Wandering I

I awoke early this morning to head to Madrid with Steph and Kathryn.  It was a painful awakening since I had only gone to bed two hours earlier.  As I was putting on my shoes in the dark, the door swung open and Kathryn barged in.  I had asked the girls to wake me up if they didn’t see me downstairs in the lobby, but I hadn’t given much thought to the logistical challenge: How would they wake me up without waking up everyone else in the room?  Frankly, I figured they would leave without me.  To my pleasant surprise, however, they turned out to be quite resourceful and determined.  They asked the receptionist on duty to unlock the door, and that’s how Kathryn turned up in the room looking for me.  I assured her I was awake and almost ready.

We raced to the train station to catch the 7:30am train.  I didn’t have a reservation, but I didn’t think I needed one.  In the past I often just showed up at the station and produced my Eurorail pass.  We took the metro to the main train station.  There I gave my metro pass to a girl heading towards the metro station.  I didn’t need it anymore, and it still had at least one more ride available.  Steph, Kathryn, and I arrived at our gate, and the two of them showed their passes and walked through.  When it was my turn, I handed the woman my Eurorail pass.  She shook her head no and told me I needed a ticket with a reservation.  But I have a Eurorail pass, I insisted.  A man, another member of the staff, approached us, and the woman showed him the pass.  No, he asserted shaking his head, I needed a reservation.  Fine, no problem, I thought.  I’ll get a reservation for the next train leaving in an hour, or if I was lucky, I could maybe even get a ticket for this train since there were still a few minutes remaining before departure.  I said good-bye to the girls, and they headed off.  At the ticket counter, I asked the woman for a reservation for the same train.  That was not possible, she informed me.  In fact, the next train I could get on did not depart until 6:30pm.  I was dumbstruck.  How could that be?  They didn’t have even one seat available?  I weighed my options, the few that I had.  I would have to take the 6:30pm train.  There was no way I was going to wait at the station though.  I decided to book the ticket and return to the hostel.  Too bad I gave away my metro pass though.  I would have to buy another one.  I saw then a discarded National Rail pass lying on the counter.  There was no way it would work on the metro, I thought, but I pocketed it anyway.  I’d give it a shot.  As I made my way back to the metro, cursing my stupidity for not making the reservation earlier, I thought again about throwing away the used pass.  For some reason though, I hung on to it, and when I got to the metro, the pass worked.  Thank God for karma.

Back at the hostel, the guys were kind enough to give me back my bed until check-out at 11:00am. I relished the opportunity to sleep for a few more hours.  I returned to the train station later in the evening and took the 6:30pm train to Madrid.  I finally arrived in the capital late at night as a light drizzle blanketed the city.

After lunch at the Chinese buffet today, I headed to the Barcelona beach with two guys also staying at Hello BCN.  Jael is a Haitian Quebecer and Daki is an Irishman.  Neither Jael or I can understand Daki most of the time due to his heavy Irish accent coupled with his usually intoxicated state.  Jael and Daki decided they wanted to buy some hashish first, so we wound our way through the city towards the beach as the two of them asked random people whether they had hash.  We got a lot of angry looks, but finally a seedy-looking man sold them some.  We then continued to the beach.

As one friend told me before I got to Barcelona, the beach here is “quite revealing.”  Enough said.

Several South Asian men selling drinks passed by where the three of us lounged on the beach.  When they were close enough, they offered to sell us hash, too.  It was all done on the sly.  They spoke out of the corners of their mouths, glancing around furtively to make sure no cops were nearby.  Then they passed a can of beer to you with a wad of hash hidden behind it, making it look like it was the beer they were selling.  The boys bought another wad.  They offered me some, but I politely declined.

Today, I decided, would be my “Gaudi Day.”  As in, I would check out all of the artist’s sites I could in one day.  I managed to visit Casa Batllo, La Pedrera, and Park Guell before I grew tired.  I had seen La Sagrada Familia from the outside on the bike tour, and I decided not to return there.

Though I am inspired by Antoni Gaudi’s commitment to emulating Nature in his art, at times I find his adaptation of it too – excuse the pun – “gaudy” for my tastes.  Many – not all – of his facades don’t seem to fit in to the “natural” scheme – striped, twisting steeples look more like something out of a fairy tale than something suited to and harmonius with the location in which the building is located.  I don’t think many of his buildings would “fit” anywhere except deep underwater (he takes much of his inspiration from aquatic life).

When I reached Park Guell, I continued to climb to the top.  There’s a steep incline that leads to the base of the park. From there, there’s a network of escalators and stairs that takes you up the rest of the way.  At the top, there’s yet another short climb to a hill that gives a nice, panoramic view of the city.  I trudged up the last few stairs, and as I climbed the final step, I saw sitting before me: Francesco! (pronounced Fran-ches-co! – the exclamation mark is my own addition and not really necessary. However, it makes calling his name immensely more fun and sounds more Italian.)

Francesco! is a 28-year-old, Italian engineer for Ferrari.  He’s the stereotypical Italian I have seen portrayed in America.  He speaks English with a thick Italian accent, expresses frustration by shaking his clenched hands at the wrists, and dances with his index fingers jabbing the air.  Moreover, he eats pasta almost every night, and his “Mama” calls him nearly every day.  He’s also prone to throwing out a “Mamma Mia!” ever so frequently.  An extremely nice guy, Francesco! and I first met when he was leaving Hello BCN.  We had been in the same room for one night, but we hadn’t really talked then.  Now that we had run into each other again, we decided to see the rest of the park together.  We quickly struck up a friendship.  He had also met Steph and Kathryn, and we all hung out later tonight.

This morning I took the bike tour with Steph and Kathryn.  It was fun riding around the city, and I enjoyed hanging out with the girls.  The tour was informative to some extent as well.  However, I didn’t think it was worth the €22.

Afterwards, Steph, Kathryn, and I walked back to the hostel. On the way, we passed a side street where I saw several clusters of men and women just standing around.  It was still only midday, too early for the partygoers, so I wondered what was going on.  I took a closer look.  The women were dressed and acting quite provocatively.  Yes.  They were prostitutes.  I had thought they only did their business at night.  So I was wrong.

We returned to the hostel, and the girls decided to nap.  It wasn’t such a bad idea.  It seems that the “siesta” – afternoon nap – is a reality here.  I thought it was only myth.  However, most stores and businesses shut down during the afternoon, and the streets lie deserted.  I indulged in this local custom as well and found my two-hour nap very refreshing.  Afterwards I went for a walk around the neighborhood.

By and by I found myself at the the street where I had seen the prostitutes earlier.  This time I walked right down the street.  Most of the women stood leaning against the walls or standing in doorways on both sides of the street.  I watched a man walking in the opposite direction down the sidewalk as one of the bigger girls (they came in all sizes, I noticed) slapped her arm against his stomach.  He was caught off guard and stopped abruptly.  She raised her eyebrows at him and asked him something.  He stopped to talk to her.  I was glad I was on the road and not on the sidewalk, even though I had the feeling all eyes were on me.  Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a young woman appeared at my side.  She was a petite, pale girl with blond hair down to her shoulder and light blue eyes.  As she turned to face me, a police car passed by at the end of the street.  She immediately took her hand off my shoulder and walked a few paces ahead of me.  I continued to walk along.  Once the car disappeared, she turned around to face me and grabbed my arm.  I knew immediately what was up.
  No, esta bein.  “No, it’s Ok,” I told her.
  “What?” she responded in English.  “I just want to talk to you.”
  She was still holding my arm. I stopped.
  “Where are you from?” she asked me.
  “New York,” I responded.  I tried to get her to release my arm, but she held on tight.  I was amused.
  “Where are you from?” I asked her.
  “Romania.”  She pulled me to the sidewalk.
  No, esta bien, I said again.  No me gusta.  “I don’t like it.”
  “What don’t you like?” she feigned surprise.
  No esta bien, I insisted.
  “You’re so beautiful,” she crooned.  “I love you.”
  I laughed.  This was definitely the fastest a girl had fallen in love with me.
  “Thirty euros only,” she persisted, getting down to business.
  No, gracias.  “No, thanks,” I responded.  No puedo.  “I can’t.”
  We were at the end of the street.  She was still holding my arm.
  Tengo que ir.  “I have to go,” I said firmly.  I pried her hand off and turned to go.
  “Bye,” she murmured wistfully and returned the way she had come.

I continued my tour of the neighborhood and later in the evening I found that I had to pass through “Prostitute Street” again.  I realized I was a bit nervous.  I took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, and marched down the center of the road.  I made sure not to make eye contact.  This time I got a few suggestive hisses, but no one accosted me.  I didn’t see the Romanian girl anywhere.  For her sake, I hoped she had found work.

My first impression of Barcelona was fantastic.  After the dead city of Marseille, Barcelona’s hustle and bustle is most welcome.  I first arrived at the Mambo Tango youth hostel.  A girl I met in Marseille recommended it, and since I didn’t have a reservation anywhere in Barcelona, I figured I would start there.  When I got to the hostel, however, there were no rooms available.  Martha, the woman at the front desk, called a nearby hostel, Hello BCN, and set me up with a room.

Hello BCN is a modern, well-maintained  hostel.  The locks on the room doors and lockers are all electronic.  It has a large lobby where residents can be seen hanging out throughout the day and late into the night.  After checking in and showering, I set out to explore the neighborhood.

I found a Chinese restaurant nearby that offered a lunch buffet for €5.  To my starved body, this was a godsend.  I ate as if I had never eaten before: noodles, chicken-pops, beef and brocolli, and fruit all found a place in my stomach.

Afterwards, I continued exploring the neighborhood.  I love the urban design and architecture.  The narrow allies with cobblestone and brick paths are most charming.  I find it immensely enjoyable to turn into back allies.  The anticipation of what I will find is most exciting.  I am amazed at how clean the streets are. There’s little garbage anywhere.  I’ve seen that a crew of workers patrols the streets usually late at night and power-washes the roads and plazas.  It seems like a waste of water, but it must help prevent disease and other qualms that take root in unclean environments.

As I walked around, I came across a telephone shop.  Since I needed to buy a SIM card still, I approached the sales clerk and asked him if he sold “Movistar” SIM cards (I had asked Mattheas in Marseille which I should get because he lived in Spain until recently).  At first I spoke to the clerk in Spanish. When my Spanish failed me, I spoke in English.  Then upon learning that the man was Pakistani, I spoke to him in Urdu.  I ended up not buying the card because it wasn’t what I was looking for, but it struck me that there are a great number of Pakistanis here.  You see Pakistanis – mostly men – everywhere.  Many of the shops are run by Pakistanis and even have signage in Urdu.  Moreover, numerous Pakistani restaurants dot the neighborhood.  I eventually came across another telephone shop.  This one, too, was run by Pakistanis.  It was a much bigger store, and at least five gentlemen stood behind the L-shaped counter.  I said “salaam” and introduced myself to one of the men, Rauf Raja, who ended up selling me a SIM card.  I asked him why there were so many Pakistanis here.  Just like the Americans have taken over Iraq, the Pakistanis have taken over Barcelona, he joked wryly.  I dropped the topic.

I strolled down Las Ramblas later.  It’s said to be the most famous street in Spain. I can see why.  There’s a lot happening on this street.  Tourists, street artists, street vendors all crowd the same space.  Every few feet there’s something different to see.  The street artists, especially, are quite inspiring.  They appear in full body paint, usually as mimes, and there never seems to be a repeat act.  I wonder if they’re all part of the same union or organization that helps ensure that they don’t encroach on each other’s acts.  The street transforms itself at night when the drunk partygoers take over.  South Asian men selling beer and hash suddenly appear every few yards along with African prostitutes who grab at the men passing by.

When I returned to my room later tonight, I met Steph and Kathryn.  They are in the bunk beds across from mine.  They are Canadian teachers, both about my age, traveling during summer break.  Steph teaches in Canada while Kathryn is currently teaching in Bulgaria.  They seem like nice girls.  They invited me to join them on a bike tour of Barcelona tomorrow. I agreed to accompany them.  It would be a nice way to see the city.

Today is my last day in Marseille.  I can’t say I will miss it.  I’m taking the overnight train tonight, which departs at 12:30am.  I should arrive in Barcelona early morning tomorrow.

I had an extremely expensive breakfast this morning.  Not knowing the language really is a problem.  I ended up getting a fancy salad without knowing what I was getting or how much it was.  When the waitress slapped the €15 bill down, I was pretty shocked.  I’m looking forward to Spain where I can at least speak and understand enough of the language to get by.

As I was checking out of the hostel, I saw Patrick heading out.  He told me to wait for him to come back before I left.  I didn’t feel like sticking around to see what he was up to now.  I decided to see some sights in Marseille before I left, and I hitched a ride with Mattheas and his gang in their large Volkswagon, hippie van.  They took me to the train station where I left my big backpack.  Afterwards, we went for ice-cream at which point they dropped me off before leaving the city to go camping.

I walked around the rest of the day.  I climbed up the steep slope to the Notre Dame Cathedral (yes, there’s one in Marseille, too).  It was so windy at the top it nearly lifted me up, and I felt like I could be blown away any moment. The women had a more difficult time.  Dressed in their short summer skirts, they struggled to hold and squeeze them down.

The sight of the Mediterranean Sea – my first – was astounding.  It was a deep blue, pockmarked with white waves, and it seemed to stretch out forever. In the distance I could also see Chateau d’Iff, the prison made famous by the Count of Monte Cristo.

The Lonely Planet Guidebook recommends eating fish stew while in Marseille, so I went looking for some.  I ended up back at the internet cafe where I had stopped by yesterday, and I asked the extremely helpful lady there if she could direct me to a restaurant nearby where I could have fish stew.  Her English wasn’t so good, however, and she told me to speak to a young man who was using a computer there.  He seemed puzzled that I would want to eat fish stew and discouraged me from doing so.  He recommended instead that I have soupin, another local seafood specialty, at a nearby restaurant and told me how to get there.  I grew excited about trying something recommended by a local.  Could this possibly be to Marseillans what “Chicken & Rice” is to me as a New Yorker?  Unfortunately, when I finally arrived at the restaurant, I saw that it was closed until the end of August.  I settled for a burger at an Arab restaurant instead.

The train to Barcelona was not as comfortable as I had hoped.  I sat in a reclining seat, which didn’t recline enough to let me stretch out, and to make matters worse, the girl sitting behind me kept bumping my seat.  So I hardly slept and arrived in Barcelona bleary-eyed and weary.

I avoided Rebecca the rest of the evening yesterday.  There turned out to be no reggae concert and so a group of us just checked out some clubs.  Katy left this morning, and I headed into town around midday.  I booked a night train to Barcelona for tomorrow night.  I’ve had enough of this place already.

Marseille, as far as I can tell, is a very “dry” place.  There doesn’t seem to be much happening.  Also, it doesn’t feel like France.  There are so many North Africans here and the city is so unkempt (unlike Paris), that I keep forgetting that I’m in France still.  I have to remind myself of it frequently.

I had dinner at an Algerian restaurant.  The French really love their baguettes, I’ve noticed, but I’m not much of a fan.  The bread is too dry and hard in my opinion.  However, I didn’t have much of a choice at the Algerian place.  So I instructed the man on how to make a cheesesteak.  It was a slapdash job, but the sandwich came out quite good.

Later when I was returning to the hostel, I got to the bus stop only to learn that the buses had stopped running at 9:00pm.  I was surprised because I had been told buses ran until midnight. It was around 11:00pm, and there was not a single taxi in sight.  So I set out walking.  I saw a man a few yards ahead of me hitchhiking, and after traipsing along for a bit, I decided to give it a try, too.  I stuck my thumb out and watched for any potential takers.  I got no bites.  I continued walking along the broad stretch of empty highway until finally, I saw a cab and hailed it.  I started a conversation with the cab driver, Mohammad, and asked him how he liked Marseille.  He didn’t like it at all, he told me.  So much for trying to get a positive view of the city.

Marseille really is a tough place.  A group of Chinese tourists that just arrived was robbed on the way to the hostel.  The man rented a car, and they were driving to the hostel when a young boy stopped them on the road.  While they were stopped, another boy ran up to the car, grabbed a bag through an open window, and ran off with it.  When they told their story to Jean, he asserted matter-of-factly that the boys must have been Arabs.  I take it Arabs don’t have such a good reputation around here.

A white-haired man wearing an unbuttoned, Hawaiian shirt and fitted white pants greeted me at the door of La Cigla et la Fourmi and told me to walk upstairs where Jen would help me.  It turned out that he meant Jean, but I heard Jen and went looking for a person that would be a Jen, namely a female.

I had read in my Lonely Planet Guidebook that the place is tiny with small stairwells.  However, I wasn’t expecting this.  Only one person can fit at a time on the stairs, and they are so steep in places that you nearly crawl up.  The crawling was even more pronounced with my backpack on, and I trudged up the stairs with quite some difficulty.  I had the sense of being in a cave.  The stairs veered off into dark hallways.  I saw dimly lit corners at the end of several.  I continued to climb, not knowing where I was supposed to go.  I passed a large room where three people sat talking.  I kept going, assuming the three people where other residents.  I found myself at a dead end and backtracked down to the foyer where I had seen the three people.

Turned out that one of the three was Jean, the man who runs the place.  He looks about 50 years old.  A Caucasian French man, he lounged on the couch smoking a cigarette.  The other two were residents on their way out.  Soon the man who had met me at the door also joined us.  His name is Patrick.  He lives in Greece currently and is here in Marseille helping Jean sell the hostel (turns out Jean’s emigrating to the Philippines to be with his Filipino son).  A French Jew of about 65 years of age, Patrick immediately became the center of attention.  He speaks English with a thick, French accent, and he’s usually drunk, high, or both, so his speech is slurred, making it all that more difficult to understand him.  He dug into me right away, introducing me to newcomers as “The Terrorist.”  I played along, not at all flustered.  I think now that it was his way of testing me, to see if I was easygoing enough to hang with him.  He confided that he had spent some time in Pakistan with friends and was well-aware of the culture and people.  I asked him what he was doing in Pakistan. “Smoking hash!” he guffawed.  “You ask me, I tell you!” He lit a hash joint.

Several more men trickled into the room.  Some were residents, others were looking for a place to stay.  Patrick yelled for a girl.  She would show me to my room, he informed me.  I could also pay for “more,” he suggested.  Jean and Patrick smiled at me slyly.  A brunette girl stuck out her head and looked down at us from a part of the ceiling (the floor of the upstairs bedroom) that was made of Plexiglas.  I noticed it then and couldn’t help wondering what must go on in this hostel.  Who has a see-through floor in their bedroom?  Jean and Patrick were quick to tell me that the brunette wasn’t for sale, but the girl we were waiting for was.  Patrick called her again, “Rebecca!”  The girl shouted something back in French.  She was in the shower, Patrick translated.  The bedroom, Jean divulged, was for couples who liked to put on a show.  He grinned mischievously.  Finally, Rebecca, a blond girl who looks like she is 19 or 20 years old, joined us.  She’s from northern France and barely speaks any English.  She seems like a very friendly girl.  Rebecca led me to where I would be staying. “Don’t take too long!” chortled Jean and Patrick behind us.

I showered and returned to the foyer with Katy, another American staying in the same building as me.  Jean still lounged on the couch, but now a Dutch girl, Dika, sat next to him.  Two other additions, Mattheas and Holly who are both German, sat at the computer.  Patrick was still planted in his chair by the dining table.  His speech had become more crude.  He complimented the women on their “assets” and openly propositioned them.  Jean, meanwhile, was intent on making a move on Dika.  When Katy and I walked in, Patrick’s attention immediately shifted to her, and he began showering her with his ribald remarks.  He produced a bottle of wine and soon Katy was drinking glass after glass.  By the end of the day, she would be completely inebriated.

When I asked about a place to eat dinner, Patrick offered that he would cook instead.  Rebecca vouched for the quality of his cooking, so I agreed to dine with them.  Patrick asked Katy and me to contribute by buying most of the food though.  I felt that I had been set up, but not wanting to cause any problems on my first day, I chipped in.  Patrick, Rebecca, Katy, and I headed out to buy the groceries.  The cooked chicken we bought cost me €10.  Afterwards, Patrick swindled another €5 from me for cigarettes, promising to pay me later.  I knew not to expect the money back.  On the way back from the butcher, Katy and Rebecca went off separately to buy a bottle of wine.  Patrick and I walked together.  He took his time.
     “So you like that girl?” he asked me.
     “Who?” I played dumb.  “Katy?”
     “No!” he snapped.  “Rebecca!  You like her?”
     “She seems fine,” I said cautiously.  I had noticed Rebecca’s sidelong glances and smiles at me.
     “Well, she likes you,” he continued.  “And, Rashid (he was having a hard time with my name still), God will forgive you for everything.”  He had stopped in the middle of the road.  “He will forgive you for killing a man.  He will forgive you for eating swine and drinking alcohol.  But, Rashid, God will not forgive you for refusing a woman.  If a girl wants to sleep with you, you sleep with her!”  (His exact words were a bit more colorful.)
     What was going on?  I was confused.  Was he pimping her out?  Was this a ploy to extort money from me?  For the first time since I started traveling, I felt unsafe.  I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was something going on behind my back.  Some game was being played, and I was an ignorant pawn.  My senses were suddenly on high alert, and I decided to be very careful in how I dealt with this strange cast of characters.
    “Sure,” I nodded.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

While Patrick prepared dinner, I hung out in the foyer where I had first met everyone.  It is the ad hoc lobby of this hostel, I realize.  People check in and out here.  Cash exchanges hands.  Nothing more official than that.  Jean doesn’t even ask you how long you intend to stay, and you certainly don’t make any payment up front.  At the end of your stay, Jean asks you how many nights you stayed, you tell him, and hand over the cash: €15 per night.  Not a bad deal as long as you’re willing to bear the harassment.  And of course, the hashish.  Hash joints frequently make the rounds, handed dutifully from one person to the next.  I passed each time it got to me.  Now, if ever, was not the time to experiment.

Dinner was a quiet affair.  In addition to the chicken, we had a fish and vegetable dish.  After dinner I returned to my room to finish doing my laundry.  I am glad that I packed a clothesline with me before I left the US because there was no place otherwise where I could hang my clothes.  As I was finishing up, Rebecca appeared at the door.  I gathered that she was looking for something, but when she didn’t find it, she lingered in the room.  We made small talk, trying as best as we could given the language barrier.  She seemed nervous, and there was something odd about her mannerisms.  Something did not click.
     “Hey, how old are you anyway?”  I asked her.
     “No,” she laughed.
     I wasn’t sure if she understood.  I asked again.
     “No, how old are you?” she replied.
     “Twenty-five,” I said.  “And you?”
     “Guess,” she said.
     ”Nineteen?” I ventured.
     She laughed.  Something about the way she was acting made me uncomfortable.
     “OK, I will tell you after the reggae concert tonight,” she conceded.  She had invited me out to the concert earlier, and I had agreed to accompany her.
     “No,” I insisted.  “Tell me now.”
     “OK,” she said finally.  “I am 15.”

I awoke this morning, bid farewell to Ali and the Finnish boys, and headed to the station to catch my train to Marseille, France.  I didn’t know what to expect in Marseille.  I had heard that the Mediterranean Coast of France is beautiful, but Marseille has a reputation for being gritty and tough.  When I got off the train at the Marseille station, one thing I knew for sure right away was that this was no Paris.  It didn’t have the same pleasant feeling.

I had called ahead for a bed at La Cigla et la Fourmi youth hostel, and I had to take the Metro and switch to a bus to get there.  When I went to buy a Metro pass, however, the agent denied having change for a €50 bill, even though I was buying a €10 pass.  I asked around for change but had no luck.  Finally, I trekked back to the platform where I had arrived and tried to buy something at the newspaper stand.  The vendor there also claimed not to have change.  Exasperated, I walked into a nearby pharmacy.  There the male attendant was quick to inform me that they didn’t give change.  I’ll buy something, I told him tersely.  I bought a bottle of contact lens solution, and I got my change.

I was on the bus to Robespeare, my stop, when four men suddenly boarded the bus.  They quickly dispersed amongst the passengers, barking orders in French.  I watched the two women sitting across from me pull out some ID cards and hand them to a man.  He had a portable device with him in which he swiped the cards.  The machine emitted two beeps for each card, and the man handed them back to the women.  I observed the exchange in puzzlement, not sure what they were doing.  Then the man approached me and extended his hand.  I fished in my pocket and gave him my Metro pass.  Is this what he wanted?  He stared at the card for a few seconds (during which time I wondered if he wanted my license or passport instead), then swiped it in his machine.  I sat back, relieved. The machine emitted only one beep though.  He swiped the card again.  Again only one beep. He turned the pass around and swiped again.  I thought I heard two beeps this time, but the man didn’t seem satisfied. Nevertheless, he handed the pass back to me and joined the rest of his crew.  I realized then that I had just experienced a raid by the transit authority.  These men were going around making sure the passengers had valid passes and weren’t trying to get free rides.  It was my first raid, and it wouldn’t be my last.

I approached the bus driver and after greeting him asked about my stop.  The driver was maneuvering the bus around an extremely narrow turn, edging around oncoming vehicles, when he finally understood what I was saying.  “Robespeare!” he exclaimed.  He brought the bus to a stop and jerked his thumb back.  “Robespeare back!”  I guessed I had missed my stop.  The driver popped the doors open in the middle of the road and looked at me expectantly.  I got the message.  I grabbed my backpack and jumped off the bus.

Marseille has a dry, heavy heat.  I felt like I was roasting as I plodded my way in the direction the bus had come.  I wasn’t even certain how far back the stop was, and I dreaded having to walk far under the merciless midday sun.  Luckily, the second stop turned out to be Robespeare.  I wasn’t sure where to go from there though.  Walking around a corner I came across a restaurant.  I asked a man there for directions, and he was kind enough to lead me down a nondescript back road to La Cigla et la Fourmi, the weirdest place I have yet visited.

I didn’t have any place to stay tonight.  I tried extending my booking at the International Youth Hostel, but the receptionist was firm in his response: No rooms. It wasn’t so much the sleeping I was worried about (although that, too, was an issue) but more so about my luggage.  I would have to pack everything up and check out by 10:00am if I couldn’t get an extension.  At breakfast my new Swiss friends, Mika and Alfi, suggested that I could leave my stuff in their room and sleep in one of their beds.  The two of them could share a bed.  It didn’t seem like a bad idea.  In the meantime, I left my stuff on Ali’s bed and my valuables in his locker, and I checked out of the hostel.  Then Ali, Mika, Alfi, another girl Natalie, and I set out for Lake Geneva.  On the way, I checked the train schedule. I would have to take a 7:00am train the next morning to Marseille.  We made a pit stop at the grocery store and picked up some lunch supplies as well.

At the lake we found a spot on the dock across from Jet d’eau.  There really was no beach, and people lay sunbathing on the pathways and all along the dock. Mika and Alfi had warned me that the water would be cold, and an older couple dog-paddling about in the water confirmed this to be true.  Nonetheless, I was getting hot, and before I could discourage myself, I leapt into the water.  To say that the water was cold is an understatement.  The coldness hit me like a sack of nails.  Any drowsiness I had felt earlier dissipated instantly.  I swam about for a bit and tried to get the others to join me.  Over the course of the day, Ali, Alfi, and Mika also took a few dips in the freezing water.  Mika, however, cut a deep gash on the bottom of her foot, and sat out the rest of the time. We tied a piece of cloth around her foot to staunch the bleeding.  I noticed that my feet were sliced up as well.  There must have been shards of glass in the shallow water.  I went swimming again though.  I really enjoyed myself.  It was great to just relax for a day and read for a bit.  I brought along Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and I finally got around to reading the first few pages.

Earlier tonight, when it came time for our group to part, the girls offered their room again.  However, it looked like Mika would end up sleeping on the floor.  It didn’t seem right to me.  If anyone had to sleep on the floor, it should be me.  So I told them I would sleep on the floor in my former room.  It made sense since all my stuff was with Ali anyway.

Later when I was setting up my bed on the floor in Ali’s room, one of the Finnish boys saw me and offered to let me use his air mattress.  I gratefully took him up on his kind offer.  The other two boys also offered to help out.  Such nice people.