Europe 2010, Part 2

On our first full day in Nice, David went for a long run at an ungodly hour, and I slept in. We then took a short walk. This is outside our hotel, walking to breakfast.

And here's our view while we enjoyed our pain au chocolat and coffee.

Our hotel is on the other side of that hill. We discussed visiting a museum -- there's a surprising number in Nice -- and decided to visit the museum of contemporary art over the Matisse or Chagall museums because (1) it was close, and (2) it was free. Art connoisseurs, that's what we are.

This was a sculpture outside the museum. It amused me.

The museum included rooftop exhibits, most of which included the gorgeous views.

I especially liked this mirrored piece where you see part of the city reflected.

We left the museum and wandered around, saw a pretty fountain.

And pretty houses.

Our house is almost that exact pink color. I always thought the builders were weird to paint our house pink. Who has a pink house? Apparently every other person in Nice. It is one of the most popular colors. Now I know I just need to get shutters and paint them green.

By then we had whiled away a few hours and started feeling like maybe we needed something more than a croissant and coffee. We considered this place --

-- but decided against it when we couldn't figure out what meal that might be. I know what brunch is (breakfast/lunch) and I know what linner is (lunch/dinner), but flunch left me confused.

We decided to pick a restaurant in the Cours Saleya, which is a street just behind the Promenade.

Our hotel is just out of sight on the far right.

In the morning this long street holds one of the biggest flower markets in southern France. Around noon, the flower merchants start clearing out, and the restaurants put out all their tables and chairs.

We picked a restaurant at random, mostly because they had one of the only free tables on the whole street. After we were seated, we perused the menu and ordered our meal. The two French men sitting next to us struck up what would be the first of many tableside conversations with strangers. They asked if we were British. I don't know what tipped them onto the fact that we were foreigners. Maybe it was because we had to point at the menu to help the waitress completely understand our selections. Or perhaps it was the fact that David would throw in an occasional Japanese word when finger pointing failed.

Very charming (although smoking incessantly), they gave us their unfinished bottle of wine insisting that they wouldn't finish it themselves, and it was a crime to let it go to waste. I probably didn't protest as much as I should have. Introductions ensued, and we learned that our dining companions were Ian and Fabio, although I was a mite suspicious of this since they had to look at each other and confirm that these were indeed their names.

They asked what our plans were over the next few days and encouraged us to visit Monaco. After we mentioned that Monaco was indeed on the agenda for the next day, they asked if we would like to go boating. Ian (or was it Fabio?) gave us his card (which had the name Nicholas on it, by the way) in case we decided we were in the market for purchasing or renting a boat. They departed soon afterwards, giving us a suggestion for lunch in Monaco and also insisting that if we happened to see them again during our visit we must sit down and have a drink with them.

Our bellies full with a delicious lunch and fabulous wine, we decided to climb the hill behind our hotel next. It's called Castle Hill, and has steps to take you to the top. How hard can it be, I thought? The answer -- pretty hard. I stopped to rest here on the pretext that I was admiring the amazing view.

The next time I stopped was about halfway up (the hill is higher than it looks, I swear). My excuse this time was that I wanted to listen to the accordion player that was on a viewing terrace. (Music to climb by.) As we neared the top of the hill, I started getting passed by elderly people, which was really embarrassing. We finally got to the top, and I leaned against the balustrade panting while David took lovely pictures.

We decided to go down the other side of the hill and walk back around through the city streets to our hotel. As we started down the backside of Castle Hill I saw the tourist train, filled with around 200 elderly people, starting to motor back down. That explained a lot and made me feel much better about my performance, although it was still admittedly on the pathetic side. (Note to self: don't eat a heavy lunch and drink a bottle of wine before hiking.)

Feeling mighty pleased with ourselves, we bought a bottle of wine, a baguette, and some snacks and headed back to our room to enjoy the beautiful sunset.

Europe 2010, Part 1

"Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start . . . "

I thought it was appropriate to begin with lyrics from The Sound of Music since another song from that musical, Climb Every Mountain, spent an inordinate amount of time running through my head during this vacation. I now hate that song.

I was going to show pictures of me and David while waiting at SFO for our flight. We were still in good spirits, having not yet met the extremely small space we would be spending the next 12 hours of our lives. But those pictures were on my camera which I lost three days into our trip, continuing a long and illustrious Sedivy family tradition of either forgetting to bring a camera or forgetting to use one you've brought. I just put a new twist on this familial institution, that of using it, then losing it. Luckily, I had the backup of David and his camera (which he in his wisdom rarely let me touch). Otherwise you'd be getting stick figure drawings of my impressions of our trip.

Here's our plane. It continually astounds me that a behemoth like that can get off the ground.

I wasn't actually going to spend time talking about our flight over the pond. What is there to say really? Small space, bad food, long time in air. But the quality of entertainment provided by British Airways proved such that some things needed to be shared.

Act One involved three big, young British fellows traveling together, sitting in the seats behind us. I was afraid at first that I would spend the flight suffering from knee-itis. I was not thrilled at the prospect of having the person behind me constantly banging into my seat. I needn't have worried, however. Having my seat prodded and poked would have required these young gentlemen to actually stay in their seats. They opted instead to spend a good portion of the flight in the aisle, heartily availing themselves of the free drinks on international flights. Good-natured, but becoming increasingly louder as the flight went by, they were even able to penetrate the haze of my Dramamine-induced stupor.

Act Two consisted of the reading light above me switching on and off, on and off, on and off. Apparently, in the recent past some ergonomics genius at the airline decided that the best place to put all the buttons to control lights, volume, channel changer, etc., was on TOP of the arm rest. The gentleman seated next to me, not realizing his arm rest was not to be used for actually resting his arm, did exactly that. It took me a while, due to the aforementioned stupor, to realize that it was not gremlins tampering with my light, but an elbow.

Act Three was on our second flight from London to Nice. Three young ladies who looked like real-life Barbie dolls seated themselves in front of us. They asked very prettily if the flight attendant would take their picture and proceeded to chatter quite loudly about how tiresome it was for boys to expect them to answer every single post on their Facebook wall. They, too, imbibed quite freely. Then, one of them declared she "must have moisturizer right this second," and proceeded to hike her dress up all the way to "there" so she could slather on her lotion. Her thighs must have been especially dry as she gave them particular attention. I told David he could have had entirely different scenery had he not chosen the window seat.

We finally landed in Nice, and we figured out we could get most of the way to our hotel via bus, so I hesitantly purchased tickets in French. We found our hotel, and emboldened by my success in buying bus tickets in a language not my own, I launched into French at the hotel, too. Nous avons une reservation.

Whoops. This released a torrent of French that left me dumbfounded. I caught enough words to vaguely understand the receptionist was asking for our name, credit card, and passports. She then mentioned something about breakfast. I got that it started at 7 a.m. but not when it ended, or how much it cost. I heard the number 14, but didn't know what it referred to. Obviously not the time breakfast ended.

And it was at this point that what little French I knew deserted me completely. I couldn't even remember how to say, "I don't understand," or, "Please speak more slowly." No, I just stood there staring like an idiot. For all I know, there might have been drool on my face left over from what little sleep I did get on the plane. I stood there staring helplessly while David made helpful little comments like, "What was that? What's she saying? Why are you drooling?"

The receptionist took pity on me and asked, in very good English, "Did you understand?" Galvanized by hearing my own language, I rushed to my own defense and repeated what I did know. She then filled me in on what I had missed. Turns out 14 was our room number.

We went up to our room. It was utterly lovely with floor-to-ceiling windows, a charming balcony with seating for two and a view overlooking the famous Promenade des Anglais. I guess those hours I spent ruining my eyesight reading review after review on Trip Advisor weren't wasted after all. After that, I vaguely remember venturing out to find a small restaurant somewhere to eat dinner, and then falling into bed and sleeping for more hours at one stretch than I have in months.

Here are pictures of our hotel and the view from our balcony.

Europe 2010 Summary

Number of times my high school French was actually useful: 5
Number of French phrases David learned: 2 (Both involving beer)
Number of beers consumed by David: 38
Alps climbed: All of them, I swear (some more than once)
Miles hiked: 50
Falls with skinned knees: 1
Times we got lost: 2
Crying fits: 4
Sweat produced: Buckets
Pounds lost: 5
Number of goats in herd that tried to run us off the road: 50
Number of dogs shepherding the goats: 2
Number of people shepherding goats: 0
Number of people who thought we were British: 70
Number of actual British people we met: 4
Number of yachts offered up for sale to us: 1
Number of gigantor Twix found: 1 (seriously, this thing was HUGE)
Cameras lost: 1
Books read: 5
Wineries found: 0
Ecstatic husband: 1
Trip of a lifetime with my beloved: Priceless

Stickless No More

Someone took pity on my stick-less state and loaned me the use of their walking pole. Here I am practicing.

No posts over the next couple of weeks, but I promise to take good notes and update you when I get back.

À bientôt, mes amis!

Europe 2010 Update

My sister-in-law Rebecca called me the other day. She said, "I read your post about your upcoming trip to France, and I just have to ask, did you book your trip through a British company?" I answered that yes, as a matter of fact, we did. "I thought so," she said. What a strange question. But it turns out that having lived in England for a few years now, all the cautions, warnings, and exhortations to have the proper equipment resonated with her experience of living with the British.

I've lived overseas, Japan to be exact, and dealt with culture shock. I went on tennis trips or skiing trips with Japanese friends and watched them go out and buy brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment and clothes for the outing. Never mind that they have never skied before, and probably never will again. It's a matter of appearance and pride. We went bowling, and everyone brought their own bowling shoes. Although, frankly, I can get on board with that one. I don't care how much disinfectant they spray in rented bowling shoes, the thought of all those feet sharing the same shoes kind of squicks me out. But tennis and skiing? Those are expensive sports, yet everyone would show up looking snazzy, while I arrived in my fraying t-shirt and taped up tennis racket. I expected cultural differences, however, when comparing the American lifestyle to an Asian one.

I didn't even consider that there might be some cultural differences that were embedded in our trip instructions. They were written in English weren't they, with an occasional extra colourful "u"? And not technical electronic instructions English, just plain, understandable English. I simply assumed if they said beware of snakes and bring your walking poles that we were in for some serious encounters with wildlife and steep slopes.

Rebecca encouraged me to rethink this assumption. Example number one: From time to time Rebecca likes to visit Scotland, a four-hour drive from where she lives. And yet whenever she makes plans to go, her friends ask her where she's staying along the way and are horrified when she says she plans to make the drive in one day. I know I married into a family who thinks nothing of taking a "weekend trip" to Yellowstone (16 hours one way), and David's uncle used to bring a pee bottle on long family car trips so he wouldn't have to stop every six hours for a restroom break, but even I have to shake my head at the assumption that a four-hour drive to Scotland requires an overnight stay halfway there. Heck, I know people that make the three-hour commute to San Francisco every day for work.

Example number two: Rebecca joined an outdoor club so she could do outdoorsy things. The club was planning on taking a kayak trip and told her she needed to take a four-week certification course so she could go. Having been an avid kayaker when she lived in L.A., she told them she didn't need to take the course. They weren't comfortable with that assertion and didn't want to give her the kayak because she didn't have the safety certification in hand. I believe some words along the lines of, "If I can kayak in the ocean, I can certainly kayak in this lazy river. Now hand over the damn kayak," were uttered. And once again, people were left shaking their heads at the irresponsibility of Americans.

Example number three: It is not uncommon for Rebecca to see people strolling around her town, walking poles in hand with nary a hill in sight. In fact, she was following such a person at the very moment she was talking to me on the phone.

This overly cautious, extremely safety-oriented approach is a far cry from the intrepid can-do spirit that infuses most Americans. Far from needing an overnight stay to break up a four-hour trip, pioneers were making the trek across our continent with nothing but a covered wagon and some oxen. If the going got tough, they jettisoned whatever wasn't needed, whether it was furniture or Aunt Mildred. They made do with what they had, and if food got scarce, oh, well, Uncle Donner was looking a little sickly, wasn't he?

So while I'm glad I've been walking often to get ready for this trip, I'm not quite as anxious as before. I'll bring the sunscreen, but leave the crampons and pitons. I'll bring the sturdy walking shoes, but leave the walking poles. And I'll seriously revise down the estimated walking time. I come from hardy immigrant stock. What's a little walk through the mountains?

Europe 2010 Update

I walked almost six miles today, on hills, in one hour and forty-five minutes. And this was after walking eight miles over the last two days, also on hills. That's pretty good for the girl who is always looking for an available pillow. I'm seriously having trouble imagining how a six-mile hike can take three times that long unless we're scaling rock faces. So I'm guessing the estimated time in our guidebook is based on how fast granny with her walker can complete the hike.

Europe 2010, or My Husband is Trying to Kill Me

I married into a family of world travelers. There is nothing they like better than to be taking a trip, planning a trip, thinking about travel. The "where" is almost unimportant as long as there is somewhere to go and explore. This potentially could have been a real problem for me. Remember, I'm the girl who hated going away to a weeklong summer camp a mere 50 miles away from my home. I used to think California was a foreign country (they speak other languages at Disneyland). I'm the girl who applied for the foreign exchange program in high school, at the encouragement of my parents, only to completely blow the final interview on purpose because I was afraid I actually might be chosen, and oh, my God, what would I do IF I HAD TO LIVE ABROAD FOR SIX MONTHS?

But now that I'm all grown up, the travel bug has bit me, too. I still get anxious when getting ready for a trip, because you never know what could happen, and if you've never been there, how do you know there aren't bears (I've been camping), and the control freak in me doesn't really like all that uncertainty. But I have found the joys of travel far outweigh some of the worries that I may have.

Early in our marriage, we decided to plan a trip to Europe. Just like a military operation, we gave this plan a name, EUROPE 2000, complete with hand gestures (think of some variation of "jazz hands" here). Seeing as how that gave us about six or seven years to plan and save, we figured that was a reasonable goal. However, we were young and poor, and life got in the way, and EUROPE 2000 turned into EUROPE 2001, then EUROPE 2003, and eventually, EUROPE, someday, maybe.

Well, that day has finally arrived! For Christmas, David booked us a walking tour of the Maritime Alps. We're going in May. From the brief description in the brochure, it sounds like a fabulous trip. We will walk a few miles every day between bed and breakfasts, enjoying scenery and hopefully finding wineries that will just happen to be serving up samples of their wares. Our luggage will magically appear at our new destination at the end of each day. And the trip finishes on the French Riviera. What's not to like?

Now, I'm not a terribly athletic person. My general attitude being why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sit? And why sit when laying down with a pillow is just so much more comfortable? But strolling through the French countryside sounds fabulous. How hard could it be? Still, I thought it would be prudent to start walking fairly regularly. So now I walk most days of the week, even if the walk is only to the nearest Starbucks. I've been feeling fairly proud of myself. I even walk hills whenever I can find them. Nothing can stop me now!

That is until we received our walking packet in the mail the other day. Now I am terrified. I just know I am going to die in the mountains of France. Besides seeing topographical maps -- which I don't really understand, but know enough to guess that lots of lines very, very close together is not a good thing -- I have never seen such detailed instructions for a trip. Instructions on what to wear, what to bring, what to avoid. Watch for snakes (most of them are not poisonous) and badgers (are those French bears?)! Bring a compass! Don't bring a GPS! Maps of southern France for GPS are notoriously inaccurate and you could end up walking off a cliff! Wear sturdy hiking shoes! Carry a hiking pole! Be prepared to ford streams, or ford fjords, or something! (What????) Allow a minimum of six to nine hours a day for walking time!

Wait a minute, six to nine hours?? The mileage per day is only six to eight miles, with the longest day being 11 miles. Having walked four miles of grueling hills today in just over an hour, I am wondering exactly what kind of walking we're actually going to be doing on this trip. It sounds like the tour company is anticipating you will only be able to cover a mile to a mile and a half an hour. That's not strolling speed, that's machete-through-the-jungle speed. So what are we going to be doing? I didn't see in the instructions that I needed to bring crampons and pitons. You won't find me rock climbing. I can barely walk with my coffee in hand.

But we're committed to going now. There's no turning back due to a little thing called non-refundable tickets. I guess I had better learn how to say, "Can you carry me to the nearest winery?" in French.