Bonjour
I feel dazed. Our twelve days in Europe were much slower paced than either of my visits in the past two years before. Twelve days is relatively short too-- by day fourteen on a trip I usually feel a longing for home, and I had expected that companionship of thoughts of a friendly place far away to be much more present since I felt I didn't *deserve* this trip.
The Greek experience was fully relaxing, whether I really needed a vacation or not. Athens is concrete and traffic and horrible sidewalks with the majesty of past millenia gazing from above, all baking without respite under an intense sun. But we had a pool and Greece has the Aegean sea; and Athens has cheap public transport, so after the sweat of the first unbroken day of sight seeing, we resorted to taking a siesta at the rooftop pool, diving in to the cold half and then climbing into the hot tub, all still under the gaze of the gods, resting in the shadows of the Parthenon.
Athens evokes some memories of Rome, if you have been there. Greek writing may be almost totally unreadable to an English speaker, but the spoken language sounds vaguely like Italian; the inflection is similar even if the words are totally different. Both cities have an abundance of architecture that has survived since antiquity and a million little scooters. But the differences between the two cities eventually dominate. In Rome you feel like you are always crossing the street, whether you are at a cafe or touring the Vatican. Sit down in a cafe and order a cappuccino to relax, but then the bill comes and they've charged you for sitting down, and you should probably leave a tip, and then the toilet is out of order, and they made sure there no is paper, soap, and the tap doesn't work just in case you try to use it anyway. Walk down the street to gaze at an ancient ruin and you'll be accosted by a beggar; better go inside, but you'll be charged quite a bit for that, and half the time all you see is a pile of old bricks. And no the toilet doesn't work there either. After a while you become sick of the frescos and the statues and the relics that you can't seem to get away from, the same as if you ate chocolate cake for every meal. Athens is different. The Greeks seem to be less interested in capitalizing on their heritage. Most of the sites are covered by one set of tickets which costs 12 Euros, and is good for four days. You couldn't even see one thing in Rome with 12 Euros. In Athens you also sense a huge discontinuity; you can't walk around the city with looking up and seeing the Parthenon, but you will have to go out of your way to see what has happened between then and now. The Greeks also seem somehow less jaded in regards to English speaking tourists. The clerk behind the counter of our favorite pastry place, a block from the subway and with a whole wall opened up for a view of the Parthenon, joked with us: "In the summer, it's only English everywhere." "Where are the Greeks?" I asked. "In the islands! It's too hot to stay here of course!"
Being in Greece you also realize why the flag is blue and white. If it weren't for the grey of the concrete, this whole country would be brilliant blue and white. The landscape looks like southern California, but the sun blazing from above reflects off the sand and makes it all seem so bright and white. The houses and fences are also whitewashed white. And the sky is the same brilliant blue as the sea. For some reason the Greeks have decided to paint the roofs of their whitewashed houses a blue too; though a slightly darker blue.
Greek food is sort of what you'd expect. There wasn't much variety. For example, there are only two kinds of cheese we could find. Hard cheese and feta. I'm not sure what the hard cheese is. Souvlaki is the fast food of choice, kind of like a kebab wrapped in a white pita.
Leaving Greece was sad and left me feeling weak, weak enough to give Italy another chance. Our arrival in Milan merely reinforced my negative view of big city Italy however. Within half an hour we'd been yelled at by the hotel desk clerk and insulted by a pushy restaurant owner. We took some photos of the duomo and returned to the hotel where, on TV, besides the news of the investment bank implosion, we also discovered some rather obscene porn.
On the train ride to Montpellier, we got to see a bit of the interior of France. The alps were hot and humid in September, and stood sharp and imposing above the old villages the train passed through. The Brazilians sitting next to us, headed for Paris, were pulled off the train by the French police, so we were able to stretch out and sleep since we knew no one else would have reserved their seats. The SNCF personnel were very friendly, and we switched trains in Chambery-Chantilly and then in Valence to the TGV. By then it was a snore-fest. I am not sure why travel in a bus, train, or airplane is so exhausting, considering usually you are just sitting there doing absolutely nothing. But the gentle rocking of the high speed TGV brought back memories of the womb and I couldn't keep my eyes open as the scenery suddenly became mediterranean. Sheila found my usual upright sleep pose (chest forward, head back, and jaw drooping, with one eye partially open) especially hilarious, though I didn't have the energy to fight back.
Arriving in Montpellier it was almost as I remembered it. Palm trees and 19th century French architecture. Like if you took a piece of Paris and added a bit of equatorial flair. Then add lots of bicycles.
The son of the owner of the apartment we were renting picked us up from the train station. He and a colleague showed us how to get past the security fence, use the elevator, and the odd ball appliances. We weren't able to leave a check as a security deposit, so we had to make an amusing run to the ATM machine. The two Frenchmen illegally parked their car and waited while we scrambled to withdraw sufficient funds. Someone took issue with their parking spot just as we were trying to somewhat surreptitiously hand over several hundred Euros. It must surely have looked like some drug swap or the precursor to some clandestine sex encounter. We didn't understand enough French to make any sense of the verbal exchange.
We were then left to wander the town a bit before heading back home. We took the opportunity to get some shopping done at Monoprix, a small supermarket right in the Place de la Comedie, which is sort of the social center of town (the actual center, further Northwest, is little more than a fountain with a bunch of streets leading off in different directions).
A week of French living has banished my taste for American cereal, which is almost ubiquitously so sugary that I can no longer stand the taste. Forced to eat cheese every day, I lost interest in the less flavorful cheeses, and to the dismay of my coworkers, cultivated a fondness for the nosier sorts. At Monoprix, I realized that only two things were cheaper than in the USA: cheese and wine. And I wasn't about to come to France and eat some BORING cheese. Knowing better from previous trips, I limited my selections to those I could actually see (many were obscured by packaging) since I couldn't understand French. So I picked St. Agur, which turned out to be sort of like rocquefort but slightly thicker in texture and less intense.
We made it back to the apartment without too much trouble recalling the route we had taken in the car earlier in the day. We couldn't, however, figure out how to turn the lights on in the hallway. But at least the elevator call button ("appeler") was lighted. Unlocking the lock and deadbolt on the unfamiliar door in total darkness took a while.
We had some difficulty with the appliances. Using French appliances was sort of like driving a German car for the first time. Yes, most of the pieces look pretty familiar, but the icons on the buttons are just a bit different so you're not really sure whether you're turning up the volume or the temperature. We gave up on the microwave oven (or was it a toaster oven?) and accepted that we wouldn't bother changing the presets on the radio or attempt to use the seek buttons. Once we were familiar with all that, I still managed to burn and then chill Sheila several times in a row as I attempted to operate the "instant on" hot water heater so she could take a shower(get it turned on, then run the hot water in the tap for half a minute to get it rolling). We also thought we'd out smarted the washing machine. Essorage means spin, and there was a knob to set how fast it spun. But the heat and length of the wash and which cycles were employed were all amalgamated into a program knob; there were four programs. We wanted to wash colors and whites together, so we chose the delicates cycle, but it ran for a few minutes and didn't really clean the clothes. So we turned off the hot water and set it to program 1-- the lengthy wash in 95C water, but with the heater off, it should be could, right? Half an hour later I walked by and the machine was boiling hot and I realized it had a thermoelectric heating element inside. Now we had clean dark clothes and an assortment of pink and grey clothes that used to be white.
To be continued...?
The Greek experience was fully relaxing, whether I really needed a vacation or not. Athens is concrete and traffic and horrible sidewalks with the majesty of past millenia gazing from above, all baking without respite under an intense sun. But we had a pool and Greece has the Aegean sea; and Athens has cheap public transport, so after the sweat of the first unbroken day of sight seeing, we resorted to taking a siesta at the rooftop pool, diving in to the cold half and then climbing into the hot tub, all still under the gaze of the gods, resting in the shadows of the Parthenon.
Athens evokes some memories of Rome, if you have been there. Greek writing may be almost totally unreadable to an English speaker, but the spoken language sounds vaguely like Italian; the inflection is similar even if the words are totally different. Both cities have an abundance of architecture that has survived since antiquity and a million little scooters. But the differences between the two cities eventually dominate. In Rome you feel like you are always crossing the street, whether you are at a cafe or touring the Vatican. Sit down in a cafe and order a cappuccino to relax, but then the bill comes and they've charged you for sitting down, and you should probably leave a tip, and then the toilet is out of order, and they made sure there no is paper, soap, and the tap doesn't work just in case you try to use it anyway. Walk down the street to gaze at an ancient ruin and you'll be accosted by a beggar; better go inside, but you'll be charged quite a bit for that, and half the time all you see is a pile of old bricks. And no the toilet doesn't work there either. After a while you become sick of the frescos and the statues and the relics that you can't seem to get away from, the same as if you ate chocolate cake for every meal. Athens is different. The Greeks seem to be less interested in capitalizing on their heritage. Most of the sites are covered by one set of tickets which costs 12 Euros, and is good for four days. You couldn't even see one thing in Rome with 12 Euros. In Athens you also sense a huge discontinuity; you can't walk around the city with looking up and seeing the Parthenon, but you will have to go out of your way to see what has happened between then and now. The Greeks also seem somehow less jaded in regards to English speaking tourists. The clerk behind the counter of our favorite pastry place, a block from the subway and with a whole wall opened up for a view of the Parthenon, joked with us: "In the summer, it's only English everywhere." "Where are the Greeks?" I asked. "In the islands! It's too hot to stay here of course!"
Being in Greece you also realize why the flag is blue and white. If it weren't for the grey of the concrete, this whole country would be brilliant blue and white. The landscape looks like southern California, but the sun blazing from above reflects off the sand and makes it all seem so bright and white. The houses and fences are also whitewashed white. And the sky is the same brilliant blue as the sea. For some reason the Greeks have decided to paint the roofs of their whitewashed houses a blue too; though a slightly darker blue.
Greek food is sort of what you'd expect. There wasn't much variety. For example, there are only two kinds of cheese we could find. Hard cheese and feta. I'm not sure what the hard cheese is. Souvlaki is the fast food of choice, kind of like a kebab wrapped in a white pita.
Leaving Greece was sad and left me feeling weak, weak enough to give Italy another chance. Our arrival in Milan merely reinforced my negative view of big city Italy however. Within half an hour we'd been yelled at by the hotel desk clerk and insulted by a pushy restaurant owner. We took some photos of the duomo and returned to the hotel where, on TV, besides the news of the investment bank implosion, we also discovered some rather obscene porn.
On the train ride to Montpellier, we got to see a bit of the interior of France. The alps were hot and humid in September, and stood sharp and imposing above the old villages the train passed through. The Brazilians sitting next to us, headed for Paris, were pulled off the train by the French police, so we were able to stretch out and sleep since we knew no one else would have reserved their seats. The SNCF personnel were very friendly, and we switched trains in Chambery-Chantilly and then in Valence to the TGV. By then it was a snore-fest. I am not sure why travel in a bus, train, or airplane is so exhausting, considering usually you are just sitting there doing absolutely nothing. But the gentle rocking of the high speed TGV brought back memories of the womb and I couldn't keep my eyes open as the scenery suddenly became mediterranean. Sheila found my usual upright sleep pose (chest forward, head back, and jaw drooping, with one eye partially open) especially hilarious, though I didn't have the energy to fight back.
Arriving in Montpellier it was almost as I remembered it. Palm trees and 19th century French architecture. Like if you took a piece of Paris and added a bit of equatorial flair. Then add lots of bicycles.
The son of the owner of the apartment we were renting picked us up from the train station. He and a colleague showed us how to get past the security fence, use the elevator, and the odd ball appliances. We weren't able to leave a check as a security deposit, so we had to make an amusing run to the ATM machine. The two Frenchmen illegally parked their car and waited while we scrambled to withdraw sufficient funds. Someone took issue with their parking spot just as we were trying to somewhat surreptitiously hand over several hundred Euros. It must surely have looked like some drug swap or the precursor to some clandestine sex encounter. We didn't understand enough French to make any sense of the verbal exchange.
We were then left to wander the town a bit before heading back home. We took the opportunity to get some shopping done at Monoprix, a small supermarket right in the Place de la Comedie, which is sort of the social center of town (the actual center, further Northwest, is little more than a fountain with a bunch of streets leading off in different directions).
A week of French living has banished my taste for American cereal, which is almost ubiquitously so sugary that I can no longer stand the taste. Forced to eat cheese every day, I lost interest in the less flavorful cheeses, and to the dismay of my coworkers, cultivated a fondness for the nosier sorts. At Monoprix, I realized that only two things were cheaper than in the USA: cheese and wine. And I wasn't about to come to France and eat some BORING cheese. Knowing better from previous trips, I limited my selections to those I could actually see (many were obscured by packaging) since I couldn't understand French. So I picked St. Agur, which turned out to be sort of like rocquefort but slightly thicker in texture and less intense.
We made it back to the apartment without too much trouble recalling the route we had taken in the car earlier in the day. We couldn't, however, figure out how to turn the lights on in the hallway. But at least the elevator call button ("appeler") was lighted. Unlocking the lock and deadbolt on the unfamiliar door in total darkness took a while.
We had some difficulty with the appliances. Using French appliances was sort of like driving a German car for the first time. Yes, most of the pieces look pretty familiar, but the icons on the buttons are just a bit different so you're not really sure whether you're turning up the volume or the temperature. We gave up on the microwave oven (or was it a toaster oven?) and accepted that we wouldn't bother changing the presets on the radio or attempt to use the seek buttons. Once we were familiar with all that, I still managed to burn and then chill Sheila several times in a row as I attempted to operate the "instant on" hot water heater so she could take a shower(get it turned on, then run the hot water in the tap for half a minute to get it rolling). We also thought we'd out smarted the washing machine. Essorage means spin, and there was a knob to set how fast it spun. But the heat and length of the wash and which cycles were employed were all amalgamated into a program knob; there were four programs. We wanted to wash colors and whites together, so we chose the delicates cycle, but it ran for a few minutes and didn't really clean the clothes. So we turned off the hot water and set it to program 1-- the lengthy wash in 95C water, but with the heater off, it should be could, right? Half an hour later I walked by and the machine was boiling hot and I realized it had a thermoelectric heating element inside. Now we had clean dark clothes and an assortment of pink and grey clothes that used to be white.
To be continued...?