To Italy and Back

I’ve been in France for four weeks. While I like to say I have travelled and can adjust to any culture, the French have worn on me. Please don’t mistake me for a weary traveler. I have  traversed the prison like chamber that is the JFK airport with ease and rode in hot underground trains with what seemed like the entire population of Tokyo. France, however; is a different beast. 

One of my first days in Cannes, I ordered a crepe from a street cart. I thought I would try to use some French as not to be that American tourist. I say, “Je voudrais un crepe.” The French woman stares blankly at me. Maybe she’s hard of hearing? I ask again, “Je voudrais un crepe.” Still nothing. Maybe I’m not committing enough, so with my best faux-french accent I say, “Je voudrais un cr(insert stereotypical French phlegm sounds here)epe.” At last, she understands. 

Sure there might be an actual difference between crepe and “crghghghrrepe”. I don’t know, but the difference can’t be so vast that a woman WORKING AT A CREPE STAND wouldn’t understand what I was trying to say. Needless to say, my weekend in Italy was a welcomed change to my stay in France. 

My first attempt at speaking Italian was a complete failure. Delirious from waking up at 4:30, I stumbled into at cafe after getting off my first train in Italy. All I wanted was a cappuccino, but all my brain could muster was a string of strange French phrases. Every “Merci!” was followed by a “Errr, I mean…. Grazie!!! Clearly some language adjustment was needed. 

I was only in Italy for forty eight hours, but I managed to pack in a tour of Lucca and Pisa, a trip to the beach in Viareggio, and a hike up a mountain that made me want to call bullshit on the jaunty ending to The Sound of Music. (Sorry for the two Sound of Music references in two posts, but in my opinion you can never get enough of the Von Trapps.) 

To say I loved Italy would be an understatement. Even on the train ride, I was drooling as I looked out the window onto the ocean and then the country side. Then I got to listen to five old Italian women gossip while I ate my breakfast. It was a perfect introduction to northern Italy.

Lucca was beautiful. Kayla and I got lost in the winding streets. Luckily for us though, the city is surrounded by a medieval wall. When all else fails you just keep going straight and you will eventually hit the stone walls, that or some Italian designer store. I wasn’t complaining. 

Saturday was Pisa. You get off the train, and it just looks like a random Italian city. I don’t know why, but whenever I travel I expect there to be huge signs pointing to all the famous landmarks or the tourist sights will be right next to the train station or airport. With Pisa, you have to walk across the city from the the train station to get to the tower. 

We really had no idea where we were going. We passed a piazza, a bridge, and a street packed with stores and restaurants, but no tower. I started to try to follow all the other people with cameras at the ready, and eventually the street opened up to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

I find it hilarious that something is so famous because it’s a screw up. It gives hope to middle children everywhere. In the courtyard with the tower is a beautiful dumo and church, but no one really seems to care about them. Sure you take a picture of them, but not a “Look how strong I am that I can hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa” picture. I myself opted for the much more realistic “Look at how weak I am as the Leaning Tower of Pisa starts to crush me” picture.  

Sunday was a quick trip to Viareggio. I got to shop and hit the beach for a bit before making the train back to France. It wasn’t a long trip, but the entire time I was there I just kept feeling like I wanted to stay. I was talking to an Italian woman on my train back into France and she asked me if I liked France or Italy better. Without hesitation I said, “Italy. Most definitely Italy.” 

Obligatory lamp post shot. 

The Day My Faith Was Restored In The French

4:30

My eyes shoot open. There will be no snooze button today. I need to be on time. I need to be alert. I need to not get mugged.

4:40

I look over my travel plans for the day: Juan les Pins to Ventimiglia, Ventimiglia to La Spezia Centrale, and La Spezia Centrale to Viareggio. I call these plans, but they are awash in uncertainty. All of the worst possible scenarios run through my head. What if my first train is delayed? What if I don’t make my transfers? What if one of the trains is cancelled? What if one of the trains is cancelled and there isn’t another train until the next morning? What if one of the trains is cancelled, there isn’t another train until morning and I get mugged in the interim? I eat my nutella covered croissant like it’s my last meal. 

4:45

The sugar from my nutella laden croissant hits me, and I get a new sense of confidence. It’s reading time tables and sitting. Surely I can handle this. I grab my bags and head downstairs singing “I Have Confidence” from The Sound of Music to myself. 

4:48

I pass the receptionist and offer him a much too cheery “Bonjour!” for this ungodly hour. He asks why I am up so early. I explain that I bought a ticket out of Ventimiglia at 7:48, and this first train is the only one that will get me into Ventimiglia before then. He wishes me good luck then hesitates and in a most un-cheery tone says, “Be careful as you go to the train station.” He must see the automatic panic in my face and says, “Not that you have to worry,” then switches back to his doomsday voice, “But be careful.” 

4:49

I walk the block to the train station without blinking once. 

4:50 

Walking up to the station I see that the doors are closed. Maybe they don’t open the doors until 5:00? I don’t panic, because I see a French woman smoking by the shut doors. At least someone else thinks there is a train coming. 

5:00

The station is still closed, but the French lady is on the move. I watch her get onto the platform through what is normally the exit. Since I am starting to panic and really don’t have any better options, I follow her. You know, like a mugger. 

5:05 

I see her get a ticket from the machine on the first platform. I forgot about this outdoor kiosk. Suddenly relieved that I can buy my ticket, I show the French woman how to validate her ticket. She realizes I don’t speak French. We share awkward gestures. Oh it is grand. 

5:10

I spin the dial of the ticket machine with confidence as I choose my location and get my discount. This confidence comes crashing down when the price pops up. €7.50. These remember that these machines only take coins. I rip open my purse. I only have €6.50 in change. My throat starts to close. 

5:12

I look at the ground around me praying that by some miracle a shiny euro will look back at me. I am once again reminded that my life is not a Disney movie. 

5:14 

I contemplate cheating the system. Maybe I can buy a cheaper children’s ticket? This sounds like utter brilliance until I remember I don’t know the word for children in French, so I can’t find it on the machine. Maybe I will just chance it and get on the train sans ticket? I think that since my train ride is an hour and twenty minutes that they certainly will check tickets. After four weeks in Europe, cash is diminishing, and I can’t risk a forty euro charge. I curse my gelato runs and souvenir shopping. Screw everybody at home, I just want to go to Italy! 

5:15

Times are desperate. I have ten minutes until the train comes, but still no ticket. I imagine myself walking back to Couleurs Soleil with my head down in defeat. The receptionist will ask what happened, and I will feed him a fantastical story about how I missed my train because I was mugged by a man with a hook. I try to decide if I should rip my sleeve to make it look like a hook got to it. 

5:16 

I hear a cough behind me. The French woman. In my panic and self deprecation, I forgot about her. I think the unimaginable. I, the American who speaks eight words of French will ask a French stranger for help. I walk over to the second platform preparing to get a baguette thrown at me.  

5:18

I approach her and ask, “Do you have a euro?” She looks at me strangely. Of course because she doesn’t speak English. I mustered all the French I know and say, “ I need un billet. I have un, deux, trios, quatre, cinq,... six. I need... seven. I need un euro.” 

She either understands that pile of garbage, or the desperation in my face must have been so pathetic that she gave pity on my stupid English speaking soul. I don’t care, because she reaches into her wallet and handed me one shiny euro. I burst into one hundred rushed versions of “merci beaucoup!” 

5:20

I run back to the ticket machine, pay for my ticket, and run back to the second platform with a few minutes to spare before the train comes rolling in.

6:43

I arrive in Ventimiglia. They never checked my ticket. Classic France.