Or, as we say in Carcassonne, je te veux. It’s cheesy, but I really do. I had forgotten just how much there is to see and do in Paris. And apparently the city implemented regulations about cleaning up after your dog since my last visit, so now you don’t have to look at your feet all the time and can focus on enjoying your surroundings.

After finding a hostel in the Latin Quarter, I walked through Les Halles, past the Pompidou up through the Marais and over to the Bastille where I found another street market to shop at. A note about the market culture in France: I love it. It’s great to be able to get fresh produce and groceries in this way. I like that the vendor is much more invested in the goods he/she is selling than your average grocery store clerk. As such I found myself seeking out markets for the atmosphere. It was a great way to practice speaking French while also getting good things to eat.

One could say that my stay in Paris was defined by trips to markets (I visited at least six). In between, I went to the Louvre and photographed people in front of the pyramid. Also had a picnic (of market purchases) under the Tour Eiffel. Went back again at night and saw them light it up, but I didn’t bother trying to go up (maybe I suffer a bit from the ’seen one, seen them all’ sort of syndrome, or maybe it’s more of the, ‘a tower is a tower is a tower’ kind of sentiment..). Photographed tourists at the Arc de Triomphe. Walked through some alleys in Ste. Germaine de Pres, and visited Mariage Freres. If you like tea, it’s worth the visit. (Don’t know if there is such thing as tea tourism, but with the existence of this shop there may well be now.)

On Friday evening I went to the Louvre. It’s troubling how much that museum and its wayfinding are dedicated to the Mona Lisa. The moment you walk in the door, there are signs directing you to her. Nevermind the rest of their extensive collection, the rare and unusual bits of Greek and Egyptian antiquity, the extensive halls of sculpture, paintings and prints. In the two hours I was there, I saw less than one quarter of their displays. I can’t even imagine how large their collection is. (Oh, you’ve only got 35,000 works of art? Pshaaw..) But the visitors came en masse, and they filed like lemmings toward display room no. 06. In that room, strings of queue tape separated visitors from the painting. Flashbulbs sparked every few seconds (apparently they put her behind UV protected glass) as new admits struggled to find a spot where they could shoot or be shot with her. I took full advantage of this, of course. The tourists were much more fascinating than the painting. My inner ethnographer was working overtime. Time and again I overheard the same remarks from those around me. ‘I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.’ ‘It’s a lot smaller than I expected.’ ‘Why is this painting so famous?’ Even I can answer that one. Because we want it to be that way.

After a while, I moved on. Using my trusty plan of the museum I worked my way through several chambers and in the general direction of the Venus de Milo. Having just re-watched the Simpsons episode where Homer is accused of sexually harassing the babysitter, I felt compelled to witness the real version to see if it lived up to its gummi counterpart. I guess one could qualify this as its own sort of pilgrimmage..? Then I got interminably lost (surprise, surprise) until the museum shut down and everyone was shuttled out by security. I can only imagine what it would be like on your first day of work in this place. It’s a fucking maze in there.

I finally made it to the Centre Pompidou, exactly two years after the exhibition I was a part of and did not get to witness. A little anticlimactic, actually. The place seems kind of run down, and of the exhibitions I was allowed to see without paying more (too cheap), everything was sort of ho-hum. The contemporary stuff in the permanent collection provoked little more than head-scratching from me. But the view out the piping was great.

My le Robert et Collins dictionaire came in really handy. Definitely a worthwhile purchase, as I was rockin’ the French. So much so, that I found myself buying more and more things at the market, just because it was fun to practice. This is how I ended up with two bottles of wine, a box of macarons, a box of chocolates, three figs, two chunks of cheese, a baguette, and several packages of tea. And how I ended up with the mean hangover that required sitting in a cafe drinking a cafe au lait and eating pain au chocolat until mid-afternoon the day I was supposed to leave for Brussels. For the record, I love that the French eat chocolate for breakfast.

I made the transition from Italy into France. This also meant having to make the mental transition from Italian to French. It definitely took some time, and I found myself being embarrassed to try and speak. Does anybody else have this problem, or is it just me and some weird perfectionist tendency?

The transition itself was rather rough. After waiting for six grueling hours at the Pisa train station, being more than a little sketched out by the amount of weirdos who looked interested in either me or my stuff, trying to convince myself I was just paranoid after the mugging and writing postcards frantically to use up my Italian stamps and to occupy my mind, I boarded the night train to Nice, my ticket to the Cote d’Azur and the beach!

I was (of course) too cheap to book a sleeper car, so I found myself in a crowded compartment with five others, all trying to sleep upright in the most uncomfortable of quarters. There was little joy in any part of this journey. The air conditioner was blasting cold air into the chamber all night, the seats did not recline at all, unless you folded them down completely into a giant flat bed of sorts, which required a sort of closeness of body that nobody was willing to breach. A Korean couple talked through four hours of the trip, making it impossible for anyone else to sleep, and when they left the train there was much cheering.

In the hallway, sketchy dudes who did not have reservations tried to sleep upright on little fold down bench seats. I guess I did not have it that bad in comparison. But when I initially boarded the train, and each time I tried to find my way to the bathroom, their eyes would fixate on me in a way that made my skin crawl. I spent the majority of the night clutching my valuables in a death grip, wishing I had worn socks, cursing the talking couple in my mind and huddling under the little blue paper blanket that the Pisa cathedral had made me wear to cover my bare shoulders (to make myself presentable to God). Bless my United Airlines ‘night goggles’, a relic of a former night flight that I had been smart enough to stash in my carry-on. The lights in the cabin would not turn off completely, but with the night goggles on, it was pitch black, even if frigid and sketchy.

When the sun came up I was none the wiser, but the others started moving about, and once I peeled off the eye covering, we were riding along the Mediterranean. Next thing, we were passing through Monte Carlo, the height of affluence. But by then most of the sketchy dudes had deplaned elsewhere.. and it was just blue and sunny. Sleepless and dazed, I entered the next phase of my trip.

So.. I took the 1:30AM bus to Madrid from Bilbao. There were a few hours that I had to kill before the bus left, so I ended up wearing myself out by wandering around the city, taking photos of handpainted signage. Had a yogurt and a bottle of water for dinner. When I finally got on the bus, I totally passed out. Woke up at 4:00AM when the bus pulled over to this strange roadside oasis where everyone piled off the bus and went inside and ordered coffee and food.

I met up with Ilya, took a nap, and then headed off to explore the city. Got totally lost trying to find the palace. The sun is so intense here. Ilya wasn’t kidding. At 2:00PM sharp, everything shut down. The Madrilenos take their siestas very seriously. It was around this time that I was wandering through the alleys, exploring squares, photographing signage, and making my way toward the Museo Nacional Reina Sofia. After having gotten lost an hour earlier, I found myself checking my map rather frequently to get my bearings. About one block away from the museum, I busted out my map.

And that’s when I got attacked. All of a sudden there was an arm wrapped around my neck and someone was pushing forward on my head forcefully. I screamed (naturally), but other than that I did not fight back. Next thing I knew I was on the ground, shaking and my yellow bag and camera were gone. For someone who prides herself on being incredibly aware of her surroundings, it was a very sobering experience. I had not even seen the guy. Three really kind Spanish women happened to be driving by at the time of the incident and jumped out of their car to help me. Mamen, one of two sisters, immediately scooped me up off the ground, set me on a bench and put her arms around me. Pilar stayed with me for the entire afternoon. Several other people who were around also came to my aid. One guy (a doctor who works at the hospital that I was mugged in front of) jumped on his motorcycle and went in pursuit of my aggressor. Then the cops came, and lots of words were exchanged in Spanish, of which I understood nothing. It was made clear to me that I should go with them, so I did.

They drove me about six blocks before pulling over on the side of the road where a run down blue minivan was being ransacked by about five other policemen. A few undercover cops were on the scene as well. I was totally confused but they kept pulling more and more bags out of the back of this van and dumping their contents onto the street, which gave me some hope that my bag was possibly in there. Lots of people were sitting around and watching, including a few young people. I thought it was all because of the spectacle. An ambulance pulled up and I stepped inside it to get checked out. When I came out, the cops were still going through the van, the police had a young man in handcuffs and they asked me if I recognized him. I could not say so for sure. Then they told me that I should go with them to the station. I called Ilya.

Ilya met me at the station, and ended up acting as the translator between me and the polizia. Without him I would have been totally in the dark. Already it felt like something from out of a movie. The police were all dressed in jeans and t-shirts. In contrast, Ilya was wearing a suit, from having come straight from work. It was almost comical. They took my statement, and delivered some police lines. ‘It is always possible that you could get your camera back.’ (Even I knew better than to believe that one.) ‘You will need to appear in court on Friday, and we will call you to let you know the exact time and come pick you up from your house in a squad car’ (that didn’t happen). Ultimately, I got a police report so I can file an insurance report (Phew. Good thing I renewed that..), but my time in Bilbao as recorded has been lost. Along with Ilya’s guidebook to Madrid, an empty water bottle, my yellow bag, and my camera and all the contents of its case. A small price to pay for my own life, I suppose.