Stalking Hotels Can Prove Fruitful

Cannes Film Festival

More crepes, more rude, line cutting French.

More loud, snide remarks from me about lack of manners.

...But, we saw her

step out of a cab and enter the Hotel Martinez.

That made the miserably hot two hour bus ride worth it.

Pretty Sweet, eh?

"He just sat down in front of the bus"

“I tried to be like Grace Kelly…” the Mika song provided company as I readied for the day. For only a 1.30 euro, you can take the bus from Nice, France, to Monte Carlo, Monaco. That is, for around two American dollars, you can take a day trip to another country. I guess the inhabitants of Montpelier, Vermont can do the same too, all 17 of them.

The traffic from Nice to Monaco is ever present and steady; it’s a great way to get to know your fellow tourists, as you stand within a few sparse centimeters from them. It is unfortunate that some Europeans believe daily deodorant application to be optional.
Thankfully, the promise of the day’s adventure lay at our feet; a true comfort to look forward to while stuck on the bus.

Arriving in Monaco, we practically stepped off the bus and into casino grounds. Famous – or infamous – for its James Bond-esque lifestyle and residents, Monaco is a tax haven and thus attracts the wealthy from all over. Note the constant growl of Ferraris in downtown Monte Carlo; the air smells like money.

We immediately made the climb to the Royal Palace, which is still the ruling family’s residence. The changing of the guard, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary was the soundtrack to our lunch, before we embarked inside.

The palace is stunning, with a wealth of Louis XIII and XIV fabrics, furniture, and design. After the grand tour, the requisite family portraits, and a guided audio history, we emerged, experts on the Monaco Monarchy. This really means, I had a listen of things to google / wikipedia when I returned to A’dam. Continuing with the theme at hand, we visited the Royal Cathedral, where Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier III were wed, and now both lie in tombs behind the altar. I’ve seen around a dozen churches, chapels, cathedrals in my time in Europe, and about a half dozen famous peoples’ tombs. I’m not sure what this says about my level of morbid curiosity, but I’m surely not alone in this interest.

Monaco is a beautiful country, with houses scattered across the rolling hillsides, overlooking the crisp azure Mediterranean. Its one of those locales that every building, regardless of its use, is exquisitely designed and adorned. The Aquarium was no exception. The interior did not disappoint either; sights included a multilevel coral reef exhibition, diagrams of the water system (it pumps water directly in from the nearby sea), and a swirling column of fish. With several dozen carefully steadied, no flash pictures on the memory card (they don’t like flash, I can tell, really!) we reentered the sunshine to make our way leisurely back to the bus stop. After a slight hassle, we found the bus stop that headed back to Nice. We discovered that about 50 other people had also found this bus stop. Seven minutes late (European buses tend to be right on time), the bus had no sooner opened its doors before scores of tired, overheated, and grumpy people began to flood the door. The four of us almost backed out, in exchange for the next bus, but it seemed risky to wait, and we waded into to the mass of humanity This wasn’t the first time I experienced European rudeness and it wouldn’t unfortunately be the last. At this point, my only goal was to get on that bus. We made it, and I ended up uncomfortably close to this guy sitting on one of the wheel wells for a while. When the small children across the way got off, I crawled between the chairs and a pole to sit on the opposite wheel well.

As the proposed 45 minute trip slowly dragged into an hour and beyond, we are still the only chipper group – and the only English speakers, or so we think. At each bus stop, hordes of people rush into the street; at one point, a group of teenagers block the bus’ path, visibly pleading with the driver and even sitting down in the road. All I can see in our future is riots, ala Le Heine. We continue to chat and speculate our own future when a nicely dressed man asks us where were from in the states. Andrew’s a mechanical engineer from Illinois, traveling alone in Nice, before heading off to meet up with some friends in Greece. While he speaks French fluently, he admits to being a little starved for conversation. That, my friend, we can fix –and you may wish you had never asked. We exchange the regular travel stories, getting to know you info, and bets on when we’ll arrive in Nice (that is, if we arrive in Nice).

Miraculously, we do make it back – not too much worse for the wear, with a story to tell, and a new friend tagging along for dinner. Nourishment achieved, we arrange a meeting time and place for later that evening. The night starts at Thor, a Viking themed bar with pints on Andrew, who reassures us that “he has a salary, we’re in college” he remembers how it is, money wise. When the night gets chillier, we head inside to bitch about the 40 minute tracks of House and sing Disney songs. The band finally begins its second set, with none other than “Take on Me.” We rush to the upper floor to celebrate the improvement in music selection. From there out, we dance, we sing, we laugh…until 2:30, when a bar tender hands Molly a plastic cup for her remaining beer and tells us to get out. “Closing Time” is played; it’s just like Lebanon Valley! (Anyone?)

Friday night was Andrew’s last night in Nice before he flew to London for a week. His flight was around 6:30 AM and had no plans of going to bed before that. We went to Wayne’s at 7 to catch the tail end of Happy Hour (noon til nine!) before grabbing some gelato, getting thrown out of the personally dubbed “V.I.P. Room” in another bar so some French kids could take over and then moving to the beach. One thing led to another, and a round of “Truth or Dare” commenced. By the time we left the shore’s edge, I had been in the ocean, clothed, Megan had done her best to find French kids to play “Rock, paper, scissors” with her, and Andrew had done a cartwheel on the extraordinarily unforgiving rocks. Saying good bye to our new friend, Megan, Molly and I headed back to the hostel at 4 AM to catch a few hours of sleep before the next day’s adventure.

The Hazards of Riviera Life

Friday morning we set out ready to wholly dedicate ourselves to a day at the beach. Megan and I arrived around noon, after the necessary pastry stop and did our best to rearrange the stones into comfortable bedding. Unfortunately, there really is no way to do that, but nevertheless, our spirits never lagged. Armed with books, slathered in sun block, the Mediterranean at our feet, we established our temporary empire. Perfection.

Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.

Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.

While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.

The French Riviera: # 1 in the Series

I’ve always wanted to go to France. After a weekend in Paris, I discovered I loved the country just as much as I had always expected. Thus, when we were all huddled inside during those cold, rainy, miserable winter months, plans for the realization of another dream were born. We were going to the French Riviera for six days. Joining the elite and famous, the South of France would be our domain. And so, the adventure began.

Overcoming train strikes, plane delays, and the French language, we four lovely ladies arrived in Nice Tuesday evening, and were not 20 yards off the aircraft before I was warned not to “Americanize” the pronunciation of “Nice.” I guess my overuse of the word “nice” (to get the accent, look for the capital; that’ll be the French locale) has been recognized. But of course I wouldn’t do such an insensitive thing, I love the French, they are my people – really though, the Canadians are my blood, they are so much chiller and less rude.

Nice is a picturesque seaside city – open air markets, an ocean-side promenade, and sunbathers galore. The Mediterranean Sea is a close second to the Caribbean for clarity and color, and its not overly cold – and coming from me, that’s pretty amazing. 9 AM on the first day there, I was already knee deep – and yes, fully clothed - in the Mediterranean – and it only got better from there.

After a sustaining crepe to hold us over, we set off to climb the numerous stairs of Le Chateau. The view from the first summit was a breathtaking panorama of the city, ocean, and the residences on the hills. We couldn’t go all the way up, as the park closed at twilight. While the view was spectacular, we were lucky enough to witness an even more astounding sight. I had joked on one of our rest stops to the top, that if I lived in Nice, I’d run these stairs once a day and call it my total body workout. Shortly there after, a man carrying a mountain bike on his shoulder passed us. Now, that’s a workout. At first it seems a bit odd, but then we realize there must be trails down the other side of the hill. Kudos, sir, you put my sorry ass to shame. Little did I know, he was going to capitalize on that fact in a matter of moments.

Descending Le Chateau, I hear the common place sound of a bike in a not very common place. We turn to discover this man is biking down the stairs. We stop dead and gape in horror as this brave individual thunders down several long flights of stairs, turn a corner, barely miss some pedestrians, pull a wheelie before hopping onto the last flight of stairs. Dumbstruck, we can’t stop discussing the likelihood that emergency medical attention is imminent. An old man passing through laughs at our exclamations and offers, “he crazy, yes?” When we reached the bottom – at a much slower rate – we were pleasantly surprised to not stumble upon a battered human being intertwined with cycle. Sir, you win, hands down. None of us could even fathom a way to beat that move.

And it just keeps on going; be ready!

6 Days in 60 Words: The French Riviera

“These are not pebbles,” Our friend Jacque / Frederick, Monegasques, “I’m wasted!” Biking Le Chateau, Elephant Graveyard, Construction Street, Meeting at the Monoprix, Cannes Film Festival, “Take on Me,” Palm trees, Gran Prix, Rich boyfriend search, Crepes “Florida!” Happy Hour: noon to 9 PM, Monte Carlo, Rock, paper, scissors, menage a quatre, “They are sitting in front of the bus”

Lots more to come, of course...and about 200 photos or so. Be excited, be very excited.

"We are in a hostel situation!"

So to set the stage for the telling of the Parisian adventure, let me divulge how I pregamed Paris. Even when it does not involve alcohol and Southpark, I frequently refer pre activities as pregaming, because as real pregaming does, these aforementioned events greatly contribute to the actual event.

On Monday March 12th, I had a paper for Dutch Social Policy. March 9th through the 11th were to be spent in Paris. Obviously, any logical person would do the paper during the week before. But I was unfortunately quite sick and very miserable, spending a vast amount of time and energy finding a doctor, getting medication, and not being a total loser about the whole situation. (Imagine the pity party: I’m alone, cold, in the rain, sick, and lost. Yeah, feel bad, I did.) Sooooo, this paper gets started on Thursday night. But, oh wait! I have to pack! And go to Megan’s for dinner! Long story short, I spend 1 – 4 AM writing a paper on human trafficking. Sleep til 7:30 so I can shower before they shut off our water, then finish my packing, and rush to Centraal.

We make it on the train without a hassle. First goal attained. Life here in Europe tends to be a process for us – nothing is simple, easy, or cheap, and we have accepted that. So, it’s important to realize that that is the first goal. Before the night is out, we are on like number 27 and its 3 AM.

Now, I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep, and while I’m used to sleep deprivation, it lowers my tolerance for most everything. Some would say I don’t have all that much tolerance to start with, but that’s up for debate. Within minutes of being on the train, my tolerance is maxed out. Here is the problem. I’m not a prude in any sense of the word, but I hate public displays of affection. HATE. Now, I’m not a total asshole, I’m ok with some mild touching, but the whole making out, on top of each other practically, on a train…no. Stop acting co-dependent and inconsiderate; it makes me want to throw shit at you – and on a bad day (or good, depending how you view it) I just might. Between the couple across from us, and the “slurping” sounds (Kristen’s delightful word choice) behind us, I am preoccupied with planning our weekend and hating most of the world. Eventually, planning aside, I am allowed to pass out and ignore people.

Arrival, Paris Nord, 14:06. We realize we have no idea what we are doing. We are approached about seven times by apparently Eastern European women and girls, asking if we speak English and if we will give them money. I am alternately very sympatric and very suspicious, and decide its best if we pretend we don’t speak English. Thus, we exit Nord with a map of Paris in hand, clinging to each other and responding to all requests in Spanish.

Now, did I mention we don’t have the address to our hostel? I, being the clever bunny I am, decided that the booking information would be the best thing to forget at home. But, Sam has the address; we’ll just call him! …Now if Sam just answered his phone. Well, I remember the information said it was a short walk from the Eiffel Tower, so we honestly decide that going the Eiffel Tower and walking around is the best game plan. Here’s where it’s quite understandable if you’re questioning my logic, but remember, Maria’s life is just one big ball of irony.
We jump off the metro and begin walking. All of sudden, Kristen announces she’s found it. Being the ass that I am, I almost inquire upon what she has found, until I look up.

…Duh. As we head toward the Eiffel Tower, a street artist commences to accost us; I, for some reason, hate soliciting with a fiery passion, and will go out of my way to avoid sellers/Mormons/scam artists. It is fortunate that Kristen is both more socially resourceful in such situations, and asks the man about directions. He points to the building behind us – an information center. Within, we find a woman who googles (the answer to all problems) the hostel, draws directions on our map, and points us the right direction. Um, score!? We check in at the “front desk” (i.e. bar), enter our room, and begin to scream. I called my Mom at work to tell her that her daughter would be spending the weekend in a Cuban Guerilla Military Training camp, complete with sketchtastic courtyard with scanty roofed showers and toilets, bunk houses, scratchy wool blankets, and the opportunity to fight for your own life at every turn. We hold each other, eat our chocolate, and decide that sleeping in one single bed (again) is perfectly acceptable, even desirable.

Not to be discouraged, we re-gather and head to the Louvre. The Louvre is one of the most spectacular museums/buildings/institutions ever. First of all, it’s the LOUVRE. Secondly, it’s so big, it’s mildly unfathomable. Literally we got lost in Ancient Egypt. We could not get out of Ancient Egypt for over 45 minutes, all we wanted was to see the Mona Lisa and leave, but oh no. Osiris had other plans…and that was the dumbest thing I’ve thought out loud in at least a week. We managed to escape and want nothing more but to be outside. We are supposed to meet Sam at the Louvre, but we can’t get through to him and want to head back. By luck, we get back to the hostel in time to discover his train came in late and we meet up in the bar.

After dinner, we decide to head to Montmartre for the Erotic Museum – as if we don’t get enough of that type of thing in Amsterdam. We get to see the original Moulin Rouge, which on top of the Louvre basically makes my night. The Museum is like a lot of erotic museums I’ve been to (…); quite amusing, slightly disturbing, and greatly lacking historical information on the “artifacts.” When we leave there, it’s about half past 1 and the metro is closed (why do metros close so early? Serially) and we begin the stroll across Paris – which bears a striking resemblance to the Trail of Tears across Montreal except: 1) Paris is bigger, prettier, and Frencher, 2) This walk is more like 5-6 miles, not 2. To say the least, it’s a really great idea for the first half hour. By 3, we are back, making our beds in the pitch black, so to not waken our Canadian roommates. Here is where the hostel situation elevates. A general ruckus is going on outside our door, and then a bag of cement mix is dropped in our door. I head into the bathroom; Kristen follows.

Me: “Hm, that’s weird; it sounds just like someone is talking in our room.”
Kristen: “That’s because someone is in our room; I shoved Sam at him and told him to make him leave.”
Me: “Oh, well that’s good.”
When the drunken Portuguese – we think – leaves, we finally allowed to pass out, and that we did.

"So, I see you brought home some cement last night?" One of the Canadian backpackers inquired. Oh no, some guy dropped that in the door. "Well, watch out if they back a cement mixer up to the door!" Oh Canadians, how I love you. We head out with the intention of doing everything. First we walk up to the Arc d'Triumph and the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Then we continue on to Notre Dame, where Sam's little brother is supposed to be visiting with a school group, but Sam can't get through to his brother's teacher, and the whole "look for a kid about 14 years old who resembles Sam" is not helping either.

We tour the Cathedral as mass is being said in the center. It is kind of a strange contrast; a few hundred tourists, a few dozen languages, way too many camera flashes and Catholic Mass. Afterward, we head across a bridge to this little island and find lunch, which we eat in the park behind Notre Dame. We then tour a World War II monument in honor of the French who were deported to concentration/work camps. As such monuments are, it is a somber reminder of a war that deeply scarred this continent. While we teach the Holocaust, Anne Frank et al in America, it is here that people lived it.

We head across town to a vast cemetery in which the likes of Proust, Moliere, and Jim Morrison are buried. Make sure to check out the photos - while I realize my interest in cemetery architecture may seem morbid, you have to admit these structures are quite awe inspiring. Energy lagging, (despite the chocolate for breakfast and the ice cream for tea, and yes, I do support the British tradition of distinguishing a specific time of day as tea time) Kristen and I end up laying in the grass for a while, before deciding to split up, so we can rest and Sam can find his brother. I had no plans of napping, but once my bed was made, I passed out.

Dinner was a truly multicultural experience; we had Italian food, served under promise of Greek Cuisine, from Middle Eastern men listening to Arabic radio. Ironically, we also returned that night for crepes. We spent most of the evening wandering our neighborhood and having tea (!) An early bed time was welcomed, as the extreme sport of tourism was not over yet.

Sam's choice of the Musee D''Orsay on Sunday morning was arguably the best decision I've seen a man make in ages. An amazing collection of pre/impressionism/post and several other schools/styles all housed within an intriguing architectural design (read: we got lost in it) brought me so much joyness. I could have moved right in and gotten a job on the spot. Obviously I decided against this plan and after lunch and saying good bye to Sam, we headed to the Catacombs of Paris. Several million peoples' remains lie in repose in the former quarries below downtown Paris, quite often arranged in geometric patterns, by priests with too much free time. (See: picture of the skulls in a heart shape). The best part was the sign of the impending doom of the sink hole hanging over our head - in which the writer, with an obvious sense of humor, decided in the last sentence to mention it had been reinforced with concrete.

We emerged into the sunlight, met some more Canadians who half-led us back to the metro station. We headed to the Eiffel Tour like good little tourists, but with only 3 hours left in Paris, and over a two hour wait in line, we ditched that plan quite efficiently, and spent our time sitting in Commerce Park, eating baked goods and watching kids play soccer.

Half-asleep in the train station, I open my eyes and am reminded of this amazing magnetism I have with children. A 3 or 4 year old little girl with a lolly pop is standing in front of me, looking for entertainment. Her parents don’t call her away, so we try to figure out what she’s telling us (yeah, that’s how little French I know) and play peek-a-boo and such. No one children like me, shit. Of course, when she starts prodding us, balancing water bottles on our heads, and then tries to climb on top of Kristen, the American in us screams “law suit” and we quickly relocate. The Dutch don’t even consider suing people; but hell, we know the risks.

First class ride home and we now know why first class tickets cost an extra 30 Euro – because that’s about how much food they serve you. We literally were served food 4 times and they gave us lots of water without harassing us. It was awesome.

Surviving the hostel situation was a feat that will go down in history; filed under “never stay in a hostel again.” Our next trip to France will be spent in a hotel, for sure. And that will be in May – Maria goes to Nice and probably won’t ever leave the beach. Say your farewells before then.