Camping in Venezia -- Pt. II

The campground was filled with tiny cabins, pre-assembled tents with cots (Alvaro's and my accommodations), and areas for your own tents and RVs. There was a huge group of Uruguayan students, in Venice to study architecture. There was one traveling class made up of Indian, Austrian, German, and Turkish students (all of whom spoke English together but also seemed to know three other languages). I'll never forget how that made my world feel so limited, only knowing one language. How arrogant of me and my country's narrow education system. You could be telling me that my undies are showing, or that I have a booger the size of a euro hanging out of my nostril, and I'd still stand here with a goofy, oblivious smile on my face, wouldn't I?

Venice itself was more beautiful than any cheesy brochure had ever lead on. Wave after wave of tourists choked out the main thoroughfares as if shopping was the only thing they could think of to do, so it was very easy to stray from the wider roads and get happily lost. Tourism in Venice is a fragile, often self-destructing entity. The line every traveler must walk between "helpful" and "harmful" is especially fine in Venice. The city is overwhelmed with disposing of the constant influx of trash, so if you bring/create any on the islands, be sure to leave with it, too, and dispose of it appropriately somewhere on the mainland.

Fruits and nuts

"Your soft joy...": Reflections of Venetian Water... there were potable water spigots everywhere, just above not-so-potable canals

No, we didn't ride a gondola. 100+ Euros. Watching the gondoliers expertly maneuver these things was satisfying enough.

Contrary to popular belief, the fluctuating tides of Venice assuredly won't be the main players in its demise; Venetians have had centuries to adapt to them. 21st century tourism, on the other hand, just might be key. More people in developing countries have more money than ever before, and they're taking it to places like Venice. It's just not always flowing through the right channels. What threatens Venice more urgently, rising sea levels, or the rising affluence of an increasing world population? How do you know where to spend your foreign money, so that it helps the local economy? Give me your thoughts.

Camping in Venezia

Note to self: Next time, try to break up train ride from Paris to Venice. Don't marathon it. ever. again.

Here's a riddle for ya: How many vagabonds does it take to find a Venetian campground?

Answer: Apparently, six. With five different nationalities.

"Camping in Venice" sounds a little oxymoronic, but staying in a little tent in Camping Rialto on the mainland of the city wound up being one of the best parts of the trip. After spilling out into the street by the train station, Alvaro and I asked multiple Italians (in Spanish; I learned they are basically the same language!) if they had heard of the campground. After four or five "No"s, we finally got a "Si." Our next inquiry, its location, was slightly more difficult. We were told, all in all, to take at least three different bus routes... and of course, the bus schedule, like the rest of everything we experienced in Italy, was more a rough possibility than a reliable rule.
 
After waiting too long with too many pounds on our backs, we thanked someone who'd been quite helpful and informed him that we were just going to hoof it. The response: "Rialto is like ten kilometers away, friends! There's no way you can walk there (insert dramatic hand gestures here)!" Let me tell you something. Walking is free, sexy, and better for the environment. If you have functioning legs and a good heart, never let anyone tell you can't walk somewhere (unless of course the route in question would take you into highly violent gang territory. Then please, please don't walk there.).

One block later, we caught up with fellow backpackers, Jeanne and Leo (a French/Columbian couple). They had also grown weary of Italian bus nonsense and decided to trek. Their destination? Also the infamous Camping Rialto! After continuing for 30 more minutes and getting turned around once or twice, we encountered (insert hard-to-prounounce-and-even-harder-to-spell Polish names here). After about three hours of hiking (or dragging, rather, and asking directions at the wrong campground), we stumbled, exhausted, into the right one.

Pinching Pennies in Paris

View from La Tour Eiffel

...some would say it's impossible. Paris' prices are what nearly kept us from seeing the iconic capital of France, but as luck would have it, our hosts in Limoges had a friend in Paris who was sympathetic to budget travelers, having previously been one himself. We would stay two nights, for free. We exchanged appreciative goodbyes with the realization that we may never see our new-found friends again.

        On the train, we endured fitful naps between stints of gawking out of the cafeteria car's windows at the blurred landscape beyond. It resembled an amateur watercolor painting. Fingers extended and mouths agape, we marveled at the smeared scenery outside the high-speed train. Having noticed our trance, the barista answered our silent question. "320 kilometers per hour," she said, without glancing up from her screaming milk wand.

        I cannot truly do Paris justice; the time we spent there was far too short to even scratch the surface. Leaving an area as quickly as we came in is not very "sustainable," I'll admit, but we tried to make the most out of it. Having only one full day to work with, we asked our host Jonathan what were the must-sees. Not surprisingly, he recommended the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Norte Dame, and the like. We prodded him to give us a taste of Paris beyond the famous sights and said that we intended to walk everywhere. We didn't want to waste one second of our one day in one of the largest cities on Earth in a metro. First stop: the Eiffel Tower. From that incredible view, our fingers would etch our route into the cityscape. After priming our legs with hundreds of vertical feet, we parted the concrete jungle.

Coin hunting

The Louvre

Outside the Louvre

Merchant in a less-visited market plaza (will have name soon). One of my favorite places we visited. Seldom saw tourist-types here; mostly Parisians doing their grocery shopping. The frommage shop, especially, stopped us in our tracks.

Stumbling into high mass at Notre Dame. Those immense, eerie organ echos could make anyone a believer (well, almost...).

Pont de l'Archeveche (the "Love Lock" Bridge), where romantics lock their love into eternity and throw the key into the river. We might have contributed, but we just couldn't bear to leave behind a good & practical lock...

Flutist at the Louvre. We happened to be in Paris on a Tuesday, the one day the Museum is closed. The courtyard may have been just as entertaining, though.

Oradour-sur-Glane

        To reach Oradour-sur-Glane we first wound through a memorial museum dedicated to documenting and remembering the events of the fateful night and to preserving the remains of the town. Squinting at the small English subtexts on the displays, we learned that on June 10th, 1944, a team of about 200   German Waffen-SS soldiers raided the town while everyone was gathered in the central square and separated the men from the women and children. The men were divided into small groups and trapped in burning garages while they were barraged with gunfire. The women and youth were led to the church, of all places, which was set on fire and also showered in bullets. When the genocide was over, five men, one woman, and not a single child had managed to escape. 642 people were murdered during the one-day massacre.

A moving quote in the memorial museum

        Today, the charred remains of the town have been preserved almost exactly as they were left that day as a memorial to those lost, while a second Oradour-sur-Glane was built adjacent to the ruins in the 1950s. Amazingly, there is still no universally accepted theory on the motivations behind the attack, but you can read about the politics and events leading up to it here and here.

        We would never have known about this place if it hadn't been for our hosts. This is not somewhere you see (nor should see) in tourist brochures. It is frozen in time by the death and destruction that occurred there nearly 70 years ago, and you can't experience it without being infused with a deep appreciation for the simple privilege of being alive, that we so naturally take for granted each day but that is denied to too many. Bastien and Lucie say they are outraged at how so many people could die for absolutely nothing, but if those people could see an American couple and a French couple walking together today through the site of their last hours; mourning, remembering, and learning from others' errors; they might find some peace.

        We asked the museum curators and our hosts if taking photos was appropriate; they all said it was okay. Something just didn't feel quite right to me about it, but if they are used in a respectful way for the purposes of spreading awareness, honoring the deceased, and attempting to prevent such brutality in the future, then I think that's perfectly acceptable. What do you think?

Limoges, continued

Splash of color

        The center of Limoges looks unchanged from centuries past. Virtually every building is in traditional Tudor style, while the outer walls that may once have been stark white have been stained a soft coffee hue by weather and time. We happened upon another festival (we had the best luck with this somehow), one focusing on dance, theater, music, and the diverse cultures mingling in Limoges. Bastien, his girlfriend Lucie, and their cat Lulu were fun and gracious hosts. Both of them do environmentally-focused work, both are talented performers, and we pretty much have identical taste in music but with much to share and exchange. (Um, did we just become best friends?)

Cheesier than fontina in this one =]

  

"Les Francophonies en Limousin" line-up

Arriving at the start of the weekend, we were able to have them as our guides throughout each day. We dove into so many facets of the local culture, from sneaking samples of culinary herbs in a botanical garden, to swapping recipes with Bastien and Lucie's friends and washing it all down with bitter red wines; sharp, creamy cheeses; and flaky breads that melted on our tongues like cotton candy. 

Yes, nearly everything we did in Limoges involved gastronomy.

Fish pond at the Gardens

The Cathedral's Botanical Gardens

But if there was one place that affected me the most on this trip, it would be the town of Oradour-sur-Glane. A short drive from Limoges, it was the site of unspeakable atrocities during the Second World War.

It deserves a post all its own.

Long live Limoges

        Now this is where the trip went astray... in the best of all possible ways it turns out, although it just seemed hopeless at first. Our plan (a word that should largely be left out of your vocabulary while traveling...) was to catch a train from Barcelona to Paris. Now, this sounds relatively simple. And it would be, if we were residents of Europe who can just book trains online. However, having a Eurail pass, we were forced to get prices in person (since you save on each train, the clerks need to check the validity of your pass). So, we leave our hostel and show up at the train station, gear and all, ready to get an overnight ride to northern France. At this point, I forget all the nitty-gritty details (probably a good thing), but after many attempts at finding the right combination of schedules and transfers (at the right price was the kicker), we were told that we couldn't get a train to Paris in the next few days for under €100 each, even with the Eurail discount.

        Embarrassing. Back to the hostel and the drawing board.

        Even if we made it to Paris without paying an arm and a leg, we had still scoured AirBnB and Albergues Juveniles (an immensely helpful Spanish search engine for youth hostels worldwide) and couldn't find any lodging remotely close to the city center, or even the ends of the metro lines, within our budget. (Our first approach for finding [free] accommodation is always Couchsurfing, but although it's a great site, it didn't work out for a couple of reasons... one being that we are a couple). So finally, since Paris wasn't in our original plan anyway, we decided to cut our losses and avoid the most expensive destination after all. This decision really freed us up for the fun part- talking to other guests that had been to France for advice... and exploring a map of France and Googling every town we could before someone else needed the hostel's computer.

        When we found (on AirBnB) the inexpensive, charming apartment of a young couple in the small city of Limoges, that was it. We went from not knowing this place existed to arriving at its
center in about ten hours. This is the type of travel I live for.

Limoges (pronounced Lee-mōzs)

        We missed the train by ONE minute. ONE measly minute. It is almost worse to see it pulling away without you than to have missed it by an hour. Catching another train wouldn't be a problem; we wouldn't have a fee to pay, either, so that didn't upset me. What upset me was the fact that we told our hosts in Limoges our arrival time in advance... Which would now be three hours later... And we didn't have a computer in order to message them... And the Spanish cell phones Alvaro's dad let us borrow didn't work in France.  Asking to borrow a cell phone in one's own country is easy. Asking to to borrow a cell phone in another language is a whole different animal... Especially if that language is one to which you've never been exposed. You should have seen the looks I got, scraggly nomad that I was, sputtering broken French to sharp-dressed business-types. Anyway, long story... well, I guess it's too late for short, isn't it? We made it.

Poor Bastien had arrived at the station to meet us at 5:00 PM and had to return at 8:00PM due to our delay. But being the kind, easy-going soul that he is, he didn't seem to mind.

Thus commenced our adventures in small-town France.

Inevitable Insomnia in Ibiza

        What can I say about Ibiza (or Eivissa, in the native language, Catalan)? This tiny island is one of the Islas Baleares, surrounded by the Baltic Sea to the north and Mediterranean to the south. It is about 1/5 the area of Rhode Island with a residential population of around 100,000. More than two million tourists visit this Mediterranean nightlife hub annually (Issues, 2013). World-class DJs perform on a regular basis, attracting young partiers from all over the globe. Even the airport hosts the likes of Eric Prydz and David Guetta. We didn't visit until late September (staying only three nights... that's about our limit of 6AM bedtimes) and still encountered more English- than Spanish-speakers.
        And I thought 'touristy' described Benidorm...

Boat party

       With such an expansive tourist impact occurring, one has to wonder how the island handles it all. There are many organizations (governmental and non-gov.) that seek to mitigate some of these impacts, from eco-tourism initiatives to massive clean-up operations throughout tourist season. There is a wide spectrum of opinions on whether or not they're doing a good enough job. Sustainability, however, has many faces, and Ibiza strives to sustain its rich cultural heritage alongside its natural environment. We can't leave out economic sustainability, either, and one certainly cannot address this without noting the considerable revenue tourism has brought Ibiza for decades.

El Capitan

Ibiza shore

        Álvaro and I stayed in the old port town of Sant Antoni, on the other side of the island from the capital harbor, also called Ibiza, A.K.A. Eivissa or Ibiza Town. Sant Antoni may not be the biggest town, but it is not without its own brand of rambunctiousness. If you want to know more, check out this BBC article from 2001 about the well-established controversy over clubbing tourism. We spoke to residents about their opinions of the tourist season, and they were just as varied as the bars and pubs dotting the beach. Some Balearios think most tourists (most notably the English, actually) are rude and impatient. Others welcome all visitors (and their spending money) with open arms and can be found at many of the clubs each night, themselves. Many don't mind the craziness but would like nightlife tourists to be less careless and more aware of their surroundings.

Pryda Frenzy (Eric Prydz and his girlfriend performing at Amnesia)

        Whatever the perspective, Ibiza's infamous marcha remains a reality for awhile yet. One can only hope that the island can find an equilibrium between its worldwide reputation and the people and resources that host it.

Reference:

Issues of Concern (2013). Ibiza Preservation Fund <http://www.ibizapreservationfund.org/english/issues/>