I Pet the Narcoleptic Dog



MONDAY, March 27, 1995.

Here I am in France, finally in a first rate country again. It feels so civilized. Ah... law, order, and nice train stations with ultra-clean restrooms, even if it does cost me a franc to pee. Sad to say, but Nice was pretty much a bust. Already in poor spirits from my experience in Greece and less than rejuvenated by the night train from Rome, I was greeted in Nice by more cloudy weather. Oh, joy.

Nice was another summer resort town still waiting for summer. Even though Sunday was the Nice Mini-Marathon, the city was basically dead. This leaves me glum on visiting more beach-oriented places, and I'll most likely nix Corsica and Sardinia from my itinerary. Although while I was strolling the boardwalk and the stony beach, the sun occasionally poked through the clouds long enough to give me a sense of the city's appeal, I found it generally unnotable. The Modern Art Museum practically put me to sleep. Even the touted old city was uninspiring. Perhaps the highlight was the Russian Orthodox church, even if I did have to see it through a locked gate from fifty feet away. At least I got to eat a tasty chicken curry sandwich on a decent French baguette.

This morning I made the acquaintance of the nifty computerized French ticketing kiosks and bought a ticket to Avignon. Westward ho! Spain awaits. With about ninety minutes to waste before leaving town, I stumbled across "La Poste" and ended up spending about $100 there! Despite the fact that I proclaimed I was "finally traveling light" when I left Zurich, I decided my pack was still too heavy and decided to ship some weight away. I sent two small boxes of miscellaneous items (a couple pairs of socks, Still Life with Woodpecker, my winter hat, etc. - (all small items, but weight is cumulative) to Michele in Switzerland. I also sent her a postcard warning her! Hopefully the postcard will arrive first. When will I learn to pack light? My bag is still heavy, but finally (so I say now) manageable. I made a "Xerox Backup" of my journal. Ever since it got water damaged in Santorini, I've become paranoid about damage and loss. I'd just die if all this writing was for naught. I sent the "backup" to my dad for safekeeping.

Avignon hit me like a breath of fresh Subiaco air - finally, a city not in the off-season. It's not exactly a thriving metropolis, but at least there are people in the streets and cafes. Sure, there were people in Nice, but there's people, and then there's enough people. If you were out party hopping, you would have skipped Nice because it didn't look like there were enough people there yet.

Photos of Nice

At the train station in Avignon, I spoke with my aunt on the phone for a while. It's always a welcome reality check to speak with a friend who has two feet firmly planted on American soil. Hearing about American life with an outsider's ears is usually a bit curious, occasionally puzzling, but always refreshing and successful in reminding me that I'm not crazy, I'm just a foreigner. When I mentioned that my next stop is Toulouse, she told me that I must try the local dish, cassoulet, and even told me what restaurant to frequent. It sure is handy to have a France expert in the family. I also arranged with her to use her apartment in Paris during my final week of complete freedom before I start work in Zurich. Paris seems like a nice place to relax, unwind, and begin my lifestyle transition.

After leaving the train station, I headed to the tourist office to find a cheap hotel room. They gave me a few names and addresses and I headed toward the closest one, the Hotel Innova. Curled up on the floor in front of the reception desk was a large, friendly, stupid looking dog. After checking with the owner that it was all right to pet him (don't want to have to write another story about how mom always told me not to play with strange dogs), I made friends. He barely moved but seemed to appreciate my affection. After thankfully dumping my pack on the bed and freshening up (this glorious, daily ritual is always an emotional and physical highlight), I pulled out my Let's Go to find out "what next?," and right there in black and white, I read "Pet the narcoleptic dog at Hotel Innova," and I laughed out loud.

I jumped up and down jubilantly exclaiming, "I did it! I did it! I pet the Narcoleptic dog!"

Shamefully, I must admit that unlike the author of my Let's Go, I didn't go to Harvard so I don't know what "narcoleptic" means.

This afternoon, I wandered the streets of Avignon. I ate a ham and cheese crepe. You know those nifty street vendor crepes, but it wasn't as good as my memory of the ones in Paris. You don't find these crepes on the street in New York. Then again, you don't find New York City hot dogs and pretzels on the street in Paris. Then again, you don't find much of anything on the street in Cupertino. I wandered into FNAC, a department store chain that I'd also seen in Belgium. I spent about a half hour drooling over the electronics - computers, HP-calculators, stereos, TVs, wow, cool stuff. Maybe someday I'll get to play with these things again.

It was nice to see all the people, many stopping to buy bread on their way home. Behold, the Frenchman walking with a baguette under his arm. This doesn't sound like much - but it implies that people live here, and that they'd gone somewhere in the morning! Wow, now that's something! The students in town have found a nice combo of more traditional French fashion and the "grunge look." Can't say for the guys, but on the women it's sexy. The French seem good at that in general!

I've ended up in a cafe sipping cappuccino that just doesn't make the Italian grade - it's too weak and the steamed milk seems to have been replaced by thick, sweet whipped cream. It's not bad in its own right, but still... Italy is better. I'm feeling burned out. I'm really looking forward to the time I'll spend in Spain with mom and the Meisliks. I'll have an itinerary planned by someone else, first class accommodations, and conversation! What more could I want? A romantic holiday on Mykonos during the summer?


TUESDAY, March 28, 1995.

Again this morning there were people in the streets! Yeah, a real town! Although last night, there was no live music at the bluesjjazz bar listed in Let's Go. Bummer. I walked there in a downpour with a gusty wind that ate my umbrella and then whacked me in the face with it. I did manage to find a cafe with a live musician - well, at least the guitar and vocal were live - everything else was on floppy disk. The guy was singing English songs - though he obviously didn't know what he was saying because he mangled some of the lyrics in the strangest ways. After he absolutely destroyed "Hey Joe," I really had to leave. Hendrix he was not.

Today, it's fucking cold here in Avignon, although at least there's sun and blue sky. Where's Ivan Dennisovich? It's six degrees Celsius and an arctic wind is chewing at my ear. My hand is stiff from the cold. Checked out the Palace of the Popes (they call it the "other Rome" - I call major bullshit on that, even though I know what they mean) before retreating to a cafe for some tea. My ears hurt. If I get sick, I'm going to be pissed. A blast of cold air after playing with the narcoleptic dog and even the hotel cat (oh, oh, spaghetti-o, I'm often allergic) is almost certain to lead to a nasty cold. Boy did I ever pick a good time to send my hat to Michele.


WEDNESDAY, March 29, 1995.

Yesterday after I arrived in Toulouse, I spent over an hour in the train station working out sensible train schedules. My mom arrives in Madrid on Friday morning, and I'd really like to be with her for lunch. Figuring out how to get there was no easy task. I was frazzled and hadn't really thought through all the options in advance. I had to wait on line several times to get international train information and deal with some unfriendly, non-English speaking agents. I complain when I get too much English, and I complain when I don't get it. Wah, wah, I want what I want when I want it. I finally came up with a plan that had me in Bayonne tonight, Burgos tomorrow night, and in Madrid by noon on Friday. This gave me nice even travel days of about four hours each. When I finally tried to buy the tickets, I was informed by a woman (who thankfully spoke perfect English) that the French trains were on strike tomorrow. Argh! All that planning for naught!

Photos of Nice and Avignon

In the end, it turned out that I had to go to Spain today or I'd never get there on time. This morning, I hauled my ass out of bed for the 5 AM train to Irun (a FrenchSSpanish border town). I got to the train station at a quarter to six only to discover that the train was posted as twenty minutes late (retarded, ha ha). Then thirty minutes, fifty minutes... It finally pulled out an hour late. Grrr. I could've used the sleep - my hotel room was really comfortable, too. When I boarded, there were a bunch of sleeping backpackers in my car. When we were about an hour from Irun, they seemed very confused. They'd been on the train all night from Geneva and had no idea about the hour delay. One of the girls was an American studying in Pamplona - her loud English request for information to anyone who might be listening (how American! not that there's anything wrong with that) prompted everyone to start conversing. I also met a couple of German girls on their way to Burgos to kick off their own two weeks in Spain.

There was absolutely no border control as per last Sunday's dropping of control between seven European nations as part of the transition to the full-fledged European Community. I learned from the German girls that as of today, Canadians need visas to visit Spain because of the international fishing incidents, which naturally I knew about because I had watched too much CNN a few days before. Of course, a Canadian in France could easily sneak into Spain, but since you must show your passport at hotels, he couldn't stay long. There are definitely some complex border control issues, which is why it has taken so long to begin implementing the drop of border control. The agreement was reached ten years ago.

At the less than fabulous train station in Irun (which turned out to be in Spain - I thought it was in France and was holding on to my French phone card to call Michele about the boxes), I ate an uninspired lunch with German girls while waiting for our connection to Burgos. The American girl had caught a split second connection. The good news is that Spanish is a lot like Italian. I was able to understand some of what the bartender said to me, especially the prices. Yeah.

Somewhere in there, amid all that train excitement, I lost my day in Toulouse. I did get a chance to eat cassoulet at the Cafe de Grand Opera. I enjoyed it, but I wouldn't write home about it (ha ha!) I really felt dumb trying to be dressed up with my limited wardrobe, sitting by myself at a fancy restaurant. All alone, I felt like I should be with my parents at such a place. Getting up from the table to leave, I knocked the "check plate" off the table. It shattered with a bang and turned heads. Gosh, I couldn't even say "I'm sorry" in French. How humiliating. Gee, I'm sorry mister, I'm just a little boy. Have you seen my mommy?

Photos of Burgos

The other attraction in Toulouse that I wanted to see was the Basillique St. Sernin. My aunt had told me about some interesting sculpture on the inside. I didn't get to see that, but I at least got to see it from the outside - and I liked it.


THURSDAY, March 30, 1995.

This morning in the tourist office, I met a 71 year old guy. I got started talking to him because I overheard him speaking in a confused jumble of English and Italian. He didn't know Spanish either. He was born in Italy and then moved to New Jersey for many years when he was a boy. Then he went to Columbia University in New York. Since then, he has taught Shakespeare and American poetry in the US, Greece, and Italy. He travels all the time. He was getting information about going to a monastery in Santo Domingo de Silos where Gregorian chants are still performed daily. I probably should have gone with him (other opportunities to hear live Gregorian chant seem limited), but it would've prevented me from getting to Madrid on time, so my desire to see Mom won out. Charlie Pokorny would probably kill me.

Burgos is a pretty little town. Spain is definitely likable. It seems at first glance to have the pace of Italy with its own special charm. My "hostal" (not a youth hostel - hostal is a Spanish word for cheap hotel) had creaky wooden floors and a high ceiling. The wooden stairs were so old and worn that I was certain I'd fall through with the weight of me and my pack.

I went to my room at 8:30 pm after eating a delicious chorizo sandwich - a thick pocket bread filled with tasty spicy sausage - to rest before checking out the "night life." I woke up fully clothed and extremely thirsty at 8:30 this morning! Well, I'd had a long day. The room was tiny but cozy and obviously conducive to sleep. This morning, I explored the town. Then, I saw the cathedral, the ruins of a medieval castle, and ran into (surprise!) the German girls. I also saw a statue of El Cid on his horse. According to Let's Go, there's a local tradition which "compels its youth to climb the statue and fondle the testicles of El Cid's horse, thus ensuring their own strength, courage, and fame." Yeah. OK. Whatever.

It's friggin' cold - 5 degrees Celsius and windy. Out of absolute necessity, I bought a nice, warm, black wool hat. So much for traveling light!

When I lived in New Jersey, my family was friends with the family two doors down, the Meisliks. Shawn Meislik is currently spending a semester studying in Madrid. This is the motivation behind the whole Spain trip. In addition to my mom, Shawn's parents (Karen and Ira) will be there also. Today, I called my mom to get Shawn's phone number in Madrid, since I'd be getting into Madrid tonight and thought maybe we could get together. Mom wasn't home, but I left a message on her answering machine about the freezing weather. Then, I called Karen. She said that Shawn told her that it was hot in Madrid! Needless to say, this created a bit of confusion. I hope Shawn's right - I certainly wouldn't mind some warm weather.

I really like the Spanish coffee and their little snacks (Tapas). I had a small, tasty piece of a potato and chorizo pie. Yum. I'm now aboard a bus to Madrid, which is about three hours faster than the train.

Now, for all of you who have convinced yourselves that Michele is a romantic interest and have been ribbing me about it, listen to this. I called her yesterday to "OK" the packages that I'd already sent her. I decided (I mean, why not - especially after you've been convincing me to go for it) to invite her to join me in Paris. She said she couldn't go (limited time, money) and didn't sound disappointed about it. Do you believe me now?

I've made it to Madrid. I enjoyed a plate of paella sitting in the glorious warmth of the sun in Porta del Sol. Shawn was right - it's T-shirt weather here, just three hours away from wool hat country. Go figure. Shawn's not home - so I guess I'll just retire early. I'll surprise mom tomorrow morning at the airport. Shawn will be there too - she's the official "picker-upper". Gee, when's the last time I saw a "Bounty" paper-towel commercial?



Copyright 1997 by Bradley Edelman
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E-mail: Brad Edelman