Cobble Stones and Stinky Cheese

When I was packing, I gave myself three pairs of shoes. My Chuck T.’s obviously took spot one. Spot two went to my Birks. And that last valued spot? “Well, you can hike in running shoes well enough,” I said to myself, “but running in your hiking boots would be awful.” Thus my Sauconies took the cake. It seemed like a logical conclusion. Maybe it was, but it was also thoroughly unreasonable. The questions I should have asked: 

Q1: “How often do you think you’ll want to run?” 

A: Never. 

Q2: “How often do you think you’ll want to hike?”

A: Always. Everyday. As much as possible. 

What a rube.

But where did I leave you? Ah yes, my Sauconies soaked through from trudging through the streets of Paris in the rain. You know what are waterproof? My hiking boots. Spilt milk I suppose…

The next morning, the world was a brighter place. Literally. The sun was out, and if I could’ve heard over the traffic, I believe birds may have been chirping. It was that kind of a day. I made it to Gare de Lyon with time to spare (not like you, Renée, when I say time to spare, I mean five minutes, ten max, not two hours – no Rome Rules on this trip). I bought breakfast to go: mango juice and an apple. And this mango juice was legit. It didn’t taste of carrots whatsoever, and the delectable hint of passion fruit was perfectly balanced. I got myself situated on the train; besides the girl sitting next to me, I was the only one in the whole compartment whose seat was next to someone else. I didn’t know the etiquette in this situation, so I decided to keep my seat until the conductor punched tickets.

If you’ve travelled with me, you know that when I am extremely tired, I lack completely the ability to keep my mouth closed when I’m sleeping. Yes, I am that person. There are commercials making fun of us, pinning us as one of the perils of travelling coach. And I guess that’s true. But know this: we have no control over the situation. All I can hope is that my breath smelled of mango and passion fruit. I hadn't even planned on sleeping, I awoke surprised to find my maw gaping. And upon awakening, I was hungry, ready for my apple. I was ready for it before, but hadn’t had the heart to eat it. You see, there’s this thing I have called misophonia…

Shortly put, specific food sounds trigger a violent rage within me. It’s a real thing. For me it’s the smacking of food, that blood-curdling liquid sucking sound that comes when people can’t keep their mouths shut chewing. So with my apple I was acutely aware that the crunching of it in the all too silent train coach might be unwelcome. I gathered my effects and went upstairs, took the bench seat in between the luggage rack and bathroom, and enjoyed my apple in peace.

While incorrect in her use of the word “irony,” Alanis Morissette would have been lucky to chance upon my circumstance. When I arrived back in my seat, the denizens of coach six had decided it was lunch time. Smackers. Of the highest degree. Every. Last. One. I tried. Truly I did. But the girl next to me was the worst offender. Imagine the sound you hate worst in the world - nails on a chalkboard, sniffling, what have you. Now imagine it is so close that it sounds like someone is drilling it into your brain and it is echoing from all sides. I lasted three bites. Like I mentioned, violent rage. It was everything I could to do to not start throwing some 'bows.

I spent the last hour of the trip in the dining compartment, ironically food-sound free. On the upper level of the train with a window to myself, I watched the green French countryside rolling along. Picture in your mind the quintessential small French country town. One main road, a handful of small mortar homes, a stone church at the center. Farms and vineyards surrounding it. This was the view I enjoyed over my espresso.

Karine came out during her lunch break to pick me up from the train station and get me situated in my new home. If you read Alas! Ear wax!, you must have an idea of how grateful I was for this.

Almost eight years ago, I was at the Cité Universitaire in Paris reading an email. It was from Katie A. Good news! she said. I’ve found us an apartment! It’s the bottom floor of a house… Most of you know how that story ends. I showed up on move-in day and discovered that when she said “first floor,” she really meant “basement.” Fear not, for though I am again below ground, my current situation is not nearly as dingy and I am in a much safer town. I have taken to referring to it as my subterranean lair, however.

I spent the better part of three days in said subterranean lair due to inclement weather. I won’t lie, I got a bit desperate. I tried to ration the one book I brought, but 700 pages doesn’t last long when the writing is this good. I can’t connect to Netflix, but I was ready for any English television. I didn’t find any. I did find Grey’s Anatomy in French though. I haven’t watched it since I was a freshman in college cramming into a room in AQ trying to make friends. I’m fully invested now, although it’s gotten really depressing. George died. Izzy has cancer. Izzy has cancer and gets fired. For something to bring me out of my own thoughts, it’s rather melancholy. It’s helping my French skills I suppose. That’s my excuse. Tomorrow night they’re airing Revenge, too. Nothing like tawdry drama to boost one’s spirits. Happy Tuesday!

Armed with a bus pass and an umbrella, I now have had a chance to explore, and I absolutely love it. I am in a valley in Savoie surrounded by mountains, a 15 minute ride to downtown. Walking the cobbled streets of old town is akin to walking through a story book. A turn down this alley, duck through that archway, past that inn, and there I am in a square surrounded by cheese shops and wine shops and  ancient churches. There are signs on some streets or buildings: “Castle from the 11th century, hotel from the 16th century, this road from the 14th century", etc.… and if it weren’t for the modern store fronts, you’d believe you were there.

Today I hitched a ride with Karine and her cousin to La Féclaz, a small little mountain ski town. Perfect to sit outside, take in the scenery, and work on my book. Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back to that. I’ve been rather too preoccupied to take pictures, but I promise I’ll have some for you soon. For now, it’s wine and writing.