his name is schatz. and he is my friend.

If you're not on FaceBook, you've missed a grand event. One could perhaps call it 'life-changing.' There is a new special someone in my life!

His name is "Schatz"--which is a particularly adorable German endearment--and he is probably the ugliest moth I've ever seen. And I grew up in the South. I've seen plenty.

I first met this new special someone about three hours ago. He flew into my room and settled on my lamp, mindlessly fluttering around the bulb, about an inch away from burning himself to a cinder. He's big, but not big enough to make as much noise as he was making. He managed to hit the lamp so hard--again and again and again--that it swung in place, creaking and turning my room into a disco. I was on Skype with Linda at the time, and I told her about the moth and she suggested that I name it.

My response was: "Hopefully he'll fly away on his own before it comes to that."

Well, it didn't turn out that way. I decided to shoo him out of my room, as I've done with countless moths before. Moths aren't dangerous or even very dirty, they're just kind of ugly. I knew this. So I approached slowly, cupping my hand, and murmured to him in this random and (hopefully) soothing mix of French and German. No English. Apparently English is just not a moth-seducing language.

I finally caught him, after many failed attempts (he's surprisingly fast, for how big he is). I held him out, offering him the beautiful night air, still murmuring in near-gibberish. He flew away. I smiled and went back to studying.

About thirty seconds later I heard a familiar *binkbink creakcreakcreak binkbink*. That "bink" is what it sounds like when he hits the lamp. I knew, without even looking, that my new friend was back.

At this point I looked up at him and said "Ehrlich?" which is German for "Honestly?" or "Really?" I said to him, "Schatz, du musst jetzt gehen." "Darling, you gotta go now." I stood, captured him in my hands again--easily this time--and tossed him gently out the window.

He came back in. I threw him back out. Wash, rinse, repeat.

After about the fourth or fifth time, I threw him out (no longer so gently) and quickly closed the windows. He clung pathetically to the outside of the window, stretching his little legs, and I swear, if moths could cry he would be crying. I don't know what his obsession is with my room, but he really wanted back in. I let him hang for a few minutes (oooh bad pun, nice) before finally giving in and opening the windows.

He's currently hanging out behind my bed, not making any noise or flitting annoyingly in my face, so I finally decided to name him. He's Schatz. He's okay where he is. Plus, he's too high for me to reach.

Hopefully he will indeed fly away on his own before the end of the night, because i don't want him to hang pathetically on the outside of my window when i close them before I hit the sack. I don't close them all the way, but I doubt he'd be able to find the crack to freedom even if he wanted to.

And, apparently, he really doesn't want to.

tschüss!

pictures

For those of you who aren't on Facebook, here are the pictures from Dachau

And here are some of Bonn, where I live.

Enjoy!

bonn is...bonne.

Sorry, I had to make that joke at least once. If you don't get the joke, don't worry about it: it's not actually funny.

I'm happy in Bonn--when I'm not dramatically ill, which I'll get to in a moment--but the city itself is kind of "meh." I say "meh" because it's kind of like this: You see Bonn, this cool city that's decently big and has lots of cool history. You walk by these old buildings pretty much every day and after a bit they kind of lose their novelty. Added to that, in my limited experience of this city, the people who live here either work/study at the Uni, work in the government, or they have their own place/chain. And here's how that breaks down: Most who work/study at the Uni are okay although they're sometimes a little snobby (which coming from a francophile is quite a statement); Those who work in the government are 97% assholes; and 97% of those who own their own place/chain are effing awesome.

Not to say I haven't made friends. I have. There's a woman from Norway in the program (although not in my class) with whom I get along very well. She's the one who got me pseudo-drunk on Monday because she seemed personally offended that I had yet to have a german beer. So naturally, we got a pitcher. Story for another time.

Linda (the Norwegian) aside, it's not the friendliest place. It's not exactly unfriendly, either, but I think because it's so spread out (and I'm so far away from the actual 'centre' of town) it's harder to get to know people.

Summary of the last four 'paragraphs': I made an inevitable, albeit bad joke; and I like Bonn even though it's a bigger city than I'm used to and some of the people aren't outwardly friendly.

Moving on: Dramatic illness. Yes. I say 'dramatic' not because of how I acted while I was sick, but in reference instead to the illness itself. Here's how it went:

Weekend, go to Dachau. Sunday, ride home on a very crowded train after little sleep. Monday, class, drinks (read: pitcher) and dinner with Linda, get home a little after midnight. Tuesday morning: I'M DYING.

At least that's what it felt like. I sat up and the world swam uncomfortably in front of my eyes. I immediately lay back down and stayed there for most of the day. (Aside: for those of you who may say, It's called a hangover, I must protest. I was sober by 1900.) Continuation:

Tuesday evening, feel a little better due to about 14 hrs of sleep and lots of water and apple juice. Tuesday night, can't sleep due to about 14 hrs of sleep. Wednesday morning, wake up after sleeping for about three hours to find that my fever from the day before (yes, I had a FEVER! What?!) has returned, and with a vengeance. My head hurts; everything hurts. I send an email to my prof, apologizing and explaining the absences, and determine to stay up even though I can't make it to class. I stay in for most of the day, repeating my regimen of water and apple juice, fitting in some food when I feel well enough.

Wednesday night, feel better, definitely a little better, but worry a bit about Thursday morning, because I felt okay Tuesday night.

Thursday morning, wake up feeling fine only to discover my voice is gone.

I went to class this morning with no voice; it came back slowly over a couple of hours, and I feel fine now. Although apparently a bunch of people have come down with something while I was away, curled in a fetal position in my bed.

I'm 95% sure I probably gave them something. I mean, that's usually how it works. I catch something obscure from somewhere not-so-obscure (in this case I'm pretty sure it was the train) and merrily spread it around in the time it takes for the virus to make its way through my wimp of an immune system.

Just another reason my antisocial tendencies are really for the good of everyone.

I don't really have much else to say, and I realize this was pretty pointless, but what did you expect? I started out with a inter-language vocabulary joke. Come on.

tschüss!

a picture's worth...everything

Remember the last time I was speechless, at a complete loss for words? Yeah, me neither. But this took me about two hours to even start. I didn't even write about everything I saw because it just didn't seem possible, but this is what came:

As I stand just outside the gates of Dachau, the only coherent thought I can grasp is: How could a place of such beauty be home to such unspeakable atrocities? I immediately recognize that beauty is not the right word, but I can't come up with a better one. The buildings aren't particularly beautiful--in fact, most are barren and small--but the grounds themselves are quite something. The trees, for example, tower over the pathways; the pathways slither every which way, creating a maze effect. Beautiful, maybe, but it shouldn't be. Over 200,000 unfortunate souls once stood where I stand now; starving, screaming, crying, dying, wasting away. Their pain, over sixty-five years later, still echoes through the grounds.

Many of the original structures remain standing. Pictures cannot capture the feel of the air; words cannot capture the weight of our knowledge of what happened in this place.

When I first walk through the gates of Dachau Concentration Camp, I hold the audio-guide to my ear and walk quickly through the groups and families, weaving my way through the throng and into the giant compound.

Once I reach the inside of the walls, I stand stock-still and let the audio-guide fall to my side. My God, I think, it's massive. The sheer size of the compound is overwhelming; gravel covers the ground, and the buildings in the distance look like Monopoly hotels.

But the fact that I can see those buildings at all--the crematorium, for example, which is on the very far side of the grounds--makes me realize that the compound is completely flat. It was either flattened by man or by God, but either way the effect is chilling. Imagine standing in a space three football-fields-long but knowing that you can't escape. It seems crueler, somehow, giving so much space but absolutely nowhere to go. Also, the size of the place meant that they could simultaneously ship more prisoners in while putting others into the ground or letting them blow away with the wind.

I don't believe, as some reported, that the citizens of the city of Dachau knew nothing of what was happening within these walls, but I can certainly believe that they didn't know the extent. How could they? I'm looking at photographs, the ultimate proof, and I can hardly understand the extent.

I've never been the most people-loving person, but even I have a hard time answering the question: how can human cruelty stretch this far? How could this have been justified in anyone's mind, much less the collective mind of an entire group of people?

"We just did as we were told," they said in Nuremberg. "We were following orders." That's all well and good on paper--at least it seemed to pacify some, or help them sleep--but in practice, how is it possible? I'm a cynic of the highest order but even I cannot grasp how one could numb himself to that extreme, covering all crimes and more human suffering than should be possible. I almost understand--theoretically, anyway--those who believed and/or took pleasure in what they were doing. They were psychopathic, power-hungry sadists. Easy enough to explain although still not easy to swallow.

But what about the rest? They were weak-willed, obviously, but this goes a bit beyond peer pressure. I suppose it could be called that, but I much prefer the sociological term 'mob mentality.' Even that doesn't cover it, but it's the best I can do.

After recovering from my initial shock--after standing like that, completely still, for at least a minute or two--I being to walk again. As I make my way across the compound, I stop and look at the boards marking important places within the camp. On these boards are photographs, which is to be expected, but in these photos I find something entirely unexpected.

The dark photos move me, certainly, but the pictures of suffering, emaciated prisoners have been in every single History book I've had since I was a kid.

It is the other photos which strike much harder; they are photos I've never seen. In them the prisoners are smiling, or hugging, or even laughing. These pictures are not the majority, they are few and far between, but I find myself looking at their faces in a completely new light.

These images don't only depict history or dates or numbers or statistics; they depict people.

In these shots you can see their personalities shine. Do a favor for me: call into mind your group of friends. You all have titles in your group, even though they're not the type of title you put on your business card. But everyone knows subconsciously that they exist: The Smart One, The Pretty One, The Funny One, The Creative One, The Jock, ect.

I begin to think of these people like this--a group of friends helping each other survive an impossible situation. The Funny One makes them laugh when they all want to cry. The Creative One does some interesting woodwork and gives it to a little girl who lost her parents. The Jock helps an old man get his work done in time so the guards won't execute him for being useless. The Smart One devises a way to make paper out of cloth and helps people write letters to loved ones that no one will ever see.

For some reason the pictures of suffering don't have that effect, possibly because--as much as we don't want to admit it--we've all become a bit numb to human suffering. You've only need look at the world to realize this. But these photographs of people change something for me.

They put faces to the dates and numbers and statistics.

Hitler is famous for, among many other things, perpetuating the idea that Jews are not people. I've always known this to be a piece of particularly outrageous and dangerous propaganda from a hateful little man, but these photos really bring it home.

Tragedies become easier to live with when we describe them with numbers. But we shouldn't. Numbers aren't personal. Numbers can't cry or smile. Numbers can't die. Numbers can't laugh.

The numbers: Dachau was built in 1933; over 200,000 prisoners were brought to the camp between 1933 and the year it was liberated by the Allies; tens of thousands died; tens of thousands were outright murdered by the SS.

The reality: In 1933 people started disappearing. Over 200,000 people--families, children, grandparents, friends, lovers--were tortured for years because they had the nerve to exist. Tens of thousands were left to die without food and/or water because they had the nerve to worship or love or think. Tens of thousands were murdered because they had the outright gall to try and live their lives.

They weren't numbers then, and we shouldn't see them as numbers now. They were human beings; they cried, they screamed, they talked, they hugged, they wasted away, and too many died.

But they smiled, too. And somehow--with a type of strength and courage I can't begin to comprehend--they laughed.

blurb about the bus

Short update, before my (hopefully) funny little blurb about the bus pass here in Bonn. I love it here, I'm actually doing quite well with German, I still miss speaking French, most people in the program are super nice, and I'm very, very happy here.

Now, that being said, here's a blurb I wrote on the second day here, after taking the bus to school one morning, and then subsequently looking into the optional bus pass. I'm mostly just putting it here because it makes me giggle and I figured it might make y'all giggle too:

I don't want to buy a bus pass. It's sixty euro, which is over eighty dollars. For one month. No way. I'll walk. But the problem is they make it really hard not to buy a pass. For one, my dorm is about a 35-minute walk from the University. Secondly, they make it very confusing if you do want to take the bus but just pay in euro for one trip.

You mount the bus, and all of the students in front of you have a handy-dandy ($80) pass. When you get to the driver you hold out some change, and this signifies that you have no pass and would like to pay the old-fashioned way. Normally they nod and give you your change. At least that's how it's been in every European country I've ever lived in or visited.

But today I mounted the bus, ready to pay for one ride because I still didn't quite know where the University was. I showed him maybe two euro in change and he just looked at me.

I asked him, "Wie viel?" (How much?)

He responded, "Für was?" (For what?)

I looked around, thinking he was joking, and then saw he was completely serious. I didn't quite know how to proceed without pointing out the obvious: We're in a bus. What do you think I want to pay you for, lunch?

So I said slowly, "Ich will zur Uni gehen." (I want to go to the university.)

He then said in response, "Das ist falsch," and I think you can guess what that means.

I stared at him. What's false? I wanted to ask. That I want to go to the university? Or the certificate on your dash that says "City's Cleanest Bus"?

I then decided to just get this over with because I was getting tired of grabbing the yellow pole every time he almost tipped the mammoth onto its side.

Oh, yes, he was driving during all of this. I'm not surprised that I didn't see a certificate for "City's Safest Bus."

Finally he made a big show of leaning forward (while driving) and messing with the computer mounted on his dash. After thirty seconds I was trying to figure out how to say, "I'll pay when I get off," because I was seriously concerned about the headlines: City's Cleanest Bus Crashes Into Oncoming Car." The byline would be: "Caused by American trying to pay earnest bus driver with change. Thirty dead."

But before I could come up with anything to avoid our seemingly inevitable demise, he finally leaned back and said, "Zwei fünfzig." (Two fifty.)

I looked at the two euro in my hand, did a quick (probably not-quite-accurate) calculation in my head, thought Four dollars--give or take--for a bus ride? For a little over a mile?! and then dug fifty cents out of my pocket. I wanted the exact amount, because God forbid if he had to give change. That would be like handing a child a chainsaw.

So I dropped my father's hard-earned $4 into the tray and wandered toward the middle of the bus. I got off about three minutes later.

No joke. $4 for three minutes.

Maybe this is a fault in my personality, but this just makes me spite the bus system even more. I could give in and buy a pass, I suppose, like everyone else in my dorm seems to have done. But...nope. Not happening.

Instead I wandered around and found the quickest way from my dorm to the university.

Current record: 20 minutes.

Cathy: 1

Transit system: 0

hotel > hostel

I wanted to do a post a day during this first week of travel, and I've done well so far, so I couldn't just give it up now. But I'm warning you up front: this will be short, and kind of...useless.

Yeah, like anyone's going to keep reading now.

Anyway, for the...0 of you that kept reading, I mostly just wanted to say hi. I'm not exactly homesick, but I'm puppy-sick..I miss my dog! And my Seth.

Otherwise I really like Luxembourg. It's beautiful (especially now that the migraine's gone), there are buildings that are obscenely old, like, fifteen minutes from where I'm staying, and I'm out of the crazy hostel which was full of loud, drunken Germans (which may very well be redundant).

I really must be a "solitary soul"...I'm so very much happier in a hotel that closes at 2200...there's a little door if you want to get back in...it's mostly families and single travelers like me so pretty much everyone's in bed...it's quiet...i can sit on my bed and read and no one bothers me. I'm so antisocial, i know.

But I love it. Tomorrow i'm planning on doing the whole "tourist" thing in Luxembourg, so get ready for a (hopefully) epic post tomorrow night. For now I bid you adieu and hope your days are going well.

bisous!

i hope the last 30 hours never happen again

I have had a headache for about a day and a half. And no, I don’t mean I have had headaches on and off for a day and a half. No, I mean I have had the SAME headache in the SAME EXACT PLACE for A DAY AND A HALF. The caps not getting through? Here, let’s try this: My head hurts, both metaphorically and literally (Seth, if you read this, hahahahahahahaha).

It started yesterday morning at around eleven. Well, the metaphorical headache, anyways. I went to the train station in Toulon to try to get a train to Epinal, where I was supposed to spend the night in a little hotel, just a stopover; I’d planned to show up, check into my room, and stay in for the night. Unfortunately the man with the very strong accent de Provence said that the only train to Epinal was an overnight train leaving at 2230. Remember, this was at 1120. I didn’t understand why the only train would be so late, and so long; I’d checked the week before, when I made my hotel reservation, and at that point there were TGVs stopping in Epinal, train rides that were like four/five hours. I told the ticket guy that I had to go outside and “talk to my family” (complete lie, I just wanted to stall) before I could commit to hanging around the train station all day.

Why would I have to hang around the train station all day, you may ask? Well, remember my original trek through Toulon? Definitely didn’t want to go wandering around for the entire day with all my luggage.

Why didn’t I put my luggage in a handy-dandy locker that 98% of train stations have, you may ask? Well, I asked that, too.

THEY DIDN’T HAVE ANY.

After I’d resigned myself to being miserable all day, I went back to the ticket counter and asked if they had any trains to Luxembourg. I was going to go to Luxembourg on the 28^th anyway; if I had to deal with an overnight train, I could at least skip an overnight in a little town and save my dad some money on a hotel room.

There was indeed a train to Luxembourg. It left Toulon at 2150; it arrived in Luxembourg at 1030 the next morning. I didn’t really have a choice; I bought the ticket.

It wasn’t quite noon yet, and I was stuck for 10 hours in a train station so small that it didn’t have baggage storage (or even a friggen café. Come on, seriously, we’re in France, guys. Cafes are everywhere. GET ONE.)

This is about where the literal headache started.

I sat outside a lot because it was actually nice early in the day (it rained later) and promptly got far too much sun. I say “promptly” because I didn’t stay outside; I know better than that. No, I went outside in ten/fifteen minute intervals, mostly staying in the shade.

How did I manage to get sunburn all over my face, you may ask?

GOOD QUESTION.

Sorry. When I’m venting the capslock tends to get stuck sometimes.

So. I waited for ten hours. There’s really not much to tell about that part; if I told you it would be just as boring as me living it, and that would be cruel. So, so very cruel.

I boarded my train, found my tiny “couchette” (it’s like a pleather-coated cot amongst five or six other pleather-coated cots), and realized I had taken the last of my aspirin in the train station (which did absolutely no good, for the record) and had forgotten to buy more (probably because the first two doses didn’t help anyway).

So after being stuck in a train station for ten hours with a headache pounding above and behind my left eye, I lay down in my cubby and proceeded to be stuck in a train for thirteen hours with a headache pounding above and behind my left eye. (Thirteen hours because somehow the train became an hour late on arrival even though it left Toulon on time. Don’t ask me.)

I got to the hostel in Luxembourg at 1130, exhausted (did I mention I slept about two hours on the train?) and carrying all of my bags. (No walking; I took a taxi from the train station.) I then discovered that I couldn’t check into my room until 1300; but this time I could leave my bags! Hey! Now that I was too tired to do anything—including eat—I could leave my bags! Yippee!

So I dumped my bags in the locked room and sat outside the hostel, staring longingly at the check-in desk. For an hour and a half.

Now I’m in my room. I still have the same headache. I haven’t eaten today but I think I’m going to try to get some sleep before I brave the city. It’s beautiful here but I’m fussy and definitely need some sleep before I can be civil to other people. Even people serving me food.

For those of you mentally yelling at me to eat, believe me, I will. This isn’t an “I don’t want to eat” thing. This is an “I don’t want to move” thing. Eating will come later, but moving will have to happen first.

bisous!

someone said something beautiful to me today

Toulon was not my favorite town yesterday, mostly because I spent most of yesterday getting lost in its labyrinthic (yes, that's a word now) depths. But today it certainly earned back its charm. I slept late (I know, what a surprise!) because I inadvertently stayed up late (another shocker!) and I felt pretty good when I awoke at 11. I decided to try my hand at navigating this city while not desperately jet-lagged, and it worked out much better that way.

I decided to find a bus stop near my hotel, memorize the name of the bus stop so I could get back, and just ride. I wanted to ride until I found a stop that looked interesting, with lots of stuff to do, or shops, or tourist attractions, or beaches, or whatever. I'd never done that before, not even while in a bigger city, because I'd always been worried about getting somewhere or being somewhere on time. It was fantastic to just ride, and today my bus driver was much nicer. There was nearly no one on the bus when I got on at 1130, so I sat behind her and we chatted some while she drove.

Finally, after about ten minutes, I found a stop that looked interesting and thanked her before getting off. I stood at the bus stop for a moment, found a Tabac (it's like a little convenience store that doesn't sell gas) and bought a bottle of water. Then I started walking.

There were a bunch of little shops that were about to close for lunch, but there were plenty of cafes and bars that would stay open. I stopped at a kebab stand and bought a steak-frites sandwich (check fb for delicious, delicious picture) and then wandered some more.

Then I got really excited. Because I found a mall. Not just a mall, but a "Centre." I wandered around the mall for maybe an hour before even finding a store I really wanted to go in. It was that big. Long story short I bought a movie I'd been wanting (and now that I have a region-free DVD player I can actually watch it, which is a plus) and three scarves, each more ridiculous than the last. Y'all know how I love my ridiculous scarves. Another plus? They were only 6 euro apiece.

Okay, you don't care about my shopping habits. I'll get to the title of this post. I stayed in the downtown area until around five and then took the bus back to my stop. I stopped at the beach for a bit and just sat and read, but I didn't want to get in the water because the wind was a little chilly for it. (That's right, you Americans: it's like 70 and sunny. hahahahahahaha). I finally ended up back at the hotel at around six. I sat outside again--because it was so nice I just couldn't help it--and took out my Stephen King. My hotel has a little garden out front, which is pretty much just a few tables and a bench swing. I sat at a table, put my book on the table, and started where I'd left off at the beach.

A man came out of the hotel and sat on the bench swing to my right, lighting a cigarette as he sat. I looked up and smiled at him. We said "Good evening" to each other, and then we got talking. He was maybe sixty or so, perhaps a bit older but it's kind of hard to tell with Europeans sometimes because they walk so friggen much. Meaning, they're usually in pretty good shape. He was no exception; so I'm guessing sixty, but I may be off. We talked for a bit about pretty much nothing, just the weather and whatnot, until he asked me where my husband was. (I was wearing Becky's Claddagh ring on my left ring-finger, so it was a fair question.) After telling him I wasn't married, he asked who I was traveling with. I said, "Oh, no one, it's just me."

He tilted his head and then asked something that I hadn't really even considered: "But don't you get lonely?" I thought about it for a moment and realized that, yeah, I was a little lonely. But not enough to even notice until asked, apparently. I answered honestly and said, "Well, sometimes, but then I come outside and talk to someone. Like now. After that it passes pretty quickly." He laughed a little and nodded. "You're a solitary soul," he said, "just like me."

I like how that sounds. "Solitary soul." I guess it fits me pretty well, and I said as much to him. He said he was traveling alone as well, coming from near Paris (he never said exactly where). I asked, half joking, "But don't you get lonely?" He laughed that same laugh again, took a drag from his cigarette, and said something beautiful: "Sure I do. But you and I, solitary souls, we'll just be lonely together."

Maybe that's not as profound as I thought it was at the moment; but at that moment--with the sun just beginning to fall, the wind shifting the leaves, smoke trailing from his mouth like it was trailing the words themselves--it seemed to me the most beautiful thing he possibly could have said.

It's strange how things hit you sometimes, and I think it hit him the same way it hit me. We didn't really say much after that, just some more chatting, and then he crushed the cigarette beneath his foot and stood. He leaned down and gave me bisous (a kiss on each cheek, just part of the French culture), which was sweet because you usually don't do it with strangers. But it occurred to me that maybe we weren't really *strangers*, per se: we were solitary souls, passing a beautiful evening, being lonely together.

After he went inside I realize I hadn't asked for his name, nor he mine; but I guess that didn't really matter. Names weren't important; neither were generational gaps, or nationality, or culture, or even language when it came right down to it. The moment, however, felt important. I don't really know why, or why I suddenly got so poetic in this post (and I apologize to those of you who aren't too fond of waxing poetic), but I know I'll remember that, and not just because I wrote it down.

I'll remember that it's okay to be a solitary soul, and that if I get lonely, I can simply find someone who'll be lonely with me.

bisous!

jet lag's always worse the second day

Why is jet lag always worse the second day?

That's not the beginning of a joke or a rhetorical question. Seriously. Why? Ughhhhhh.

I'm an insomniac (therefore don't have so much of a "body clock" as it were) but jeez I'm jet lagged today. I slept okay last night because I hadn't slept for a very long time, and I woke up okay, but I'm exhausted.

Or maybe I'm exhausted because I wandered around Toulon for two hours today looking for a hotel that was supposedly only 2 km away. What? I didn't tell you about that? Yeah...

I don't pride myself on a good sense of direction; you know this. But when someone tells me "You see that street there? With the post office on the corner? Turn left there, then *mumblemumblemumble* and it's on the right," I don't really question it. Even through the mumbling, the beginning of the trek seemed pretty straightforward. This was an older man, very nice, but he tended toward mumbling. So I turned left at the post office, continued for maybe five minutes, then stopped and asked a younger man. He said, "It's not far. Go toward the beach, take a right at the very large tree, and you'll see it on the left." I felt like I was in the South of the US again: "Take a right at the very large tree." Like there's only one very large tree in this part of Toulon. I didn't wonder at that moment why he said it'll be on the left when the other man said right, because I was concentrating on lugging about fifty pounds (maybe more) of luggage. So I headed for the beaches and began looking for a very large tree. I'm sorry: The very large tree.

I came upon a tree that seemed to me to be very large, so I hung a right. There were bars aplenty (and I was tempted to stop) but I didn't see the hotel. I finally did stop at one of the bars, got a Coke (I don't drink, remember?) and asked the server if he knew where the hotel was. He said, "You have to take the #3 bus." I just stared at him for a second and then asked, "I thought it wasn't far?" He said, "It's not, but with all that luggage you'll want the bus." I thanked him and waited for the #3 bus.

I took the bus, got off at the stop indicated to me by the very impatient bus driver, and then started wandering again. I was closer to the beaches, definitely, but still no hotel. So I stopped and asked a third man, "Excuse me, sir, do you know where Hotel Lamalgue is?"

He gave me a kind look and said, "Oh, that's not over here." I didn't know exactly what he meant by "over here," but I didn't like how that sounded. "Oh, really?" I said. He shook his head. "No, you have to follow this street and go toward the ocean." I asked him how far it was and he said "At least 3 km." He was very kind and probably felt sorry for the sweaty American girl with the very heavy bags because he said, "You'll probably want a taxi, ma'am." I thanked him and wandered away.

At this point I was suffering from wounded pride and very sore shoulders and feet, so I sat on the curb and called my dad. The first thing I said was, "I'm lost in Toulon. How far is 3 kilometers?" (I'm terrible at conversions like miles-->km and Fahrenheit-->Celsius.) His advice: "Just get a cab."

This was at about 2:30pm and I'd gotten off the train from Marseille at 12:35. So I began searching for a Taxi stop. About fifteen minutes later I finally stumbled upon a taxi and begged him to take me to Hotel Lamalgue. He had to GPS his way, which made me feel a little better.

So now I'm in my room, it's 3:52pm, and I have yet to eat anything today. I was just so tired when I first got here that I had to lay down for a bit, but I think I'll go out soon and find a bistro or cafe and get a little something to eat. Then I'm probably going to come back here, hang out on Skype some, and then pass out. Luckily I'm in this nice beach hotel for two nights, so I have tomorrow to wander (voluntarily, of course) and maybe even go to the beach.

But for now I need food and sleep. Like I said, jet lag's always worse the second day.

bisous!

let's hear it for resourcefulness

Flights were--for the most part--okay. I added "for the most part" because the overnight flight, from New York to Rome, felt like this: 500 people and 502 seats. We were crammed all together, elbows touching, with the fake little airplane pillows on our seats. How do they expect us to sleep when we're in constant contact with complete strangers? Or maybe that's just me. Either way, I claimed two empty seats in the very back of the plane right before they closed the doors. I texted my dad, saying "I claimed two seats in the back. Now I'm just hoping the owners of these seats don't come running down the aisle at the last second." He texted back "Close the doors!!" Right as I was texting the words "I think I'm safe," I saw two people moving hurriedly down the aisles. Toward me. Toward "their" seats. I think I got about as far as "I think I'm s" before I started cursing and had to move all of my things--again--back into my original seat, which was about two feet wide with about a foot of legroom. The boy next to me was maybe 16 or 17, probably Italian, and as annoyed as I was. Finally I moved to the middle row, away from the window, because there were three seats in those rows and a little more legroom.

Long story not-so-short: Eight hour flights in Economy are not fun.

I'm now in Marseille, an absolutely beautiful city on the southern coast of France. I'm in a hostel in a part of town called "Vieux Port" which literally means "Old Port." I'm in a room with two other girls (at least I'm assuming they're girls; their stuff is here but I have yet to see them. From the looks of one of the duffel bags it looks like softball players or perhaps gym rats. Just my luck.) The hostel is decent with good security, which is really all I care about.

I went out earlier, just walking, and I was out for about an hour and a half. I love it in France, but Marseille is definitely not my favorite place. Don't get me wrong; I love the people, they're very very nice. It's the tourists that drive me crazy. This is why I don't go to Paris. I like helping out (which I've done THREE TIMES today), but it gets old sometimes; there are times when I just want to sit and eat my Tiramisu ice cream. (That's right. Tiramisu. Ice cream.)

I'll give you a brief explanation of what I mean when I say "helping out." After I purchased my sinfully yummy and incredibly cheap ice cream I was hanging around and talking to the very attractive man who'd served it to me. Along came an English-speaking family, and we both turned and said "Bonjour." Now when I say "English," I do not mean "American." I mean "English." Like, british-english. Let's make that distinction now because over here (and in my mind, as well) they are very different things. So Mr. Cute Ice Cream Man and I turned and said Hello in French, and the English father nodded and said it back, which was nice. It was nice because that was apparently all the French he had. He started explaining to Mr. CICM that his son wanted a vanilla-chocolate cone, two scoops. Now, Mr. CICM and I both looked at the display of ice creams and commented to each other, nearly simultaneously, that there was no option of "vanilla-chocolate" ice cream. Mr. CICM asked the man, in very broken English, if he meant two different cones of ice cream, one vanilla and one chocolate. The English man held up one finger, shaking his head, and saying, "One Vanilla-Chocolate," like it was its very own flavor. Mr. CICM looked at Mr. English, completely lost. He said to me in French "I have no idea what he wants." He wasn't asking for help because at that point he didn't know I even spoke English, but I turned to Mr. English and said, "Sorry, what exactly do you mean?" He turned to me gratefully and explained in a rather complicated way that his son wanted a cone with two scoops, one vanilla and one chocolate. I relayed this to Mr. CICM (which Mr. English could have done if he'd just come at it from a different way) and the transaction was complete.

See, I had fun helping (especially because Mr. CICM gave me a hug afterwards), but after that whole ordeal my ice cream was half-melted. Not that I was bitter or anything.

That happened at the airport today as well (just substitute "Where's the train station" with "One Vanilla-Chocolate" and you've got it). I'm looking forward to tomorrow when I go to Toulon, which is also a town on the coast, but it's not as much of a tourist attraction as Marseille.

Oh, I suppose I should explain the title of this post. My dad and I bought this converter dealy that's supposed to work on France outlets. Well, yes, it's the right plug and everything, but here's the thing: most french outlets are not like american outlets. You know how american outlets are usually just flat against the wall? So a flat plug can go right in. In France, (and I'm assuming in Germany as well), the outlets are actually recessed a bit into the plastic plate in the wall, making any large flat plug completely useless. Luckily I had a phone converter that is very small and I somehow managed to plug my Mac cable into that tiny little thing and...I won't say "forced it" into the wall...but I will say that I was very, very surprised when it actually worked. And when I didn't suddenly smell the ends of my hair burning from some kind of catastrophic feedback.

Okay, I think that's all I have for now. I apologize for the length of this post, but if you actually made it to the end, I'm impressed! I barely made it to the end in reading it and I wrote the friggen thing.

bisous!

It's 0302.

At this time tomorrow I will have arrived in Rome. I will be hanging around, waiting for the tiny little plane to take me from Rome to Marseille. Well, me and my companion, Mr. Duke Dog. He's probably even more excited than I am. Mostly because he doesn't even have to walk on his own and everything's free. Yeah, I wish!

I just wanted to do a post on this blog to let y'all know that I'm hoping to post on this, just updating on the day's events if something cool happened, or posting pictures.

Also, I wanted to point this out: While I do still have my droid phone in Europe, it costs to send and receive texts, although not too ridiculously. It's 5 cents for you to send me a text and it's 50 cents for me to send you a text. So texting won't be completely out of the question. Also, I will be on skype a good deal, I hope, so if you have skype just send me your skype name and you can see my beautiful face! =)

I've packed, I think I'm ready to go, and I think I really need to try to get some sleep (hardeeharhar) because I have to be at the airport by 0930. Yeah. That's like...six hours from right now. Oh, jeez.

Ps: Did I mention it hasn't gotten above 80 degrees in Marseille in the past week? Yeeeeeah.

=)