Wow. In the three days since I posted about my “date” with Sefan, the story has been read 89 times… And that doesn’t include the 60 email subscribers.
For a trip that would happen regardless of the blog, and silly stories written regardless of the number of readers, it means a lot that so many people have essentially joined this trip with me. 89, 100, 125 readers doesn’t put me on any bestseller’s list, but it’s a lot of names of friends and faces to be traveling with when you start counting them on your fingers or thinking about what it would look like if I filled a room with all of you. It’s always fun to hear from someone – a cousin I haven’t seen in ten years, a high school teacher, an old coworker – and find out they’ve been reading along.
Blogging is such a weird concept to me sometimes. It seems narcissistic, conceited.
Hey, hey… I bet you want to hear about my day.
My circumstances certainly aren’t normal, but I don’t want this to end in 28 days when my trip does.
Anyway, thank you, everyone. There’s a competition at the end of this post for you all, and a souvenir on the line.
Gyasi! Shout-out to subscriber number 60. Also because he told me on Facebook to write another post, as though one day I was just going to up and quit. “Enough of that.” Gyasi, I didn’t put your last name here because you would forever be linked to my blog in a Google search.
The pre-blind date car accident I wrote about in my previous post happened just prior to Halloween. At my fraternity’s chapter meeting the next week, the question all the e-board members answered before presenting their updates was “What will your headstone say?”
The minutes got put online, and now and forever, when you Google my name…
“Janae: Spontaneously combusted on her way to a date.”
So today… What’s fun today. Some leftovers from Pisa I forgot about.
Cannes today! My time in Nice has turned into a vacation within a vacation and I’m just not leaving when I can keep doing day trips to fancy places. I’ve been to rough, poorer, maybe a little more battered areas in the past few months, and while I don’t at all fit in with the Dior/Gucci crowd of Monaco and Cannes, it’s been a fun few sunny days.
Thirty minutes from big pebbly beach of Nice? Cannes has a bunch of sand! I’m sure there is some scientific, erosion, weather pattern based reason, but whatever. I was shocked. It was exciting.
There was a big storm recently that left a lot of natural debris on the shore. It made for a messy walk in some parts but a lot of seashells. Free souvenirs from Cannes.
Cannes was a happy, sunny place today. There were a lot of men in suits that cost more than my entire trip, families tanning, French boys playing catch with a football. Like, American football. Naive of me I didn’t know they had those here? I always like little moments like that. On a train in Germany, a woman never spoke a word of English the entire ride, but when her cell phone rang, it was Beach Boys Wouldn’t It Be Nice, a song only second to God Only Knows in making it on most mix cd’s and playlists at my house.
On the train back to Nice, I made a friend. There was a big ol’ language barrier, but I think his name sounded like Yahtzee.
We played the “You speak a little English and I speak no French” game. Yahtzee is from Tunisia. I know this because he handed me his green Republic of Tunisia passport, which opens backwards.
He asked me if I’m married and I laughed.
He asked me if I have a boyfriend. Men on trains should just know the answer is always going to be yes. True or not.
Yage? Yage? He’s asking my age. Two two.
“Oh, baby. You are a baby.”
“My yage.” Raises hand high. “I’m much older.” My guess is mid-30s, but I don’t offer it.
Oh yeah dude, you’re ancient. Did you really just call me a baby?
“You. Too young to get married. Ha ha ha.”
You know when someone who wants to share a laugh with you playfully gives you that unnecessary punch on the arm?
I mean, I’m not packing a lot of padding, but he basically punched me to the bone. It flippin’ hurt.
“Ha ha ha.”
What the hell, bro.
Things intensify and I realize I’ll be thankful this is a 29-minute ride.
He wants my phone number and email – “Facebook.” Insists. It’s one of those trains where seats are sectioned off into compartments and we’re alone, so I have to play this right or it’s going to get really uncomfortable fast.
Okay, so I might’ve given him a fake phone number and my first name mixed with my high school Spanish teacher’s last name, firstname.lastname@example.org.
He asks for my home address. He’d already asked me if I’m rich (that was awkward) and now home address.
I don’t have one.
“No, your home. Your house.”
Yeah, I got you. I don’t have one.
Haha. Nope. I pack a digital camera and an iPad on me, but no house. I travel.
When we stood up to leave the train, now surrounded by people in the hallway, he took my hair and formed it into a ponytail. Ironic because this morning, I was just thinking about how soft my hair is and how much I like my conditioner.
Dude, get out of my hair.
Oh, the joys of being a girl…
Thanks, America. I feel much the same about this as I did a Pizza Hut in Germany that had in big bold letters on the window “Pizza the American Way.” Really? Are we owning that? Because I don’t remember voting on that one.
Competition time. If you got this far in the post, I want your interpretation.
Last night, didn’t fall asleep until 4a.m. When I finally did, I had this dream.
I was standing in as the bride at my friend’s wedding. Yes, not my wedding, my friend’s.
Don’t know what friend, don’t know the groom.
As I’m getting ready, I slip on the dress. It’s ivory, long sleeves and a collar. A lot of lace. Everyone around is almost ready.
And I’m panicking because I realize all I have is a blue bra and purple underwear. Which obviously you can see through an ivory dress.
And I’m digging through my red backpack, searching and searching for anything white or nude colored, but my bag is now bottomless.
And I’m panicked, because I’m going to ruin all my friend’s wedding photos.
And everyone is getting mad at me, because the wedding was supposed to start at 2:00 and it’s now 2:34.
But I can’t go, because I can’t find my keys.
And they’re all yelling at me, because the groom’s proposal expires at 3p.m.
And I’m crying.
And then I woke up, wondering what the heck that was all about.
Dream interpreters. Creative friends, followers I’ve never met – best/wittiest wins… Something.
Comment. Hit me with your best shot.