The Echo -- Nice, France

He who fears he shall suffer already suffers what he fears. 

~Michel de Montaigne  

I'm starting this post from Castel Plage (I first wrote Castle Plague... that would be an interesting sort of place from whence to commence a post).

Not a soul swims in the sea. A few committed white tourists (probably of the Atlantic ocean hardened Irish variety) dip their toes.

Most of us sit on the rocky beach with books, shooting the overcast sky resentful glances and sighing regretfully.

Oh, the trials and tribulations of Mediterranean life. I am afraid I'm afflicted with a serious case of first world problems.

Plunk
Kerplunk

Two sweet looking grey haired tourists toss rocks into the sea. It is sometimes strange to me that this is how people choose to spend their time.

Wordless.
Sitting on an abandoned beach (by sun and natives).
Launching stones into the waves.

Plop
Kerplop

The grey stones sink into the green grey.

Even the pigeons have found a better way to occupy their time.

A brave Asian has submerged a toe. A sacrifice for a picture in front of the rippling sea with the vast silhouette of a ferry in the background.

As my departure date looms closer and closer in my future, I once again feel the sharp pangs of loneliness in my gut. Sure, loneliness is mixed with excitement for new adventures, but leaving behind the comfortable, fulfilling relationships in Nice for the unknown of Germany is unsettling.

As it always is. The end of each stay is a giant leap of faith.

Leaping from a frying pan into the unknown is easy.

Leaping from a Tempur-Pedic mattress with a down duvet into the unknown can be challenging.

I love moving and I love meeting people, but sometimes I get tired of relearning all the rules.

Where am I allowed to sit?
What am I allowed to eat?
When do I wake up in the morning?
Where do I sleep?
What are my working hours?
What is my work?
Can I unpack my toothbrush?
Do I hug you? Kiss you? Shake your hand?
How do I fit into your life?

One of the things I love and hate the most is that traveling erases my past.

No past = no expectations (love)
No past = no reminiscing (hate)

Here's a short play I wrote to better understand my feelings regarding movement.

It seems that laughter needs an echo

~Henri Bergson

THE ECHO

by

Aimee Bourget 

VAGABOND

When’s the last time you laughed?

RESIDENT

I laughed this morning.

VAGABOND

At yourself?

RESIDENT

At my daughter.

VAGABOND

Why?

RESIDENT

She asked her grandfather why all the hair grew on the back of his head.

VAGABOND

Well?

RESIDENT

Well what?

VAGABOND

What did he say?

RESIDENT

He said that children get money for their lost teeth and old men get money for their lost hair. It’s his retirement fund.

VAGABOND

Did she laugh?

RESIDENT

No.

VAGABOND

Why not?

RESIDENT

Because she believed him. Her eyes got big and round and serious and she asked what old women lose for their retirement fund.

VAGABOND

And?

RESIDENT

Grandpa looked and grandma and said that old women lose their marbles.

VAGABOND

Oh. And did she laugh?

RESIDENT

Yes.

VAGABOND

Why?

RESIDENT

Because we were laughing.

VAGABOND

Because you were laughing.

RESIDENT

And you?

VAGABOND

Me?

RESIDENT

Sure.

VAGABOND

I wasn’t there.

RESIDENT

Of course not.

VAGABOND

Then what?

RESIDENT

When’s the last time you laughed?

VAGABOND

Which kind?

RESIDENT

Does it matter?

VAGABOND

I watched a stupid movie and I laughed at an inane joke because I was feeling lonely and wanted to relate with something. (beat) Does that count?

RESIDENT

Another kind.

VAGABOND

I stepped in dog shit and laughed because I didn’t want to curse in the park. You know how mothers are with their “don’t you dare pollute my babies, you filthy bastard” dirty looks.

RESIDENT

Another kind.

VAGABOND

I laughed when my tests came back negative.

RESIDENT

For?

VAGABOND

I laughed.

RESIDENT

For?

VAGABOND

Relief. You know, the kind of laughter sandwiched between silence. A slice of fear, toasted golden and spread with a thin layer of resignation... then the laughter... then the stark slice of “well, that’s good news, what now?”

RESIDENT

When’s the last time your laughter had momentum?

VAGABOND

Momentum requires a collision.

RESIDENT

When’s the last time you collided?

VAGABOND

Two months ago. I chanced upon a friend I’d met more than a year before.

RESIDENT

You laughed?

VAGABOND

We laughed.

RESIDENT

At what?

VAGABOND

A memory. A reminiscing elbow jab. An echo. We remembered Paris. We laughed about the pigeons... the, the pigeons in Paris. Hilarious, right? But the laughter felt like it was rolling down a grassy hill, playfully, easily bouncing, speeding along. It wasn’t the “I must laugh in the proper place so not to offend” laughter of first dates at nice restaurants or job interviews with pressed suits. That’s the tedious laughter that picks its way down scree slopes.

RESIDENT

Two months.

VAGABOND

Two months.

RESIDENT

Two months without a laugh that wasn’t forced or feigned?

VAGABOND

It’s a long time to go without a laugh.

RESIDENT

A long time.

VAGABOND

I move too quickly to hear the echo.

RESIDENT

Move –

Lights out. End of play.

Here's where I'm moving to next. After a short stint of couchsurfing in Frankfurt, that is. 

Description

We are looking for a workawayer from as soon as possible until about October 19th

We have about 30 alpacas, 2 dogs, numerous cats. Animals are part of our lives and so is their hair :-) So if you are allergic to cats or dogs, or even dust and hay, you should consider a different place to stay.

There is no public transportation, but usually there are lots of young people here, so you should not be bored. The area is great for hiking and cycling. The Rhine River, famous for its old castles and ruins is not too far away and we would love to take you there.

If you consider to stay with us, you should be able to stay for 2 weeks minimum. Exceptions are possible sometimes. You should be over 20, physically fit and don't mind physical work.

One last thing: We love dogs, however, it will not be possible that you bring your own dog, since one of our dogs will not tolerate other dogs in our house, sorry!

Area

Rheinland-Pfalz

Type of work

Help with Computers / internet,
Language practise,
Animal care,
Help in the house,
Farming,
General Maintenance,
Cooking / shopping,
Building,
Gardening

Work

You can do anything from gardening, taking care of the animals, house remodeling, cooking etc.

There is all kinds of work to do at our 400 year old farm, which we bought only a few years ago. Your job would mainly be to take care of the alpacas (clean the barn and feed them), but there are lots of other things to help with according to your skills and preference. The work you do is physical work and can be quite hard at times, but of course there will be plenty of time to relax.

Languages spoken

German and English

Accommodation

1 room for 1 - 2 people

Some more information

Internet access

Limited internet access

We have pets

We are smokers

Volunteering hours expected

5

Preconceptions: None

Challenges: None

General Observations: Nice smells like dog piss. Really. Everyone seems to have at least one small, fluffy, caterpillar-like looking dog, and these dogs shit and piss everywhere. People do not clean up after their animals, so pedestrians must be constantly aware of where they're putting their feet.

Because it's never just mud. And it's never just water. 

Via Ferrata -- Nice, France

We must always tell what we see. Above all, and this is more difficult, we must always see what we see.

~Charles Peguy 

One of my favorite writing exercises is to watch. To sit, watch, and write sans suspension or filter. Regardless of how judgmental, cliche, boring or flat-out ridiculous my observations are, I write them down. 

I try to remove the filter between my brain and my hands. My motto is to write what I think and to say the things about which I've thought. 

Perhaps it's a mistake. Perhaps I ought to write professionally, filtering out the first, second, and third drafts, settling on the fourth and posting the concise, precise, bits of refined information. 

But I don't have time to refine. And refining is almost as boring as stale white bread or plain tofu. 

Here are a few observations from yesterday: 

Flap, flap, flap go the flags overhead. 

Women strut slowly here. It is not a city of bold, clacking heels, but smooth gliding, sliding stilettos. 

Mothers hold hands of sour looking boys. Clearly they do not appreciate the fact that they are in the French Riviera.

Old women try to glide, slide in elevated sandals and playful polka dot skirts and "I hope that this matches" handbags. Trying to reclaim the joys of youth looks like hard work for pencil legs.

Some tourists hide cameras under arms. 

Other tourists flaunt cameras the size of arms. 

Yellow corduroy pants, Hawaiian pants, checkered pants, vibrant fluorescent striped skirts, pants that could easily double as pajamas, slacks, khakis, frilly white skirts...

The only thing I don't see are the pants so short the pockets peep through. 

I am thankful for this. 

 

Tuesday was fun. Tuesday was loads and loads and loads of fun (yes, I realize that I use the word "loads" nearly often as I use the word "delightful". I will spend next month reading Oscar Wilde to expand my vocabulary).

The morning was spent tying together loose ends of a blog post, googling "teach english south korea" and designing a yoga routine for postnatal women (a present for my sister-in-law). At 10:40, I filled my flowery blue water bottle, placed my ray bans atop my unruly hair, and slipped my arms into the sleeves of the motorcycle jacket Baris had bought for his backseat riders (after removing the uncomfortable back padding that makes me look (and feel) like a turtle) and headed out the door. 

I was meeting with Patrick for our final adventure. 

It had been over a week since I'd seen my "rock star" friend. Our tentative three day trip to the Alps hadn't worked out because he'd found a boat sailing for the Caribbean and needed to spend his time preparing for his own epic enterprise. 

While I was tickled for him, I was more than a little disappointed that our excursion had been canceled. Things change and I completley understand and respect people pursuing their own aspirations whenever possible, but I had hoped for at least one more outing with my outdoorsy friend. 

And I got it. 

My goodness, I got it. We didn't just go rock climbing. We went Via Ferrata-ing.

I'm sure many of you are well acquainted with the "Via Ferrata", but this newbie had never even heard of such a thing before Tuesday. So for those of you who are as ill-acquainted as myself, allow me to expound upon the "Iron Road". 

Via Ferratas are protected climbing routes found primarily in the Alps. These courses are characterized by iron cables that run along the entirety of each route, fixing themselves to the cliff face every 3-10 meters. While these cables serve to limit potential falls, they certainly don't rule out injury. When Patrick hooked me up to the cable he said, "Do not fall. When we climb, I can catch you if you fall. Here, I can do nosing. When we climb, you fall a foot and zere is nosing but za mountain. Here, you hit za iron on za way down, boom, boom, boom, boom," my friend kicked his head back to demonstrate getting knocked on the chin. 

I nodded with grim, happy determination. I would not fall. 

Today's Via Ferratas were built by soldiers in the First World War to aid the movement of Italian troops. These routes were later improved and refurbished by the SAT and the CAI and have become major destinations for outdoor enthusiasts in their multiple locations throughout Southern France.

There are:

400 Via Ferratas in Italy

550 in Austria (called Klettersteig there)

200 in France

150 in Switzerland

180 in Germany

40 in Spain

and several in Slovenia, Poland, Sweden, Norway, and the UK. To name a few. 

These outrageously fun adventure opportunities are everywhere. 

So find one and go do it. Now. Enjoy the adrenaline rush, garner a few victory bruises, scrape up your hands, and feel like you're flying. 

Feel the moment or fall. Be present or lose your footing. 

Those are your choices. Like Eddie Izzard's "cake or death".

It costs three euros to do this course. THREE euros. I develop more and more appreciation every day for how much France encourages people to be active and get outside to enjoy the weather and the scenery. If you have a car/motorcycle your opportunities are endless.

The rope was my favorite part of the Via Ferrata. I liked wrapping my barefoot shoes around the iron cable and feeling just how important the placement of each toe was. I liked looking down and seeing how far I'd climbed. I liked softening my eyes, softening my ears and focusing on the delicate sensations of touch and balance.

And then it got windy. And I loved it even more. I wasn't just playing with my own weight when the wind picked up -- I had to factor in the force of the breeze. Like acro yoga, the inclusion of a partner turns the exercise into a kind of social dance, but a dance wherein neither partner is the leader.

There were moments spent on these rungs wherein I was truly frightened. My hands were slick with sweat and my shoes didn't have quite as much grip as I would have liked. There was a particularly difficult transition that involved me hanging (nearly upside down) from my left arm and reaching out with my right hand to move the clips further up the cable. I could feel the strength going out of my left arm as my right hand fumbled, bumbled, why isn't this working?? with the clip. My sweaty fingers started to slide and exhilarating adrenaline took the taste of acidic panic. "Are you okay?" Patrick called down to me. I swallowed the acid, gripped harder, and shouted up, "I'll be fine! Just fine."

Thank-you for the final adventure, Patrick. I hope we'll meet again.

Baris had arrived home earlier than usual and was not at all amused that I'd removed the back protection from the jacket. I found the damning evidence propped up on the couch with the ibuprofen he'd bought for my low back pain.

"In Turkey, we call people who have been acting like children "donkeys". You have been a donkey."

I sheepishly hung my donkey head and promised not to remove the back protection in the future.  Even though it makes this sheepish donkey look and feel like a turtle.

Preconceptions: None today

Challenges: Nope. Although the Via Ferrata was a wonderful challenge in and of itself.

Bits and Bobs -- Nice, France

The sounds of Nice aren't at all nice in the morning. The city bustles and hustles along, honking horns, men cursing in French, hammers and drills pinging, whizzing and whirring, engines revving, brakes screeching, and midget dogs barking. 

I miss the sounds of Buckinghamshire. I miss the cow who was always so anxious to be milked at 5:00 every morning. I miss the birds chirping and the Red Kite that would circle above my loft window. I miss hearing Oscar's deep, throaty "I MUST MAKE PEE NOW, FRIENDBEAST!" bark, and Lucy's adamant sniffing under the door "I can thmell you... I know you're in there, becauth I can thmell you."

I fly into Frankfurt next Thursday. I truly cannot believe that this month has gone by so quickly. Wasn't it just yesterday I was waiting for Baris at the airport, anxiously asking strangers if I could use their phones to call my friend because he'd gotten lost in the airport maze and was running late? Wasn't it just last week that we went to Italy for the first time? It must have been. I can still taste the Parmesan, imagine that sunset and see the city lights of Nice as we took the coastal road home. 

It must have been just last night that Baris and I were walking the Promenade des Anglais. We stopped to look at the moon and he told me that in Turkish, there is a single word describing moonlight reflected on the water. 

Yakamoz.  

Although it was at least two weeks ago that he told me that Turkish people are smarter on the toilet (it's where they solve all their problems) and that ostriches are called "camel birds". 

I feel very disconnected from time and routine. Sometimes the randomness of my day to day life  mixed with my lack of control makes me lose sight of time as a line from A to B. 

Time feels like a stew. A giant pot of Irish stew or Moroccan tagine. Meat and veggies blending and flavors melding, thrown into a clay pot and stuffed into the oven for hours and hours to make something good. 

And the things that taste good always surprise me. I never would have guessed that pear and monkfish would make a marvelous tagine.

Here are a few pictures from my France stew. 

This is farcis, a stuffed vegetable specialty of Nice. Tomatoes, courgettes, onions, peppers, eggplant, and cabbage are hollowed out, stuffed with sausage, spices, cheese, and baked.

I went into Cours Saleya to purchase fruit last Monday and was confronted with a flea market, of sorts. No fruit to be found, but an abundance of watches, flasks, buttons and grandmother china.

 

A picture from the port near where Baris lives. A ferry leaves for Corsica every morning and every evening. Next time I visit Southern France, I will see Corsica. I hear it's full of amazing climbing and hiking.

This picture got lost in my France stew, but it was from one of our many lovely evenings out. I think this restaurant was a Portuguese place in Old Town. We both liked it because it was friendly, down to earth, and local. No tourists (I feel awful saying that) -- which makes sense. No proper tourist would come to Nice to eat Portuguese food. They flock to the restaurants boasting the city's best socca. As well they should.

When no one showed up for the yoga class I offered in Parc de la Colline du Chateau, I used the time to walk around the park and take pictures. I taught a six am class at Yoga West three days a week for over six months. While it makes me sad when people don't show up for my classes, it's certainly a sensation I'm used to. If it weren't for my stalwart Kelly, I would have been practicing on my own nearly the entire time.

View of the port from the park

A few more pictures from Old Town...

Friday managed to roll around, somehow or other (as Friday always does), and I found myself on the bus and off to Vence to visit Tessa for gluten-free crepes and yoga.

Buses in Southern France are cheap, slow, and crowded. It took nearly an hour and a half (most of which I was standing, as a disgruntled old lady charged me as soon as she got on the bus and demanded in very fast French that I give up my seat) until my bus ground to a halt at its last stop in Vence Centre. 

Tessa uses HelpEx as I use workaway.

This is where HelpEx landed Tessa.

She made such a gorgeous spread. When my new friend from New Zealand invited me over for crepes, I did not anticipate coffee and juice and lemons and peaches and nutella all served on beautiful china on a perfectly shaded patio.

I must say, this was a particularly pleasant spoonful of stew.

Stomach happily gurgling and full of crepes, body relaxed and sore from yoga, and soul rejuvenated and inspired from Tessa's company and conversation, I boarded the dreaded bus to Antibes, where I'd planned to meet Baris after he finished work.

Except there is no bus from Vence to Antibes. One has to get off and change at a town on the way to Nice, wait a good while and pay for another ticket. 

The buses were packed. Shoulder to shoulder standing room the entire ride -- except for the fellow sitting on the floor at my feet, reeking of body odor, alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes and urine. The only thing on the bus taking up more space than his sprawled out body was his pungent stench.

Antibes

Baris was a little late meeting me in Antibes. That part of last week's stew stands out as a notably spicy mouthful.

I'm sometimes surprised and humiliated by just how nervous I get when I start to feel stranded.

Am I in the right place? 

I don't have a phone to check. 

I forgot his number. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now I can't ask to borrow a phone to call him. 

What if I'm in the wrong place? 

Will he still find me? 

It's Baris. He'll find me. Of course he'll find me.

What if he doesn't? Should I get on a bus and head back to Nice? Which bus? It wouldn't be the same one that brought me here. 

Damn, I wish I spoke French. 

But what if I get on the bus and he spends the evening looking for me? 

Damn. Why haven't I invested in a working phone?

I was in the right place and Baris showed up (work kept him late) and all that fretting was for nothing. As I knew it was.  

One of these days I will stop needing to fret. I'll learn to relax and wait.

Preconceptions: Most French people smell lovely and seem to have great hygiene. Only drunkies on buses and groups of bored teenagers in museums smell like they haven't bathed since spring. When I told Baris about the throngs of pungent teenagers in the Massena Museum, he said, "Aimee, they are adolescents. They vill smell of three things. Sveat, tears, and body odor."

Challenges: Pernod!