6/27/11

Near Sicily.

We were on our way home.

I had to run downstairs to grab my camera.

I said I'd be right back.

It took half an hour.

We were never good with time on that ship.

Forever changed.

Forever smoldering.

6/17/11

Somewhere along the Med.

Crete

After nine identical mornings, I still awoke trusting the deceitful soft light creeping in from behind our curtains. Turning on the television, a bow-mounted camera fed us our first glimpse of natural light every morning. Opening the blinds quickly dispelled thoughts of the sun, instead revealing the "Promenade", the main artery of the floating hotel, yet today the scene on screen revealed no difference.

We awoke late and ran off the ship hoping to salvage the two and a half hours. The clouds darkening the cool day threatened rain, but we didn't have time to change. A shuttle took us from port to downtown Chania.

As we pushed our way through filled sidewalks, the crowds thickened. In admitted ignorance of our location, we blindly stumbled upon the heart of Chania, the Venetian harbor. My eyes were instantly drawn to the light house standing across the harbor and the small sailboat passing by. Waves violently crashed onto the rocks around the lighthouse's base; those successfully passing the narrow entrance spilled water onto the terrace and our feet.

True to form, a soaked golden retriever emerged from the harbor and enthusiastically returned to its owner who sat with his things against the western wall of the mosque. As we approached, we watched as the dog refused a meal offered by a passerby; the food sitting untouched as the dog looked back for approval. I continued on, amused and curious by the repeated burst of water battering a short section of the harbor wall. Spray exploded overhead, soaking a lonely bench.

With only forty five minutes before we needed to find our way back to the shuttle, we raced around the harbor passing waterfront restaurants and the Maritime museum without thought.

Well traveled.

Reminded of spaghetti a la carbonara.

Carpeting.

As we climbed around the rocks to the opposite side of the wall, a different side of the Mediterranean became apparent. Wm. and I stood in silence watching the surf crashing just feet in front of us, the mist landing delicately on the front of my camera.

I realized as we left the lighthouse that every step brought us closer to home.

We rushed back the way we came, getting lost in the streets beyond the harbor. Not knowing street names, but aware of a series of wrong turns, we retraced our steps to the last confirmable point. We couldn't ask for directions. There were ten minutes until the shuttle left.

Wm. spotted a familiar awning down a different alley.

As usual, he only remembered turns I'd forgotten. We sprinted towards the indoor market, up the stairs, and through the dusty building to the final shuttle that sat idling outside.

Rhodes.

Ready for rest, we spent our morning somewhere in Faliraki, Rhodes.

Apparently we passed Europe's largest water park on the way there.

I didn't see it.

Behind a hotel, I watched a photographer take various families' pictures with a Hasselbad as we floated in the cool water.

Wm. and I set off towards the city upon our return. Asphalt yielded to stone as we walked.

Making use of what they have.

En route to Crete

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.

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.

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.