Sept. 16, 2006
Daren and I were the last two in our room to get up today.
We shared Room 108 in our hostel with three women. We're thinking a mistake might have been made, but we didn't make a fuss when arrived home around 11 p.m. and saw three ladies in their jammies. It was a little awkward, but I can think of worse.
We must have walked 15 or 20 miles yesterday. Our tour of France by foot took more than 12 hours. Following my piss from the top of the Eiffel Tower we saw the Arc de Triomphe, then got some pizza (me) and a calzone (Daren) at an Italian restaurant on the way back. I'm not sure if either of us had been so hungry in our lives, what with all that walking we did. My pizza was the first gluttonous portion of food I've been served up on this trip -- it had goat sausage and an egg on it -- but I devoured it. I think we can expect American-sized meals when we reach Italy in a few days.
So today was another one of those travel days.
As last night wound down, Daren read his travel book while I wrote in my journal. We each had a few Heinekens while we were doing our respective "jobs." Then Fearless Leader decided we should get out of metropolitan Europe and into some town off the beaten path. He thought he'd found the perfect place: Chamonix, France.
So by 11 a.m. we were on our journey east into the French Alps. It took all day, including three train switches.
During one stretch we were on a train with very ethnically diverse passengers who weren't speaking French. I could never authoritatively say so, but my intuition told me these were refugees from some east Asian country that ends in "ekistan."
During another portion of the trip we were sitting next to an American named Norman. I could never authoritatively say so, but my intuition told me Norman was rich, single and in need of some serious affection.
Norman, like most everyone in Europe, picked up on the fact that we were Americans. He approached us during a stopover in St. Gervais, announced himself to us obnoxiously and followed his greeting with an insane, high-pitched cackle.
I don't mean to cut on Norman. He was friendly and it was nice to talk to someone in English. But at first I was a little frightened by him.
It didn't help that I'm almost done with a book called "Rose Madder" where the main villain is a psychopath named Norman. But Daren and I think we're observing that Americans are much louder than people of other nationalities. Or, it might be that we hear people speaking English clearer than anyone else. But Norman was DEFINITELY was the loudest person we encountered on this day, and maybe the trip so far.
He told us he was an electrical engineer from somewhere in California. He tries to visit Chamonix often, this being his sixth time. He was a mountain climber who speaks "not one word" of French, he said, because you don't need to. And that laugh. He reminded me of Joe Pesci from the "Lethal Weapon" series. Or maybe the clown in "Happy Gilmore."
Norman told us that Chamonix was a ritzy resort town, and as we neared our final destination we could see why.
The Alps that towered above us were stunning, even as night took over the sky. I don't think I've ever looked at a ridgeline and been blown away by such an awesome spectacle. It's not just that they were tall, it's that you realized how pathetically small you were standing below these incredibly steep, teethlike ridges. A glacier rolled down between two jagged peaks, with a man-made tower visible atop one of them. Norman told us a cable car would take us to the tower, and we made a mental note to do that tomorrow.
As we exited the train and began walking toward a hostel in our guidebook, I came to a sudden realization: This is exactly how I'd pictured an Alpine mountain town in my mind. It was the cutest little hamlet I've ever seen, with ice cream parlors, barber shops and enticing streetcorner shops.
We arrived at "The Vagabond" around 8 p.m. As we approached the front desk, which was attached to a full-service bar -- score! -- I began the conversation like I do all those I start in France.
"Je ne parle …"
"I speak English," the snowboarder dude with the long hair interjected.
Not only English, but he was English, or rather Scottish -- they say don't mess that one up (like calling a Beaver a Duck). But he was a Scot we understood perfectly. He hadn't lived in Scotland for several years.
The Vagabond had been booked solid the night before, but a mass exodus had taken place because "it's the weekend," he said. I'm still trying to figure that one out, but supposedly it's easier to find vacancy at hostels on the weekends.
We stowed our bags in Room 4 then grabbed a Stella at the hotel bar before heading out to conquer Chamonix.
We had dinner first at a restaurant called La Ferme. I had a dish called tartiflette, which is the best dish I've had on the trip. Want to impress me? Learn to cook this.
Our French waiter wasn't a jerk, but he wasn't overly friendly, either. Is this going to be it? I thought to myself. Is this going to be the French-guy waiter who's a total jerk that I'm going to tell everybody about when I get home? Is he going to spit in my food and scoff something in that nasaly language of his?
He spent most of his time flirting with four girls from the UK and leaving our beer glasses empty. I will say this now about customer service in French restaurants: It's as good as it's going to get when there's no tip involved.
I don't know about you, but I can't stand it when I go to places like the Outback Steakhouse and the waitresses either sit with you or grab your face and begin licking it. However, if there's a pending tip involved it does a lot to win you nice service. You may loathe that you have to tip for about everything now, but at least you're treated respectfully because of it.
That jerky French waiter everyone who visits France talks about -- guess what, he was an asshole and you tipped him anyway. It was included in the price of your meal.
Onward. We hopped around a little bit but spent most of our night at a place called The Pub. It was staffed by two female bartenders from the UK who weren't making tips, but were fantastic anyway.
Daren and I drank the night away. It had been several days since we had a real celebration, and this one was tempered by only one thing.
I hate to do this at a bar, but I was forced to record an entry in our LOG book. I can think of only two other times in my life I've played Scategories in a bar toilet. One was at Berbadi's Pan in downtown Portland, and the other was at the Ironhorse in Missoula, Mont.
Bathrooms in bars are the most despicable bathrooms you can find anywhere, except for those in the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity house in Corvallis, Ore.
But I had to do it.
"12:25 a.m., The Pub, Chamonix, France, 9/17/06."
Do you want to know why I absolutely had to do it? This always happens when I travel, but before today, and excluding my honorable mention entry from the Eiffel Tower, was this previous entry:
"5 p.m., Loch Lomond hostel, Balloch, Scotland, 9/11/06."
(Here's glorious video from after our night on the town):
http://s79.photobucket.com/albums/j130/troyfoster/?action=view¤t=Sept-2.flv