European Encounters [2]

[2] The Marseillais on the train (from Aix-en-Provence to Arles)

I had initially searched for a way around Marseille, longing for the fresh air and picturesque views of nature I was moved by on the buses between Cassis and Aix-en-Provence. However, the practicality and convenience of the train soon emerged as lucrative, which is how I came to be seated opposite a loquacious Marseillais with steady self-assurance.

Introducing himself by way of offering an interesting observation in French, I replied "Je n'est parle pas Francaise" with kindness and curiosity, prompting him to switch seamlessly to English. Working as an English teacher had provided plenty of opportunities to perfect his second language. I forgave him the vaguely unkempt appearance because he seemed well-travelled. It turns out you can get away with having scruffy blond hair if you have charisma. 

The people in Paris were too tense, he admitted, after we paused for a moment to consider the cultural significance of his birthplace. Marseille represented a more relaxed lifestyle, warmth and sunshine, and the beautiful Provencal geography had an abundance of charming rural retreats on offer. Indeed, one of these was the current destination - work set aside for the year, and unstructured free time on the horizon, he had attuned to his surroundings anew.

The Frenchman stood up to appreciate the view from the other side of the carriage, leaning confidently against the luggage rack until it gave way a bit, almost toppling him over. With a witty remark about the facilities not being up to scratch, he resumed the pleasurable viewing, spirits very much intact. I recognised complaining about external circumstances to be a French custom, not indicative of one's real interior state. 

Back in his seat, I thought he might be being co-conspirational in confiding, "Everyone's afraid of something," with a twinkle in the eyes. Unfortunately he had something else in mind: "You know, that mask [you're wearing] won't protect you against the coronavirus. Its particles are so small, they just float straight through. It may protect you from some other germs, but as a shield against that affliction it's quite ineffective." Disappointed at this disinformation, but wanting to continue the conversation, I indicated I was protecting myself in general. He considered this, and revealed he trusted in God to protect him from harm.

We started to talk about climate change, and I felt the need to voice my despair that humans were bringing each other to the point of extinction. Thankfully he was aware of the threat and described a nearby river, whose water levels had been found to be receding. Not having reconciled my urge to travel by plane and my desire to protect the environment, preachiness was not mine to impart. I couldn't refrain from the sort of gloom one might experience when based in a city which might soon experience a shortage of fresh water, though.

The conversation moved on to science fiction, something I know little about, but have noticed many of my friends swear by. His eyes lit up as he recalled 'A Fall of Moondust' by Isaac Asimov, a book I read in high school, that had captured my imagination at the time. 

Reflecting upon my presence on the train as a solo woman traveller, the Marseillais said: "You must be brave to travel around the country by yourself." Pleased to be appreciated for my globetrotting ways, I nevertheless started to downplay the compliment by saying it wasn't my first time in France as a solo woman traveller. This was when another passenger slid into view, asking him for help. Locating her seat took about ten minutes, after which my time on the train was up, and while a part of me wanted to discover what Arles held in store, another part wished I could have stayed in the conversation a little longer. I bid my travel companion farewell, and made my way through the aisle. 

As far as transient encounters go, I was pleased to have connected with a local. One of many (internal) migrants navigating the Provencal port city's lifestyle, he was mercurial, sophisticated and savvy. I may not be enraptured enough with France's Second City to move there, but I can see how it would draw people in, and this means I am keen to learn more about Marseillais creativity. Here's hoping it will make an appearance in my future, soon.

European Encounters [1]

[1] The Swiss globe trotter in Grain De Folie café 

Google directed me to "the best coffee in Cassis," a search I might not have made if not informed by Australian coffee culture. An inviting interior with various shades of brown had to be quickly navigated in and out of (in this era of Covid). One of the three outdoors tables beckoned to me, and as I removed my mask I noticed that the bitter bean's aroma was of such strength that it lingered in the air outside the door.

At the table next to me sat an American who had tried to make conversation with me while I was ordering. While more amiable than the average American, he still carried the stereotypical assumptions of American Exceptionalism - so I quickly shut *that* down. Two tables over were an Australian couple, lean and enjoying themselves more than I was. Perhaps they had conducted the same search on Google. 

I pulled out my secret weapon against loneliness, my smartphone, and started to tinker with it, doing this for a while, when a cat, more familiar with the grounds than I, decided to find my feet intensely interesting. I watched with relief as the four-legged soul reminded me to be as deeply present as possible. After a minute or so it retraced its footsteps back inside, with an attitude that suggested the cafe was its steady base. 

Returning to a more interiority-focused experience, I struggled a bit to feel like playing with my smartphone was the best use of my time, but I *was* tired, and there weren't a lot of places to sit where I didn't have to spend money. Grain De Folie, at least, invited lingering. 

And then there she was: a fellow traveller asking to share my table. We recognised two things about each other fairly quickly: we both loved to explore the unknown (and had a track record of doing so), and we were both dissatisfied. I got the impression she was part of the LGBTIQ community, ironically because of the way she talked about her boyfriend. Her evocation of his presence suggested that she was willingly participating in a culture of heterosexuality where the more feminine of the two has to make certain sacrifices. I can't say I haven't flirted with a similar kind of subjugation myself, so I mentally shrugged and made the most of the encounter. 

She related to me with both interest and familiarity, because, as she explained, she had spent four months travelling around Australia and New Zealand. (What did she like the most? The coffee.) I had far less experience with Switzerland, but knew it well enough to note the similarities between the two - a proclivity for living close to nature, economic prosperity, and a certain kind of conservativism (compared to much of Western Europe). Learning that she'd spent time in Nepal, I asked her what the people were like, and was presented with one word: religious. Overall she'd found the whole trip enjoyable, so I took note: I will maintain an interest in travelling there. 

(It's always interesting to me how people choose their travel destinations. I speculated whether the Swiss woman felt at home amongst Nepalese mountains because of the vertical geography of her birthplace.) 

The globe trotter mentioned that the coffee in Italy was much better than any she'd tried in France - but of course she'd never tell the French that. At this, I noticed her dissatisfaction, and maybe even self-dislike. I have issues with my own inner critic, so I could relate. She left twenty minutes later, in search of her boyfriend. Cassis being a small place, we both returned to the same cafe later that day, acknowledged each other in a disarming manner, and I gave her the warm smile I couldn't muster up earlier on. This softened her brow, and I could tell that she respected me more for finding that positivity within me. (She couldn't quite return it.) 

As far as transient encounters go, this one was a case of instant connection over shared interests, reminded me of my own hard-won travel wisdom, and strengthened my ever-growing realisation that living in Europe can be as unfulfilling as living in Australasia.

Slow Travel in Torino

I've wanted to visit Torino, Italia, ever since I learned that the author Italo Calvino wandered its streets for a formative stretch of his life. Italo moved there to participate in its university culture, and secured a place at a progressive publishing company which was such a good fit that he was a long-time employee. The lyrical innovation of 'If on a winter's night a traveller' sparked much enthusiasm in my teens, 'Invisible Cities' was wildly creative, and 'Why read the classics' puts a new spin on our literary heritage. I wanted to understand the environment which nurtured such inventiveness. 

I first started crowdsourcing information on the city in 2008, but round about 2015 it made it onto a Lonely Planet 'Best in Travel' list, elevating its profile in the tourist industry irreversibly. I remained keen to visit but became apprehensive of too many other people having the same idea. Luckily, when I researched Italy thoroughly in 2023, this National Geographic article informed me that Torino could still pass for undertouristed (as of 2019, at any rate). A decision was made to incorporate it into this year's travels. 

It's no coincidence that I've linked to the above NatGeo article - it also praises Bolzano and Bologna, and while I didn't get around to the former, I did spend 6 nights in Bologna, right after those 7 nights in Torino. Sometimes a single text can be richly inspiring. 

I arrived in Torino just as its annual Chocolate Festival was commencing, and I have fond memories of drinking pistachio-flavoured hot chocolate, overlooking the piazza San Carlo, wondering how anything could taste so delicious. The silky, warm liquid was just the thing to soothe my throat, which had become a little tender in the late autumn chill. Classical melodies floated over the bustling space, a street musician adding romance to the elegant, cream facades. 

I never did see this most central of piazzas without chocolate stalls, side to side. They were universally white and imparted a glow of their own, thanks to the sunshine that persisted for much of my stay. Over those six full days of Torino I wandered back here often, carefully choosing which sweets I would buy, and which I would sample. Most delicious were the 200 grams of hazelnut praline (which was sliced out of a slab and set me back 5 euros), and a Cream Puff-like pastry filled with fluffy white chocolate. There may also have been cannoli, a dark chocolate made in Modica, (Sicilia,) almond cookies (only vaguely chocolate-related, but I'm not complaining) and candied fruit slices dipped in dark chocolate. 

My favourite experience in Torino was navigating Parco Valentino, which was large enough to contain a small but charming castle, garden complexes of dreamy gorgeousness (encompassing fountains, sculptures and squirrels), and an evocative recreation of a medieval village (whose high-contrast yet faded artworks make me happy to this day). I roamed the park for about four hours, spending some time standing by its river and feeling my spirits soar at the eye-catching reds, oranges, yellows and greens of giant trees on the other side. Little white canoes sped by, here and there, reflections ablaze in the water. Many well-dressed people shared the space with me, and this posed a challenge: I didn't know whether to admire the lush autumn foliage, the stylish outfits, or the elaborate hairstyles and make-up of the people on the feminine side of the spectrum. 

Italo Calvino may have been the original draw of the city, but once there, I found a high number of lucrative attractions which meant that he was relegated to the background. Some sights, like the Egyptian museum, were overtouristed, but mostly I felt that the traveller presence didn't interfere with my ability to enjoy the place. Relying on Google Maps and my own two feet, there was no need for public transport. Walking through an urban environment can be an ambiguous attraction, hard to pin down because street life is a highly variable thing... but it's my secret technique for garnering impressions, creating a mental map of the city, spotting colourful characters, watching suburbs morph/modify before my eyes, appreciating remarkable architecture which wouldn't be mentioned in official tourist guides, getting a sense of what makes for commercial success in an area, looking for patterns big and small, and overall trying to figure out make sense of it all.   

I understood there was a French influence in the light-coloured architecture, and perhaps even in the proud air of the people (though I am open to being wrong on the latter). I have to be honest: I found the local variety of patriarchy upsetting, as some people floated by with a pointed submissiveness, looking down, seemingly on the verge of apologising for their existence, while others still postured menacingly, comfortable in their machismo. Here and elsewhere in Italy, being a feminist means extra struggle (compared with Australia). At first this was a bit alienating, but the more I stayed, the more I was able to find compassion. 

Previously on my blog I brought up the practice of passeggiata, so I am sorry to report that I was only out in public at 6pm once... it gets dark early in late October, and I like the sense of safety I get from being home before that. The one evening I ventured out, I experienced another dimension to street life: Where the city had been lively before, it was now bubbling over with sheer vibrancy. The area around Piazza San Carlo thrummed with energy, as duos and small groups (there was rarely a solo person in the mix) bonded with an intensity which isn't as frequently found in the English-speaking countries. I envied the Italians their robust conversations, and the openness to emotional intimacy which was one of its foundations. Observing carefully between forkfuls of salad, I considered how the daily ritual of passeggiata might promote social skills, a degree of community spirit, a way of unburdening one's soul, maintaining connections with community members who may not be close friends but are nice anyway, deepening existing friendships, and being on one's feet.

Perhaps earlier, I was passing through a busy pedestrian street when a thoughtful person named Luigi put their Amnesty International sales pitch aside and asked me what I thought of the town. I complimented Palazzo Madama, a richly decorated palace I'd seen earlier, and recalled some of the nicer things about the city. Luigi had the look of someone who had alternative views, their ears being pierced and their hair being obviously styled. They also had the semi-detachment and slight resignation of someone with advanced intellect, but I didn't linger too long because their performance of gender was consistent with aspects of masculinity I find oppressive. From a sense of solidarity with progressives, however, I get the feeling that Torino is a good place to be left-leaning - compared to much of northern Italy, and also within the southern European context. It registered solidly on my 'Quirky Hair and Facial Piercings/Decorations Index'. 

On my second last day I had an interaction of a different kind - a local who looked (East) Asian listened as I asked a mixed business shop owner if he had paracetamol. The owner directed me to a pharmacy, and the Asian-Italian chimed in with instructions, but upon seeing that I was discouraged at the distance I would have to travel, they decided to part with some of the paracetamol in their own collection. This act of kindness caught me off guard and lit me up. Wanting the foil seals to stay intact, they asked the shop owner for scissors, then placed the resulting corner of the silver grid (a total of four tablets) into my palm. I thanked them enthusiastically, and when I emerged into the cold, windy air I felt insulated by the warmth generated by this experience. 

Reflecting upon altruism, and the abundance of ways in which I'd benefitted from it in the past, I was heartened to witness at least one person of colour in Torino remaining open to kindly exchanges with white strangers. May they be loved.