Tag Archives: France

Vienne vs Wien – Orginally published 14 Oct 2006

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Here’s a funny story where I look fairly  stupid, and the only reason I’m telling the internet this is so no one else makes the same mistake (though I doubt anyone else would).

Vienna, as we (the English-speaking world) know it, is spelled Wien to the German world. This I knew. I’ve seen it on maps. But the French call it Vienne. So I bought train tickets from the french website to Vienne. And Vienne turns out to be not just the capitol city of Austria, but also a small town in France, about a half hour south of Lyon. I realized my mistake in the Lyon train station around 5pm on September 30. Fortunately, we are in a pretty good financial state right now, and fortunately, my boyfriend is not the type of guy to get all crazy and mad about the fact that I totally fucked up (I had even gotten us a Hospitality Club host in Vienna, Austria for that night, not even thinking about how long it would actually take to take a train from Paris to Vienna). We weighed our options and decided to just keep heading east by train. It was about 6pm. The best we could do was buy tickets for Geneva, plan to stay there for the night, and then figure out what to do next. The train was supposed to come at (about) 6:38pm and when a train pulled up at about 6:30pm, we got on, figuring it was our train. Guess what? It wasn’t! We realized our mistake as soon as the train started moving about 8 minutes before it was supposed to. I kept hoping it was something super-regional and we could just hop off after five minutes, but 20 minutes later, we were still going. When the train conductor came around, M. did most of the talking and impressed the conductor enough for him to not care that we had the wrong tickets, not charge us for the right tickets, and strike up a friendly conversation about god knows what, but we sure did a lot of smiling and laughing and nodding.

We get to Macon, a small town about 45 minutes from Lyon, wait an hour or so for the next train BACK to Lyon, get in touch with our HC guest to tell them we won’t make it, get back on the right train, get to Lyon, and called it a night. Let’s just stay here, we thought. It’s a big city, there will probably be a hostel, lots of internet cafes, or at least a million cheap hotels and tons of places to eat. After getting stopped and thoroughly searched by the cops, we went looking for a place to sleep. The cops in the Lyon train station were everywhere, and they were kind of assholes. There wasn’t any reason for them to stop us and demand our papers, but then again, the law in France is that there doesn’t have to be a reason. So we had to go back to their office, have them take all our carefully packed clothes and whatnot out of our bags, question our visas, etc. The main cop even questioned how we knew each other, since my passport was from Los Angeles and his was from Philadelphia. We were not fazed or intimidated by these guys (since we don’t carry drugs or weapons and our paperwork is in order) so eventually they became friendly.

Last year, we had arrived in Dresden (Germany) in somewhat similar circumstances (though we were hitchhiking and just dropped off somewhere near the city). It was dark, we had no idea where we were, no plans about where to stay, but within 20 minutes we had found an internet café. After a few minutes, we got the numbers of some hostels and viola, we had a place to stay for something like 11 euros a night. It was easy and we had time to go out and enjoy the night. This was not the case in Lyon, AKA the Lamest City In France. We ended up at some hotel for 60 Euros (which was the cheapest we could find, and actually felt lucky about it) after walking through a MALL, which seemed to be the Saturday night destination for anyone in Lyon who wanted to eat after 9pm (at applebee-type restaurants). However, I have to say it was nice to have a nice shower and clean, private room to crash in after such a bizarre day. We ended up having to eat at a real restaurant (rather than just a quick sandwich), but actually, the restaurant was pretty great, and decorated in retro-style vinyl furniture.

Moving on! The next day, on October 1st, we went to Geneva, where we only stayed long enough to have a sandwich and coffee. From Geneva, we decided to head to Interlaken, Switzerland. I mean, we had already totally messed up our planned schedule, so we might as well enjoy it, right? We had never been to Switzerland and I had always wanted to go, and since it’s a pretty expensive country, it’s probably better that we went now (at a more financially stable time). I had this picture in my head that everything in Switzerland would be pristine, efficient, easy to understand, and safe, and that’s pretty much exactly what Interlaken was like. The trains were really, really nice. The scenery was breathtaking. And we had picked a good day to travel (all in all, about 8 hours on the train) – it rained all day! As soon as we got off the train there were really exact directions on how to find every hostel and hotel in town and very clear maps. We walked to a nearby hostel and ended up getting in a private room (4 person dorm, but no one else showed up). It was expensive, but then again, so is everything else in Switzerland, so we sucked it up.

October 1st had actually been a really nice day of travel. Watching the land go by out a rainy window, reading books, figuring out schedules. But it was also really nice, on Oct 2nd, to finally have a day where we could enjoy being in a new place. The weather was beautiful, the view outside our hostel window was incredible, and we spent the entire day outside. We hiked up the mountains, took pictures of the snow-covered alps, and found a supermarket so we didn’t have to keep wasting money on cafes. We had decided to only stay one night and take an overnight train to Vienna (for real this time), which left around 8pm, but after a full day of hiking and exploring, we were dying for showers. So when we went back to the hostel around 6pm to get our backpacks, we just casually kept walking into the shower area, and kind of “stole” showers. It worked out great, and we were finally on our real train to Vienna the night of October 2nd.

Solo trip to Belle-Île-en-Mer (France), originally published 27 July 2006

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To get to Belle-Île-en-Mer from Paris, I departed from Montparnesse train station and spent about 4 hours in a comfy seat with air conditioning (this was TGV), on a train with a snack bar and plenty of leg room. When I transferred at Auray, I boarded an older, slower train and closed my eyes because the heat was somewhat overwhelming. When I opened them up after a half hour or so, everything looked beautiful and different.

When I got off the train in Quiberon (a small port town in Brittany), I heard bagpipes. Talk about atmosphere! I don’t know what the occasion was for, but there was a very happy family all hugging and kissing and obviously happy to see each other. I found the shuttle bus to the Port, got on a boat, and 45 minutes later I was on the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, in a town called, appropriately, Le Palais.

Just taking the trip was a little adventure for me, figuring out which step to take next and how to ask for tickets and the location of the shuttle bus and … well, it was all pretty easy but it’s the type of thing that I’m usually doing as part of a couple.  Once I was on the island, I was grateful I remembered the French word for youth hostel, because as I said in a previous post, there was almost nothing translated into English.

I followed the signs, checked in to the hostel (entirely in French, and successfully), and was excited to discover I had a private room for two days. There were two beds, but no one else joined me. It was a great deal. The hostel was really comfortable and really affordable.

I explored the island aimlessly that first night, first taking some time to grab a sandwich and have myself a little picnic. This was my view. Not bad.

The island was everything I could ever want. Beautiful, clean, empty beaches. Amazing restaurants and tiny cafes. Tons of dogs. Farms, cows, horses, mountains, but (seemingly) without the small-town mentality. People were dressed casually in shorts and teeshirts. You could hike the entire outer rim of the island, through the woods, stopping along beaches and rocky shores. I found part of the trail the first night and followed it for a while.

I didn’t pay attention as to where I was going at all, and just roamed around for a few hours with a bottle of water and my camera. I eventually ended up close to where I started, and headed back to the hostel just in time to order a beer before they closed up their bar. The island supplies so much local food and drink, including their own beer, soda, cheese, butter, carmel, etc. The beer was fantastic, so remember this if you ever go:

On Saturday, I was determined to ride a bike and find a beach. Renting a bike was easy, and it felt like such luxury to ride a nice, newish bike with working gears and brakes and adjusted to my height. There are no highways on the island, and the roads have signs for both cars and bikes. It is honestly a bikers paradise – you can go a while on flat land, but you also get great uphill and downhill rides, and it has been YEARS since I’ve just flown down a hill without worrying about traffic or lack of breaks or anything. However, it took me a while to find a beach because I kept getting distracted by all the amazing views.

Eventually, I found my beach. There weren’t too many people, there were no clothing rules, the water was perfectly clear, and there was no need to lock up a bike. Everyone just left them wherever, and it wasn’t a problem. That beach was my paradise. I can’t even begin to describe how amazing those 3 hours were.

I had to have the bike back by 7pm, so I eventually tore myself away from my paradise and rode back. I think I rode about 30 km or so, up and down hills, and maaaaaan did it make me miss riding. I mean, I ride a bike here in Paris but it’s just not the same. I miss riding for distance, having functional breaks, having control, switching gears, etc. Once I returned the bike I walked around a bit and decided fuck it, I’m taking myself out to a Nice Dinner. I went to a seaside place, ordered the 17 Euro menu (fish soup, fish of the day, fruit cocktail for dessert) and 2 kir bretons. It was wonderful, the communication was flawless, and I felt happy and relaxed when I was done. I took a walk around the old citadel and then headed back up to the hostel with a bottle of wine from the supermarket. I read and drank and watched a bunch of kids run around playing football and went to bed earlyish.

I woke up early on Sunday to check out of the hostel and went to the tabac for breakfast. It made me happy to know exactly what to expect when I simply ordered the petit-déjeuner. Bread, coffee, and juice. I took my time with breakfast, since it was 10:30am and I wasn’t trying to rush to get anywhere. The men at the next table ordered beer and then spread pâte on a baguette they bought from the bakery next door. At 10:30am. Yum.

I was a little bummed when I realized that I had to get the 2:30pm ferry, even though my train wasn’t until 5:30pm. But when I arrived back on the mainland, I realized we were dropped off at another beach! So I made sure that there was a shuttle bus to the train station running all day long, and then went straight for the sand. I got some more sun and noted the sheer amount of men in speedos.

I arrived at my train station in plenty of time and enjoyed the trip home immensely. Over the weekend, I finished 3 books, became addicted to Su Doku, and got to watch the sun set from a train, from the front yard of a farm, and over the sea. I really couldn’t have asked for a better weekend getaway, and I would go back to Belle-Île  again in a heartbeat. I enjoyed the freedom of traveling alone in a lot of ways. If I wanted to eat, I ate. If I wanted to pause and look at every single shop or sign or tree, I didn’t have to explain why I wasn’t keeping up. If I wanted to be lazy, I was lazy. I didn’t have to think out what I was going to do next. While all of those factors made me really appreciate my experience, I always wished in the back of my mind that my boyfriend was there too. However, it was good for me to remember that I can do all of this stuff on my own and have an amazing time with no problems. My next trip is in four days, and I can’t wait!

No, really, walking to airports isn’t a good option – originally published 20 May 2005

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(Written when I was living in Paris, 2005)

I really can’t believe this happened again.

The last day of the Cannes Film Festival, I dragged all my luggage to the bus stop to wait for the airport bus, which is supposed to come every 30 minutes. After 45 minutes of no bus, it was discovered that there was a strike and there wasn’t going to be any buses. You would have thought that someone would hang up a sign, but nope. The Nice airport is a good 30 km from Cannes, and the only other way there was by train.  You would think that the taxis would have been all RACING to the taxi stands near the bus stations to make tons of money getting people to and from the airport, but no. I waited for 15 minutes in a taxi stand line a million people long, and only one taxi came in that whole time.

I had befriended two very freaked out Brits, and we started the adventure together. It’s funny, I ended up spending hours with these two people and never once got there names. So let’s call them Frank and Kara. Frank was pissed, Kara was panicked. I was worried. My flight was at 6:50pm, theirs was at 7:00pm, and it was getting very late. The line at the train station to buy tickets was super long, and the only train we could have caught with any chance of getting to the airport was leaving in 7 minutes – there was no way we would be able to get tickets before it left.

Frank decided “this is bullshit,” which he stated many many times throughout the day, and somehow talked our way through the guy collecting tickets, promising that we would all pay on the train. This was where the language barrier actually worked in our favor – we spoke mostly in English, some bad French, and the ticket-guy had no idea what to do with us but let us go through. Amazing. We got on the train and no one came around to collect tickets (thank god). When we saw the airport approach, we decided to get off at the next stop. Kara had already told us the train didn’t actually go directly to the airport, it went nearby and then we would have to take a cab or a shuttle train to the airport itself. I highly doubted any of us would make our flights… it was now 6:15pm.

So we get off the train and we’re in some little suburb town that looks like all 4-lane highways to me. With luggage. I started to (inwardly) panic, because, you know, I had just done shit like this not even a month ago and it was somewhat traumatizing. We ask around and get the advice that “oh, it’s not far, a kilometer at most, and there are no taxi stands or a shuttle train, but really, you could walk.”

“Um, I don’t think we should walk,” I said as we started crossing our first highway. With luggage. And this time, I had a very large suitcase in addition to my little carry-on bag.

We crossed another highway, with Frank cursing the whole time. “I really, really, really don’t think we should walk. You can’t walk to airports,” I said again. “I really don’t think I’m going to walk,” I said again, as we got ourselves to the sidewalk-type thing on the side of the highway. I didn’t care if it meant I had to spend the night in the Nice airport, at that point. It was daylight, and I had seen taxis drive by, so I knew that at least they existed. Frank seemed lost, and said “It looks like we have to!” At that point, we ran into another guy looking for the airport, and he said “yup, I’m just going to walk there, I don’t see how else to get there.”

Oh jeezus. Okay. I didn’t like the idea of being stranded at the side of a highway in the south of France, but fuck if I’m going to walk to another goddamn airport, this one being the second-biggest airport in France, with a huge piece of luggage. There was a gas station across the street, I figured I would go over there until I figured out a plan.

Then, I spotted it: a cab coming off an exit ramp. “Go get that cab!” I yelled at Frank. He did! He crossed the highway to the medium strip, stopped the cab, and convinced him to drive the 3 of us to the airport. The driver was awesome, he sped quickly to their gate first, and then to mine. Incidentally, our gates were really far from each other and way more than one kilometer from where we started. Yeah. Sounded familiar. We dropped Frank and Kara off at about 6:25pm, they handed me 10 Euros for the cab, and we all wished each other luck. I knew there was no way I would make my flight, but I felt happy just knowing I was in a car on the way to my gate. Nice has a really nice airport, after all, and if I was forced to stay there through the night it wouldn’t be that bad.

The cab ride cost 16 Euros. I handed the guy a 20, and raced inside to Easyjet. Yes, the gate had been closed and there was no way I could get on the plane. However, they knew about the strike (it was an airport worker’s strike) and gave me a later flight with no additional fees to pay! I would still be able to make it home, I wouldn’t have to pay extra money, and I didn’t have to walk to the airport. Easyjet doesn’t fly that often, so I didn’t want to get my hopes up that there would be another flight to Paris that night that wasn’t full.

All I had to do was kill three hours. The airport windows looked out on to the beach, so I gazed out the windows, read a book, and ate. And there we have it. I just hope the Brits got on their flight with no problem… it kind of made me wish I had at least gotten their names.