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The Tower of Learning

19th June, 2005. 1:01 am. Day Five

Today was much better. I woke up to the sound of birds and the van's wheels crushing the gravel as it made its way down the hill to pick up more kids. I also immediately caught the aroma of the elaborate and hearty breakfasts being cooked in the kitchen across the hall by independent backpackers. Brooke and I, however, weren't so particular, and opted for the free breakfast offered downstairs in the lounge. The lounge I speak of was a large and somehow hidden room that I can only assume used to be the holiest of holy rooms for the monks when the hostel was a fully-functioning monastery (Haha, fully-functioning monastery). Thick, crusty, stale stone walls gave a feeling of protection that is vital when you're living in a hostel on top of a hill. There were 3 computers with internet access to the left and a large, friendly, primary-colored stained glass window on the right side after entering from the stairwell, and under it a buffet of cereals, breads, toasters, teas, coffees, and the like. The softly lit room was filled with ripening morning faces from all over the world, all between the ages of 18 and maybe 30. You could just make out all the different languages through the energetic music from the stereo. So this is what backpacking through Europe is supposed to be like, I thought. I enjoyed the atmosphere as Brooke and I ate our breakfasts of fresh baguette with plenty of butter and blackberry jam, and cereal. Um, have you ever heard of Choco Noisettes? It's like a chocolate chip granola bar made into cereal. And it's the greatest thing ever. Seriously, better than CTC, you guys. Better than HIDDEN TREASURES, Caroline.

We bought our bus tickets, valid for the whole day, and hopped on the bus that went slightly southeast to the Matisse Museum. I was more than thrilled about that - Matisse is one of my favorites. As soon as Caroline and her crew arrived in the park outside where we were to meet, we made our way inside. € 2.50 later, I was face to face with "Seated Blue Nude," among others. Unfortunately, my favorite painting of the goldfish bowl was not in the museum, nor were many of his colorful portraits of women or still lifes. This grande maison was filled instead with several sculptures (didn't know he did that?), several fascinating early sketches, several of his famous découpés, several book and ad illustrations, some furniture, some Pollack-sized color designs, some fabric designs, some pieces of art from his and his wife's personal collection, and, most interestingly, Matisse's plans for a small cathedral in Nice he was ordered to design (whose name I unfortunately don't remember.) He did everything - the altar pieces, the windows, the habits and robes, the architecture. I should like to see the actual church some day, though it's a shame I missed it this time 'round.

Caroline, Simon, and Lauren had never been to Nice in all their time in the Riviera, and having heard that it was rather modern, thought they might find a Starbucks. With this thought in mind they were all foaming at the mouth, and I don't blame them - in Europe, when you order a coffee, you get about 3 tablespoons' worth in a tiny espresso cup, and it ain't good value. (It makes me temporarily reconsider retiring here someday. I can't live without cheap caffeine. And coke isn't cheap, either - expect to drop 2 to 3 euro for a measly can.) Despite all this, though, there actually was no Starbucks in Nice. When we got on the bus from the museum, I asked a woman about it; she'd never heard of Starbucks Coffee and referred us to a cafe near our destination. Oh well. We decided to just go to Vieux Nice, the historic old town and tourist central, and grab a bite and a sip there. I smiled as soon as we stepped onto the cobblestone - finally a truly nice area of Nice. Its quaint and sacred personality, narrow streets, smells and music, and colorful shops reminded me a bit of Montmartre in Paris, so of course I adored it. I was among good friends in an old and reliable, and ADORABLE place...I can't describe how high my spirits were. After taking some pictures, we did lunch. When Samantha Brown was in Vieux Nice, she ordered Socca, a traditional snack of southern France, so of course I ordered some too. Basically it's a crêpe, torn up into pieces and cooked in lots of olive oil. Nothing to it. But it was good enough to function as an entire meal for me, which saved me precious money (I had promised myself I'd save money and calories by eating little while in Europe...but I knew I'd eventually develop a huge appetite for every single unique culinary concoction in the different regions I'd visit, and I'd be broke...)

A funny vignette - the restaurant where the 5 of us ate was at the bottom of a hill in an alley, and mid-conversation we heard the sound of wheels rolling rapidly down the cobblestones, followed by a young voice yelling "ATTENTIOOOOOON!" and a crash into the menu easel outside the restaurant. The kid was okay and so was the sign, though both flat on the ground. The slightly annoyed restaurant owner muttered something to the kids, then complained out loud about how degrading it was to have a restaurant at the bottom of an alley. I couldn't help but chuckle. I left him a big tip.

At that point we were to separate - the J-L-P group would be going shopping while Brooke and I went to the beach, and we would meet up for dinner later that evening. We said our ciao-for-nows and then the two of us went down further, past the reknown Fruit and Flower market of Nice, in the open air and across the Promenade des Anglais and finally to the rocky but unbelievably beautiful beach. It was full of tourists, mostly French and Italian, some nude, all properly leather-skinned and brown. There was a man walking up and down the beach screaming "BIRRA, BIRRA, BIRRA, COCA COCA LIGHT, CIAO CIAO CIAO, BYE BYE BYE BYE,"sounding like one of the Newsies, only rolling his R's like any self-respecting Italian, and even placing bags of ice in peoples' laps randomly to demonstrate the frigidity of the drinks (I speak from experience). Hey, it's a living.

After enjoying the sun and the sea for a good hour and a half, we decided to take a bus to Eze, a village on a hill where there was a genuine perfume factory in which I could get my mom a perfect souvenir. Sam Brown'd been there, too, so I knew it was worth a trip:) We put our clothes back on over our suits and set food back on the Promenade, heading east and looking for a bus stop. We ended up going up and around a bend with a beautiful vista followed by an equally beautiful harbor full of yachts and activity, a big yellow church with a belltower standing guard from the top of the hill in the distance. We strolled enthusiastically until we finally found a bus station that would take us to Eze. Unfortunately, when we got there, a woman told us that it wasn't worth it to go all the way to Eze past 3 o'clock in the afternoon because all the shops would be closed. Bummer, but we already had another place in mind: Cap d'Ail, a beach rumored to have caves you could swim to, as well as cliff diving. Upon asking the woman which bus we could take to get there, I noticed she was having trouble speaking French. She asked me if I spoke Italian. Why yes, I thought, as a matter of fact I do. I was thrilled to have my first chance of the trip to speak Italian, but confused as to why she assumed I spoke Italian. Anyway, she ended up explaining that Cap d'Ail was alright, but that a place called Villefranche sur Mer was much nicer because there was a friendly beach, gardens, and plenty of actvity. Brooke and I trusted her and hopped on the bus to Villefranche.

Ten minutes later, we arrived in a small park and I made a call to Caroline to check on their group. As it turned out, Simon had gotten sick and they had to return to Juan-les-Pins. That meant we probably wouldn't see them for the rest of the trip, and I was terribly disappointed - it seemed so silly to be in the same vicinity as my best friend and not spending every single minute with her. But we didn't have the time or phone money to waste planning a later get-together, so we said our disheartening goodbyes and Brooke and I went on our way down to the town. The Italian dame was right - Villefranche was FABULOUS. Peaceful, peaceful, peaceful, I can't even say how peaceful, especially compared to overly commercial and hectic Nice. The restaurants, ice cream shops, and beach were full of happy families and friends, the boats were all docked safely, and there was sand. We eased down onto it and fell asleep, catching the last rays of the sun as it sunk over the hill. Villefranche is the perfect name for the town, if only for the gentle way it sounds when rolling off the tongue. Indeed, it is one gentle place.

At dusk we shared a dinner of Salade Niçoise at a restaurant above the beach, and conversed about Europe, the United States, and American Idol, with a lovely British couple from Sussex, for what seemed like hours as the stars started to appear above. They were on stopover for a cruise around the Mediterranean that they were taking, and had plenty of stories. They were both self-proclaimed "British-accented Americans" and raved about our country. "I sometimes feel like I'm a European imprisoned in an American's body," I told them as I slurped up the last drop of ice cream from my crepe aux framboises. They smiled, and the gentleman raised his glass. "Here's to diplomacy." He said. "And to reality television," I replied, with a smirk.

French Riviera vignette #2: guy and son. When we were making our way back up towards the main road, a young man, maybe about 16, was hiding behind a middle aged man, his father, as he approached us.
"Pardonnez, mademoiselles, il a besoin de quelques renseignements," he said (translation: "Excuse me, ladies, my son needs some information.").
"Ah oui? Quels renseignements?" I asked, thinking that they thought we were locals and just needed directions. I noticed that the son was cowering more than ever now, waving his arms frantically but as silently as possible, and whispering something like "non, non, papa, arrete, arrete..." all while maintaining a painfully pained expression on his face. The father raised his eyebrows, looked at us matter-of-factly, and said:
"Vos numéros de téléphone!" (translation: "he wants your digits, fools.")
I blushed and slapped him one of those cute and very American "come on, you're flattering me" slaps as I told him
"Euh, je suis désolée mais franchement nous sommes pas d'ici, nous n'avons pas de téléphones!"
He shrugged his big shoulders."Vous etes d'ou, alors? Grande ville, hein?" (where you from? A big city?)
"Bah oui...moi je suis de.. Paris!"
But his son had already shamefully dragged him away down the hill before he could respond completely. I did hear him say something like
"ah bon, écoute, [son's name], une Parisienne!"
Oui oui, monsieur. A Parisian girl...who happened to live in a small town in Georgia. But a Parisian girl, sans doute. And when that boy grows up to be a bit less awkward and develops only the slightest ego (like his father's) as his poisonous French testosterone kicks in, maybe he can come visit me there. An American girl in Paris can't resist even the strongest of French male egos. Anyway Brooke and I would remember that kid for years to come!

When we got to the bus stop, we sat there and talked giddily about our wonderful day in France for about 30 minutes until we realized that the bus was probably not going to come. Just as we realized this, three French kids, two guys and a girl about our ages, went walking by across the street. They were obviously local, so I hopped over to ask them if they knew if the bus to Nice would be running anymore. They looked at each other and gritted their teeth and told me that they didn't believe it would be anymore. Merde. But immediately after telling me this, they added that there was a train that ran about every hour and that they were going in the direction of the train station right now and that we could follow them. They seemed like great kids, so we decided to do that. Best decision of our lives. These guys took care of us like you wouldn't believe, and treated us like old friends right off the bat. The walk to the train station was actually pretty long, but scenic, and anyway we were having a great time just making conversation with them, even if their youthful French was LADEN with idioms and slang and slurred speech that I didn't understand, and the only one who spoke English was having a hard time understanding Brooke as they conversed. When we got to the tracks, which were pretty abandoned at that point, I had already learned the name of Marie's crush and Carlos' life story. I didn't want to leave, and fortunately we didn't have to, at least for a while. Our train wouldn't arrive for another 45 minutes, and literally just down the stairs from the train station was the birthday party on the beach that the trio had been invited to. So they invited us to tag along and join in on the festivities for a while. And we did! Upon our arrival we were introduced to several people, all of which who greeted us with the charming standard French double-kiss. It was a great party; there was music, hot dogs being grilled, a bonfire, plenty of conversation, and even two boys wrestling in the sand (we got pictures of that). And something I noticed was that, while there was alcohol available, no one seemed to really care, and anyone who was drinking was probably just thirsty - no one was out-of-control drunk, nor did anyone want to be. I'm not all-out bashing college-age Americans and their obsession with excessive inebriation...okay, well maybe I am a little bit. But I appreciate that their youth doesn't revolve around alcohol, even if goin' to da club and gettin' tipsy with e'rbody is still kind of a dope idea to me, the college-age American. I think my idealism of alcohol is short-lived, though, and hey, if the FRENCH don't keep the wine pouring, then why should I? But I digress. The party was lovely, I became like BFF with Marie, I flirted with boys, I laughed, Brooke laughed, Marie and Carlos and Joachim laughed and the birthday boy laughed and as we laughed we twirled our toes in the sand and pebble mixture and took in the ephemeral yet unstoppable heat of the bonfire of youth!!! It was Coke commercial perfection.

When we arrived at the Nice train station, we were able this time to get on the night bus, as it was only midnight. But we had no idea where to find it, since it obviously hadn't been where it was supposed to be the night before. Fortunately, Nice was more bustling tonight, and we had no fear in going up to a stranger to ask for directions. The man we ended up asking actually walked more than 3 blocks with us to make sure we found the right bus because he wasn't sure if he knew the night bus schedule exactly, and not only that, he struck up a lively conversation with me in Italian! He had been a student of Italian himself in college, and beamed when I told him we would be going there tomorrow. "It's a country like no other," he said, though I can't remember if it was in French or Italian. Ah! I loved Italy so much last year, and this year I would be able to explore it more in depth. He got me pumped. And it was SO nice to go out of his way like that to get us to the bus? I'm telling you, people in Nice are NICE.

An Asian boy got off at the same bus stop as us, and I immediately knew that he must be a) staying at our hostel and b) Japanese! Of course this was an absurd cause for joy, but I was on him like a hawk. Any chance I get to speak my broken-ass Japanese in a random place, I grab it. I struck up a standard conversation with him, and standard conversations of course include "where are you from?" so I included it. "Oh," he snickered, "I'm from Japan?" (there's a question mark there because he said it in one of those humble "do you know it?" tones. Psh. Did I know Japan. What the interrogative tone in his voice SHOULD have suggested was "do you often enjoy climactic sensation while thinking about it?" To which I would have replied, yes. Yes i do often enjoy climactic sensation while thinking about Japan.) I beamed with delight: "Watashi wa chotto nihongo o hanasemasu..." He double-blinked at me. "E?! Sugoiii!" We got to code-switching, and he told me that he was actually making a homebase out of the Villa St. Exupery Hostel as he studied music at some sort of conservatory in Villefranche! Hen ne. Oh, to be young and japanese and studying music on the French Riviera. What am I doing with my life?

We made our way back into the Villa through the happening lounge, made a few phone calls to moms, and then Brooke went to bed and I went back down to the lounge to type these last two entries. The heat and the smell of spilled beer all over the floor didn't make for an easy typing environment, but I enjoyed the great music and how it was almost absorbing into the porous monastery walls, and oh, just being among the very-much-living. Really, nothing makes you feel more alive than being a part of a world of strange encounters, toasts to eternal friendship, strong backs, and roads less traveled. And it's only just starting for us...wow. Is all I can say, because I'm out of words.

EDIT - VIGNETTE # 3: As I was closing this entry, one of the resident Brits was closing down the lounge, but he left the music on; it was "Leaving on a Jet Plane," which was playing for the 3rd time since I'd been there, but it never lost its charm. In the meantime, the only other souls remaining in the lounge besides me were two twenty-somethings, a boy and a girl who had been sitting by me and my laptop throughout the evening, whom I knew had only met a few days before (I had drawn this conclusion from their conversation that I heard earlier that evening). They were slow dancing to the music with their eyes closed, maybe dreading an inevitable split to come (I think the music gave me that idea), maybe celebrating their serendipity, maybe just plain drunk; whatever it was, it was awfully pretty, especially with the music and the stained glass window practically framing them, from where I was watching. Once again since my departure from home only days before, a scene fit for a movie, and proof that dreams really do come true.

Current mood: mellow.

Make Notes

15th June, 2005. 7:47 pm. Day Four

I sat next to an elderly Frenchman on the way to Nice. We toasted our champagne and he called me babyface. The flight attendants constantly came by to make sure we had everything we needed. I thought that if I asked for a piano concerto, it'd be pushing it a bit, even if it would seem appropriate for the situation. So I opted for the in-flight entertainment selections featured on my little tv; I thought it was very ironic that the main feature was "A Series of Unfortunate Events." I laughed out loud - I had HAD it with unfortunate events, and presently I was looking out the window at a promising, expansive sky. Or maybe it was it the ocean - the profondity of that blue was so hypnotizing, I couldn't tell which was which. Either way, it looked divine, and at that point, the wings of the plane might as well have been angel wings.

I should mention that while I was rushing to terminal 2 to get to the Nice gate, I saw the horrid Barcelona gate agent woman. She was sweating and huffing and kept readjusting the shoulder strap on her briefcase as she walked. Our passing was in slow motion. I KNOW she saw me, and recognized me. But she didn't acknowledge me, of course. And even though at the time I thought my spotting her was a really bad sign, I just looked at her and smiled proudly. She didn't smile back. She hiked her shoulder bag up again. I felt sorry for her. Those shoulder straps can be a pain. But then, so can gate agents. Once we'd passed completely, I swallowed thoroughly, which helped soothe the empty, cold feeling i got in my stomach from seeing her. I imagine she probably got in her shitty 80's Honda and got stuck in traffic on the way home to her shitty apartment with her shitty cats. Then I got on a flight to the French Riviera. Oh snap.

Justin had been sitting next to an elderly French woman, and I noticed that she was flirting with him as much as my Frenchman was flirting with me. He talked to her, smiling adorably and charmingly, throughout the entire 8 hour flight. I was temporarily in love - it made me smile so much to see him smile. I was so happy those boys got on. And I couldn't help but think that fate brought us all together by that miracle. I know, I'm lame. But when Justin came back at one point to talk to me and the other boys, I blurted out that Brooke and I had booked two inexpensive appartments in Italy that would have plenty of room for extras, since they didn't have a plan as of yet and might want some cheap places to stay...well, they were all on boards, which made me very happy. They'd be staying the first few nights in Nice with Justin's Frenchwoman. He was that much of a charmer. But they'd given me Justin's cell phone number, which "may or may not work in Europe," as well as an e-mail address to contact them. I hoped hoped hoped that those unstable contacts would be enough to get in touch with them throughout our somewhat unstable Eurotrip. They were just too cute to lose. I rarely meet American boys who are both cute AND kind, let alone THREE OF THEM together. No, I wasn't going to let them go, if it took calling them every day!

We landed. I shot another thumbs up back to Jordan and an "au revoir, merci" to the flight attendants. Based on the spectacular views of the French Riviera I'd seen from the window, I was more than ready to get to the beach. But first I had to get through customs and find Brooke, and I was thrilled to do that. The Nice airport was very modern and open, and it was there that I had my first earful of the southern French accent (more gutteral, with every syllable pronounced ad nauseum) and personality (more expressive?). Dieu, les Francais. I made sure I had the boys' phone number and e-mail addresses correct, said ciao to them and loosely planned to get together in a few days in Italy, then went upstairs to buy a phone card and call my mom, though it was around 3 AM in Atlanta. Good thing, though; she sounded like she was finally exhaling after 8 hours of wait. During the earful she gave me, she told me that she'd been mistaken about Brooke's flight from London and that it actually arrived an hour earlier than she thought. That meant she was just arriving! I gave my mom a telephone kiss kiss and went downstairs again to wait on the other side of customs for Brookie. After only seconds of wait, there she was! We both peed our pants a little bit as we jumped up and down, practically screaming "OMIGAWD WE'RE AMERICANS IN EUROPE THIS IS LIKE SOOO KEWL DO WE LOOK CUTE?!??!!!"

While waiting for the bus into town, Brooke showed me her pictures of MEETING EWAN McGREGOR in London after his performance in Guys and Dolls, and I peed my pants a little more. But the fact that we were in Europe about to start an amazing adventure suppressed my jealousy, and I got on the bus feeling nothing but excitement. Our first stop was the train station to make reservations to go to the Cinque Terre in a few days (even with a Eurail pass, one still has to make reservations on trains to major cities, as they tend to fill up). After that, it was off to Place Saint Maurice, where we'd meet our shuttle up the hill to our hostel. We had to find the bus that went there first, though, which was no easy feat. Downtown Nice was undergoing serious, ridiculous road construction which altered all the bus routes and created several impossible to find makeshift bus stops. Everyone I asked to tell us where to find the 23 bus pointed us in a different direction. I led Brooke on a wild goose chase through the heated streets painted with heat-seeking people, and eventually we found our bus. At Saint Maurice, we made the call, waited way too long, and were finally picked up in a sketchy-ish red van by a 50-something British man. On the way up the hill he told us absolutely everything there was to know about Nice and its surrounding towns and how to get around. Of course this was way too much information and we scarcely remembered any of it. But we were happy to hear that there was plenty to do. We arrived at Villa Saint Exupery, our monastery-turned-hostel, and were checked in by a younger Brit. He took us up to our room, which overlooked the bright salmon-colored rooftops of East Nice, the ocean far in the distance, a coastal breeze cooling the sweat off our necks. We were quite comfortable; so comfortable, in fact, that we decided to take a nap until the evening. It doesn't matter if I've landed in China or in Alabama - jet lag always renders me a dead marionette and drags me to the most all-encompassing R.E.M imaginable. I welcomed it.

We woke up around 7, feeling refreshed and ready to take on the whole Cote d'Azur. We'd start in Juan-les-Pins, Cannes' neighboring town, where we'd meet Caroline, Simon, and Lauren. Of course I was chomping at the bit to see Caroliney in her of-recent natural habitat, even if she had complained to me in many e-mails about her misery there. I thought maybe I could cheer her up. We went down the hill to the bus stop, hopped on a bus which took us to the train station, and promptly hopped on a train en direction to Cannes. The sun was setting along the beaches, and as we went along the sky changed from firey orange to rose to royal purple to finally a twilight silvery blue when we reached J-L-P. It was all stunning.

Even more stunning was when we got off the train and Lauren was immediately there. The trip was only just getting more and more happenstance and bizarre. I gave her a huge hug and asked her where the hell she came from. She had spent the day with a male friend in Monaco and was just returning. It was convenient for us; this way we didn't have to find a phone and use our expensive phone card to call Caroline to come fetch us. Lauren lead us less than a block away to their apartment complex, up the elevator, and - surprise! - into their room. Nonchalant Caroline smiled coyly and shook her head at our random appearance, and Simon continued to type his paper. They looked exhausted; I could immediately tell that they wanted to go the fuck home. But I was as cheerful as I could be and plopped down on a chair to look at Caroline's pictures from the festival. After a while we headed down the street into town for dinner. The nightlife there was fun - bright neon restaurant signs, live jazz and even a Mexican duo performing "La Bamba." You know life is surreal when you're strolling down a tiny street in southern France with some of your best friends and people are singing "La Bamba." Caroline pointed that out.

After our delicious pan-asian supper (the rice cakes were amazing? They tasted like some strange specific food but I can't remember what - Caro?), we opted for ice cream. It was, in fact, a gelateria, which wasn't surprising, I suppose - the Cote d'Azur is so close to Italy that almost all the cuisine has an Italian edge. We enjoyed our gelati all the way down to the ocean, and in the middle of our promenade ran into two groups from the program - some journalism profs (one of which who told me, more or less, that journalism school was futile if you want to work for a magazine...thanks...?) and then some students, including Ben Horner, AKA Eurotrash party king. It was lovely to see him, even if he were unfortunately sober.

We went back to the flat, Caroline straightened my disastrous hair (and burned my neck, the bitch), and we arranged to meet the following morning at the Matisse Museum in Nice. The train ride back was entertaining - we sat among about 6 Arab/French teens who told us joyfully that they enjoyed snorting coke and stealing purses. They didn't speak english and acted like wide-eyed spectators upon hearing Brooke and I speak in code about them. We would have felt safe when we left them, but as it turned out, we had missed the last night bus back to Saint Maurice. After wandering around in what had to be known as Sketchtown, France at 1 AM, we eventually called our British "concierge," who arranged to meet us shortly "in front of the ruins" Uh...whatever the FUCK that meant. Roman ruins? Because there were some in Nice. We somehow found them, though - as it turns out, he was talking about a ruined train station, so why he couldn't have said "in front of the old train station" i don't know. During our 30 minutes more of wait, we got an offer for some weed from some sketchballs and plenty of "follow me into this alley" looks. Finally, our sketchy red van appeared, and we were taken back up to our safe haven for R & R. The day had been good, but I hoped the next would be better.

Current mood: incredulous.
Current music: "Leaving on a Jet Plane" - seriously, it's playing here!.

Read 1 Note -Make Notes

2nd June, 2005. 12:24 pm.

I hope you're all caught up on the story of my summer vacation since the CHAOS that was my last entry. Now sit tight, because you're about to read what i consider to be nothing short of a miracle. And yes, folks, in typical Kelly fashion, it is an ELABORATE miracle.

( Day Two, Part Two, and Day Three )

(ps - I have typed a lot more, as it has been almost a week since I've been in Europe! But I don't have time to unload all of it from my stupid floppy disk onto these crazy foreign computers. But at least you have SOMETHING of an update! More adventurous literature coming soon!)

Current mood: ecstatic.
Current music: Wilco Live.

Read 1 Note -Make Notes

28th May, 2005. 8:11 pm. Intermission

Greetings from Oxford, Connecticut.

...

I'll explain later. Off to the airport. Again.

Current mood: crushed.

Make Notes

28th May, 2005. 8:11 pm. Day Two

As it turns out, I sure DIDN'T get on that flight to Paris. And the Hemingway didn't help. I ended up turning to Maupassant. Maybe that was bad luck. Anyway, it's now Wednesday, and I'm at the airport again. But not the Atlanta airport, oh no - I was there this morning, but only to get where I am now: New York's John F. Kennedy international airport. THIS PLACE IS INSANE. Seriously, it is its own metropolis, I've never seen anything like it. I actually flew into LaGuardia - I got up at 4:30 this morning to shower and head out with mom to the airport - again. I could have taken MARTA, but she insisted on taking me. I love her. Anyway, we got to the airport at 7:50 - only 40 minutes before my flight. I kissed mom goodbye, took a deep breath, and made my way back into airport check in. The check-in process went very quickly, and in fact it would have been feasible to get on the flight had the security line not been ASTRONOMICALLY long, stretching all the way PAST the food court. At 8:20, I was only just getting through security. At 8:25, I reached the T-Gate concourse and of course had to sprint alllll the way down the terminal to T1. (In the meantime, Caroline called!!! Caro, if you're reading this, sorry I didn't ask you about how you were, I was slightly frantic...hopefully I'll be having a substantial conversation with you soon enough...) The plane was still there, but it was too late to board. Hella lame. Thankfully, there was a flight only an hour later that had seats available. So I got on that. The reason I had to fly into LaGuardia instead of directly into Kennedy was because there weren't as many wide-open flights there. So after my flight, which went very smoothly (I listened to the Arcade Fire on Delta Radio with Nic Harcourt), I went down to ground control and hopped on a convenient but slightly pricey ($13) shuttle to JFK. It's a cold and overcast day here in New York City, and I couldn't see much of the city in the distance from the shuttle because of the fog. I'm pretty sure I did see St. Patrick's Cathedral from the sky, though. Oh, my New York, my New York, you're not such a bad place to get stuck in if worst comes to worst. And I do mean worst. Because not getting on any flights yesterday was bad enough...

I knew that last flight to Paris yesterday wasn't going to work when i overheard a French man telling his family: "C'est impossible, aujourd hui. Non, jeudi marche pas. Vendredi non plus." and then noticed his Air France bag. He was telling his family that they weren't going to board any time this week, and they were Air France employees, who get priority over Delta employees, even on Delta flights. Damn Air France. I was screwed. The Marta ride home was depressing, because I kept looking out the window at shitty Atlanta and realizing that I could be sitting on an actual train looking out at wonderful France. And that if I didn't get on a flight tomorrow, I was pretty much out of luck for the entire trip, not to mention Brooke was screwed. I was absolutely exhausted when I got home, but I looked at my options for the next day and since New York looked much better than Atlanta, that's what I decided to do. My parents helped me plan very quickly too, and offered me many sympathetic pats on the back. I was passed out by 9.

Fast forward to where we are now. I'm plugged in and looking out the window at a 747 China Air that is passing by. It's a gray day. All I can do now is wait...I have 2 and a half hours until my first (and really only) flight option, and I'm a nervous wreck. And I've already been here 2 hours in this jalopy that is JFK (i mean that in the friendliest way possible, because I love any airport, and this one certainly is exciting, despite its poorly-planned structure and other shortcomings). There's a stupid girl, about my age, sitting next to me who was reading this book called "Sapphire's Wish" - it had a picture of a wedding ring and a flower on the cover. About 3 minutes ago she put it down, sighed loudly, and whined to her friend "I can't read!" I think I snickered. No, you can't read, girl. You don't know how to, if you picked out trash like that. People are dumb. Anyway. There's a Burger King and an arcade with Ms. Pac-Man right next to what has to be JFK's ONLY ELECTRICAL OUTLET which I somehow found after far too much searching and am posted at now. I might hit them up later. I wish I could find a wireless zone so I could post this (and yesterday's) instead of posting both of them together as well as the update from the next place I arrive at, wherever it may be. I guess it won't be as exciting when posted as a typical KDM tome in 3 parts. But let's hope that it will be exciting, because it won't be if I don't actually post it from somewhere in Europe.

Time for a veggie burger. And a valium.

Current mood: pre-stroke.
Current music: More Decemberists (I don't have many cds here).

Make Notes

28th May, 2005. 7:38 pm. Day One

Ah, Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Your wit! Your come-hither smile, that mysterious, charming twinkle in your eyes! Your relentless dedication to expedition and efficiency! How do you do it, handling thousands of globe-trekkers daily and still keeping your figure? And how, pray tell, do you manage to simultaneously bring endless joy to AND ruin my life? I'll tell you, you must have one hell of a sense of humor to deal with all your dick employees. I know that airport employees HAVE to be dicks because they deal with assholes, but I'M not an asshole, so why should I have to deal with this SHIT? I know it's hilarious to see fools like me rushing in and out of terminals and check-in counters, but come on, i was throwing up out of nervousness this morning, i'm just now getting over a cold, and two days ago i pinched my sciatic nerve. What the fuck, i know. So just...go easy on me. (Queen of languages.)

But then, don't. You know what? I absolutely LOVE this, as much as i hate it. I love the fact that i have to be hardcore, put on my big girl panties, carry around a huge and heavy backpack with a laptop in it and lug a suitcase with 2 weeks worth of clothes, having my passport and Delta employees passcard handy at all times, powerwalking and sometimes sprinting from one gate to another on the complete other side of the terminal, never looking back. If I were accompanied, and if I were lugging anything besides a suitcase, i would probably whine and ache like any self-respecting country club girl. But as frustrating as traveling is, it is becoming more and more essential to me, especially independent travel. I love it because it is a trip. No, this isn't a trip in the sense that it should be, yet - that being a damn TRIP TO EUROPE - but it's a mind trip - no, a mind roller-coaster - and it's thrilling. Maybe i'm sick in that in some very small, almost impossible-to-find corner in my body i actually somewhat enjoy getting rejected and referred to the next flight; I guess it's the challenge-seeker in me (though if i don't get on a flight at least by tomorrow I will be physically sick, as in vomiting, or possibly dying...so i guess that pleasure only goes so far). But as for now, anyway, I am sitting at gate E4 in the international terminal hoping to get on the 6:50 flight to Paris-CDG. This is the third gate of the day for me, the first two being an earlier Paris flight and a Brussels flight. Round and round and round she goes, where she stops? Nobody...oh wait...does she stop at all?

I'll elaborate, of course. This afternoon, after an all-morning bout with nausea and heat flashes, I finished packing, exchanged a rather tender goodbye with Dad ("don't ever let anyone, even me, stop you from doing what you love doing."), and hopped in the car with Mom and Dammy to go to the airport. The ride down i was only slightly mal à l'aise, thanks in part to my mother and grandmother's entertainingly nutty tales of their many experiences together in Europe. Who knew that they met Bob Hope, James Garner, and Gerald Ford in London all in the same day, and all while drunk? Anyway, we get to the airport, Mom cries, i almost have a panic attack, i part from them and make my way across the street to the Delta check-in stations, i have a brief moment of peace and wonderfully refreshing mid-May air rushing through me, and then i get inside to International check-in. Then i almost have a panic attack again. I have NEVER seen such insanity in the airport before. I almost couldn't move. Miraculously, as i was blindly making my way to the end of the had-to-be-3-hour-long line for check-in, i saw a small counter with an even smaller line hidden away that read "no bag check in." Thank God. I wasn't checking any bags. So i hopped in line , and after a short but sweet exchange with a beautiful girl from northern England about our accents (hers was beautiful - certainly not a standard British accent, but not harsh enough to be Scottish or Welsh or anything - and she asked me where i was from because she said my accent was "very gentle." It took me aback, but come to think of it, foreign people have told me that before. Dmytro and the eastern european crew used to tell me that my english was the most understandable they had ever heard, and i guess it's a compliment? Why am i talking about this?), i found myself face to face with a terribly intimidating woman who was only mean until she realized that she couldn't mess with me because i knew as much about the biz as she did; in fact, she turned out to be as helpful and friendly as possible. Unfortunately, she was the one that told me that the 4:10 Paris flight I was trying to get on that had looked somewhat promising a few hours before was not only filling up rapidly, but also that it was a codeshare flight (Air France), and because of MAJOR internal changes that have taken place with Delta within the last damn month, I would have to purchase an ID96 (a ticket that can be issued to codeshare partner non-revs 96% off the ticketed fair to get on codeshare flights.) Apparently, though, that remaining 4 percent would amount to 125 dollars, which i SERIOUSLY didn't want to shell out, even if it was 100% refundable should i not get on the flight. But i was about to, especially when Alicia (the ticket agent) told me that the Air France counter where i would have to purchase the ID96 was going to be cutting off the listing line for the 4:10 flight in 7 minutes. So I HAULED ass, pushing through the masses of frustrated people, to the Air France side of the tracks, I grabbed the attention of a wandering Air France agent and told her that "Alicia sent me over here to purcha-" and she cut me off rudely, directing me to the line for the check-in counter that Alicia had told me to try and avoid. I went around the corner and took one look at it - it stretched all the way into the food court - and looked at the time - i had 5 minutes - screw that. So i went back to the lady and made her listen to me and she said "oh, non-rev? No non-rev." Apparently the flight was completely full, especially for non-revs. Whatever the fuck that meant. So all i could do was go back to Alicia and list for the 5:10 flight, which was thankfully a delta flight, but not thankfully oversold and not at all promising. I made my way over there anyway. You always have to try.

On the train to terminal E i met a smarmy but somewhat comforting forty-something man, also a non-rev, who was trying to go to Corsica to celebrate his birthday with his girlfriend. He was trying for the 5:10 Paris flight as well. Competition, damn. We chatted a little bit, he was far too friendly, and when we got to our gate and found that all we could do was wait for an hour, he offered to take me down to Paschal's and buy me a drink. NO thanks, pal. I made up some excuse about having to "take care of some business" on the phone and on my laptop, so he left me alone. I keep seeing him, though, and man, he sure is smarmy.

Once i realized i wasn't getting on the Paris flight, I decided to try my luck listing for the Brussels flight that was leaving in less than an hour. Fortunately there was a ticketing counter right in concourse E, so all I had to do was stand patiently in its rather long line. While there, i had some priceless people-watching time, which helped me to relax a bit. The woman standing behind me, dreadlocked, pushing her son in a baby stroller, and wearing a cool vintage "are we there yet?" shirt, was speaking a dialect of German so strong i thought it was Dutch. Turns out she was Austrian. Cool. The two young hispanic dudes in front of me were speaking a dialect of Spanish so strange I almost thought it was Portuguese. Turns out they were Bolivian. Way cool. Looking and listening around, i noticed that there were as many if not more foreigners than Americans. Not surprising, I mean, it's the international section of the airport. But all of a sudden, I swear, there was a sonic boom of life, everything around me seeming to be moving in fast forward while i was paused and peaceful in that line. People of every kind were weaving everywhere in a chaotic but somehow formulaic fashion, it was like some bizarre Olympic opening ceremonies display. I know i sound totally fruitty describing it this way, but I can't think of any other way to put it. And it struck me then that the airport is the only place in the world where EVERYONE is out of their element. As soon as an American steps into an American airport, he is no longer native. The language displayed on every sign might be english, but the english speaker can become just as bewildered as the non-english speakers, simply based on the setup of the airport and the attitudes of the few actual natives at the airport: the airport employees. I stand beside my opinion that they are a different kind, bred to be matter-of-fact and uber confident, which can translate into dick-ism. They're all the same, though. I swear they all have the same accent, even. But even their rock-hard standing can't stop the dance-like flow of the traveler. It's terribly fascinating. A million things are fascinating to me about airports. How monopolistic they are. How all-encompassing they can be. How all-at-once predictable and unpredictable. But most notably, the way they allow humans to share this world; the internet and the media may be able to project images and describe everything in the world in excruciating detail, but damn them - this shit's physical. And the REALLY amazing and beautiful thing is that when you're on an airplane, you're sharing the world by soaring above it.

I have 30 minutes before I find out whether or not I'm going to get on this flight to Paris. I'm gonna go read Hemmingway.

Current mood: determined.
Current music: The Decemberists - Castaways and Cutouts.

Make Notes