It's hard to know if I can call this, or any of these trips, a success. It feels like I should, I mean I did the core of what I wanted to do. The week in Lisbon with Melanie was magical, for both the city and the company. I made it to the south of France, and specifically Arles. I took the train up through Europe and made my way to Amsterdam and spent a week wandering along the canals. In looking back at past trips, I never forget the hardships, but I always smile at the experience and the journey.
The only direction in my head as I metaphorically dipped my oars in the water was to explore Europe in Van Gogh's footsteps and see some of what he saw while his art took him throughout Europe. I guess if I had to critique the trip in a harsh light I would have wanted to see more of where he lived. Places like The Hague, Borniage, St Remy. But as it turns out traveling through Europe is quite expensive. I guess it's a good thing that I don't think about money (too much), but it does leave one with a bump on the psyche when the harsh reality of the cost of plane and train tickets collides with my dream like reality.
My last solo trip to Europe, the Berlin, Copenhagen, Sweden trip has some real sparkling magical moments that somehow were lacking on this trip. I did really enjoy Arles and not just because I was standing in the exact spots where Van Gogh painted masterpieces, but that was a big part of it. If I had to pick a magic moment it would be the night shoot I did in Arles. I took the tripod out after dark and got some great shots and felt like a I took a big step forward in my evolution as a photographer. The concert in the ancient Roman amphitheater certainly added to the sparkle.
Usually by this time, after a spell on the road, I am very homesick and am counting the seconds until I get home and get to see everyone. And, well, I am. However, I'm also starting to think about where I want to go next. Travel truly is addicting. I know that I want to go with someone, I'm really burnt out on solo travel for the time being, and I would love to do something outdoors, maybe a photo safari in Yellowstone or a rugged trip to New Zeland, who knows. I do know that I'm not done yet and I still have so much to see before I take that one last trip..... to Los Angeles.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Pigeons Hate Bicycles
I believe that the preponderance of bicycles in Amsterdam has an effect on the pigeon population. I think there are so few pigeons because they hate all the bicycles. I have never seen so many bicycles in my life.
One travel tip I forgot to mention in the previous post; while walking in Amsterdam your biggest threat is not pick pockets, trams, motorcycles, bums or cars... it's bicycles. I learned this after a few close encounters of the dingy bell kind. Every time you cross the street, every time you walk past an alleyway or the pavement changes color under your feet, look every which way you can, then look again. Because chances are the first place you looked now has a bicycle bearing down on you at full speed. AND the operator of said bicycle is on a cell phone, talking or texting. They are everywhere and they have the right of way. Almost every street has a bike lane and the lights do not seem to apply to them. So even though you have a green light, check to the left, right, forward and behind, and then again, because they will come barreling around the corner behind you and they ain't stopping.
I think all of this annoys the hell out of the pigeons. Not only are the bikes filling the streets, but everything stationary has a bike attached to it. They lock them to trees, railings, light posts, street signs, statues and even park benches, which makes the bench unusable. There are thousands of them. If you ever commit a crime on a bike and want to hide your get away vehicle, lock it to a light post in Amsterdam, it will never be found.
Pigeon One: "I hate these dirty bikes they are everywhere"
Pigeon Two: "I know they are like rats with wheels"
Pigeon One: "BREAD CRUMB!!"
One travel tip I forgot to mention in the previous post; while walking in Amsterdam your biggest threat is not pick pockets, trams, motorcycles, bums or cars... it's bicycles. I learned this after a few close encounters of the dingy bell kind. Every time you cross the street, every time you walk past an alleyway or the pavement changes color under your feet, look every which way you can, then look again. Because chances are the first place you looked now has a bicycle bearing down on you at full speed. AND the operator of said bicycle is on a cell phone, talking or texting. They are everywhere and they have the right of way. Almost every street has a bike lane and the lights do not seem to apply to them. So even though you have a green light, check to the left, right, forward and behind, and then again, because they will come barreling around the corner behind you and they ain't stopping.
I think all of this annoys the hell out of the pigeons. Not only are the bikes filling the streets, but everything stationary has a bike attached to it. They lock them to trees, railings, light posts, street signs, statues and even park benches, which makes the bench unusable. There are thousands of them. If you ever commit a crime on a bike and want to hide your get away vehicle, lock it to a light post in Amsterdam, it will never be found.
Pigeon One: "I hate these dirty bikes they are everywhere"
Pigeon Two: "I know they are like rats with wheels"
Pigeon One: "BREAD CRUMB!!"
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Travel Tips from the Battle Hardened
Electricity is expensive in Europe so don't be at all surprised when you step out of your hotel room at night into a pitch black hallway. You have a few options. The most economical is to just grope along the walls near your door and feel for the light switch that could be anywhere. Hopefully your room is not close to the stairs. Another way to go is the stylish miners lamp that you wear on a headband and must never take off, least you forget it when you need it most. If none of these work for you, your cell phone can be a crude but effective flashlight, if you have it on and if your wallpaper is a picture of the sun.
Along the same line, when you enter your room, you may be perplexed that none of the lights come on and the television seems to be broken. Do not be alarmed. Look by the door of your room, see previous paragraph if it's nighttime, for a slot for your room key. It works like this. Putting your room key in this slot turns on the electricity for your room, removing it when you leaves turns off the electricity, saving the hotel hundreds of dollars as you can not leave the lights, TV or hair dryer going as you head out for a night on the town.
Trains. My favorite topic. When you finally find out what track you are on and scurry over to wait for your train, you are not completely done. Remember your train may be coming from somewhere else and may only stop for a few minutes. Your train may be long. Haste is required. Look for a board on the platform that you just hurried to. It's easy to find because everyone else will be going over to look at it too. It tells you where on the platform your car will stop, and what letter you need to stand by. For example, if I'm in car (voiture in French) 6, the sign will show me that I need to stand by the big letter "W" on the platform. When the train rolls up, voila, you step right onto the train.
When you go to Starbucks you have to ask for the wifi login. Also the receipt will have the key code for the bathroom. Which doesn't change very often so you can use it on subsequent days. Europe is weird when it comes to restrooms, most places like train station etc will charge you 50 cents (the euro equivalent) to use the facilities. Remembering the key code at Starbucks can come in handy.
Train employees will only tell you the bare minimum. Ask lots of questions. Not that it really matters because none of them speak English. Warm up for your trip to Europe with lots of charades. Their job is to sell you a ticket and to make sure you don't step onto the tracks, period. Everything else is up to you.
Some ATMs love spitting out 50 euro notes, which is a pain because most places do not like to break them. In such a situation, look for a McDonalds or a Starbucks, or any American food service company. They never seem to mind breaking large bills... of course you gotta order something.
For getting around Europe, sometimes trains can be expensive. Taking the train to Toulouse from Lisbon would have taken a day and cost me over 200 euros. If you go to the usual travel sites, Expedia, Orbits, etc, the flights can be just as pricey or more. Try EasyJet. It's Europe's version of Southwest. My flight to Toulouse, with a checked bag, was 88 euro. It's a cattle call, first come, first served seating, and anything you drink or eat will cost you, but it's very well run and the web site is cool.
Last tip: Don't go to Toulouse.
Along the same line, when you enter your room, you may be perplexed that none of the lights come on and the television seems to be broken. Do not be alarmed. Look by the door of your room, see previous paragraph if it's nighttime, for a slot for your room key. It works like this. Putting your room key in this slot turns on the electricity for your room, removing it when you leaves turns off the electricity, saving the hotel hundreds of dollars as you can not leave the lights, TV or hair dryer going as you head out for a night on the town.
Trains. My favorite topic. When you finally find out what track you are on and scurry over to wait for your train, you are not completely done. Remember your train may be coming from somewhere else and may only stop for a few minutes. Your train may be long. Haste is required. Look for a board on the platform that you just hurried to. It's easy to find because everyone else will be going over to look at it too. It tells you where on the platform your car will stop, and what letter you need to stand by. For example, if I'm in car (voiture in French) 6, the sign will show me that I need to stand by the big letter "W" on the platform. When the train rolls up, voila, you step right onto the train.
When you go to Starbucks you have to ask for the wifi login. Also the receipt will have the key code for the bathroom. Which doesn't change very often so you can use it on subsequent days. Europe is weird when it comes to restrooms, most places like train station etc will charge you 50 cents (the euro equivalent) to use the facilities. Remembering the key code at Starbucks can come in handy.
Train employees will only tell you the bare minimum. Ask lots of questions. Not that it really matters because none of them speak English. Warm up for your trip to Europe with lots of charades. Their job is to sell you a ticket and to make sure you don't step onto the tracks, period. Everything else is up to you.
Some ATMs love spitting out 50 euro notes, which is a pain because most places do not like to break them. In such a situation, look for a McDonalds or a Starbucks, or any American food service company. They never seem to mind breaking large bills... of course you gotta order something.
For getting around Europe, sometimes trains can be expensive. Taking the train to Toulouse from Lisbon would have taken a day and cost me over 200 euros. If you go to the usual travel sites, Expedia, Orbits, etc, the flights can be just as pricey or more. Try EasyJet. It's Europe's version of Southwest. My flight to Toulouse, with a checked bag, was 88 euro. It's a cattle call, first come, first served seating, and anything you drink or eat will cost you, but it's very well run and the web site is cool.
Last tip: Don't go to Toulouse.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Nice Train, Nice Train
I've been bitchn so much about the trains, I thought I'd throw a change up and say some nice things about taking the train in Europe. Here we go.
When you take the train you get to see most of the graffiti in town. In some towns, it's the only place were there is graffiti. In Toulouse I didn't see any street art until the train left the station towards Arles. Then there was tons of it by the tracks.
Generally when you arrive in a town and your at the central train station there is a metro or tram that can get you where you need to go. Not always the case with airports.
No security checks. You can keep your shoes on and your pants don't fall to the floor when you take your belt off.
Trains are on time. My experience so far anyway. (all of this is generally speaking of course)
The people on the trains are polite, and follow the rules when it comes to not smoking or talking on cell phones.
On the train towards Amsterdam, the announcements where made in Dutch and English. This was frightening on the French trains, the announcements where only in French and you cringe, hoping that he is not saying something like. "If you are going to Toulouse, your need to get off at the next stop or you will be put in prison, where the guards do not speak English". Sorry, just a tiny little complaint, mon petite.
And best of all, when I was standing in the cafe car having a beer, avoiding the kicking 3 year old. I asked the attendant how fast we were going. "Do you want mph or kilometers" he asked. I was thinking we were maybe going 90 or 100 mph, we were really moving. "175 mph" was his answer. Wow, I thought, that's freaking cool.
When you take the train you get to see most of the graffiti in town. In some towns, it's the only place were there is graffiti. In Toulouse I didn't see any street art until the train left the station towards Arles. Then there was tons of it by the tracks.
Generally when you arrive in a town and your at the central train station there is a metro or tram that can get you where you need to go. Not always the case with airports.
No security checks. You can keep your shoes on and your pants don't fall to the floor when you take your belt off.
Trains are on time. My experience so far anyway. (all of this is generally speaking of course)
The people on the trains are polite, and follow the rules when it comes to not smoking or talking on cell phones.
On the train towards Amsterdam, the announcements where made in Dutch and English. This was frightening on the French trains, the announcements where only in French and you cringe, hoping that he is not saying something like. "If you are going to Toulouse, your need to get off at the next stop or you will be put in prison, where the guards do not speak English". Sorry, just a tiny little complaint, mon petite.
And best of all, when I was standing in the cafe car having a beer, avoiding the kicking 3 year old. I asked the attendant how fast we were going. "Do you want mph or kilometers" he asked. I was thinking we were maybe going 90 or 100 mph, we were really moving. "175 mph" was his answer. Wow, I thought, that's freaking cool.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Train Days
It's raining in Toulouse. I'm sitting in the train parked at the station before we head out to Paris. Yesterday's trip from Arles back to Toulouse was easy for a train day. The only stress point was self inflicted. Hey remember when I said about train travel, that something is always fucked up or gets fucked up I should have mentioned that half the time it's friendly fire.
The departure board had two trains leaving on the same track about 2 minutes apart. Dam, this happened in Berlin and it drove me crazy. What if the 9:00 train is late and, my train, the 9:02 comes in first. How will I know I'm getting on the right train. OK, so the first train comes in and EVERYONE gets on board. What the hell, lucky for me the coffee cart guy is right there and he let's me know I'm on the right train. As I sit down and take deep breaths I seem to remember a little bus symbol next to the 9:00 "train" Dam it, why they gotta put buses on the train board.
As we roll out of Toulouse, my seat sucks. I swear that snarky lady at the international counter gave me the worst seats. I'm on the aisle, and there is a pillar where I should be looking out the window. Lucky for me the train is half empty and I can move around and find decent seats. I just hop back to my seat at every stop and then look around as we roll out and find something good from the leftovers. It's a nice 6 hours scanning the French countryside as the train rolls in and out of the shadows of big fluffy white clouds.
The stress point for today's adventure concerns the arrival and departure points for my connecting train to Amsterdam. It works like this at any train station. We train goers all stand under the big board looking up at our train on a long list of other trains waiting for the little number to appear that tells what track we're on. When that happens we all going running like rats in a maze, scurrying to our platform... to wait some more. As I'm standing there, it dawns on me that my train arrives at Paris Montparnasse and yet my train to Amsterdam leaves at Paris Nord. I'm no climatologist, but aren't those two different train stations, many miles apart. I run into the Information office to wait for the next available clerk who doesn't speak English to ask the important question. I say the two station names and hold out my fingers far apart, she says one word "Metro". Ahhhhh, like a Hitchcock movie, her face seems to move far away from me and yet closer a the same time.
No problem, I got this, I've been to Paris twice, I've ridden the New York subway system on my own, after my 13 year old niece showed me how. How hard could it be. Probably a lot of us have to get to Paris Nord, so there will be signs. I wasn't really that worried... until I got off the train in Montparnasse. It was like Times Square on New Years Eve except everyone was in a big hurry to get somewhere, like now. I just start following the heard, hoping to see a big "M" for metro somewhere. Information desk, OK, now we're talking, "Parly vou English" dismissive "no" Of course not, that's why you work at an INFORMATION DESK! I see the big "M", OK, then I see a big "M" information desk. Bingo. I wait in a long line and get my ticket and I ask which metro to take, cause there's literally 6 different lines to take. "4" she says, it's a mad house. OK, good, I can just look on the map for "Paris Nord" Not there, it's got to be Garre Nord, right, cause that's what they put right on my ticket. Garre is French for train, right? I roll the dice, I've only got about 45 minutes to make my train, if this is wrong...
I make it to the station, Paris/Garre Nord and see my train on the big board, whew. Home free. And I've convinced myself that this train ride will be easy. You know where this is headed don't you. I'm watching the big board, watching...waiting... track 8. I look over at track 8 and 100,000 people start swarming that way. Oh boy. It's elbows and suitcases at 10 paces as we're all trying to get on board first, for no reason, it's reserved seats my bruthers. I make my way in and see a three year old in my seat. Um, French dude, your child is in my seat, and I'm having a stressful day so move your child cause I'm almost sure I can take him. (He was the cutest kid, sporting a Sammy Davis Jr type hat, you know, really short brim.) The dad says he gets that the kid's in my seat, but I'm still standing here holding up the line. He tries to move the kids from my seat and the kid goes hyperbolic. "It's fine" I say, he can have my one and only window seat for these last two days. When all is said and done the dad is not even on the train, but the mom is holding the kid in her lap for 4 hours, where he can occasionally kick me if I happen to nod off. And just to frost this cake of misery, my seat is part of a set where it's two seats facing two, so I'm also looking across at two very angry looking German women. They looked piiiissssed. Now where's that observation car.
[please note: that last line will make a lot more sense when you read about my, soon to released, adventures on the Texas Eagle last February. I'm not a writer, obviously, but is that called foreshadowing, probably not]
The departure board had two trains leaving on the same track about 2 minutes apart. Dam, this happened in Berlin and it drove me crazy. What if the 9:00 train is late and, my train, the 9:02 comes in first. How will I know I'm getting on the right train. OK, so the first train comes in and EVERYONE gets on board. What the hell, lucky for me the coffee cart guy is right there and he let's me know I'm on the right train. As I sit down and take deep breaths I seem to remember a little bus symbol next to the 9:00 "train" Dam it, why they gotta put buses on the train board.
As we roll out of Toulouse, my seat sucks. I swear that snarky lady at the international counter gave me the worst seats. I'm on the aisle, and there is a pillar where I should be looking out the window. Lucky for me the train is half empty and I can move around and find decent seats. I just hop back to my seat at every stop and then look around as we roll out and find something good from the leftovers. It's a nice 6 hours scanning the French countryside as the train rolls in and out of the shadows of big fluffy white clouds.
The stress point for today's adventure concerns the arrival and departure points for my connecting train to Amsterdam. It works like this at any train station. We train goers all stand under the big board looking up at our train on a long list of other trains waiting for the little number to appear that tells what track we're on. When that happens we all going running like rats in a maze, scurrying to our platform... to wait some more. As I'm standing there, it dawns on me that my train arrives at Paris Montparnasse and yet my train to Amsterdam leaves at Paris Nord. I'm no climatologist, but aren't those two different train stations, many miles apart. I run into the Information office to wait for the next available clerk who doesn't speak English to ask the important question. I say the two station names and hold out my fingers far apart, she says one word "Metro". Ahhhhh, like a Hitchcock movie, her face seems to move far away from me and yet closer a the same time.
No problem, I got this, I've been to Paris twice, I've ridden the New York subway system on my own, after my 13 year old niece showed me how. How hard could it be. Probably a lot of us have to get to Paris Nord, so there will be signs. I wasn't really that worried... until I got off the train in Montparnasse. It was like Times Square on New Years Eve except everyone was in a big hurry to get somewhere, like now. I just start following the heard, hoping to see a big "M" for metro somewhere. Information desk, OK, now we're talking, "Parly vou English" dismissive "no" Of course not, that's why you work at an INFORMATION DESK! I see the big "M", OK, then I see a big "M" information desk. Bingo. I wait in a long line and get my ticket and I ask which metro to take, cause there's literally 6 different lines to take. "4" she says, it's a mad house. OK, good, I can just look on the map for "Paris Nord" Not there, it's got to be Garre Nord, right, cause that's what they put right on my ticket. Garre is French for train, right? I roll the dice, I've only got about 45 minutes to make my train, if this is wrong...
I make it to the station, Paris/Garre Nord and see my train on the big board, whew. Home free. And I've convinced myself that this train ride will be easy. You know where this is headed don't you. I'm watching the big board, watching...waiting... track 8. I look over at track 8 and 100,000 people start swarming that way. Oh boy. It's elbows and suitcases at 10 paces as we're all trying to get on board first, for no reason, it's reserved seats my bruthers. I make my way in and see a three year old in my seat. Um, French dude, your child is in my seat, and I'm having a stressful day so move your child cause I'm almost sure I can take him. (He was the cutest kid, sporting a Sammy Davis Jr type hat, you know, really short brim.) The dad says he gets that the kid's in my seat, but I'm still standing here holding up the line. He tries to move the kids from my seat and the kid goes hyperbolic. "It's fine" I say, he can have my one and only window seat for these last two days. When all is said and done the dad is not even on the train, but the mom is holding the kid in her lap for 4 hours, where he can occasionally kick me if I happen to nod off. And just to frost this cake of misery, my seat is part of a set where it's two seats facing two, so I'm also looking across at two very angry looking German women. They looked piiiissssed. Now where's that observation car.
[please note: that last line will make a lot more sense when you read about my, soon to released, adventures on the Texas Eagle last February. I'm not a writer, obviously, but is that called foreshadowing, probably not]
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
It Was Still Cool
I was out after dark trying to find magic night shots. I don't think I got anything great, I still have so much to learn, but that's what drives me. Anyway, I happened by an ancient Roman Ampitheater, a concert was about to start. I had seen them running a sound check during the day. The amphitheater is very small so I'm guessing it's not a big band, Stones, Zeppelin are probably out, but maybe ZZ Top or a Lover Boy. It sounded cool.
I forgot about it as I set out from my hotel about 8:30. When I walked by, the lights were dark on the stage but the crowd had lights on them, and some really cool, ethereal music was playing as the crowd grew restless and started clapping. I could see into the amphitheater from outside the gates and the few guards did not seem to mind so about 20-30 of us hung around waiting for the free show. It was a young crowd, so I ruled out classical or Jazz or a Grateful Dead reunion. Probably not Lover Boy or ZZ top as well. This was exciting, it was so cool to see all the sound equipment and lights on stage and I got that just before go live excitement, which always reminds me of waiting for the Stones to go onstage at the Forum in 1975. God I'm old.
They finally come out, I can't see anybody, but they start to play and it's kinda emo music, cool, but sad and slow. The lead singer sounded very familiar, but I couldn't tell if he was signing in English or not. I hung around for a few songs just to make sure they were not gonna break out with Black Dog or Misty Mountain Hop and I would have walked away from the warm up for a Led Zeppelin reunion tour. This type of thing has been know to happen to me(right Melanie?).
When I get back to my room, I quickly Google "concert Arles Spetember 11" and sure enough it's Sigur Ros from Iceland. WHO? Oh well, he had a pretty voice. It was cool anyway. My luck, tomorrow night it will be the Stones.
Field of Dreams
I had a choice to make this afternoon. A local museum is having a Picasso exhibit. I haven't had a fix lately from the Spanish master. Or, do I follow the Van Gogh map (in Spanish) and find more Van Gogh places around Arles. How many times can you stand in the spot where master pieces were created. I can go see Picasso in a museum any ole time, right.
My first stop was my best stop. I want to be able to tell Sean, and Kaelynn one day when she understands what Van Gogh means, that I had a beer in the cafe of one of his most famous paintings "Cafe Terrace at Night".
I'm sitting in the cafe, Le Cafe La Nuit (The Night Cafe), not more than 10 yards from where Van Gogh sat 124 years ago. How funny life is. When he sat here, facing me ages ago, he had no idea what he would mean to so many people. How very powerful his art was to become. Picasso said "To know my art you must know my life" That was never more true than with Vincent van Gogh. It's not just the brush strokes, the colors, the starry nights or magnificent use of yellow. It's knowing the passion and the pain that was the lens that brought us fields of wheat, lillies or starry night cafes. It's knowing his intense desire to be accepted and loved. Love that never arrived, not even from his parents.
If I could go back in time and meet anyone, Jesus, Einstein, Picasso, Natalie Wood, it would be Van Gogh on that very night. I would tell him that 124 years from now he would be loved and that there are plaques all over Arles commemorating some of his greatest works. And that people from around the world would visit this town because of him and his work. He would call me crazy, rightly so, and I don't know if anything I can say could ease his pain. Part of the allure of him is that it is such a tragedy, along the lines of a Shakespeare play. Such a great artist never knew how much he would mean to so many people, to everyone who feels different, unaccepted, unloved, doomed. Maybe what we do in our lifetime will amount to something even if we never know it; if we just keep painting.
My first stop was my best stop. I want to be able to tell Sean, and Kaelynn one day when she understands what Van Gogh means, that I had a beer in the cafe of one of his most famous paintings "Cafe Terrace at Night".
I'm sitting in the cafe, Le Cafe La Nuit (The Night Cafe), not more than 10 yards from where Van Gogh sat 124 years ago. How funny life is. When he sat here, facing me ages ago, he had no idea what he would mean to so many people. How very powerful his art was to become. Picasso said "To know my art you must know my life" That was never more true than with Vincent van Gogh. It's not just the brush strokes, the colors, the starry nights or magnificent use of yellow. It's knowing the passion and the pain that was the lens that brought us fields of wheat, lillies or starry night cafes. It's knowing his intense desire to be accepted and loved. Love that never arrived, not even from his parents.
If I could go back in time and meet anyone, Jesus, Einstein, Picasso, Natalie Wood, it would be Van Gogh on that very night. I would tell him that 124 years from now he would be loved and that there are plaques all over Arles commemorating some of his greatest works. And that people from around the world would visit this town because of him and his work. He would call me crazy, rightly so, and I don't know if anything I can say could ease his pain. Part of the allure of him is that it is such a tragedy, along the lines of a Shakespeare play. Such a great artist never knew how much he would mean to so many people, to everyone who feels different, unaccepted, unloved, doomed. Maybe what we do in our lifetime will amount to something even if we never know it; if we just keep painting.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Whats Spanish for Stars?
The first rule of trains. Something will either be fucked up or it will get fucked up. Every single time.
I'm up early, I'm super packed and ready to go. I get to the station an hour before my train leaves. So far so good. I have even figured out, by watching the others, where on the platform I need to stand. This is important because the train only stops long enough to let people off and let people on. You don't want to be on the wrong end of the platform. I get to my seat, number 23, an aisle seat, oh well, it's only 3 hours. The guy in the window seat is gesturing to me and pointing a the black hand bag in my seat. OK, it's nice, but it's doesn't match my shoes. Turns out the train people book him and his wife both for seat 24. Well being the ambassador of goodwill for America (you're all welcome) I found another seat. But what this means is that from now on, at every stop, I'm looking over my sholder waiting for someone to start yelling at me in French. I'm pretty pissed off at this point in the trip, so words will be exchanged; international incident will ensue. The conductor comes by and the couple start saying French things to him, he shrugs and walks away. OK then. And of course you know the couple is going way past my stop, so no freaking way I'm getting my seat. As things go, it was stressful, but I didn't get kicked out of my seat until we were about 45 minutes from Arles (stop pronouncing the "s") so I just stood in the passage way by the door, counting the minutes before the conductor walked by and yelled at me in French and I punched him.
Towns are funny. They are like people. You generaly know if your going to like them right away. Something about them makes you comfortable, even though you just met. The only other town I've had this instant shine to was Fort Bragg. Good things happen right away. This town is what I was looking for, it's eveything Toulouse was not. It's quaint, charming, with tons of history, and more importantly enough Van Gogh suvinoirs to fill the small coluisum in Arles (don't say the "s"); built in the days when this was a Roman outpost. It's very touristy here, but that's OK beacuse it means most of the restaurants have English menus, and the people don't try to avoid English.
I droped my bag at the Hotel and went to explore a bit. I'm trying to find the tourist office to pick up my Van Gogh walking map. It tells you how to find some of the very spots where he created his famous paintings in Arles ("s" is silent). They of course are out of the English maps, "Would you like French" asks the women sweetly, "NO" I yell out too loudly, "do you have Spanish?"
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Croissant Anyone
It's Sunday in Toulouse, and I'm guessing, what with this being a very catholic nation, that everything is closed for God. I was planing on going to Le supermarket and buying a cheap lunch and diner. This means a cup of noodles and a frozen, microwavable something. My master plan was foiled. I had tried to go last night on my way home from the sunset shoot by the river. But on a Saturday night, everything in my neighborhood was shuttered up before 8PM. Uh-oh. This morning as I headed towards the market, rosary beads in hand, my heart sank, and more loudly my stomach as I turned the corner and saw the shutters still down.
Lucky for me, two of the shops in the trash strewn French version of a strip mall are owned by Muslims. I know I'm profiling, but in a good way. A small produce market and a bakery. The produce market has a small bag of pasta and a can of tomato paste. More praying that my apartment came equipped with a can opener. At the bakery I was able to buy a bag of croissants with a donut for 2 euro.
I know I could hop on the Metro and ride into town and probably find something more grown up. But for some reason I can't explain, I would rather eat a bag of croissants for lunch and dinner than get back on the Metro. I don't have a can opener.
Lucky for me, two of the shops in the trash strewn French version of a strip mall are owned by Muslims. I know I'm profiling, but in a good way. A small produce market and a bakery. The produce market has a small bag of pasta and a can of tomato paste. More praying that my apartment came equipped with a can opener. At the bakery I was able to buy a bag of croissants with a donut for 2 euro.
I know I could hop on the Metro and ride into town and probably find something more grown up. But for some reason I can't explain, I would rather eat a bag of croissants for lunch and dinner than get back on the Metro. I don't have a can opener.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Parle Français?
It's not good to come to France after going to Portugal. The first thing that jumps off the page is the completely different attitude towards the English language. In Lisbon everyone spoke English, and seemed to enjoy speaking English. Every night on the small television set, the size of a toaster oven, Melanie and I usually found a TV show in English with Portuguese subtitles. One night the previous Batman movie was on, another it was Californication. In Portugal they have no problem putting English words on museum exhibits, menus, signs, etc. English does not repulse them as it seems to do with the French.
The French seem to hate English. On television, every English speaking show is dubbed in French, and the credits are even re-written in French. This includes such shows as The Simpsons, Malcom in the Middle and ER. Nothing is in English, nobody seems to speak English, even if they speak English. Even the woman at the International counter of the train ticket office spoke very little English. Most of my train reservations where made by pointing at her screen and praying that I had guessed the right French word for "Thursday". I really hope I do end up in Arles.
I don't mean to bang on the French, They are not mean, and have been nice to me when I have bought things. They are just very, very much in love with their language, pathologically so. It does come across sometimes as a little bit of a superiority complex. The rest of the world seems to have embraced English as the second language of choice and the language of travelers. And of course as an American I hardly have the right to lecture anybody on intolerance. But I'll do it anyway, cause it's fun.
C'est la vie
The French seem to hate English. On television, every English speaking show is dubbed in French, and the credits are even re-written in French. This includes such shows as The Simpsons, Malcom in the Middle and ER. Nothing is in English, nobody seems to speak English, even if they speak English. Even the woman at the International counter of the train ticket office spoke very little English. Most of my train reservations where made by pointing at her screen and praying that I had guessed the right French word for "Thursday". I really hope I do end up in Arles.
I don't mean to bang on the French, They are not mean, and have been nice to me when I have bought things. They are just very, very much in love with their language, pathologically so. It does come across sometimes as a little bit of a superiority complex. The rest of the world seems to have embraced English as the second language of choice and the language of travelers. And of course as an American I hardly have the right to lecture anybody on intolerance. But I'll do it anyway, cause it's fun.
C'est la vie
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
The Good and Bad in Lisbon (mostly good)
Before I detail my misery, a little about the last 6 days in Lisbon. I got to Lisbon the day before Melanie arrived on Friday. The timing was perfect. It gave me a chance to learn the Metro, get checked in to the room and learn the lay of the land so that when Mel arrived her and I could hit the ground running. I knew she had a tough time in Spain and would be glad to see a familiar face. It was difficult for us to communicate as neither of us had phones that work in Europe, which meant I had to hope that she made her flight as I stood outside the arrival area with my little hand made "Melanie" sign, scribbled the sleepless night before. It was so wonderful when she turned the corner.
The next five days are a blur of endless walks through the magical old streets if Lisbon, Starbucks every morning for coffee and free wifi, eating at sidewalk cafes, and late afternoon beers by the harbor. We played the tourists one day and took one of those open air sightseeing buses all around town and to the small town of Bellum. We visited the Castle S. Jorge overlooking the city and got in as many museums as is humanly possible. At night we would huddle up in our room and wait for the nightly American TV show that seemed to appear out of nowhere. One night it was The Dark Night with only 2 commercial breaks. But best of all it was spending time with my daughter, which is so rare these days and very much cherished.
Today, Wednesday, I'm very sad. I dropped her off at the airport and we hugged goodbye. I turned and headed off to see Europe by myself. You kinda hold your breath when your children fly. I took the Metro back two stops to my new hotel to wait for my flight to Toulouse tomorrow. I mopped around a part of Lisbon that couldn't be more different than the old historic district that Mel and I had explored. It's modern, full of brand new glass and steal monstrosities, with a mall the size of an airport. I hate every bit of it. What was it the tin man said to Dorothy, "I know I have a heart, because it's broken".
The next five days are a blur of endless walks through the magical old streets if Lisbon, Starbucks every morning for coffee and free wifi, eating at sidewalk cafes, and late afternoon beers by the harbor. We played the tourists one day and took one of those open air sightseeing buses all around town and to the small town of Bellum. We visited the Castle S. Jorge overlooking the city and got in as many museums as is humanly possible. At night we would huddle up in our room and wait for the nightly American TV show that seemed to appear out of nowhere. One night it was The Dark Night with only 2 commercial breaks. But best of all it was spending time with my daughter, which is so rare these days and very much cherished.
Today, Wednesday, I'm very sad. I dropped her off at the airport and we hugged goodbye. I turned and headed off to see Europe by myself. You kinda hold your breath when your children fly. I took the Metro back two stops to my new hotel to wait for my flight to Toulouse tomorrow. I mopped around a part of Lisbon that couldn't be more different than the old historic district that Mel and I had explored. It's modern, full of brand new glass and steal monstrosities, with a mall the size of an airport. I hate every bit of it. What was it the tin man said to Dorothy, "I know I have a heart, because it's broken".
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