What's the Story Morning Glory?

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The trains in France are on strike. As such, I am writing this on the floor of a train in between two cars. Context is key. I would typically suppose a strike to result in zero services being offered - all work coming to a stop. But that is not the case. Instead, the work of SNCF (the national train company here) is random and limited. Trains do run, and trains are scheduled. But if you book a train on Tuesday for scheduled service Wednesday, there is a 95% chance that the train will not run. So why do you book? You book to have a piece of paper to show to SNCF on Wednesday demonstrating that they owe you a trip (wherever they may have a train running.) You will find a ride, it just may not be direct, and you likely will be without a seat. This has affected our friends Christine and Mike, as well as us, and everyone in France. It is not the end of the world, but it is an opportunity to hear some French curses, and ride in parts of the car otherwise prohibited.

We are on our way to Nice. Eventually we will get there. Eventually we will actually make our way to Italy. The last part of our trip looks much like a horseshoe, circling around the Mediterranean. On a map, this segment of the trip looked very quick to me, as if you could toss your hair back in the wind and take a summer's afternoon drive through the Mediterranean. But it is bigger than that, spread out and a little more normal than one is made to think. You get to the Mediterranean and you realize that Hollywood does not live here, McDonald's has not gone on vacation, and the wind still gets a little chilly sometimes. Last night was a rough sleep. There was a light right outside our window that reminded me of Kramer's, “Jerry it's burning my eyes out!” We also happened to be sleeping next to a night club, and awoke to the sound of scooters and circular saws this morning. But I shouldn't complain. Kramer LIVED next to the chicken place. I'll be searching for other options by this evening.

Converse to these minor irritations, there have been new simple pleasantries as of late, like running. I first rebutted the idea of formal exercise in Europe with the thought, “Oh, but all that walking.” However, my brain failed to have the afterthought, “Oh, but all that cheese.” There came a line when walking was no longer enough. And the line presented itself upon my notice of some 12 Euro runners. And 5 Euro shorts. Cheap cheap cheap. Admittedly, my handpicked uniform looks a little dorky for lack of a better word. But it makes me laugh, and it feels really good (REALLY GOOD) to be jogging again.

I am enjoying the mornings quite a bit too (when I get to bed early enough). I said to Sarah not to be worried if she wakes up in the upcoming weeks to find me gone. Since a young age, I have enjoyed on occasion waking up in good weather to occupy as much of the morning as possible outdoors. I can't think of much better than a good coffee with a good book in the first bit of the morning. The sun gradually comes up and the chills that accompany shade and a lack of sleep slowly fade away into the warmth of light on skin. You return to find your company properly rested, and then set in for the second cup of coffee. And here concludes my ideal morning.

The icing on the cake for me this year though is to have that morning off the harbor, or in a variety of other unfamiliar locations. It is the lack of familiarity that makes it best. An unfamiliar morning can be at times, an uncomfortable thing. You may open your eyes to a ceiling that presents itself in strange orientation with the door across the room. The wallpaper is peculiar, and just when you think you are in your friend's home, you realize that this is not the case. Instead, your supposed friend is actually a stranger, and the supposed home is actually a hostel. But then, in this little turn of perception, you realize that the joke's on everyone else. Neurons storm, and being the first one awake, you now have the opportunity to be the catalyst of not only your own dreams but of every half-conscious thought that you would have missed otherwise. You are awake, and they are asleep. There is a line of deviance to be toyed with. The earlier the hour, and the more communal your sleeping quarters, the more you tread dangerously with disturbing someone or setting up the experience for failure. To awake too long before sunrise is to flirt with the more sinister time of the night, both in your mind and on the street. It is a fraction of time in the world that most of us care not to witness. But this is most true if you experience the hour after having already gone to bed. To stay awake and endure the evening for everything that makes the longest day that much better in its own right is entirely a different matter. The frightening hour is that time when you wake up before the night owl has gone to bed, and rather than follow the rational thought of going back to sleep, you choose to follow some other toy of an idea and rise from bed to consciously ruin sleeping habits in the upcoming days. But say you catch the hour perfectly, and by chance - not scheduled. You quietly put on the headphones and fumble for a few minutes with decisions of program, destination, theme. You take your book, or your guitar, and in those two chilled hours as the sun slowly makes its ascent, you let noise and unfiltered idea take flight for a little bit. I realize there are a great number of people among us who might identify more with the opposite: sleeping in. The turn of perception in this case is the same though. Upon waking up there comes the thought, “Where am I supposed to be right now?” But then comes the second thought, “Right here in bed.” And then comes a smile. In either case, it is the removal of the alarm, the change of the environment, and the opportunity to break free of a robotic world that ought to be cherished.

I am secretly happy to have taken a train ride in the midst of a strike. It breaks the mold and heightens the sense of adventure. I'm not looking for pain, but I believe discomfort can be beneficial, or even humorous in good measure. This thought might be classified as a tepid kind of masochism but I don't believe life would be all that fun if served up unscathed. A sprained thumb, a poor train ride, and sleep deprivation have constituted the highlights of my week. And it is wonderful.

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Comments

[BEV]

Mmmm
Well - again, I am enjoying reading all that you've written but I must tell you - that the expressions on your faces in the pics truly speak 1000 words for me . . and as much as I'd like to give you all 1000, I will share just a few - joy, excitement, contentment, "you're doing the right thing in this traveling adventure" (that's worth 9 if you're counting), , glowy (new word = bonus points which means counts for 8), love, pondering, . .. and the rest (which I believe is 980) I will pray you are discovering on your own :) . .. And of course, which would be nice in Nice is a picture of french hot wings????????? or .. les wings chaudes??? xoxo and continue to enjoy the rollercoaster of adventures because that's what makes the journey a journey !!

[TimandSarah]

I must say Bev... the closest thing we had to a hot wing was in Marseille, at an Indian restaurant. It wasn't hot at all, but had the hot flavor you would expect. I don't think the hot wings have taken off in Europe... could be a good business idea.... the Europeans don't know what they're missing :)