets to Nice. We wanted to have everything sorted out before the party that was being held that evening (Saturday). God knows how many people showed up, but I’ve never seen so many individuals crammed into a house! I don’t know how I ended up doing it (it was probably the beer) but I managed to mingle with the partygoers until the wee hours of the morning when I finally got too tired to attempt speaking in slow, clear and concise English and went to bed.
Sunday was (as is the tradition) a day of rest. We spent most of our day bumming around waiting for the Brazil vs Australia game in the world cup. There were some outdoor restaurants set up down the road, housed in tents, with big screen televisions broadcasting the games so we went to one called The Frog and Rosbif (“rosbif” is apparently a French bastardisation of “roast beef” applied to the English, in the same way we call them “poms”). One of Al’s friends was working there, a guy called John. We chatted to him for a while but we couldn’t get any free or cheap beer so we decided to leave not long after Australia lost.
On the way back we were confronted by a proud Brazilian draped in his national flag (there seems to be a lot of them around France at the moment) who laughed at us when we told him we were Australian then ran off, singing to himself. That night I had a horrible sleep due to the army of mosquitoes that decided to pillage my ankles but I didn’t really mind as I knew I’d need to be tired if I was going to get any sleep on the night train to Nice the following evening.
The night train was certainly interesting. We had food with us to eat and kill some time as it wound its way slowly to the south east of the country. I eventually dozed off but awoke when it was reported that the train had broken down and that it’d take an hour or two to repair. The four of us sat at the train station we’d pulled up at and ate biscuits while we drank cheap sangria after I walked barefoot onto jagged rocks and a bit of train roadkill (wait for the photo). Eventually we got back underway and I managed to sleep in the most uncomfortable positions imaginable for the remainder of the trip until we pulled up in Nice at 10am the following morning.
Another update. With photos!
The stale crossaints I have for breakfast each day are beginning to bore me. At least the big pot of coffee they give me is good, making it all worthwhile.
I made it to the Louvre early enough to avoid any long waits to get a ticket. It’s relatively cheap to get in and the tickets last all day so that you can leave and re-enter at will.
Not wanting to be a complete tourist-whore, I put off seeing the Venus de Milo and Mona Lisa until later. The first section I explored was the gallery of French sculptures, my favourite being Puget’s Perseus and Andromeda (particularly because of the look on Medusa’s head).
I wandered through the arts of Islam, Mesopotapotamia, ancient Iran, Egypt and Greece. I sat for a while in each major section, reading the information cards bound in hard, clear plastic (none of the signs on the exhibits are in English). I found the Code of Hammurabi fascinating and quite refreshing in that barely anyone had come to see it when I was there (or probably at all, really).
The time had come. I took a deep breath and began pushing my way through the crowds swarming the southern wing of the first floor. Each room became warmer and warmer due to body heat and I eventually made my way into the room housing the Venus de Milo. It was boring.
By the way, Louis XV’s coronation crown in the Apollo gallery is actually quite ugly. The interior of the “swanky” rooms are also somewhat garish and too busy for my minimalistic tastes.
I pushed on through the crowds and followed the paper photos of the Mona Lisa until the only thing between its suprisingly small self and I was a thick, glass protective window and about 200 people trying to get a good look. I walked around the room to see if her eyes followed me. I guess they did, but it felt like the other paintings were doing the same thing. Quickly growing tired of the big crowds and never being particularly interested in art, I left the Louvre.
Now, I feel I should mention that while I appreciate art and the astounding talent required to produce all the stuff in there, I find artefacts that contribute to and impact on society (as opposed to culture) more interesting, such as Hammurabi’s code.
Tonight I’m going to watch more football and drink more beer. I should be meeting up with Benecke soon. We’re going to Bordeaux on Thursday!
I got up early enough on Sunday to check out the eastern side of the area that I’ve been staying in. It’s not particularly interesting.
After a few hours of plodding around, I skipped into Cafe Oz to watch Australia vs England in the rugby. I made my €6,50 pint of Fosters last about two-and-a-half hours and ended up sitting next to some old farts and some local rugby players. Local as in Kiwis and Aussies (including chubby-face himself, Matt Dunning) who played for French clubs that turned up to watch.
I didn’t wait for long after the full time whistle to leave and walk all the way back to the Eiffel tower. My feet were already sore by the time I got to the ticket queues but it wasn’t long until I was feeling giddy and nervous due to my fear of heights. The view is genuinely astounding but that’s all it is – a view. A view from a tall, brown hunk of nicely-patterned metal. I circled around a few times taking photos but it wasn’t too long until I got bored and descended. I walked back to the hotel once more and nearly had my feet fall off.
Supermarkets and clothes shops aren’t open on Sundays and the supermarkets close at 8 or 9pm every other night. I had no food or drink so I bought some more beer and snacks from a convenience store and lounged around my room (yet again) in my underwear watching the football (or soccer, if you like). I had to slightly shut my bedroom window as a man opposite could see directly in and admire my pasty, sweaty physique. It failed to perturb me too much, as I eventually drifted off into sleep.
I haven’t even updated my own journal, yet here I am informing all of you about my antics! Talk about getting my priorities mixed up.
After my last update on Saturday I went wandering past L’église Saint-Eustache, taking a few happy snaps of it and the surrounding gardens. Not much else happened during the day apart from my purchase of jellybeans and beer to keep me entertained as I whiled away the afternoon and Parisien humidity in my hotel bedroom.
That evening (although it was still as bright as a typical Sydney day at 3pm) I blindly walked in the direction of Montmartre. As I went back past Gare de L’est and Gare du Nord I walked through a quaint market filled with fruit and vegetable sellers, cheese stalls, butchers and fishmongers. The fish stunk from being exposed to the heat for the entire day, causing me to gag as I hurried past them.
There was an increase in commotion and commuters further up the road. I turned into a densely crowded street of what appeared to be predominantly tourists walking by a carousel. My curiosity forced me to investigate.
They weren’t there to ride the carousel. They were there to marvel at the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur (Basilica of the Sacred Heart). It sits high upon a hill overlooking Paris. Definitely something one has to see for themselves as no words can describe it, inside and out. I spent some time listening to people pray as I sat on a pew with Jesus looking down at me from a dome above the altar. I’m sure he wanted me to purchase a souvenier coin from one of the vending machines surrounding the church’s exit.
I returned to the road and the ubiquitous French restaurants, passing by a cemetary that I would have entered if the entrance wasn’t on the direct opposite side of where I stood. The Moulin Rouge had to be somewhere. I knew it. For some reason there didn’t seem to be any street signs to give me clues as to its location. I was about to give up and check my map but resisted defeat.
Deciding it could be time to get some food and perhaps (on the off chance) find something interesting to do, I walked south, past the cemetary, into an area named Clichy-something. It was humming with activity. That’s if you call eating in restaurants a humming activity. Spotting two dressed-up young Frenchwomen walking by, I (in an act completely out-of-character, I assure you) began following them in the hope that they were going somewhere interesting to do something interesting. My discreet prowling lasted for about 30 minutes as I shadowed them off the main roads and eventually into a back street. They disappeared inside a non-distinct residential building and left me alone and lost with nothing to show for it.
I spent an hour walking back home via yet another direction only to return disgusted with the lack of Paris’ nightlife on a summer Saturday.
the knob blog 