wild city

As I waited in a line of blinking taillights to turn onto 72^nd avenue, I noticed the park caddy-corner from where I idled. It was so close to my house- I must pass by it a thousand times in a week- and yet I barely ever stop. This time, instead of driving by it, I jerked my wheel to the right and made my way into the shady parking lot. I found a spot underneath a tree, mine being the only car in the lot, and headed towards the trail I knew lay beyond the brush. I’d been on this trail a few times before, and I’d been delighted the first time I came upon it. This time, though, I was less enchanted. The trees seemed sparser; I could see through the leaves to the uninspired cement buildings that stood stoically across the street. The traffic roared through what should have been a peaceful and quiet space, drowning out the chirps of grasshoppers and the songs of birds that I knew were there.

Signposts decorated the trail, abandoned and useless in their emptiness. One of them announced a butterfly garden, but as I walked through the tangled mess of broken branches and vines choking out once verdant bushes, there wasn’t a single butterfly wing to be seen. In another part of the “wilderness”, I came across a shirtless man sitting mysteriously at a picnic table so hidden by foliage that I didn’t spot him until I was just a few feet from where he sat. Taken by surprise, I jumped back and managed a faux-cheery ‘hello’ before bounding away into the brush.

Desperately I searched for some sign of healthy wildlife, remaining hopeful that a swath of vibrant green life lay just around the bend. Instead, images of other emerald forests that I had known and loved swirled through my mind, making me dizzy with longing. I collapsed on a bench as tears clouded my vision, my heart in my throat, car horns squawking in the near distance. I longed for unadulterated rainforest, life pulsating brazenly from every sacred stream, every vine-tangled tree, every mossy stone. It wasn't just my mind and memories that longed for this; it was my body that viscerally wanted to feel a part of it's surroundings in that magical way that I know is possible.

I realized that I’d been convincing myself that I was happy to be here, in the city of my childhood, and, in many ways, I am. I can never be unhappy when I’m surrounded by my all-consuming family and all-knowing friends. It’s important for me to maintain these roots, to nurture them, but I don’t know how much growing I can do here. There certainly is growing to be done- for this city, at least. But I’m not sure if I can play a part in it. The movement is sincere, but it still feels forced to me. Forcing people to plant seeds, forcing people to see the beauty in nature, forcing myself to find peace and beauty in tiny contained squares of greenery surrounded by busy roads and high-rises on all sides. I’m not sure I can do it, especially when I know how life can be, so raw and so real that it seeps into your bones and infuses you with the wisdom of your elders- the trees, the streams, and the stones. 

published pieces on the web

Hello! I am writing this to inform my tiny readership that a few of my pieces have been published elsewhere on the interweb. You can find my tips for hitch-hiking at the Dirty Vagrant travel blog and a memoir piece about my unlikely connection to the pressure cooker at The New School's Inquisitive Eater magazine. I hope you enjoy them and please feel free to drop me a line if you have any comments or suggestions about my writing. I'd love to hear from you. Cheers!

Late-night wander round sleepy hollow

The bus driver shouts the name of my stop and I stumble off the bus bewildered, having just woken up from a short nap. It’s nearly one in the morning in London and I’m exhausted from six hours of traveling. Although theoretically it’s only a quick hop from the continent to the Queen’s land by plane, it involves so much waiting, sitting and standing for hours in a succession of blank rooms with cardboard walls and florescent snack machines; it’s exhausting. But, I have finally made it to my destination and I will soon be reunited with my good friend in her warm and cozy flat – or so I hope.

“This bag weighs about two tons,” the bus driver informs me darkly. I laugh nervously and take it from her. “Thanks, have a great night.” I wait for the bus to pull away before heaving my giant backpack onto my shoulders, wobbling slightly as I try to steady myself. Once I’ve gained my balance, I take in my surroundings. The street is lit up with neon signs as far as the eye can see; that’s a good sign. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single person out. I see a map at the bus stop so I amble over to check it out. Peering at the map, I try to make sense of where I am and search desperately for my friend’s street name. My heart sinks a little; I don’t recognize a single street name or underground station in the area.

I spot a few men doing road work on the other side of the street so I cross over, nearly getting run over by an oncoming car driving speedily on the right side of the road. “Right, London,” I think to myself, making a mental note to be more careful about street crossings. I tell the construction worker where I’m trying to go and he takes a moment to think, scratching his chin unreassuringly. He looks up and down the street, a bit befuddled. “Well, the tube stopped running a few minutes ago… How long can you walk with that thing?” he asks me in a thick British accent, pointing at my bag towering an extra foot over my head.

My heart sinks a bit further. “I think I’m just going to give my friend a call. But thanks for your help.” I start off down the road in search of a pay phone. I spot one on a side street and jostle into the tiny glass box, my enormous backpack sticking out into the street. I slide in my credit card and follow the directions. “This is a credit card call,” the woman’s voice on the line informs me. “The cost is three pounds per minute. Press one if you accept the charges.” I nearly choke when I hear the price rate. Six dollars a minute!? That is insanity. But, I’m in a new city, I have no idea where I am, and it’s the middle of the night. I hesitate for a minute before pressing number one with defeat.

Jackie picks up cheerily. I don’t let her get a word in and immediately begin talking at her very fast, explaining my situation. She springs into action to find me directions on her computer. “Hmmm… That looks like a bit of a hike,” she informs me, much to my dismay. Of course, the telephone doesn’t have a chronometer so I have no idea how much time (and therefore, money) is being spent. I give her the number stamped in the pay phone and she promises to call back in a minute. I hang up with relief, hoping not to have done too much damage to my bank account. With conversion fees and hidden credit card charges, you never know.

I keep my hand on the receiver expectantly, but a minute turns into two and the phone still hasn’t rung. I begin to worry. Thankfully, I see a couple walking across the street so I pop outside the box, being sure to keep the door open in case the phone rings. “Hey, which way is Kilburn?” I shout into the night.

“The tube stop?” the woman replies. “Yeah, I’m trying to get there but the underground stopped running.” I explain. “Whoa, that’ll take forever,” her boyfriend says matter-of-factly, adding to my mounting panic.“No, it’s not so bad,” the girlfriend tries to reassure me. “It’s that way, maybe ten minutes walking,” she points down a dark road that twists out of sight. “Thanks,” I mutter half-heartedly. 

They hurry home and I turn my attention back to the phone, willing for it to ring. My efforts are unrewarded and I resign myself to the reality of the situation. It looks like I have no choice. I begin to walk hesitantly down the street in the direction she pointed. There’s not a soul in sight. I see a movement to my left and jerk my head to check it out. Skulking in the shadows across the street, a reedy golden fox makes its way shiftily down the sidewalk, ignoring my presence. A fox in the middle of the city? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in the woods! I gape at it in shock for a moment before continuing on my journey; we both have places to go.   

As I walk down the deserted street, I crane my neck to see if I can make out any sign of life in the distance. The night is still. An almost full moon peers down at me eerily from behind a streak of gossamer clouds. A cold wind rustles the trees furiously; streetlight shadows dance all around me. I shudder as fear creeps up on me from behind. I shake it off resolutely and march forward, pushing away all thoughts of scary movies to the farthest reaches of my mind.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I see movement up ahead, car beams crossing the street; my heart perks up. “I must be getting to a major road,” I think to myself happily. Finally, I make it to the cross street to find it’s not a major intersection at all, just a one-way lane with the occasional car streaking by in the night. Another bus stop map informs me that I am nearing my destination, but I still have a while to go. I leave the comfort of the well-lit road and plunge into the darkness once again. As I take in the neat facades on both sides of the street, I think about the families behind the brick walls; most of them are probably asleep for the night, and I am envious. It’s strange to be surrounded by such a sleepy neighborhood when I myself feel completely on edge, my body buzzing with nervous energy.

At last, I make it to a proper intersection. Cars rush by in a blur and blinking lights colorfully advertise kebabs and haircuts. The sign on the street reads “Kilburn High Road” and I rejoice. The tube stop is somewhere on this street, I’m sure of that- but which direction? My intuition says right, but I have no idea why. I cross the street and ask a hoodied chap standing in line for a sandwich. He points me to the left and away I go. My fear dissipates and is replaced with a wave of joy; I feel light on my feet even with my mammoth backpack pulling down on my shoulders.

I see a red circle in the distance and assume it’s the tube stop. Another wave of happiness. As I approach, though, I realize that it’s just a sign designating a one-way street. Hmm, it’s probably on the next block, I try to convince myself. A bus stop map doesn’t prove to be helpful in my pursuit. In fact, it only confuses me further; it seems as if there are multiple Kilburn stations in the area. Oh no. I begin to panic.

I accost a white-haired woman coming off a bus. “Kilburn station? I’m looking for the Kilburn tube station,” I ask her urgently. “Well, up ahead is the Kilburn Park station,” she responds cautiously. Heart starts sinking fast. “I need Kilburn, just Kilburn.” She points down the street behind me from where I came. My heart is in my shoes. I knew I should have followed my intuition. “Anyway, the tube won’t be running this late, dear,” she says kindly, obviously a bit concerned for this confused traveler. “I know… My friend lives right next to it, though,” I explain dejectedly as I fall into step with her. “Well, tell your friend to come here and get you!”, she says with a laugh. I mumble something about pay phones costing a fortune in this country and we part ways. She wishes me good luck as she turns down a side street and I start the arduous task of retracing my steps. (This seems to be a theme in my travel stories!)

My joy has vanished. Instead, I dream up scenarios where I see the stupid guy who sent me in the wrong direction and tell him off. I have no idea what time it is and I’m sure that Jackie is worried sick about me. I quicken my pace and send her telepathic messages, hoping she receives them soon. I pass by the sandwich shop where I first asked for directions; my hoodied friend isn’t there. My body aches all over, and I wish so badly that I could take a break and drop my bag, but I press on.

Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the Kilburn underground station glowing warmly in the cold night. I’m too exhausted to react; no more joy or anger, nothing. The following street is Jackie’s; I turn down it and search for her house number. The upstairs light in her building is on. “Jackie!”, I call out quietly into the night, looking for her buzzer in the darkened doorway. She sticks her curly head out the window. “Carmella! Thank God! Stay there, I’m coming down!” I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction; I made it. She throws open the door and squeezes me in a hug. The exasperation of the last few hours fades away as I follow my friend up the stairs and into her warm, cozy room. The tea kettle wails on the stovetop and I collapse on the bed. Another day in the life of a vagabond.

Berlin: for the people, by the people

Arriving in Berlin, I was immediately struck by the sheer livability of this city. Even as a foreigner, it is apparent to me how easy it is to function here. Everything from transportation to drinking laws is designed FOR the people, not against them. The entire city is constructed with its inhabitants in mind, and although that should be standard procedure, in most cities, this is not the case.

Take, for example, an empty lot. Rather than allowing the highest bidder to take the land and run (and build yet another empty high rise, as they would surely do in Miami), they open up the space to design students all over the city. They turn it into a contest for them to come up with the best designs and uses of space for the lot. Once they have chosen a few of the best, they will present them to the inhabitants of the neighborhood for them to decide which they prefer. The people have a say, because they live there and their happiness matters to the city of Berlin. This kind of thing would be virtually unheard of in the States, or at least in South Florida where I live. In the U.S., money matters more than people. It’s as simple as that.

My lovely host Benjamin brought me to a giant abandoned airfield just south of the city on Sunday afternoon. Although the airport itself, Flughafen Berlin-Tempelhof, is still considered “the mother of all airports” because of it's enormous size, the city shut it down one year ago. The airport no longer abides by certain national codes and the city has since replaced it with a new airport. What is to come of the space? It’s been handed to the people, of course. For now, you can roller blade down the enormous runway, picnic anywhere on the massive airfield, or fly your kite to your heart’s delight. In a few years, there will be a new library in the park, and a few additional water features for beautification. But for the most part, it will remain as it is: a huge space accessible to the Berlin public.

Yet, the city has given Berliners the chance to make their mark on the land. In one corner of the airfield, hundreds of people have built their own garden plots out of whatever used materials they can find: bath tubs, grocery carts, cardboard boxes, pallets, scrap wood, and anything else you can imagine. I even saw one garden constructed completely out of old shoes! To participate, all one has to do is sign up online. Oh, and there’s one other tenet to abide by: the gardeners must be sure to make a seated space for two people to enjoy their plot. The result is simply magical: a jerry-rigged mishmash of plants spilling out of drainage tube and cowboy boots! 

Walking around the community garden, I was in heaven. Tons of children were running around, climbing on structures set up just for that reason. Some plots had bee hives tucked away amidst raised beds full of flowering nasturtiums and overripe tomatoes having reached the end of their days. And everywhere I ventured, every corner I explored, I found people –people sitting and reading in solitude, or picnicking and laughing with friends; but everyone I came across was simply enjoying this special space.

I can’t think of a place in Miami where I could go for a similar experience. Any place with any culture or beauty, usually comes at a price. And even so, the accessible natural beauty in our city is highly limited. Unless you want to brave the parking madness on Miami Beach, or trek to Oleta River State Park 14 miles outside of the city, you’re pretty much out of luck. I think about my own neighborhood of Coconut Grove, which I love dearly. We’re probably one of the only places with a sense of community and open park space to be enjoyed by all. And yet, Kennedy Park is a joke compared to most other city parks. Today, I went for an uninterrupted 7km run through beautiful parkland in the  middle of the city. I ask you: where, oh where, would that be possible in our city? Nowhere.

the quiet beauty of anonymity

Tomorrow, I take my leave of the Marianna and fly to Berlin. I will spend about five days there visiting a friend before hopping over to London for the remaining of my time in Europe. Tomorrow, I strap on my pack and head back out into the world. I feel as though I am emerging from a cave. A great cave, to be sure, with plenty of light (and crazy amounts of wind), but a symbolic cave nonetheless.

My life as of late has been reduced to a few simplicities: sleeping, eating, working, reading, cooking, baking, swimming, jogging and writing. It’s been exactly what I needed after four straight months of bouncing around like a maniac. I love traveling, let me make that clear, but even the most transient of vagabonds needs to be a hermit every once in a while. This has been my hermit time, and it has been lovely.

Over the past three weeks, I have barely spoken to anyone besides my father. Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I’m a talker, and yet lately, I have been nearly mute to the world around me. Many people I meet, at the store or around the marina, assume that because I’m American, I don’t speak any French. Usually, I would set them straight and respond in fluent French, but, I haven’t been correcting them. Rather, I have embraced my place as an outsider, a quiet observer in a “foreign” land. I have not offered much besides the niceties of “bonjour” and “bonsoir” to the people I pass, and I have been gifted an alluring blanket of simple silence – simple being the key word here. There are plenty of voices and noises around me all the time, but rarely are they directed at me. I am left to my own devices, to answer to almost no one - and that is sweeter than you can imagine.

I hadn’t really realized that I could enjoy this level of communication disconnect before. I have always been one to make a big effort to associate with the people around me, especially when traveling. I have been greatly rewarded with eye-opening conversations, incredible connections, and beautiful relationships with strangers who have turned into family. I encourage all who travel to make this effort; you won’t be disappointed. But just as engaging with the world and people around you is a rewarding and important part of traveling, so is sitting and digesting all that you have consumed while traveling. Connecting can become tiresome after a while; it demands a lot of energy from a person. You’re constantly putting yourself out there, trying to learn as much as you can, experience everything to the maximum, and frankly, it’s exhausting.

This existence of quiet anonymity has given me the time and space to communicate in another way, through my writing, and for that I am full of thanks. My only hope is that I can carry with me this peace and quiet into all aspects of my life, especially when I am back at home creating my routine. It is not something that just happens naturally, especially in a big city like Miami; these are things that I have to etch into my daily life, and not just find the time but make the time to do these things that bring me joy – writing, baking, cooking, swimming, running, and the like. It’s hard when you’re trying to pay bills, have a social life, spend time with family, and all that jazz- but it is possible.
Some things must fall away, of course, but this is the essence of prioritizing, and action expresses priority. I hope I can organize my priorities in such a way that I carry the simplicity of the lifestyle I have been living aboard the Marianna into the complicated and crazy life I will inevitably be thrown back into when I return to Miami at the end of the month. I set this now as my goal for the future, and I intend to stick by it.

gender inequality: when words become actions

There are a lot of things that my father and I disagree on, and we’ve been known to get into heated debates on a variety of subjects. One thing we argue about a lot is gender equality. Not that my father thinks women are incapable or less than men, but it’s something that he believes is a nonissue, while I am of the opposite conviction.  Whenever I complain to him about a man being condescending, or even if I call him out on using a patronizing tone with me, he gets very defensive and argumentative about my claim. “You’re too sensitive,” he scoffs. “No one can say anything around you without you getting mad!” This is not at all true, although unfortunately I have never found the right words to articulate my point of view to him. I usually just mutter something along the lines of “you’re a man, you’ll never understand,” and bitterly give up trying.

I am a fully capable, reasonable, and intelligent woman; but it just so happens that I AM sensitive when people, especially men, find it okay to speak down to me or criticize women for no reason. As I have matured, I have witnessed, through my own experiences and those of other women I respect greatly, the systematic, unhealthy, and frankly, disturbing convention of male condescension towards women. To some women of older generations or others who have witnessed this truth repeatedly in their lives, this comes as no surprise. But for me, a mid-twenties woman who has grown up in a world of near-equal opportunity between men and women (or seemingly equal on the surface), it has been a shocking realization. It became apparent to me at my small liberal arts college, when I started to realize that many of the men in our administration treated male students differently. In many cases, women were treated as over-emotional and irrational. We all went through the same rigorous criteria to be accepted into this school, so why were women being treated as less intelligent or capable than the men?

This condescension towards women is most apparent in patterns of speech, word choice and tone of voice, and once you pick up on it, it is hard to ignore. I hear it in my professor’s jokes or my uncle’s criticisms - and it infuriates me. It infuriates me when they make these misogynist comments, and it infuriates me even more when women just accept it as a fact of life and learn to deal with it. Maybe I’m one to blame. I don’t make a habit of calling out my uncle when he criticizes his wife constantly about anything and everything. I didn’t tell my professor that I found his joke offensive. But I do find it worthwhile to tell my father exactly why he should be more conscious about the way he speaks to me and other women. At least I do that much.

So why do the words, the jokes, the tone bother me so much? I could never explain it fully before, but I’ve finally found a way to make my father understand. Over the past few days, the Amherst College community has been dealing with a student’s chilling declaration of sexual assault on campus, and the subsequent mistreatment that she experienced from the administration. Thepublic outcry has been one of horror, criticism for the college, and widespread support for the victim and rape victims everywhere; the alumni response has been very vocal and organized. The overall response from the online community has been heartening and lightning-fast.

Nevertheless, it has become shockingly obvious that the college is in desperate need of some serious changes in the way they deal with sexual assault victims and rape offenders. It’s not enough to have the policies; it’s about how the administration implements those policies as well as the sort of climate they cultivate around gender equality. Unfortunately, until now the college’s laissez-faire attitude around this subject has aided in creating a climate that shelters offenders and promotes misogyny. It hurts me to learn that such terrible things have been happening to women (and men) at Amherst College, but it also hurts me that my alma mater’s name is becoming synonymous with misogyny. Hopefully, something productive will come of this traumatic series of events, for everyone’s sake.

My father was horrified when I told him what had been happening at Amherst. As we discussed these events, it finally became clear to me how to explain to him my sensitivity when it comes to verbal (and nonverbal) condescension from men. Comments that misogynist men make, words they choose, and even the tone they use are all meant to put women down and make them feel inferior, whether they are conscious of this or not. Simply put, this is a form of showing dominance over women. Some women might internalize this unknowingly, as might our children; and so, a pattern of paternalism is born – the pattern we as a society have existed within for centuries. Hence, the frightening situation we as a college community face today.

Amherst has been letting certain men on campus get away with blatant and sometimes horrific displays of misogyny. Through their actions (or inactions), the college is sending a message that male dominance is okay. Maybe it stops at words, or pictures, or jokes – but maybe it doesn’t. The fact is, what is to stop a man who thinks he is superior or dominant over a woman from letting those words turn into action? This is how rape happens.

And finally, my father understood.


PS check out this great article and video

Flagrant racism in France

Every day, I run by the words “ISLAM HORS D’EUROPE” spray-painted on a wall by the marina. Islam Out of Europe, it demands bluntly. Anti-Muslim sentiments like this one can be seen all over France and throughout Western Europe. As an American, I find this kind of brute racism appalling. We definitely have our racial issues in the States, but we have also been dealing with them long enough to be out of this stage. Granted, I’m not sure if the elephant in the room type of racism that we do experience in much of America is any better, but in most of the places that I have lived (South Florida and New England), you would never see something like this splashed across cement. Someone might make a racist comment to a friend in passing, and we certainly have racial issues within our government, but that is not the sort of racism that I am talking about. I’m talking about overt, in-your-face racism. I am not making any judgments on it – it is far too complicated a situation for me to even begin to understand or analyze – I am simply making observations about what I have seen and heard around France, Belgium and Spain, the European countries that I know best.

In Europe, I have heard people- normal lovely people, even close family members –make horrendously racist comments towards Muslims, in private but also, surprisingly for me, in public and even in the presence of people from this background. There is no shame in it, and people are often surprised by my horror. Petty things, such as someone cutting you off while driving, are immediately blamed on Muslims, even if the blame is completely unfounded. Parents of European children would never allow their children to be friends with Muslim children (and I’m not sure if the same is true the other way around). My teenaged cousin in Brussels began dating a Muslim and she found herself shunned by her family and harassed by the police on a regular basis. I often receive racist chain mail from my European family and friends lamenting – no, berating – the rise of the Muslim population that has become so prevalent throughout Europe.

The truth is, I hear as much Arabic on the streets of Toulon as I do French, if not more. I see just as many halal meat vendors as I do traditional French bakeries. If I wanted to get a spa treatment in an Arab hammam, that option is available to me here. Veiled women pick their children up from school, stand in line with me to buy groceries, ride local buses and attend rugby matches with the rest of the city’s population. But yet, they stand apart, congregating together in the early evening to drink their tea at an Arab café in the old city. As of yet, I have not shared a conversation with an Arab during all of my time in Europe, and I am not sure why that is. They occupy the same space as the Europeans, but unlike in America with many of our own minority groups, they do not try to mesh in the least. Language is a big barrier, religion an even bigger one. The racist graffiti that I see splattered everywhere and the constant barrage of racist slurs that are the norm in these countries do not help to ease the tension, of that I’m sure.

There are so many sides to this story. Like I said, I won’t even try to analyze. I only want to offer my shock as I see and hear these awful things being slung at this population constantly – in the media, in the government, and more blatantly, on the streets of European cities. It makes me realize that, although we have a long way to go in our fight towards racial justice in the U.S., we have come a great distance already. We once had widespread segregation laws and our own set of normative racial slurs poisoning our country. Whilst these racist sentiments might still exist among a subset of our population - and sadly, I know they do – this is no longer the norm.

This overt racism is constantly visible each time I travel to Europe, and every time, I am no less taken aback by it. In the United States, we have developed a quieter kind of racism, the plague of political corrected-ness. I try to explain to my French friends that we don’t use the word “black” when describing people of color in the States. This perplexes them; they don’t understand the historical stigma attached to these words. They don’t share our country’s shame towards slavery and segregation. They’ve never experienced this as a part of their past, but they are living it as a part of their present. I don’t think they see the connection that I see; they don’t comprehend the reason why I am so appalled by the slurs they speak so nonchalantly. When I pass by that sign each day, “ISLAM HORS D’EUROPE”, I immediately envision those horrible and thankfully outdated signs declaring “whites only” allowed in a restaurant. I see visions of police turning powerful water hoses on blacks protesting peacefully with Martin Luther King on the streets of Montgomery. These are stories that are a part of our collective memory as a nation, and they make brusque displays of racism very hard for me to comprehend.

The truth is, Europe has been around for a very long time. The cultures of Europe as we know it today have developed over hundreds of years, and that history is a huge part of these people’s collective memory. It’s hard for an American to understand the kind of deep-set cultural heritage that exists here, since we are a newborn country in comparison. But this is exactly what the growing Muslim population threatens to destroy. I can understand the concern - honestly, I can. Europeans have worked a long time to develop the social systems that they have in place. As a whole, these countries have been around long enough to “get things right,” in my opinion. People generally live good lives. Lots of time for leisure, more than enough vacation time, equal access to health care, affordable education for all, a vigorous middle class – these are the things that are important to them, and they have worked towards them over the course of their history. These are also the very things that the increasing flow of Muslims are taking advantage of and therefore, destroying rather quickly. One can understand the anger. On the other hand, I’m a humanist. People are just people. It seems so backward to me to fault an entire population for the actions of a few, and even so, is this really the most productive way to deal with it?

Another truth that Europeans might not want to acknowledge is that Islam has been in Europe for hundreds of years too. This influx is not new. The tension has always been there. Don’t you think they would have found a better way to deal with it by now? Perhaps by, I don’t know, getting to know one another and working towards a peaceful existence together? But that’s just the idealist humanist in me talking. Carry on with your racial slurs and bigoted tendencies. They really seem to be helping the situation a lot. 

Mistral Madness

Yesterday, we lost a day of work on account of bad weather - which is fine because yesterday was Sunday and working on a Sunday is sacrilegious here in Europe. Yet, there are many things we would have liked to do, had the weather allowed us. The funny thing is, it never actually rained on us.

The morning started off beautifully, sunny and clear. We began our tasks for the day: me washing the hull and Papi patching some holes in the dinghy. I was able to get my work done, but just as Papi was beginning to set up his project, these scary clouds began to show themselves from behind the mountain range that abuts the coast. Actually, it’s very picturesque; from the boat, we get a great view of the massive grey and green cliffs that are the last of the Alps before mountains meet ocean. Any bad weather that we get usually comes from the other side of those rocks, and I love to stop whatever I’m doing to watch the showdown between water, wind, mountains and clouds. Yesterday, I was privy to such a show.

From the dock, we watched as angry-looking storm clouds valiantly pushed their way over the edge of the mountains towards the sea, carrying the potential for a severe thunderstorm to erupt on us in a matter of minutes. We began to wrap up Papi’s project so that it wouldn’t get rained on, keeping an eye on the approaching tempest. After a few minutes, I noticed that the dark masses that we were so afraid seemed to be retreating! Much to my delight and confusion, the clouds were creeping back little by little behind the mountain from whence they came. I pointed this out to my father, and he scanned the conflicting skies. “We can’t take a chance,” he replied, and we continued packing up tools and equipment while the sun emerged forcefully from behind dark clouds. Before we were done, the skies were nearly barren of any sign of a meteorological disruption, and only a few stray monsters were left clinging to several crests to our west.

I’ve seen this incredible phenomenon before, when stormy clouds hover over the mountains just a few kilometers from us threatening to drown us in dreariness, before disappearing from the horizon completely. It’s amazing; you see what’s coming, and you prepare yourself to face it, but in the end, it never comes. The sun reigns king!

The way I see it, it is an epic battle between the ferocious, unwavering mountain winds and the all-powerful gales that sweep mightily over the sea. Sometimes, the mountain wins and he pushes those storm clouds over the peaks and straight out to sea, without forgetting to downpour on us first. On days like yesterday, the ocean winds hold their own – at least for a little while. The harbor might have been spared of the deluge for the moment, but it was only a matter of time until the fierce mountain winds fought again.  Back and forth, the two of them battled it out all day long. As a result, we weren’t able to get any work done, never sure if the impending rain was finally upon us or not. We knew it would come eventually, but who could say when? In the meantime, the skies were painted with dirty streaks of cotton clouds agonized by the constantly changing winds, bolts of lightning decorated the skyline. The skies couldn’t make up their mind.

It wasn’t until nightfall that the skies finally did open, in a violent downpour of pent-up frustration that had been building throughout the afternoon. The clouds exhaled and the waiting game was finally over. The city imploded. Waves lapped over the docks and fishing boats rocked in unison as the sea skulked towards the streets. Rugby players covered in streaks of mud skidded madly on their home field as they played their much-anticipated match against their rival team from Montpellier. The crowd went wild, reaching stratospheric levels of exhilaration, barely noticing the buckets of water dropping from the sky.  

What we were actually experiencing was “le mistral noir.” Usually, le mistral, a strong wind from the northwest that rakes over the northern belt of the Mediterranean, brings with it clear skies and sunny days. But sometimes, it doesn’t have the strength to dispel the knots of bad weather, and we get stuck with a dark and crazy day like yesterday. 

Today, the mistral is howling with full force. As I write this, gales are reaching an impressive 27-30 knots per hour; the mast of the boat is swaying 80 feet above the water, quivering like a plucked string on a badly tuned guitar. The forceful wind is just as hindering as rain (or the extended threat of rain). Most outdoor activities become impossible with this amount of gale and we are forced to remain indoors, shielded from the cold wind but forced to deal with mundane tasks such as cleaning and putting order to the mess that has accumulated aboard. Like a rainy day on the farm (even though this day was sunny as can be), I took advantage of being inside to do some food preserving; I put together a small batch of fig jam to take with me when I leave, a tasty souvenir to remind me of this time, these winds, this rocking boat.

Public Pool Party

I’m spoiled; I’m from Florida. Just about everyone has their own pool in Florida, or at least in sunny South Florida where I live. I’ve never had a shortage of pool access in my life. In fact, I’ve always had an overabundance of pools to choose from. There was my pool if I wanted convenience, my friend’s pool if I wanted a Jacuzzi, my cousin’s pool if I wanted the best pool toys to play with, and the pool at my aunt’s condo if I wanted to do some lap swimming. But here in Toulon, where I am visiting my father was a few weeks, I don’t have such a luxury. Thankfully, I am in the South of France, so I can still fathom swimming outside even if it is mid-October.

I am signed up for a triathlon in a month, so I really needed to get serious about swimming. Desperate to practice my strokes, I looked up public pools in the area, and found one just around the corner from the marina. Thrilled to get in the water and start training, I headed over one afternoon with my bathing suit, swim cap, and goggles. Now, like I said, in Miami I have access to many private pools, but I must confess that I don’t have much experience in public pools. Well, besides the summer I spent with my cousins on a military base in Maryland where we spent the entirety of our days hanging out at the base pool a short bike ride away from their house. But that’s another story.

I paid my entrance fee to get in (also a weird concept, having to pay for pool time) and made my way down the corridor towards the changing rooms. The first room is a big space with lockers lined up on the walls, and after that it divides into the men and women’s sections. I had a little trouble finding my way down to the pool area from there, because I kept thinking I was walking into private men territory. The thing is, like I said in my last post, the French are quite nonchalant about nudity in general. So even though the area divides into two sections, it’s actually quite difficult to distinguish them at times because there aren’t really doors and signage is poor. Basically, the point is that they don’t really care if you see the other sex naked. Perfect example: you walk through the men’s urinals to get to the woman’s bathroom – confusing for an American used to super sex-segregated bathrooms/changing areas.

Regardless, I finally found my way to the gigantic, Olympic-sized pool and jumped in enthusiastically. The rush of the warm water around my body felt incredible; I let myself drop to the bottom, grazing the floor with my toes and then pushed myself back up to the surface with full force. Once back at the surface is when it hit me – the awful reality of swimming in a public pool. First of all, you have to share it with about a million other people! Completely unaccustomed to this concept, I kicked off the wall and started swimming down the lane. Immediately, I realized this was not going to be the walk in the park that I had envisioned (or the swim in the great, big empty lake?). There were people swimming in all directions, doing all sorts of weird strokes imaginable, at completely different speeds, and with all kinds of aquatic props. I had come with the intention of swimming at least a mile, but I could barely move forward! I had to keep looking out for oncoming swimmers, or avoiding legs kicking out from the sides. It’s a wonder that didn’t get a foot to the face!

With my goggles, I surveyed the madness of the underwater world. People wearing flippers, snorkels and masks made their way across the pool. (Snorkeling in a pool? Obviously they do not live in close proximity to the snorkeling paradise of the Florida Keys, as I do, but still, snorkeling in a pool is just wrong. Plus, they do live on the Mediterranean...) A guy was doing breast stroke – on his back rather than on his stomach. Another lady floated by me frantically paddling to stay afloat as she sat on a kickboard. One woman held onto the side of the pool, kicking her legs into the lane while wearing enormous blue flippers, threatening to kick everyone trying to pass in front of her. Now let me be clear; this wasn’t a water theme park or anything like that. This was a legitimate pool with lane lines and lifeguards and all the rest. So what the heck was going on here?

There was no order to the chaos; people did exactly as they pleased, stopping mid-lap to chat with friends or swimming across lanes completely oblivious to oncoming traffic. Every lap was a struggle, a fight to survive the crush of people all around me. Forget about finding a quiet lane and banging out my 60 laps. My plan to swim hard and train for my triathlon sank to the bottom of the pool like a dead weight. Frustrated, I decided the only thing to do was join in the madness. I plunged forward and pulled past a kickboarder to my right; then, I dodged quickly to the left to avoid an oncoming swimmer wearing a baseball cap (in the water?). It was like being in traffic on a Miami highway, slow people hogging up the left lane, people passing left and right, crazies barreling down the wrong side of the road. All you can do is keep your eyes on the road (lane) in front of you and expect the worst.

As the setting sun sank lower in the sky, the glare reflected off the water and I could barely see what was ahead in front of me. Underwater, I scanned the horizon to see what obstacles lurked in my path as I tried to keep up a good pace. But just as sun had dropped below the walls and the pool began to empty out, just as I was finally enjoying an uninterrupted lap across the pool without somebody’s flippers in my face, a whistle blew- the lifeguard’s signal to the remaining swimmers that it was time to get out. Thoroughly bewildered by the whole experience, I climbed the ladder, grabbed my towel, and walked dejectedly off the pool deck feeling like a soldier emerging from battle. I had no idea how many laps I had done or what my average time had been – but at least I had survived my first day at the public pool!

Thoughts on French nudity

I don’t consider myself a prude necessarily, but these past few weeks in France, I have begun to feel like one. The reason for this? Female nudity. From the coast of Brittany to the island of Corsica, I have found it rampant on beaches all over this country. Women of all shapes and ages just strutting around with their ta-tas hanging out like it was no big deal! And not just tanning, either. From long walks to beach volleyball, there are all kinds of activities happening… topless! Obviously they have no regard for decency around here…

At first, I was quite shocked by this, but it was so prevalent that I had to get used to it. Even though I have come to expect bare boobies when I go to the beach now, I still haven’t adjusted completely to this lack of coverage. But it’s made me think  - why not? What’s wrong with this picture? Why does it make me so uncomfortable to see women walking around topless when the guys get to do it all the time?

My French friends have said it before and I never really believed them,  but I think they might be on to something. “You Americans are such Puritans,” they tell me. “You’re definitely way more religious than we are here in Europe,” they assured me, matter-of-factly. “But you have a million churches everywhere,” I protested, having had to visit more than my share as a child traveling with my family. “Those are old,” was their response. “Besides, barely anyone actually follows the church anymore.”

I wasn’t raised overly religious, and I only go to church about once a year, if that. But yet, I am always perplexed by the fact that hardly anyone gets married in France. I tell my friends this and they call me old-fashioned. Who needs marriage to live with their partner and have children? Catholics.

Could it be true? Are we a bunch of religious conservatives in the U.S.? And if so, how did I become a part of such a group without even knowing it?

So let me get back to the boobies. In the States, we have no problem with our children watching sexually explicit videos on television, or listening to music that promotes violence and rampant promiscuity on the radio. But try to go topless at your local beach and surely someone will call the authorities for indecent exposure. What’s that about? I remember the first time I went into a communal changing room at a department store in Boston; I looked around me aghast to find a dozen women just dropping their pants in the presence of strangers. Why do we encourage this culture of overexposure in the media, and underexposure in real life? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

to market, to market!

little mami with her shopping bag on wheels!

I must confess, I didn't know what day it was when I set out on my run the other morning. It was only when I noticed all the people in the streets pulling their grocery bags on wheels, walking towards the town square - that's when I knew it was Saturday. Market day! I hurried back to the boat to get my dad and we set off to join the rest of the town at the busy market.

Now, if anyone knows me, they know I'm a huge fan of markets. No matter where I am, I always make a point of visiting the local market; it says so much about a place. In Oakland, CA, there were organic certified dog biscuits for sale! In Marrakech, Morocco, you can purchase an entire lamb on the street, or choose from a colorful array of fresh spices or dried fruits. I love walking around the markets, getting a feel for the place, people-watching, and sampling the delicious food.

bunches of grapes

The first thing we came to when we approached the market was a little stand with the words "La Cade de Dede" stamped on the side. Behind the glass, there was a woman doling out portions of what seemed to be some kind of cake. I couldn't figure out what it could possibly be, so I asked. "C'est une galette faite de faine de pois-chiche, tipique de Toulon," she answered and handed me a piece to taste. It's a local specialty of Toulon made from chickpea flour, and it was amazing. I made note to try to make this at home and continued on my way.

Set up in the streets were long lines of tables on each side filled to the brim with colorful fruits and vegetables. Behind each table stood it's proprietor, scurrying around offering cooking suggestions, picking out the ripest fruits, making change, and shouting hellos to passing friends. What struck me most about this market was the simplicity of the scene, the rawness of the interactions. I've worked at farmers markets before, and I've spent hours perfecting my farm stand to make it look appealing to customers, tilting the baskets of produce just right so they look bountiful and beautiful. There was not such thing going on here. No tablecloths, no artfully arranged produced - just tables, vegetables, fruits, and clear signage.

pumpkin!

If you've been to a farmer's market in, say, the Pioneer Valley, or even the Bay Area, you've seen people do the market meander. I'm guilty of it myself. I'm mainly there to oogle the goodies and indulge in the happy vibe of the whole affair. (Also, samples. Big plus.) Sometimes I stop to chat with farm stand attendants, ask them about their produce, where it's grown, how their season is going, blah blah blah. The fact is, I can't really afford what they have on their table; that's one of the main reasons why I work on organic farms. I want to have access to clean, healthy vegetables, but I can't pay the price. So I mosey my way around, and usually leave empty handed. I've seen people do it at the markets I've worked. They might take away a particularly attractive bunch of beets or maybe a funny-looking variety of squash they've never seen before, but for the majority of their grocery shopping, they'll go to their local grocer, probably of the mega variety.

But here in Toulon, you can tell, this is people on a mission to buy groceries. That's it. People haggle prices and ask about each other's families. Little old ladies make the rounds, sniffing out the best prices and the freshest produce. They have their favorite vendors and they probably go to them first.  I didn't have to ask vendors where produce was grown; most of it was from France and it was always clearly marked, down to the specific region. (I did see a big pile of sweet potatoes from the good old US of A, and it made me laugh.) There was no pretense, no hint of elitism like you might find in the States. People from all ages and backgrounds, coming together for the simple purpose to buy their fruits and vegetables, like the good old days. Except I don't think there ever was a good old day when this was the norm in the States, for everyone in town to head to their local market and buy their supplies for the week. This has been the norm in Europe for centuries, and I was happy to see that it continues to be a mainstay in this culture.

Another facet to note is the prices. I came away with a bag of gorgeously plump purple figs (you know their ready when they're starting to burst at the seams), a handful of yellow plums, half a head of cabbage, one head of dark green lettuce (none of this watered down romaine nonsense), a chunk of pumpkin (the pumpkins are so big that they have to sell it in pieces!), and a bouquet of fresh mint. All of this for no more than five euros... Good luck trying to find prices like this in the States!

locally harvested oysters

pomegranates!

sweets from USA!

home sweet boat

Things are beginning to settle down here on the Marianna. First there was the band of bed bugs that hitched a ride with me from Corsica and the chaos that ensued to make sure they didn't make it onto the boat. We finally have that situation under control, thank god, because we were all losing sleep over it. Now we have new things to lose sleep over, but I digress.

So yes, you may have guessed it. I am living on a sailboat at the moment. Her name is Marianna and she is a beautiful Swan 62 footer; my father has been her captain for about seven years now. The boat has spent most of those summers in the Mediterraen, and she usually over-winters in a marina in Toulon, a place where I've actually spent quite a bit of time over the past few years, hanging out with my dad. I've been here for about a week and I have maybe two more to go, taking advantage of the good weather to get some much-needed work done around the boat. I'm on day eight of refurbishing the deck, a tedious process that has to be done with great care and concentration so that the expensive teak wood doesn't get damaged any further than it already is. The payment in Euros is a nice incentive, though, and since I am on month five of traveling, I am in no financial position to turn down work.

Thankfully, I have also been able to get into a good training schedule for my upcoming triathlon in November. I've been running twice a day, and I just found a great pool around the corner from the marina where I can put in some swim time. After four straight months of bouncing around -- from hiking in Yosemite to visiting friends Texas to making friends in Central America (not Kansas, I'm talking Nicaragua) and then road tripping all the way up to New England before jumping across the pond to Europe -- it feels really good to settle down for a few weeks and get into a routine.

It's funny; you never really appreciate the beauty of a routine when you are in one, but the lack of one over an extended period of time can make any person crazy. I'm thankful for things like going to the market on Saturday (post pending about this wonderful affair!), having a washing machine at my disposal, cooking my meals, and getting to know the characters in the neighborhood . For example, on my evening runs, I always pass by a little food trailer where a friendly French man can be seen kneading dough or pulling delicious pizzas out of his wood fire stove on wheels. Sometimes, he's shooting the breeze at the window with his delivery boy or hanging out with his dog at the back door while he waits for customers. He doesn't open until dinnertime, but I've caught him there midday before, prepping vegetables for the evening.

One funny thing about living on-board a boat docked at a marina is the whole privacy thing, or lack of it. The marina is open to all, and as a result, you're basically living your life in the public eye. For example, I'll be hunched over my sanding machine, only to look up and find a group of boat enthusiasts watching me work and gazing eagerly at our boat. It doesn't help that much of the time, we literally have our (clean) laundry hanging out to dry on the lines.

The marina is right next to the boarding dock for the huge ferries heading to Corsica and Sardinia. The roundabout to enter the marina is always swarming with cars and people lugging groceries and purchases to bring from the mainland to the islands. Each day, as I run by, I usually see a few tearful goodbyes as people board the massive ships.  Other townspeople will come to the marina just to watch the ships set sail; some will come on their lunch breaks, or to walk their pets after work. On the weekends, the docks are teeming with families coming to check out the action. The little kids are simply fascinated by the lines of cars driving into the belly of the ships at loading time.

There are a few others who live on our dock as well; we smile knowingly at each other when the people come to gawk at the boats. They don't have to hear the whistles blow at the break of dawn each day, or the incessant announcements made over the loudspeakers of the ferries, directing passengers and their vehicles to the right places.

Another part of public life on-board is the fact that you live extremely close to your neighbors, if you have any. Sometimes there might just be an empty boat tied up next to yours, or perhaps a loud group of tourists who have chartered a yacht to take them to the nearby islands for the day. Sometimes you get new neighbors in the evening, and they're gone by the morning, replaced by a new boat with a different flag flying from the stern. At night, I run into all sorts of people in the marina. Lone fisherman waiting patiently for that late-night catch. Groups of teenagers looking for trouble. Couples taking a romantic walk after dinner at a restaurant on the pier. The other night, my dad had to chase away a drunk man trying to get onto a neighboring boat. "It's just to sleep," he bumbled to my father as he swayed on the unmoving dock. My father wouldn't hear of it and made him leave.

And still I work, run, cook, do laundry, and generally go about my daily life amidst the chaos; this is life in the maria.

Up a Mountain Without a Back-up Plan!

The day started out promising. The last vestiges of the starry night were drowned out by a faint glow of daylight emanating from behind the mountain range to the east. I welcomed them from the tip of the rocky outcrop where I had pitched my tent for the night, but I did not wait around to see the sun show its face. Like the sun, I had places to go and many mountains to climb. I broke down my little makeshift campsite, home base for the past twelve hours, and packed everything into my trusty green backpack that has been with me through thick and thin during my travels on five continents. I stuffed my sleeping bag into its’ tiny sack, never ceasing to be amazed by the way this large comforter can be reduced to the size of an airplane pillow in sixty seconds. My tent poles were folded into themselves and then rolled into the tent fabric so that the whole package fit snugly into a small bag. The tent and my rolled up sleeping pad got strapped to either side of my pack, the rest of my belongings crammed into the backpack. I tightened the straps and I was on my way.

typical Corsica; pigs everywhere!

I was on my way to meet my friends Laura and Anthony in the mountains in the middle of Corsica. A brilliant idea, I know. They had begun the GR20 about a week earlier in Calenzana, and they were hiking southward on the grisly trail. The GR20, GR standing for “big hike” in French, is France’s most extreme hike, running the length of the island north to south; fifteen legs of six to eight hour days of hiking through rough terrain and even rougher weather. Because of scheduling conflicts, we had decided it would be best if I met them a few days in, at the mountain refuge of Manganu on this lovely Tuesday. I had started hiking from the town of Evisa on Monday evening, having made my way from the coast via bus and a very fortunate hitch-hiking connection. Laura and Anthony would be coming from a mountain refuge to the north, and they had more miles to make than I did.

The morning fog burned off slowly as I made my way across a ridge and up a steep mountainside to the Verghio Pass. I took my time going up, taking lots of breaks to enjoy the scenery and to snap photographs. I was only a few kilometers from the pass, and I made it to the top before midday. At the road, my trail joined the GR20 trail and I had a short moment of anticipation thinking that I might run into my friends here, if the stars really did align. (They didn’t.) There was a little hostel on the road where many hikers were taking breaks before continuing on for the day, either northward to Ciottulu di Mori, or southward to Manganu like me. The hostel sold a few provisions: cheese, bread, saucisson, and a few cans of tuna sat on wooden shelves that were much too large. I refueled with a snack and shouldered my pack to continue my journey. I considered waiting there for my friends, but decided against it; after five days of hiking, they were definitely in great shape and would surely catch up with me very soon, I reasoned.

she is a thing of beauty

Lesson number 1: don’t go into the woods without a map. I figured the trail would be marked, and it was, so I shouldn’t have a problem. Except that I had no idea what lay ahead of me – not about the mileage, not about the terrain, nothing. So I naively went on my merry way, encountering red-faced hikers coming from the direction in which I was headed. We exchanged hellos as we marched onward in opposite directions. I took my sweet time; I stopped to take pictures, and I even stopped to take an extended break underneath a particularly gorgeous shade tree. I pulled out my journal and began free-writing about the beauty of said tree – the hearty foliage, the withered yet tough trunk, the sprawling roots! I was on a roll. As I sat enjoying the afternoon breeze from the comfort of my new favorite spot, two gentleman passed me going southward, one very short and the other quite tall. They stopped to admire my tree for a minute. “That’s a good one!,” they enthused. I agreed wholeheartedly and continued writing. After a bit, I took to the path once again in direction of Manganu.

Col St Pietro with the ferocious climb in the background

So, the problem about hiking without a map is that you have nothing to use as reference. I was basically walking blindly in the wilderness, guilelessly following the red and white markers painted every 50 meters or so. By mid-afternoon, I figured I must not be too far from my destination. Don’t ask me how I reached this conclusion; wishful thinking, I suppose. Also, it might have been because I was feeling pretty battered by the elements at this point. Although the hike had started out woodsy and only moderately inclined after Vergio, it soon became much more intense. After a pretty steady climb up to the col St. Pietro, I found myself battling up a bare mountainside with a scary wind whipping around me, threatening to send me flying. In all seriousness, I was glad to have my heavy pack secured on my back to keep me grounded. The path up the mountain was all rock with no trees to shelter you (I’m sure trees had tried to grow here and had been unsuccessful from the intense wind!) and it zigzagged up the mountain rather than going straight up. This meant that at times I had the wind full force in my face as I hunched over trying to make forward progress, and other times I was virtually being thrown forward by the strong gusts pushing at my back.  This went on for about half an hour, but it felt never-ending.

GR20 markings on a tree

As I recovered on my rock with a snack of some dried fruits and nuts, the gentlemen pair that I had met earlier crossed my path again. I asked them, quite desperately, if we were almost there yet. One of them raised their eyebrows and said vaguely, “I think we have a bit more to go,” in a tone that meant we had a LOT more to go. The other got out his trail guide and showed me where we were on the map. “See here, number 33.” He then traced his finger along the red line, past numbers 34 and 35. He turned the page. His finger continued the width of the page, and he turned the page again, tracing the line to the very end of the page. “Number 40, that’s where the refuge is,” he told me with a big smile. Unfortunately, I couldn’t return the gesture. I was in shock. THREE PAGES OF TRAIL LEFT?! “Wow,” was all I was able to muster. “Yeah, today’s hike is a long one,” the taller one agreed. I’ll say.

We continued on our way together, crossing a rocky ridge and passing some spectacular views of the massive mountains all around us. As I found out later from other hikers, we were quite lucky to have any visibility at all. As we walked, we got to know each other. They were from the Swiss town of Luzerne and they had started from the top but were only going midway to Vizzavona, as was I. They asked me if I was traveling alone and I told them about meeting my friends at Manganu. “Have you met them, by any chance?,” I inquired to my new friends. “They started the same day as you, last Thursday, at Calenzana.” They gave it some thought and asked some other questions to help them identify Laura and Anthony. “I don’t think so,” said Jean, the shorter one. “Wait, could it be that couple that quit the trail on Saturday?,” exclaimed Pierre, his taller companion. I was horrified to hear this and assured them that my friends were “montagnards,” mountain people who hailed from the high Alps. There was no way they had given up already and these two middle-aged men hadn’t. But their description of the couple sounded scarily like my friends. They said the girl had gotten injured on the trail so they had to throw in the towel. It wasn’t likely that this was Laura and Anthony, but it was possible. Injuries happen, and there’s nothing you can do about them except thrown in the towel.

I contemplated the possibility of not finding my friends at the end of the day and considered my options. “You’ll continue with us, of course!,” my new friends offered encouragingly. It was a thought. I hadn’t come all this way to turn around, right? We passed the ridge and continued alongside another mountain, until we came to a wide valley opening up beneath us. The valley was filled with lakes, a whole smattering of them as far as you could see. It was a gorgeous view, but there was no sign of the refuge anywhere. There was a fountain nearby with fresh mountain water gushing out. We filled our bottles and descended into the valley. Pierre lagged behind taking pictures and video as Jean and I scampered up the path, commenting on the landscape around us. It was quite astounding- the colors of the changing leaves, the bright moss on the rocks, the gnarled tree stumps leftover from lightning storms. We noticed several distinct smells as we walked and tried to place them to their appropriate bush or flower. I had put the notion of not seeing my friends out of my head and I was downright giddy about arriving soon. 

Lac de Nino

Until now, the weather had held up beautifully, but the sky was beginning to look suspicious. At the first sign of rain, we all dropped our packs and put on our rain gear. I just had an old rain jacket that has seen several seasons of farming and many a downpour. The Swiss, on the other hand, were equipped with rain covers for their bags, rain pants (which they had to take their shoes off to put on), and rain jackets. Pierre even had a cute little rain hat to top it all off. Luckily, the rain didn’t stick and we barely got wet. A few minutes after the shower, the Swiss decided to disrobe out of their rain gear. Off came the packs, off came the shoes, off came the little rain hat. No costume change for me since it didn’t bother me to keep my rain jacket on. Plus, you never know in the mountains. A quarter of an hour later, the rainclouds were back for another round. Once again, the Swiss geared up. Hilariously, off came the packs, off came the shoes, on came the little rain hat. I felt like I was hanging out with two of the three stooges. At this rate, we were never going to make it to the refuge before nightfall. I looked longingly towards the other side of the valley, imagining what Laura and Anthony were doing at that moment. Hopefully cooking up a nice hot meal!

At last, we crested a hill and on the other side – ta da! – a quaint-looking mountain cabin with lots of blue tents set up around in. There were even a few horses in a paddock surrounded by rock walls. It was an adorably bucolic scene. “Why are all the tents the same?,” I asked the Swiss stooges. “I think people can rent them from the refuge,” responded Jean. This worried me a bit, as I didn’t see Laura and Anthony’s green tent, but I was still optimistic. When we came to the log cabin, an attendant came out to inform us that she had cheese for sale. We noticed a different name written on the door. “This isn’t Manganu?,” we asked in French. “Oh no, this is a private bergerie. Manganu is just a little bit further. You can see it from here.” We strained our eyes to see the refuge; we could barely make it out shrouded in mist in the distance. “It’s just une petite demi heure from here,” the attendant assured us. The French have this adorable way of expressing time; a little half hour, she said. Not too bad. I’ll take it!

As we walked away from the bergerie, I tried not to feel too frustrated. I focused on the positive things. For example, my pants were almost completely dry! And just as I had that thought – the moment right after, I swear – the rain came out of nowhere and began pelting us with huge droplets. We were just far enough from the bergerie that it didn’t make sense to turn around and seek shelter. Plus, it was probably another fake-out like the past two rainfalls.

In fact, it was no such thing. We proceeded to get pounded by sheets of rain for the remainder of our hike. With clenched teeth, I concentrated my gaze on the ground in front of me to stay out of the puddles and avoid falling on the slippery rocks underfoot. After a while, I realized it was a futile effort. I gave up trying to keep my feet dry and was now haphazardly sloshing through a river of rain. My only goal at this point was to stay upright; falling with my pack in this storm could be disastrous. I was pushing with all my might to make it to the refuge. It was now plainly in sight, but still much too far away for my taste. I wanted to get there already! Yeah right, une petite demi heure, I thought to myself with a laugh. These Corsicans must be fast walkers.

At last, we crossed a bridge where another river was running (different from the river running below our feet that was once the trail) and finally made it onto the porch of the refuge. Jean pushed the door open into the main room; it was loud and packed full of people. We stood in the doorway because there was nowhere to go. I stood behind the Swiss, still completely exposed to the elements and utterly shell-shocked from the effort of running madly through driving rain for close to an hour on a trail of treacherous and slippery rocks. All of my hope had evaporated. I knew my friends wouldn’t be here.

Slowly, we were able to make our way into the crowded room. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had streams of water running down my body, my rain jacket having proved useless in the deluge. A giant puddle was forming around us. Exhausted but desperate, I scanned the faces of our fellow hikers, searching for features that might belong to my friends: Laura’s apple cheeks, Anthony’s spiky hair. My search came out negative. The Swiss had been right. Laura and Anthony had ditched the trail.

The Swiss tried to convince me stay in a bed in the refuge – “There is one extra!,” the assured me – but I didn’t want to spend the eleven euros to sleep in a tiny space with snoring retirees. Plus, I hadn’t hauled my tent all this way for nothing! I summoned all the energy I had left and headed out into the still driving rain to pitch my tent. The first campsite I tried was unsuccessful; there was no shelter and I ended up chasing my tent in the wind. The second site was cushy in comparison – a pallet hidden in some bushes. Perfect. The pallet elevated it off the ground to ensure that I wouldn’t be sleeping in a lake, and the bushes provided a safe haven from the insane mountain blasts that we were experiencing that evening. After that was done, I went back inside to make myself some soup. It tasted heavenly, even if it was just powdered soup mix from a bag. I slurped down the hot liquid and refilled my cup. As I ate and regained feeling in my fingers and toes, I asked the hikers around me about my friends. No one had any information, as I had suspected. The Swiss fluttered around me, making sure I was okay. Would I be safe outside in my tent? Was I absolutely sure? I could always come inside if things got too rough.  I was glad to have them looking out for me, but I was definitely not in a very friendly mood.

Dejectedly, I headed back outside to my tent. The rain had mostly subsided but the wind was still howling furiously. There was a school group staying in the refuge that night as well, and I could hear them making a ruckus as they ran around, the boys playing tricks on the girls and fighting in the heavy fog. Every now and then, their teacher could be heard yelling at them over the wind to behave and settle down. I read my book for a while, trying not to get worked up about my situation. I had completely lost my motivation to go on without my friends. And to tell you the truth, I was a bit pissed off, thinking they were probably laying on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas while I was huddled in my tent braving a terrible storm on a mountaintop – alone.  

It wasn’t so bad, really. I had a good book. Warm, dry socks. A safe place to sleep for the night. The Swiss stooges had my back. I really can’t complain. After a while, I headed back to the common room to make some tea and hang out with hikers before everyone turned in for the night. I tried with all my might to find a space to hang my dripping clothes in hopes that they might be less soggy in the morning, to no avail. Everyone else had the same idea, it seems. My shoes were a lost cause, I knew that much to be true. The following day would be a difficult one on the trail.  First off, hiking in soaking wet shoes is never fun. Secondly, a hiker hates going back on their steps, but alas, I had decided that was the best choice. I didn’t want to continue in terrible weather without my friends, and I really, really wanted to see my friends! So I decided to head back to the Col de Vergio and get in touch with them – somehow, hopefully, maybe, possibly? If that didn’t work out, it was back to the beach for me! Having made my decision, I headed back to my tent and fell asleep immediately, despite the shrieking middle-schoolers and screaming wind.

Retracing my steps the next day was less terrible than I had anticipated. The weather held up, and although my shoes remained hopelessly wet, the rest of my clothes dried off by late morning. I decided to take my time again and smell the roses. Or rather, hang out with cows, take more pictures, and write more poems. I wasn’t in a hurry seeing as I had no idea what my plan was beyond Vergio. 

I finally made it to my destination around noon (civilization! cell phone service!) and asked a stranger if I could borrow his phone. “It’s urgent!,” I promised. He obliged disdainfully (these French can be so unfriendly sometimes!) and I quickly dialed Laura’s number. My heart fell when I heard her voicemail message. I told her where I was, asked where she was, and told her she better call me back ASAP or else. Miraculously, she called back about a minute after I had handed the stranger his phone, and I responded gleefully. “Laura!! Where the heck are you?” She asked me the same question. It took a minute for both of us to figure out what had happened with the plan. (Whose stupid plan was this anyway?? Oh yeah… mine.) She and Anthony were still on the trail (I knew they hadn’t given up!! Those crazy Swiss guys…) but they had doubled up a few days so they were already in Vizzavona. They had tried to get in touch with me via my father, but that plan hadn’t worked since I hadn’t checked in with him since I got to the island (bad daughter move on my part, now karma was coming for me!). Luckily for me, Vizzavona is one of the few places on the trail that is reachable by a road, so I told her to stay put and I was on my way! How, I had no idea. I was, literally, in the middle of nowhere. I looked at a map to figure out which route was my best bet, threw my bag over my shoulder yet again, walked across the street, and stuck out my thumb emphatically. I had a plan, a new destination!  

It would take me the rest of the day, but I finally rolled into the train yard in Vizzavona just as the sun was setting behind the mountains, casting everything in that glorious, vibrant light. Laura and Anthony were standing on the platform, waving at me frantically as we waited for the train to slow down so I could jump out and smother them in a bear hug. After a bit of confusion, a lot of rain, and many miles by foot, car, and train- we were finally reunited. My feet were killing me from being in wet shoes all day, but it didn’t matter. They snuck me into the hostel they were staying for the night and I was able to take a hot shower – heaven on Earth. Snuggling into my sleeping bag nestled on the floor amongst all of the packs, hiking poles and smelly boots, I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. It had been a bit shaky for a minute there, but everything had turned out fine in the end. And just as I was drifting off to sleep, the chorus of snores started. Ah, the joys of traveling.

Laura, Anthony and I, happily reunited at last!