Alès heads down the rabbit hole.

We left off somewhere around the time I was still in Marseille and had just booked a room in a hostel with an Australian and a brit from Cambridge, n'est pas? Well it just so happens that another Australian joined the party, and I must say that when two Aussies get together their blatherings become a mesh of indiscernable noise. They were speaking english alright, yet I had as much trouble with picking out words I knew than I have with the french. One of the Aussies most definitely had the mannerisms and lifestyle of his eucalyptus-munching bretheren. He'd sleep most of the day, (some could argue the entire day... I for instance only saw him conscious once) only to make his one big burst of energy of the day to find some to snack on before defecating and returning to sleep.

I trekked through Marseille the second day much as I had the first, on foot and in some arbitrary direction. Now, as it would turn out, I'd find la plage (beach) and a museum. It never ceises to amaze me how lost one can get when overlooking some of this gorgeous scenery. The beautiful public parks with insanely beautiful statues, to seeing the Mediterranean for the first time. I had virtually counted Marseilles out, but it most definitely had it's hidden nooks that made it a worthwhile mistake afterall.

I had to make it to the town of Alès on the 10th for another hosting opportunity. The wife in the family would get off work at 5. Thus! I putzed around in Nîmes for a few hours to kill some time. As it would turn out, one of the first things I saw was the well-maintained ruins of l'Arene de Nîmes. This smallish colosseum just ached to be looked upon. Like any good tourist trap, l'Arene de Nîmes offers a hand-held, audio tour guide to give you a truely authentic look into the wild wonders of might and valor that were once held inside. Upon sitting in the benches I looked around at the other embarrassed tourists. I know we were all thinking we'd been had. When my robotic host came to the part, "Pretend you are about to witness an epic battle! The crowd surges with delight, and suddenly............ AN AUTOMOBILE drives into the center of the arena, splattering the contenders in a heap of gore and torn loin cloths." As the confused vehicle driver drove out, I decided that it was best to just read the displays on the walls and to not pretend I was hundreds of years in the past.

Please do not get me wrong. The place in of itself is awesome. Just... reading about it on my own time will suffice. The interesting thing I have been finding about France in general is lack of safety restraints in that sort of place. For instance, you can be walking along the cavea and easily fall into a corridor a dozen or so feet below. Or you can walk to the top, and make yourself into a touristy pizza pie on les rues (streets) below. In the United States there would be flashing lights, yards of red tape, a fog horn and a half dozen security personnel at every corner making sure that everyone was looking where there were going and didn't end up in the aforementioned state of circular Italian foodstuffs.

I eventually made it to Alès, which by the way is not pronounced in your typical French way. Oh no! Normally you wouldn't pronounce the 's' sound. And in the rest of France, in talking with folks about my journey they would say it, "ahleh" or something of the sort. But!!! People from the area most definitely pronounce the 's'. Imagine, for instance, saying the name 'Alice' in a reeeeally thick French accent, and that's how it's done. <<Je vais aller à "alehse!">>

I was greeted at le gare (trainstation) in Alès by Tonya (36) and her 3 year daughter Yelena. Now see, Tonya, like my previous Couch Surfing hosts is American and speaks english perfectly. But! Here's where this deviates. Her husband Fred is a pure-bred Frenchman with a limited english vocabulary not too different from my own french knowledge. Their daughter is spoken to in both english and french. The result of this shows most when Yelena gets excited and puts the adjective after the noun when speaking english. I spent most of the first evening playing with Yolena and trying to figure out how an aspiring bi-lingual toddler ticks.

The following day, this would be yesterday, Tonya had the wonderful idea for me to head to Génolhac for the day while she got some shopping accomplished. Now Alès is already in the foothills of the Cévennes. So to travel the 30 or so km further north got me pretty stoked. Tunneling through hill after hill, the entire view shrouded in darkness for nearly a minute or two before bursting into tree-filled mountain villages for as far as the eye can see. Upon arriving at Génolhac, whose population rests meekly around a thousand, I was immediately able to breath in a sigh of non-tourist relief. Other than the few folks around the gas station, I was nearly convinced that the place was uninhabited. No one walking the streets, no reverberations from open windows. A very docile ghost town on a Saturday afternoon. And it was mine to explore. Every alley way leading to something interesting. An abandoned usine (factory), a rock cliff to illegally climb, a stream winding its way throughout the land. And the best part? I felt like at any given moment I could walk into the tavern, ask the bard for my quest, and galantly trapse off into the woods with the phrase "magic missle" just a flick of the tongue away from being cast.

When Tonya picked me up for the second time at le gare, she took me to the top of the hill I'd seen when first arriving in Alès. Alès had at one time been a coal mining town. This was evidenced by a giant slag heap in the distance. (When mounds of dirt are extracted from mines, it's separated. The coal gets sent off while the non-coal bits (slag) get piled up) Now at one time that slag heap had trees and greenery all over it, but a forest fire a few years ago laid waste to it all. The heap, having bits of coal that didn't make the cut, were heated and are still smoldering to this day. Its most visible on rainy days when steam pours into the atmosphere.

Arriving back at their residence, I played with Yelena a bit more before dinner. I swear I must of done this bit with a stuffed cow and lamb three dozen times. I had the lamb climb to the top of a pillowy hill, the cow asking the lamb why its up there, and the lamb not knowing. Every time ending with the cow getting throughly upset at the lamb's ignorance and the pillowy hill and the accompanying lamb toppling to the floor. DOZENS OF TIMES.

Dinner was traditional raclette. Having never partaken in this wonderous activity, I was most enthused. Basically, you're melting your own cheese in a mini cast iron pan and raclet (scraping) it onto potatoes. This was accompanied by pickles and baby corn. Wonderful. I met a couple friends of the family before teaching them the wonderousness that is Hey! That's My Fish! that I'd brought thousands of miles to play. (I seriously needed my boardgame fix. I was about to punch an infant or something from withdrawal) After three games; the day was done.

I said my goodbyes to the new Couch Surfing friends at le gare. At the gichet (ticket window), I blasted that madame out of the water. <<Je voudrais un billet à Nîmes, pour une adulte, une direction, et tarif normal..... s'il vous plaît!>> Having flawlessly purchased a train ticket for the first time since this trip started with zero confusion and under a minute, I double-arm pelvic-thrusted my way to mon voie (lane) with curious onlookers utterly baffled at the spectacle.

Now I'm back in Nîmes waiting to take a train to finally tackle Paris full throttle. Which, with my new found confidence in french speaking, it'll most definitely be an EIFFEL TOUR DE FORCE.

I bid you adieu!

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