Dave the Nomad

I made a short stop in Marseilles, and was glad I wasn’t staying longer. I stayed in a Hostel International (HI) Hostel, which is wonderful for school groups, families, and the quintessential weird roommate. They are usually located in an inconvenient location and have early curfews, … it was also my only affordable option in town. I tried to redeem the stay by hiking along the coast back into town with some success. In the distance you can see the island prison immortalized by Alexander Dumas’ Count of Monte Cristo. Unfortunately, the winds and waves were too rough for the ferry to run, and I hopped on a train for Nice.

Nice was really nice. I stayed at a monastery which was converted into a youth hostel. The staff was extraordinarily nice, from picking you up in a shuttle to personally helping you plan your day each morning at breakfast. This is definitely a place not to miss! Check under the ‘Where I’ve Been’ Link for contact details.

The area around Nice is absolutely beautiful, with high cliffs and protected beaches, this is the base of the French Riviera. I spent a whole day lounging on the beach in VilleFrenche, which is just east of Nice and has a scallop shaped beach with crystal clear water. With the aid of some goggles I was off for the longest swim since being abroad. It wasn’t very far, but watching the fields of sea grass and clusters of fish swim by was a welcome change. Until I got stung in the chin by a jellyfish. It was at this point that I realized how hard it is to vent your frustration with jellyfish. I could see him with my goggles on, but unlike a dog you could kick after it bites you, a jellyfish is much more intangible. You can’t hit it, you can’t yell at it with any result, but if you get too close again you probably will get stung again. The only feasible solution I could think of was a perimeter ring of sea turtles swimming around me eating any potential jellyfish.

After, warming up on the beach I decided to visit a bar that my friend Marianne suggested to me. She frequented the bar often while studying abroad in Nice, and told me to stop in and say hi to the owners and drink a pint. The bar is called O’haras, and is located near the market area in the old town. The owners are from Britain, and have been in Nice for the last 23 years. When they opened, they were the first pub, and remained the only pub until 13 years ago. The bar is small, but packed with character, and the owners are quite chatty if you get them going. The wood paneling, row of distinctly single malt whiskey, low lighting, and TVs conjures images of a seaside pub too small for the brawls of sailors, but cozy and welcoming to the traveling soul. It was a great way to end the day.

I took an overnight train from Paris to Bayonne with great success compared to my ordeal in Innsbruck. I overslept to my delight after a sleepless start to the ride and woke up in the nearby border city of Hendaye. I decided it would be a good place to wander around, and was even more keen on the idea when I found a map displaying several beaches. I walked through town to the beach just as the sun was peaking over the hill on the east side of the city and watched early morning runners skim across the clean packed wet sand beach as low-tide was approaching. To the left side of the beach are two pillars of stone reaching up out of the sea that looked intriguing.

After a quick dip in the brisk but refreshing water, and a breakfast on a nearby bench, I could see locals heading towards the rocks being uncovered by the receding water. I had my full pack with me, and as such sticked to a drier course but still managed to see the near transparent shrimp, anemones, crabs and urchins in the tidal pools being prodded by people with long poles. As I walked over to the cliffs and protruding pillars I found a small alcove beach that looked interesting. The sun was successfully warming up the land and there was a constant sound of wet movement as crabs scattered for cover and barnacles sealed themselves off until the waves lapped back inland. It was almost perfect white noise with the waves in the background, and a steady fizz around me. I found a couple shelters on the beach and decided it would be a safe place to drop my pack and relax.

As it happens my curiosity got the better of me and I started climbing up the steep trail out of the alcove beach and ended in a Sound-of-Music like green field. I peaked the trail just as a group of elderly people were walking by on a tour. They were quite perplexed by my sudden appearance. From up here I could see the Atlantic Ocean clearly, and had a good sight on my pack below and the abandoned rocks protecting it.

I walked along the trail to the cliff edges to find not only an amazing view, but also several WWII era bunker turrets. All but one were fenced off and obviously heavily damaged. There was one that was open and had a memorial on top of it. Really cool to see and just an amazing sight. My camera died while in the bunker, but I continued to hike around the cliff a bit more and went back for my pack and headed back into the city to catch a train to Biarrtiz.

Biarritz is a small surf town made famous by Napolean as a summer get-away. The hostel I stayed at was open spacious and filled with a group of NATO student representatives in town for a conference on Afghanistan. As they all left for a conference event I decided to walk into town and check out the local flavor. The Basque people are very proud and distinctly different than both the French and Spanish. The architecture had bits of Norman and French influence, but the roofs had a clear Terra Cotta feel. After chatting with some newly made friends at the hostel and I took some quality internet time to read up on the lovely economic and political events back in America ,

I finally decided to board a train to my next stop, Salamanaca. The ride has been outstanding. The hills are bursting with unique topography and sun drenched forests and and glens. Its hard to get any quality photos as the trees are constantly in the way. The sun creates a bronzing effect on the tips of the deciduous trees, and the grandiose clouds are holding off just enough to create a contrast in lighting.

Sometimes borders on trains are seamless and unnoticed, and other times they are not. No one has checked my tickets or presence on the train since Paris, but at Irun (in Spain) I had to change trains, go through a security checkpoint, with x-ray and metal detectors, seen security guards on every train platform, and have had my ticket checked after every stop made by the train.