Island-hopping, Castle-climbing, and Living la vida loca in Lago di Como

ISOLA COMACINA and BELLAGIO, ITALY -- May 13, 2006

Light poured in the four-panel window near the head of the metal-frame bunkbed where I had slept soundly for the past six hours. I tried to nudge back into sleep, but suddenly remembered the almost-finish novel lying at the foot of my bed and eagerly reached for it. Still snuggled under my covers, I savored the suspenseful ending before rising to greet the day.

After a light breakfast provided by the ostello -- a small bottle of orange juice and a twinkie-like breakfast cake, I perused the town market for a few days' worth of groceries. While pulling a bottle from a shelf, my eye caught the sight of something falling, and then a loud crash erupted at my feet, as some yellowish liquid exploded all over the floor, and shards of glass flew in every direction.

The frowning cashier mumbled as she trudged to the aisle where my telltale disaster lay, and began sopping up the mess with a wad of paper towels. I offered to help, but she shooed me way, and I was simply left standing with my mostly-empty shopping cart, my sandaled feet wet and sticky from the unexpected shower. I wanted to apologize, but the Italian words for 'I'm sorry' were lost iin my jumbled thoughts.
I was relieved when the woman finally gave me clearance to proceed to the checkout lane. I didn't notice it at first, but by the time I hit the small street leading back to the ostello, I was certain I had lodged a sliver of glass in the fleshy cushion of my right foot. Thank God for tweezers and first-aid kits -- in no time, the operation was complete and I was on my way to the dock, to begin my exploration of Lago di Como's charming villages.

My one-day pass granted me as many ferry voyages as my heart desired, and my only limits were the confusingly irregular departure schedules that linked towns on opposite shores of the lake and its two leg-like protrusions extending southward. I sat on the prow in a hard plastic chair as the cool morning air filled my lungs and covered my arms and legs with goosebumps.
My first stop was Bellagio, where I hopped onto another ferry heading further south. It was at Isola Comacina, a small island covered with unruly foliage, where I deboarded the ferry and began my solo wanderings around its borders. Following dirt and stone paths through thigh-high weeds and wildflowers, I stumbled across an ancient-looking chiesa (church), where a nearby swarm of bees attended worship services on a cluster of fragrant lavender blossoms.

I continue inland, passing through virgin fields, watching my step as tiny newts scurried across the pathway. In the grasses, I kept hearing a broken, fast-paced switching noise. It startled me, and my overactive imagination placed the sound as the warning call of a rattlesnake just before it strikes. I had fleeting images of a poisonous snakebit consigning me to an awful fate on this lonely island, where no one but the wind and the furry black bees knew I had been treading. My disappearance would go unnoticed for how long? Hours? Days? I shifted myself back to reality by reminding myself that the likelihood of poisonous snakes on this small little nub of land in northern Italy was incredibly slim, and that probably I was eavesdropping on the humming song of some unusual six-legged forest critter.

My half-hidden footpath dead-ended on the other side of the lake. I could hear the gurgle of happy voices not far away, but there was no clearing through the thick weeds to take me to their source. So, I decided it was time to make an about-face and head for the harbor. Returning to the dock, I rested on a little cluster of stone steps leading down into the lake water and savored a few squares of the chocolate bar I had purchased at the market this morning.

I rode the ferry back to Bellagio, a beautiful little town nicknamed the 'pearl' of Lake Como. It was easily charming, with a promenade decked with flowering gardens and attractive cafes lines with sun-shading umbrellas. Beyond, a row of boutiques filled with souvenir eye-candy called out to tourists deboarding the ferry. Despite its charm, Bellagio does carry an air of superiority, as this is the favored lakeside haunt for the wealthier lot of tourists. Dressed in high fasion, toting well-groomed poodles, and stepping into chartered yachts for private lakeside cruises, Bellagio's clientele was clearly upper-crust.

I didn't stay long near the port and boutiques, opting instead to trudge ten minutes north to the Punta Spiagetta, where Bellagio faced the joinig of Lecco and Como, two river legs that emptied into the body of Lago di Como, and the alpine mountains beyond. In a lighthearted explaning of Lago di Como's topography, the forking rievers are the legs of a man's body, and Bellagio, the joining of the two, is more than just your average pearl -- Bellagio is the testicles!

Returning to the port, I passed a high-profile cafe flanking the lakefront and chatted with Wally, an amiable twenty-something Italian who worked as a waiter. After convincing me to miss the next ferry in favor of a rest at one of his shady tables, he treated me to a frothy capuccino. We made small-talk until the cup was empty and it was time again to head form the port, but not without first firming up plans for dinner this evening. Wally would meet me in Menaggio with his car (yes, ferries shuttle more than people from one bank to the next!), and from there we would drive to Como, 40 km south, the anatomical 'left foot' of Mr. Lago di Como.

~Melanie

A Captain's Welcome and the Hunt for Milky Rapids

VARENNA, ITALY -- May 13, 2006

I smiled to myself as I boarded the ferry heading to Varenna. It's hard to complain about traveling solo when I seem to so easily find myself with dinner company an hour after setting foot in a new town. But things only picked up from there.

No sooner had I settled into my wooden perch on the top level of the ferry, but a uniformed crewman approached me to check my ticket. Satisfied with my offering to the ferry gods, he then began gesturing and pointing to captain's deck, all the while saying something in rapid-fire Italian which I could not even partially understand. My meager language skills were no match for his thick Italian, but as far as I could tell, he was asking me if I'd like to visit the captain's deck and steer the boat. Of course! It's not every day I get to be more than just a mere passenger on deck in a foreign country, of all places!

I excitedly following behind him, and was warmly greeted by a crew of four men keepin watch from their perfect panoramic perch. They insisted I join them at the table where it appeared they were enjoying a light dinner. No sooner had I sat down then they foisted a plate of salami slices and crusty bread in my face and cheerfully ordered, 'Mangia! Mangia' (Eat, eat!) An empty glass appeared, and they filled it with vino rosso to match the rest around the table. With a hearty 'Salute!', we toasted each other and sipped the red liquid away.

Twenty short minutes later, I was waving goodbye to my fellow shipmates as I stood on the banks of Varenna. It didn't take long for me to stumble across the charms of this cozy little lake town. I followed a steep, stony path for a gasp-inducing hike to Castello di Vezio, from where I was privy to some of the most panoramic views over the lake from anywhere along its borders. The sights were unbelievable, and I found myself struggling to use some self-restraint as I fired away one carefully composed photo after another.

From there, I took a shady pathway descending to the town of Fiumilatte, famous for its milk river that tumbles down the mountainside. At only 800 feet iin lenght, it is Europe's shortest river. I must have gotten a little off-course, because as I found myself wandering through a quiet neighborhood, an elderly gentleman greeted me with a map and began directing me (in pure Italian!) to the Sorgente (source of the river). I managed to find my way there, and paused on the bridge overlooking the milky (Italian: latte, i.e. Fiumilatte) rapids cascading down to the lake.

Pulling off a well-timed ferry connection from Varenna's main port to Menaggio, I showered up and slipping into my 99 Euro red silk dress that I bough in Granada several weeks ago. Tonight would be its debut, as Wally was meeting me at the dock for dinner. He showed up in his flashy black Cougar (a sporty, stylish little V6 -- would you expect anything less from an Italian with machismo?). We cruised Nascar-style along the 1.5-lane lakeside road that was saturated with beautiful views and dangerous S-curves. As we neared the town of Cernobbio, Wally pointed out an estate owned by a rather well-known Hollywood Bachelor -- George Clooney.

Finally in Como, we popped into a pizzeria that, according to Wally, really knew how to serve it up. Eyeing the menu, I was overwhelmed with choices. I felt like I was in a Mexican restaurant, trying to decide between the 307 combinations on offer. I had never seen so many variations of pizza! I left the decision in Wally's hands, and he truly didn't disappoint. My pizza arrived layered with fruti del mare, Italian for 'seafood' (literally: fruit of the sea). Calamari, oysters, scallops, crab, all melded into a bed of pomodoro e mozzarella. It was delicious!

We rounded out the evening with a stop at one of Como's most popular night stops, where I watching Italian twenty-somethings salsa en masse to the Latin vibes streaming through the speakers. a 15 Euro cover seemed pretty steep, but the club opened out onto the lakefront and a starry sky above. And if you looked closely and let your eyes adjust to the darkness, you could make out the outlines of the alpi (alps) jutting into the midnight sky. This was the perfect Italian day from start to finish, and as I thought back over my adventures since awakening this morning, I was overwhelmed with a deep and powerful feeling that gripped me from the inside and tugged and my heartstrings until tears welled up in my eyes. This is my life! I almost had to pinch myself to believe it.

To anyone reading this who is holding on tightly to a dream that you just can't let go of, hear this -- do whatever it takes to bring that dream to life. Sell the car. Trade your sushi roll lunch for peanut butter sandwiches. Rediscover the joys of windowshopping and put away the money you have spent on that new pair of shoes. Make the hundreds -- if not thousands -- of small sacrifices required to bring your dream to life. Because now that I am living mine, I would trade nothing -- NOTHING -- for the joy that fills me every morning, asI wake to greet another day of adventure in a foreign land. And I feel it changing me, strethcing me, teaching em to savor the good and accept that life is change, both unexpected and wonderful.

~Melanie

Making My Way to Menaggio

MILAN and LAGO DI COMO, ITALY -- May 12, 2006

By the time I arrived in Milano, I was over 300 pages deep into 'The DaVinci Code,' and hooked. My grand plan was to finish the book before leaving Italy on the 15th, so that the artfully crafted plot -- which contained a lot of true historical facts about some of the Louvre's masterpieces -- would be fresh in my mind when I visited this world-renowned museum. And with Hollywood's big-screen version hitting theatres in six days, you bet I was planning to spend an evening watching Sophie and Langdon unearth the deep secrets of hidden societies from a comfy stadium seat in one of Paris's cinemas.

I had three hours slated for Milano -- just enough time to drop my bag off at the depository, metro to the Duomo to see the world's fourth largest -- and in my opinion, most visually striking -- cathedral, stroll around the piazza, grab some lunch, return to the station to book my onward train to Paris, and taxi it out of town, heading north to the lakeside town of Varenna, from where I would catch my ferry across Lago di Como (Lake Como) to the town of Menaggio.

All went according to plan, with a few snafus:

(1) The entire facade of the duomo was covered with scaffolding, which was an utter disappointment to someone who had been waiting for years since her college Humanities class to see this brilliant display of ethereal white marble. In fact, I was so befuddled that I completely forgot to climb the staircase inside the Duomo for a birds' eye vie3w of the city, supposedly one of Milano's highlights.

(2) Back at the station, I learned that my plans to take a night train to Paris in three days were impossible -- all seats were completely booked, leaving me with no choice but to take an afternoon train that unfortunately wouldn't arrive in Paris until nearly midnight Sunday. In short, my 4 days in Paris had just been cut to 3, plus one day staring at the innards of yet another train compartment.

(3) By the time I finally arrived in Varenna and found the ticket booth to buy my fare to Menaggio, I was informed that the last ferry for Menaggio had already left. My only option was to take the 21:00 ferry to Cadenabbia, the neighboring town, and then walk the 4km north to Menaggio. Under slightly different circumstances, I would probably welcome an unexpected lakeside stroll in the moonlight, but walking alone at night between two isolated village while carrying all my possessions on my back was not a very attractive evening activity. Nevertheless, it was what it was. When you're left with only one option, you just suck it up and go with the flow!

Those three inconven- iences and a long day of travel were completely forgotten, however, the moment I caught a glimpse of Lago di Como and the dreamlike frame of alpine mountains overlapping in shades of blue. It was more than breathtaking; it filled me with a profound sense of something found. And then I realized, throughout all my travels thus far, I have seen brilliant vistas, explored exquisite castles and fortresses, but this was the first time I had experienced the feeling that was consuming me now -- what I can only describe as absolutely tranquility.

I was moved to tears just looking out over the magnifi- cence before my eyes while waiting for my ferry to arrive, riveted to the overwhelming amount of beauty possessed by this handful of sleepy villages nestled along the banks of some of the most exquisite lake-and-mountain scenery I have ever beheld. The late evening sun was moving into sunset position behind the westward walls of Alps rising into the darkening sky, and like dominoes stacket in succession, the cascade of overlapping mountain ridges unveiled a palette of soft blues ranging from azure to midnight. My 20-minute voyage across the lake was heavenly, as I soaked in the clear mountain air, village lights twinkling from across the lake, and the rippling brush of evening's chill on my shoulders.

The walk to Menaggio was without incident, though forty minutes of looking over my shoulder and praying that passing motorists would simply continue on their way was a bit taxing. Arriving at my ostello (hostel), I settled in and spent the next two hours plowing through 'The DaVinci Code.' Finally, I called it a night, content to finish the remaining 40 pages in the morning.

~Melanie

Following DaVinci to Milan

MILAN, ITALY -- May 12, 2006

I missed the first two morning trains to Milan. My alarm was set for 4:30 AM, but it was nearly two hours past that when I opened my eyes. So much for that plastic alarm clock strapped around my wrist. This isn't the first time it's failed me. I berated myself on my way to the breakfast room, but eased off immediately once a new story began to emerge. As of late last night, the Italian trains went on strike. Ulf, the owner of Nice's nicest youth hostel (St. Exupery, of course!) told me himself that he had made an emergency 2 AM drive to Ventimiglia, the town straddling the French-Italian border, over an hour away by car, to pick up a few travelers who had been stranded there.

Apparently, the strike was due to continue into the morning, affecting the first two trains to ride out of town from Nice. But the story was that, after that, all systems were go and things were back to normal, or as normal as they can be after a serious transportation upset. I thanked the stars that I hadn't risen at 4:30 AM just to find out, two hours later at the train station, that I could have stayed in bed after all.

I left for the train station with a foursome of Canadian travelers, also en route to Italy. They would be riding the same train as I to Genova, from where they were transferring to the Cinque Terre. I felt a surge of envy as I thought fondly of my days hiking the five-village trail, smelling the fragrant wildflowers dotting the hillsides, eating fresh seafood, aromatic pesto, and freshly baked foccacia, and enjoying the luxury of the most hypnotically beautiful views of the Ligurian Sea.

Apparently, they had heard of the Cinque Terre only a few days before, from another traveler staying at the hostel, and had decided to adjust their plans accordingly. (It continues to amaze me how many travelers I meet who don't seem to be very well-informed about the countries they are planning to explore! I seem to know more than 95% of the travelers I meet, and that is probably a conservative estimate. I'm not saying that to brag; it's just the truth. But I do have to remind myself that the study of nearly every pocket of this world has been my consuming passion for several years... I suppose all those long hours of research is starting to pay off...)

Two hours later, my train reservation was made, and I was headed in the direction of Milano. It was a long ride to the city, but I had a new novel to keep my mind off the fact that I was trading a day of Europe for the inside of a train compartment. Two days before, after mentioning to Ulf that I was looking for a bookstore where I could purchase a copy of Dan Brown's famed 'The DaVinci Code,' (nope, I'd never read it!), he offered to sell me his. And I had been saving it for this train trip, when I knew I'd have some time to really sink my teeth into it and get lost in its pages.

~Melanie

Finding Unpretentious Provence... Villefranche sur Mer

ST. PAUL DE VENCE and VILLEFRANCHE SUR MER, FRANCE -- May 11, 2006

With my last day in the Cote d'Azur, I chose to make a day-trip to St. Paul de Vence, after a hearty recommendation from an Aussie I had met on my night train from Barcelona.

When you're traveling through Europe -- especially on more or less a shoestring budget -- every day is money spent, and I want to spend every day seeing new things, exploring new places. I've found that works best for me is setting up my home base in a town with good transportation connections, and then spending a few days heading into the outlying areas, getting a taste of several different parts of the whole without having to waste too much time moving all my belongings from one town to another.

St. Paul de Vence was indeed a quaint and charming little medieval town set on a high precipice overlooking the valleys of Provence. Unfortunately, I had been so spoiled at Eze that St. Paul was simply no comparison!
I climbed its gently sloping cobblestone streets for views of the surrounding area, peeked into kitschy craft shops at tapestries, jewerly, and an elaborate mix of souvenirs, and bought a crusty baguette for my makeshift lunch from the one market in the village. It turned out to be the best bread I tasted in the Cote d'Azur, and made a delicious accompaniment for the soft cheese I had brought along.

Since my wanderings took less time than I had expected, I bussed back to Nice and headed out to St. Jean Cap Ferrat for a look. The bus ride was enjoyable, snaking along the coast, every now and again offering the finest views of the sea and real estate of the rich and famous stretching down to its shores. Despite overcast skies, the scene was as beautiful as ever. I stopped off at the port for a little fresh sea air, then bussed halfway back to Nice, stopping off near the cozy little port and fishing village, Villefranche sur Mer.

It was a long descent from the high road traversed by cars and buses to the coastal walkways along which the shops and restaurants and life of Villefranche spilled out. But of all my visits along the Cote d'Azur, this one was most reminiscent to me of the Italian Riviera, and the three enjoyable days I spent exploring the Cinque Terre and beyond back in 2004. The air here seemed a little less stuffy, there were humble fishing boats instead of well-tended yachts clustered at the dock. This was my kind of town. No pretenses. Just pure charm.

Finally, I headed back to St. Exupery for the last time, manging to get caught in a torrential downpour en route. By the time I arrived at the hostel, I was ready for a fresh change of clothes, and a made-to-order pizza with chicken, chorizo (spicy sausage), and salami to fill my empty belly.
At dinner, I met a going-on-30 solo traveler from Canada, whose dream had always been to cycle through France and live in Paris. He had just finished the latter, and had just bought a high-end touring bike to begin his coastal route towards the border of Spain. It was nice to trade stories with someone else who was 'living the dream.' I never cease to be amazed at the connections that can be forged between nearly any two people in this world. I see it happen every day, in the interactions I have with people from every country and walk of life. It's a great feeling to belong to this world. We all do, you know. We all belong. Sometimes we just have to be reminded that we all share more in common than we think.

~Melanie

Taking it Easy in Eze...

EZE-VILLAGE, FRANCE -- May 9, 2006

Yesterday proved to be a long, rainy day. My biggest feat was making some friends in the bar/lounge last night, and getting an earful of woeful traveler's tales about night train thieves, dark alley muggings, and everything in between.

It's good to be reminded that the world's not all roses -- maybe I've got a force field of positive energy around me or something, but I guess I've really been fortunate in that the only things I've lost on my journey thus far are the ones I've accidentally left behind. Knock on wood, but so far, no thieves, and if at all possible, I'd prefer to keep it that way, instead of going through first-hand what the poor Canadian guy is now sorting out, with only the clothes on his back remaining after a night-train-ride-gone-awry. (It pains me to say this, because I have such a strong affection for Italy, but it seems that nearly every story I heard last night had one common thread -- the trains all passed through Italy... so travelers, beware!)

But after a dud day yesterday, I was hoping to actually get out an see some of this apparently magnificent coastline today. Over granola and milk (ah! the first time I've had cereal for breakfast since I was back in the States!), I chatted with a Norwegian girl named Monica about the fjords I'm so crazy about seeing in another 5 weeks or so, and then hooked up with an Australian couple who I had met last night.

We all headed off towards the medieval gem, Eze-Village, located just a short bus ride east along the coast from Nice. With its labyrinthine walls curling upwards like an upside-down funnel, Eze's passageways were a delightful mix of shadows and light. Small shops and boutiques rounded every corner, and bushels of flowers framed stairwells, doorways, and windowboxes. I got so wrapped up in the charm of this gorgeous little town that by the time I realized it, the Australian couple was long gone -- probably off to another small town, having had their fill. Oh well, it was nice to have a bit of company for the start of the day, at least.

But I kept climbing through the town, until I reached an exotic botanical garden at the top. Amid a giggling crowd of middle-school students day-tripping from nearby Italy, I waited out my turn for a ticket. I reveled in the exuberant sounds escaping their lips, and realized happily that in a few short days I would be immersed in Italian culture again... almost two years to the day of my first Italian adventures!

Finally I entered the gardens and was blown away by the picturesque views over the cliffs to the sea below. Nice could be seen stretching westward, the blue Mediterranean lapping gently along its rocky coastline. Sapphire blue water, blossoming cacti and other exotic plants, billowy clouds framing a soft blue sky -- it was a gorgeous setting. I soaked it all in, and the worked my way back to the bus stop, hoping to connect further on up the cost to Monaco.

~Melanie

Mediterranean Majesty: Menton and Monaco

MONACO and MENTON, FRANCE -- May 9, 2006

Within minutes of arriving at miniscule Eze's bus stop, I realized the reason my Australian friends had been in such a hurry to push on to Monaco -- the buses out of town were quite irregular, and it looked like I had an hour and a half to kill before the next one would come my way. So, I opted instead to walk the 6.5 km to Monaco. At least this way, I'd get an extra dose of scenery with photo stops wherever I wanted them along the way :)

Halfway down the road, a kind stranger heading the same direction offered me a lift. Realizing the afternoon was catching up to me, I accepted, and within minutes, I was in Monaco, trying to navigate myself around this perfect little microcosmic principality with gardens manicured to highest standards and a gleaming palace set high above the shore on a table of rock. Everywhere, flashy, expesive cars sped down litter-free streets. And tourists stood out like a sore thumb amongst the well-dressed locals. Yes, Monaco.
I walked through glorious gardens, peered down over the busy port, breezed past the guarded palace. Although incredibly beautiful, Monaco seemed a shallow substitute for the Mediterranean charm I was seeking, and I moved on.

After boarding the next bus for Menton (yet a bit futher east, towards Italy), I took a seat next to an older gentleman from... you guessed it, Italy. After a few minutes of friendly chatter in broken Italian and English, he invited me to a night of fine dinner and gambling in the famous Monte Carlo casinos. I might have been tempted, had he not been old enough to be my grandfather! Dirty old man! Since when did 70-year-olds start hitting on women less than half their age?!

Menton was a breath of fresh air. I wandered around, enjoying panoramic views of the sea from behind palm- and flower-garden-laden promenades. I lingered on the sandy shore and watched a few local fishermen enjoying a late-afternoon hunt. I meandered trhough the market, past a castle, around the cathedral that capped the town.

And then I headed back to Nice, just in time to see the beautifully warm, soft light of early evening filter through the clouds and cast an angelic glow on the small fishing town of Villefranch and its neighbor, the small peninsula jutting southward, St. Jean Cap-Ferrat. I was tempted to stop and wander some more, but my legs screamed, 'Enough!!' and I was obliged to comply.

~Melanie

Cities of Spain's Charm Bracelet

After a too-short stint in Portugal, I returned to Spain for another week of flambouyant charm. If southern Spain was good, northern Spain may quite possibly be even better!

It's hard to compete with the natural beauty and historical gems of Andalucia, but Barcelona was the cherry on the top of my Spain experience. And San Sebastian could quite possibly be the most relaxing two days I have spent thus far in my travels. Follow the summaries below to decide what kind of Spanish flavor will most suit your appetite. I hope you enjoy! And as always, I welcome your comments on these and any other posts/photos.

~Melanie

Madrid, Spain
It might have simply been travel burnout, but Madrid failed to captivate me the way all of my other Spanish destinations did. But you can take a quick peek at one of the famous cathedrals, as well as a couple of shots of the beautiful interior from Cat Hostel, where I stayed for one too-short night.

San Sebastian, Spain
If you are looking for utter relaxation among sugary sand, lucious palms, walkable mountains, and a charming little town to boot, look no further!

Barcelona, Spain
Come experience Gothic and modern architecture, stroll through peaceful gardens, and climb the 340 steps of Sagrada Familia for magnificent views of the city and ocean beyond...

First Forays into France's Cote d'Azur

NICE, FRANCE -- May 7, 2006

Night trains are getting old. I've been averaging one every three nights since I left Seville. The problem is, when I'm faced with sacrificing either 8 hours of a day in Europe, or giving up a decent night's sleep, it's my sleep that loses out, every time. There is just too much to see and do. And the Cote d'Azur is no exception.

After arriving in Nice this morning and settling at the cozy Villa St. Exupery (best hostel in the Cote d'Azur, even serving breakfast to us early-arrivals who descended before checkin this morning), I was off for the Matisse Museum, since today (being the first Sunday of the month), all museums are free.

Nice is apparently the best museum magnet in all of France, outside of Paris. Mattisse, as it turns out, is not one of my favorite artists, and I was glad after wandering through the galleries that I hadn't paid for my entrance. I can appreciate all art to some degree, but aside from the fact that he switched careers in his early twenties, from practicing law to taking up sculpting and painting, I wasn't overly impressed.

The saddest thing about extended travel through Europe is that after a while, even the most impressive of cathedrals and museums becomes humdrum. But I think that's not the issue with this one. Mostly, his art just doesn't resonate with me. And that's a personal opinion, but since art is so subjective, I'm entitled to it :)

It just so happened that today was also the start of a big festival in Nice, celebrating its roots and traditional culture. The park adjacent to the museum was the picture of a small-town state fair, with homespun goodies, carnival rides, and families spread on picnic blankets enjoying a day out with friends and neighbors.

I bought a sandwich from one of the shops and bit into a huge round of flour-dusted dense bread filled with olives, radishes, boiled eggs, and bits of other vegetables. It was quite delicious, as the flour caking my mouth afterward must have evidenced.

I was lucky enough to catch a traditional dance performance by a troupe of perhaps 12-14 young Niceans. They were dressed in period costumes, and pranced on stage to the tune of a small band, made up of a two accordions, a saxophone, and another instrument I didn't recognize. The spirit was jovial, and my favorite dance was a smile-inducing story of the townswomen whose laundry day was interrupted by a bunch of foolhardy men from the village. The lighthearted banter that ensued eventually ended with the men tied up in a knot with a rope made of clothing from the women's laundry baskets.

I met a lanky, overly talkative Frenchman named Alain, whose original ploy that he spoke a "little" English was quickly discovered to be a slight overexaggeration. He rode me on his moped all over the city, to the famous Promenade de Anglais which stretches for seven kilometers along Nice's gray-pebble beach, to the famous chateau set up in the hillside, which overlooks the rolling hills and expanse of the city of Nice (which is much bigger than I had realized), the busy port, and the sea beyond.

We wandered through the Vieux Ville (old city), where a troupe of French performers entertained a bulging crowd with their African drumbeats and dancing. We walked through narrow streets lined with tourists shops and stared in the windows of one bakery selling some kind of local specialty I couldn't quite interpret through Alain's motor-mouth French.


Alain treated me to a typical Provence dinner at a seafood restaurant in Vieux Ville, run by family friends. At 10:00 PM, the place was buzzing with crowded tables and waiters rushing from kitchen to the checkered-cloth cafe tables lining the square.

We feasted on fried calamari with a delicious cream sauce (similar to tartar sauce), raw oysters (oh! so salty! - supposedly you traditionally slurp up the oyster, then follow it with a bite of buttered bread to balance the flavor), and then a plate of chicken in some kind of buttery sauce with mushrooms and fried potatoes. Dessert was "French cream with caramel sauce," which tasted suspiciously like the flan I had sampled a few times in Spain. At half past midnight, I crawled into bed, stomach stuffed solid and ready to slip into a peaceful night's sleep.

~Melanie