At about 1030 in the morning, we all entered the shining, glorious day to a liquid stream of adverbs. As it turns out, Emma's phone had distinguished 1030 from 2230 and had diligently woken us the next morning.. so much for clubbing, but it appeared that we had all needed the sleep.
While shopping the night before, I'd found some yoghurt promising live-cultures. Consuming a number of the delicious little strawberry flavoured drinks, the results of which appeared to be World War 3 taking place along the course of my digestive tract... Emma's adverbs would not be the only liquid stream I would have to contend with for the day..
Having consoled ourselves with the fate of the night before, we set out for breakfast (I'd just gotten in for a bowl of cornflakes in the common-room, but was definitely desiring more). Heading down the street, Emma translated the food types, which resulted in our acquiring little pastries stuffed with chicken and beef.
The weather today was particularly spectacular (I had taken the precaution of wearing shorts that did not require a belt, leaving my mantle of power back at the hostel), we wandered through the park that appears to be the heart of Madrid. Today, there were a number of booksellers filling the streets feeding the green-space. Browsing the tittles, Emma purchased an ancient set of comics describing the lives of Livingston and other explorers.
Carefully watching the time, we made our way towards Sol train-station for the Tappas Tour. Stopping for ATMs and coffee (with maybe an extra pastry...), we arrived in good time and waited for our guide.
The three of us were the only people taking the Tappas Tour today. The next 3 hours consisted of us sipping drinks and sampling the variety of little snacks that accompanied. Opting for Sangria at 3 of the 4 bars, our 8 Euro were very well invested. Our guide, David, was from South America and filled us in on his opinion of the places as an outsider. Explaining some of the culture and history, he was well known at the places we tried and did not lead us astray. Taking care to provide us with meat-free tappas, we were well fed and feeling a little happy by the time the last beer had been drunk and the last plate was finished. It was an afternoon well invested and had been quite inexpensive.
Giving us a final nugget of leadership, David took us to the correct metro station for our Prada experience. Goodbyes said, we ventured into the underground network and were soon joining the queues to get into the historical art gallery. Uncertain about the length of the line, I circled the building in an attempt to find a quicker way in. Finding the others again, they were already at the front of the line. We entered through the security checkpoints and left our day-packs in the lockers. Emma had carefully chosen the day for our visit, as the Prada offer free entry on Sundays.
Having arrived at about 430-5pm, we wandered the famous halls till a little after 7pm. Gazing on the works of the famous artists, we saw multiple classics, including the nightmarish “Saturn devours his child”, the “Three Graces”, “Adam an Eve” and countless interpretations of the Civil War and history of Spain.
Our heads reeling in respectively different directions, we exited into the bright sunlight and began our return to the hostel. We planned on an early dinner, maybe a little blogging and email for a while, no naps and then clubbing or doing a pub-tour in the later hours.
Dinner consisted of a mince and tomato sauce on penne with grated cheese. Out of our element and surrounded by unfamiliar ingredients, Josh and I prepared the meal while Emma promised to do the dishes. Suitably satisfying, the two cooks still felt that the dish was lacking something essential. Regardless, the meal was finished and tummies were full. Yoghurt was added to the gastronomical hurricane that had been punctuating my day. For the most part, medication had been assisting my control of the situation, but had not decreased its nastiness.
Having completed our duties in the common-room, I blogged while the Luries watched some streaming videos. Though this had been planned to fill the intermission before our pub-crawl began, we unanimously agreed to skip the pub-crawl. “It would be filled with dodgies or bogans”.
As the hours grew late, we finally decided to simply call it an evening. Everyone was tired and I don't think that any of us were feeling particularly great.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
060908 – Spain, Madrid
Emma and Josh appeared around 3AM, climbing in through the window after having a few too many troubles with the door. Once settled, we all slept till after 10, no one heard Charlotte come in at 4.
After taking steps to become creatures resembling “Human”, the three of us ventured out for lunch. Wandering up to Plaza de Mayor, we ate at an over-priced yet sub-standard. The Paella was extra-ordinarily fishy, suggesting it had been frozen, and the Sangria was unremarkable. Whining aside, the meal was appreciated by all and had been just what we had been looking for. The rest of the morning was dedicated to wandering around and trying to make a good plan for the rest of our stay here. We still needed to sort out voting, washing had to be done and there was a remarkable abundance of alcohol in the city that we had to try and help with..
Most of the rest of today consisted of wandering around and chilling out at the hostel. Shortly after eating, we went back and I had a nap for most of the afternoon. Between snoozing, emails and dashes to the bathroom to placate my increasingly toxic-butt, the afternoon dissolved, was wiped up and flushed away.
As the shadows grew longer, we went out to find a super-market and stocked up on food-stuffs for the next few days. In an effort to save money, we bought a series of reheatable snacks (chicken nuggets, which were delicious. some kind of spanish rolled cheese and meat thingy, which was interesting..) and the makings for a spag-bog with penne. Sitting in the common room, we munched on our reheated meals and agreed to sleep till 1030, cook a real dinner and then go out.
Having finally washed and dried every article of clothing I owned throughout the course of the day, it looked like a good night might be waiting for us ahead. Settling in for the late nap, emma set her alarm for 1030 and we all dozed off.
After taking steps to become creatures resembling “Human”, the three of us ventured out for lunch. Wandering up to Plaza de Mayor, we ate at an over-priced yet sub-standard. The Paella was extra-ordinarily fishy, suggesting it had been frozen, and the Sangria was unremarkable. Whining aside, the meal was appreciated by all and had been just what we had been looking for. The rest of the morning was dedicated to wandering around and trying to make a good plan for the rest of our stay here. We still needed to sort out voting, washing had to be done and there was a remarkable abundance of alcohol in the city that we had to try and help with..
Most of the rest of today consisted of wandering around and chilling out at the hostel. Shortly after eating, we went back and I had a nap for most of the afternoon. Between snoozing, emails and dashes to the bathroom to placate my increasingly toxic-butt, the afternoon dissolved, was wiped up and flushed away.
As the shadows grew longer, we went out to find a super-market and stocked up on food-stuffs for the next few days. In an effort to save money, we bought a series of reheatable snacks (chicken nuggets, which were delicious. some kind of spanish rolled cheese and meat thingy, which was interesting..) and the makings for a spag-bog with penne. Sitting in the common room, we munched on our reheated meals and agreed to sleep till 1030, cook a real dinner and then go out.
Having finally washed and dried every article of clothing I owned throughout the course of the day, it looked like a good night might be waiting for us ahead. Settling in for the late nap, emma set her alarm for 1030 and we all dozed off.
050908 – Spain, Valencia to Madrid
Waking after a well needed sleep-in, I shortly said farewell to Konrad and started to make my way to the train-station. It looked like there were plenty of trains to Madrid and that it should only cost about 35-40 Euro. Throwing caution to the wind, I lashed out for some Hungry Jacks (well... Burger King..). it was horrible, but worth every bite... Dinner had not occurred last night, as sourcing a place to sleep was a little more pressing.
Back on the street, my mystical belt of weather control seemed satisfied with the culinary tribute. It was a nice walk to the train-station, about midday.
In fact, almost exactly midday...
Once I had lined up to get the train ticket, the british guys in front of my had gotten to their turn and were ordering.. Request done, they got money out.. the attendant looked straight past them, at the clock, and slammed the shutters down in front of him.
It was Siesta time... everyone else can go to hell...
Turning around in amazement, the three of us used detailed phrases to discuss the situation in the very finest Queen's English.
Indeed, I was back in a third-world country.
A passing guard pointed out that you can not buy tickets from an automatic machine in Spain. We were welcome to try the internet, but it was not always reliable, or go across the street and try the travel agent. Otherwise, the staff at the ticket stalls were away till 3pm.
A little more Queens English preceded the digging out of a british laptop. Reconsidering the reputation of Spanish IT, the growing group of us made the trek across the courtyard to the travel agent.
One by one, the english speakers baulked at the price and the travel times, choosing instead to wait for the ticket booth to open. Weighing up the price, and the hamburger in my stomach that appeared to be turning with the weather, I lashed out the 75 Euro for a first class ticket to Madrid. Now I just had to wait two hours.
Dumping my pack in storage, I wandered the inner part of the city. Stopping for an ice-cream and sitting in a park for a while, I did my best not to second-guess the actions this morning that might have prevented this. Eventually the first hour and a half was up and I started to meander back. Not sure if it was the hamburger or a return of the nasty-butt, I turned the meander into a dash..
One problem with Spanish rail tickets is the number system. Using an empirical numbering system for trains is great, whatever.. Making them look like departure times is just mean... Having sat down for a minute, with a supposed 45 minutes to go, I got a sudden sense of paranoia and set out to double check my train details..
Just as well! I was in my seat and the train left less than 15 minutes later. Spanish Rail, I declare you a FALSE PROPHET!!!
Travelling by rail in first-class is a little different to second class or tourist. Once I dislodged the man pretending that it was his seat, I discovered that there is a little more leg-room, a dodgy DVD was played, there was food that was several steps above the fair offered on Ethiopian Airlines and complimentary beverages.
Forcing myself to eat the meal (I'd paid an extra 40 Euro for this.. NOM NOM NOM), I felt a little too toxic to make use of the bar. It appears I was paying a very dear price for that hamburger, and the steaks were rising at every turn (get it? hamburger... STEAKS... yeah, it's lame. don't care. it's my blog so I'll write what I want :p )
Arriving in Madrid about 5 hours later, I'd failed at sleeping and resorted to staring out the window. I was sad that my memories of the Spanish country side were grander than they appeared this time. I'd travelled this exact train 8 years ago, but it had been much more... impressive? then. Following the masses off of the platform, I got instructions for getting to the hostel and called Emma and Josh.
The walk to the hostel was long and hard, I appeared to take a very convoluted route and was feeling dodgier at every side-street. Finally getting there, I checked in and dumped my gear in the spare bunk. I assumed the other two were Emma and Josh plus a miscellaneous. Immediate needs handled, I started to wonder where the others were.. They knew I would be here soon, in fact I was late. Giving up waiting in the room, I went to find the kitchen. Maybe they had been in town and would be here later?
Mad hostel is quite an impressive place to stay. There are several levels of accommodation, including a lift with a sign warning that it is only a little lift, and more noticeably a giant courtyard down the centre of the building. The courtyard can be covered with a perspex shield on the roof in bad weather, but is typically open. WiFi is free, along with the breakfast and there is a laundry. You have to use their linen, are recommended to keep everything in your locker and all major security points are controlled by an electronic bracelet. All in all quite cool.
Entering into the spacious common room, I saw an Emma that appeared to be in an unfit state to move. Leaning down to give her a hug, Josh appeared not long after. Announcing that they were currently in the middle of the city on a pub and tapas tour, they had no plans for the rest of the day.
Thus begun Madrid.
Having discussed the finer points of laundry, Spain and plans, I met Charlotte who would be our room mate for the next few days. Charlotte is a pretty German girl from Munich who was hunting for an apartment in Madrid. She would be studying for the next semester. Unable to join us for the evening, the rest of us changed and went hunting for something to eat and something cold to drink.
Emma played navigator, possessing the relevant pages from Lonely Planet for this part of the world (excised from the parent volume in a pseudo-surgical manner), with mixed results. After a suitably scenic tour of the finer points of Madrid, we arrived at “the” tappas place. The first round of beers were refreshing but failed to provided more solid nutrients. Emma returned with an additional beverage and announced that tappas needed to be purchased. The bar itself was quite trendy, everyone was well dressed and appeared to be having a good time with the assistance of drinks, tappas and cigarettes. There was even the token “so cool for skool” who was reading a text book at a nearby table. The bar staff were fun and the drinks were cheap.
This stage of the evening was not long-lived. Having had a little to eat and drink, we retreated to the hostel and I crashed for the night while the others went out. It had been a very long day. Indeed, even the nasty-butt had returned, shepherded in by some Spanish rain, by morning.
Back on the street, my mystical belt of weather control seemed satisfied with the culinary tribute. It was a nice walk to the train-station, about midday.
In fact, almost exactly midday...
Once I had lined up to get the train ticket, the british guys in front of my had gotten to their turn and were ordering.. Request done, they got money out.. the attendant looked straight past them, at the clock, and slammed the shutters down in front of him.
It was Siesta time... everyone else can go to hell...
Turning around in amazement, the three of us used detailed phrases to discuss the situation in the very finest Queen's English.
Indeed, I was back in a third-world country.
A passing guard pointed out that you can not buy tickets from an automatic machine in Spain. We were welcome to try the internet, but it was not always reliable, or go across the street and try the travel agent. Otherwise, the staff at the ticket stalls were away till 3pm.
A little more Queens English preceded the digging out of a british laptop. Reconsidering the reputation of Spanish IT, the growing group of us made the trek across the courtyard to the travel agent.
One by one, the english speakers baulked at the price and the travel times, choosing instead to wait for the ticket booth to open. Weighing up the price, and the hamburger in my stomach that appeared to be turning with the weather, I lashed out the 75 Euro for a first class ticket to Madrid. Now I just had to wait two hours.
Dumping my pack in storage, I wandered the inner part of the city. Stopping for an ice-cream and sitting in a park for a while, I did my best not to second-guess the actions this morning that might have prevented this. Eventually the first hour and a half was up and I started to meander back. Not sure if it was the hamburger or a return of the nasty-butt, I turned the meander into a dash..
One problem with Spanish rail tickets is the number system. Using an empirical numbering system for trains is great, whatever.. Making them look like departure times is just mean... Having sat down for a minute, with a supposed 45 minutes to go, I got a sudden sense of paranoia and set out to double check my train details..
Just as well! I was in my seat and the train left less than 15 minutes later. Spanish Rail, I declare you a FALSE PROPHET!!!
Travelling by rail in first-class is a little different to second class or tourist. Once I dislodged the man pretending that it was his seat, I discovered that there is a little more leg-room, a dodgy DVD was played, there was food that was several steps above the fair offered on Ethiopian Airlines and complimentary beverages.
Forcing myself to eat the meal (I'd paid an extra 40 Euro for this.. NOM NOM NOM), I felt a little too toxic to make use of the bar. It appears I was paying a very dear price for that hamburger, and the steaks were rising at every turn (get it? hamburger... STEAKS... yeah, it's lame. don't care. it's my blog so I'll write what I want :p )
Arriving in Madrid about 5 hours later, I'd failed at sleeping and resorted to staring out the window. I was sad that my memories of the Spanish country side were grander than they appeared this time. I'd travelled this exact train 8 years ago, but it had been much more... impressive? then. Following the masses off of the platform, I got instructions for getting to the hostel and called Emma and Josh.
The walk to the hostel was long and hard, I appeared to take a very convoluted route and was feeling dodgier at every side-street. Finally getting there, I checked in and dumped my gear in the spare bunk. I assumed the other two were Emma and Josh plus a miscellaneous. Immediate needs handled, I started to wonder where the others were.. They knew I would be here soon, in fact I was late. Giving up waiting in the room, I went to find the kitchen. Maybe they had been in town and would be here later?
Mad hostel is quite an impressive place to stay. There are several levels of accommodation, including a lift with a sign warning that it is only a little lift, and more noticeably a giant courtyard down the centre of the building. The courtyard can be covered with a perspex shield on the roof in bad weather, but is typically open. WiFi is free, along with the breakfast and there is a laundry. You have to use their linen, are recommended to keep everything in your locker and all major security points are controlled by an electronic bracelet. All in all quite cool.
Entering into the spacious common room, I saw an Emma that appeared to be in an unfit state to move. Leaning down to give her a hug, Josh appeared not long after. Announcing that they were currently in the middle of the city on a pub and tapas tour, they had no plans for the rest of the day.
Thus begun Madrid.
Having discussed the finer points of laundry, Spain and plans, I met Charlotte who would be our room mate for the next few days. Charlotte is a pretty German girl from Munich who was hunting for an apartment in Madrid. She would be studying for the next semester. Unable to join us for the evening, the rest of us changed and went hunting for something to eat and something cold to drink.
Emma played navigator, possessing the relevant pages from Lonely Planet for this part of the world (excised from the parent volume in a pseudo-surgical manner), with mixed results. After a suitably scenic tour of the finer points of Madrid, we arrived at “the” tappas place. The first round of beers were refreshing but failed to provided more solid nutrients. Emma returned with an additional beverage and announced that tappas needed to be purchased. The bar itself was quite trendy, everyone was well dressed and appeared to be having a good time with the assistance of drinks, tappas and cigarettes. There was even the token “so cool for skool” who was reading a text book at a nearby table. The bar staff were fun and the drinks were cheap.
This stage of the evening was not long-lived. Having had a little to eat and drink, we retreated to the hostel and I crashed for the night while the others went out. It had been a very long day. Indeed, even the nasty-butt had returned, shepherded in by some Spanish rain, by morning.
Friday, September 19, 2008
040908 – Rouen to Paris
Rising at 0615, Isabelle and Oliver walked me through breakfast. Still groggy, I sat in my place at the table as they asked what I would like to drink. Indicating Coffee, Oliver proceeded to put several spoonfuls of instant into what I had assumed was my cereal bowl. Filling it with hot water and then milk, I tried not to look confused while watching the other two begin their morning ration.
Crazy nation...
Breakfast in this part of France appears to be a small bowl of hot beverage, into which you dip pieces of bread that have been covered with spread.. kind of like a giant morning tea with biscuits. I performed monkey-see, monkey-do. After noting my confusion, conversation shifted onto breakfast here versus their time in Ireland..
After doing my best to help them clean-up, Oliver appeared carrying a sleepy-eyed Clementine. Grumpy from being disturbed and shy again, she simply stared at me up until it was time to go.
Toddler-sized goodbye kisses and hands shaken, Oliver and Clementine took off in one direction while Isabelle and I drove off to the station. Talking about travel and children, the car ride and then the train ride was partitioned by her distaste at the lack of manners amongst the locals.
Arriving at our parting of ways, Isabelle pointed out where and how I needed to catch my next train while I walked her to the bus-stop. Kisses and goodbyes done, we promised to email soon and I promised to send her the photos I'd taken.
This had been a most pleasant leg of my trip, it is always the people that stay in your memories and I have definitely become a great fan of France. More the north than other areas, I think I might travel here again soon.
Boarding my train to Paris, I stared out the window and updated my journal for a couple of hours before arriving at the terminus. I had asked Isabelle for directions to a famous ice-creamery that had been featured in a series of spy novels that I enjoy. While at first confused, she found the island on the map that it was supposedly located on, suggesting I ask for directions once I get to the area.
Wandering through the train-station, my new goal clearly set in my mind, I tried to calibrate my internal compass to the local north. Taking two wrong exits, I found the train-line that was needed and set off. Exiting in the inner suburbs, Paris looks like any other big city. Mentally locking in a local cafe as a landmark, I asked a local for directions and set out for Notre-Dame.
Wandering through Paris with a main-pack on your back and a day-pack on your front is challenging and tiring, no matter where you are. Paris is no exception. With all of the lockers and baggage storage decommissioned for “security reasons”, it was something that simply had to be suffered. Gazing at the palaces and waterways helped, but I could not enter any of them with my luggage in tow.
Asking for directions from a friendly Police/Security Officer, I made my way onto the island that is home to Notre-Dame. In awe of the size and majesty of the building, I had some photos taken for me by another tourist. The last time I was here, I had not had the impact of the place like this time. Walking past the queues to get in, I was a little sad that my pack prevented me from joining them.
Following the directions of a passing priest, I crossed a bridge onto an adjacent island. His instructions had not been entirely specific, which had confused me. Arriving on the new Island, a local guiding some tourists pointed out the little restaurant that I was looking for. She elaborated that there were “two houses, same owner”, with the second restaurant nearby. Now understanding the earlier vague instructions, my little mission was at an end. I sat near a window looking on Notre-Dame after dumping my pack rather unceremoniously on the floor. Not entirely fitting the description from the novel, I assumed that it was the other store that had been the birth-place of a famous, fictional, international crime-ring.
Fictional or not, the strawberry sobet in Maisson de Berthilon is like a work of art. In homage to the 12 executives of international assassination, my order literally had me wide-eyed and almost gasping with every little spoonful. If this delicacy was served in any country other than France, it would probably be classed as a narcotic.
My desert very slowly devoured (hey, this stuff is REALLY rich and incredibly sweet... you can only have a tiny taste at a time), I savoured the rest and the cold water before the inevitable trek back to the train-station. Additionally, paying 9 Euros for two scoops of ice-cream (about $18-20), I wanted to enjoy as much of the exclusive ice-creamery as possible before the gentle prodding of the staff to “settle my cheque”.
Back on the street, I started to think about lunch. Being this central, everything was quite expensive. I wandered through the side-streets of the little island, browsing the posted menus for inspiration. Settling my pack on a wall overlooking the river, I had a little rest while swiping some free WiFi to update the maps on my phone. Chatting to some other aussies nearby, I got some suggestions for eateries and took off back towards Notre-Dame.
Chicken and cheese Crepes under the shadows of Notre-Dame are a great suggestion for Paris, even when badly over-cast.
Taking my time on the way back to the correct Metro station, I stopped for photos and admired the statues that were part of the city. There were artists and stalls on many of the corners, I wish I'd had the extra euro and the means to transport some of the canvas oil-paintings that I saw.
My exercise done for the day, I settled into a cafe-restaurant-bar (they always seem to be at least two of the three, regardless of where you are in France) and used the excuse of a very powerful Citron-Presse to make use of their WiFi for as long as I was welcome. The little rest adjacent to the Metro station where I had stepped into this metropolis was a great way to spend a few hours in Paris. Music in the back-ground, the bustle of the other patrons, the delicate glare of the serving staff. Updating my blog, skyping to Jenny and attempting to call home filled the time. I got a fair idea of where to meet Emma and Josh, gathering my resolve for the journey ahead.
After the WiFi had cut-out, once it had become obvious that I would not be buying much more here, I made motions to leave. Settling my bill under the distasteful gaze of the waiters, I left this little thorny haven and braved the even more toxic attitude of the small crepe-stall out front for a nutella and banana crepe. Descending once again to the metro, funds were acquired for the train to Charles De-Gaulle airport after a first failed attempt for a ticket. Boarding the correct train at this point was not particularly clearly marked out or a simple effort in itself. Guarding my gear the whole way to the airport, I stared out the window. An odd busker wandered into our carriage shortly after leaving the station at Chattelle, playing something that sounded jarringly French on an odd little violin. Having been stripped of its main body, a trumpet horn had been fixed into the backbone just under the bridge. Striking a stark contrast to the industrial and residential scenery flying past the window, I took a short video of the little display and tipped the strange little man.
Arriving hours early, I navigated my way through the small city that is this hub of the sky. Still being several hours too early for check-in, I retreated to a nearby British pub. In this odd little refuge, amongst a crowd of French dialogue, an auburn-haired angel served me a Blonde beer with a smile and a sweet little French accent. The most pretty girl since I had left Australia made my day with little more effort than a smile, and I was sad that more of Paris could not be like this. I like France, but as Isabelle, Oliver and Justine had said “Paris is not France. They are Parisians, not French..”
The karma earned by the early check-in was short lived after the beer. As it ends out, boarding in CDG airport is almost immediate. Advertised at 1550, I presented myself at the gate 5-10 minutes after boarding began. Despite being a very large and painfully full plane, 5 minutes is all that was considered necessary and they had been about to call security to find me. The strange words on either side of “Valencia”, called over the PA, had been considered the French pronunciation of my name.
Apologies expressed and bustled past the door and onto the sky-bridge, I ran as best I could to the air-craft. With a disinterested look the steward let me past and I joined the long queue for seating... I can see that they were in such a rush and panic to get me here...
The snails pace to my seat in the emergency isle (benefit of early check-in :) ) was followed by a painful delay before the plane disengaged from the terminal and eventually made it into the air. The pilot was kind enough to dip the wings in attempt to afford us a better view of the Eiffel Tower through the increasing clouds.
Once small note is that Air Europa is NOT Air France and shares few, if any, similarities.
An utterly forgettable meal later, we bounced to a landing in Valencia. The sub-average touch-down was followed by some extremely panicked reverse-engine braking that seemed to go on for at least a minute.. Looking worriedly out the window, I started to wonder if he would just hit the power and try again.. Finally slowing to a speed that announced we had indeed landed, applause from the entire plane had me thinking I might be more choosy with Air Carriers in the future. When the pilot's option NOT to not have a firery death is received with thanks and praise, rather being assumed, it makes one concerned.
Battling through the very pushy crowds of Spanish travellers, I eventually got my gear and made it out to the metro station. Stopping for the address of a hostel that had a pretty good reputation, I was off into the city.
Emerging from the station, under the shadow of the bull-fighting ring, Valencia was actually quite pretty at night. I really should have savoured this moment, it was one of the few peaceful moments until I was on the next train...
Humping it down a major road and several of its minor siblings, my iPhone eventually figured out where it was and I was able to get a better idea of the area. I was looking for a back-packers called “Home” which had an excellent reputation and had come highly recommended.
After about 30 minutes of wandering around, I found the area and then the building. It it located quite centrally and there seemed a pretty good vibe about the place. Unfortunately, a lot of other people felt the same way and it was full.. in fact, a lot of people seem to think that Valencia as a whole is pretty cool, as everywhere was full... The manager at Home was absolutely excellent, phoning around and trying to find a place for myself and a polish student who was in a similar situation...
No luck...
So, for the next 3 hours, Konrad (Polish student) and I wandered around from place to place looking for somewhere to sleep for less than 20 Euro. There were a number of hotels with vacancies, but no hostels or pensions.
Eventually we found a little pension where the lady said she might have two beds at 1230 (midnight) but wouldn't know till then. Kind enough to let us leave our bags, we continued on in the hunt for shelter... We eventually found a dingy place while looking for another hostel that had been recommended by some fellow travellers. Offering the right price for a third story twin-room, we rejoiced briefly before heading back to get our packs. Easier said than done...
By the time we found the little pension again, it was 1245 and there were rooms free for us... Talk about a famine or a flood... Having had to pay at the other place to secure the rooms, we apologised, purchased some water, collected our bags and set off..
Having thought ahead, I'd logged the location of the hostel on my phone.. so getting back and collapsing (after short showers) was a fairly simple task...
Crazy nation...
Breakfast in this part of France appears to be a small bowl of hot beverage, into which you dip pieces of bread that have been covered with spread.. kind of like a giant morning tea with biscuits. I performed monkey-see, monkey-do. After noting my confusion, conversation shifted onto breakfast here versus their time in Ireland..
After doing my best to help them clean-up, Oliver appeared carrying a sleepy-eyed Clementine. Grumpy from being disturbed and shy again, she simply stared at me up until it was time to go.
Toddler-sized goodbye kisses and hands shaken, Oliver and Clementine took off in one direction while Isabelle and I drove off to the station. Talking about travel and children, the car ride and then the train ride was partitioned by her distaste at the lack of manners amongst the locals.
Arriving at our parting of ways, Isabelle pointed out where and how I needed to catch my next train while I walked her to the bus-stop. Kisses and goodbyes done, we promised to email soon and I promised to send her the photos I'd taken.
This had been a most pleasant leg of my trip, it is always the people that stay in your memories and I have definitely become a great fan of France. More the north than other areas, I think I might travel here again soon.
Boarding my train to Paris, I stared out the window and updated my journal for a couple of hours before arriving at the terminus. I had asked Isabelle for directions to a famous ice-creamery that had been featured in a series of spy novels that I enjoy. While at first confused, she found the island on the map that it was supposedly located on, suggesting I ask for directions once I get to the area.
Wandering through the train-station, my new goal clearly set in my mind, I tried to calibrate my internal compass to the local north. Taking two wrong exits, I found the train-line that was needed and set off. Exiting in the inner suburbs, Paris looks like any other big city. Mentally locking in a local cafe as a landmark, I asked a local for directions and set out for Notre-Dame.
Wandering through Paris with a main-pack on your back and a day-pack on your front is challenging and tiring, no matter where you are. Paris is no exception. With all of the lockers and baggage storage decommissioned for “security reasons”, it was something that simply had to be suffered. Gazing at the palaces and waterways helped, but I could not enter any of them with my luggage in tow.
Asking for directions from a friendly Police/Security Officer, I made my way onto the island that is home to Notre-Dame. In awe of the size and majesty of the building, I had some photos taken for me by another tourist. The last time I was here, I had not had the impact of the place like this time. Walking past the queues to get in, I was a little sad that my pack prevented me from joining them.
Following the directions of a passing priest, I crossed a bridge onto an adjacent island. His instructions had not been entirely specific, which had confused me. Arriving on the new Island, a local guiding some tourists pointed out the little restaurant that I was looking for. She elaborated that there were “two houses, same owner”, with the second restaurant nearby. Now understanding the earlier vague instructions, my little mission was at an end. I sat near a window looking on Notre-Dame after dumping my pack rather unceremoniously on the floor. Not entirely fitting the description from the novel, I assumed that it was the other store that had been the birth-place of a famous, fictional, international crime-ring.
Fictional or not, the strawberry sobet in Maisson de Berthilon is like a work of art. In homage to the 12 executives of international assassination, my order literally had me wide-eyed and almost gasping with every little spoonful. If this delicacy was served in any country other than France, it would probably be classed as a narcotic.
My desert very slowly devoured (hey, this stuff is REALLY rich and incredibly sweet... you can only have a tiny taste at a time), I savoured the rest and the cold water before the inevitable trek back to the train-station. Additionally, paying 9 Euros for two scoops of ice-cream (about $18-20), I wanted to enjoy as much of the exclusive ice-creamery as possible before the gentle prodding of the staff to “settle my cheque”.
Back on the street, I started to think about lunch. Being this central, everything was quite expensive. I wandered through the side-streets of the little island, browsing the posted menus for inspiration. Settling my pack on a wall overlooking the river, I had a little rest while swiping some free WiFi to update the maps on my phone. Chatting to some other aussies nearby, I got some suggestions for eateries and took off back towards Notre-Dame.
Chicken and cheese Crepes under the shadows of Notre-Dame are a great suggestion for Paris, even when badly over-cast.
Taking my time on the way back to the correct Metro station, I stopped for photos and admired the statues that were part of the city. There were artists and stalls on many of the corners, I wish I'd had the extra euro and the means to transport some of the canvas oil-paintings that I saw.
My exercise done for the day, I settled into a cafe-restaurant-bar (they always seem to be at least two of the three, regardless of where you are in France) and used the excuse of a very powerful Citron-Presse to make use of their WiFi for as long as I was welcome. The little rest adjacent to the Metro station where I had stepped into this metropolis was a great way to spend a few hours in Paris. Music in the back-ground, the bustle of the other patrons, the delicate glare of the serving staff. Updating my blog, skyping to Jenny and attempting to call home filled the time. I got a fair idea of where to meet Emma and Josh, gathering my resolve for the journey ahead.
After the WiFi had cut-out, once it had become obvious that I would not be buying much more here, I made motions to leave. Settling my bill under the distasteful gaze of the waiters, I left this little thorny haven and braved the even more toxic attitude of the small crepe-stall out front for a nutella and banana crepe. Descending once again to the metro, funds were acquired for the train to Charles De-Gaulle airport after a first failed attempt for a ticket. Boarding the correct train at this point was not particularly clearly marked out or a simple effort in itself. Guarding my gear the whole way to the airport, I stared out the window. An odd busker wandered into our carriage shortly after leaving the station at Chattelle, playing something that sounded jarringly French on an odd little violin. Having been stripped of its main body, a trumpet horn had been fixed into the backbone just under the bridge. Striking a stark contrast to the industrial and residential scenery flying past the window, I took a short video of the little display and tipped the strange little man.
Arriving hours early, I navigated my way through the small city that is this hub of the sky. Still being several hours too early for check-in, I retreated to a nearby British pub. In this odd little refuge, amongst a crowd of French dialogue, an auburn-haired angel served me a Blonde beer with a smile and a sweet little French accent. The most pretty girl since I had left Australia made my day with little more effort than a smile, and I was sad that more of Paris could not be like this. I like France, but as Isabelle, Oliver and Justine had said “Paris is not France. They are Parisians, not French..”
The karma earned by the early check-in was short lived after the beer. As it ends out, boarding in CDG airport is almost immediate. Advertised at 1550, I presented myself at the gate 5-10 minutes after boarding began. Despite being a very large and painfully full plane, 5 minutes is all that was considered necessary and they had been about to call security to find me. The strange words on either side of “Valencia”, called over the PA, had been considered the French pronunciation of my name.
Apologies expressed and bustled past the door and onto the sky-bridge, I ran as best I could to the air-craft. With a disinterested look the steward let me past and I joined the long queue for seating... I can see that they were in such a rush and panic to get me here...
The snails pace to my seat in the emergency isle (benefit of early check-in :) ) was followed by a painful delay before the plane disengaged from the terminal and eventually made it into the air. The pilot was kind enough to dip the wings in attempt to afford us a better view of the Eiffel Tower through the increasing clouds.
Once small note is that Air Europa is NOT Air France and shares few, if any, similarities.
An utterly forgettable meal later, we bounced to a landing in Valencia. The sub-average touch-down was followed by some extremely panicked reverse-engine braking that seemed to go on for at least a minute.. Looking worriedly out the window, I started to wonder if he would just hit the power and try again.. Finally slowing to a speed that announced we had indeed landed, applause from the entire plane had me thinking I might be more choosy with Air Carriers in the future. When the pilot's option NOT to not have a firery death is received with thanks and praise, rather being assumed, it makes one concerned.
Battling through the very pushy crowds of Spanish travellers, I eventually got my gear and made it out to the metro station. Stopping for the address of a hostel that had a pretty good reputation, I was off into the city.
Emerging from the station, under the shadow of the bull-fighting ring, Valencia was actually quite pretty at night. I really should have savoured this moment, it was one of the few peaceful moments until I was on the next train...
Humping it down a major road and several of its minor siblings, my iPhone eventually figured out where it was and I was able to get a better idea of the area. I was looking for a back-packers called “Home” which had an excellent reputation and had come highly recommended.
After about 30 minutes of wandering around, I found the area and then the building. It it located quite centrally and there seemed a pretty good vibe about the place. Unfortunately, a lot of other people felt the same way and it was full.. in fact, a lot of people seem to think that Valencia as a whole is pretty cool, as everywhere was full... The manager at Home was absolutely excellent, phoning around and trying to find a place for myself and a polish student who was in a similar situation...
No luck...
So, for the next 3 hours, Konrad (Polish student) and I wandered around from place to place looking for somewhere to sleep for less than 20 Euro. There were a number of hotels with vacancies, but no hostels or pensions.
Eventually we found a little pension where the lady said she might have two beds at 1230 (midnight) but wouldn't know till then. Kind enough to let us leave our bags, we continued on in the hunt for shelter... We eventually found a dingy place while looking for another hostel that had been recommended by some fellow travellers. Offering the right price for a third story twin-room, we rejoiced briefly before heading back to get our packs. Easier said than done...
By the time we found the little pension again, it was 1245 and there were rooms free for us... Talk about a famine or a flood... Having had to pay at the other place to secure the rooms, we apologised, purchased some water, collected our bags and set off..
Having thought ahead, I'd logged the location of the hostel on my phone.. so getting back and collapsing (after short showers) was a fairly simple task...
Thursday, September 4, 2008
030908 - France, Lille to Rouen
030809 – Lille to Rouen, France
I woke earlier than I expected and snuck past Justine's room to make use of the toilet and bathroom. Justine was still asleep and the kitchen showed signs of Adelaide's early departure, the living room was in a suitable state of suitable disarray.
After packing my bags and confirming that my iPhone had upgraded properly and transferred enough music, Justine's room made the normal groans of resurrection. Peaking through the door, I saw one eye open enough to provoke several seconds of jumping on the bed. Paniced squeals brought Justine into the world of the living, and so the day had begun.
We wandered down the impossibly dense flight of stairs, my pack and gear feeling lighter for the 4kg I'd sent home. A short trip to the Metro via a route I was unfamiliar with, we arrived shortly at the train station. At my request, we found a nearby bakery that would also serve coffee. The black coffee and pastries performed their duties admirably, though I wish I could have dome more to say thankyou to Justine than simply buying her a cheap breakfast and a cheaper souveneir from Jordan.
We tried to find some more Quoisse at the surrounding bakeries, but had to settle on a packet of small, flat, unflavoured ones that are meant to be consumed with coffee. Accepting defeat but still scoring some crossaunts for the train, I got some silly photos at the front of the train station and we killed time walking past the nearby shopping district.
As the time for my morning departure drew closer, we made our way to the platform. Goodbye hugs and cheek-kisses later, accomanied by more invitations to visit Australia (countered with invitations to come back her and to bring Jenny), Justine made her way back up the platform, towards home and then work. I boared my train and swapped seats until finding a good vantage point from which to watch the countryside. Departing at 1044 and arriving at 1315, I wrote my journal and watched more of the beautiful scenery from two days before.
Rouen
Having had a lot of difficulty pronouncing this name, the girls had gotten a lot of amusement from my attempts and then eventual success at making the required sounds. I finally found the trick by making the head movement and sounds of a car driving past, a lot of laughter and telling me that I was finally saying it perfectly made me wonder if they only said it in order to maintain continual ammusement.
Rouen is an ancient city with a magnificent Cathedral, world-changing history and no storage for luggage, despite what Isabelle had been told. I struggled with station staff that spoke no english before giving up and sitting down at a restaurant for some coffee. The Quoisse biscuits had kept me company on the train, but I'd left my other pastries under the seat.
Wandering down into the city, I did my best to avoid the men sitting in door ways asking for cigarettes and fumbled my way to the Tourism Office. A little conversation with the excellent staff there yielded a map and some suggestions for today. 10 minutes later, I was eating a delicious tomatoe and cheese baguette in the square in front of the great cathedral and making some plans.
I sourced a ticket for the little tourist train that drove through the streets and doubled back to the tourism office for an “Audio Tour” device in exchange for 5 euro and my student-card as deposit. On the little train, we drove through the streets as I dialed in the locations to hear the history.
We saw some ancient buildings with what was described as “important architecture”. I saw the tower and square that witnessed the fate of Joan of Arc, wishing that I had more time to wander past the little monument and through the flower markets. After an hour of carriage, we dissembarked and I went hunting for water and a seat.
I woke earlier than I expected and snuck past Justine's room to make use of the toilet and bathroom. Justine was still asleep and the kitchen showed signs of Adelaide's early departure, the living room was in a suitable state of suitable disarray.
After packing my bags and confirming that my iPhone had upgraded properly and transferred enough music, Justine's room made the normal groans of resurrection. Peaking through the door, I saw one eye open enough to provoke several seconds of jumping on the bed. Paniced squeals brought Justine into the world of the living, and so the day had begun.
We wandered down the impossibly dense flight of stairs, my pack and gear feeling lighter for the 4kg I'd sent home. A short trip to the Metro via a route I was unfamiliar with, we arrived shortly at the train station. At my request, we found a nearby bakery that would also serve coffee. The black coffee and pastries performed their duties admirably, though I wish I could have dome more to say thankyou to Justine than simply buying her a cheap breakfast and a cheaper souveneir from Jordan.
We tried to find some more Quoisse at the surrounding bakeries, but had to settle on a packet of small, flat, unflavoured ones that are meant to be consumed with coffee. Accepting defeat but still scoring some crossaunts for the train, I got some silly photos at the front of the train station and we killed time walking past the nearby shopping district.
As the time for my morning departure drew closer, we made our way to the platform. Goodbye hugs and cheek-kisses later, accomanied by more invitations to visit Australia (countered with invitations to come back her and to bring Jenny), Justine made her way back up the platform, towards home and then work. I boared my train and swapped seats until finding a good vantage point from which to watch the countryside. Departing at 1044 and arriving at 1315, I wrote my journal and watched more of the beautiful scenery from two days before.
Rouen
Having had a lot of difficulty pronouncing this name, the girls had gotten a lot of amusement from my attempts and then eventual success at making the required sounds. I finally found the trick by making the head movement and sounds of a car driving past, a lot of laughter and telling me that I was finally saying it perfectly made me wonder if they only said it in order to maintain continual ammusement.
Rouen is an ancient city with a magnificent Cathedral, world-changing history and no storage for luggage, despite what Isabelle had been told. I struggled with station staff that spoke no english before giving up and sitting down at a restaurant for some coffee. The Quoisse biscuits had kept me company on the train, but I'd left my other pastries under the seat.
Wandering down into the city, I did my best to avoid the men sitting in door ways asking for cigarettes and fumbled my way to the Tourism Office. A little conversation with the excellent staff there yielded a map and some suggestions for today. 10 minutes later, I was eating a delicious tomatoe and cheese baguette in the square in front of the great cathedral and making some plans.
I sourced a ticket for the little tourist train that drove through the streets and doubled back to the tourism office for an “Audio Tour” device in exchange for 5 euro and my student-card as deposit. On the little train, we drove through the streets as I dialed in the locations to hear the history.
We saw some ancient buildings with what was described as “important architecture”. I saw the tower and square that witnessed the fate of Joan of Arc, wishing that I had more time to wander past the little monument and through the flower markets. After an hour of carriage, we dissembarked and I went hunting for water and a seat.
020908 - Lille, France
020908 – Lille, France
Having slept in till about 10AM, I woke to Justine and Adelaide bumping around the kitchen and living area. We had been planning to go to the war memorial at Fromelles and then possibly to Begium via Justine's parents house. There was also talk of going to her grand-parents farm for a little bit in the afternoon.
Breakfast was in the form of crepe's and juice, both girls laughing at my laboured learning how to eat them “properly”.
Both the dinner last night and the breakfast this morning highlighted the use of addatives as God had originally intended. In Australia, we use salt and sugar by the bucket in order to introduce a desirable flavour to a meal, usually measured out with a small bucket.
The night before, I had been informed that the dish comprised of Bone Marrow was best eaten with salt. After a small taste of the blande dish, I followed the directions of girls wiser than I am. My mind... it was blown.. With a gentle little bump of the salt shaker, I discovered a wide, rich, deep flavour. In almost a most inexplicable way, this meal conversed with me, allowing me to distinguish “that would not be enough”, “this amount of salt is just right” and “no more, that would be too much”.
Today, Adelaide said that I should put straight sugar on the crepe. Specific sugar that is known in this part of France. Once again, a little daring allowed the meal to speak to me. “this is the right amount, you have put on a little too much”. With a light, little french accent, my taste-buds were instructed. This is how food is meant to be adorned.
After an incredibly small and light breakfast, I found that nothing more was needed. In fact, I don't think I could have actually eaten any more. Thus, we made our preparations to leave for the day.
Being suitably smug with my digestion, the magical belt allowed us to get to the car mostly unworried before opening up the sky.
It took about an hour to find our way through the French motorways to the tiny town of Fromelles. The maps and GPS in my new iPhone were indespensible for the journey, though it was only 27 kilometres, Justine was unfamiliar with this part of the country-side. We spent the trip commenting on the scenery, Justine correcting my pitiful level of french and teaching me some new words. Finding ourselves in a town with a beautiful big church and the correct name by the road, we followed the signs to the Australian Memorial.
A quiet, grey sky welcomed us to a field with flags from two nations, the two friends flying with pride amongst scattered, broken monoliths. Scarred pieces of enemy bunkers. In the middle of a small inlet of french grass, a dozen shattered plates of concrete served as a foundation, a sharp, pained hillock for a great bronze statue of two Australian soldiers. One carrying another, “don't forget me, cobber”.
Walking about the visible accolade that this country honours her friends, we met some other Australians by a flooded bunker entrance. We all said quiet hellos between photographs to remember this place before the short drive to the wall of names.
Entering across the loving manicured grass, between trees that stand as ageless guards, a monument rose before a long curved wall. In the middle, between the marble crosses submerged in the ground, Justine tooks some photos and we found the name Davies, R.F. Great Uncle Dick had been a Private in the 53rd. It was here, in this sanctuary amongst the beautiful french fields and with the stretching horizon, back into history, that a list of names ask us not to be forgotten.
Now grateful for the rain and a little solitude, I wrote in the visitors book with a walk the long way back to the car. I thanked Justine again and we drove quietly back to Lille before a lunch that was a delicious memory of yesterday.
The afternoon was delightfully busy, I'd already seperated the things that needed to be posted back to Australia. When we got back to her home, I met Adelaide's boyfriend, but was not formaly introduced. Lunch consisted of what was left from yesterday, which was even more delicious and very filling when combined with the yoghurt we had bought.
Once lunch was completed, I made battle with the Internet to try and call Jenny. This was met with a mixture of success and frustration, having to call mobiles and land-lines. Having to settle with a compromise, the conversation was cut-off mid-sentence and Justine pointed out that we would be late for the post-office if we didn't leave soon. About 10 minutes later, Jenny called my mobile so that we could say goodbyes. I am desperately hoping that the free WiFi internet in Spain is as good as I've been told, so that I can finally talk to her properly. Jenny's company has been especially missed in a place as wonderful as Lille. I would like nothing more than to be able to do this leg travelling with her.
After stuffing gifts and suveniers into some plastic bags alongside a pair of jeans and a jumper, we headed back to the car. The belt, once again satiated, gave us some relief before accompanying our trip to Justine's hometown with some light drizzle.
Waking up 20 minutes later from a snooze for the drive, Justine welcomed me into her family home.
WOW
I suppose it is of classical french design, big windows and a strange arrangement of interior doors. The house is over 100 years old, with a garden out the back to rival many parks, including a summer house, great trees and a pond. I was formally introduced to her brothers, one of whom I remember to be Alex, and her dog Maya. Tour and introductions completed, one brother remained on the couch, the other retreat upstairs while we struck out for the post-office. Walking through this charming little town, Justine pointed out some of the major features and the recent changes. The 30 minute stop in the post-office was successful, Justine translating and negotiating the terms while I compressed the two shopping bags worth of possessions into the moderately sized box (I would disagree that it was “Extra Large”, everything in France is somewhat.. Petit... compared to home).
Homeward bound, we snacked briefly in her kitchen on a delicious flat pastry called a “Grosse” or a “Quoisse” (I still struggle with the pronounciation) and instant coffee, while her brother made banana ice-cream for the family dinner tonight. We said our goodbyes and headed for Belgium.
The original plan had been to leave much earlier in the day and drive an our and a half into Belgium, to a city that I will have to find the name when I get a map. Considering the late hour, we skirted the border in a two just to the north of her home.
“Here, we are in France..”
“Now Belgium... now France again”
“This is Belgium.. can you tell the diffence?”
The level of activity was different in each half of the village, as school and shop times are not synchronised between the neighbouring nations. We were unable to find an open bar or Cafe, so simply drove around for about an hour before turning south.
The final plan for the day was to drive to her Grand-parents house and walk her hoarse to the near-by pony club. When passing again through her home town, my mystical weather-belt decided it had had enough for the day and allowed the skies to open.
“too much rain for the walk, we will go home”
This was a bit of a shame, it would have been nice to see a French farm and to be amongst some animals rather than the family dog, but it was getting late and I was still recovering from Africa and Asia-Minor.
At home, the three of us wandered into town to buy my tickets to visit Isabelle and her family. Adelaide grumbled that we took the long way, through the malls, but conceded that it was much better than walking along the streets. At the train station, we went past an automatic machine, then lined up to purchase in cash. Halfway through the line, I pointed out that if I paid cash to one of the girls, they could use their card to buy the ticket. Discussion and laughter later, Adelaide and Justine made battle with the Machine and I handed over the suitable notes.
After the walk back, I called Isabelle after several failed attempts and we made arrangements to meet in the evening. She had work all day, but assured me there would be a lot to do in Rouen and that the train station had promised to hold my backpack for the day. Logistics and planning out of the way, we made preparations for the night and I said farewell to Adelaide with kisses and demands that she bring her family to Australia. She had an exam in the morning, so would not be joining us for dinner and would have left before either of us woke up.
Wandering into town, we met Jennifer and Vanessa. Jennifer was a striking brunnette that is on Justine's horse-ball team, her father is Irish so she spoke english as well as Justine. Vanessa was taller with short red-blonde hair and assortment of peircings, she studied Physical Therapy with Jennifer at university. Not playing horse-ball, Vanessa still watched the game regularly and the three seemed to be firm friends. Vanessa spoke next to no english, complaining that she had an aweful teacher in high-school. I took the opportunity to try and follow the french conversation for the length of the dinner, Justine and Jennifer translating at intervals.
Having been fed on pasta and pizza, as well as trying a little of Jennifer's Tatare, we wandered around the centre of Lille. Having meandered in the correct general direction, we said a late goodnight at the Justine's door. Kisses and multiple invitations to Australia later, we made our seperate ways. It was quite late and I still had to sort some email before bed. We crept through the house, Adelaide's rooms were dark and quiet and we knew she had her oral exam sometime tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be a big day for everyone involved.
Having slept in till about 10AM, I woke to Justine and Adelaide bumping around the kitchen and living area. We had been planning to go to the war memorial at Fromelles and then possibly to Begium via Justine's parents house. There was also talk of going to her grand-parents farm for a little bit in the afternoon.
Breakfast was in the form of crepe's and juice, both girls laughing at my laboured learning how to eat them “properly”.
Both the dinner last night and the breakfast this morning highlighted the use of addatives as God had originally intended. In Australia, we use salt and sugar by the bucket in order to introduce a desirable flavour to a meal, usually measured out with a small bucket.
The night before, I had been informed that the dish comprised of Bone Marrow was best eaten with salt. After a small taste of the blande dish, I followed the directions of girls wiser than I am. My mind... it was blown.. With a gentle little bump of the salt shaker, I discovered a wide, rich, deep flavour. In almost a most inexplicable way, this meal conversed with me, allowing me to distinguish “that would not be enough”, “this amount of salt is just right” and “no more, that would be too much”.
Today, Adelaide said that I should put straight sugar on the crepe. Specific sugar that is known in this part of France. Once again, a little daring allowed the meal to speak to me. “this is the right amount, you have put on a little too much”. With a light, little french accent, my taste-buds were instructed. This is how food is meant to be adorned.
After an incredibly small and light breakfast, I found that nothing more was needed. In fact, I don't think I could have actually eaten any more. Thus, we made our preparations to leave for the day.
Being suitably smug with my digestion, the magical belt allowed us to get to the car mostly unworried before opening up the sky.
It took about an hour to find our way through the French motorways to the tiny town of Fromelles. The maps and GPS in my new iPhone were indespensible for the journey, though it was only 27 kilometres, Justine was unfamiliar with this part of the country-side. We spent the trip commenting on the scenery, Justine correcting my pitiful level of french and teaching me some new words. Finding ourselves in a town with a beautiful big church and the correct name by the road, we followed the signs to the Australian Memorial.
A quiet, grey sky welcomed us to a field with flags from two nations, the two friends flying with pride amongst scattered, broken monoliths. Scarred pieces of enemy bunkers. In the middle of a small inlet of french grass, a dozen shattered plates of concrete served as a foundation, a sharp, pained hillock for a great bronze statue of two Australian soldiers. One carrying another, “don't forget me, cobber”.
Walking about the visible accolade that this country honours her friends, we met some other Australians by a flooded bunker entrance. We all said quiet hellos between photographs to remember this place before the short drive to the wall of names.
Entering across the loving manicured grass, between trees that stand as ageless guards, a monument rose before a long curved wall. In the middle, between the marble crosses submerged in the ground, Justine tooks some photos and we found the name Davies, R.F. Great Uncle Dick had been a Private in the 53rd. It was here, in this sanctuary amongst the beautiful french fields and with the stretching horizon, back into history, that a list of names ask us not to be forgotten.
Now grateful for the rain and a little solitude, I wrote in the visitors book with a walk the long way back to the car. I thanked Justine again and we drove quietly back to Lille before a lunch that was a delicious memory of yesterday.
The afternoon was delightfully busy, I'd already seperated the things that needed to be posted back to Australia. When we got back to her home, I met Adelaide's boyfriend, but was not formaly introduced. Lunch consisted of what was left from yesterday, which was even more delicious and very filling when combined with the yoghurt we had bought.
Once lunch was completed, I made battle with the Internet to try and call Jenny. This was met with a mixture of success and frustration, having to call mobiles and land-lines. Having to settle with a compromise, the conversation was cut-off mid-sentence and Justine pointed out that we would be late for the post-office if we didn't leave soon. About 10 minutes later, Jenny called my mobile so that we could say goodbyes. I am desperately hoping that the free WiFi internet in Spain is as good as I've been told, so that I can finally talk to her properly. Jenny's company has been especially missed in a place as wonderful as Lille. I would like nothing more than to be able to do this leg travelling with her.
After stuffing gifts and suveniers into some plastic bags alongside a pair of jeans and a jumper, we headed back to the car. The belt, once again satiated, gave us some relief before accompanying our trip to Justine's hometown with some light drizzle.
Waking up 20 minutes later from a snooze for the drive, Justine welcomed me into her family home.
WOW
I suppose it is of classical french design, big windows and a strange arrangement of interior doors. The house is over 100 years old, with a garden out the back to rival many parks, including a summer house, great trees and a pond. I was formally introduced to her brothers, one of whom I remember to be Alex, and her dog Maya. Tour and introductions completed, one brother remained on the couch, the other retreat upstairs while we struck out for the post-office. Walking through this charming little town, Justine pointed out some of the major features and the recent changes. The 30 minute stop in the post-office was successful, Justine translating and negotiating the terms while I compressed the two shopping bags worth of possessions into the moderately sized box (I would disagree that it was “Extra Large”, everything in France is somewhat.. Petit... compared to home).
Homeward bound, we snacked briefly in her kitchen on a delicious flat pastry called a “Grosse” or a “Quoisse” (I still struggle with the pronounciation) and instant coffee, while her brother made banana ice-cream for the family dinner tonight. We said our goodbyes and headed for Belgium.
The original plan had been to leave much earlier in the day and drive an our and a half into Belgium, to a city that I will have to find the name when I get a map. Considering the late hour, we skirted the border in a two just to the north of her home.
“Here, we are in France..”
“Now Belgium... now France again”
“This is Belgium.. can you tell the diffence?”
The level of activity was different in each half of the village, as school and shop times are not synchronised between the neighbouring nations. We were unable to find an open bar or Cafe, so simply drove around for about an hour before turning south.
The final plan for the day was to drive to her Grand-parents house and walk her hoarse to the near-by pony club. When passing again through her home town, my mystical weather-belt decided it had had enough for the day and allowed the skies to open.
“too much rain for the walk, we will go home”
This was a bit of a shame, it would have been nice to see a French farm and to be amongst some animals rather than the family dog, but it was getting late and I was still recovering from Africa and Asia-Minor.
At home, the three of us wandered into town to buy my tickets to visit Isabelle and her family. Adelaide grumbled that we took the long way, through the malls, but conceded that it was much better than walking along the streets. At the train station, we went past an automatic machine, then lined up to purchase in cash. Halfway through the line, I pointed out that if I paid cash to one of the girls, they could use their card to buy the ticket. Discussion and laughter later, Adelaide and Justine made battle with the Machine and I handed over the suitable notes.
After the walk back, I called Isabelle after several failed attempts and we made arrangements to meet in the evening. She had work all day, but assured me there would be a lot to do in Rouen and that the train station had promised to hold my backpack for the day. Logistics and planning out of the way, we made preparations for the night and I said farewell to Adelaide with kisses and demands that she bring her family to Australia. She had an exam in the morning, so would not be joining us for dinner and would have left before either of us woke up.
Wandering into town, we met Jennifer and Vanessa. Jennifer was a striking brunnette that is on Justine's horse-ball team, her father is Irish so she spoke english as well as Justine. Vanessa was taller with short red-blonde hair and assortment of peircings, she studied Physical Therapy with Jennifer at university. Not playing horse-ball, Vanessa still watched the game regularly and the three seemed to be firm friends. Vanessa spoke next to no english, complaining that she had an aweful teacher in high-school. I took the opportunity to try and follow the french conversation for the length of the dinner, Justine and Jennifer translating at intervals.
Having been fed on pasta and pizza, as well as trying a little of Jennifer's Tatare, we wandered around the centre of Lille. Having meandered in the correct general direction, we said a late goodnight at the Justine's door. Kisses and multiple invitations to Australia later, we made our seperate ways. It was quite late and I still had to sort some email before bed. We crept through the house, Adelaide's rooms were dark and quiet and we knew she had her oral exam sometime tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be a big day for everyone involved.
010908 - Jordan to France
010908 – Amman to Lille
Following the argument about room charges, we piled into the taxi-van for the trip to the airport. In stark contrast to my arrival in the Middle East, this driver not only took his time but appeared to revel in it. I'd been a little worried about my check-in time, and he was doing little to ease my anxiety. 35 minutes, 5 Dinar and a delivery to the wrong terminal later, I followed the directions of a police officer and ran to the adjacent building. Check-in was directed by startlingly pleasant security personel.
From here, the suprises continued to escalate.
My check-in was through business class, as it was drawing particularly close to departure time.
Progresssion to the gate required no less than 3 security checks (6-7 if you include the ticket checks and passport control), I had to relieve myself of anything metal twice and the amount of x-rays that my gear would have been exposed to has me thinking I may need to invest in lead underwear.
Once in the lounge it was an eye-glazing wait, they'd already ripped my ticket so I couldn't go out to the gift shops and buy the last few little pieces of Jordan. iPod out and Sneaky Sound System teamed up with Ministry of Sound to relieve my boredom. French, Arabic and English announcements punctuated the imminent departure and eventually my plane was called.
“Passport”
“Bonjour”
“Seat on the Left”
“Cheeky Bugger! He put me in an Emergency Isle!”
~GRIN~ I could almost kiss those check-in security officers
The next 5 hours alternated between very pretty french hostesses handing out drinks and turkey sandwiches, the lights dimming and brightening, my marvelling at the amount of leg-room but how narrow the seats were (I have NOT put on that much weight...) and attempts at avoiding another viewing of Kung Fu Panda.
Despite the narrow seats, Air France is a living Saint. Considering the last few flights I've had..
The leg room was enough to stretch out and do the variety of exercises prescribed for long flights,
The other passengers were not smelly,
The other passengers seemed to acknowledge your personal space, they were even respectful when trying to pass you,
The staff ACTUALLY SMILED and with the few words it took to ask for your beverage of preference, they struck you as charming,
Having stepped in from a street of a Middle Eastern Kingdom, it was immediately revitalising and refreshing. If I'd boarded this plane in Cairo, there is a genuine chance that I might have tried to handcuff myself to the seat.
The only possible gripes I could have about the flight was that the chairs were a little narrow in the waist and that my gentle submersions into sleep were carefully divided up with immediate clear wakefullness, filled with a panic that can only be described as “THE TRIBE IS BEING ATTACKED BY SABRE-TOOTH TIGERS”. Who knows, maybe I was snoring and the guy next to me held my nose.
As an international ambassador, Air France is a marvel. Even the crying babies seemed somehow muffled, absorbed into the ambient sounds and the deep hum of the engines.
My arrival in Paris continued the lucky-streak of travel. I managed to get in front of the pack after the first passport check, bolted past the race-leader on the travellator and I think I was the only one from my flight on the train to immigration.
The trek through the airport is incredible, it really felt like I had traversed a small city in getting central terminal. The layout in the airport is fairly well signed, but not intuitive in its layout. Lifts in particular were hard to spot. The staff were mostly pleasant and the immigration officer even smiled.
Having performed quite well in the race to passport control, I took my time getting my luggage. It is the little things like stopping to freshen up in a FIRST WORLD TOILET that makes a travellers day. It had toilet paper, it had towel or hot air hand drier, it had soap and automatic taps, IT HAD A TOILET SEAT!
I think I could almost have cried..
Having checked in through bussiness class, my pack was already on the carousel by the time I got there. Kissing a Jordanian Security Guard once again crossed my mind.
It was about 10 minutes later that the penny-dropped.
Things are expensive here.
REALLY expensive..
Having been used to paying about $1.50AU for a lunch to big to finish, I was a little shocked at some of the prices.
It cost be $16 for a coffee and 3 crossaunts.
That in mind, IT WAS REAL COFFEE. Overly milky, not particularly strong, they'd gotten my order wrong, but at least it wasn't burnt. I was almost kissing the cup with every sip.
About half way through my second small (Petit!) cup, a lady who I'd helped upstairs with her ticket sat down next to me. She was from Peru and was meeting her daughter who was studying in France. We had some light conversation while waiting for our respective departures, I waited on for the extra 20 minutes after she had taken her train.
Now it's just down to the long wait for my train to Lille, the attendant had been very specific in her instructions for my train and once again she was very pleasant.
God, I love being back in civilisation!
Paris - Lille
Having finished my breakfast of Crossaunt and Coffee, I ventured down to the platform. Playing a little Monkey-See Monkey-do, I stuck one end of my ticket into a small machine at the enterance to the platform and wandered down. There was a little confusion when trying to board the train that was at the platform, the guard simply looking at my ticket and repeating “wait”.
I went a little cross-eyed when no further explanation was offered until the young chinese guy, who had I'd just given a light to, elaborated in pretty good english that I was on the next train.
A few minutes later I'd perched myself for the 5 minute wait, savouring a little solitude with the noise and bustle of the station clunking away in the background.
*do dah dah-dah* something in French... “Lille” at the end
*clunk clunk* ~whine~ here's my train
The Chinese guy pointed out which carriage I was allocated and the correct end to get in. The gaggle of 20 or so people wandered up the stairs and down the isle, I found my seat with the other half already occupied by a lady pretending to sleep. The seating had ample leg room, the train was quiet and in all very comfortable. These are the kinds of trains that you could traverse half of the world in and still be in a respectable condition at the other end.
As it ended out, the Chinese guy from the platform was seated on the opposite side of the isle. When I started to repack my day-pack, he noticed my chinese notes and struck up a conversation. Ling is a Transport and Logistics student in Lille, on his way back to university after the summer holidays at home in Xiang Hi. For the rest of the trip I got to practice my incredibly poor Mandarin while he corrected my pronounciation. Ling explained some of the finer points I would need to know for my trip into Lille and how he had found his time studying there. In all it was a very pleasant trip. I took a few breaks in my Mandarin practice to watch the stunning country-side fly past the window.
Cruising into Lille, I got an SMS from Justine to meet her at “Q” on the platform. This ended out to be immediately opposite where I exited the train. Hellos, hugs and kisses on the cheeks later, we were on our way.
Justine had changed very little since I had seen her last. Still very short and possibly more athletic than when she was in Australia, she set up an impressive pace on the way to the stairs and across the square outside. She started to take a bee-line towards some nearby buildings before performing a double-take of my backpack and heading to a nearby escalator. Passing me a small ticket on the way, she appologised saying that she would usually walk home but would take the subway on account of my backpack.
The subway enterance was clean and efficient, with no noticable choke-points despite being reasonably crowded, the trains being smaller than in Perth and reminding me of the style used in Germany. Two or so stops later, we exited a station very similar to the one we entered and wandered the handful of blocks to her building.
The weather was absolutely spectacular, a beautiful clear blue sky and a mild temperature with a gentle breeze and no excess humidity.
While entering her apartment block and taking the break-neck speed up the narrow and sharp stair-well, Justine began to explain that it was a very old building, that the rent was very cheap and displayed her pride at how close it was to the city centre. Her domicile was on the top of the 3 floors, she seemed very accustomed to the climb.
Entering the house, I dumped my bag in the enterance-way and got the short tour.
The home was built just over 100 years ago and had been renovated many times. This floor was composed of a short corridor with doorways on the left and right, just after the coat-rack and shoes. Leading to a generously sized living room/Justine's cousins room (divided by a curtain) and the short hall-way to the kitchen, respectively. At the end of the entery-way was the door to Justine's room, on the side of which was another small living room that housed Justine's sofa, computer table, closet and, for the next few days, me.
Several things that struck me as odd about this flat was that the short hallway to the kitchen was arranged to contain the toilet in what I would have otherwise mistaken as a small cupboard. Off to the side of the frugal kitchen was the bathroom, opposite the bathroom door was the kitchen-table under a large window that might have once looked down on an Atrium. Now it only saw brick-walls, a slightly grey sky above and supposedly a skylight far below.
With the immediate formalities satisfied, I went to have a shower while Justine ducked out to the street to get some things for a late breakfast. On her return and my successful sanitisation, we sat in the kitchen as Justine prepared drinks and light refreshments in the form of delicious pastries. We started to discuss what we would do for the rest of the day while transferring to the main living area. A clunk at the door, quick hellos and kisses later, I met Justine's cousin. It took three attempts, a confused look and then a request for a “short-version” before Adelaide's name was explained as being the same as the city. I gave an appologetic look and repeated the name in the most profound Ocker-twang while asking her to forgive me for not being able to pronounce it properly. Both girls assured me that it was fine, once they'd stopped laughing.
Adelaide was quite a bit taller than Justine, having brown hair and darker eyes but still having a noticable family resemblance. She was studying Law and had just finished an exam. We joked and laughed for a while before everyone made excuses and we departed, allowing Adelaide to study for her next exam.
Making our way into the city centre, Justine showed me the convoluted lay-out and the main features of this small city including the cafe where Adelaide's bother, Frederick, works. We wandered away from the blue sky, through a nearby shopping mall, allowing me to buy a cheap canvas belt to replace my broken one from home. Happy with the purchase, we exited as I finished tightening my overly loose pants to a more suitable and publicly appropriate style of attire.
Just as I finished the last wiggle of adjustment in my now comfortable trousers, we almost turned back to ask for a refund. My new belt seemed to come with the terrible price of inclement weather. Dodging the rain and cold for the next 2 days, I have found my new “Rain-belt” to be most comfortable and convinient, but it also appears to come with profound powers of summoning cold winds and rain that varies from light drizzle to almost driving. As I have been coming to the end of my course of tablet to treat the lingering “nasty-butt”, the theory has occurred to me that it may be a cosmic link of meterological phenomina to my gastronomical conditions.
With Great Power comes Great Responsibility.
I must be cautious of a diet too heavy in chilli, beans or raw onion. A strong Tacco could run the risk of wiping France off of the map.
With me struggling to contain my new-found powers, we made a series of brief stops on the way home to source some wine and ingredients for lunch. With Adelaide studying in the living room, Justine treated me to five different cheeses, french-bread, delicious little tomatoes with carrot and a home made dip. We sipped cheap red-wine while waiting for the vegitable pie (Pait?) to cook. It was a stunning and most amazing lunch, I ate suprisingly little but felt much better by the end of it. Filled and miraculously revitalised, Justine admitted that it was a ~little~ more ellaborate than usual. This varied assortment of flavours were usual reserved for dinner or when entertaining guests, I was suitably over-whelmed.
Having been fed and watered, we departed to see the rest of the city. Entering the “old city” I was astounded at the shops, the people traversing their day-to-day lives in simple but elegant cloathing, the broad palate of smells and flavours. I was appologising for much of the afternoon for the light rain, adjusting and re-adjusting the magical belt to try and find the correct setting. Justine was suitably amused. We had coffee in a street-side cafe and bought some yohgurt and blank discs for sending my photos home.
We walked through part of the city to find the main park, that has a small but free zoo to one side and an ancient citidel in the centre. There was nothing too ellaborate about this park or the one we saw shortly later, but both of them displayed a purpose that had never been forgotten. It was uncrowded, open, free green-space, gifted to the people of this country. Small groups of families with children walked through, joggers bounding nearby between the fortified walls, an occasional soldier walking past with a fixed gaite. There need not be a reason to use this place, it was a part of your life and an essential piece of your day. At home, I find the need to drive past the ocean, or the river, or King's park. That is often a trip that requires effort or a diversion. Here, these parks are what you rely on, the essential route to get home or have a distraction from your day.
Returning after an amazing afternoon of seeing french life in a beautiful city, I started my photos copying before an afternoon nap.
That evening, Justine, Adelaide and I met with one of their friends from a particularly active sport that Justine plays called “Horse-Ball”. My understanding is that it is a mix between soccer/football/basket ball where two teams throw a ball about the size of a volley-ball, trying to get it through the hoop at the other end of a field. All of this is done on horse-back, requiring dramatic dives down the side of your saddle to pick up the ball, which has loose straps looped about it.
Dinner was a great deal of fun, it was at a restaurant that was also a small brewery. I was lucky enough to have a Blonde beer and a sampling plate of local cuisine comprised of a cheese fondu, a dish made of bone-marrow, small pieces of meat in a cold ale jelly and a type of small sandwhich. Costing a little more than I was comfortable with, I insisted we all share a desert. After a long heated discussion in French, the girls decided on a small chocolate cake with custard and ice-cream that was powerfully rich, increadibly delicious and offered a suitable diversion for me to pay a sizeable portion of the bill. Justine mounted an impressive resistance to my payment, but was noticably relieved at the prospect. I'd not had an overly expensive meal, but I still wish I could have afforded to pay for everyone.
Wandering the streets shortly after our gastronomical delights, the rain had stopped in response to the meal. Adelaide said goodbyes and kisses before retreating home to study before going to bed. Justine and her friend (who's name I still struggled to catch) decided to make use of the remaining funds and go for a drink somewhere.
Being a Monday night, most of the bars and restaurants are closed in France. Finding quite a trendy place about 10 minutes from the restaurant, we settled down. Having spent some time in the city centre, I can see what Melbourne is attempting to emmulate. The integration of daily life with history and modern trends would be completely intoxicating if you were fully immersed. The clothing and interaction of the citizens is something that is fun, seemless and sophisticated that demonstrates a type of classiness that I've not found in Australia. I know that many people love Melbourne or Sydney for these features, but I have never really noticed it in either place. While not wanting to speak poorly of any part of my home country, here I can “see what they are trying to do”. If I were to be unkind and unfair, in Melbourne the streets of small shops that many people love and enjoy simply struck me as buildings that needed a good clean, decent wiring and proper construction for the ceiling and walls, even the expensive designer shops either had an interior or exterior that others would describe as “rustic” but I would more likely compare to my Dad's shed on the farm. In Lille, there was a quality of not trying too hard, having a careful and almost delicate simplicity. Ancient buildings that didn't look like soot, old facades that spoke of wealth and decident times and now housed businesses that embraced their surroundings, belonging in them rather than simply utilising old husks as shelter.
Like I said, I am being unkind. I have never understood Melbourne's appeal, apart from the people there. Here I can see what they mean.
Having failed at the first bar, of only one staff member and it being very full, we went across the road and had Mojito's at a small pub. Justine and her friend (I really need to find out her name..) talked about how these places belong in daily life, it being common to meet there with friends on the way home for a soft-drink or just to sit and talk. It really struck me that what we use cafe's for in Perth is what they use pubs and bars for here. I have yet to figure out in which facet of life a cafe fits in here..
About an hour of laughter and mixing up our drinks for every last drop, we had goodbyes and kisses. I let having insisted that Justine's friend (who's name I had remembered, but now I had forgotten) come to perth some time.
Returning home and quick hellos to Adelaide, Justine and I retreated to joke around for the rest of the evening. I pulled up photos of my trip to date and showed off photo's of Jenny. Justine seemed impressed by the one of my army uniform. I was amazed at some of the experiences that Justine had never spoken about before. Her photos are a lot more active than she lets on, showing her horse and the game Horse-Ball in all it's glory. Mountain tops with her family scaling them, skiing, horse riding through Iceland, her family learning how to para-sail off of mountian tops. Morocco, Tanzaneir, Scotland.. She has spent some time in Iceland and is continually invited back to help with one of the horse groups. Justine is currently planning on taking a year off to go to Canada and possibly Iceland.
At a suitable hour, I made up my bed, said goodnight and set the last of my photos to burn to disc. It had been a long, far day and I was certainly richer for every minute of it.
Following the argument about room charges, we piled into the taxi-van for the trip to the airport. In stark contrast to my arrival in the Middle East, this driver not only took his time but appeared to revel in it. I'd been a little worried about my check-in time, and he was doing little to ease my anxiety. 35 minutes, 5 Dinar and a delivery to the wrong terminal later, I followed the directions of a police officer and ran to the adjacent building. Check-in was directed by startlingly pleasant security personel.
From here, the suprises continued to escalate.
My check-in was through business class, as it was drawing particularly close to departure time.
Progresssion to the gate required no less than 3 security checks (6-7 if you include the ticket checks and passport control), I had to relieve myself of anything metal twice and the amount of x-rays that my gear would have been exposed to has me thinking I may need to invest in lead underwear.
Once in the lounge it was an eye-glazing wait, they'd already ripped my ticket so I couldn't go out to the gift shops and buy the last few little pieces of Jordan. iPod out and Sneaky Sound System teamed up with Ministry of Sound to relieve my boredom. French, Arabic and English announcements punctuated the imminent departure and eventually my plane was called.
“Passport”
“Bonjour”
“Seat on the Left”
“Cheeky Bugger! He put me in an Emergency Isle!”
~GRIN~ I could almost kiss those check-in security officers
The next 5 hours alternated between very pretty french hostesses handing out drinks and turkey sandwiches, the lights dimming and brightening, my marvelling at the amount of leg-room but how narrow the seats were (I have NOT put on that much weight...) and attempts at avoiding another viewing of Kung Fu Panda.
Despite the narrow seats, Air France is a living Saint. Considering the last few flights I've had..
The leg room was enough to stretch out and do the variety of exercises prescribed for long flights,
The other passengers were not smelly,
The other passengers seemed to acknowledge your personal space, they were even respectful when trying to pass you,
The staff ACTUALLY SMILED and with the few words it took to ask for your beverage of preference, they struck you as charming,
Having stepped in from a street of a Middle Eastern Kingdom, it was immediately revitalising and refreshing. If I'd boarded this plane in Cairo, there is a genuine chance that I might have tried to handcuff myself to the seat.
The only possible gripes I could have about the flight was that the chairs were a little narrow in the waist and that my gentle submersions into sleep were carefully divided up with immediate clear wakefullness, filled with a panic that can only be described as “THE TRIBE IS BEING ATTACKED BY SABRE-TOOTH TIGERS”. Who knows, maybe I was snoring and the guy next to me held my nose.
As an international ambassador, Air France is a marvel. Even the crying babies seemed somehow muffled, absorbed into the ambient sounds and the deep hum of the engines.
My arrival in Paris continued the lucky-streak of travel. I managed to get in front of the pack after the first passport check, bolted past the race-leader on the travellator and I think I was the only one from my flight on the train to immigration.
The trek through the airport is incredible, it really felt like I had traversed a small city in getting central terminal. The layout in the airport is fairly well signed, but not intuitive in its layout. Lifts in particular were hard to spot. The staff were mostly pleasant and the immigration officer even smiled.
Having performed quite well in the race to passport control, I took my time getting my luggage. It is the little things like stopping to freshen up in a FIRST WORLD TOILET that makes a travellers day. It had toilet paper, it had towel or hot air hand drier, it had soap and automatic taps, IT HAD A TOILET SEAT!
I think I could almost have cried..
Having checked in through bussiness class, my pack was already on the carousel by the time I got there. Kissing a Jordanian Security Guard once again crossed my mind.
It was about 10 minutes later that the penny-dropped.
Things are expensive here.
REALLY expensive..
Having been used to paying about $1.50AU for a lunch to big to finish, I was a little shocked at some of the prices.
It cost be $16 for a coffee and 3 crossaunts.
That in mind, IT WAS REAL COFFEE. Overly milky, not particularly strong, they'd gotten my order wrong, but at least it wasn't burnt. I was almost kissing the cup with every sip.
About half way through my second small (Petit!) cup, a lady who I'd helped upstairs with her ticket sat down next to me. She was from Peru and was meeting her daughter who was studying in France. We had some light conversation while waiting for our respective departures, I waited on for the extra 20 minutes after she had taken her train.
Now it's just down to the long wait for my train to Lille, the attendant had been very specific in her instructions for my train and once again she was very pleasant.
God, I love being back in civilisation!
Paris - Lille
Having finished my breakfast of Crossaunt and Coffee, I ventured down to the platform. Playing a little Monkey-See Monkey-do, I stuck one end of my ticket into a small machine at the enterance to the platform and wandered down. There was a little confusion when trying to board the train that was at the platform, the guard simply looking at my ticket and repeating “wait”.
I went a little cross-eyed when no further explanation was offered until the young chinese guy, who had I'd just given a light to, elaborated in pretty good english that I was on the next train.
A few minutes later I'd perched myself for the 5 minute wait, savouring a little solitude with the noise and bustle of the station clunking away in the background.
*do dah dah-dah* something in French... “Lille” at the end
*clunk clunk* ~whine~ here's my train
The Chinese guy pointed out which carriage I was allocated and the correct end to get in. The gaggle of 20 or so people wandered up the stairs and down the isle, I found my seat with the other half already occupied by a lady pretending to sleep. The seating had ample leg room, the train was quiet and in all very comfortable. These are the kinds of trains that you could traverse half of the world in and still be in a respectable condition at the other end.
As it ended out, the Chinese guy from the platform was seated on the opposite side of the isle. When I started to repack my day-pack, he noticed my chinese notes and struck up a conversation. Ling is a Transport and Logistics student in Lille, on his way back to university after the summer holidays at home in Xiang Hi. For the rest of the trip I got to practice my incredibly poor Mandarin while he corrected my pronounciation. Ling explained some of the finer points I would need to know for my trip into Lille and how he had found his time studying there. In all it was a very pleasant trip. I took a few breaks in my Mandarin practice to watch the stunning country-side fly past the window.
Cruising into Lille, I got an SMS from Justine to meet her at “Q” on the platform. This ended out to be immediately opposite where I exited the train. Hellos, hugs and kisses on the cheeks later, we were on our way.
Justine had changed very little since I had seen her last. Still very short and possibly more athletic than when she was in Australia, she set up an impressive pace on the way to the stairs and across the square outside. She started to take a bee-line towards some nearby buildings before performing a double-take of my backpack and heading to a nearby escalator. Passing me a small ticket on the way, she appologised saying that she would usually walk home but would take the subway on account of my backpack.
The subway enterance was clean and efficient, with no noticable choke-points despite being reasonably crowded, the trains being smaller than in Perth and reminding me of the style used in Germany. Two or so stops later, we exited a station very similar to the one we entered and wandered the handful of blocks to her building.
The weather was absolutely spectacular, a beautiful clear blue sky and a mild temperature with a gentle breeze and no excess humidity.
While entering her apartment block and taking the break-neck speed up the narrow and sharp stair-well, Justine began to explain that it was a very old building, that the rent was very cheap and displayed her pride at how close it was to the city centre. Her domicile was on the top of the 3 floors, she seemed very accustomed to the climb.
Entering the house, I dumped my bag in the enterance-way and got the short tour.
The home was built just over 100 years ago and had been renovated many times. This floor was composed of a short corridor with doorways on the left and right, just after the coat-rack and shoes. Leading to a generously sized living room/Justine's cousins room (divided by a curtain) and the short hall-way to the kitchen, respectively. At the end of the entery-way was the door to Justine's room, on the side of which was another small living room that housed Justine's sofa, computer table, closet and, for the next few days, me.
Several things that struck me as odd about this flat was that the short hallway to the kitchen was arranged to contain the toilet in what I would have otherwise mistaken as a small cupboard. Off to the side of the frugal kitchen was the bathroom, opposite the bathroom door was the kitchen-table under a large window that might have once looked down on an Atrium. Now it only saw brick-walls, a slightly grey sky above and supposedly a skylight far below.
With the immediate formalities satisfied, I went to have a shower while Justine ducked out to the street to get some things for a late breakfast. On her return and my successful sanitisation, we sat in the kitchen as Justine prepared drinks and light refreshments in the form of delicious pastries. We started to discuss what we would do for the rest of the day while transferring to the main living area. A clunk at the door, quick hellos and kisses later, I met Justine's cousin. It took three attempts, a confused look and then a request for a “short-version” before Adelaide's name was explained as being the same as the city. I gave an appologetic look and repeated the name in the most profound Ocker-twang while asking her to forgive me for not being able to pronounce it properly. Both girls assured me that it was fine, once they'd stopped laughing.
Adelaide was quite a bit taller than Justine, having brown hair and darker eyes but still having a noticable family resemblance. She was studying Law and had just finished an exam. We joked and laughed for a while before everyone made excuses and we departed, allowing Adelaide to study for her next exam.
Making our way into the city centre, Justine showed me the convoluted lay-out and the main features of this small city including the cafe where Adelaide's bother, Frederick, works. We wandered away from the blue sky, through a nearby shopping mall, allowing me to buy a cheap canvas belt to replace my broken one from home. Happy with the purchase, we exited as I finished tightening my overly loose pants to a more suitable and publicly appropriate style of attire.
Just as I finished the last wiggle of adjustment in my now comfortable trousers, we almost turned back to ask for a refund. My new belt seemed to come with the terrible price of inclement weather. Dodging the rain and cold for the next 2 days, I have found my new “Rain-belt” to be most comfortable and convinient, but it also appears to come with profound powers of summoning cold winds and rain that varies from light drizzle to almost driving. As I have been coming to the end of my course of tablet to treat the lingering “nasty-butt”, the theory has occurred to me that it may be a cosmic link of meterological phenomina to my gastronomical conditions.
With Great Power comes Great Responsibility.
I must be cautious of a diet too heavy in chilli, beans or raw onion. A strong Tacco could run the risk of wiping France off of the map.
With me struggling to contain my new-found powers, we made a series of brief stops on the way home to source some wine and ingredients for lunch. With Adelaide studying in the living room, Justine treated me to five different cheeses, french-bread, delicious little tomatoes with carrot and a home made dip. We sipped cheap red-wine while waiting for the vegitable pie (Pait?) to cook. It was a stunning and most amazing lunch, I ate suprisingly little but felt much better by the end of it. Filled and miraculously revitalised, Justine admitted that it was a ~little~ more ellaborate than usual. This varied assortment of flavours were usual reserved for dinner or when entertaining guests, I was suitably over-whelmed.
Having been fed and watered, we departed to see the rest of the city. Entering the “old city” I was astounded at the shops, the people traversing their day-to-day lives in simple but elegant cloathing, the broad palate of smells and flavours. I was appologising for much of the afternoon for the light rain, adjusting and re-adjusting the magical belt to try and find the correct setting. Justine was suitably amused. We had coffee in a street-side cafe and bought some yohgurt and blank discs for sending my photos home.
We walked through part of the city to find the main park, that has a small but free zoo to one side and an ancient citidel in the centre. There was nothing too ellaborate about this park or the one we saw shortly later, but both of them displayed a purpose that had never been forgotten. It was uncrowded, open, free green-space, gifted to the people of this country. Small groups of families with children walked through, joggers bounding nearby between the fortified walls, an occasional soldier walking past with a fixed gaite. There need not be a reason to use this place, it was a part of your life and an essential piece of your day. At home, I find the need to drive past the ocean, or the river, or King's park. That is often a trip that requires effort or a diversion. Here, these parks are what you rely on, the essential route to get home or have a distraction from your day.
Returning after an amazing afternoon of seeing french life in a beautiful city, I started my photos copying before an afternoon nap.
That evening, Justine, Adelaide and I met with one of their friends from a particularly active sport that Justine plays called “Horse-Ball”. My understanding is that it is a mix between soccer/football/basket ball where two teams throw a ball about the size of a volley-ball, trying to get it through the hoop at the other end of a field. All of this is done on horse-back, requiring dramatic dives down the side of your saddle to pick up the ball, which has loose straps looped about it.
Dinner was a great deal of fun, it was at a restaurant that was also a small brewery. I was lucky enough to have a Blonde beer and a sampling plate of local cuisine comprised of a cheese fondu, a dish made of bone-marrow, small pieces of meat in a cold ale jelly and a type of small sandwhich. Costing a little more than I was comfortable with, I insisted we all share a desert. After a long heated discussion in French, the girls decided on a small chocolate cake with custard and ice-cream that was powerfully rich, increadibly delicious and offered a suitable diversion for me to pay a sizeable portion of the bill. Justine mounted an impressive resistance to my payment, but was noticably relieved at the prospect. I'd not had an overly expensive meal, but I still wish I could have afforded to pay for everyone.
Wandering the streets shortly after our gastronomical delights, the rain had stopped in response to the meal. Adelaide said goodbyes and kisses before retreating home to study before going to bed. Justine and her friend (who's name I still struggled to catch) decided to make use of the remaining funds and go for a drink somewhere.
Being a Monday night, most of the bars and restaurants are closed in France. Finding quite a trendy place about 10 minutes from the restaurant, we settled down. Having spent some time in the city centre, I can see what Melbourne is attempting to emmulate. The integration of daily life with history and modern trends would be completely intoxicating if you were fully immersed. The clothing and interaction of the citizens is something that is fun, seemless and sophisticated that demonstrates a type of classiness that I've not found in Australia. I know that many people love Melbourne or Sydney for these features, but I have never really noticed it in either place. While not wanting to speak poorly of any part of my home country, here I can “see what they are trying to do”. If I were to be unkind and unfair, in Melbourne the streets of small shops that many people love and enjoy simply struck me as buildings that needed a good clean, decent wiring and proper construction for the ceiling and walls, even the expensive designer shops either had an interior or exterior that others would describe as “rustic” but I would more likely compare to my Dad's shed on the farm. In Lille, there was a quality of not trying too hard, having a careful and almost delicate simplicity. Ancient buildings that didn't look like soot, old facades that spoke of wealth and decident times and now housed businesses that embraced their surroundings, belonging in them rather than simply utilising old husks as shelter.
Like I said, I am being unkind. I have never understood Melbourne's appeal, apart from the people there. Here I can see what they mean.
Having failed at the first bar, of only one staff member and it being very full, we went across the road and had Mojito's at a small pub. Justine and her friend (I really need to find out her name..) talked about how these places belong in daily life, it being common to meet there with friends on the way home for a soft-drink or just to sit and talk. It really struck me that what we use cafe's for in Perth is what they use pubs and bars for here. I have yet to figure out in which facet of life a cafe fits in here..
About an hour of laughter and mixing up our drinks for every last drop, we had goodbyes and kisses. I let having insisted that Justine's friend (who's name I had remembered, but now I had forgotten) come to perth some time.
Returning home and quick hellos to Adelaide, Justine and I retreated to joke around for the rest of the evening. I pulled up photos of my trip to date and showed off photo's of Jenny. Justine seemed impressed by the one of my army uniform. I was amazed at some of the experiences that Justine had never spoken about before. Her photos are a lot more active than she lets on, showing her horse and the game Horse-Ball in all it's glory. Mountain tops with her family scaling them, skiing, horse riding through Iceland, her family learning how to para-sail off of mountian tops. Morocco, Tanzaneir, Scotland.. She has spent some time in Iceland and is continually invited back to help with one of the horse groups. Justine is currently planning on taking a year off to go to Canada and possibly Iceland.
At a suitable hour, I made up my bed, said goodnight and set the last of my photos to burn to disc. It had been a long, far day and I was certainly richer for every minute of it.
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