I got to Nice after dark and so made my way to a nearby internet cafe where I looked up information on hostels. A cheap, well-reviewed one was not far away. Hostel Chez Patrick had the highest ratings according to the websites I'd scanned. I'll never know though because Paddy never answered the buzzer when I rang.
Instead a little old French lady (LOFL) who ran the restaurant next door asked me if I had a reservation next door and when I said I didn't, she herded me into the restaurant and started filling out forms. My French is probably the best of the languages I don't speak so I got that I was filling out paperwork for a three nights' stay at a good price, but it took the LOFL bringing down a young woman to translate for me to realize that it was for a competing hostel. Fine by me.
I'd come all that way, had brought my grammar book with me and studied on the train; I wanted to speak French. The girl would only answer to English. I thought perhaps my pronunciation was off but LOFL understood me just fine and repeated what I said to the girl. Eg:
Girl: "What country are you from?"
Me: "Les Etats-Unis."
G: (Blank Stare)
LOFL: (to girl) "Les Etats-Unis. Les Etats-Unis."
G: (Blank Stare)
Me: "The United States."
G: "Ah!"
Soon I discovered she was German, had come to Nice three months ago and didn't speak a word of French when she arrived.
The girl led me up to the hostel on the fourth floor, showed me my bed, and invited me to join the trest of the gang who were in another room smoking, drinking and fiddling with a guitar. I put my things away and joined the 'party.' It wasn't much of one.
I stumbled into a room of five Canadians, two Argentinians, and the German sitting on mattresses on the ground, rolling and passing around joints, drinking beer and wine and working out their plan to destroy the United States. Partly to get out of the swirling cloud of marijuana which had taken hold of the top five feet of the room and partly to add my two cents to such a prestigious undertaking, I sat down and helped them iron out the kinks in their plan, of which there were many since they didn't know anything about the US but what they'd seen in movies.
It turned out they hated American tourists, though they were nice enough to apologize for hating me. I don't like American tourists either so I told them I wasn't very fond of me either. Of course they then asked me about THE war. A 19y.o. Canadian girl, baked to the gills, asked me if I was for it. Knowing my audience, I answered, "No one in their right mind is for war. It's not like I say, 'Yay, war!'"
Not noticing that I didn't put the definitive article before war, they then unleashed their thoughts on American soldiers, particularly as one had only recently left the hostel. I have my doubts as to if the guy really was a soldier because he just sounded unhinged. Apparently, he'd spent his time in Nice doing push-ups, trying to show his hostel mates how to 'clear' a room on a raid, and muttering to himself. He also took every opportunity to tell them all about his tour in Afghanistan and the people he'd killed.
That last part is why I'm fairly certain he really was a pathological liar. Vets in general, me included, don't have a lot to say to other people about war zones. They'll talk to vets, since they can fathom what the experience was like and truly commiserate, but not much with civilians, particularly not foreign tourists. Also, in my experience, the ones who went through the worst REALLY don't talk about it.
At the start of these emails, I said that miserable experiences are a way to remember, to have markers in your life. Tha'ts only true for challenging times that you'll want to remember. I'd say one of the chief beauties of time is that when something truly overwhelmingly bad happens, eventually it's no more than a passing comment.
I didn't have a bad stretch in Iraq. I didn't fire my weapon and no one shot directly at me. Still, I hated every minute being there and a year of my life was basically erased. When I was there I'd comfort myself with the thought that someday the entirety of the experience would boil down to simply, "Yes, I served in Iraq," and perhaps later it won't even come up directly.
I'll be on the front porch, bouncing a laughing grandchild on my knee. He or she will ask what the world was like when I was young, and as I mention boyhood, adolescence, going to college, getting married, working, and having children I'll simply mention in passing that I was in the Army.
When I have gone through wretched, painful times the thought that someday I wouldn't recall or that they would simply become a passing comment has helped me get through them. Thinking that way has gotten me through heartbreak and war; hopefully it won't have to provide succor to me through worse. Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it does provide enough distractions.
Back to the Party. As I described the proper way to overthrow the US, they all listened attentively and smoked vast fields in the process. Then the 19y.o. wanted to repeatedly ask me why people in the military could be so slef-righteous and supposedly religious when "Thou shalt not kill." I felt that I were back in high school again, the only one not stoned in the room, vainly trying to explain a rather simple point. In this case, "The Greater Love..." wasn't getting through so I gave up and agreed that all soldiers were self-righteous, murdering hypocrites. She was very pleased with her victory, as her smile indicated, or she was simply in a stupor.
My time in Nice was pleasant, boring and, thankfully, inexpensive. I wandered all about the winding, narrow passages of the old town and was convinced that the police must have no other job than to make sure one joint is smoked every fifty feet. Strict state enforcement is the only way I can comprehend the wearisome regularity of walking through such fog. That being said, the more I walked around, the better time I had...
The water is as spectacular as can be expeted of a place so boldly named Azure. It was fairly warm and there were one or two brave souls who swam, but for the most part there were just sun bathers. The French Riviera is legendary for its beaches and for good reason. In the summer, tey are filled with legions of beautiful women with perfect figures, many topless. Alas, I'd come in winter. I was treated to (scarred by) the sight of rows of old, overweight Frenchmen in speedos. Have they no shame? The most egregious violator was a blonde, barrel of a geezer who had man-boobs. I thought to myself, "Honestly, I don't know why he's out here like that. No woman would touch a man like that with a ten foot pole. Hell, the vast majority won't touch me with a five..."
It was only when I got closer to that sad specimen that I realized attracting women was the last of his concerns as he was a she. After running screaming and crying, I resolved that if I ever get the chance, I'm outlawing swimsuit makers from producing for the elderly, obese market. Actually, I'm going to outlaw people from all clothes that they shouldn't wear. My arms are like twigs and my excuse for a chest chirps. I know not to wear a tank top in public. People need to understand the impact of their limitations. Seriously.
I was pulled out of the suicidal funk of having seen breasts that were last frim before Vietnam when my Christmas buddies came into town. Daniel and Dana were welcome distractions (someday I'll never remember that old lady, someday I'll never remember that old lady, someday I'll never remember that old lady...) and I showed themaround town, avoiding the beach. We ate at a bizarre French attempt at an American steakhouse and then watched a movie at the cinema. I'd heard that Eragon was terrible, so not having to put up with the dialog was a bonus. The dialog Daniel came up with (only Daniel) was far more entertaining, if far more inappropriately and overwhelmingly crass.
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