The Best Things in Life Are Free

Louvre (Personal Photo)

The Louvre: originally a palace, it lost its function as the king’s place of residence after Louis XIV—the Sun King— chose to reign from his newly built palace in Versailles. Since I tagged along with my uncle on his way to work, I arrived early enough to be one of the first in line. Again, my wallet breathed a sigh of relief as my Carte de Séjour paperwork earned me complimentary entry.*

Once I had a map, I made a beeline for the Mona Lisa, knowing it is one of the most famous works on display in the Louvre and would soon become overrun with tourists eager to snap their own photo of the Giaconda maiden. The Mona Lisa was tiny! I should not have been surprised—I have heard this comment before—but yet, I still was. 

View from Notre Dame (Personal Photo)

In reality it is a fraction of that size at 30 by 21 inches. A glass box encloses it, and a metal barrier prevents you from getting close, both under the watchful eye of a security guard. I took my obligatory “I was there” photo and went to explore other exhibits, including The Code of Hammurabi, one of the oldest examples of writing in the world. By lunchtime, my head was swimming, although the rain had stopped; spending the morning indoors had been a wise decision.

My feet carried me to the Île de la Cité, the island in the middle of the La Seine. Although the sun had yet to show its face, I visited Sainte-Chapelle, a Gothic chapel renowned for its beautiful stained-glass windows. I am told it is spectacular in the sunlight, but I did not know if I would have the opportunity to visit it before I left Paris. Soon after, I scaled the towers of Notre Dame and viewed the city alongside stone gargoyles. Compared to the Eiffel tower’s climb (700 stairs), it was a breeze at 400 stairs, although the spiral staircase seemed nevertheless unending.

Notre Dame (Personal Photo)

During the afternoon I wandered around the south side of Paris, the Latin Quarter, munching on a panini and a sugar crêpe en route to the Pantheon (not to be mistaken for the one in Rome). There I saw the crypts of Rousseau, Voltaire and Marie Curie, among others before strolling the Jardins de Luxembourg and exploring a few antique bookstores. When it was time to meet up with my uncle, my feet were begging for rest and my stomach for supper. Although the traffic was sluggish, our dinner was hearty, my hosts were gracious and the wine, again, was superb.

*Sainte-Chapelle, Notre-Dame's towers and the Pantheon were also free for the same reasons. 

La Vie En Rose

Arc de Triomphe (Personal Photo)

Paris. It is La Ville Lumière, a rose-coloured dream of monuments and history-saturated streets, a city I had envisioned visiting of since I first said bonjour in fourth grade, a city I had begged to visit for years. Family discussions of this nature often went like this:

Parents: Laura, where would you like to go for vacation this year?

Me: Paris!

Parents: Where within driving distance*?

*Side note: Florida counts as “within driving distance”: it takes about twenty-two hours including gas and coffee breaks, but we’ve done it... and without changing drivers – my Dad drives it all!

When I signed on that crazy ride to spend a year abroad in Nice, France, the first destination on my list of “Places to See” was Paris... Oddly, it was only in January that I visited the city. Italy, The Netherlands, Spain and Germany squished in before it.

As such, the moment I set the TGV train to go to Paris for the first time, so many butterflies filled my stomach that I thought I would float off the ground, suitcase. When I popped into Paris from Germany and saw the Sacré-Coeur Basilica, that was not Paris. That was a tidbit, a teaser—to say that I visited Paris for the first time on my previous trip would be like saying you experienced a fine red wine after but inhaling the bouquet.

Sunset at the Eiffel Tower (Personal Photo)

I would be staying with family in a small town twenty kilometres from the city centre—family I had never met, and whom my parents had not seen for many years. I hoped that they would like me. My parents assured me that I would be fine. When I arrived at the Gare de Lyon after a five-hour train ride, I made a beeline for my uncle’s workplace at the other end of the city, where we had agreed to met, so that I could drop off my bags and determine how the rest of my afternoon would go.

I planned an ambitious but achievable loop that would start and finish with the Eiffel Tower. First, in daylight, and then at sunset. When I first saw the Eiffel Tower, I thought to myself, I am in Paris! I really am in Paris! I blinked, but it didn’t go away. After asking a young couple to take my photo, I power-walked to the Arc de Triomphe, where I climbed up to the very top up a dizzying spiral staircase to a lovely view of the. Absolutely free, I might add, because I had proof that I was a resident as opposed to simply a tourist. It would not be the only place my wallet would be spared.

After walking down the Champs-Élysées and across the Seine, I dashed into the Hôtel des Invalides (also free for me) before closing time to see Napoleon’s tomb. From there, I returned to the Eiffel Tower. My mind lurched at the line for the elevator, the expected wait time 45 minutes. That long, and I’d miss the sunset. Another sign said that the very top was closed: the second level was as high as you could go. 

The Eiffel Tower at night (Personal Photo)

Glancing at the one person in line for the stairs—and the half-price ticket—I braved the 700+ steps. I have no idea how I did it, especially after having already climbed the Arc de Triomphe, but I made it in time for a gorgeous sunset. The tower lit up while I was on it, and by the time I got back down, it was sparkling. However... I was a bit behind schedule!

As I was running back, on the other side of the Eiffel Tower... I happened to bump into the very same couple that had taken my photo earlier. With my silver fedora, I must have been memorable, for they recognised me before I recognised them! We were walking in the same direction, so I told them how to get to the Arc de Triomphe before sprinting back to my uncle’s workplace. My timing was perfect.

Dinner was spectacular. Lamb chops with vegetables and a red wine as old as I was! After sipping a tisane (an herbal infusion — technically not tea), meeting their cat Leo, and Skyping my parents, I tucked it in for the night. Snuggled in a real bed, belly still warm from the home-cooked meal, and mind fluttering with the afternoon’s adventure and the following day’s promises, I drifted off.

A Bite of Hamburg, A Taste of Paris

Rathaus, Hamburg (Personal Photo)

One activity I had been hankering to do while in Europe was to see an opera: I’ve been to a ballet, and as part of my coursework I’ve seen several plays, such as En Attendant Godot (Waiting for Godot). While in Berlin, I discovered that Carmen was playing... and I just had to see it, of course! The music was spectacular and I am sure you are all familiar with these two famous songs (Habanera and Votre Toast)... or if you’re not, you will be now! Unfortunately, the surtitles were in German, but the opera itself was sung in French, and between the bits I could catch, the acting and the synopsis I’d skimmed beforehand, I was fine.

The following day, I made a day trip to Hamburg—and no, I didn’t eat any hamburgers there. My friend Susan, who is from Hamburg, gave me some insight on what to see. I strolled through an underground tunnel beneath the river, sampled mulled wine with rum from a vendor, and visited the Alster, a man-made lake in the middle of the city.

When it was finally time to leave Berlin (and head to Paris), I stopped by Saarbrücken to meet a writing friend. En route, however, there was a stopover in Frankfurt, I grabbed McDonald's—the first time I've eaten it since coming to Europe. For 1.50 euros I got a small hot chocolate and a breakfast sandwich. The sandwich alone was 1.80 euros. Does it make sense? No. Did I enjoy the hot chocolate and the thirty cent-savings? Yes!

The Alster, Hamburg (Personal Photo)

Unfortunately, when I did reach Paris, I wasn’t able to stay for long. My exam schedule came out and I had an exam on the first possible day. which meant I had to return to Nice the following evening. My rest that night was less than pleasant; upon entering my hostel room, I discovered alcohol bottles were everywhere... and my (potentially intoxicated) roommates were rather rambunctious.

Before my train the next day, I visited the Sacré-Coeur Basilica, since it seemed rather out of the way and I wanted to make sure I hit it in case I didn’t get around to get when I really saw Paris. The view of Paris from the top of the hill was beautiful, although a guy approached me—doubtlessly pinning me for a tourist because of my backpack—and started tying this bracelet around my wrist, asking me whether I had a boyfriend! I told him I wasn’t interested (in French, and then in English when he didn’t understand me—his accent was perhaps Jamaican?) but he didn’t listen... and then he wanted money for the bracelet afterwards, claiming it to be for a donation to the church! So I replied, “I already said, ‘No Merci!’” and went on my merry way. If I’m going to donate, I’ll do it at the church itself, thank you very much.  

Sacre-Coeur Basilica, Paris (Personal Photo)

New Year's and Zombies

Brandenburg Tor (Personal Photo)

Hello again. 

 I know it’s been a long time since my last post. Ever since New Year’s, I feel like I’ve been on the go and running, and it’s only now—April--that I’ve been able to catch a proper breather. Between exams, planning more trips, choosing courses, editing (for work) with the workload of three, applying for jobs, doing schoolwork/midterms and completing the biggest French project/giving the longest presentation of my entire life...  

Well, “zombie” doesn’t even begin to cover it.  

It was sheer determination not to miss class that dragged me out of bed in the morning. It was by sheer necessity that took care of myself, if you can call it that. It was by sheer force of will—and the need to present a strong front of chipper strength—that I attended karaoke, soirées, expeditions... that I left my apartment at all. All I wanted to do was lie in bed, stare up at the ceiling and cry for no reason at all. I stayed up late working, spent forever falling asleep due to a buzzing mind, and woke up half an hour before my alarm leaping out of bed, heart racing to work some more. I couldn’t even sit still enough to read in bed, my usual wind-down ritual. I slept when I was exhausted; I woke up exhausted. Even the Riviera sun did little to cheer me up.  

The Berlin Wall (Personal Photo)

In the middle of January, during my trip to Paris, I also dealt with the death of a friend, and it hit me harder than I expected. Guilt plagued me for several weeks, and I think it left me emotionally weak and vulnerable, which led to a never-ending cycle of work in February and March. It is April, and it is spring, and I am hoping for a new beginning. I apologize for the overall bleakness of this post. If I am going to post about depressing subjects, I might as well only dampen my keyboard once. 

In case you didn’t know, Berlin hosts one of the largest free outdoors New Year’s Eve bashes in the world. Live music, midnight fireworks, and so many bodies that you could be celebrating in a t-shirt without freezing. Better get there early: Brandenburger Gate gets packed tighter than a frosh’s suitcase and once it’s “full” (i.e. 200% full), nobody else can enter.  

I confess, part of my reason for choosing Berlin for New Year’s because I found an inexpensive hostel when so many other cities were already booked solid. However, I came across a cozy place a bit out of the way that was an absolute steal, provided I stay for a week. No problemo. It was nice to have a home base for such a long time instead of constantly checking in and out in city hops. And there were no shortage of activities, sights, or day trips. I also wanted to take Berlin more slowly—for many of my trips, I’ve been on the go and running (think: Italy).

Mmmm! Expensive hot cocoa (Personal Photo)

 New Year’s was great, although since I am not someone who likes to party all night, I guess you could consider my celebrations tame. I bumped into a trio of Brazilians en route and spent the evening with them. We found out the hard way that the closest U-Bahn station was inaccessible, and even when we got to the party at 7pm, it was jam packed. We squeezed and excuse-meed our way to a spot about 75metres from the stage. Yet, well before midnight, my feet ached; the last twenty minutes were torture, a dance of shifting weight from heel to toe, toe to heel. The fireworks were lovely; the swarm of bodies that followed them was not. It was crazy. The streets were foggy with smoke, the air thick with the bitter odour of gunpowder. Firecrackers exploded out of nowhere as people set them off in the middle of the street. One of them burst only a meter from me and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Broken bottles and bits of cardboard littered the road, orange powder blowing in the breeze. And the crowd surged forward like a scene from The Walking Dead. I was glad when, at a mere 1am in the morning, I could collapse on my hostel bed and sleep.

 

The following day was a more solemn one: I went on a tour of Sachsenhausen, a concentration camp near Oranienburg, a 45-minute S-Bahn ride from Berlin. Although at the time I didn’t feel emotion, by the end of the visit and well into the evening I was on the verge of tears. Even typing this now, months later, tugs at my heart strings. As it should. I won’t describe. It is hard to imagine that so many innocent people were murdered and buried in this spot. The horror, the horror.

Holocaust Memorial (Personal Photo)

That night at the hostel, a group of people from Wales was drinking. Not a lot, they said, but they got to that point where they were loud without realizing they were loud. For some, inexplicable reason it bothered me. More than it should have. All the noise, every slurp, every mouthful chewed bothered me. I wanted to scream; I felt like choking. I actually had a small panic attack. Perhaps it was my delicate state of mind from the emotional day trip, perhaps my fatigue from New Year’s. 

I apologize again for the depressing subject material this post—but this is reality. I am not going to paint a false picture, to post only the happy times. This is part of living abroad, of life. The good times and the bad. Moods surge and ebb like tidal waters, negativity sneaks in unwanted, and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace. You can’t be strong all the time.

Sleeplessness and Sleeping Beauty

Neuschwanstein Castle (Personal Photo)

Having trouble falling asleep is no stranger to me, when dreams refuse to come. Yet this was different. The night before I left for Germany, I experienced insomnia for the first time: too exhausted to force my eyelids open to do anything, but too restless to yield to slumber.
I had arrived home at 1am from celebrating Christmas with a few of my classmates across town. By the time the final tweaks to my luggage were completed, it was 2am. I was due to leave at 4:30am to walk to the train station. It was pouring, but even the rhythmic pounding of the rain did not soothe me. I lay in bed, my head hurting from an unknown force squeezing at my temples, my tongue dry no matter how much water I drank, and my thoughts racing, fretting, whipping around and around like an out-of-control carousel. 

Yes, insomnia. 

Hohenschwangau Castle (Personal Photo)

All I could think about was the trip. If I was this tired now, how would I fare after twenty-four hours of train travel (including a night of poor sleep on the train)? My stomach, too, writhed, as if the serpents of my thoughts had snaked down there and were hissing at the butterflies that were already having trouble settling down. My throat tightened as if an anaconda were wrapped around my neck, my chest.  
Only when I booked a last-minute flight to Germany a mere ten minutes before I was to depart did I finally relax enough to sleep. It was not cheap, but it was worth my sanity. Understand that even now, I’m not *quite* sure why I thought my initial train ride was a good idea. The TGV trains were booked solid, and I supposed I had set in my mind that I was to take the train. 

Swansee Lake (Personal Photo)

In my parent’s living room is are several pictures, blown-up photographs my parents took long ago. Two of them are castles, and one of them is Neuschwanstein Castle (a.k.a. The Sleeping Beauty castle) in Germany. The other, I believe, is somewhere in Scotland. It was my goal to see this castle, which has for so long been but a souvenir of my parents’ adventures in Europe and not my own.  

From Munich, I travelled by train with my roommates to Fussen. There is a Bavarian pass which allows groups of up to four people to travel for incredibly low rate (22 euros + 4 euros a person). My share (about 10 euros) of the pass paid for my train fare as well as the bus to the village where Neuschwanstein Castle is situated. The countryside in Germany is stunning, the most beautiful I have seen so far in my travels by train. I sighed when snow-capped mountains came into view. I have missed snow, for in Nice it merely rains instead. 

Neuschwanstein Castle (Personal Photo)

The buses to the castle were not operating due to “snow and ice” (although the snow was but a dusting). The walk up the mountain, advertised as forty minutes, took my swift legs a mere twenty. With time to kill before my tour, I opted to visit the bridge for my postcard picture shot. 
The route was closed, but as other tourists were hopping the fence (children in tow), I did, too. It was so easy to circumvent it, as if it invited you to ignore it. As I rounded the bend, that’s when the route became icy. My running shoes have poor tread from my walking-heavy travels, but I fared better than most. For all my clumsiness for bumping into things, I have an incredible sense of balance, and I know how to place my feet.  

Behold the view!

Neuschwanstein Castle (Personal Photo)

 That night, I feasted in a Bavarian restaurant, where I asked the waitress for a suggestion (as the wiener schnitzel was not local cuisine). Before I knew it, I had an enormous plate of meat: pork knuckle, duck, sausages all surrounding a dumpling and slathered with gravy. Germany has the best food so far, hands down. After so much bread/pasta with only a hint of meat, I was delighted at being able to dig in to a hearty carnivore’s paradise.

The Weirdest Christmas Ever

Where's Waldo? (Personal Photo)

Regard our family Christmas photo. Anything seem... strange to you?

Call me selfish, but I didn’t go home for Christmas. Plane tickets home are pricey, jet lag is a pain and really, when it’s between Spain/Nice, where I’m outside wearing a t-shirt and drinking in the cerulean skies, and Canada, where the polar vortex is causing heavy snowfalls, ice storms and power outages... Well, what would you do?

 Ever seen Christmas with the Kranks? That’s what this year felt like—like I was skipping Christmas. There’s no snow, it’s warm, and I wasn’t with my family. But I do have an awesome pair of French neighbours who seem to have adopted me, dropping by with random gifts (to date: nail polish, a dress (unfortunately, too small in the shoulders, so I couldn’t keep it), rainbow gloves). Whenever I try to bake them something, they always put a slice of cake on the plate when they return it! They’re also the ones who contacted my landlord after my apartment was almost broken into, and they’re always on the look-out for suspicious activity. Since then, my neighbour has invited me to eat a galette des rois with her to celebrate the New Year (but that’s for a later post!)

And did I mention that she invited me for Christmas Eve dinner à la niçoise?

*clears throat*

Scaaarrrfff (Personal Photo)

On the Veille de Noël, my neighbour gave to me:*

• Twelve ounces of rosé
• Eleven buttered bread slices
• Ten spoonfuls of foie gras
• Nine helpings of scampi**
• Eight cups of mussels
• Seven slices of duck
• Six types of vegetables
• Five minutes for a stretch break!
• Four types of cheese
• Three bûches de Noël
• Lindor chocolates
• And champagne—our favourite “bubbly”!

* Sorry, foodies, no pictures of the dinner! But take note of all the seafood!

** and oysters—fresh from one of Yolande’s friends

I brought a bottle of wine as a gift, but we did not drink it. Naturally, Yolande had already chosen wine to accompany our meal: a rose to go with all the seafood (that being said, red wine does go with cheese). This did not surprise me, as I know these sorts of things, and I did not insist on my bottle being opened. We supped with her daughter, so it was all of this food just for the three of us! She even got me a scarf and nail polish! Earlier in the month, I gave Jean-Pierre and Yolande their own gifts—Christmas mugs filled with chocolates and tea.

We ate for about four hours straight, chatting the whole night. According to my Dad, according to my landlord, according to Yolande, my French was “impeccable.” (Aww, yeah!)

15 C, even in January. i.e. T-shirt weather. (Personal Photo)

Christmas morning was mine alone, although I spent most of it unpacking from Spain and packing for my next destination—Germany (next post). I busied myself until my family back in Canada would be awake and called for a video chat using my Blackberry Playbook.

It’s the first year, in fact, that I’ve spent Christmas (and Thanksgiving, for that matter) away from my family. And it looks like Easter will follow, but Ill tackle that hurdle when I get there.

It’s not quite the same watching your brother open yours presents and his presents. Really, he gets twice the fun and I’m stuck there, looking in and making funny faces on the screen. Or when he gives you chocolates that you CAN’T EAT because you’re in France... (Yeah, I didn’t expect any sympathy—“I’d go to your [event], but I’m in Europe... boo hoo” doesn’t work, either.)

I did, however, get to see how my parents and my brother reacted to their personalized gifts (compliments of online shopping, which I’m really getting the hang of!). David’s Tea has this “Provence” tea with lavender reminiscent of the part of France I’m residing in, so I got them that, among other things.

Between that and spending the evening with some of my Canadian classmates, it was a good two days of craziness! But the craziness would spiral into madness... and insomnia...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Nobody Expects This Post

Inside the Sagrada Familia, Barcelona (Personal Photo)

What did you do during winter break, Laura?
Have you visited Spain? It's a beautiful place.
Laura, how's Europe? Are you enjoying it?

I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.
Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!

The city I visited in Spain was Barcelona, Barcelona and Madrid... Madrid and Barcelona. The two cities I visited were Barcelona, Madrid... and Toledo. The three cities I visited were Barcelona, and Madrid, and Toledo and Sevilla. The four ... no... Amongst the cities... Amongst the cities I visited... are such cities as Barcelona... Let me try this post again.

Get on with it!

Barcelona:

A friend asked me, “So, does the rain in Spain fall mainly in the plains?”

The answer is: “No. The rain in Spain falls mainly in Barcelaine.”

Arc de Triomphe, Barcelona (Personal Photo)

But even though it rained during my stay in Barcelona, I did not enjoy the city’s charm any less. I did another free tour, which was nice, since the historic centre of Barcelona is akin to a maze. The way our guide described Catalonia and its own language (Catalan) and desire for independence reminded me of Quebec’s efforts to separate from the rest of Canada. On my own time I visited the Arc de Triomphe (in brick) and the Sagrada Familia cathedral, which is as of yet unfinished. The outside resembled melted stone, as though it were not rock, but wax. In the pouring rain I ate some delicious, hot-from-the-deep-fryer churros, which burnt my tongue but warmed my insides. Mmm!

My hostel was not only inexpensive, but nice (and came with free breakfast). Oh, what a pleasure it is to stay at a nice one! My room even had a curtain that I could use to block off my own space, and breakfast was more than just cereal and bread. (The first time a hostel came with breakfast was during my weekend getaway to Bologna. Needless to say, it hadn’t impressed me.) I grabbed tapas with two of my roommates, Kim and Jimin, and then we grabbed probably the least Spanish thing there is—bubble tea.

Ok, Laura, you’re probably saying. That’s all fine and dandy. Where’s the action?

Patience you must have, my young Padawan.

Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família,
Barcelona (Personal Photo)

For Eurail users, Spain is a pain—as far as I know, you can’t make your reservations online; rather, you need to do it in person, or perhaps over the phone, too. At this point, I had no trains booked at all, unnerving for someone who likes to plan out everything! The train I wanted left at 9am (there was another at 10am, but sooner = better). I caught the metro at 8:25 and arrived at 8:45... and all the ticket booths were closed. The place was a ghost town. At this point, I had exactly ten minutes before the train left. So I ran to customer service.

Figures I’d experience a train strike. What else is new?

The customer service agent rushed us a group of us through security (scanning your bag in a conveyor belt) and onto the train, where we would pay for our reservations (Eurail) or buy a ticket. They even held the train for us and didn’t leave until we’d gotten on! This is why you always rush, people—it often makes the difference! (Spoiler alert: I didn’t have to pay the reservation fee—the individual who was supposed to do that never came around.)

Alfonso XII Monument, Parque del Retiro,
Madrid (Personal Photo)

Madrid:

Madrid didn’t have the same “old” feel as Barcelona, but I did have a ball taking photos of its architecture. I did my own self-guided walking tour in two 2.5-hour strolls, doing first the east and then the west ends of the city. I also bought a gorgeous scarf at one of the Christmas markets. In Madrid, I booked the rest of my train tickets, the only hiccough there being that I had to be in first class for the Seville-Barcelona train (a five-hour journey, so at least I was comfy for a long time). My hostel not only offered breakfast, but sangria and paella (a Spanish rice dish with seafood) on Friday and Saturday, which happened to coincide with the nights I was staying there!

Royal Palace, Madrid (Personal Photo)

I should mention the beggars. I've seen a couple on the streets, but one woman was on the subway, carrying a young girl in her arms and moaning in Spanish. It's the perfect language in which to wail, “Por favooor, Senoooor...” Later I saw a scrawny man running to people and saying, “Mama, Papi, where are you?” to random strangers. I also saw a man who started playing “The Saints Come Marching In” on a trumpet.

Toledo:

Toledo (Personal Photo)

Rather than doing a second day in Madrid, I opted to do a day-trip to Toledo, a medieval town situated an hour away by bus and known as the city of three religions.

Toledo was stunning. The cobblestone streets were a maze of twisty little passages, all alike, and the whole historic city made me feel like I had been transported into a different era. It was here that I bought and sent my first postcard to my friend Brittany, who had been begging me for one for a while. I also caved and bought some jewelry, a black and gold cross with coordinating earrings. Toledo was definitely a highlight of my trip, and I am glad I went there instead of spending more time in Madrid. I am sure there was much more to see in Madrid, but there was something magical about Toledo.

Sevilla:

I had an insider guide to Sevilla, compliments of Alex, one of the girls I bumped into in Rome. She recommended some excellent sights, such as the Plaza de Espana, as well as a fantastic place to get tapas. It was surprisingly warm, and I paraded around in my t-shirt and laughed at those wearing sweaters and scarves. It was a beautiful city, and I wished I could have stayed longer.

Laura, you’re thinking, I’m more. More juicy details, please.

View from the library, Toledo (Personal Photo)

Fine. I’ll indulge you. I got hit on (I think) by a persistent Spanish guy while I was chilling in the common room of my hostel. He spoke with his mouth completely full of food, so I could barely understand him, and it was absolutely disgusting. He also gave of “creepy vibes,” so I was glad I wasn’t alone in the room with him. His Spanish lesson began normally, with words for good evening and such, but then I’m pretty sure (again, difficult to tell when his mouth was full) he was asking me if I went to the bars or drank coffee. I said no. Then he pointed to himself, then me, and then make walking motions with his fingers and said, “To the bar? Or for coffee?”

At that point I gave a much firmer no, said I had to leave, and retreated to my room. I also said that it was hard to understand him when he was eating. Goodness! Obviously, if I’m travelling alone, that means I’m single and interested, right? 

Plaza de España, Sevilla (Personal Photo)

Except, as it turned out, he was sleeping in the same room. When he spoke to me I gave clipped answers and didn't look a him (partially because he was changing.. right in the middle of the room, even though we had a nice private bathroom). On my way out the door I saw him grab silver clothes from the luggage room. He was also wearing silver facepaint. Then I understood his earlier comment about being an artist—he was a living statue. However, he didn’t bother me again for the rest of my stay.

Satisfied with the amount of drama? Good.

I grabbed chocolate con churros while waiting for a tapas restaurant to open its kitchen. Los Coloniales. Fantastic place—I’d highly recommend it. You have to put your name on a waiting list to get a table, though, and arrive before the kitchen opens at 8:30pm, as it’s incredibly popular. I ordered a Spanish omelet and some pork in a garlic and whiskey sauce, and together it was only 5 euros (plus the cost for the bread basket, which you pay for regardless of whether you eat it or not).

Sevilla (Personal Photo)

On my last day in Sevilla, I did a walking tour with a local. He talked about Sevilla’s more recent history, including its former dictator, Franco (“the little motherf*****”as he called him—apparently it's taboo to talk about him). At the end of the tour I had to powerwalk to my hostel and then to the bus stop. I caught the bus with a minute to spare and made the train, although with less of my safety margin left than I had hoped (but that's why we have safety margins, right?). Then train ride was uneventful save for a constantly screaming baby and a toddler who ran up and down the aisle for most of the ride.

I flew back to Nice the next morning, but not before bumping into a girl named Juli, a fellow Canadian from Ontario. During happy hour we each got a 750ml glass of sangria (2 for 1). Let me tell you, speaking with a fellow Ontarian was refreshing! We had a great time and talked until 2am, when our bladders told us it was time to return to our rooms.

Good times in Spain!