As I left London aboard the Eurostar train, heading for the Channel Tunnel, I could hardly contain the excitement I felt inside. This was the real start of the trip - heading into France, a country where I didn't speak the language, and not even knowing for certain where I was spending the night or how I was going to get there. This is exactly what I wanted to feel - to break the trapped feeling I had from my previous life and strike out into the unknown. New York and London had been great, but they were all too familiar - on this trip, I am after the unknown.
So, as I rolled into Paris I was on a high. However, reality quickly set in when I called my friend Kendall, who I was to stay with that night, and found that I was at the wrong train station. The Eurostar arrives at Gare Du Nord, and I had to get the TGV train (France's highspeed train that connects most major cities) from Gare Du Lyon, which was all the way cross town. After months of being told that I was going to be ripped off on this trip, I was wary of being in a big city and looking like such a tourist (when I arrived at Gare Du Nord, complete with my backpack, I was greeted by a young lady asking me if I need a hostel. I hate being that obvious). But, my apprehension proved to be baseless, as I got a cab, found Gare Du Lyon, bought a ticket and safely arrived at the Lyon train station 4 hours later.
Kendall's husband Steph picked me up and drove me to their new house, which is about a half an hour outside Lyon in a small town called St. Pierre La Palud. It is absolutely beautiful - their house sits on a hill overlooking the Rhone River valley, and we had many meals and conversations looking out over the view. It was nice to stay a couple of days in the country and get a feel for the natives - generation after generation had lived the same way in this little village in the French countryside.
But, after a couple of days it was time to set off again, and this time the destination was Avignon, which is a town in the southern French province of Provence. The TGV got me there in just over an hour, and after lunch at a local Irish pub (and, as an aside, there are Irish pubs in just about every town you go into in the world it seems) I was able to join up with my old friend Leslie. She took me on a tour for the rest of the day - we saw Avignon's two major sites (the Palais du Papes, which was the former home of the Pope, and La Pont, which is a bridge that was destroyed long ago and now has a famous children's song about it) and then ended up having drinks at a local Cuban place. Che Guevara's face was plastered all over the club (calle Cubanito), so you know I was at home. But, as this trip is about doing whatever I want to do, my first urge hit me. I was carrying a suit with me for the weddings in Pakistan, so why not put it on, drive to Monaco, and gamble like a big shot? Or, at the very least, put one bet down and see what happens? The next morning we set about doing just that.
The fates, however, seemed to be conspiring against us, because as we set off in our tiny little rented Renault a downpour hit the south of France and wouldn't stop. It took us about 3 1/2 hours to do a 2 hour trip, and it seemed the rain was thickest once we rolled into Nice. After a series of random turns we lucked out and turned into the driveway of L'Oasis, a hotel which turned out to have a reasonable rate. Our crap safely installed in the room, we set out into the wet Nice night, looking to explore and perhaps down a little aperatife. We attained both exploration and a buzz, got on our fancy clothes back at the hotel, and set off for the main event: Monaco.
However, we were both hungry and decided to eat at a Thai place we had passed. The wine and conversation proved to be too good, however, as by the time we were ready to leave the restaraunt it was 11pm. When we asked the manager back at the hotel how to get to Monaco, he looked at his watch and shot the "what stoopid americans" look, but gave us the general direction and we headed out.
Driving the Renault over the hills between Nice and Monaco, I really was in a state of joy. We had found a station playing Bob and other reggae hits, and as the first notes of "War" busted loose I was winding through the same roads where Princess Grace had crashed and where so many high rollers had come to drop untold amounts of cash. The old rock retaining walls had that medieval look that everything seems to attain in Europe, and as we wound down into the streets of Monaco at around midnight I could hardly believe it - the fabled city-state of Monaco lay in front, waiting to be had. Zoot Alors!
This joy did not last, however, as Monaco proved to be rather lame. The Casino at Monte Carlo was virtually empty, and after paying 10 Euros each to get in we wandered around the place, looking for the blackjack tables. The casino had a different kind of grandiosity from the Vegas-style places I am used to - nothing was contrived, and it felt like we really were walking around a palace. But, with no one around, it took on a rather eerie feel, and as I approached a deserted blackjack table the dealer rose from his slumber and eyed me suspiciously.
Dealer: "This is a fifty Euro minimum table."
Ali: "That's fine - change 100 please (knowing all along how lame that sounds)."
Dealer: "There are smaller tables over there (his pointed finger dripping with contempt)."
Ali: "No thanks - this will do."
Dealer pompously shuffles the 6 decks, lets me cut it, and the game begins.
1st hand - bust.
2nd hand - Ali 20, Dealer 18
3rd hand - bust.
4th hand - Ali blackjack.
5th hand (Ali is so stoked he bets it all) - bust.
Zoot Alors! Well, at least I can say I've gotten a blackjack, in a suit, at a high stakes table in Monaco...
We drove back to the hotel in Nice, got a few hours of sleep, and awoke at 6 in the morning needing to make it back to Avignon quickly so I could get my TGV train to Paris. Driving the Renault to the brink of destruction, we rolled through sunrise in Provence at high speed. The clouds had cleared overnight, and the orange glow on the beautiful country we were cruising through was really a site to behold. Leslie pointed out a famous mountain Cezanne had painted a bunch of times, and it wasn't suprising that this part of the world had inspired so many of people to want to express themselves in such beautiful ways. France can be dissed for many things, but one thing is for sure - the place has passion.
We made it back to Avignon with about 10 minutes to spare. After a quick goodbye to Leslie, I barely made it to the train and awoke in Paris three hours later. I only had a couple of hours in the capital, so I walked up to a neighborhood I had heard was cool, got a baguette full of cheese, and did some people watching on a bench. One thing that suprised me - there are tons of Americans in Paris. It seemed as though every other person spoke in the familiar accent of home.
After a quick salute to the Eiffel Tower and the Bastille, I was on my way to catch my flight. I flew out of Orly, the secondary airport, and ended up having to take a slow moving train out there. But, I arrived in plenty of time, checked into the Egypt Air counter, and made a few phone calls. As I waited for my flight, many thoughts swirled around in my head. Had I really just been to the South of France? Was I going through money a little too quickly? Would there be anyone from the hotel to pick me up at the airport when I arrived in Cairo at 1am? Were the horror stories I had heard about Egypt Air going to come true (my aunt had told me that once she had put a sweater in the overhead bin of an Egypt Air flight and it had come out with blood on it. Apparently, they had used the bins to defrost the mystery meat of the day).
But, more than any apprehension, I left France glad for the time I had spent there. And even more glad that I been able to see some of the country while reconnecting with some old friends.