A Geek Overseas

Fodder for the imagination... all of it (Personal Photo)

The grass is always greener on the other side of the ocean... because with Facebook and Twitter, we can erect a facade of utopian perfection on an adventure of studying abroad, travelling, and cultural immersion. Mistakes can be erased as easily as a blemish in Photoshop, negative experiences omitted like unflattering photos.

But even cast iron souls can crack.

It was on Halloween when I felt my first true, metallic pang of homesickness, like when you bite your cheek while chewing bubble gum. Every year, my friends throw a cozy Halloween bash, a night of candy and Catan, of silliness and Star Wars—of good times, games, and overall geekiness. This year, I was an ocean away from the festivities, and the geek in me longed to join them. There isn’t a huge gaming community here in Nice (to my knowledge). My allusions fall on deaf ears (“One does not simply apply for a Carte de Sejour” ; "Brace yourselves: Paperwork is coming."). I also long for our Wednesday roleplaying nights, a summer evening of fellowship:

Another cure for homesickness -- a shelf of my favourite
souvenirs, colourful and fantastical... beware the
Amsterdragon in all its purple glory
(Personal Photo)

It’s seemingly casual, a group of friends sitting around a table, sheets of paper in front of them, with open bags of chips and cans of soda, pencils and pretzels scattered in a seemingly chaotic fashion across the tabletop. Perhaps there are a few hardcover books stacked on the corner for reference. You might hear background music to set the mood.

There’s a certain magic in the air that makes you lick your lips in anticipation of what’s going to happen—or, rather, in anticipation of what might happen. No future is certain, fate often being subject to the whim of the Dungeon Master (the DM) or the roll of a twenty-sided die. In one breath, they are players speaking a language of dice and strategy, and in the next, they are characters conversing with the other members of their party. An elven sorceress flutters her eyes at a human paladin while a dwarvern warrior complains about a lack of ale. Occasionally, the DM intervenes as an NPC (non-playable character) or spins a twist to the ever-evolving tale. For a few hours, these friends can escape to a different world. And then they part ways and blend back into normalcy.

Or a night wandering the Christmas markets
(Personal Photo)

It is a similar experience to when I write, where the rest of the world fades into a murky backdrop. Writing is a solitary pursuit that feeds my introverted side; however, I also require a certain type of social stimulation to shoo away the creeping tendrils of loneliness. It’s difficult to find that balance. Here, it comes in irregular bursts, such as a class wine-and-cheese night or an impromptu lunch with a classmate.

As close as I'm going to come to a Christmas tree
(Personal Photo)

I find it a fantastic way to build my confidence in improvisational speaking (for job interviews, etc.). Although some people are gifted in this way, it tends to make me nervous, rendering me tongue-tied or forcing my speech into long-winded tangents. When you write, you have the time to perfect your words, shape them like potter’s clay into beautiful lines of ink on a computer screen, music to the ear.

I’m not going to be coming home for Christmas, so I’m going to have to wait until June to rejoin my gaming besties back in Canada: Skyping our sessions simply isn’t possible (perhaps when DiceMaster gets up and running). In the interim, I’ve been using writing as an output for my creative energy.

À la prochaine fois!

Tout le reste

Temple of Apollo at Pompeii (Personal Photo)

Pompeii

Pompeii went smoothly.

Did I kill the suspense? Let me spice things up with some details. To get there from Naples (Pompeii (ruins) =/= Pompeii (town)), you need to take the crowded local train on a special line. I ended up standing for the entire 45-minute ride to Pompeii, squished like a sardine and struggling to breathe with the humidity.

From some advice I got online, I purchased an audio tour in lieu of hiring a live guide. This gave me the freedom to explore Pompeii and take pictures on my own time (as well as get lost). Not only was it cheaper, but there weren’t swarms of people invading my photos. Like my exploration of the Roman Forum, I spent several hours there exploring beneath a solid expanse of cerulean.

The Duomo (Left) and Baptistery (Right) in Florence (Personal Photo)
PS: Doesn't the Baptistery look like it's falling over? Hehe

Florence

The train to Florence that evening was a fancy, high-speed train—compared to the local Naples-Pompeii train (max 60kph), one maxed out at 300kph.

My hostel was beautiful, and I had no problems finding it (thank goodness!). The problem with mixed dorm hostels, aside from the occasional guy who parades around in his boxer shorts and sleeps across from you, is the snoring. I awoke last night to the sound of the most bizarre snoring I have ever heard. It sounded... constipated, a wheeze and then a very un-snorelike sigh.

View from the Florence Old Bridge (Personal Photo)

Florence was pretty, much less touristy than Rome. I took it easy [well, I tried to] since my days in Pisa, Rome, and Pompeii were rather hectic. I saw the Uffizi and Academia Galleries, which hold Botecelli’s “Birth of Venus” and Michaeangelo’s “David” (respectively). I also visited the Duomo, a huge cathedral that was absolutely stunning. Like in Pompeii, the weather was perfect.

Cinque Terre

The following day, I did a day trip to Cinque Terre, a series of five towns along the coast. I arrived in La Spezia at 9:19 and looked for the Cinque Terre info booth. When I found it (9:27), I was told the next train was 11:02 and that I had just missed the 9:25 train. However, having had prior experience with Italian trains being late, I ignored her and ran to the platform. Lo and behold, it was still there and did not, in fact, end up leaving until 9:35.

The paparazzi found me in Corniglia. While I was enjoying the view, I found myself the object of interest for a photo-op. Like in Rome, I thought these Chinese tourists* wanted a picture of the view, so out of courtesy I went to move, but they insisted that they wanted me in the photo. The wives would put their arms around me as if we were best buds. And then before I could even breathe, there was the next one! And the next one!

Manarola (Cinque Terre) (Personal Photo)

* (I knew they were Chinese because after the photo, they said, “Shia shia,” which means “Thank you” in Mandarin.)

I visited the other towns, hopping them train by train, until I came to Vernazza. From there I did a vigorous 2-hour hike to Monterosso. It was a beautiful but exhausting walk, and I ran out of water halfway through. The path became so narrow at one point that I had to put one foot in front of the other. 

By the time I hit Monterosso, it was getting dark, so I went back to Florence. I had a muscle hangover the next day and could barely move! I am an expert liar when it comes to saying, “Don’t worry, tomorrow will be an easier day.”

Venice

The Bridge of Sighs in Venice (Personal Photo)

I arrived in Venice a bit before lunch and used the day to wander, letting myself get lost as I did a circuit of the city. Unlike Florence, it was incredibly crowded, and the weather was dreary and wet. Although my hostel was outside the city but significantly cheaper than anything on the island itself.

Recall my dialogue about asking for directions. I will have you know that I successfully bought bus tickets while speaking entirely in Italian! Broken Italian (with one word in Spanish - can you find it?), but Italian.

Murano glass in Venice (Personal Photo)

 It went like this:

- Buon giorno.

- Buon giorno.

- Dos biglett... (I train off, having partially forgotten the word)

- Biglietto?

- Si. Per bus.

- Due persone?

- No. Una persona.

- Andata e ritorno? (he gestures with his hands)

- Si. Grazie.

(Cue the appalause.)

I bought a pass for the water bus, the only form of public transit in Venice. There are no roads, only pedestrian walkways and the canals. It's expensive but I wanted views from the water, respite for my feet, and passage to the island of Murano, where the glassblowers work. Every store there is an art gallery, and I saw some glass-blowing demonstrations. Then I hopped to Piazza St Marco to see the famous Bridge of Sighs connecting the Doge's Palace to the New Prison.

St. Marco's Square in Venice (Personal Photo)

Perhaps my story would have ended there, with a brief summary of an uneventful train trip home; however, this journey has been one touched by fate. No sooner did I check my email before leaving then did I learn that someone had attempted to break into my apartment, busting the lower lock so that it no longer turned. I ended up crashing on the couch of one of my classmates.

I was not a happy camper, considering I had two exams the next day (I shake my fist at you, would-be thief!). Thankfully, I had the foresight to bring my notes with me on my trip, in case inspiration to study struck me. It figures that the beginning and ending of my first adventure in Europe would be the same: a locksmith. The full-circle-ness of it is so literary that I feel like a character in a novel.

Perhaps I am...

When in Rome...

Colosseum (Personal Photo)

My Italy trip would not be an adventure without further misadventures, would it? By the time I arrived in Rome, it was late, so I headed straight to my B&B.

Small problem: it didn’t exist.

I found the building described by my directions, but there was no sign. No name plaque. I buzzed the only occupant with a name and was told no B&B existed in the building, that it was mostly for psychologist and doctors' practices (later, I tried emailing and calling, but never received a response).

I was stranded in a foreign city with sore feet and nowhere to sleep.

Roman Forum (Personal Photo)

I heard singing from a nearby building and entered it, thinking it was a youth centre. Regardless of what it was (I later learned it was a photography studio), the man there took pity on me and gave me water and access to their computer so I could seek accommodation. I eventually found a place to stay. With all the excitement and anxiety, I slept fitfully—even though I was exhausted.

(I also got my ass groped on a crowded subway train on the way to my new hostel... nothing like forward Italian men.)

* * *

My first day was relaxed. I did a hop-on-hop-off bus tour around the city, which was a fun way to orient myself. I sat on the top of the open-air double decker bus and let the Italian wind whip through my hair. I visited a few churches, ate at a nice Italian restaurant, and saw the outside of all Rome’s fabled tourist attractions.

* * *

Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele (Personal Photo)

My second day was action-packed. First I hit the Colosseum, which was definitely worth seeing, although the cloudy weather was not ideal for snapping beautiful photos. As I was meandering over to the Roman Forum, I asked a group of American girls to snap a photo of me in front of it. They thought I was really brave for travelling by myself. (I suppose I was).

When we noticed a Japanese lady standing beside us, looking like she wanted her own picture of the Colosseum, we courteously stepped away. She gestured for us to come back. Apparently she wanted us in the photo, too!

Uh, sure?

The Roman Forum was one of my favourite places in Rome, and I ended up touring it with those American girls (read: conversation buddies and convenient photographers). I love Greek and Roman mythology, and the architecture was a feast for my eyes. I took so many photos that my camera’s battery was half-dead by the time we parted ways (they were headed to the Colosseum, which I had already seen).

Pantheon (Personal Photo)

So I decided to visit the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele (pictured). It is, according to the outside signs, a sacred place. You are not allowed to sit on the steps: security will whistle at you if you do. At the top there are two bowls that emit flames. Up a few more steps are two soldiers in uniform whose job, I suppose, is to stand there.

Another highlight that day was the Pantheon. Unfortunately, it was crowded, although it was awe-inspiring. Its dome was so huge that I couldn’t get a picture that included the oculus (the hole in the ceiling) and the floor! 

On my way to the Trevi Fountain, I noticed a girl who seemed disoriented. She was looking for the Pantheon, and so (rather than try to give her directions in an area filled with tiny streets), I detoured and walked her there. She asked me where I was from and I proudly said I was Canadian. (Canada represent!). 
 

Getting lost is no problem for me—I have two maps, and since I am familiar with how streets are signed in Nice, I know where to look here (i.e on the sides of buildings). To check my bearings I will ask people in tourist shops. Our conversations often go like this:

- Mi scusi...
- Si? 
- Parla inglese? 

Trevi Fountain (Personal Photo)

If I get “si,” I proceed in English. If I get “non,” I can say “Dové ____?” and point on the map. Graztie is something I use often, to which I hear “Preggo” in response. I feel like a tourist (as opposed to in France) because I am forced to rely on my English, but I am proud of what Italian I can say. However, I find myself slipping into French.

The Trevi Fountain, albeit pretty, was so crowded that it was hard for me to snap a picture of it, let alone with me in it! I noticed rose petals floating on top of the water and men selling flowers—as well as a bride in a wedding dress, lifting the bottom of her gown while descending the steps.  

Speaking of steps, I then headed toward the Spanish Steps, which were also super-crowded. I couldn’t get a decent picture. Considering all the other gorgeous sites in Rome, I didn’t understand why it was so popular. By that time, my feet were getting sore, so I returned to my hostel. Nobody else had booked for that night, so I ended up having the six-person dorm all to myself!

 * * *

St. Peter's Square (view from the dome) (Personal Photo)

The third (and final) day began with a tour of the Vatican museums, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s Basilica. I avoided bringing a backpack, since they make you check it, and managed to fit everything into my fanny pack—my water bottle conveniently fit into the knee pocket of my purple scrubs. Some advice for would-be visitors of the Vatican: book in advance. The line is enormous. (I booked and smugly entered right as the museums opened.) At the end of the tour, I climbed the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and had a wonderful view of St. Peter’s Square... which is a circle, but whatever.  

I bussed (HOHO) to Circus Maximus and wandered around a bit, finding two interesting churches. While asking for directions, I met a girl named Flavia who showed me to the Roman baths (which had unfortunately closed) and walked me along Circus Maximus to the Mouth of Truth. The legend goes that slaves were made to out their hand in the slot and if they didn't tell the truth, their hand would be bitten off.

 It reminds me of the trials for witches. 

At night, Rome looks completely different, so my bus ride back was spectacular, even if most of my photos did not turn out. Every time I ride this bus, however, it seems to take a slightly different route. I’m not sure if I was crazy or whether there was simply construction or heavy traffic the bus driver was trying to avoid.  

Anyway, there were other things I could have seen, but ran out of time as energy for. I have no idea how you could do Rome in a day. Two, I imagine, would be pushing it.
 

Pisa and Pizza

After conducting research, reserving trains, and booking hostels all month, I was all set to go to Italy for Toussaint, the week-long holiday at the end of October. The morning before I left, butterflies pressed at the inside of my stomach, fluttering up my throat and bursting through my lips in a series of half-nervous, half-excited giggles.

If we didn't hold up the tower,
it would have fallen already (Personal Photo)

My journey began with a locksmith.  

Since I had an early train (read: 5:30am) the following morning, I crashed on the couch of one of my classmates, who had the apartment to herself. I live about half an hour from the train station by speed walking, whereas she lives only ten minutes. Considering buses don’t run at 4am, taxis are expensive, and solo strolls in the dark often merit unwanted attention from men, I thought it was a smart move. Plus, she was having some other guests over for dinner, and it would be a good time. 

 I arrived, and lo and behold, I discover that my hostess has locked herself out of her apartment (oops!). While she called the locksmith, her other guest and I attempted to pick the lock with two hairpins. Neither of us had done it before. While I read from tutorials online, he followed my impromptu tutelage and wiggled the pins. 

The Baptistery at Pisa (Personal Photo)

An hour later, just as the locksmith is coming up the stairs, he successfully opens the door (Murphy’s law!). His triumphant cry was (almost) worth the 30 euros it cost just for him showing up. “Achievement unlocked,” I quipped, before proceeding to enjoy a fantastic evening of wine, food, and laughter.

Nothing exciting happened the next morning until the ticket machine ate my Carte Bleue (debit card).

The security guard said a guy could come open it at 7:30am. Since I had a train to catch in 20 minutes, and since I also had my Canadian credit card and plenty of cash, I figured I'd plough on ahead and notify my bank when I had wifi. (More on this subplot later.)

I was on the train, reviewing my itinerary and my next steps:

1) arrive in Ventimiglia,
2) get my Eurail pass stamped, and
3) board my reserved train to Pisa.

I would have eighteen minutes. Plenty of time, right?

Wrong.

It's really heavy, trust me (Personal Photo)

Partway to Ventimiglia, the train stopped. My heart crashed against my ribcage with anxiety, thinking that every passing second was one fewer I would have to do the aforementioned tasks. It was only when I saw another train pass by that I realized why we had stopped. 

(I would later learn, after several more train trips, that Italian trains have an unhealthy habit of being late, much like university students.)

However, the delay meant that I only had six minute to make my connection, not eighteen. Eek! Thankfully, I am well-trained at running to catch trains, planes, and buses, so I made it.

As I wandered around, looking for a seat, I bumped into a Brazilian guy named Diego. As luck would have it, he was my seatmate and was also going to Pisa. We became travel buddies for the day, snapping touristy photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and splitting a pizza. He even carried my travel foodstuffs in his backpack. Diego was a gentleman, the kind of man who helped people with their luggage and offered to take pictures of people without being asked. We parted ways when it was time for me to climb the tower (that's right, I climbed it, warped steps and all!), and then I caught the train to Rome.

Warped steps from tourists (Personal Photo)

View from the top of the tower (Personal Photo)

Grâce aux “Sens”-ations

View from Grasse (Personal Photo)

Photographs never do a city justice. It is an attempt to capture a moment in time, although time never stands still, never poses for cameras to click-click-click the shutter buttons. A photograph captures sight, but not sound. Even video, which can record movement and sound, only appeals to two dimensions of the sensory experience.

But what is missing is touch, caress of the wind as you walk along the promenade, the warm tickle of sunlight on your cheeks. And smells, good and bad: baking aromas that drift by as you pass a patisserie; the brush of a passer-by’s perfume; the sweet, smokey odour of a fresh cigarette; gasoline from idling cars; and the occasional whiff of dog shit. And feelings: the excitement that resurfaces over and over when you realize that you are in France.

At the parfumerie Molinard (Personal Photo)

By you, of course, I mean me. Unless you’re one of my classmates, you are reading this, perhaps wishing you were here, but only capable of reading my words and viewing the photos I post. I can attempt to paint a picture with words, but I fear they cannot do justice to my actual experience here.

Let me return to the topic of senses—smell, in particular. On October 10th I visited Grasse, a small town that challenged my olfactory organs. Situated 1.5 hours from Nice by bus, Grasse is the perfumecapital of the world.

After touring the premises, I decided to join four of my classmates in a perfume workshop. It was pricey, but I enjoyed myself, so from that respect it was worth every centime. We learned about the smell pyramid: perfume is not simply one scent sprayed onto your skin. It is complex, a layering of complementary essences. It starts with the head note, your initial impression of a perfume upon scenting it. It is short-lived, lasting between five and ten minutes, before giving way to the heart note. The heart note is the theme of the perfume, often fruity or floral in nature. The five of us had the opportunity to create our own unique scent of perfume by blending smells from each of the three layers of a perfume. Before actually mixing it, we used scent sticks dipped into the bottles and mixed and matched. We then got to keep a 50ml bottle of it; if we ever want to, we can order more from the perfumery. 

Atelier de parfum (Personal Photo)

Ah, how to describe mine? I called it Maeve’s Kiss—for those who know who “Maeve” is. In addition to being a character from my writing, the name “Maeve” belongs to the Fairy Queen (think Romeo and Juliet’s “Mahb”), and it means intoxication. It’s light and floral at the beginning, then moves into a fruitier heart note, and lingers on the skin with rich sweetness. (I’ll tell you now—there’s no chocolate in it. As much as I love the flavour on my tongue, the odour did not agree with my nose.)

In another parfumerie, we learned that perfume is put in opaque, rather than transparent bottles for a good reason: sunlight breaks down the perfume and changes its smell. Makes sense, right? And the difference between eau de toilette and perfume is the concentration of the essence. Eau de toilette has about half as much essence and is better for spraying on your hair and clothes, whereas perfume is better used directly on your skin (wrist, elbows, behind the ear, behind the knee). Professional perfume experts are called “noses” and can spend over seven years of training honing their olfactory senses.

Eiffel Tower-shaped perfume (Personal Photo)

I splurged and purchased my honorary Eiffel Tower souvenir—in the form of eau de toilette. It has a lighter musk than my perfume. I can’t describe its smell because, at present, every exposed inch of my skin is saturated with a different perfume. We were able to test perfumes before purchasing them, and since perfume smells differently on the skin than in the air, I had to resort to desperate measures.

After seeing a museum and a small cathedral, we caught the bus back to Nice. We even saw a rainbow on the way back. No matter how many times I see a rainbow, it is never any less beautiful a sight. 

Smell you later!

Crazy Little Thing Called Course Registration

(For your viewing pleasure, I have included some photos from my exploration of the area around the Museum of Contemporary art, although they have little connection to my post. Enjoy!)

Entrance to the Museum of Contemporary Art (Personal Photo)

Class registration was... interesting. And chaotic. 

At UWO, we register for our courses entirely online. If a class is full, we can register for another class and then swap when there’s a spot. Then there is an add/drop period, after which you’re stuck in the courses you’ve signed up for. For the most part, you then attend lectures on the first day of classes.

At the University of Nice, tutorials and electives are separate from lectures, at least in terms of registration. The entire campus signs up for those courses in the same room, regardless of year or program. For lectures, you just show up during the first week of class. Essentially, you audit your courses until sometime in October, when you register for exams. This is in place of an add/drop period, for if you decide to drop a course, you simply stop attending class and don’t sign up for the exam.

The hour before this sign-up session, my classmates and I were being told about course registration in general. From our chairs, we could see the crowd amassing outside the room, pressing against the sides of the doors and occasionally creeping a toe over the threshold. 

La Tête Carrée (Personal Photo)

At some unseen signal, they swarmed into the room like ants and filled up every available seat. Then the professors then filed in and sat in the front rows. One of them announced where each year would be registering, but because of the acoustics of the room, I couldn’t hear much more than echos. Still, I managed to successfully manoeuvre my way around the room, pushing and shoving and saying “Excusez-moi” more times than I can count. There must be an art to it, since some people were weaving their way through the mass of bodies with seeming ease.

On another note, marks are given out of 20, and phantom whispers have told me, to my inner perfectionist’s horror, that it is incredibly difficult to do well in school here. I’m trying not to think about that—I have more pressing issues at the moment [such as getting my Carte de séjour]. 

 

The Acropolis (Personal Photo)

The credit system is also different. From my understanding, courses are valued in terms of “ECTS,” which seem to translate as: 1 hour of class = 2 ECTS. Most courses are 4 ECTS. Students require 30 ECTS per semester. Thankfully, as an exchange student, I don’t have to worry too much about this. I simply pick three courses worth 4 ECTS. At this moment in time, I’m planning on taking Phonology, Medieval French and Translation (although I’m going to check out the Sociolinguistics course and a Philology courses, too).

This semester, I will only have twelve hours of class per week... a welcome reprieve from my previous semester, which was twenty-two hours per week! Plus—wait for it, wait for it!—my weekend will begin Wednesday afternoon!

We likes that, doesn’t we, Preciousss?

Baby Steps in the French Riviera

Unfortunately, all my photos of Monaco and Cannes are on my Dad’s camera, so I’ll share photos of my apartment instead.

Cannes (Day Trip - Sept. 5, 2013)

View from Apartment (Personal Photo)

Once we had settled in to the apartment, my family and I decided to explore how the buses operated, so on impulse one morning we decided to go to Cannes, famous for its annual film festival held in May. It cost us only 1.50 euros each. After days of walking around Nice, the bus ride to Cannes was a welcome respite for my feet, which throbbed at the end of each expedition.



The roads here are narrow and twist like vipers; every hamlet is a maze of twisty passages, all alike. I was glad we were not driving, for within a heartbeat I would have become lost: the extra moment it would take to process the French signs (and share that information with my father, the hypothetical driver) would inevitably lead to such an end. And that’s not including dealing with unfamiliar traffic laws and road signs!
 

After being forced off the bus at its last stop, we hit the beach. Unlike those in Nice, the beaches of Cannes are sandy, which was much gentler on my tender toes. A few minute’s walk from the beach lay the pedestrian-only area lined with shops and small cafés. As I wandered further, the way narrowed and began to twist upwards. Squeezed into the space were increasingly fancy restaurants. My stomach, not yet accustomed to the 7pm French dinner hour, was rumbling by 5:30. As we passed one restaurant, the brother of the chef convinced my family to come back for dinner, and so I found myself supping on salmon, dorade (sea bream), and crème brûlée while enjoying a glass of white wine on the house. (I should add that many French restaurants seem to close sometime in the afternoon and reopen for dinner at about 6pm; the ones that remain open all day advertise themselves as having “non-stop” service.)

 

Monaco (Day Trip - Sept. 7, 2013)

Main Room of Apartment (Personal Photo)

Two days later, our destination was Monaco, a tiny country situated an hour’s bus ride from Nice. Tourism and gambling are its main industries. It even has its own monarch. Oddly enough, I was reminded of Genovia, a similar but non-existent country from The Princess Diaries. We hopped off at the Monte Carlo Casino and, after snapping a few photos of the outside, walked down and around the bay to the Palace.

We saw a rare event: every day, at 11:55am sharp, there is the changing of the guards; however, we had chosen the lucky day when no such event occurred. Instead, we watched for 15 minutes as a forklift shoved some steel beams onto the back of a transport truck. As we waited in vain, I saw pigeon missing one of its feet and dubbed it Peggy, the peg-legged pigeon. I also saw a seagull the size of a small dog and thought it was going to snatch my baguette panini sandwich from my hands.



A “Nice” Arrival (Sept. 2, 2013)

Baie des Anges - View from le Château (Personal Photo)

I will only get away with writing this once—Nice is very nice.

The water of the Baie des Anges is impossibly blue, although strangely enough, the air smells only faintly of the sea, if at all. Every single day but one has been sunny, and even when it did rain, it cleared up by mid-morning. From the walkway along the beach, I can see all the way across the city; at night, streetlamps light up the coast. Day or night, the bay makes a perfect postcard photo.

Beautiful city aside... It was a very long day. Groggy from a combination of sleep deprivation and jet lag, I missed my bus stop and had to haul my luggage an extra half-mile to my apartment. Unlike back home, the names of the upcoming stops are neither announced nor displayed, and the street names are displayed on plaques on buildings rather than signs at intersections. Despite this mishap, I located my apartment easily (although I had fun with the keys, which are finicky) and napped. Later, I met my coordinator for dinner at a restaurant called Le Québec. With my expert internal GPS, I got lost several times despite preplanning my route and checking my map every five minutes.

 

Promenade des Anglais at night (Personal Photo)

Walking home in the dark, I was more anxious than I have ever been at night. My heart pounded with every step I took, but I set forth with a look of determination and false confidence. At night, everyone seems shifty (especially men lounging on doorsteps or investigating the dumpsters), and shadows leap from dark alleys. Nothing happened, fortunately. Perhaps I am simply paranoid from being in an unfamiliar environment, but if I had been watching me as a movie, I would have been screaming, “Don’t do it, stupid!” Next time I’m shelling out the Euros for a bus ticket. The Promenade des Anglais (walkway along the beach) is less intimidating than the narrow sidewalks of the other streets.


My parents dragged themselves onto my doorstep the next day, equally disoriented and fatigued. We spent a leisurely day at the beach and celebrated our survival with a bottle of wine. Speaking of which, wine is plentiful and cheap here. The grocery store has an entire aisle devoted to it, and bottles sell for as few as 3 Euros. My father shared some advice he obtained from a wine tasting: find a cheap bottle of wine that you love. Coca Cola (from our limited experience) is expensive, barely cheaper than wine.

It must sound like I am living a dream, that this has all been a vacation so far. For all its ups, there have been downs as well, and people don't always mention those in idealistic Facebook statuses about how wonderful their lives are. It is hot enough here that within minutes of being outside, my skin is slick with sweat. Despite wearing SPF 60 and 85 sunscreen, my cheeks turn pink after a mere two hours at the beach. My apartment lacks AC, and because I shut my balcony door at night for security purposes, I am too hot at night to sleep well (this will be less of an issue as winter approaches). Another mishap: when I went to the bank to get my debit card, I was told it wasn’t there. Without my bank card, I cannot get a mobile phone plan or internet. Woe is me! I must use campus wifi.

I have had more adventures in my first week, but those shall be saved for my next post.

Until next time!

Ready, Get Set, Fly!

The idea of living in another country is exciting. And terrifying.

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

I never thought I was one to go on an academic exchange. The travel bug has tread outside my bedroom door, but never before has it crawled over the threshold to sneak into my bed and bite me. I saw the opportunity of a lifetime, and some impulsive force compelled me to seize it, clutch it to my heart with both hands, and not let go.

Completing paperwork and hunting down documents was not how I planned spending my free time in the summer, nor making difficult phone calls with insurance companies and banks. People idealise the process, envy that you’re going abroad and they’re staying behind. Little do they know the stress of it all.

In September, I will be flying to Nice, France. It will be my first flight alone; although I am a seasoned traveller, I am still nervous.

In my lifelong dream of going to France, I’ve always thought of Paris, the City of Lights. I hear it is a beautiful city. The weather promises to be mild, for Nice is on the coast of the Mediterranean sea; I may come to miss the Canadian winters I have grown up with, but I will never miss shovelling snow. It will be my home for the next nine months.

I leave tomorrow. I can hardly believe it.

My heart quivers whenever I think of my approaching flight, as though moths have taken residence beneath my skin, gnawing at me like I am made of cotton. These past nights have brought me poor sleep; troubled dreams of flying and getting lost haunt me, ghosts that do not trouble me as much during my waking moments. My bags are packed, but a nagging voice at the back of my mind whispers that I’ve forgotten something critical, sowing seeds of doubt that I do not need.

Likely as not, I will not believe that I am actually going to be spending the year in France until I wake up in the morning in my apartment, breathing in the sea air.