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Published: January 19th 2010
It was an uneventful and unreasonably long ride from Lyon to Marseille. The day was unremarkable, save the oddity of passing a place called “Oregon,” (have you ever wondered where the name for the territory came from?) and my ride through the nougat capital of the world, Montelimar. You may, if your mind is limber enough, recall the name Montelimar from the beginning of the Beatles song, “Savoy Truffle” on the White Album. That’s why it sounded familiar when I saw it on the map between my points of departure and arrival. I looked it up, and indeed, it had earned its place of honor in George’s lyric. This is where white nougat was born.
This prompted me to stop at the “Nougat Palace,” and (skipping the tour due to time constraints) visit the gift shop. I bought a huge chunk of the delicious, white stuff and a postcard for my friend Gary, and moved on.
As I rode along, I wore the new scarf that I had been given by my friend Jessica in Lyon. It flapped behind me like the extremely long tongue of a canine or Gene Simmons. I liked the image in my head until it occurred
View
I really like this picto me, “isn’t this how Blofeld died in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service?” No, wait, he got his neck hooked on a tree while sledding down a mountain - not by his scarf.
Okay, here’s something else noteworthy about the ride - how about giants windmill placed in the middle of a nuclear power plant? That’s freaking crazy. Check out the picture along with this story.
When I arrived in Marseille, it was rush hour. The whole city was blocked up like honest health care reform in a room full of U.S. congressmen. It started to drizzle, then it started to rain. I found a map easily, then excellently navigated to the hostel I had planned to stay at. The sign on the door said they would be back in 2-1/2 hours.
I waited for an hour in the hardest rain I had seen yet on my trip. There was no shelter. I hid, shivering in a cubbyhole, keeping warm with a bottle of wine. This was (and still is) the lowest moment on my trip. Eventually, the wet, the cold, and boredom inspired me to call the number on the door and see if I could convince them (in
Marseille
This was the only shot I got of Marseille, before horrible rains came and ruined my time here. my best French) to give me an access code to get inside and out of the rain.
They told me they were all booked up and I would have to find other accommodations.
Springing to action, I found the neighborhood of my next hostel (always be prepared with at least two hostel options) on the shreds of the map that were left after all the rain. I navigated the streets to the new location, near the train station, before getting lost, looking for a narrow pedestrian street.
I stopped to try again and find the address, seeing all of the ink washing off the final scrap of map I had left. The bike fell over in the rain, my wine bottle falling out of my bag and shattering in the gutter and causing the rushing water to turn an ominous crimson.
I was unable to orient myself. Somehow I stumbled onto a street and it was the right one. I parked, found the hostel, and got myself a room. The loud, college-aged kids in the lobby irritated me. I joked to the receptionist in French, “Let me guess who the Americans are.” She laughed wickedly, and I truly felt like
villefranche
Just outside Nice, Villefranche sur mer. a European.
Actually, I haven’t met too many Americans on this trip. The ones in the lobby were particularly bad. Search your mind for the stupidest thing anyone could be talking about at any particular time. No, stupider. How about one drunken idiot instructing another drunken idiot HOW to play the game “bloody knuckles?” Honestly, can you find something more intellectually depraved to talk loudly about? You can’t blame me for denying my citizenship.
My room was perfect. I went upstairs, showered, and posted a new story on this blog.
Because of the rain, the waiting, the cold, and the length of the drive before and after, I didn’t see much of Marseille at all. I took one picture of the Arch as you enter town, and I saw the ships parked at the harbor. For a true story about Marseille, I must return and spend time there.
The next morning I rolled out of town around 10am, and headed for Nice.
I took the freeway. I was headed for Nice, but my real destination was Monaco. The Principality of Monaco is a sovereign nation located on the Mediterranean, within the borders of France. It is famous for its casino,
Brasserie
Brennan, at the brewery of Monaco Monte Carlo, as depicted in the film “Casino Royale.” For decades, powerful Europeans would travel to Monte Carlo for pampering and high stakes gambling.
On the highway to Nice I noted the first pick-up truck I had seen in all of Europe - over one month into the trip. I guess we don’t really need all those trucks in America after all…
Nice was… nice. I took the video that accompanies this blog posting. If you had to choose one, Nice would have to be the “San Diego of France.” The warmest weather in Metropolitan France - though my roommate told me they had snow just a couple of days before my arrival.
I checked into the Meyerbeer Hotel (I later discovered it to be a gay hotel), dropped off my things, and drove the 20km to Monaco just as fast as I could (to save daylight, and because I had another massively long ride the following day).
I was introduced to my roommate, Ollie. This guy, a rat-haired Cornishman, was a real piece of work. Never stopped talking. Never stopped bragging. Never stopped crowing. Kept checking his watch and acting like he had somewhere important to be, but then
B-MC
Brennan, at the Monte Carlo casino never leaving.
First, I remember he confused San Diego and Detroit. I don’t remember the context, but seriously - San Diego and Detroit.
He bragged about how he and his toothless 50-year-old friend liked to sleep with teenage girls, like he thought that would impress me. He said, “Look at me. How old do you think I am?” Feeling no need to flatter him, I said he looked to be about 42. He said in his Cornish accent, “You’re fucking cruel man! I’m 37!... but people usually tell me I look anywhere from 25 to 35.”
Then I told him I was going to Monaco, and he told me that he “knew Prince Albert really well.” He had been a waiter in an expensive restaurant in Monaco, and often made several hundred dollars in a night. He knew exactly what the prince liked to eat when he came in, and the prince used to “give him the nod.” LOL. Seriously, this guy was such a tool.
Then Ollie tells me that he has illegally taken the French trains so many times over the last 18 years that he has been coming to Nice, that he supposedly owes over €100,000 in
B-Monaco
Brennan in Monaco fines. Congratulations guy I don’t know/care about. You really worked the system. You’ve done so well for yourself that you are literally staying in the cheapest room in France’s 5th largest city. Write it on your epitaph, loser.
I got out of there.
I rode along the windy coast road to Monaco. I was astounded at the harbor views all along the way. Villafranche was particularly brilliant.
When I entered the principality, the first thing I noticed was a Porsche dealership. Quite appropriate, as Monaco is also known for its Grand Prix and Rally racing. This was the subject of the postcard I mailed my brother from Monaco (It has been about a month since I heard from him. I’m getting a little worried actually - you know a lot of dangerous things can happen to you when you are married with children, living in a nice house in Winchester, CA. If you happen to see him, tell him to give me a call please). Before I left Monaco, I would also see a Ferrari dealership as well as a Lotus. Pretty extreme.
Despite having a population of only 33,000, Monaco is one of the most densely populated places in
church
Central church in Monaco the world. Everyone lives in high-rises. In fact, the largest public works project in the country is the effort to reclaim land from the ocean so that they can build more homes. It won’t be hard to find new people - more than 2/3 of the country’s population is French citizens (some Italians too) - making Monegasque a minority in their own country.
I studied up just a bit before arriving, and was intrigued by two items: 1) the signature culinary contribution of the country, an appetizer called barbaguan, and 2) the endangered lingual dialect of Monegasque.
On my two objectives, I scored 50%. I found a boulangerie near the palace that served baraguan. Barbaguan is like a spanakopita, only fried instead of rolled in fyllo dough, and I quickly bought out the whole store. I wished they had more. Heavenly.
As for finding someone who spoke Monegasque, the locals pretty much agreed it was essentially a dead language. Only the elderly and the children in school knew it. I asked if I could find some children or seniors, and they just shook their heads. The palace guard was unhelpful, and he became downright abusive when I offended him by
concert poster
I hope someone recognizes the great font choice here. asking if I could have my picture taken with Prince Albert. I was like, “Come on, it’s not like he’s a REAL prince with a country to govern or anything.”
The guard let me eat my “dinner” of bread and wine overlooking the fortress wall. I stared out at the brightly colored buildings and the yachts, and I wondered what it might cost to live here. The answer is: it doesn’t matter, there aren’t any places to move into. I picked up a copy of the newspaper of Monaco, and indeed, there were plenty of listings for Nice, but not a single vacant property in Monaco.
I wandered through the corridors of Monte Carlo as the weather turned and began to drizzle. I wondered if the world’s most exclusive casino had a level of class above that which we associate with gambling in the modern world. As I walked in, they checked my bag. They refused to allow my camera. (Ooh, how exciting! I’m about to see billionaires with no pants! Senators blowing coke! A greased-up Pat Robertson and Freedom Silverstreak at a donkey show!) But no. Sadly, what I saw (obviously not the diamond room) was the same slummy
Save ferris
(just as long as we're talking about 80's movies) sideshow you see at every gross bar in America these days.
I ditched the casino and walked through a steady rain to the Brewery of Monaco. The public promenades are lined with large trees, which are filled with cheerful birds. There is a slightly unexpected tropical feel to the place. The brewery was actually hidden down on the dock, and I had trouble locating it. I felt like I was stumbling onto a private tavern, and expected it to be closed, or else to be the only customer - until I discovered that half of the town was inside already, watching a football match.
France is a great country. It is well organized, with very generous people. It gets very cold in the winter though, and it was time to move on. I find people to be mostly optimistic, though they confuse me. It seems every baker in the country is suffering so much that they have to put up a sign outside their door to announce all of their
PAIN to the world.
I ordered a sample tray of the brews at the brasserie; they only had three. I don’t know if my waiter was a moron, or if
palace
Royal Palace of Monaco: Prince Albert lives here... not in a can. he was just trying to make a big sale, but he went and grabbed three whole pints. I saw him reach for them, and said “Stop!” I demonstrated that I wanted just very small samples, and pointed to the shot glasses nearby. This time he nodded that he understood - then turned around and filled three half-pint glasses.
I told him I only had €10, and he said that was fine. I was frustrated, I didn’t want to drink that much and I didn’t want to spend that much.
Here is what I wrote in my journal, sitting at the brewery: “I may have just made a fatal mistake.“
I waited as long as I could for the rain to subside. I knew what I was doing was unsafe. I wasn’t even tipsy, but I knew it would take every ounce of concentration I possessed to make it back safely.
I left, and decided it might be safer to take the freeway, perhaps it would be straighter and better lit. It wasn’t. The rain kept pouring, and as I rode, with no side-roads available and no exits to rest at, I realized I really couldn’t see anything at all.
There
condoms
Condom machine outside of a pharmacy. 24 hours! was something familiar about the feeling, but what was it?
Of yes, it was exactly like one of those scenes in a movie or a cartoon when a character starts riding down a car in mine shaft. It moves faster and faster until finally the track ends, and the car flies off the screen into complete darkness.
To be continued…
Just for fun:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pat_Robertson_controversies
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Aunt Coryl
non-member comment
What a Trip!
Hi Brennan, I must say I'm enjoying your posts very much. And the videos and photos are really great. I had to use a sketchbook and a pencil when I was there--a nice way to consider things, but that seems prohibitively slow in light of all you are doing. As long as we are on the topic of movies, do keep your eyes open for Bramasole; not sure where it is, but you are covering so many small and out-of-the-way places, you might just find it! The weather in Seattle has been unseasonably warm, in the 50's, 10 degrees higher than normal for the last few weeks. I'll put in a request to send some of that your way, but I can't guarantee. It's all good though, it's all good. Love from your AC