Chapter Six: Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Christmas, Noël, Nedeleg: no matter how it is said (the latter language of which being Breton), there is one thing that seems never to get lost in translation, and that is the need to be with family and friends at Christmastime. Indeed, in late December of any year, one can be certain that there are men and women across the globe booking tickets, renting cars, hailing taxis and going to any length necessary to secure their voyages back home.

But this Hoosier plouc? Well, I, too, was crazily grasping for any mode of transportation possible to take me to my destinations. However, my goal was not Ossian, Indiana.

Instead of leaving my European home of mystery and adventure, I welcomed another Hoosier to join me during the 2006 holiday season: Ashley, my sister. And, although we were not trying to get home, we did indeed take planes, trains and automobiles to cross the French countryside, to traverse the Alps, to wind our way through Irish country roads. It was a journey which would take us from Brittany, France to Pisa, Florence and Rome in Italy; to Dublin and Galway in Ireland; and back to Paris to celebrate the New Year at the base of the Eiffel Tower.

From historic sights to run-down hostels and wet feet, it was indeed an unforgettable adventure.


Destination #1: Plougrescant

The name alone should reveal that this tiny village is located in Brittany (note the "plou"). In fact, Plougrescant is the picturesque stretch of coastline found just north of Tréguier to which I had journeyed with the proviseur of my school upon arrival last September. A rolling land stacked with boulders and torn by cliffs, it was certainly a must-see for my Hoosier visitor.

However, Brittany is well-known for its weak public transportation, and thus we had to turn to the most primitive form of travel man has ever known: his feet.

"How far is Plougrescant?" I asked a faculty member at the Lycée Savina.

"Oh, perhaps 6 kilometers."

6 kilometers = 3.8 miles = a round trip of about 7.6 miles. This was doable.

"How far is Plougrescant?" I asked a man working in a pharmacy, just for clarification.

"Oh, perhaps 8 kilometers."

8 kilometers = 5 miles = a round trip of about 10 miles. This, also, we thought would be doable.

"How far is Plougrescant?" I asked a friendly construction man working beside the road leading out of Tréguier?

"Oh, at least 12 or 14 kilometers!"

12 kilometers = 7.5 miles = a round trip of about 15 miles.
14 kilometers = 8.7 miles = a round trip of about 17.4 miles.

This was sounding a bit daunting.

"You’re going by foot?" the construction man queried, raising his eyebrow in surprise. That eyebrow should have been our first clue.

"Yes," I replied, turning back to my sister. "The view is well worth it." Thus, we shrugged our shoulders, stretched our legs and began to walk.

There were, of course, many delightful sites along the way, such as the leaning steeple of Brittany, a sprawling manor, and a time-tested cathedral. But, the goal never left our minds.

"You know," I began proudly, assuming my tour guide role, "Plougrescant is where A Very Long Engagement was filmed."

"Oh?" Ashley responded. "Interesting." Then, after a pause: "What’s A Very Long Engagement?"

We trudged onward across deserted country roads with nothing but the bursting artichokes to keep us company. Nervous that we might have taken a wrong turn and be lost to forever wander the dusty gwenojenn (more or less Breton for country roads) of northern Brittany, we paused when we saw two men working on a car at a garage.

"This is the road to Plougrescant, right?" I asked, my voice somewhat less chipper than before.

"Oh, yes. You’re almost there, in fact. Another two or three kilometers."

Renewed with the notion of nearing our destination, a spring once again filled our step.

After a few minutes, I stopped abruptly. "Do you smell that?"

"What?" Ashley replied.

"The ocean. The air is different. I can feel it. We’re almost there!"

Indeed, we did eventually reach Plougrescant, and Ashley was able to enjoy it in all of its splendor. We scaled the larger-than-mammoth-sized boulders; we frolicked across the moorland; we ate baguette sandwiches and pain au chocolat while gazing upon the sea: just another day in Brittany.

However, it was the return journey that was rather less enjoyable.

"I recognize that," I said. "We’re almost there, right?" Wrong.

"This is the halfway point, right?" Wrong again.

The same lovely sights were there, but somehow they seemed less intriguing, less worthy of a side-trip visit than before. Indeed, we walked, and we walked, and we walked. The wall of Jericho wasn’t falling, but by the end, we certainly were ready to.

When finally the image of Tréguier appeared like a lone oasis of hope on the distant horizon, we cried with joy—and our feet cried in pain. In fact, in spite of my robust age of twenty-three, I suddenly felt quite decrepit. My toes were not the only body parts protesting my decision to trek across the land. My sides were sore. My calves felt as if they had indeed been battered by a real calf. My gluteus was feeling something maximus, but it wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

Nevertheless, we plodded onward, settled our worn-out frames into a cozy café and ordered rounds of hot chocolate and Breizh-Cola. The latter is Brittany’s brand of cola which has a most clever slogan: Le Cola du Phare Ouest—The Cola of the Western Lighthouse. The clever part is the play on words "Phare Ouest" which, when read, sounds like "Far West." Brittany is, in actuality, the "Far West" of France, and although we had remained in my own region of Côtes d’Armor in northern Brittany, we suddenly felt as if we had hiked to the far west and back.


Destination #2: Trégastel & Ploumanac’h

"Stick it in his nose," I directed.

"Okay," Ashley replied. She grabbed the needle, held it back for just a moment and then jabbed it into the snout of the unsuspecting saint standing before her. "Done!" she shouted.

I turned around and considered the waves lapping at the sand and rocks. Was the tide still retreating or was it already returning? At any rate, the needle had to remain or the spell would be broken.

"My turn." I strode up to the small man, pulled the pin from my shirt sleeve and looked Saint Guirec directly in his weathered face. Years of salty water lapping at his skin, sand blowing around his frame and rain pouring down upon his little shrine had taken its toll on the saint. Indeed, this small statue had no nose but rather a shallow hole reminiscent of the nasal cavity seen in a naked human skull. Sure enough, there were several needles already sticking into the porous surface of rock just inside the saint’s olfactory organ. I took a deep breath, nodded almost as if in apology to Saint Guirec and shoved my needle into his nose to join the others.

I then leapt down from the statue, rejoining my sister. "Whoever’s needle remains until the next high tide," I reminded her, "will be married within the year."

We both took a moment to gaze at the small statue. We had apparently not been the only ones to visit this stretch of beach overseen by Saint Guirec that rainy morning in Breizh. In fact, there were needles not only in his nose but also scattered around the base of Guirec’s feet and on the nearby sand. Were our needles destined to have the same fate, to merely fall prematurely and thereby break the spell? Only time would tell.

We took one last look at the little saint before turning back to the sea.

The morning was spent exploring La Côte de Granit Rose—admiring the unique rock formations, wishing we could find the hidden key to enter the lighthouse rising proudly before us, breathing in the salty sea air, dreaming of adventures of chasing the ocean far from the coast and sticking our needles in the nose of the legendary Saint Guirec.

Eventually, we became quite famished and looked for a place to settle down for our picnic. The intermittent spits of rain, however, prevented us from finding a high rock with a gorgeous view upon which to dine. Thus, we ran to the one place that looked like decent shelter: an independent shack of public restrooms next to the coast. We sat down just beneath the overhang of the small structure outside the doors leading to the individual restrooms and pulled out the meal that was becoming our regular: baguette sandwiches, pain au chocolat and Coke.

Twenty minutes or so later, we were refreshed and ready to continue the adventure. Placing the trash in a nearby bin, however, I received a better view of the spot in which Ashley had chosen to sit to eat her meal. The floor was merely that of wooden planks placed with small gaps in between each other. There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than a mere floor—nothing, that is, except for the showerhead six feet up from where she was sitting.

"You ate your lunch in a shower!" I exclaimed.

Ashley must have been tired because she merely shrugged it off.

What won’t one put up with in order to experience the best that Breizh has to offer?


Destination #3: London

I suppose it is safe to say one finally bears the title of "World Traveler" when a destination such as the celebrated London is merely an inconvenient "stopover." Truly, this is what The Big Smoke was for Ashley and I when we boarded our first plane to leave behind Breizh, la belle.

Watching the Breton coastline fade from view, my mind drifted to the Christmas celebration shared among the assistant population in Lannion just days before. While Happy Town had not been blessed by a dusting of snow to enliven our spirits, my Breton home had in fact turned out a charming display of colored lights—bearing messages in both Breton and French—along with horse drawn carriage rides across the cobblestone streets, bagpipe parades, and much more to commemorate the special season.

In no ways, however, were the holidays more cheerfully accented than by the Christmas Market. Each Thursday, the streets of Lannion are full of farmers, butchers, antique collectors and other such vendors peddling their wares. However, on December 17th a unique market was held for craftsmen, jewelry makers and other such artists. From necklaces decked with bits of colored glass washed up by the sea to soap scented with rose petals, these were creations by bona fide artistes. And, there was, of course, vin chaud (hot red wine laced with cinnamon, sugar and spiced by lemon) offered at nearly every corner.

Indeed, when Céline and Aurore, two first-year French teachers living in Lannion, arrived at our Christmas dinner with a friend sporting reindeer antlers and caroling us with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" (with a most charming French accent), the celebration was nearly complete.

Suddenly, a man a few rows ahead of me in the plane shouted a line of expletives. I awoke with a start, realizing I had drifted off to sleep in my reverie of the holidays in Lannion. The airplane was touching down in London and had begun to fishtail slightly. Silence filled the cabin as all passengers seemed to hold their breath. Yes, Ashley and I had once again elected to use the famously inexpensive RyanAir as our airline of choice: RyanAir, the company which had unfortunately stranded us for five hours in a ghetto airport outside of Paris in 2005 during the only blizzard to ever strike the city; RyanAir, the company which only offers insurance as an add-on during ticket purchases.

Thankfully, the pilot never lost control and the bird eventually came to a stop, eliciting a round of applause from the passengers—myself included. The exits opened, and we soon found ourselves running for a bus to take us from the Stansted airport into the heart of the city.

As I noted, London was for us merely a stopover. I had already visited the city two times prior to this voyage, and the desired goal we both had in mind was that of Italy. However, the only option with RyanAir was to take a flight from Brittany to London, spend a night in London and then fly the next morning to Pisa.

Thus, we watched dusk fall and blackness replace the light as the bus bore into the city, an ominous setting which appropriately mirrored the hostel we were about to enter.

After seeking directions from several Londoners, we finally arrived at the hostel which would provide little more to pass the night than clean sheets—which was itself a bit questionable. We had, in fact, barely entered the building, barely taken a look around the common area, the scum-infested kitchen and the loud, crowded television room when a young Australian strolled in rolling something in his fingers. "Who wants some?" he asked, generously offering his treasure.

"Oh, illegal drugs," some girl exclaimed. She and her friend rose to follow the Australian.

"This is why we stay in hostels," the second girl added.

I turned to Ashley. "Remind me why we stay in hostels."

Needing some air and alimentary refreshment, we descended the many staircases leading to the main floor. Each landing opened up to a small hallway lined with several doors. When at last we reached the bottom, we looked around trying to remember from which entrance we had come. I tried the first door: locked. Ashley tried another: locked as well. I tried yet another: locked again. And another: locked.

Every door was locked—no exit.

"We have descended into hell."

"You can say that again," Ashley replied.

Such was our night in London.


Destination #4: Pisa, Italia

Following a most luxurious night of beauty sleep, the next morning found us red-eyed and bushy-haired; nonetheless, we grabbed our bags and ran to catch another plane—a plane bound for Italia.

En route to Pisa, we looked downward and allowed our eyes to linger on the snow-capped crests and ripples which belonged to the legendary Alps. Once again, I watched distant memories begin to replay upon the theater of my mind—memories of spilled kitty litter, running throughout the streets of Paris to catch my train bound for Risoul and soaring down the sides of the Alps skiing and singing "The Sound of Music" at the top of my lungs.

"Just think: I actually skied on those mountains two years ago," I said aloud. Ashley nodded and grabbed her camera to capture the view.

Soon enough, however, we were stepping off of our second jet in two days and entering a land marked by the Renaissance, sustained by rich gelato and exquisite pizza and dotted with such architectural feats as the celebrated anomaly which is the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Our visit to the city of Pisa was, nevertheless, short lived. In fact, we jumped on a train immediately after joining the throng of tourists snapping pictures of the infamous tower, which, like Big Ben of London, was smaller in reality than I expected it to be. It is no myth, however, that the structure appears ready to crash to the ground at any moment.

It was in buying tickets for our next train, though, that the real fun began—the fun of trying to communicate.

"English?"

"No," the man at the counter replied curtly.

"Français?"

"No." He just looked at me, waiting for me to spout off another option. Sadly, however, I was down to one last choice: Franglian—my own special mix of English, French and Italian.

"Due billets go à Firenze," I said—proud of the fact that I knew at least one word in Italian.

He, however, wasn’t impressed and merely pointed to a woman working several stations down. "English," he grunted.

We nodded, muttered "Grazie" and shuffled down to the woman who was able to secure tickets for us on the next train.

I, however, was ashamed of myself. I had finally morphed into the true American tourist who enters a country in near complete ignorance of the national tongue and customs. "Before I leave," I told myself, "I will be able to communicate with the Italians." I had only three and a half days, however, to complete this task.


Destination #5: Firenze, Italia

"They could be taking us somewhere to mug us, or worse, kill us," a little voice whispered in my head. Alarms were going off in my mind—alarms warning me that we were traversing the line of good sense and entering a world of unnecessary danger, placing too much trust in someone we had met only moments before. But, lacking alternatives, Ashley and I continued to trudge after the tall, dark Italian man leading us throughout the heart of Firenze, or, as it is known in its anglicized form, Florence.

Moments before, we had entered hostel number two of our grand EuroTour, and it appeared much cleaner, much classier and in all other ways more legitimate than that of its diabolic counterpart in London. Nevertheless, we did not see any other guests after ascending the four or so flights of stairs to arrive at the welcome desk. In spite of the lack of other visitors, however, the hostess pointed to the tall Italian guy next to her and said, "So, I think he’s going to take you to our other hostel a few minutes away where you’ll be more comfortable and you two can stay together in your own room."

"You mean we’re not staying here?" I queried.

"No. It’s fine. We have another place. You’ll follow him there."

"Yeah, right. We’ll follow him to a dark alley where his mafia friends are waiting to club us, steal our passports and run away with all of our dough," I said to myself. "Am I wearing a ‘Stupid American Tourist’ sign on my forehead or something?"

Apparently, I was because a few minutes later I found myself following this man in a long dark trenchcoat out of the hostel. Ashley and I exchanged knowing glances. We knew what was on each others’ minds, but we didn’t know what else to do. We had already paid for the night’s stay, we couldn’t communicate with most of the natives and feared that all other establishments would be full as it was nearing Christmas day.

I was, therefore, pleasantly surprised when he stopped at a large wooden doorway not far from downtown Firenze. However, when we entered and began walking toward the stairs, he turned to me. I was carrying a laptop case slung over my shoulder and dragging a small suitcase. He said, "Let me have that," pointing to my laptop bag. I hesitated, then nodded and handed it to him. He then began to walk up the stairs—much faster than I could follow with the suitcase.

In my mind, I imagined him pawing through my bag after disappearing from view. "Stay on him!" I said to Ashley. She nodded and we both hurried after Mr. Dark Mysterious Italian Man.

Eventually, he stopped at a landing and opened a door leading into what appeared to be a large apartment. "This is David," he said, pointing to the short, thick twenty-something who appeared from a side room. "He’ll help you with whatever you need."

"Yeah, and he’ll help himself to whatever he needs from our stuff, too," I said to myself.

In the end, of course, nothing was stolen and David was a kind enough host. However, even though there was a lock on the door leading up to our room, we had the general impression that we were staying at David’s house. We were not the only guests; thus, it apparently is a legitimate hostel, but it did seem a bit bizzarro.

The rest of Firenze, however, was not odd. It was astounding. Magnifico! Molto bello!

Ashley and I had been given suggestions of what to see, where to eat, etc by Jonah and Sara Beer, two of my most culturally savvy cousins who are not only working in the cheese and wine industries on the western coast of the States but also have their own brand of pinot noir: Aardvark ("It’s the first name in pinot!")

Thus, we entered the Galleria dell’Accademia to gaze upon the masterpiece that is Michelangelo’s famed David. Unlike Big Ben and the Leaning Tower, David was much larger than I expected him to be. One feels dwarfed not only by his sheer size but also in the shadow of the grace, the beauty Michelangelo infused into every lock of hair, every gentle curve made by the sinews just beneath David’s flesh. Indeed, this chef d’oeuvre has become more or less the symbol of Firenze, and therefore not only can small statuettes be found in the souvenir shops but full-size representations are also located on various squares throughout the city.

Leaving Michelangelo aside for just a moment, however, the highlight of the Galleria degli Uffizi was an exhibit upon none other than the legendary Leonardo da Vinci. Various sketches, notes and novel ideas of this true Renaissance man were on display. What struck me most was the following quote of his: Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination when awake?

This, I believe, is fascinating coming from the man who no doubt had one of the most vivid imaginations ever to grace the race of man. I can only imagine what fantastical dreams must have entered his mind at night.

The celebrated Duomo, the fourth largest church in the world, was next on our list. Built between the late thirteenth and mid-fifteenth centuries, it is a stunning cathedral which ends in a majestic dome, lording over the city. Such is the awesome presence of the Duomo that from nearly every square in Firenze it seemed to be nearly close enough to touch even if it were still a ten minute walk away. Outside, the decor was ornate. Inside, it was lush. And, from the peak of the dome itself, the view was one of the more amazing sights I have seen in all of my globetrotting adventures: the gleaming whites and reds of Florentine architecture set against the green of the gentle mountains hugging the city.

"Magnifico," I heard myself stating in awe.

And, of course there were gourmet delights to follow up these touristic escapades. After one lick of my nocciola-caramello gelato, I was floating away to paradise. Gelato, in my opinion, cannot merely be translated into English as "ice cream" because it is, indeed, far more than just that. Whereas ice cream can be a tad gritty, gelato is suave perfection. Whereas ice cream can be refreshing on a hot day, gelato is so utterly exqusite that it can be (and was, by us) enjoyed even outside while walking on a bridge above cold waters in late December. Frozen custard? Doesn’t begin to compare. Ice cream? Give me a break.

Then we dined on authentic Italian pizza pie, which was followed by a visit to Le Volpi e l’Uva, the wine bar highly suggested by my cousin Jonah. And, I was quite impressed with myself when I succeeded in ordering in impeccable Italian.

"Due Chardonnay," I said. "Grazie."

Okay, so perhaps these were the same two words I had also known the day before when I failed at the ticket counter. Nevertheless, it was a beginning.

Destination #6: Roma, Italia

"How do you eat spaghetti with a spoon?" Ashley asked.

"First," I instructed, "you remove the hair."

She gave me a disgusted look. "Tomorrow, we skip the free pasta."

Hostel number three was, unfortunately, a regression. We had been attracted by the low price, the promise of free pasta every night. However, the reality was cheap spaghetti served in whatever containers were to be found in the kitchen—Ashley and I were both given large pieces of Tupperware and handed spoons—cheap wine which tasted like it had been mixed half-and-half with water and a room so crowded with young globetrotters—globetrotters who had journeyed long miles only to prefer the views inside local nightclubs than that of the ancient historical ruins and landscapes waiting at every turn—that only the lucky few could sit on a couch while the rest of us stood shoulder to shoulder trying to eat our meal.

The human hair clinging to the spaghetti I was trying to shovel into my mouth with my spoon, therefore, was indeed the final straw.

"Beggars can be choosers," I told myself. "They can choose there is more to life than saving a few euros to eat and drink this filth."

We were in Roma (known as Rome to the Anglophones). This was not a time for scrimping funds. There was a city to be seen—an eternal city.

Indeed, there is no better description I can find for Roma than that of its nickname: la Città Eterna—the Eternal City.

In the center are the famed ruins of the ancient city: the Forum, the Colosseum, Palatine Hill—Roma of years, eras gone by. And, just next to it is the bustling life of Roma today. The ancient and the contemporary are indeed so close that they touch and one almost feels lost in the timelessness of it all.

It is undeniably la Città Eterna.

Interestingly, there is something non-ruined, about the Roman ruins. Pillars have fallen to the earth below, yet it appears no one has touched them since first they crumbled. The wooden floor of the Colosseum upon which gladiators waged battle and men and women were martyred has collapsed, revealing the sturdy foundation which continues to stand proudly beneath. No one has come to remove the scattered bits of brick and rock flung carelessly about the ground; neither has anyone attempted to collect it all and reform the ruins to create tacky representations of the ancient civilization which once was (with the exception of the floor of the Colosseum, of which a small portion has been re-created).

The result is a land which seems frozen outside of time. Entering the Colosseum, one can almost hear the pounding of feet, the shouts and cries of crowds eager for the shedding of blood; the crash of sword against shield, of spear against helmet; the roar of the lions. One can almost see blood seeping into the dust and sand, the lifeless bodies being dragged away, the audience rising slowly and retreating to another spectacle.

These may be activities which remain only in our imaginations of the past, and yet at the very same time we can stroll throughout these ruins and pick clementines off of trees which may be offspring of the trees which produced fruit for the ancient Romans. We can almost enter their world, almost walk the paths they did so long ago.

Almost. It is the Eternal City. It is timeless. Entering ancient Roma, one leaves behind the contemporary and attempts to grasp the past. It is a task not easily done, but one which is fulfilling, engaging.

Yet, perhaps it is this stark amalgamation of a world ruined and a present bustling metropolis which made Ashley and I long for the subtle beauty of Firenze while strolling throughout the squares of Roma. The sheer weight of history in the latter is utterly undeniable, yet the streets, architecture and overall culture of the rest of the city feel intensely cheap when set against this backdrop. While staring at the ruins, I did feel as if I had stepped out of time. However, when I returned to the twenty-first century Roma, I found myself disappointed, feeling cheated out of something which was supposed to be far grander.

Firenze, in comparison, left no such disappointment. The architecture, the cuisine, the locals seemed to be more genuine. Whereas ancient Roma has been lovingly placed to rest in the monument of the ruins, Firenze seems almost to still be living in the rich culture which was the Renaissance.

What did not disappoint, however, were the beauties of the Vatican just across the river Tiber.

St. Peter’s, the replacement of a basilica constructed during the era of Constantine, is not only a marvelous piece of architectural achievement; it is also the home to a bronze statue of St. Peter fashioned in the thirteenth century by Arnolfo di Cambio, Michelangelo’s sculpture Pietà formed when he was merely twenty-four years old, and much more. It is also from the summit of St. Peter’s dome where one can overlook the entire territory which forms the Vatican, much of which is surrounded by high walls

And, it was beneath the gilded plafond of la Cappella Sistina (the Sistine Chapel) that I marveled aloud, "Ashley, we are standing beneath one of the most magnificent works of art ever to be produced by the hand of man. Ever." Indeed, words fail to capture the sheer grace, beauty and intrigue of Michelangelo’s genius. It is what it is—and that is something to be seen.

Gazing upon this masterpiece was in fact a longtime goal of mine. However, this was not the only goal I would achieve in Roma. One night, I realized I had lost the power adapter to my laptop computer, which meant I would be unable to unload pictures from my digital camera onto my laptop. Thus, Ashley and I set out in search of an electronic store.

"Buono sera," I said timidly entering a telephone store.

"Prego," the man replied.

"Dove magazzino ‘electronica?’" I had picked up the dove (where) and magazzino (store), but the electronica was entirely a production of my own attempt to italiano-cize an English word.

What preceded was a wild goose chase in which we finally happened upon a kind merchant outside of a grocery stand. After attempting to rattle off my childlike Italian, he told me to slow down and took a long, deep breath, encouraging me to do likewise.

"I can do that, but it’s not going to help my Italian," I thought to myself.

Nevertheless, it was indeed this merchant who gave us the correct directions, and in the end I was able to strut up to the counter in the electronic store, ask for an adapter and query "Quanto è..." ("how much"). My Italian was worse than broken, but I was nonetheless enthused. Simply by listening to conversations, reading signs and practicing I had begun to learn Italian. I do therefore think that if I were given the time to live in Italy I would be able to one day speak it as freely as I do French.


Destination #7: Dublin, Ireland

A thick, juicy steak sizzling on my plate; lovely, big golden chips spiced by a dash of vinegar; a full pint of dark stout topped by a creamy head: finally, we were in Ireland.

Dann’s Pub near Dublin provided not only authentic Irish cuisine but also a cozy atmosphere of worn down tables, a crackling fire, dusty books waiting to be taken down one more time from the shelf. I raised my Guinness. "This, my friend," I said to Ashley, "is a pint—a beautiful pint." She raised her mug of Irish coffee, which is not your grandmother’s coffee—it’s deliciously laced with whiskey, of course—and we drank to the beauty of the Emerald Isle.

While Dublin was not the end goal we had in mind for the Irish leg of our European adventure, our options were extremely limited with RyanAir flights out of Pisa, which therefore required us to pass a couple of nights in the home of Guinness brew.

Dublin is of course a large city, meaning that any hopes we had of seeing unspoilt countryside could only be met by jumping on yet another train system—the DART—nevertheless, there were other views to be pursued in the capital of Ireland, such as the many cathedrals which dot the city and live entertainment on stage in many of the local pubs.

In addition, a visit to the Dublin Writer’s Museum presented us with the opportunity to explore the celebrated Irish literary tradition, which boasts four Nobel Prize winners. Viewing manuscripts, first edition printings and more from the likes of George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Beckett, William Butler Yeats, James Joyce and Bram Stoker was indeed intriguing. The highlight, however, was a gallery in which various characters from Beckett’s twisted tales were portrayed as caricatures of famous or noteworthy individuals, such as Beckett himself in a scene from Endgame.

The morning in which we hustled to the train station to cross the island in pursuit of more natural Irish landscapes, however, was when I truly began to hear the call of adventure ringing in my ears. Rolling green hills and crumbling stone ruins flew by the window, and I dreamed of the journeys to come.


Destination #8: Galway, Ireland & the West Coast

Terror pounded in my mind. Mobs of people roamed the sidewalks, often stepping carelessly into the street. Cars flew by me, disdain mingled with the smoke pouring from their mufflers. Lights flashed, engines roared and I was on my way.

"I can’t do this!" I shouted, looking horrified in every direction. "Which way do I go? How will I ever get back to the store where I left my sister?"

It was a nightmare on Galway street.

I had not driven at all since leaving my Hoosier homeland three months before. However, when Ashley and I had been informed that there would not be a single bus available during Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the day afterward, we saw our grand adventure on the west coast fading to a boring celebration of mediocrity inside the four walls of our hotel room. Thus, we made the only decision which seemed logical: we marched into the local Budget store and rented a car.

Not only had I not driven for three months, but it was in fact just during the Summer prior to my year in Brittany that I had successfully learned to drive a stick shift. Yes, I had been taught how to do such by my father in his beaten up Ford when I was in my pre-teen years, but somehow I had never gotten the feel of it. When my Sunfire took a break in the Summer of ‘06, however, I was given no choice but to truly learn how to use my mother’s mechanical Mitsubishi Eclipse. And, I was successful in doing such; yet, I still only drove the vehicle for a space of about two or three weeks.

Now, I was driving again. For the first time in three months. In a stick shift car. In Christmastime traffic. In a foreign country. On the left hand side of the road!

When at last I came upon a parking lot just outside the main Galway square, I pulled into a spot, turned off the engine and proclaimed, "I may never drive again." I remember driving for the first time after living in Paris for a semester. That alone had taken an adjustment. I nearly flinched every time I flew through an intersection for the first week or so back in Indiana, sure that a careless Parisian was just waiting to come soaring through the red light and smash into my car. On my first night driving in Galway, I experienced this again to the ten thousandth power.

I opened the door, locked the car and went by foot back to Budget Rental where Ashley was waiting. My over-the-top melodrama became clear when I saw her standing outside and proclaimed, "I thought I’d never find you again."

She shrugged casually and said, "I figured it was just best to wait here."

Yes, she could relax. She was not the one who had signed her name and vowed to drive around the Irish coast and countryside for the next three days.

What a drive it was. Ireland is a country full of twisted, tiny roads which make the streets of Montmartre, Paris appear to be sweeping boulevards. Several times Ashley would say, "Are you sure this isn’t a one-way?" Indeed, many of the roads were crowded by earthen walls and looked as if they had been made for one lane of traffic only. Yet, without fail, another vehicle would defy the laws of physics to come sailing from the other direction and pass us by.

Then there were the roads next to the coast. While these were not crowded with the walls of stone and sod, they did venture dangerously close to sharp cliffs. Just one little slip of the wheel could send one tumbling to instant death on the rocks below.

The speed limit even on the cramped roads and those next to the cliffs was often one hundred kilometers per hour (sixty-two miles per hour). The other drivers held to and often pushed these speeds. I, however, drove at about twenty kilometers per hour, like an old grandmother—the little old lady from Plouc-adena.

As I was driving on the left hand side of the road, the driver’s seat in the car was naturally on the right—that which is the passenger seat in America, France, Italy and most other nations. Nearly every morning when we would stumble out to the car, Ashley and I found ourselves going out of habit to the wrong side. Additionally, because of this swap everything is backwards. Not only was I shifting with my left hand, but I often forgot that I needed to look to my left last, rather than my right, before turning onto a street. And, of course, every roundabout, of which there is no shortage in Ireland, is to be entered going left rather than right.

One time I turned onto a street and carefully maneuvered the car into the left lane. Ashley gasped. "Why are those cars up ahead coming at us in our lane?"

"I don’t know," I replied, "but this time I’m sure I’m right because I’m driving on the left. Maybe they are confused tourists."

"No, Seth, pull off. It’s a one-way and we’re going the wrong way!"

Naturally, however, the fears began to fade after the first night and day. On our second full day of having the car, I began to become rather attached. What had begun as a terror-filled night of nearly running over Christmas shoppers, finding myself confused by one-ways and struggling to remember the fine details of how to drive a mechanical shift had turned into a beautiful journey of Irish sights thanks to the help of our trusty Nissan Almera.

In fact, I became so comfortable driving the stick shift that her engine died on me less and less in the middle of roundabouts—a good thing—and I learned how to drop it into reverse and rev the engine in order not to crash into a stone wall when parked on a steep incline—leaving the air perfumed with a marvelous hint of burnt rubber, of course. Indeed, I became so comfortable with the car itself that I found myself a couple of times soaring down the Irish country roads to hear Ashley shout, "Seth, you’re on the right hand side of the road again! Get over!"

I suppose I was comfortable with the car, not necessarily with the left-hand side system yet. But, we survived, and it was thanks to this that we were able to see the astounding natural landscapes of the western Irish coast.

Christmas Eve found us finally standing upon the jagged coastline which forms the eminent Cliffs of Moher. I had seen many pictures prior to our arrival at the cliffs; yet none of these had been able to truly capture the immensity and height thereof. A path had been made for tourists leading near to the cliffs, but a sign had naturally been posted pleading us not to go near the edge. We, however, merely laughed and walked on by. Hoosiers do not leave the cornfields behind merely to gaze at beauty from afar.

The sea was relentlessly beating upon the base of the cliffs, licking at the rock with its foam and forming walls of water to leap upward; yet it could not even begin to ascend the cliffs which at their peak rise to an alarming seven hundred two feet to dwarf the watery world below.

The alternating shale and sandstone provided a dark backdrop for the emerald grass. While the sea would never reach the summits, the wind succeeded and did so with quite a vengeance, whipping at anything and everything which dared near the edge. In fact, just one month before our visit, a thirty-five year old Polish woman had been admiring the view with a friend when the angry wind had swept her from the edge and sent her flailing downward to the sea. Sadly, she was rescued only to die in the Galway Regional Hospital a short time later.

The Cliffs of Moher are called Aillte an Mhothair ("Cliffs of Ruin") in traditional Gaelic; yet, perhaps they are even more famous for their brief stint as the "Cliffs of Insanity" in The Princess Bride.

The sheer joy of being in Ireland was simply the ability to drive across the dusty country roads and stumble upon breath-taking views. An afternoon drive through The Burren, for example, provided not only rolling foothills but also abandoned manors, castles and abbeys. Indeed, much of the landscape and crumbling ruins reminded me of my new homeland which had become Brittany.

The region of Connemara just north of Galway also provided us with the opportunity to gaze upon the small mountain range of the Twelve Bens, which we viewed from charming Clifden, a coastal town of County Galway.

And, of course we experienced the requisite traffic jam in the middle of nowhere, by which I mean a herd of cattle lazily waltzing across the street. I smiled and slowed to stop, watching an old man jump out of a van and begin smacking the cattle, sending them running in all directions. When at last they appeared to be gone, I swerved to pass the old man’s van. Suddenly, however, not one but two cows peeked out from the other side of the van, being chased by the old man. Once again, I slammed on my brakes.

In the midst of joy and adventure, however, there was one disappointment: Christmas dinner. Ashley and I were offered a flowing feast at the Hotel Ibis in which we were staying; however, such a meal came at a price of thirty euros per person. We therefore naturally opted out and instead stocked our room with goodies.

It was thus that we had our own makeshift Christmas celebration in Galway, Ireland together. We began with presents in the morning: we had hung two of our own white socks on the desk and stuffed it with candy given to us for free by a kind Irish merchant, and we had both purchased one actual gift for each other. This was followed by a drive and a nonchalant hike along the coast. Then, we returned home for our feast. Before arriving at the hotel, however, we both began to bemoan the fact that we had no meat for our dinner.

The night before, Christmas Eve, we had been returning to the hotel, which was located a mile and a half or so outside of Galway, by foot following a night of Guinness and music when the same frustration had struck us. We both had felt a sudden, intense desire for meat. But, we trudged on. Just hours prior, on our trip into town, we had been skipping and singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs to passerby. Now, however, we had felt stripped of the Christmas spirit in the light of our meat-less dinner and incredible distance from the rest of our family. It was Christmas Eve night. Every store had closed down, thereby leaving us to our meager rations stowed in the hotel room.

And then, on the horizon we saw a beacon of hope. Like a faraway lighthouse shining promise and security in the midst of a dark storm, there was a gas station with its lights on.

We both froze in shock. Could it really be?

"They must be open!" I proclaimed.

"They might have sandwiches with meat," Ashley said.

We ran—as fast as we could. And, to our great pleasure, the gas station was indeed open and bearing gifts of chicken sandwiches.

On Christmas Day, therefore, we once again felt this sudden euphoria when another gas station on the way home was open, allowing us to purchase cheddar cheese and chicken sandwiches.

Thus, we returned to the Ibis hotel, walked past the crowds tearing into freshly-cooked turkey and scooping fluffy mashed potatoes from the buffet and returned to our room where our own dinner was waiting.

We began with appetizers of popcorn and plums. We licked our fingers before continuing with the entrée of ripe apples fresh from the supermarket. Then, we dined on the main course of chicken sandwiches and bit into the stale deliciousness of hotdog-style buns which served as our rolls. In all honesty, our dessert was the best of it all—a luscious albeit store-prepared apple crumble. We finished with chocolate chips and a Coca-Cola knock off.

Indeed, it was a Christmas in Ireland which will not quickly be forgotten.

Destination #9: Paris

"Happy New Year!"

Lights flashed, fireworks exploded, champagne flowed—and my toes froze. We were nearing the end of our sweeping, international escapade, and my feet were crying out in glee. Soon I would return to Brittany and be able to purchase new shoes—waterproof shoes.

The shoes I had been sporting throughout all of our travels, from the coast of Brittany to the peak of the Duomo in Florence and the summit of the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, were a cheap fifteen euro pair I had purchased nearly one month prior during a short visit to Paris. Before jumping onto the first plane destined to take us to London, however, the shoes had already begun to fall apart. The soles were separating from the rest of the shoes and the glue holding the inserts in place inside had completely given up its task. Thus, I had purchased a tube of all-purpose SuperGlue. This worked well enough to give me confidence to take this glue and this pair of shoes alone on the two week journey through Europe.

Soon enough, however, the SuperGlue lost its potence. The shoes were irreparable. I could glue them at night, but the next morning after walking for a couple of hours they would begin to fall apart. This, nevertheless, would not have been unbearable in warm, dry weather.

It was December, though. The weather was the exact opposite: cold and wet.

For long hours I walked in the soaked, flimsy shoes from sight to sight. My feet were not merely damp; in fact, I felt as if I had sat with my shoes in a pool of water for hours before setting out for the day’s journey. Fortunately, if we walked fast enough, the heat from my feet would warm the water and prevent blocks of ice from forming in-between my toes.

At Dann’s Pub in Ireland, while waiting for our flight to Paris, at night in the hotels, before the movie began in a theater: no matter where we were, I would often try to sneak away to a bathroom, praying they would have a hot-air hand-drying machine. When they did, I would wait until the room was clear, then yank off my shoes, peel off the drenched socks, press the button and blow-dry them as well as I could. It was tedious. It was rancid.

One time there was a steady stream of men entering the restroom, but I couldn’t stand it. I simply had to dry my shoes and socks. Needless to say, I received quite a variety of curious, interested looks as I stood barefoot holding my socks up to the hot air.

On the day we had chosen to tour the palace and stroll the gardens of Versailles, the wind and rain was so strong that my shoes were not only fully drenched, but Ashley’s umbrella had buckled and broken as well. That night, alone in our hotel room, I wrung out my socks. Cold, black water filled the sink.

All of this, however, had merely been a prologue to the frigid, sodden delight that was to be the main event on the night of New Year’s Eve. Indeed, my cheap shoes would never fully dry and recover from this night of festivities until I laid them to rest.

It was with great anticipation that Ashley, Kristen (another American assistant living in Lannion who joined us in Paris) and I approached the Eiffel Tower during the last couple of hours of 2006. We walked among the crowd of boisterous men and women preparing to ring in the New Year à la Parisienne, watching rounds of amateur fireworks and avoiding the throng of policemen converging on the scene.

As the sun had long since retreated from the sky, a wintry chill filled the air which was already damp with intermittent showers. We bought hot chocolate from a small stand, and I had the sudden desire to pour it on my feet rather than sip it down slowly.

Finally, we chose a spot on the side of the river Seine directly opposite the Eiffel Tower and passed the hours discussing the highlights of 2006 and our hopes for the next year, taking pictures of the immense throng forming behind us, cheering when the beautiful tower would glimmer for the first ten minutes of every hour, etc.

The one problem: afraid of losing our positions, we were standing still. No walking meant no friction to warm the water in my shoes. Needless to say, I was becoming rather chilled.

At long last, the New Year was approaching. We were down to one minute. I looked at my cell phone, my watch.

"10 seconds left?" I queried.

The crowd was not counting down together. Everyone seemed to simply be watching the Eiffel Tower, waiting for some sign.

Suddenly, the tower began to blink and shimmer as it always does on the hour.

"Is that it? It’s the New Year now?" Unsure, we looked around. In every direction, champagne bottles were popping, the crowd was cheering, and fireworks were exploding in the air.

Ashley, Kristen and I turned back to each other, shrugged, and shouted, "Happy New Year! Bonne année!"

More pictures were taken and videos were filmed, but as soon as we were able, we scooted out of our positions and headed directly for our hotel. A forty-five minute walk was all that lay between me and the ability to remove my sopping shoes.


Destination #10: Home

Clothes were stuffed once again into our bags and memories were packed away into the pictures on my computer and the notes in my journal. Our time together had drawn to a close.

We spoke of the memories we had made during Ashley’s three-week visit: memories we would cherish—such as Brittany’s rugged beauty, Italia’s historical wonders, Ireland’s unspoilt charm—as well as memories we would never be able to forget even if we wanted to, such as dirty hostels, a meager Christmas dinner and frozen feet.

It had been an adventure of soaring across the sky in planes, rushing to catch trains and praying for our lives in one crazy Irish automobile. It’s funny, but I do believe the latter was my favorite.

Hugs were shared, and then Ashley was off.

I jumped onto the métro and made the short trip to the train station where Kristen was waiting. Thoughts of Breton music, almond croissants and more filled my mind.

Bag in hand, I turned to Kristen. "Let’s go home."