Mom and Dad, I hope you don’t feel slighted. Our trip was certainly worth a blog, but everything went maybe too well for a full recounting. For memory’s sake, I think the best moment was probably the bite of gorgonzola gnocchi, like heavenly pillows (and no, there is not a less cheesy ‘wink’ way to describe that dish). The Cinque Terre trail from Vernazza to Corniglia is the best, and the Villa Carlotta on Lake Como makes me want to be an eighteenth century Italian duchess.
Somehow the following happened in only one week:
On May 24 I left Mom and Dad in Milan (worried I’m sure) for the next third of my six months abroad. I think to sum the first couple days, I’d say train (and cell phone) disaster. From the first moment, when the grumpy ticket salesman in Milan told me that I had to upgrade to a first class ticket because with my second class railpass I couldn’t get to Lyon for another two days, I felt a little over my head. I paid the man and vowed to spend five euros less per day for two weeks to make up for it. That was just the beginning. I arrived in Lyon, a city I fell in love with at age nine on a family trip to France, and realized my international cell phone wasn’t working. I had to meet a couchsurfer to stay at his home, and I wanted to know if I could come early. I decided to go for it, and with an hour of public transport, getting lost a bit, and seriously sweating in the 95 degree heat, I finally found his street, but couldn’t find his house number. I had written 48. I looked and looked. There was a 46, a 52, but no 48. I even dialed a number on the 46 panel, but when I said the only French phase I know well (“I don’t understand French”) the guy hung up. I didn’t know what to do. ..no cell, no Plan B, alone, and no knowledge of French. I had a little breakdown in the middle of the street with my huge suitcase in the crazy heat. Not proud of that, but it happens.
I had my electronic translator and I wrote down on a piece of paper the equivalent of “Will pay to use your phone, French number.” I walked into a shop, my face a little streaked from my utter confusion. The woman looked at me and said, “Oolala,” not sure what to do with the upset non-countrywoman. I used the phone and found out the number was 84! I met my host and all was ok.
The first night was still a bit strange, and after Lyon I think I’m less gung-ho about couchsurfing. My host was nice, but just an odd guy I didn’t connect with. My first full day in the city I did sightseeing; it was just harder than I expected, alone…just seemed like I was wandering a city. And in France, I was kind of culture shocked, no longer the Italian student living in a country, I was once again just a tourist, without any knowledge of the language. Yes, I can say my please and thank yous, but no real French.
I recall that first day two highlights, the miniature museum I am no less fascinated with now as an adult than when I was a child, and meeting up with two kind girls for a picnic. That museum is incredible, expanded since the last time I went. Miniature scenes of studios, restaurants, bedrooms, train stations, museums, a whole miniature world that enchanted me. I took tons of photos.
After the museum I walked a huge flight of stairs (when they say you have to be fit to walk up to the cathedral, they mean it!) in the heat (I emphasize this because it was ridiculously hot), I had kind of an epic moment in that church, just so tired and alone on a hilltop in Lyon. I walked outside for an ice cream because I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I sat on a bench and met two English speakers (at this point, this is the most important quality for potential conversations), a girl from Canada and another from the states. They invited me to go with them to meet friends. We had a sunset picnic by the Rhone. It was one of those times people tell you you’ll have when you travel alone. Was fantastic. On later excursions in the city (I got stuck 2 extra nights because of the train strike, so had time : ) I fell in love with that river. Lyon has a long stretch of park that winds with the river, and old riverboats that remind me of Chocolat. It’s a livable city. If I ever decided to really learn French, it would be there.
As I said, stuck in the city an extra couple nights, I had another CSer, this time much more comfortable. She let me stay in her home when she worked, so I could relax for a moment and her friend took me on a picnic in Lyon’s version of Central Park, complete with zoo, lake, and rose gardens.
Before I leave the thought of Lyon, let me just say, THE FOOD. I found one place on my own, no Let’s Go or Rick guide got me there. I was served a plate of sausages cooked in white wine with a bubbling dish of French dressed up macncheese by the restaurant owner, a man with a cartoon-sized handlebar mustache. I really am not a big sausage fan, usually I’d go for a salad, or at least chicken, but that was probably the best bite of anything I have ever had (save perhaps those gnocchi from Varenna).
Next stop, Spain..or so I thought. On the way to Barcelona, in Nice, the train stopped and there was announcement that said there was an accident on the tracks, and trains would be 3 plus hours late. That meant I would miss the one train to Barcelona. I ended up spending the night in Montpellier, a cute town in Southern France. I again felt just kind of lost, wandering the city alone, not even a city I planned to be lost in, without much information. But my night stroll gave me a taste for the goofy charm of Montpellier. At night, the main square lit up with colorful lights and people. Rollerbladers whizzed past. An old man played with a neon-glowing spin flying toy, then others joined him, so that little propellers filled the sky.
I think the problem was the hotel room. I can’t make decisions, we all know that. But under pressure, I say yes to things I don’t really want, like bad hotel rooms. I walked into a couple hotels in Montpellier, needing a place to stay since I was stranded in the city without a reservation. It’s never good when a hotel owner says, “no, we’re full,” and I respond, “nothing?” He gives me another look, like, can she handle it? When I first saw the room , I thought, ok it’s the worst place I’ve ever stayed in, but all budget travelers stay in an awful place sometimes, right? A bare mattress on a tile floor? They gave me sheets, but it was hard to be comfortable in such a dark place without someone to commiserate with, again, alone in a city I didn’t want to be in. I did my best, turned on a chick flick on my computer, and tried to sleep. Impossible. Which is probably why it started.
I woke up at 4AM with a stomach ache. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. Finally it was time to leave for my morning train, and I didn’t know what to do. I had had no sleep and my stomach was killing me. I wanted to throw up, but couldn’t, just pain. I decided I just had to get out of France. I forced myself to pack and get to the train. A more difficult 5 hours I’ve never had. On my way to Barcelona, I struggled with what to do. What was it? It was nothing I’d ever experienced before. Appendix? Kidney stones? I didn’t know, and again, the lone factor with something like that, major pain, just made me more scared. How to go to a hospital?
I counted down the minutes for five hours, but eventually got to Barcelona. I walked to the hostel (in retrospect, a taxi would have helped). The woman was very nice, and let me check in during the lock-out time to try to rest. I couldn’t. My tummy just hurt too bad. I had no idea what to do. The girl at the desk told me maybe I should go to the doctor in case it was the appendix. I firmly believe that the mind is extremely powerful in this area. If you’re worried and stressed, a stomach ache can seem like something life threatening. I couldn’t eat, sleep and could barely walk, so I walked myself to the hospital. First stop in Barcelona, a hospital? Wasn’t on my vacation itinerary.
It could have been much worse. And my Spanish now is a joke. But I somehow managed to check in, deal with insurance, wait in line, and have a doctor appointment, all without someone helping me out in English. In the end, the doctor decided it wasn’t anything to worry about, gave me a minor drug prescription, and just said to come back if I had a fever. So, maybe I was a hypochondriac, but I stand by it, the pain that day for whatever cause, made me unbelievably uncomfortable, and made me seriously question this seven week euro journey I’m on.
Solo travel is introspective as much as it is broadening. And with me, an over-thinker to the core, that part of it has left me confused. I see other groups doing what I am. They studied abroad and are continuing, or are on their Europe trip. It’s like a rite of passage these days, the eurail pass, hostel travel, some missteps and gigabytes of photos. And it looks like they are having a great time, a time they can share with whoever they are sharing their time with. That I see now. It’s not that I’m not having fun. After the hospital day, in Barcelona, I did a self-planned Gaudi tour and had a beach day yesterday.. It’s another very liveable European city, the eccentric architecture, an international feel, the beach and a harbor so much like San Diego. I had paella once, and sangria each of the four nights. There’s a fun place called Travel Bar that serves a free pretty respectable pasta dish with the purchase of a drink. I love La Rambla and its less touristed side-streets. Gaudi adds whimsicality to the city.
I’ve decided it’s just strange to travel by myself. Some people warned against it. I think a part of it is me. I thought travelling would make me more of that gregarious person I envy, who can make friends anywhere with anyone. Those people seem to be the Ausies, not me. I’m meeting people, but it’s easy to just stay in my shell. It seems, though, at my loneliest, like the day in Lyon, or even the night after going to the hospital, I meet others who are willing to share or invite me places. Just have to make that happen more.
So loved ones should know, I’m feeling much better now than I was several days before, and have decided to continue with my trip. I may come home early because San Diego is calling to me, but I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps I’ll just jet myself over to an island in Greece, or go back to Italy. I miss Italian. And ENGLISH hah.
I write now on the AVE high speed (and they mean it!) train crossing Spain to Sevilla. I’ll spend the next several nights in this region, one in Arcos de la Frontera, one of the White Villages I’ve read about, then head to Portugal for fado in Lisbon and surfing in Peniche. After that, it just might be home.
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