A train ride...

Lounging over lunch of fried beef and leftover ratatouille comparing with Pierre the efficiency of France's healthcare system and our system that is agreeably is somewhat of a mess, we realize we have 5 minutes to catch the bus for Bellegarde and the train station. We jump up leaving behind cartoon clouds around assorted plates and partially eaten cake and rush down 3 flights of polished wooden steps and run the half block to meet the bus just as it enters town. In Bellegarde we have coffee at the neat picturesque station cafe and wait for our train. No paper or throwaway even in the train station--coffee in little ceramic demitasse cups with saucers and wine in glass. The only obvious disposable items were at McDonald's! Our bullet nosed train silently glides into the station seemingly suspended between rail and overhead electric cable and we take our reserved seats with a polite "bonjour" to the woman sitting across the little fold-up table and store our luggage in the overhead rack. With little delay and almost inperceiverably the train moves forward accelerating to smooth blinding speeds. No back and forth rocking or click-clack of the rails here! With a few stops in quaint mountain towns the car fills with travelers dragging luggage, locals carrying shopping bags and tourists pushing bikes--all headed to the warmth and escape of southern France. The mood is respectfully quiet with hushed conversation or self reflection. Sarah knits as I write--our activity interrupted as one of us spots interesting scenery out speeding windows. Clusters of old mid-evil villages no longer excite us but we are still thrilled by the sights of castles, whole or part, that dot most hilltops along the valley and giant windmills slowly turning wind in this corridor into electricity. For hours we pass bare rock cliffs thrust up eons ago forming this route for merchants and warriors. In Marseille we dine on baguette sandwiches of ham, cheese and butter that Pierre insisted I make before leaving with crisp apples from the trees surrounding his office for desert. A conductor comes through punching little holes in tickets and police stroll through, their German Shepherd sniffing ankles and bags. With a left at Marseille we head east, facing forward now rather than backward, with the sun reflecting gold off the Mediterranean and neat rows of grape vines turing the same color with the changing weather. Palm trees now grow next to stucco houses with small balconies taking advantage of the day's final light as the shore curves away south and north. We will soon be in Nice and walking distance from the hostel. I know a lovely little bar just around the corner....

Genoa

The daycare that shares the building with the hostel has let out. Sixty kids attempt to burn off energy of being cooped up for 8 hours as parents sit, talk, and smoke while weary travelers wander in after a long day of transit or one too many museum. I don't even know where to begin to describe Genoa. The days have blurred and I've had little time to write and record my thoughts. We have seen the sights! I don't know if my dogs will ever stop hurting. And we have been no further than the route of bus #40 and the old city!! 

Five museums over the past 2 days: Galleria Nazioale di Palazzo Spinola, Museo Navale, Palazzo Andrea Doria, and Palazzo del Principle, and Castello D'Alberis. Little is behind glass and guards keep a close eye but I don't think museum patrons here would think about touching or allowing kids to climb on things. Two ways into town and both involve the #40 bus that navigates the narrow switchbacks--the driver anticipating his ability to pass cars and trucks a block away. This drive can either nauseatingly take you all the way down to town, disembarking at any number of spectacular fountains or for half a nausea you can get off half way down, then entering a very nondescript wooden door, take an elevator  down thru solid rock 263 meters and then horizontal on tracks another 2300 meters to be expelled just yards from the main train station. The neighborhood; a little seedy with ongoing restoration, a university and a strong Sudanese population; is within walking distance of old historic downtown Genoa: Via Garibaldi lined with the mansions of 16th century Genoese merchants and aristocrats complete with peeling frescos from vaulted ceilings, now housing banks and real estate brokers; a maze of shoulder width alleys connecting small squares in front of aged churches with crumbling walls yet inside stunning carved wood, stone and gold proclaiming the power and status of the Christian god; gastronomic oasis of ristorantes, trattorias, pizzerias and ice cream stands scattered among shops selling shoes, purses, expensive clothes and knock off electronics all with a seemingly arbitrary schedule of operation. 

Church of St. Lorenzo--stark black and white marble exterior; painted by angels inside. Tour groups of kids taking pictures, tired travelers resting out of the sun, a few practitioners praying and a white cloaked priest talking on a cell phone. You can visit Columbus's home, a 20 ft square box of old rock (rebuilt after his discovery of the West Indies) for 4 euro. A bus ticket gets us on a boat. We join tourists and commuters to Pegli. We wait for the return boat at Oasis del Mar--a family run bar overlooking the bay with only us and the family as customers. Back in port after dark. We're tired and hungry. Walked up to Ferrari fountain to catch the bus with plan to grab pizza at the place above the hostel. Bought a couple of stale couissants at a bar as back up. Pizza joint closed. Thankfully the "bar" at the hostel is open. Microwave pasta and tomato sauce with stale couissants for dinner. Bier included in the price of the meal.

Genoa, Geneva, Gex...

We are back in our comfortable little cottage in La Garde Freinet. We need some down time. It's been go, go, go since we left. We're too old for all this: 3 countries, 3 major cities, 4 small towns, two lengthy train rides, a boat ride, 2 hostels (one of them twice), 2 castles, several churches with belfries, a huge garage sale, a birthday party, and a partridge in a pear tree all in eleven days! The weather quite cold (near freezing) in Gex near Geneva is balmy now down here in the south. The chestnuts have dropped since we left and the grape leaves are turning red and gold. Now that I'm back with my familiar Mac and American keyboard I'm going to transcribe some of my musings and simply upload with the next internet connection. It may not be in exact chronological order but you'll the general idea. Hell, it was easier to keep connected in Thailand and Nepal than here! 

I lost my internet connection while posting our experiences in Gex so I wasn't able to express my gratitude and appreciation for the hospitality shown to us by the Allex family. Friends since a Rotary Club exchange program between my sister and Pierre's sister 35 years ago we once again invited ourselves to impose on their hospitality. Six years ago they allowed us to be part of their family and again their warmth and generosity is overwhelming. Diane, after a visit to her native Poland, arrives the day after we do and puts her home back together after Pierre and the girls have been home alone for a month, arranges meals, and makes us feel comfortable; while Pierre puts his business on hold to entertain and show us the local sites. At the same time, daughter, Dorothy, turns 18 and is given a surprise breakfast by 6 of her girlfriends with celebratory assist from us with cake from the local patisserie and the Happy Birthday song. 

These moments; sometimes brief with the playful fleeting interaction of a child, or time spent engaged in incomprehensible conversation and pantomime with a helpful stranger; or three intimate  days of closeness and intrusion into the lives of friends. Novel for us but no more exotic for them than yet again visiting local tourist attractions or repeatedly and patiently tolerating an American's attempt at learning a language that results only in rare identifiable nouns and often misused conjugation, is what makes all this worthwhile.

 The insecurity of travel, the feelings of helplessness and dependency, the chasing after trains hauling luggage with broken zippers, the occasional overcharge at cafes and the frequent night on hard lumpy beds in cramped hostel bedrooms is all compensated by the kindness of strangers, the 2 hour lunches and the thousand year old buildings. 

We Americans forget, or indeed don't even know, that there is a whole world out here this is different. They talk different. They eat different. They pray different. But, they talk, eat, and pray. And there are a lot of them-these different people; and I travel to acknowledge these differences, least I forget the diversity that exists not only on a globular scale but within the bounds of my own secular place. Thank you Pierre, Diane, Dorothy and Caroline.

Onward to some down time

In Nice. One night in hostel. Get car today and head back to La Gare Fernet for some rest and a Mac. Verbage and photos to follow.......

Headin' south...

Packing up to head south to Nice then our cottage in the mountains we now refer to as home. Looking forward to our simple life again of getting up late, reading or writing, maybe a walk into town for fresh cuissoiants, or just sipping wine on our patio under the now familuar chestnut trees. It has been quite cold these past few days. I hope the south of France will live up to it's reputation as the playground in the sun. And not just for the rich and famous.



We have been quite busy. Besides a gracious host Pierre has been a wonderful tour guide. Yesterday was spent touring old Geneva. Being Sunday, there was no shopping to be done so we visited lush green parks with families having picnics dispite the cold; walked along the lakefront watching one of Geneva's landmarks, the fountain (or as Pierre calls it-the "sprinkler") send a plume of water hundreds of feet in the air soaking any and everyone down wind; stood in awe at the UN building and in reverence at the building where the Geneva Convention was signed (I understand some countries still today abide by it's rules!); we climbed hundreds of spiriling stone steps to the top of the bell tower in the church much of the protastant reformation occured (other than the fact that this appears to be a pretty big deal in the history of western religion--the old church and the view was way impressive); and we ate at McDonalds. On the drive back to Gex we drove by the headquarters for C.E.R.N., the particle accelerator buried under the French country side and I can assure you all there is no black hole in France.



Sarah wanted to see a real castle so on Sat. Pierre took us to visit Chillon on the edge of Lake Geneva. Built during the 11th thu 15th centeries, it has been the primary protector (and tax collection point) for the only north south route thru this area but now with the elevated autoroute and rushing cars 200 yards from it's moat it only collects tourist's dollars/euros/francs. Renovated accurately and in detail you can see why Lord Byron was so inspired to include this site in his writtings.



And on Friday, certainly never expecting to simply be doing tourist stuff with Pierre, he took us to the fundraiser for the local church. The biggest garage sale I have ever seen, covering the space of a huge exibition hall with everything from ancient straw covered jugs to clothes to furniture to Barbie dolls. Dinner was a cold plate of local cheese and sausage followed by boiled potatoes and grilled saussage served with enthusiasm by the teens and kids of the church youthgroup. A most enjoyable experience of the local region, people and life.

After taking advantage of the hospitality of Pierre and Diane we will today catch a bus to Belleguard then the train to Nice. A night in the hostel then a car tomorrow we should be comfortable in our little cottage by tomorrow night. Then what????

Il Veliero

Asked Ula, the most helpful day receptionsionist at the hostel, for the name of her favorite restaurant. We arrive at Il Veliero after taking bus 40 to the end then #31 along the sea and a lengthy discussion in Italian with an elderly gentleman who, I think, was insisting there is a "muie buanio" restaurant 3 min. walk further. Down steps and thru a tunnel along the seawall we enter a cavernous room with white fan folded napkins sprouting from every wine glass and are directed to a small table against windows looking out on a choppy Meditterrean as dusk slowly turns blue sea to black. Since we are early and the place is empty our young and very charming waitress patiently and with great humor attempts to not only explain the items on the menu but also gives us a crash course on the procedure and etiquette of eating Italian. We settle on an antipasta and prima course to share and decide to wait to go further with secondi.

The carafe of rosè I thought I ordered is a bottle with a pleasant light effervesent. I guess some confusion in translation in communication is expected! A plate of flat dough with olive oil and a little oregano - "pizza without the pizza" according to our waitress, is presented followed by Piatto il Velicro di Mare: a tasting of 12 different fish prepared 12 different ways. Other than fresh sardines in a light olive oil brine, thin slices of raw salmon lox and a single perfect muscle I haven't a clue what anything else is! Lightly breaded and crisp fried fish filets, some type of bivalve smothered in a to,ato salsa and a half of a lemon filled with white meat the texture of crab. Next, Ravioli de pesce was brought out. Tender cheese filled pillows of dough-white on one side, black on the other-covered in a rich dark sauce the color of the muscle shells scattered throughout. Under most circumstances we would have stopped here but I wasn't going to leave the best restaurant we had visited in Italy without going all the way!

Our waitress, now rather busy, resorted to simply asking the folks at the next table to translate every time we questioned the menu so I pointed and picked. It's on a menu...somebody eats it!! The thin slice of skate came bathed in a green (parsley?) butter (lot's of butter) sauce. The fish was unexciting, even a bit bland, but the sauce was sublime-only fully appreciated with bits of bread submerged to soak up the rich nectar. We ended our meal with a quivering Panna cotta drizzled with caramel sauce and in lew of coffee was given complementary lemon sherbert served in the same flutes that our complementary champagne came in to start this wonderful gastronomical experience in Italian cusine. Fortynine euro and 2 busses-not bad!

In Gex now and having to type on their difficult French keyboard again. Took train from Genoa to Milano to Geneva. Misscommunication with my friend, Pierre, had us waiting to for a pick up in the Geneva train station that was not going to happen. Unable to get him by phone and unable to buy anything because Switzerland has chosen not to adapt the euro as legal tender and the money changers were closed to get Swiss francs, we went thru a time of problem solving until we were able to rent computer time at the station and email him requesting him to pick us up. An hour later we are put to bed on his foldout couch in the living room and grateful for his unquestioning hospitality.

Hostel revisited

Info at Genoa's train station says bus 35 then 40. After a wait in the hot Italian sun bus 40 takes us up switchback after switchback. Even being a small bus with only one seat per side other cars and buses still occasionally need to back up to allw us room to pass. At the top of the hill, the last stop, the hostel looms like some government utilatarian residential monolith (it indeed used to be a school) glowing stark white in the afternoon sun. Doors open at 3 and we are given a key by a somewhat sour but efficient tight haired woman and instructed to get sheets before our climb up to room 170. A "family" room with 2 bunkbeds and a single acquired at the Italian equivulant of Kmart is all ours.

These hostel travelers are different than I remember from 30 years ago. Backpacks have given way to rolling suitcases and the art of socialization has all but dissappeared. There is little eye contact much less introductions or the expected "where are you from?" and "where are you going next?". Most of the travelers have cell phones and many have laptops distancing them even further. Of course Sarah and I are in the old fart category of the group and we have chosen to get a private room so I suspect it might be unfair to totally generalize.