Away from Naples

Twelve days of awkward dinner company, free room service, guided "shore excursions", coerced relaxation, and (best of all) legitimate disconnection await onboard the "Mariner of the Seas." Any watch marked with "Get off the boat", "Dinner time", and "Meet everyone" would have been more useful than either my Easy Reader or Sub. Cruises are funny in that way. Days of the week become irrelevant, only to be replaced with concerns about whether or not one needs a tie for dinner that evening.

First port: Naples.

Leaving.

You don't need a numbered sticker designating your tour group to show you're a tourist while riding the ferry to Capri.

I woke up forty minutes after boarding. The hazy shadow in the distance now above us, our long shadows stood short at the foot of the mountainous isle.

There was a mixed party in the small harbor; yachts, fishing boats, and dinghies rocked gently alongside one another.

Our tour through the narrow streets of Capri took us past Kiton, Ferragamo, and Tod's. 

The beauty felt just beyond our reach.

Another nap, another ferry. Sorrento.

The streets of Sorrento.

Local treasure.

Not built in a day...

...but seen in one.

We stepped off the train into Termini. The station was still busy at 7:30.

I heard my name called. I saw my two roommates from my stay in Madrid. Canadians, I explained to Wm., are everywhere. Spaghetti alla carbonara was the first meal I had in Rome five years ago. Repeat.

A good meal after a long day made better by unexpected company.

The sun set as we ate.

My pack felt heavy by the time we checked into the hostel.

This wasn't Nice. The other residents weren't really, either.

An early morning intended, a mid morning start. Covering the city would take all day, but I thought it necessary for Wm. to see the main attractions if he was going to see anything.

The Vatican in black and white. Intricate without the opulence.

These stairs may look familiar to those who were required to take MATH-M119 back in 06-07.

Disarray behind perceived order.

Leaving and so did we.

The Coliseum

To the Pantheon.

Dreading the inevitable.

The day wasn't without mistakes, but with the sites seen, I had satisfied my duties as a tour guide. Nine hours later, we contacted the Two from Toronto and had one last night out; it was an interesting conclusion to an even more interesting trip.

I awoke on the floor of my hostel room the next morning confused only about my energy and clarity. I'm not a morning person, not after nights like that. My bed stood next to me, undisturbed and uncluttered.

It was time to meet the parents. Time for schedules, plans, and arranged meeting times. We took off towards Termini.

Reunited on the Riviera

My brother Wm. and I took off towards Gare St. Charles at 7:00am. I didn't look back as we left.

Company was nice and conversation was refreshing after three days without English in Marseille.

As the train followed the coast west towards the white and cerulean beaches of Cannes, I shared stories of my time in the cities prior. We watched tile roofs blur into streaks of red and shared a pair of headphones.

Cannes was quiet; I didn't mind.

We swam, read, and watched. We didn't dive and didn't worry.

Opposite the beach and nestled between restaurants and hotels sits a stretch of luxury boutiques. Gucci. Chanel. Prada. Louis V. [Insert name here]. Yawn now.

Polished- Mustang and Gucci.

McLaren SLRxNikon DSLR

Exotic sports cars, like their retail equivalents, don't do much for me. Pretty (sometimes), impractical, and incredibly expensive doesn't get me going; I'd much rather come home to a mid-century Mercedes 300SL (provided I could even fit in one) than some Italian fighter jet-wannabe. There's no denying that the SLR is a beautiful car when you see it parked on the street, though.

There's GTH, and then there's GFY. The latter done by JM Weston.

We shouted, "Mazel tov!" alongside twenty strangers as we watched the sun set behind a wedding on the beach.

Past full restaurants and empty sidewalks, we finally settled on watching the French sing karaoke (read: drunkenly butcher American pop songs) at the Irish pub outside the hotel before heading to bed.

Nice: Bigger, busier, and rockier than Cannes.

Present, past, and future.

There was a dense flea market in Old Town. I've never been partial to souvenirs unless they are found; recently this feeling has grown stronger, but this was a great place to buy old posters and prints.

Fans of silver (?)

Back to the beach.

Nice tires.

Forgetting towels was a big mistake.

Clarity after climbing.

One last look.

There is perfection in retrospect.

We paused for a moment to admire the beauty around us and acknowledge our existence in the present. As we turned to leave, the discomfort of harsh stones and cold water faded, replaced with the unbridled potential of the evening ahead.

The Red Truck on College Ave.

You never know what (or who) you'll see if you just pay attention.

Please be careful while driving.

Marseille

Waking up 25 minutes before your train's departure is not advisable. I took off down the hallway in my boxers, past the hostel's cleaning ladies standing amused (or confused) in the doorway to the eight bunk room, and feigned composure as I called for the desk attendant to hail a cab.

Just barely making my train to Cerbere, once seated I found time to catch my breath and suck down the final drops of a one liter bottle of water wisely placed beside my pack in the hostel. Relief settled in as the train disembarked and I was quickly asleep, soothed by the sensation of motion and the sounds of For Emma, Forever Ago.

The train came to a stop and the noise of people lining up at the door roused me. Confused about being the only one still sitting, I grabbed my pack and hopped off. The herd mentality is troublesome. As the doors closed behind me, the gravity of my mistake emerged. "Figueres." At the home of the Salvador Dali museum and apparently all of my fellow passengers, I was not where I needed to be. According to the itinerary I needed to follow to make it to Marseille, I had just trapped myself in Spain for the remainder of the day.

Do I go back to Barca to enjoy another night out and risk repeating this hectic morning? The next train to Cerbere wasn't coming for two hours and at this rate I would be stuck in some little town right before the French border for the evening.

Catharsis shouldn't come easily.

I let the anxiety and frustration go. As I watched Barcelona-bound trains pass every thirty minutes, I reminded myself that I would figure this out.

Onward, to Narbonne.

I did.

Notre Dame De La Garde from my hotel window.

I arrived in Marseille at 11:30 that evening and would soon discover that my only actual mistake was not staying in Barcelona for another day or two.

The absence of hostels meant I was truly on my own in this city. I was restless in my hotel room, but at the very least, I got some much needed sleep after the consistently long evenings in Spain.

Knowing what I left behind and what lay ahead, I was disappointed by my surplus of time in the city.

 I tried to stretch the hours while in Spain; here I had to learn to slow down and compress them.

The views from the Notre Dame De La Garde were stunning and well worth the long walk up.

The hidden path up.

Over the course of this trip, I realized I was rarely on level ground. My seemingly constant climbing led me to new views and perspectives; the only thing that mattered was seeing something different.

Remnants of one of my favorite meals- moules avec frites. 

A preview of the sun-bleached colors of the Riviera.

Creatures along the harbor.

Ready for the Riviera.

Barcelona

I stepped off the train from Madrid at 5:00 pm. As I exited the Arc de Triomf stop, I was bathed in the warm light of a beautiful afternoon.

 The weather changed the following day and I found myself, once again, caught in the rain on the way to La Sagrada Familia. This time, we waited in the shelter of a pharmacy as the downpour telling jokes and stories from past adventures and the evening prior.

Searching for the best views of the city, I headed north with a roommate to Tibidabo after a brief jaunt through Gaudi's Park Guell. The clouds cleared just as we left the park and the heat taunted us, having dressed for cooler temperatures,  over the next hour as we made our way towards the peak.

Notice the slant.

Easy ride in the opposite direction.

We took a shuttle for the final uphill stretch, the road winding serpentine past large houses turned commercial. Moments before the shuttle arrived, local police had explained that Tibidabo was inaccessible. The funicular wasn't running. After our two hour hike North, we had to see for ourselves.

With overcast views of the entire city at our backs and an ominous layer of dense fog obscuring the peak, we approached the empty funicular station. Not far from the bottom of the track, three cars reminiscent of VW buses approached at a crawling pace.

Just too funicular for anyone else to ride.

The two funicular(s?) run in synchronicity, simultaneously reaching the single split in track halfway through their trip that allows them to pass.

As we ascended, I accepted that the views I'd hoped for would remain beyond my reach.

We were met with dense fog and cold winds once on Tibidabo and as we walked through the gates, the funicular unapologetically began its trip back down.

The place seemed better suited for a B-list horror film than a fun summer afternoon.

The church and amusement park rides, alike, sat solitary underneath their shrouds of grey, ignorant of the bustling city that lay below. As I rolled down my sleeves and longed for a jacket, I forgot that I'd been cursing the sun just an hour prior.

The wind blew incessantly, pouring fog across the empty streets.

We walked through the park equally fascinated, frustrated, and amused by our own meteorological misfortune and surroundings.

So you want to see him?

The weather stayed wet and grey until the morning I left for Marseille. I had been deceived by the city's radiant welcome, but the energy and pulse of Barcelona's clubs rejuvenated and exhausted us every evening; the flashing lights compensated for the drab colors during the day.

Despite the weather, having navigation issues that are unparalleled by any other place in the world I've been, and a variety of humorous and terrifying mishaps, I can't wait to go back someday. With a handful of Canadian hostel mates, I had some of the best nights (mornings) of my life, that is, until I realized I was saying, "eh?"