Alright, folks. Dream interpretations came through blog comments, Facebook comments and e-mails, and the only clear winner was… my self-esteem. You all went for flattery just as much as wit. I can’t judge that, but I appreciated every bit.
I did like the analysis that red and blue + search for white = complex thoughts about returning to the United States, which is only 27 days away. And purple? My love for Relay.
I also cracked up at the thought the reason I was crying was because this was my one shot at getting married before my sister Cassandra does.
It’s been decided I’m finally leaving Nice. I told that to a staff member. He did my laundry six nights ago and said today, “You just can’t leave, can you?” I swore I was leaving tomorrow and he said, “Don’t swear. We have availability every night until you’re due in Paris.”
I could stay. Every day in Nice has cost me 2/3s of my daily budget, I’ve made buddies and every night the hostel chef cooks a gourmet meal for cheap. Tonight was salmon.
I’ve settled into a nice (Nice) routine. Exhaust myself through the afternoon, come back and write for a bit, share my gourmet dinner with the new hostel friend of the day…
My alcohol intake on this trip has been very, very low. I’m not a big club-goer and coffee during the day beats alcohol at night in my budget prioritizing. That said, in Nice, I’ve loved my one euro happy hour beer between 6:00-7:00 in the hostel common room. I sit back, read a book, listen to music, make friends.
I’ve never been a tank. I’ve always been a cheap date but by the time I graduated college, I could hold my own on a night out alright. Apparently now, however, I’m a cheaper date than ever. The typical beer size is a .5L and halfway through it the other night, I’m… I’m… I’m tipsy?
I went up to the bar about forty minutes after I’d bought my beer. “Care for another beer?” he says.
Giggle giggle giggle. I have half my first left. I… was actually just… going to order a brownie. Iiiii… I can’t feel my face.
My friend Cameron today: “Oh that’s the free roofie. One with every beer, why you think I keep staying here?”
I’m sticking to coffee.
I’d been told I had to go to the Matisse museum in Nice. I’d been told it was probably close to my hostel. I do not fact-check advice.
I left my hostel sans map and started walking. I had seen road signs pointing to it and figured I’d find it. If I took a direct route or public transportation to get to anywhere, I could’ve been home three weeks ago.
I walked, and walked…
I just kept following the signs.
I wasn’t lost. There were still more signs.
Conceivably, anywhere is walkable. Forty minutes into my entirely-uphill directly sunlit walk, it felt like forty years, and the Matisse museum was quickly becoming the Promised Land.
I finally stopped at a bus stop to see just how far this walk would be. I like measuring by the number of public transportation stops. My Nice hostel to Nice train station? Two tram stops. Not worth one euro. I walked instead.
Try counting these stops.
I was carrying two water bottles on me, but I had three cups of unlimited coffee at breakfast and by the time I got to the museum, I was a bit dehydrated and giggly. I was tired. I’d later Google Map the route and it was “only” about five kilometers, but uphill and unprepared for it, it was more than I’d anticipated walking by noon.
When I set foot in the park, the first thing I saw was this sign.
For whatever reason, big fit of giggles. Randomly named gravel path around the park of the Matisse Museum, big, big ol’ mess of dehydrated giggles.
I walked into the museum – you all know my ability to pay attention at museums. My body was out of sorts. Picture me trying to interpret the art of Matisse with a severe case of dehydrated caffeine shakes. I’m laughing, thinking, really? A couple kilometers uphill and this is where we’re at? Is the day’s story going to be passing out in a Nice museum?
There was a giant room with three small items on display. I’m probably the first person to ever feel it necessary to sit on the red couch in that room.
I survived. I sat under an olive tree for an hour and the garden smelled amazing.
And then I walked home.
Cameron, tonight: “Wait, you walked there? That bus took ages to get up that hill! Tell me you took the bus back at least.”
That would have just made too much sense.