Days ??: Nice to Siena

Alex:

The following day, the three of us went across town to see the hospital where my mom was born, right across from the city's only Russian Orthodox church. 

It was the hottest day we'd had so far, so we headed for Nice's famous boardwalk and beach for a swim. The beach was crowded, but not as bad as we had imagined considering the fame of Nice's coast. That reputation is well founded though--the water is still clear and blue and instead of sand, and the shore is covered in smooth, round rocks--as if the beach was carpeted in millions of stone eggs. East and west along the shore are hills which slope directly down to the water and are studded with villas like gemstones. 

Nice itself is like Paris' hip younger sister--the kind that rebelled against the elder's prim propriety by wearing a lot of garish colors and dying her hair pink. There's something of Paris about her, but more that is altogether unique and fresh. Maybe it's the sun that shines here more days per year than anywhere else in France. Maybe it's the Italian pedigree with its fine gelato and harlequin piazzas. Or maybe I'm just a starstruck tourist.

That night, we headed to the famous seafood restaurant: Café de Turin, which is on Place Garibaldi. The envy of the night was my seafood salad for which Kenneth and Anton swore solemn oaths to someday return and order for themselves. We then headed back into Nice's old city--a colorful labyrinth of Renaissance churches, baroque chocolate shops, gellaterias, and bistros. 

The following day, we stocked up on food and headed easy along the coast to Monaco on foot. We passed by sunny, turquoise inlets by the shore and climbed up into the manicured hills filled with walled villas. 

We took a siesta and went swimming in the warm, azure water of a secluded cove overlooking Villefranche-sur-Mer; the main town between Nice and Monaco. From Villefranche, we decided to take the train the rest of the way to Monaco.

The Principality of Monaco must be a much better place for people who can afford its outrageously priced hotels and amenities. Soggy and trailworn in our flip-flops and bathing suits, we were hardly the recipients of the principality's famous hospitality. 

The beach was unremarkable and the buildings themselves were all high-rise hotels built in the 60s. Aside from the luxury yachts and expensive cars, there's really nothing interesting to see if you're a penniless pedestrian. 

We took the train back to Nice and met up with Liz Edouard-- another Mamaroneck High School and Middlebury alum. Needless to say, it took her a little bit to recognize Anton, bearded and grizzled as he is. 

Kenneth:

Everyone we discussed our trip with in France had exactly one thing to say: don't bike from Nice to Genoa! Given that Anton was already with us, a train trip to Florence seemed in order. Refreshed from out night out with Liz, we headed to the Nice station. Nobody seemed to know how to get to Florence, but they did tell us to go to Ventimiglia, the beginning of a black hole that is the Italian train system.

It took two trains to get to Ventimiglia, where Alex and Anton waited on an enormous line to purchase tickets. When they returned, they had some interesting news: we would be arriving at Florence at 5:37. I was elated. Then, they clarified: 5:37am, the next day.

We headed off to the local market to kill the first of many waits, and Anton happened on some homemade buffalo mozzarella, which took the edge off the first bit of traveling. We also purchased the flakiest loaf of bread ever to be baked, and like Hansel and Gretel left a breadcrumb trail from Ventimiglia to Florence.

A few transfers later, we found ourselves in Pisa at 11:30 in the evening and nothing to do until 4. Nothing, you say? Not with Anton the wanderer around. We packed up our bikes with his bags and strolled out into the city leading our bikes like pack camels. The city was hopping for such a late hour, and we even stopped off for some much needed beverages.

After journeying a few more minutes, we approached the tower of Pisa itself, abandoned by tourists at this late hour. The open grass was so inviting after our long journey, so we lay down and looked up at the awkward tower before us. I felt, lying down, as if I was on a hill, my glasses were on sideways, or perhaps the lack of sleep was finally getting to me. It was a great view, but a few minutes later the police were there to lock up. These are not the French police that we had previously seen; no, they looked as if they might actually be willing to arrest you. A long walk back to the train station later, our adventure in Pisa was over.

The night, however, was still young. We snuck into the train early to catch a few winks with the conductor, and soon we were in Florence. We had a few hours until the hostel opened, so we walked the long way around a deserted Florence, over Pont Vecchio, and to our hostel.

Alex: 

No doubt, we had just experienced Train Hell. At Arenzano, we had only 5 minutes to transfer trains. It was blazing hot and crowded. Often the train cars had a few steep stairs we needed to climb and center rails we needed to navigate all while hoisting our bikes and hollering. 

I started out the day asking people to move with a humble, proper French-- "pardon" or "excusez-moi"-- but by noon I was roaring "Awaei! Tassez vous, crist!" in Québécois French which loosely translates to "OY! Pile yourselves...! Christ!" It got the job done.

I did manage to have an interesting conversation with a fellow passenger while I was separated from Kenneth and Anton on the train from Monaco to Ventimiglia who was a legal advisor for a major French political party. He was like someone out of "All the King's Men"-- a shifty, old-school, political boss type who pontificated about the French all being sheep and the duplicity of journalists.

 He refused to tell me what party he worked for until we arrived at the station. By then, I guess he had judged me to be cool or harmless enough to intimate it in a low voice. We shook hands and he left the station for his villa in the Italian countryside. Kenneth and Anton, on the other end of the train, only sat next to some boisterous local youths.

We finally got to Florence, stumbled around in the early dawn gawking at the city, and eventually made our way to the hostel. At 7 a.m. The hosteller, hostel-keeper, or whatever you want to call him, showed up and cheerily let us in. 

Since our room wouldn't be ready for a few hours, we left our gear at the hostel and wandered back out into the city. It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday in Italy so our chances of finding anything open were next to zero. We dozed on the deserted steps of the Duomo and sleepwalked back across the Pont Vecchio.

We retuned to our room to sleep for a few hours and then ventured out again that afternoon to find a place to catch the world cup final.... (Kenneth: Go Orange!!) 
... and watch Kenneth's hopes get crushed.

Our second day in Florence... Well, it's kind of sad, but after seeing the inside of the Duomo and finding out that the Accademia wad closed, we curbed our expectations and spent the rest of the day wandering from gellateria to gellateria. To be honest, we weren't too inspired by the city's atmosphere which was cold and touristy. The whole city felt like an overpriced museum, not a living metropolis.

The following day, Kenneth and I traveled from Florence to Siena by bike. Anton planned to take the train and meet us at a campsite there.

Kenneth:

I was extremely excited to bike in my second home country of this post, and the scenery and terrain did not disappoint. We mapped out a route from Florence to Siena along the most direct path, which, as we should have known, means over the hills, not around them.

The first hill led us up into the mountains high above Florence, where we could see the entire valley spread before us. Still, that view paled in comparison with what was to come: up and down we went, with four major climbs of over 1000 feet. In France, fields had been spread out before us, one cornfield after the other, but here the terrain was so varied, with towns next to vineyards and forests next to olive trees, like a patchwork quilt of rolling hills, with each square more beautiful than the last.

Finally, we reached the peak of our journey: Castellina in Chianti. It is a beautiful walled city located not just on a hill, but at the peak of a mountain overlooking a vast valley of rolling hills in the very heart of Tuscany. From the lookout point we could see all the way to Siena some 20km off in one direction, and for miles around to all the other cities. It was literally all downhill from there, and we rolled into camp with Anton around 8.