By Land and Sea to Florence, Livorno, and Corsica

It seems that, on a trip like this, plans have a way of changing. A few hours after writing my last post I said goodbye to Kate (Marc had already left) and headed down to the Paris metro, with a full hour and a half to spare. The bus station was on the other side of the city, which meant three metro switches. The first one was easy enough, but as I stood up to get off at the next, the metro train didn’t slow down, and blew straight through the station–which was suspiciously full of yellow tape and construction materials. I noticed a poster on the wall in French mentioning the name of the station and words which, now that I noticed them, probably had to do with the fact that the station was closed. Hmmmm. That must have been what the nice French woman was talking about on the intercom at the last stop. This, fellow Americans, is why we should learn the languages of the places we visit.

At any rate, I had to backtrack a good distance to the next-closest switch and made it to the bus station ten minutes before the bus left–and the lines for registration for my ticket were already closed. There was a line for the next bus, to Madrid, which stretched fifty or sixty people long from a single open ticket window. I tried the bus. The bus driver tapped his watch impatiently and said “Check in! One minute!” I raced down the stairs, looked for an open window as my precious seconds ticked away, and then thought, you know what, I’m waiting in line for an eighteen hour bus ride. Is it really worth it?

The thought of eighteen hours in a crowded bus said no, it really isn’t. The thought of a train ride across France and Italy, through the Alps said, no, it really isn’t, try me instead. I turned and walked back into the metro. Kate was surprised to see me again, as the Lundys had been. I’m beginning to see a pattern.

But, so it goes. I booked a rail ticket for the next day and went to bed content. The next day, Kate and I visited the Paris catacombs, which, as you recall, had been closed last time we had tried. I was expecting a few short tunnels and maybe a room full of bones. The reality was rather more impressive–we descended into them by a very long spiral staircase that must have taken us several stories underground. Then into a series of old brick tunnels, ranging in construction from the mid 19th to the mid 18th centuries, snaking through the limestone under Paris. Much of the extensive network (most of it off-limits to the public) got its start as a network of quarries, the source of much of the limestone used to build the great stone structures of the city. They’ve since been used by both the revolutionaries of the French Revolution, as described in Les Miserables, and by French resistance fighters in World War II. They’ve also been used as ossuaries–we rounded a corner and, completely without warning, were confronted with a long corridor walled on both sides floor to ceiling with the stacked bones and staring skulls of the exhumed cemeteries. They were moved here because the cemeteries they had been stored in were getting too full, and there was risk of plague. Comforting. The bone corridors stretched on and on and on, some branching off into the rest of the catacombs, barred off by the authorities. It’s a strange thing to think that each of these countless skulls were once people, living their lives, loving, hating, doing what humans do, before dying and being added to the endless corridors of Paris’ anonymous dead.

When we finally ascended to the street several blocks from where we’d started, the sunlight was blinding. We stopped at a cafe and then it was back to the metro and time for the real goodbye. I was at the train station with plenty of time to spare and boarded with no trouble. I was seated opposite a catholic priest, Father Withoos, from Australia. He had lost his passport in Paris after a three day walking pilgrimage to Chartres, and so had to take the train back to Rome, where he worked in the Vatican. We talked philosophy and theology, and he gave a truly heartfelt argument for Catholicism. He offered to meet me again in Rome and–quite incredibly–to put me in touch with the Superior of a Francisican monastery in Jordan, when I get down to Syria. That particular idea just might make me give up a visit to Lebanon. It was interesting that both of us were essentially here by mistake–he because of a lost passport, me because of a missed bus. “That,” he said, “is called Divine Providence.” After three hours of good conversation and new opportunities, I’m inclined to agree.

By the time I arrived in Florence the next morning, a minor cold that had been bothering me slightly for the last week decided to come out in the open–a wracking cough, runny nose, and general un-touristic feelings. I had at least one person ask me if I had swine flu. Still, Florence was beautiful (if very touristy), and I spent the day walking around and taking pictures. By the late afternoon, though, I’d had enough, and caught a train to Livorno.

In Livorno I caught the bus into town, and feeling very sick, finally found a picnic table on the a bluff with a full view of the port, the freighters waiting out to see, and the crashing waves. For feeling this sick, I thought, I feel pretty good. Here I met Roberto, who lived in Rome and was a voice actor for Italian-dubbed American movies, here in Livorno taking care of a father with Alzheimer’s. We talked for a while, and he invited me to call him when I got to Rome, if I needed a place to stay. I have to say, my faith in the human species is being bolstered.

I booked the next ferry to Corsica, which gave me another full day in Livorno. I spent it recovering, just laying on the beach and trying to rid myself a bit of the whiteness granted by a winter working web development and backpacking in Scotland. Not that it would make that much of a difference–the Italians are tanned enough in general to make anyone of German descent feel a bit pasty.

It seemed to help, though, as I felt much better this morning. I woke up early and headed to the harbor, where I boarded the ferry. It was a windy crossing, but warm, and I slept much of the way on a deck chair. About four hours from Livorno we came in to the mountainous coastline of Corsica, and docked in the port city of Bastia. The few hours I’ve been here I already love–everything is a bit more run down than Italy was, a little more closed. Something about it reminds me of an island republic of the Caribbean–multistory block-style apartment buildings, cigar shops, palm-lined boulevards and narrow streets hung with strands of lights and blowing laundry. Tonight I hope to head to Calvi, which will serve as a base for some hiking before I continue to Sardinia in a couple of days.