Troubles in Hitchland

After finally getting in touch with Jonathan, it sounded like picking apples in Italy might not work out. But I did found out where in Italy he was, and that if I headed there, we could keep looking for work, otherwise, I could just hang out in France. I decided that since hitching had worked so well thus far, I could probably make it all the way to Trento, Italy in a really long day of hitchhiking.

It took me about two hours to get from my couch surfing host’s house to a proper hitching spot in Marseilles. It was a bad start, but I was still upbeat as I waited in the friendly Mediterranean sun.

Two hours later, no progress. The passing people seemed indifferent to my thumb, but sometimes almost confused. I walked to the train station to use the McDonald’s free wireless to find out a better approach. I got kicked out of McDonald’s. A new and hilarious experience, but either way, I was able to get the info I needed.

I took the train north for half an hour to Aix-en-Provence, which would put me in the right direction. Plus, my couch surfing host informed me that they never check tickets on this line, so I didn’t have to pay. Thirty minutes of walking, and I felt like I had a great new hitching spot. People passing by looked amused, friendly, and often apologetic that their car was full, they were going a short distance, or they just didn’t feel like stopping.

After two hours, I was approached by a young frazzled looking guy with a gas can. He didn’t speak English, but explained that his car had run out of gas, but if I walked with him to it, he could take me to the tollbooth, which he said was a better spot. His name was Antoine. On the way we communicated in a mix of Spanish, English and French. He was a college student in the town, and also liked to travel by thumb. He shared a package of cookies with me. By this time it was after 5:00, so I realized that I would not make it to my destination by the end of the day, but if I hitched through the night, I could make it by morning.

This tollbooth was huge and the cars seemed to be moving too fast to see me. It took an hour, but I got a ride with a guy, William, in a big dirty van going Antibes, a town between Nice and Cannes, a little over an hour away. He was going there to buy a motorbike.

So at 9:00 I started again at a tollbooth, but after an hour, security came and said that it wasn’t safe for me to stand there (which was ridiculous, if you could see where I was standing, and how small of a toll booth it was) and that the cops would kick me out if I stayed. So I changed spots, waited another hour or two, then changed spots again.

At 1:00 AM I was freezing. I had packed for Africa, not for hitching to Italy to pick apples. Cars had grown rare at this hour. I realized that even if I did get a ride, it would not be far, and I would be out in the cold again. I decided to get into my sleeping bag and stay warm for a few hours, then give up the Italian dream, and turn back around to Marseilles, where at least I have a couple of couch surfing hosts and beaches. I was unable to sleep, so at 3:00 I decided I would endure the cold again in hopes that I would get a ride, since Marseilles, less than 2 hours away would be less ambitious than going to Italy.

At 5:30 a van stopped, and when I opened the back door, and an empty beer can fell out, I should have refused the ride. But I was cold and desperate. It was three young guys. Wasted. With a dog. They said they couldn’t take me far, but at least get me to a better spot to hitch from. They dropped me off about 2 km away from a tollbooth. I still don’t know if they did me a favor. I mean, it is better to be at a toll booth, but these guys did not know what they were doing, and could have dropped me off sooner. Anyway, I didn’t mind the long walk as it warmed me up. When I got there, I waited intently for the first moments of daylight so I could warm up or be seen by more cars.

By the time the sun rose I felt like a zombie on drugs. I was barely awake, sometimes falling dozing with my thumb out. When I gazed at the asphalt, it seemed to swell and shift like a weird hallucination. I felt panicked that I looked as crazy as I felt and would never get a ride. After about three hours of waiting, I got picked up by the first girl of the trip. Her name was Alexandria and, by American standards, she would have been too young and petite to be picking up hitchhikers. But it is a different story here in Europe where it is a dying, but still common practice for practical purposes. She said she often hitchhiked from her home to where she studies, about an hour and a half away. I was unbelievably grateful to have the ride. She took me all the way to Aix-en-Provence, where she is from, and where I could take the train (for free) back to Marseilles.

After the train ride, I got to the beach as quickly as possible, and proceeded to sleep for several hours. When I got up, I wandered back through the city, and at 8:15 I gave a ring to a potential couch surf host. She said she wasn’t home, but that she could still host me, although she already had two surfers from Lithuania, so it would be crowded. I had the option of either waiting outside her apartment for her to come home, or to come to her friend’s apartment, where she was hanging out. I confirmed that I was welcome, and hopped on the metro to where she was. She and her friends all welcomed me warmly and offered me beer and wine. We hung out until close to 2:00 in the morning, at which point we headed back, where I had a small cot waiting for me in the living room floor.

Lias shoes

I had just started to fall asleep, when the door opened and I realized that the Lithuanian couch surfers were finally arriving. In my grogginess I started talking to them, asking them if they knew about Šarūnas Marčiulionis, the glorious basketball star that played for the Sonics in all of his mustachey glory in the ‘90s. The two girls informed me that he is a hero and he will always save you, wherever you are. They were hilarious, and we stayed up for an hour talking silliness about goat cheese and hitch hiking (they had hitched from London).

Lithuanians

The next day the four of us joined forces in the morning over a simple breakfast of coffee, bread and cheese. Still loving this French eating. We did a mix of sight seeing and errand running. We went to the Notre Dame de something. Sorry, but when it comes to these kinds of sight seeing things, I remember the people and the experience more than what we were actually doing. There was a great quote from one of the Lithuanian girls that is more fun out of context, “It is really hard to be a deaf gay”.

Tourists

The two girls left soon
after to hitch hike up to Amsterdam. They were on a few weeks of vacation from their jobs in England. They were very good hitch hikers, and I was impressed with how efficiently and casually they traveled. For me, hitch hiking rugged or hardcore way to travel Europe, but they just had this attitude that it was an obviously convenient way to travel for cheap. They never seemed to have problems getting rides, and would always try to travel at night to save money on accommodation. I was impressed, but at the same time, they said they got a lot of rides from truck drivers, so it obviously has something to do with their gender, as I have very rarely gotten a ride with a truck driver while hitching.

After we all parted ways, I went to the train station to pick up Lise, as she flew into town for the weekend to visit. The Air France connection continues to pay off. It was her first time in Marseilles, so we wandered around the streets for a while before joining Lia and her friends at a tucked away folk show. It was sort of cliché music, but I liked it, and it was cool to be watching it in a venue that was tiny and virtually invisible from the street.

This night there were two new couch surfers, and Israeile couple who were also traveling by hitch hiking, couch surfing, and sleeping wherever. They were great to chat with, and seemed to make a point of not being the stereotypical Israeli traveler, not that I cared much.

Marseille food

Lise and I spent the next day just wandering around the city. We really enjoyed the neighborhood known as the “panier”, or basket, which seemed like it must be one of the oldest districts of the city, with colorful building and a network of mazy streets. It is true that the narrower the streets, the cooler the neighborhood.

My cliche bike in front of cool wall Europe photo

On the way back, we went through another protest, again against the rise in retirement age. Dynamite sized firecrackers (not exaggerating) shook the streets. I thought it interesting that they didn’t tone down the explosives in response to all the warnings of potential terrorism in Europe. Or maybe they did tone it down.

At around 10:00 that night, Lise, the Israelis, and I set out for a big street party that would be part of an annual celebration in Marseilles. Getting out of the metro and emerging to streets in chaos was a welcome shock. There were makeshift bars and food carts all over the streets to fuel the crowds dancing to different bands or DJs on every block. We wandered block after block looking for Lia and her friends, and on every street it seemed to be a different kind of party with a different kind of music, like all the bars and clubs had just been turned inside out. It was impossible for me not to think of the Grateful Dead song, France. “When the club can’t contain the beat, it just rolls out in the street”, which is specifically referring to the south of France. During the whole night, I think I saw one security officer, not even a cop. I couldn’t imagine how this sort of thing could actually exist, and not erupt into violence or riots. Or maybe that is just what we are told would happen in America. I mean, relatively mild 4^th of July celebrations in parks are crawling with security and law enforcement. At big events, with bad reputations, police bring what seems to be a portable jail or drunk tank. And I am sure it sees plenty of use. So I know that the ability to have unregulated and uncontrolled parties in the streets is not the type of “freedom” that freedom lovers in America are referring to, but damn, it feels pretty good.

Because it was Lise’s first time in Marseilles (though not the south), there was a lot of discussion of the differences between the people. Both sides seem to think of the other as less friendly, for whatever reason. I did find it more difficult to make eye contact and greet people in Marseilles, but I eventually realized that it is because everyone has downcast eyes as they watch out for the frequent dog poo that litters the streets. So I can’t fault them for that. The conclusion I have come up with is that while there might be a difference, there are bigger and more noticeable differences between communities within a location. For example, hanging out with Lise’s friends, to me, felt not too different than hanging out with Lia’s friends, or my friends, or other couch surfers or traveler types that I have met. And in the same way, there are huge portions of the population in Seattle that I might not get along with, as would be the same with Lise in Paris. So trying to generalize people by location seems like a general waste of time, though it is always tempting.

On Sunday afternoon, Lise and I took a relaxing trip to the outskirts of town to visit a former fishing village that Lia had told us about. We wandered around, and yes, it was cute, but it had obviously grown far away from its roots as a blue collar fishing place and was now selling its catch. Elderly tourists were abound to wander the white rocky surrounds that Marseilles is famous for, before eating at one of the many fancy seafood restaurants. We didn’t spend much time there before deciding that we preferred the less quaint town our bus had stopped at on the way. So we hitched a ride back to it and had a basic kebab dinner at a very unpretentious diner populated by heavy smoking middle aged townies playing cards. This was an authentic scene that I think Lise and I were both glad to be witnessing. A different side of France that definitely had a familiar Americana parallel. We really aren’t so different after all (though don’t tell that to Lise).

My last 12 days in Paris

I will try to be a little less detailed in my next posts about Paris.

My second day was spent around Lise’s town of Gouvieux, cute little village not far from Chantilly, famous for horses, whipped cream and their castle. Yep, we saw the castle (didn’t go inside, 12 euros!), snuck into the horse museum (can you really picture either of us paying 8 G.D. EUROS to see horses?).

Lunch: Baguette, Saucisson, cornichon, butter.

Growing up, I always thought that Peugeot was just bikes. Also, the logo looks like if a lion was in Thriller.

On Thursday, after Lise’s classes in Paris, we went to Pere La Chaise, the cemetery where I made my pilgrimage to Jim Morrison’s grave. The whole cemetery was actually worth seeing though. Some pompous 20-something New Yorker musician was just hanging out by the grave, drinking wine (he was being so culturally aware) making obnoxiously bold statements about…whatever popped into his arrogant mind to whoever was polite enough to listen. “Yeah, L.A. sucks, except for weather” “New York sucks…except for music.” “French people are good at English” “German people are bad at English”. “There’s a lot of hot girls coming to visit the grave”. Annoying that he is part of this memory.

Here lies a dead Hipster

That evening we wandered through Belleville, a neighborhood known to be a little rougher around the edges and comprised mostly of immigrants. It was visible (as it always is with me) by the food. Rows of couscous shops, halal butchers, kebabs (ok, those are everywhere in Paris, probably Europe). We went to a bar that was recommended to us for happy hour. I was excited that with our eccentric server served our beer with a little dish of peanuts mixed with…Corn Nuts! Yes, THE Corn Nuts! Lise had never seen them before, and neither did the friendly man next to us, who told us all about how great Pittsburgh is. I had no idea.


That night we went to a party at the apartment of one of her classmates. Not much to say about it, other than that everyone was really friendly, and quickly relieved my intense nervousness about my poor French skills. Nobody seemed to judge me for my lack of French, and they all were more than happy to conform to a foreign tongue for my sake. Somebody brought a girl from Jersey, who was interning at a fashion magazine in Paris, and Lise and I agreed that she more reflected the Parisian reputation of pompousness than anyone else at the party.

After a day of wandering and exploring on Friday, we headed to the Seine, the river that snakes through the center of Paris to meet with an array of Lise’s friends and drink some wine. The sunset was gorgeous, and what can I say about the surrounding scenery. I mean, jeez, it’s Paris. It was a different crowd of people than the night before, but again, they were all very warm and most spoke really great English. After a couple hours, the wine and beer ran out, and there was rumor of a block party somewhere far away, so we hopped on the metro with a couple peeps. Then Lise got tired (as did I), and it seemed that this block party might be more of a rave or club thing with a steep cover, so we headed to Lise’s friend Noemi’s apartment, where we would be sleeping. When we got there, however, she didn’t answer her door. We knocked loudly and repeatedly, but there was no answer. Long story short, with no place to go, we were forced to walk for about 45 minutes through some not so savory parts of town to get to a party that one of Lise’s friends was at. There were three guys and three girls in this small studio, and while they were all fairly friendly, they gave me an uncomfortable vibe. Everything about the guys gave the impression that they were stereotypical frat boy types, which was actually an interesting change in pace for what I had seen so far. We hung out and sipped cheap champagne (or as they call it, “wine with gas”) until the first subway ran at six AM and headed back to Noemie’s apartment. Apparently she had accidentally fallen asleep.


Eating at Lise’s family’s house has been an experience in itself. I have had three formal dinners with them, and it seems they really give me the royal treatment (or basic hospitality as it is here I guess). My first night they served an appetizer of foie gras on toast with champagne. The meal of pork in mustard sauce and scalloped potatoes was followed by a baguette with an assortment of strong cheeses. I don’t remember what the dessert was, but it was rich.




Other things. We saw a castle. It was old and interesting.






We made the obligatory trip to the Eiffel tower, and I have to say it was pretty forgettable. I kind of regret going.

Nice ad placement, Australia

Looks like a tourist trap

Here's me and the Eiffel Tower

There was a protest and strike one day. It forced us to get up earlier because of the reduced train schedule. After Lise’s class, we went to the protest with a bunch of her classmates. It was far more organized, raucous and impressive than anything I had ever seen in Seattle. There were flare guns, people selling mixed drinks and beer, and kebab trucks. I would go to that without the protest. The reason for the protest was that the retirement age had been raised from 60 to 62. Boohoo France. Just kidding. At some point we ended up at an Iris pub (weird, right?) and it just so happened that it was Guinness’s anniversary. What are the odds?

Air France sent a fleet of Airbuses in support

France is so free you can buy Mojitos from children

On Saturday we explored the 18th arrondisement (sp?), a district in the north of Paris. Lise planned the day perfectly and was a great navigator. We started at what I think was called the Marche Barbes, a flea market that would make you forget you were in Paris entirely. To me it felt like a Mexican market or southern California style swap meet, substituting Mexicans for Africans and North Africans. People were selling corn and chestnuts, roasted on their makeshift grills, and music booths blasted the latest hip-hop sounds from Africa and the Arab world. Oversized t-shirts with flags from Congo and Algeria were on display. Lise and I should have felt out of place, but we didn’t. At the end of the market, there was a large gathering under an overpass. It was the most makeshift aspect of the market, and some of the most downtrodden-looking immigrants and refugees from all over were selling boxes of extremely second-hand clothing and household items. Lise said they gather their wares from garbage cans in one of the nicest districts of Paris.



Moulin Rouge.
Sacre Coeur.

A space invader, one of many of these famous street arts found throughout Paris, and the world.

And another. Note that this is a tourist under the space invader. The only people I have seen wearing this kind of beret here are the worst of tourists. Put your white sneakers back on, you're not fooling anybody.

After the Sacre Coeur we walked into the primarily African neighborhood. What a mind trip. It really felt like somebody had taken a West African city like Accra (if it was Francophone) and dropped it in a street in Paris. The women were wearing a mix of western and traditional clothing (just like West Africa), and many were packed into the numerous hair salons for socializing and getting an elaborate new style. People were selling produce on the sidewalks, and many of the items were things that I have only ever seen in Ghana. Everything was filthy. I can’t think of a more trash-ridden street that I have ever seen in a western country. Young boys set up cardboard boxes in the street (cars seemed to be informally banned from this street) as tables to sell bootleg CDs and DVDs. All of a sudden a giant garbage truck appeared. As it started to turn the corner onto the street, a quick rush of panic took over as everyone quickly picked up their box tables and moved them out of the way. As we continued to walk, the population faded from Sub-Saharan African to North African, in a neighborhood known as Barbes. The only notable thing that happened was a lot of guys on the street trying to sell us cigarettes. And all of a sudden it was dark, and we were back at the train station we came in on. We rested on a nearby sidewalk for a while, and watched as a cop pulled over to question a guy selling roasted corn. The cop left him alone after a few minutes, leaving us confused about why he stopped in the first place. Five minutes later, one of the vendor’s buddies brought us a roasted corn as a “cadeau” or gift, which we accepted, and used it as an excuse to find out about the cop incident. The vendor didn’t seem to speak French, but he looked Indian, so I tried English, and this was more successful. He was actually from Bangladesh, but in France illegally. Selling roasted corn on a makeshift grill sitting in a shopping cart is apparently illegal too. The cop just said he had ten minutes to leave (the spot, not the country). Apparently they don’t really mind if people are selling corn in the streets, just if they are doing it in nicer (whiter) areas. Ya know, it just doesn’t look good, right? Lise said she wished the cops were required to take classes in philosophy. We chatted with the corn vendor and his friends for a while, and they tried to give us all the leftover corn so they could just leave. We only accepted about half of their leftovers. We then went to a nearby restaurant for one of Lise’s favorite dishes, “moules frites”. It’s like steak frites, but instead of steak, it is mussels. I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about it, but it turned out to be really good, and the portion was huge. And it came with an appetizer of herring with potatoes, carrots and onions! Ooh it was a good deal.

Moule Frites

That night we went to a party with some people in Lise’s town. They are not her favorite people, the kind of people that never really got out of their home town, and have had the same friends most of their life. Not bad people, but can just be difficult to relate to. They were really nice, and fun, though less skilled in English, giving me the rare opportunity to practice my French. Most importantly, though, was that it further rounded out my perception of French people being…simply people. Lise’s classmates might have fit into my assumption that everyone was very intellectual and of a certain style, but it seems far from the case, and by the end of my time in Paris, I have found a lot of parallels to social groups that I can relate to back home.

Also, catacombs.


Because I am trying to cram 2 weeks into one long (and fairly uninteresting post), I am forgetting the important observations I met while here, and definitely many of the most interesting anecdotes. I may mention them as they pop into my head along the way.

A quick word on the elderly. They are very cute.

However, dogs are still standing by, waiting to make a meal out of them.

A quick word on French food, I like to play with it.

Steak Tartare

Saucisson

A word on bar soap...this is why it is not the only kind of soap we have.

"The French Language has been, is, and will be the most beautiful language in the world. Long live Boetie." This is mostly funny because they misspelled language, twice.

I Love Nothing. I'm Parisian.

Camembert is President.
I am super jealous of the sweet shoes Lise got for $.50 at a flea market near her town.

HaHA France! Not even your centuries old quaintness can escape the clutches of Paid Parking!

So on Monday, it was time for me to depart Paris. I didn’t know whether I would be heading to Barcelona or somewhere in Italy to meet Jonathan, but I had secured a couch surf in Marseilles, France, which gave me decent access to either location whenever I heard word from my travel partner to be. It would be my first voyage solo in Europe, and my first long-distance hitchhike attempt. I was nervous and excited, although sad to leave.